Cage a Man

FOR ELINOR

A Cage There Was

The ceiling above him was low and gray; Barton's first
thought was. What am I doing in the drunk tank? On sec-
ond thought it didn't stink like a drunk tank, and Barton
was far enough awake to know that he was not hung over.
So he sat up and looked around. The first thing he noticed
was that he was naked, along with everybody else. If this
were a drunk tank, it had to be the first coeducational
nude drunk tank in his limited experience.

He could make no guess as to .where he was, or why.
Presumably there was some other place he'd rather be,
somewhere he belonged—but when he tried to think of
one he drew a blank. Briefly, he wondered why the lack
didn't bother him.

He seemed to be the only person awake; at least no one
else was sitting up. Looking, Barton estimated about fifty
persons sprawled in the room, neither crowded nor widely
separated in a space about twenty-five feet square. He
stood, and found the ceiling claustrophobically low: not
much over six feet, clearing his head by a few inches but
heavy'-heavy-hanging over it. He didn't like that.

Floor and walls were gray, as well as the ceiling. Sol-
idly. There were no openings that he could see, anywhere.
There was light, a little yellowish, but no visible sources;

the light was simply there. The gray surfaces were not
luminous and the air did not glow. Barton skipped that;

it wasn't important. What was important was that he had
to take a leak.

No place. He stepped gingerly over and around the
sleeping bodies, noting little about them except that they
breathed. When he accidentally touched one, it was warm.
The floor was at body temperature also, with a slight de-
gree of "give." After exploring the room thoroughly. Bar-
ton was faced with the fact that it was not only solid but
seamless. Yet the air (warm, like the floor) was fresh and
clean. It seemed to move against him gently from all di-
rections, though be could detect no gross air currents.

He still had to pee. Going to one comer of the room,
he considerately rolled the nearest occupant out of splash-
ing range and faced the corner. At first he couldn't do it;

all the times he'd stood in line (at theaters during inter-
mission, at overcrowded facilities in tourist haunts), with
impatient others waiting behind him, came up to clamp
the sphincter tight. Waiting, he finally relaxed and the
flow came. The interesting thing was that at the floor it
simply disappeared: no splash or gurgle. The floor might
as well not have been there. It looked dry, felt dry (Bar-
ton felt it) and had no telltale smell at all (Barton smelled

it).

He had a sudden wild thought that perhaps the whole
room was an illusion, and gathered a few bruises trying
to launch himself through the floor, a wall, and even the
ceiling, before he decided that in this case liquids had cer-
tain advantages over solids. His guess might be wrong, he
knew, but that didn't mean it was stupid.

Other people were beginning to wake, sit up and even
move around. Barton realized that he hadn't paid enough
attention to the resident population, of which he was
perhaps 2 percent. So he stood quietly in bis corner and
looked.

The people ranged from ordinary to exotic, in Barton's
view. Some were as usual as anyone can be among some
fifty naked persons in a sealed room. Others were notable
for such things as highly stylized patterns of tattooing,
possible cosmetic surgery, and selective depilation. Still
others,. Barton thought, must have come out of a freak
show. Some of them be found hard to believe, but there
they were. The frightening thing, though, was that these
people were beginning to speak among themselves, and
while Barton spoke French and a little German, and could
recognize several other languages, he heard not one famil-
iar word from anyone near him. Well, yes—there was
one over therel

"Anybody here speak ENGLISH?" he bawled out sud-
denly. From the far side of the room came a "YES." Ac-
cented, but unmistakable. Barton began shouldering his
way toward the sound, shouting "ENGLISH" now and
then as a navigational aid.

"English" turned out to be a Doktor Siewen, a tall wiry
man with a great bushy shock of white hair, and some
alarming ideas. He and Barton traded names and shook
hands, the ritual prelude to any constructive activity be-
tween strangers.

"I know considerable languages, Barton," said Siewen,
"and some of them I hear in this place, but not many.
Also I hear people talking in languages I didn't think ex-
ist."

"I thought I knew a lot of ethnic types, myself, but
some of these people don't look like anything I've ever
seen, even in pictures."

'There is also that," Doktor Siewen began, but Just
then he and Barton were knocked apart. A woman pushed
between them; two men were chasing her. There were
strangenesses about all three. One man caught her; the
two sank to the floor together in tight embrace. But the
second man came upon them, kicking and clawing; soon
all three were battling viciously. Barton wasn't sure whose
side the woman was on.

He started to say something,to Siewen, but a great feel-
ing of heaviness came over him. ,His legs collapsed; the
impact half-stunned him. He rolled over painfully, and
was able to see that nearly everyone else was on the floor
also. The heaviness increased.

"This tells us where we are. Barton," Doktor Siewen
said, in great strain. "Or where we are not. You know
what is this? Artificial gravity, it has to be."

Barton tried to shake the moths out of his brain. "How
about just straight acceleration? I mean, on a spaceship
thing you could get that, couldn't you?"

"On a spaceship with a room this big," said Siewen,
"who could bother to disturb the navigation, only to stop
a little squabble in the zoo?" The heaviness increased into
blackout..,

Barton ached all over; someone was shaking him by the
shoulder. "Wake up, Barton; wake up." It had to be Dok-
tor Siewen, unless the whole thing had been a bad dream,
so Barton opened his eyes. It hadn't been a dream, or else

it still was. Standing beside Siewen was a woman, not like
any Barton had ever seen. Barton stood up; she was taller
than he and very slim.

"Barton, this is Limila," Siewen said. "You can see, she
is not the type human we grow on our world." Limila
smiled; her teeth were small, and by Barton's standards,
too many. She held out a hand for him to shake; it had
an extra finger. A glance downward showed a pair of six-
toed feet. The nails of both toes and fingers were thick
and pointed, clawlike.

"Hello, Barton. Yes?" she said.
"Hello, Limila. Yes." Her hair was odd. It was per-
fectly good shiny black hair, twisted up into a knot at the
crown of her head, but forward of her ears it did not
grow. The front hairline began above one ear and went
straight up and over to the other; Barton recalled an old
movie of Bette Davis playing Queen Elizabeth I. In com-
pensation, at the back it grew solidly down to the base of
the neck. Like she's slipped her wig. Barton thought be-
fore he got his thoughts back on track. "Where's she from,
Doc?"

"We can't yet talk such technical data,*' Siewen said.
"But Limila has been captured a longer time, was in an-
other group with English-speakers, has fantastic talent of
linguistics to learn as far as she has."

"Does she—" He turned to Limila. "Do you know
what any of this is all about?" Her breasts were wrong.
Not in shape, but set very low and wide on the ribcage.

"We are have by the Demu, I think," she said. "No
one know what happen then. No one come back." She
looked away, her eyes half-closed, apparently losing inter-
est in the discussion.

"What's a Demu?" Barton asked. She didn't answer,
and in a moment walked away.
"Now what's wrong with herT*

"We were talking before," Siewen said. ^You were not
awake for a long time. Barton; finally I worried you were
not all right. But Limila told me of the Demu. Likely she
did not feel to repeat herself.

"The Tilari, Limila's people, have star travel," he con-
tinued. "They are not what you call easy to the mark.
They trade with other races and have respect from all.
But the Demu raid the Tilari or anyone else; they take
people and there is the end of it. They come from no-
where and go back the same way."

"Hell, somebody must know something about them,"
Barton growled. He was getting a little tired of being told
how invincible the Demu were, because he didn't want
to have to believe it.

"They are seldom seen. They have unconsciousness de-
vices, which also derange memory function for a time,
and other ways not to be noticed. They could have slept
everyone here without the gravity if wanting to; that
likely was for threat, to make us to behave better."

"Or maybe just plain sadism," Barton said. "I think Td
like to meet one of them sometime without his magic
gadget. Anybody know what they look like?"

"A small ship of them, raiding scout perhaps, crashed
on Tilara very long time ago. All were killed. The Tilari
just began to study the wreck and the dead ones; then
must have come another ship. The wreck and dead ones
gone, also all but two Tilari in the study group. The two
had gone for food supplies and needed instruments."

"At least somebody lucked out," Barton said. "So
what's their report?"

"I said, a long time ago. Barton. It is all vague, very
vague by now; Limila has only read it in her schooling
as a child.

"She says they were roughly human shape and size.
Hard like stone to the touch. She thinks they have not the
features of face and other things-real people have. But the
Demu think they are the only real people."

"How can anybody know that?"

"Demu picture record, seen by the two Tilari not
taken," said Siewen. "With sound-capsules, from which
their name Demu is learned. By reports, showed unmis-
takably Demu in relation to other races as people to an-
imals."

Barton didn't answer; the concept angered him. The
phrase "hard like stone" stuck in his mind; he had the im-
pression he'd cracked open quite a few rocks in his time,
for one reason or another. His memory was vague but the
picture of a fossil fern came to him, and the smell of a
campfire. A field trip?

"Anything else Limila knows about them?" -^

"Legend, folklore, from other peoples made victims.
They take you, they use you as domestic animal; maybe
eat you."

"Seems like a long haul to the meat market," Barton

said. "Wouldn't it be easier to breed their own stock from
what they get on the first raid?"                        /

"As I say. Barton: folklore. But the great fear is not
of being killed or even eaten. There is a story so old, .the
race that first told it is extinct. By supernova, long past.
This is, the goal of the Demu is to make animals into peo-
ple."

"I don't get you."

"If I have it, they catch people to try to turn them into
Demu."

"Oh, come off it. Doc! How could that be?"
"I don't know; Limila doesn't know. But it is said on
many worlds."

"So*s a lot of other horse-puckie, I imagine.** The sub-
ject had no handle he could grasp. He began stretching
and bending, working the aches out of his muscles. Doktor
Siewen shrugged and said nothing more.

Limila was back. She started to say something, but an
excited babble broke out across the room and cut her off
in midsentence. Barton wheeled to see what was going on.

The walls were leaking. At intervals, small jets of liquid
spurted at a height of about five feet. Barton realized he
was deadly thirsty. He wasn't alone; there was a rush.
Barton held back for a moment but decided that if the
Demu wanted to poison them, the air supply would be
simpler.

The water was cool with a slight mineral taste, not un-
pleasant. Then it changed; the liquid became thicker and
milk-colored. Just like Instant Breakfast, Barton thought,
except not sweetened. He found he was hungry, too.

The stuff stopped coming before he'd had enough of it,
but he could feel relief from the low blood-sugar condition
he hadn't consciously noticed. Barton felt a little more as
if he might have some sort of chance in this game after
all. He realized it was silly to feel that way from a mere
shot of nutriment at the whim of his unseen captors. But
what the hell...

He turned from the wall, looking for Siewen or Limila.
The other people of non-Earth origin began to register
with him. They hadn't necessarily had surgery or depila-
tion or tattooing, he saw now; they were simply different
by nature. Some weren't all that different; some were hard
to accept. He decided to work his attitudes out later when
be had the^ime'for it. When things weren't so crowded,
if ever. What be really wanted to do was sit down with

his back to a corner and feel less vulnerable, but his fel-
low captives shared his preference for using the corners
of the room as urinals; they were all in use.

He noticed a discrepancy, and the vagrant thought
crossed his mind: That's Ainny; I don^t feel constipated.
Then he saw Siewen and moved across the room to join
him.

Their discussion brought no new information or ideas.
Barton got tired of standing or sitting; he lay down and
dozed off. Having his back against the wall was better
than no shelter at all.

Barton was having a good dream; it got better when he
woke up. Limila was all over him. What she had in mind
was obvious, and Barton found that he had no objec-
tions. But first he pulled them both up sitting, looking at
each other; he wanted to see her fully as a person.

Her hair was down and loose; there was a lot more of
it than he would have expected. Her features were so lean
and delicate as to be almost harsh, but her face had
beauty to him, once he was used to its not stopping at the
forehead. Her eyes were the color of liquid mercury, with
more iris and less white than seemed reasonable. And her
Ups curved sweetly as she smiled.

He must have looked for longer than he knew, because
she said, "Will we now?" Barton didn't answer in words.
He found some differences in the way things were angled
and the way some muscles wotked, but he had no com-
plaints.

Not much later he was startled to find that Limila was
on the same friendly terms with Doktor Siewen, but Bar-
ton was realist enough not to try to impose his own ideas
on a lady he didn't understand more than about 5 percent,
if that. In the way he had now, he put everything out of
his mind but the moment. In. fact, some hours later, he
and Limila were exchanging pleasured smiles when he
felt the blackness of approaching unconsciousness. There
wasn't even time to kiss.

The nest time Barton woke, he was alone. The quali--
ties of the room were the same but this one was smaller,
about ten feet square. Not exactly ten feet, not exactly
three meters, not exactly any measurement Barton was
familiar with—and Barton knew he was capable of esti-
mating dimensions quite closely. The gray surfaces, the
low ceiling, the temperature, the light with no sources or

shadows, the floor and walls you could piss through but
not escape through—these were all the same. But the
feel of the place was that of a solid planet, not a space-
ship. There was nothing more, just Barton, alone in his
room. This, he realized, is how to go crazy.

Barton was of no mind to go crazy. He felt be might
be a little bit crazy already, but he didn't intend to let it
go any further than he could help. He still knew only a
little of what be was up against; as a matter of survival
he set out to leam more. The effort kept his mind occu-
pied, and he figured that was all to the good.

Over an unmeasured period of time be discovered sev-
eral things. His solid wastes, infrequent on his present
diet, also went through the floor without trace, but not in-
stantaneously; they sank gradually, leaving no residue.
The room reserved one comer of itself for these functions;

it told Barton so with electrical shocks.

His food and water, neither separate nor appetizing,
rose through another area of the floor in the same way,
the floor forming itself into a sort of cup or bowl to hold
the liquid mush. The intervals between meals were ir-
regular and unpredictable. When Barton got angry at an
especially long delay and pissed in the bowl when it ap-
peared, the room left the mess with him for several hours
before removing it and providing his next feeding. He
didn't foul his food again. Frustrated out of his mind, Bar-
ton was, but not of a mood to let himself be stupid.

There wasn't much that he could leam from bis lim-
ited environment, but he tried. With the constant illumina-
tion and irregular feeding schedule, there was no way to
tell time. Barton first tried a makeshift count of bis own
pulse, but aside from the variation with his emotions, he
invariably lost track of the thousands. He tried to keep a
record of his own waking periods, and had no better luck.
The walls and floors would not retain marks. When he
tried to lay out hairs or nail bitings on the floor or glue
them to the walls with spittle, they simply vanished, usu-
ally while he was asleep, though once be saw an attempted
marker absorbed into a wall. He shouted and struck at it
at the last, which did DO good either.

Barton knew he was a little off his head when he be-
gan trying to make permanent marks on his own body to
keep the one count that meant anything to him: the num-
ber of his waking periods. He tried gouging his skin with
his fingernails but found his healing rate was accelerated;

10

he could not produce scars. He tried biting himself and
was dissuaded by a series of shocks from the floor. The
room allowed him to pluck marker stripes through bis
body hair, but the process was tedious and the result im-
permanent. He abandoned the effort and gave himself up
to the sulks.

Once in a blank reverie he found himself pulling at his
whiskers, and suddenly realized he had had a rough time
measurement at hand all along. He pulled one hair from
his sprouting beard; the length of it told him he had been
caged for about four months, give or take a couple of
weeks. His next period of sleep was more relaxed than
any since this whole thing had started. Since Before.

Before! Barton hadn't thought of Before, more than
fleetingly, since he had wondered what he was doing in
the drunk tank. How could he? There was nothing but
Here, and Here was so terrible and so frustrating that he
couldn't put his attention fully on anything else. And for
a time, he hadn't been able to remember very much, any-
way.

He woke thinking of Before, though, and wondering
about it. His emerging memories were still incomplete.
The condition didn't bother him because he didn't recall-
any better one, except vaguely.

He knew that he had been born in 1950 and was pretty
sure he'd been thirty-two at his last birthday. He was an
only child, perhaps a little too smart for his own good in
the childhood jungle of school, he recalled. Stubborn,
somewhat of a loner in his teens. Buf not much of a rebel
at home, or in two years of liberal-arts studies at the local
university.

Then the war in Vietnam. He'd panicked and shot a
scrawny kid who didn't have a grenade after all, just a
small clay jar of oa. Later he'd shot one of bis own squad-
mates who had begun to spray a village with submachine
fire; no one could prove it on him for sure, so be didn't
get court-martialed. Barton had never told anyone about
these things; he'd just lived with them.

He hadn't tried hard drugs, just dew and hash some-
times, so when his hitch was finished he had no trouble
getting home and out of the service. But he couldn^t get
along with his parents anymore. They kept trying to put
him back in the little-boy bag and it didnt fit. He knew
they loved him but he couldn't take the way they showed
it

11

Barton went back to college on the G.I. Bill- He wasn't
doing well with people, he felt, so he undertook the study
of things; he became a physics major. He would have
preferred paleontology—he enjoyed fossil-hunting—but
there wasn't any money in it and he'd been broke long
enough. He was good enough at his studies to graduate
with honors. He had about eight to ten dates per school
year but got laid once a month by a friendly-mannered
professional. As a matter of fact he liked the part-time
whore, personally, better than he liked the coeds he dated.
Barton felt that he knew honesty when he met it. On the
dating scene he hadn't found enough to notice.

After graduation. Barton took a Master's degree and
then a job with a company that gave him time to work on
his Ph.D. on the side. It seemed to be a good deal, and for
the most part, it was. Except for the red tape, which
started strong and kept growing.

Just before leaving school. Barton had met a girl who
frankly admitted she liked getting laid, and proved it. Her
name was Ada Rongen; she was nearly Barton's height,
and slim. She had green eyes, long red hair and a crooked
nose from having played shinny at the age of ten. Barton
proposed on their third date; they were married in time to
avoid a fourth one.

For the most part, over the next few years Barton liked
his job and his studies and his marriage. He enjoyed his
hobby, oil painting. When the package came apart on him,
it did so all at once.

The red tape on Barton's job had piled up until it took
nearly half of what should have been productive time. He
got-clobbered in his Ph.D. Orals by a professor whose
main gripe seemed to be that Barton had never taken the
profs own pet course. And he found that .Ada's liking for
getting laid was not exclusively in his favor.

The day he came home from the Orals fiasco she told
him she was pregnant. Then she said, "I think you should
know; the child is probably not yours."

Barton didn't ask who, how or why. He moved out,
From the Job, from the school and from Ada. First he
told her to go ahead with a divorce; he'd give her any
grounds she needed. "... and don't say anything. I've
never hit a woman in my life and I don't want to spoil my
record." She nodded, silenced by the look of the man who
had always been gentle to her.

He moved into a walk-up room and concentrated on

12

his painting. A little of his work began to sell, but mostly
he lived on the refund from the company's retirement
plan. He picked up, on a part-tune basis, with the young
salesgirl at the gallery that handled his paintings. And
once divorced, he found that without bitterness he
could share Ada's eclectic enjoyment of casual sex. They
became fairly good friends, in bed and out.

A year or two had gone by like this, a comfortable
vegetative time. Painting, drinking with Ada and turning
on with Leonie the salesgirl, being lover to each of them
in a friendly noncompetitive way. By the time his retire-
ment money ran out he could almost but not quite make
a living from the painting. He made up the difference
with a part-time scut job at the gallery; Barton's tastes,
when he so chose, could be relatively inexpensive. He was
drifting and he knew it; what better way to spend the
dregs of his youth?

And then somehow, at no specific point he could recall,
Barton had been torn away from that placid half-
remembered existence. To wake up in a gray, seamless
cage.

Thinking back, then. Barton lay supine on the gray
floor and for the first time in his new existence mastur-
bated slowly and luxuriously, building his urge almost to
the deathwish-point of convulsions before he gave himself
release. Then, relaxed, he wondered why in bell he had
taken so long to think of such an. obvious answer to his
tensions. The relaxation carried through all that waking
period and into sleep.

For the first time Here, Barton woke almost happy,
. smiling in reminiscence and anticipation. He ate in no
great hurry, voided, thought vaguely and with only faint
regret on what he could remember of Before. Then he lay
down, arranged himself comfortably and thought of plea-
sure.

Nothing worked. No thoughts, no touch produced the
slightest response. There was no doubt in Barton's mind
what had happened. The room had noticed that he had
discovered a source of pleasure, and turned it off.

That was the first time Barton tried to find a way to
kill himself.

He couldn't; the room wouldn't let him. When he tried
to do any real damage such as biting at an artery, the
room jarred him out of it with electrical shock or radical

13

variations of the gravity, temperature or air pressure, until
be gave up and lay cursing, or sometimes crying.

The room had taken a long time to notice that Barton
needed a bath or its equivalent. He was getting pretty
stinking; his skin was spotted with inflamed areas and
mild infections. Then suddenly he began to receive treat-
ments he really didn't appreciate too much. Barton de-
cided the method was probably ultrasonics.

At any rate, the outer layer of his skin flaked off in
patches, and so did much of his hair, quite roughly and
unevenly. He didn't have a mirror, but by the feel of him-
self he knew he looked like bloody hell. Furthermore, his
beard "calendar" was shot down.

So when Barton one "morning" woke to find one wall
no longer gray but looking like a window, with people or
something else looking in at Urn, he was more angry than
curious. At first he paid little attention to the appearance
of those outside, although they certainly didn't look es-
pecially human. But at that point he didn't give a damn
whether school kept or not; he was more concerned with
what these beings had done to his own looks and functions
than with what they might happen to look like. What he
wanted was a little action.

He did all the standard things: he shouted, made faces,
waved his arms and beat on the window. The people (or
something) showed no reaction, except now and then to
turn to one another and exchange comments. Or appar-
ently so: he couldn't be sure; there was no sound.

When his mainspring ran down. Barton realized that be
had better pay attention. Here was a chance for knowl-
edge; it might not last.

What he saw was a group of robed cowled figures,
vaguely human-shaped and apparently human-sized. Of
course, he thought, this could be closed-circuit TV and
not a window at all; in that case the apparent size wouldn't
mean much. But Limila had said the Demu were about
the size of humans.

Besides gray robes and hoods; he saw shadowed faces
and occasional glimpses of hands that didn't have enough
fingers. The faces didn't show him a lot. Heavy hairless
brow-ridges hid the sunken eyes. There was no nasal ridge,
only close-set nostril-holes a little below the eyes. The
lips were deeply serrated—like a zipper without the ban-
die, he thought wryly. The whole effect was rather chi-
tinous, like the body shell of a boiled crab and with the

14

same ivory-tinged-with-red color. If there were ears, the
hoods covered them. There was no sign of hair, fur or
feathers. Hell, not even scales; he wondered if a snake
would seem more alien to him, or less, than these crea-
tures. "Demu?" he thought. "They look like a bunch of
overgrown lobsters to mel"

One of them stepped forward and gestured to him.
Yes, the hand bad only three fingers, plus an oversized
thumb set at an odd angle. No fingernails. The gestures
carried no meaning to Barton; in return he thumbed his
nose at the alien, who conferred with the two others be-
fore turning again to repeat the movements.

Barton knew what he wanted, now. He paid no heed to
what the other did, but repeated over and over a simple
gesture of throwing back a hood and dropping a robe,
followed by throwing bis arms wide in exhibition. The re-
sult was another conference among part of his viewing
public. Eventually one of the lobsters stepped dose to the
window or screen and pushed the hood back, exposing its
head.

It was about what Barton had expected. The head and
neck looked crustacean; he was sure he was viewing an
exoskeletal being. There were no external ears, but
slightly flanged earholes not much displaced from the hu-
man position. The mouth, when open briefly, showed no
teeth and a short stumpy tongue. The skull was slightly
broader than deep, Barton thought, but couldn't be sure
since the creature did not turn to "full profile. The neck
was thick and continued the chitinous look. Barton couldn't
tell about the hands, when they reached up to replace
the hood; perhaps the chitin was more flexible there.

Barton kept making doff-the-robe gestures but the up-
front lobster ignored his movements and repeated a ges-
ture of its own, with one hand in front of the middle of its
robe. Suddenly Barton realized that the creature was pan-
tomiming masturbation. He spat on the window, went to
the far side of the room and curled up facing the wall. But'
as he did so, he felt unmistakable signs that his sexuality
was working. Then, abruptly, it turned off again. He
couldn't imagine bow the lobsters could control him in
that aspect. Some sort of subsonics? Induced brain waves?
Hell, he didn't know. He tried to think in terms of physics,
but the concepts seemed dim and jumbled in his mind.
However, he did give some thought to the properties of
the exoskeleton in combat.

15

For one thing, assuming the creatures were approxi-
mately his own size and operating in the same gravity
field, the outer shell had to be light in weight. It would
have great tensile strength and good resistance to com-
pressive loads along a limb segment But given a little
leverage. Barton thought, it should bend and crumple like
so much macaroni. He hoped with considerable gusto for
a future chance to check his hypothesis; he was still think.
ing about it when he went to sleep.

Barton was next awakened by a metallic jangling
sound, like a gong made of chain mail. The wall was a
window again (or TV screen, he reminded himself), with
one robed lobster facing him and gesturing. It might have
been the same one or it might not; Barton couldn't tell for
sure. But from the one-handed gestures and a stirring in
Barton's groin, the creature obviously wanted Barton to
demonstrate autoeroticism.

Well, the hell with that He'd done it once and they'd
turned him off for it In return. Barton made throw-off-
that-robe motions. If I have to be a solo whore, he
thought, 111 get paid- for it In knowing a little more what
it's all about The session ended with no sale when the
window turned back into a gray wall. This time they left
him turned on, but feeling stubborn, he ignored the pos-
sibilities.

The dickering was repeated each waking period. Some-
times there would be only one robed ehitinous alien, some-
times several Occasionally there was one in the
background that unlike the rest seemed nervous and
twitchy, moving back and forth. Although he couldn't get
a good look, it seemed to Barton that the twitchy one
didn't have quite the same ehitinous sheen as the others,
though the features (or lack thereof) were much the same.

Throughout this period of silent bargaining sessions,
Barton took a perverse pleasure in refusing himself any
sexual release except for the involuntary nocturnal type
that occasionally caught up with him. He had thought to
huddle up facing away from the window and do it himself,
but suddenly realized that all four walls and maybe the
floor and ceiling could be one-way windows. Certainly the
lobsters had turned him off before he'd seen any wall as
other than gray and opaque. The hell with them, Barton
feit. At this point, he realized, he might cheerfully have
cut off his nose to spite his face, given the proper tools for
the job. He almost had to laugh.

16

And yet Barton felt aggrieved when the silent argu-
ments ended, when the wall stayed gray and no robed
lobsters tried to gesture him into doing anything. During
his first waking period without such an interview he was
subjected to an ultrasonic "bath" of such vigor as to
shake nearly every dead cell off him, leaving him not only
stone-bald but also tenderly shallow of skin and with thin
nails on toes and fingers, not to mention a filling or two
that resonated painfully. Barton took this as a display of
temper on the part of his personal number-one lobster
and set in his mind the goal of someday repaying that
entity in kind as best he might Thereafter the ultrasonics
were mild, shaking loose only extraneous matter. Barton
theorized that a different lobster had taken charge of his
cage.

Going by the length of his regrowing beard. Barton fig-
ured it to be nearly a year before he had any further inter-
action with the outside of the room, other than exchanging
food for wastes and an occasional light ultrasonic "bath."
Then one "day" he was sitting in a comer staring at
the intersection of two walls and the floor, hallucinating.
He was hallucinating a great deal at that time; he had
found the practice a considerable help to personal peace
of mind.

At the moment he was sitting on soft grass at the top of
a rounded hill under warm sunBght, facing a slim girl with
long red hair. Between them was a icloth laden with a pic-
nic lunch. The girl's nose began to develop a crooked out-
line; absent-mindedly he thought it straight. They sipped
from cold moisture-beaded cans of beer and toasted each
other, smiling. A light breeze brought the scent of flowers.
He had to straighten her nose again; it wouldn't stay put.
He noticed movement far down the hill at the edge of a
swamp. Insects, huge yellow-jacketed wasps, were buzzing
around a cage. In the cage was a robed hooded lobster
that flailed its arms at the wasps. He smiled and watched
low-lying smog drift in across the swamp. Then—

He felt a slight "pop" in his ears, as in change of al-
titude. At first he thought it was part of his hallucination,
but on second thought it didn't fit, so gradually he took
his attention from inside himself and put it outside, slowly
rising and turning from the corner to look at the room
overall.

A sort of dome had appeared in the middle of the floor.

17

Yeh; air displacement popped my ears, he thought, and
wondered why he bothered trying to explain anything any
more.

He watched the dome awhile but it didn't do anything.
He was in the process of deciding to find out whether he
could pick up his hallucination where he had left off or
would have to start over, when the dome disappeared
with another ear-pop and left the original flat floor with a
woman lying on it. Not an Earth-type woman, but human-
old and female.

Barton remembered Limila. He had seen her for a num-
ber of hours, a long time ago—how long? He had largely
forgotten her exact differences from women of Earth. But
this woman, coming awake, beginning to sit up and shake
her head and look around, had to be of the same race.
Yes, the extra fingers and toes. The high forehead, Eliza-
bethan hairline straight across the top of the head above
the ears. The breasts set so much lower and wider on the
ribcage. Then she opened her mouth and snarled at him,
and he saw the many small teeth. There had to be at least
forty; Limila had about that many.

Barton prepared to make gestures of friendly welcome;

he felt friendly and welcoming. In truth he felt friendly
and welcoming and lustful. Not excessively lustful, be-
cause he had developed a method of self-service sex that
involved curling up into a ball so that he figured those
lobster bastards couldn't see what he was doing without
x-rays. He used it sparingly, but often enough to keep
some levels of his mind and his prostate gland in reason-
able health. So he was not exactly intent on rape when he
extended a hand to help his new roommate up off the
floor.

She didn't see it that way. She took the hand, pulled on
it and launched herself at him in attack. Barton wasnt
ready for her; he had not been conducting any real ex-
ercise program during his term in the room. In fact he
was more flabby and slothful, he suddenly discovered,
than he really cared to be.

The woman clamped more than enough of her many
teeth onto the ridge of Barton's jawbone below his right
ear. One knee missed smashing his crotch, slipping to the
outside of his thigh as he twisted. They fell to the floor, he
under her. He caught one wrist and felt safe for a moment
until her other hand clawed down his forehead; he felt a
finger, its nail, digging into his right eye. He panicked

18

then, and screamed; the eye didn't hurt much, but he
could feel blood or something worse running down his
cheek. He caught the finger, twisted it and could feel it
break, but that wasn't much solace. Then the gravity field
hit, heavier than he had ever felt it His ribs creaked and
he blacked out. When he woke, he was alone again.

The bitch had got at his eye, all right It was mostly
healed, which didnt surprise him any more, but there was
a wavy line pointing from northwest to southeast in any-
thing he saw with his right eye. A wave of despair rolled
over him; he felt crippled, mutilated, as though he'd lost
an arm or a leg. Barton didn't have much hope for him-
self, certainly, but the prospect of a permanent ditch in
his vision was more embittering than anything that had
happened since his sex had first been turned off.

He couldn't blame the woman too much; he had seen
some marks on her that probably would not cause her to
view a strange man as a guardian angel. But Barton had
the distinct idea that there had to be somebody around
who should pay up accounts. He almost got rid of the
shock in his comer-sitting hallucinations, but it wouldn't
quite go away. After a while he let it alone. Over a time
his sight slowly returned to normal, but his feelings
didn't.

The second time the dome came. Barton happened to
be looking at it. There was the flat floor, and then "pop"
there was the dome. About fifty pulse beats later, it disap-
peared, Barton was hard put to describe in his own mind
the female creature on the floor, but by comparing some
marks he'd seen the first time, he had to admit it was
somewhat the same woman who had clawed his eye.

A few minor alterations had been made. The fingers
and toes were shorter and scarred at the ends; each end
joint with its claw had been lopped off. Half-healed scars
ran down the sides of the head at the temples, just forward
of the Queen Elizabeth hairline. Barton knew what this
might be, but hoped he was wrong. He wasn't; the woman
looked up and gave him a blank childlike stare. Then she
smiled, and Barton cursed all the lobsters that ever were.
How many teeth had Siewen said—forty? Now, none.

The smiling dull-eyed creature climbed into his lap and
hugged him. It took some time before Barton could bring
himself to let her kiss him. But she was persistent, and
Barton had been alone a very long time.

What was left of the woman had very simple tastes.

19

She loved to eat, off the floor with both hands, which was
really the most efficient method. She was quite unhouse-
broken until the floor conditioned her electrically to use
the proper corner most of the time; she cared nothing for
cleanliness or appearance.

She was diligently but not urgently homy; after his first
lapse Barton fended her off for a time in the interests of
what he considered self-respect. But after he once woke
to find her straddling him and too late to stop, he gave
in and enjoyed it, occasionally. He did keep an eye on
the window wall and was prepared to stop at any moment
if he saw robed lobsters, but he put out of his mind the
possibility that they could watch unseen. After a while he
had sex regularly with her, just as though she had been a
fully rational intelligent person. After all, she did like it,
didnt she?

Sometimes it bothered him that she couldn't talk. Not
only his language, but any language. He told himself it
wasn't his doing, but the telling didn't help much.

He was so unused to paying heed to her bodily func-
tions that he was considerably surprised to realize, even-
tually, that she had become not merely fat in the gut but
alarmingly advanced in pregnancy. Barton simply had not
considered the chance of interspecies fertility. She began
to have increasing spasms of ill health; Barton's sex life
ceased abruptly. He spent much time trying to make sig-
nals to the blank wall that had been a window. There were
no answers.

Barton sweat up a storm. He knew he couldn't handle
what was going to happen in a little while, that he would
have been out of his depth delivering a normal easy birth,
with full plumbing and antiseptic facilities. He had none
of these and the birth was not at all normal, but very dim-
cult. Barton cursed and prayed and got his hands awfully
bloody, and the woman-shell was not beyond pain, unfortu-
nately. She screamed and cried as pitifully as though she
had had her whole mind with her.

At the last of it, when nothing else could help her, he
tried to kill her painlessly in a way the Army had taught
him. But the lobsters still knew a trick worth two of that:

their gravity gadget. When Barton woke up, it was hard to
tell which way he hurt the most. The woman was gone,
finally now. and for the last of it he blamed himself.

Barton had given up caring about time passage when
20

the room gave him the second woman. This one looked
like Earth ancestry, very young, just past puberty. Like
Limila's fellow citizen, she was toothless, temple-scarred
and one joint short of nails on fingers and toes. Barton
staggered over to a corner and threw up, without regard
to where the plumbing was supposed to be.

He couldn't ignore her, though, because she too was
strongly sex-oriented and kept trying to get to him whether
he was awake or asleep. There was no way to beat that
kind of dedication. So be introduced the girl to sexual
juxtapositions that could not result in pregnancy, and for
quite a long time he thought he had the situation whipped.
But one "morning" he woke to find that he couldn't stop
the girl from following the example of her predecessor;

she had managed to bring him into a "normal" sex act
without waking him until the onrush of climax.

Without thought, with only rage. Barton made one
move too quickly to be countered. He swung the hard side
of his hand and broke the girl's neck. The gravity field hit
him then, and he didn't fight it. All he needed was a time
to cry for his dead. But when he woke he felt no grief—
only emptiness.

They left him alone for a while, until the beginning of
what he recognized as language lessons. When the window
began showing sets of visual symbols matched with the
first sounds he had heard from outside, he knew what
they had in mind. He felt, Barton did, that it was a little
late for that crap. He already knew all the important things.
And it might be advisable to deny the lobsters the insight
into his own mind that they might gain by observing his
learning processes. Each time the lessons began, he faced
the opposite wall. He was pretty deeply into self-hypnosis,
and thus fairly successful in ignoring the sounds.

They turned off his sex again. He learned to halluci-
nate it so well that he didn't really care; in fact, since his
mind could experience it more often than his body could,
it was in some ways an improvement. More and more he
stayed in his own mental world, emerging for feeding and
elimination but for very little else.

They worsened the flavor of his food, which took som».
doing. After the shock of the first taste, he ate it and pre-
'tended enjoyment. When they made it completely un-
palatable he substituted a hallucinatory taste for the
actual one and wondered why he hadn't thought of that
answer before. They put stenches in his air also, to no

21

avail and for the same reason. One thing was obvious to
Barton: he might have been a slow learner, but the lob-
sters weren't such great shakes either. He had to hand
them one thing, though—at least they were getting his
attention, more than he liked.

They played games with the temperature, air pressure
and floor gravity. Barton played games right back at
them, with his growing abilities of hallucination and self-
hypnosis. The only things that really got to him, he
noted grimly, were of a type that couldn't possibly gain
his cooperation.

The first was dropping the oxygen content of his room;

he couldn't fight that, but it rendered him unconscious.
The second was electrical shocks from the floor; with
some effort he could put them on his "Ignore" circuit but
the muscle spasms left him sore. And the third, once only
and probably due to a loss of temper by some lobster or
other, was floating him in the air on zero gravity and sud-
denly slamming him to the floor. It broke his right fore-
arm. He healed rapidly, of course, but the break was not
set. It left him with a lumpy arm, and painful. Barton
wondered how that would work with an exoskeleton. He
took up a regular exercise program for the first time, so as
not to waste a chance to find out, if he ever got one. After
a time his physical condition became surprisingly good,
even by his own standards. He decided that the food must
have been nutritious even though its natural taste was
more rancid than not

When Barton's self-propelled hallucinations began
getting out of hand, he figured they were experimenting
with drugs in his food. He knew with certainty that here
was something that could take his high ground away from
him. He had to change his tactics, so he decided to watch
the lessons. The same drugs that cut into his control of his
own mind should also distort his responses and thus any-
thing the lobsters could learn from them. So when the
window next began to show a language lesson, he sat and
watched it. Of course he fiddled in a little hallucinatory
content to keep things interesting.

He noted that the impersonal symbol-sound pairings
had been replaced by one or more lobsters holding up the
symbols and making the sounds, with gestures. He found
that he understood a lot of it almost immediately; perhaps
some of the earlier material had been getting through on a
subliminal basis while he thought he had been ignoring it.

22

Since he did not want to learn lobster language he forced
himself to ignore as many as possible of the meanings that
came intuitively into his mind at each sound-symbol-
gesture showing. And after several depictions of a con-
cept that he was fairly sure meant "friendship," he stood
up and deliberately pissed on the window. His act brought
the lesson to an abrupt end. The lobsters conferred with
each other in something resembling a state of excite-
ment; then two converged on the twitchy one Barton had
noticed when the creatures had first shown themselves.
At least it looked like the same twitchy lobster; there
might be more than one. If I were a lobster and had me in
a cage. Barton thought, I might feel a little twitchy myself.
Then he chalked that thought off to a natural paranoia
and watched the outside action more closely.

The three lobsters were coming closer to the window,
the twitchy one in the middle, the other two apparently
urging it forward. Sure as hell, Barton thought, that one
looked different. Not so much like a lobster; the texture
was wrong. But the features were about the same, what he
could see of them.

Barton had the feeling of almost recognizing the
twitcby softer-looking lobster, when it spoke to him.
"Barton 1 For your own good you must—" The lobster
face broke into entirely unlobsterlike spasms and the
voice went shrill. "No, DON'T;, Let them kill you first! I
was once—" And the window turned back to gray wall.

Well. The voice had been in English. The sound quality
was distorted abominably, but he'd detected only over-
tones of any "lobster accent" There had been a hint of
familiarity to that voice, and so far as he knew. Barton
had never been on speaking terms with a lobster. But he
had the feeling that there was something he should be re-
membering.

Then there were new scents in the air and Barton
guessed that the lobsters had hit upon breathing-type
drugs to bend his mind. Serve the hardshelled bastards
right if they killed him first, he thought for a moment, be-
fore he passed out cold.

The problem was that any chemical agent in the food or
air that broke Barton's will also dispersed his powers of
concentration. After all, those were two looks at the same
bag of ego, though Barton had not previously considered
the matter in those terms. He had not he began to realize,
considered a lot of things. For one, he hadn't given much

23

thought to why he should be so important to the lobsters,
out of the fifty or so people he'd seen in the first cage, may-
be two or ten years earlier. It hadn't occurred to him that
perhaps the lobsters had stupidly and inefficiently killed
most of the rest in their clumsy experimentation, and
were getting worried. It seemed a fair guess, though, now
that he thought of it.

A different mind than Barton's, he recognized, might
have seized upon that possibility and hoped to do some
bargaining with it. Barton's mind was stuck on the picture
of a mutilated mindless woman forced to die in horrible
pain. It was not exactly revenge that held his thinking; it
was more on the order of Corrective Annihilation . . .
something like a Roman galley slave with a fixation on
the extermination of the Caesars. The idea amused him a
little, but not much. Idly he wondered what had become
of the easygoing fellow he used to be, and decided that
that man had died with the Tilaran woman.

Now, though, he thought he knew his one possible
chance for escape. He'd figured it out; the logic was flaw-
less. The only problem was that he had no idea whether
he could really do it or not.

For a time, then, Barton played an intense and deadly
game with the language lessons, a game his would-be
teachers could not be equipped to recognize. He would
register understanding of one symbol, no comprehen-
sion of (he next, confusion about another, in a calculated
fashion. Today's knowledge was tomorrow's incompre-
hension, he pretended. His idea was to drive the lobsters
as nuts as he suspected he was becoming.

It worked for longer than he had expected. The lob-
sters took long pauses during the lesson sessions, con-
ferred in their tinny little voices, and became so agitated
as to reach under their robes and apparently scratch.
Barton didn't see how a lobster could get much of a kick
out of scratching itself.

The twitchy one didn't show up again in the window.
That figured.

During the between-lessons periods Barton had been
pushing himself as bard and as far as he could manage it,
along the lines of heavy self-hypnosis. The drugs were
out of his food and air now that he was "cooperating" with
the lessons, and he worked that breathing spell for all it
was worth. Because there wouldn't be more than one

24

chance, and while that one might not be worth the effort,
what else could he do?

When the creatures in the window got tired of his lack
of progress and began jarring him again with floor shocks,
Barton knew he had to try it. He gave them a little jelly for
their bread with his responses to the remainder of that
lesson. When the window turned back into gray wall he
curled up in the middle of the floor, well away from the
latrine and feeding areas, and began willing himself as
close to death as he might possibly get back from, and
perhaps a little further. Besides hallucination and self-
hypnosis and faking, he threw in considerably more true
death wish than he would have done if he were still capa-
ble of giving a real damn. He knew what he was doing, but
it didn't frighten him. The floor would not allow passage
of a living organism; therefore Barton had to be effec-
tively dead. That was how he had figured it, what he was
betting on. There was no other chance for Barton, none
ataIL

The sensation of interpenetrating the floor was dis-
turbing beyond anything he could have imagined; he
hadn't expected to be able to feel anything. But bis will
held; he gave no betraying heartbeat. Some ghost at the
back of his mind tried to guess how many pounds of his
own excrement he was finally ^following, but the estimate
was impossible. He didn't know bow many years it had
been, let alone his average excretion.

The sudden drop through the air and subsequent im-
pact jarred him. He saw through slit-tight eyelids that he
was on the floor of a corridor. At least he had lucked out
and missed the plumbing. Only one robed lobster was in
sight. It approached, bent over him and reached ...

In two breaths Barton was alive again. He caught a
bruise and a laceration across the face before he bad the

" chance to prove his theory that with the proper leverage.
the limbs of an exoskeleton shatter beautifully. When
the lobster began to make its characteristic noises, Bar-

' ton kicked the back of its skull in, holding it against the
floor and stomping again and again with his bare heel
until the thing crumpled.

At that point, like it or not, he had to stop and take
stock. His flirtation with near-death had left him weak,
and his soul was equally shaken. Barton's vision was flick-
ering, around the edges; he waited until it settled down.

25

Then he stripped the robe from the lobster-creature and
looked at the latter with great care. It wasn't all that im-
pressive, he decided.

AH right. The thing was outer-shelled for the most part,
but not boilerplate with joints. Instead, the surface went
gradually from hardshell to gristle where it needed to
bend. The shapes of limb segments were not unlike the
endoskeletal human, but of course rigid on the outside.
The soles of the feet and palms of hands were the softest
and most padded parts of the body. Up the center of the
abdomen ran a hand's-width pattern of dots, some con-
cave and some convex. The crotch was devoid of any-
thing Barton might have expected; it was like a
branching tree.

Barton didn't take long, seeing what there was to see;

it took him longer to decide what to do. Not so very long,
though. He searched the robe, found a small cutting Im-
plement. He carved a great part of the shell off the front
and top of the creature's head, pissed in it to wash out
most of the brownish blood, and wiped the thing dry with
the tail of the robe. Then he put it on his own head. The
eyeholes didn't quite fit, so he took it off and gouged them
a little larger. He didn't look at what still lay on the floor.
Not yet

Everything inside him said to put on the robe and hood
and move out of there, but Barton knew that first he
needed something more on his side. He had no real
weapon except his ability to break exoskeletal arms and
legs, which did not seem quite enough. So, messy hands
or not, he took bis dead lobster apart rather thoroughly.
He didn't even throw up.

He learned that the creature's main nerve trunks were
ventral rather than dorsal, and down its middle found the
bonus of a fine sword-shaped "bone" that needed only-
some lobster foot-cartilage to serve as hilt-wrapping.

Barton decided that time was running out. There was
no way to hide his gutted lobster in the narrow corridor,
so he left it He chose his direction simply: the way he
could step least in the juices of the corpse. He kept his
"sword" and the other cutting tool under his borrowed
robe, out of sight

When Barton met a pair of real live lobsters face to face
in one of the corridors, he came close to losing his toilet
training. He had no idea what to do. He knew that no one
person can stand off an enemy population in its home

26

territory. So he tried to pretend to be a lobster who didn't
want to talk to anybody, and it worked. After that experi-
ence he merely kept moving and hoped that nobody
would cross him. Nobody did; Barton decided that may-
be lobsters were too mean even for other lobsters.

After a time. Barton came to the top of an up-ramp and
saw the sky. Now he knew that he had been kept under-
ground, for however long it had been. He set out walking,
paying no more attention than he could help to the lapse
of time since he had last had food or drink.

The sky was spectacular, but Barton couldn't be both-
ered. There were stars in the daytime, for instance. Bar-
ton couldn't have cared less. He needed a place to sleep.
He found a clump of odd-looking brush and crawled into
it, hungry and thirsty and cold,

The lobster that found Barton and poked him with a
stick to wake him was a very unlucky lobster. Barton's
sword was entangled in his robe, so he bashed its head in
with a fist-sized rock. Then, his hunger and weakness
overcoming any remaining scruples, he ate the tender
flesh of its forearm, raw. It was something like crab meat,
and the best-tasting food he'd had since they caught him.
He decided he was beginning to develop a taste for the
place. He also decided that he scared himself.

Barton was beginning to believe that he was invinci-
ble. When he didn't meet any more lobsters, be was sure
of it. He blanked out all idea of how weak and vulnerable
he really was, because his mind didn't want to work along
those lines. He accepted the knowledge that his halluci-
nations were no longer entirely separate from his objec-
tive experiences, and hadn't been since he didn't know
when. There was something about a woman . . .

While he was gnawing at the last of a lobsterish fore-
arm, Barton stumbled onto the outskirts of a field scat-
tered with odd-looking vehicles, dully metallic in hue.
Anyone with half sense had to know that a saucerlike ob-
ject in such a place would be a spaceship, so Barton
sprinted for a saucer.

It was bigger than it had looked from a distance, abouf
forty feet in diameter. The bottom surface curved up-
ward; the outer edge was inches higher than he could
reach and offered no handhold to jump for. He walked
around it, looking for access and finding none. Dammit,
there had to be a way into the thingi He stood for a mo-

27

ment, baffled, then began a second and slower circuit,
inspecting the surface above him inch by inch.

Ahead, out of sight around the curve of metal. Barton
heard a sound of machinery in motion. Carefully he dis-
engaged his bone sword from the robe and advanced, to
see a curved ramp descending from an area about mid-
way between edge and center of the saucer shape. He
scuttled forward, to be under and behind it as it touched
ground. Then he waited. Somebody certainly was in no
hurry. His sword hand was sweaty; he wiped it on his robe
and discarded his lobster-mask for better vision.

When Barton heard footsteps above he peeked
around the edge of the ramp. One robed lobster was de-
scending. Barton waited to see if more would come or if
this one would look back and say anything to others in the
vehicle. Neither happened; there was only one lobster.

As it stepped off the ramp. the mechanism began to rise,
slowly. Barton took three steps forward and swung his
sword to belt the lobster across the side of the head as hard
as he could. It went down but didn't stay down; it came up
facing Barton. Holding the sword hilt in both hands, he
lunged to the midsection with his full weight. The thrust
bounced off but the creature dropped, holding itself and
breathing in ragged gulps. Out of breath himself. Barton
let go the sword, turned and jumped to grab the end of the
ramp.

The gap was within inches of closing; the thought
flashed through his mind that he could lose some fingers.
But with his weight on the ramp, it sank again. He didnt
wait; as soon as there was clearance he scrambled on and
clambered up as fast as he could manage.

At the top was a door. Barton turned its handle and
pushed the door open, wishing he hadn't bad to leave the
sword behind. But he found only an empty corridor. A
glance below showed that the lobster wasn't having much
luck getting up, so Barton didn't wait to see the ramp all
the way closed. He found the way to secure the door from
inside, and settled for that

There were a lot of doors, and presumably compart-
ments behind them. Barton ignored these and stayed on
the main corridor. A little later, in a closed windowless
room that he also locked from inside, he looked at the
control assembly and wondered if it made any sense.

There had to be a way to find out, if he could think of
it. For starters, there was a projecting lever that swung

28

smoothly in every direction, to no effect. And another
that moved only up and down, but nothing happened
there either. And a neat rectangle of what seemed to be
toggle switches, with one larger turquoise-handled one
in the center. Starting at top left and working to the right,
like reading an English-language book. Barton gingerly
flipped each of the smaller toggle switches up and imme-
diately back down, to see if by momentary activation he
could get some clues without necessarily killing himself.

Nothing happened. OK, Barton said to Barton. The
swivel bar has to steer this thing, and the up-and-downer
has to be the go pedal. Or else I am already dead and just
don't know it yet. And these other flips are auxiliary con-
trols. So the big blue devil in the middle has to be where
the action starts.

Checking to see that all the toggles were back where
he'd started, and the two levers also as near to neutral as
he could tell, he flipped the turquoise switch. There came
a heavy pervasive hum all around him, then a thia scream-
ing from somewhere else in the place. The scream wasn't
steady like the hum; without thinking. Barton left the
controls and went looking for it. on the run.

It was a smaller-than-average lobster, about three-
quarter scale. Barton caught it trying to unlock the door to
outside. Every impulse shrieked at him to kill it, but even
now he had a soft spot for small* presumably young crea-
tures, so he tried to subdue it instead. Paradoxically, his
weakness prevented him from doing so without injuring
it—in the struggle he accidentally broke one of its arms.
He dragged it back to the control area, and using its own
robes, tied it down into a seat Still it screamed.

The high piercing sound didn't help Barton's concen-
tration. His sight was flickering again, like an out-of-tune
TV set with the picture jiggling to the peaks of the sound
track. His ears filled the silences with a dull ringing and
once a voice spoke in his head: "Give it up. Barton. You
lost." When the control panel began to change into a gray
wall he fought himself back from past the brink of panic
and proceeded to reason with the small screaming lobster
in the only way he could manage.

He persuaded it to stop screaming, and then to stop a
kind of whimpering, by giving it a full open-hand slap
across the eyes every time it made a noise. After a while it
got the point. Barton was glad, because his hand was get-
ting as sore as his sensibilities. So was his throat; he had

29

accompanied every slap with a shout. He was parched
thirsty.

His spaceship was still humming. Barton tried his ten-
tative steering and throttle levers but nothing happened.
Well, then; back to the rectangle of toggles.

The first few, as he flipped them quickly on and off, did
nothing spectacular. The one at the right end of the top
row made the whole machine push up at him gendy. He
flipped it full on, then. and realized the thing had to be
airborne. Flying by the seat of his pants, he worked his
self-designated throttle and steering levers gingerly, and
found that indeed they gave the feelings of acceleration
and turning that he had expected. So he went straight up.
the best way he knew to keep from hitting anything while
he figured things better.

The only trouble was, he still couldn't see out. Also the
little lobster was keening again, and he couldn't spare a
hand to slap it.

Suddenly Barton was standing under a great golden
dome, with deep tones of organ music reverberating
around him. He shook his head; this was no time to play
around with hallucinations, even pleasant ones. It was
hard to get back. He had spent a lot of time perfecting
that mental escape from the lobsters' cage, he was beat all
out of shape, and the miniature Demu's noise was disrupt-
ing his thought patterns badly. He wasn't used to noise,
dammit!

But he made it, and instead of slapping his small lob-
ster to shut it up he took a deep breath, bracing himself,
and hit them both with a heavy-G vertical swerve. It did
the job; he had silence. Then he went back to the methodi-
cal quick testing of the bank of switches.

He was a long time finding the one that gave him an
outside view, and somewhat longer in learning that the
toggle switches also twisted to give fine controls such as
focus or magnification. It was then that he found he
hadn't captured a spaceship after all.

It was nothing but some kind of goddamned air car.
There were quite a few more of the same, hanging with
him and surrounding him. Barton didn't quite panic, but
he did try to make a run for it. It didn't work; they stayed
right with him. His mind had not quite decided to run
away from home and leave him to manage by himself
when he noticed that neither his nor the other airborne
vehicles could approach each other too closely; some

30

invisible cushion kept them apart. Barton the ex-

physidst thought briefly on the possible ways of obtaining
such an effect; then Barton the escaped caged animal
took over, wanting only to escape what came at him, or
smash it if necessary. He explained the position to his
captive lobster several times, but it did not answer, hav-
ing learned that noise would cause it to be hit, by Barton.
It did get up the nerve to say "Whnee," quietly.'Barton
took this well; he smiled and did not slap the smallish
lobster. The exchange might eventually have developed
into the first conversation between Barton and a Demu,
if he had had the time for it. But of course he didn't.

Barton, though, was only stretched out of shape, not
out of commission. He went back to testing the switches
that he'd merely flicked before to see that they wouldn't
kill him; now he left each one on long enough to see what
it controlled. So sooner or later he had to turn on the
visual and voice intercom, through which the opposition
appeared to have been trying to reach him for quite some
time. It was the third switch from the right in the fourth
row from the top.

The big lobster in the foreground of the viewscreen
broke into excited gestures and loud shrill sounds, so
Barton knew the view was two-way. The smaller lobster
beside him shrilled back in answer. It was all too loud and
too fast for him to follow, but finally it struck him that
they were exchanging communication he didn't under-
stand.

He could not allow them to talk over his head. That
way led back to the cage. Bracing himself so as not to
move the controls accidentally. Barton belted the small
lobster across the eyes as hard as he could, backhand. It
felt like hitting a rock; he hoped he hadn't broken his
hand. The creature slumped limply; brownish fluid
dripped from one nostril-hole and a comer of its mouth.
Barton felt remorse, but only briefly; he didn't have time
for it.

The big one on the screen was yammering again; Bar-
ton couldn't follow the text. He shook his head impa-
tiently. He knew it was his own stupid fault for not going
along better with the language lessons, but he didn't feel
like admitting any blame. "You want to talk with ME,
you lobster-shelled bastard, you talk MY language!" he
shouted. "TALK ENGLISH, or go to hell!"

He repeated this with variations while with half his

31

mind he jockeyed the air car against the attempts of his
escort to herd him in the direction of their choice. The
other air cars surrounded him and tried to mass their
pressure shields to move Barton the way they wanted him
to go, but there weren't enough to hold him and push him
at the same time. And he was feeling just stubborn enough
to fight anything they wanted him to do: anything at all.
Hallucinations nibbled at him, but now he decided they
must be effects of the Demu unconsciousness weapon.
leaking past the air car's shields. The hypothesis, true or
not, made it surprisingly easier to fight the phantoms off,
So with something like enjoyment he used his consider-
able kinesthetic skills to thwart their efforts to herd bua.
The upshot was that the dozen or so air cars danced
around much the same area for quite a while before the
next development on the viewscreen. Which was that it
spoke his name.

"Barton!" it said. "Thish ish Shiewen. You musht
IJshen to me!" On the screen was what Barton had come
to think of as the twitchy lobster, the one that didn't look
quite like the rest. It sounded like a voice he knew, and
now he remembered Doktor Siewen. But why would
Siewen sound like a comic drunk act?

Barton put the odd pronunciation to the back of his
mind and concentrated on the meaning. "Doctor
Siewen? I don't believe it. Throw that damn hood back
and let me see you." It seemed strange to be talking with
anyone, anyone at alL

As the hands came up and the hood went back. Barton
heard a ghost voice: Doktor Siewen's. "They catch peo-
ple and turn them into Demu*"

They sure as hell did. Without the hair and ears and
nose and eyebrows, with the serrated-lips over toothless
gums and a shortened stumpy tongue, the thing on the
screen didn't look much like Siewen except for the ctffn
and cheekbones. But the skull and neck were human-
shaped, not lobsterish. The eyelids looked a little odd;

Barton decided they'd been trimmed back to get rid of the
eyelashes. And a long-forgotten memory reminded him
that the sounds of s and z cannot be made without touch-
ing the tongue to teeth or gums at the front of the mouth;

otherwise the result is sh and zh. He put that answer in
cold storage, too, trying to absorb the shock.

It wasn't that the creature on the screen was so horrible

32

in itself; when you've seen one lobster you've seen them
all. The obscenity was in knowing what it had been before
the Demu had set to work. Barton had thought he hated
the lobsters already; he found he hadn't even begun.

"All right; it's you, I guess," he said. "I'm listening; go
ahead." Idly he noticed the hands with three fingers and
no nails; the jog at the wristime showed that the little fin-
ger had been stripped away, all along the palm. He -bet
himself a few dead lobsters on the condition of Siewen's
feet, then shook his head and listened.

"Barton, you musht come back." Barton's mind, back
where he wasn't paying too much attention to it, was irri-
tated by the distraction of the distorted sibilants and de-
cided to ignore them. "The young Demu you have is the
egg-child of the Director of this research station. Shut off
your shield; it is two up and three over from bottom left
of your switch panel. The Director offers you full Demu
citizen rights."

Barton chuckled; sometimes you draw a good card.
"Well now. is that right?" Not waiting for an answer be-
cause he didn't need one, he went on: "Forget what the
Director wants. Forget what the Director offers. If the
Director wants his gimpy-arm egg-child back in mostly
one piece, the important thing is what / want. And for
starters, I don't need any company around here. Get this
bunch of sheepdogs off my back; I won't talk any more
until you do. And get that damned sleep-gadget off my
mind, too. I'll wait." By God, but it was good to be able to
talk back for a change, to have a little bit of personal say-
so. He waited, not too impatiently.

Soon the surrounding air cars grouped to his right and
departed. The twitchy lobster who had been Doktor
Siewen came back to the screen. Barton spoke first.

"Now I want information. Lots of it. How much fuel
time do I have in this kite? And look, Siewen, or whatever
you are by now—tell him, don't anybody try to shit me
about anything. Because, anybody gets tricky, nobody
can stop me from using this bucket to kill myself. They
know damn well I've been trying to do that for a long
time. And there goes the Director's egg-child, whatever
that means, right down the spout along with me. You got
that straight?"

Siewen nodded, scuttled back to exchange shrill com-
munications with the Director.

You may be the King of the Lobsters, thought Barton,

33

but to me you're just one damned big overgrown craw-
dad!

Siewen came back to face Barton. "It is not fuel, your
problem," he saidL "Thirst and hunger, yes. You have no
food or water. Barton. You must come in; I give you di-
rections. Yes?"

Barton looked at the small comatose lobster beside
him, and snorted. After all this time, these creatures still
didnt realize what they had on their hands, what they had
made of him.

For one thing, they were still trying to lie. Rummaging
under his seat, he had found a container of liquid: about
two quarts and nearly fulL It smelled as if it could be
lobster piss and maybe it was, but probably it wouldn't
kill him. No point in telling everything he knew, though,
Barton thought.

"Where are you, Siewen? I don't mean me location,
but what kind of place?"

"It is Director's office, of the research station. Also con-
trol area for spaceship landing place just alongside. You
can get here easily. Location device, bottom left switch,
homes on signal beacon here. Small instrument." Siewen
pointed; the thing looked like a portable radio. "Just
watch on screen."

"Sure. Are there spaceships there?"

"Yes, several. Different sizes."

Barton told himself to be very, very cautious.^'Siewen.
has the Director ever been to Earth? Our Earth?"

"Oh yes," Siewen responded. "He was in charge of
navigation on expedition picking ourselves up. But first
time he or this group ever see humans or TUari, any of
our type faumanoid. Some mistakes they made." You can
say that again. Barton thought. But now he needed more
facts, in a hurry.

"What's the smallest ship available that could get from
here to Earth? How many does it take to handle such a
ship? TELL THEM NOT TO LIE TO ME1"

'There is no cause to lie," Siewen said calmly. "A ship
to carry eight is here; it could go twice to Earth and back;

one can control it But you are not to go to Earth, Barton.
You are to come here and become a citizen of the Demu.
Out of the mercy of the Director and his concern for his
egg-child."

Deep in his throat Barton growled, not quite audibly.
"We'll see," be said. "Take that robe off, Siewen."

34

"What? Why?"

"Just do it."

He had known all along. Barton thought wearily. He
glanced perfunctorily at the feet, long enough to confirm
that the little toes had been cut away back through the
metatarsals to the heels, and that the toenails were miss-
ing. The obliteration of body hair and nipples and navel
was no shock, nor was the Demu pattern of abdominal
dots. And of course the crotch was like that of a tree, or a
lobster.

Siewen must have noticed Barton's gaze; one hand ten-
tatively reached for that juncture, then drew back. "You
don't understand," Siewen said. "They didn't know. I
said, it was first time this group had to do with humans.
Only with other races, not like us. They didn't know."

"Sure not," said Barton.

"I don't really mind so, any more," Siewen said hur-
riedly, "and they don't do that way now. They learned,
some from observing you. Barton. Now they retain func-
tion and only minimize protrusion. There is one here*
done so. I must show."

"Later!" Barton ground out. He didn't want to see any
more examples of Demu surgical artistry for a while;

his will to live was shaken enough, as it was. "Just tell me
one thing, will you? Why do they do these things?"

"Hard to understand, for us. But Demu are old race,
very old. And for long long time they know of no others,
intelligent. They have deep belief^ almost instinct, that
'Demu are the only true people. That all others are only
animals."

"Well, haven't they learned better than that by now?
And what does that have to do with—your facelift, and
everything?"

"When they meet long ago a race, animals they think,
who leam Demu language, it is great shock. Animals be-
ing people when only Demu are people. Demu cannot ac-
cept- So they—this is only guess by me, you understand,
but I think it is very good guess—so they when any animal
learns-Demu language, make it Demu, best they can. As
with me and others. They make mistakes; many die. I am
lucky." Barton thought that was a matter of opinion. He
didn't bother to say so.

He was still digesting what he had heard when Siewen's
voice reminded him that this was no time for philosophiz-
ing. He had things to do, fast, before the opposition

35

caught its balance. He couldn*t afford to get off the main
point.

"Barton!" Siewen began. "You must—"

"LATER1 Siewen, get your Director up front with
you and translate for us. I'm in a hurry; tell him that;

don't either of you try to mess around with me. Now
MOVE1"

Barton told them exactly what he wanted. They didn't
believe him at first, and he supposed they would have
laughed if a lobster knew how to laugh. But he persisted,
figuring that he had an ace in the hole.

"Barton," said Siewen, "you are speaking useless. The
Director will not give you a spaceship to go to Earth. No
one can command the Demu."

"Does the Director want his egg-child back alive, or
doesn't he?"

"Wants back, yes," Siewen acknowledged. "But at
your price, no, Demu have died before and will die
again." Ill drink to that, thought Barton. "Safe return of
egg-child buys you life and citizenship among the Demu.
No more. I do not want to tell what will be done if you
are taken alive and egg-child dead. Now see reason,
Barton. You have tried well. You are admired for it,
even. But now it is finish. You must come here and accept
Director's terms."

"Want to bet?" thought Barton. But he said, 'Tell me
one more thing, Siewen. Can the Demu regrow lost
limbs? Like the lobsters back home?"

"No," said Siewen. "Why ask that?"

"Just curious." Barton paused for a moment, thinking
it out "Siewen, tell the Director that I am getting very
hungry." There was a muffled conference on the screen.

"The Director says come here and be-fed," Siewen an-
nounced. Barton grinned.

"I dont have to," he said softly. "Let me tell you about
the last meal I had."

He told them, and the funny part was that Siewen
seemed every bit as shocked as the Director. Barton let
them chew on the idea a minute before he threw the
bomb.

"OK, Siewen, here's how it works. Tell the Director
and tell it straight. Either I get the ship to go home in, .in-
structions and all, and the deal gets started right away, or
else I have lunch now." He thought about it. "Consider-
ing everything, I don't feel especially sadistic. So first I'll

36

il; just eat me arm I've already broken. 111 leave the screen
H, off, so the Director doesn't have to watch."

"„'    Barton hadn't thought a Demu-lobster could get as
4., loud as the Director did then. Eventually Siewen got the
^ floor. It seemed Barton had won his point; he had a good
^  healthy ship for himself. Sure, Mike, thought Barton;

•^  just watch out for the curve balls.
;;;     Well, he'd known there had to be a handle somewhere

•(? -in the mess; luckily he'd found it. It had been a one-shot
\   Muff, a game of schrecklicheit—because it would have
^;,  done him no good to carry it out, even if he could have

brought himself to do so. But what the Director didn't
^   know wouldn't hurt Barton.

^     His mifld was getting hazy again, ghost-hallucinations
,;   flickering around the outskirts. Toothlessly, the Tilari

•";:   woman was telling him that they were expecting a little
"::   bundle from Heaven. He shook his head and tried to con-
y.   centrate on the essentials.

"OK, Siewen," he said, "I don't need any coordinates
to get to you, if I understand this location-blip thing on
f-   the screen." Siewen nodded. "Here's what happens," Bar-
^   ton continued. "You and the Director get down by the
\   ship—my ship. Bring your locator gadget with you so I
;-   don't have to mess around looking for you when I get
k   there. Everybody else stays away. Any last-minute
?    tricks, I cut the shield and ram us all dead. You got that?
if-   Any questions?"             '•

^     There were several, but Barton simply said "NO'* to
^   most of them without paying much attention. He knew
(   what he wanted. There was no point in arguing.

r     Then Siewen, at the Director's prompting, insisted
^'   Barton should see and talk with some other newly made
:^   citizens of the Demu, before doing anything so drastic as
s?;' what he was planning. "The hell with that," said Barton.
^   "Later. Just you two. Nobody else."

I     It was about an hour that Barton's air car took, cruising
to its destination. He saw no signs of habitation; possibly
the research station was the only Demu installation on the
planet. The little lobster was conscious again and whhn-
pered occasionally, but it looked so apologetic that Bar-
ton didn't feel like hitting it, even to maintain the
precedent of silence. Anyway, the small sounds weren't
joggling his mind as the screaming had done. He sipped
on the foul-tasting water and decided it wasn't lobster
piss after all, since his small lobster made begging mo-

37

tions toward it, and drank some when he relented and
made the offer. Then it opened its mouth and lifted its
short tongue. Barton had no idea what the gesture meant,
but the creature rewarded his generosity with silence. It
was a good trade.

The spaceport, when he reached it, didn't look like
much. There were three really big ships, two medium
and one small. Upright torpedo shapes, not saucers. The
big ones would be the meat wagons, he thought. They had
an air of neglect about them.

He set the car to hover a little above and to one side of
the small ship, facing a delegation of robed figures at
fairly close range. He cranked up magnification on the
direct-view display screen, and saw that there were four
of them.                                                     f-

**What the hell you think you're doing?" Barton said.      ^

**I said nobody else."                                          H.
Siewen shrugged and spread his arms apologetically.      ^

*'You must see other new Demu citizens," he said. "You      3{
said later, but only chance is now. You must know. With      w
me there were mistakes, yes. But these are functional   _ ^
breeders and Demu citizens. As millions of Earth hu-
mans will become, and all eventually, when the Demu
have arranged. But see—I You will not forget Umila;

the other is of Earth." Siewen gestured.

The two figures slipped off their hoods and robes. Bar-
ton took for granted the hairless earless noseless heads
with serrated lips hiding toothless mouths with shortened
tongues. (But oh! the lost lovely curve of Limila's lipsi)
He didn't expect to see breasts set low on Limila's rib-
cage, and sure enough, there weren't any. The lobsters
scrubbed clean, singlemindedly. Siewen had said that
the smooth treelike look of her, where Barton was look-
ing now, still concealed true function: even so, it was one
more coal on the fire in Barton's heart and mind.

Then there was the man, an Earthman if Siewen had
that part right Siewen had certainly told truth that the
Demu had "minimized protrusion" in the genital area;

whether or not the Demu citizen on the screen "retained
function" was of only academic interest to Barton. He
was trying very hard not to throw up. It's like the old joke
about the man who went into the barbershop, he thought.
"Bob Peters here?" "No, just shave-and-a-haircuL"

"Siewen!" he shouted. "I've changed my mind."

"You come now and become Demu citizen?"

38

"Like bloody hell I do!" Barton, bursting with frustra-
tion and hatred, took especial pains not to turn and kill
the small lobster beside him. Hell, it probably hadn't even
carved up its first human yet.                    --—

"Then what is it you mean?" said Siewen.

"I mean we all go on the ship," Barton said. "The two
of us here and the four of you there. All together we go
in; don't move yet, any of you, or I crash the lot of us."

There was a conference down below. "Not possible,"
said Siewen. "The Director does not agree."

"In that case," said Barton, "I think it's time I had some
lunch. I've changed my mind; I'll leave the screen on
so that the Director can observe. I always did like crab
salad." And he reached for the dangling broken arm of
the small quiet lobster, the Director's egg-child.

Not too much later the Demu spacecraft lifted off, car-
rying six assorted entities with very little rapport.

The ship's basic control system was roughly the same
as the air car's, though with many more control switches.
For the moment, all Barton needed was power, naviga-
tion and an outside view. He'd worry about the rest of it
later, when he had to.

Siewen assured Barton that the Director had given him
the correct course toward the region of Earth, and had
agreed there would be no pursuit. Barton assured Siewen
that the Director damn well "better had, if the Director
wanted Barton to watch his diet.

A tense truce prevailed, largely because of Barton's
policy that he would not put up with the company of fully
functional Demu. He had broken one of the Director's
arms the moment they were sealed inside the ship, when
that worthy had tried to make use of a concealed weapon.
Then after a moment's thought, he broke the other one.
Subtler methods might have done the job, but Barton had
found something that worked, so he stayed with it. He had
trouble thinking outside the narrow boundaries of his
main goal: freedom. The Director treated Barton with
considerable respect, and was fed at intervals by bis
egg-child, one-handedly.

Barton set and splinted the broken limbs, which was
more than the Demu had bothered to do for him in like
case. His own forearm still had a permanent jog to it and
hurt more often than it didn't.

That wasn't all the hurt in Barton. Limiia remembered

39

him; the Demu hadn't done anything to her mind, that he
could detect He realized, though, that he wasn't much of
a judge of minds. Including his own.

She came to him, in the control area which he never left
unguarded; when he slept, he sealed it off from the rest of
the ship. She told him, in her sh-zh lobster accent, that
she wanted love with him. She parted her maimed lips and
showed the Demu-shortened tongue lifted in what he
now knew to be the Demu smile. With the forty teeth
gone he could see it quite clearly.

The trouble was that the Demu-Umila still had
Lunila's shape of skull and chin and cheekbones. The
quicksilver-colored huge-irised eyes were as deep as
ever. though their shape was subtly marred by the slight
cropping of the eyelids. Her arms and legs were graceful
if Barton avoided seeing the hands and feet, and aside
from breasts and navel and external genitals, the Demu
had not altered her superb lithe torso.

Barton closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the
Demu-denuded face and head, put his cheek against
Limila's and tried to make love with her. It might have
worked if he hadn't noticed the ear that should have been
against his nose and wasn't. So instead he failed; he failed
her. He was crying when he gently put her out of the
control area and relocked it, and for a long time after.

Then he went into the main passenger compartment
to see if he could keep from killing the Director and his
egg-child out of hand; for the moment, he succeeded. It
was a success that helped Barton's dwindling self-
confidence. He had all he could do to keep himself under
control, let alone keeping the ship on course or his fellow-
voyagers in hand.

For one thing he was continually bone-tired. The
pseudo-death experience had taken more out of him
than he'd realized at first. Followed by a period of hectic
activity and nervous tension, and now the need for near-
constant alertness, it still dragged him down; recovery
was so slow as to be undetectable.

His condition made him easy prey to mental lapses. He
became accustomed to waking, as often as not, to find
himself apparently back in his cage; each time it took
minutes to fight his way back to reality. More frightening
were occasional hallucinatory lapses in the presence of
others: once he found himself on the verge of defending
his Ph.D. Orals presentation to the professor who had

40

washed him out, before he realized that the prof couldnt
possibly be there; it was the Director who sat before him.

Every sight of Limila burned more deeply into him
than the last, into a place .where gentleness had once
lived. Where now grew something else—something that
frightened him.

He didn't let the others see his difficulties any more than
he could help, and they were too afraid of him to try to
take advantage of bis lapses. They were not wrong; Bar-
ton was walking death and knew it; he had been for longer
than he liked to admit He kept to himself as much as pos-
sible, consonant with the need to keep tabs on his pas-
sengers.

Once he looked info a mirror and found he didn't rec-
ognize himself. He had no idea how long it had been since
he might have been able to do so. He looked at the face in
the mirror and decided he didn't like it But then it wasn't
really his own work, he realized when he stopped to think
about it. The thought made him feel a little better, but not
much.

So it was a long tired haul. The "trip out," as Barton
thought of it, must have been either oa a faster ship or
with a lot of induced hibernation; he had no way of know-
ing which, if either, was the correct guess.

Limila came to him again, wanting his love. He tried to
turn her away; she didn't want to go. "Barton," she said,
clinging to him desperately, "I''am still Limila. They do all
this to me, yes"—she stepped back and gestured at her
head, at her body—"but inside I am still ME. I AMI" His
eyes blurred with tears, losing the fine outline of skull and
cheekbones, of neck and shoulders as she stood before
him. Seeing, then, only the lobsterish lack of features, it
was easier for him to keep shaking his head speechlessly
and" back her firmly out the door, locking it after her with
a vicious yank that nearly broke the lever.

The next time he saw her she was slumped in a corner
looking at the floor. He didn't disturb her trance, but it
disturbed him a lot

Hallucinating was a dangerous game to play, for him,
now; he knew that. But he thought it might be a solution,
with Limila. He invited her into the control area, looked
at her and deliberately tried to substitute in his mind her
natural appearance.

It worked, and for a few moments he thought it was
really going to work. But his mind-picture of unmaimed-

41

Limila shifted and distorted. Against all the force he could
bring, it changed into the other Tilaran woman, the one
with no nail-joints, the blank stare and the scars at the
temples. It writhed and screamed, dying again. Barton
screamed too, but he didn't hear most of it. When he
fought his way back to reality, the sight of the lobster-
faced Limila seemed almost beautiful. But only almost.
He could not love it, would never be able to do that.

Limila crouched against the door, terrified. "You must
think I'm crazy," Barton said. "I'm sorry. I thought I
could fool myself, pretend you were unchanged. It—it
didn't work out quite that way. I saw something worse,
instead." He knew he couldn't explain further, and said
only, "I'm sorry, Limila."

She went away of her own accord, looking back fear-
fully.

Barton tried to pair her off with the Demu-ized Earth-
male who supposedly "retained function." That one was
a real enigma; he wouldn't speak to Barton, or to anyone
at all except in Demu. Barton couldn't discover his name
or anything else about him, except that apparently he
had become Demu wholeheartedly in spirit as well as in
guise. Barton decided that when it came down to cases he
bad more respect for Doktor Siewen. Which wasnt say-
ing much.

At any rate the pseudo-Demu wanted nothing to do
with Limila, nor she with him. Barton asked Limila about
the matter but wasn't sure whether he misunderstood the
answer or simply didn't believe it. "He say," Limila told
Barton, "it not Demu breeding season now." She gave
Barton the view of uplifted-tongue, the Demu smile. "The
Tilari do not wait on season, nor you, I think." But she
had smiled like a Demu. Of course. Barton reflected,
locking himself alone into the control area, it was the only
way they had left her to smile. Well, there wasn't any an-
swer; maybe there never had been. Or not lately.

Barton now avoided Limila almost entirely. It was the
only thing he could do for either of them. The next time
the functional Demu-Earthmale got in his way. Barton
without warning knocked him square on his back against
the opposite bulkhead and was happily beginning to kick
him to death before Limila tried to push between them,
shrilling, "NO, N01 WHY? WHY?" Barton had no an-
swer, shrugged and moved away, marveling at his ability
to leave the two Demu alive as long as he had.

42

Actually, not noticing the change much. Barton had
become rather fond of the Director's small egg-child.
Without knowing its name, or being able to pronounce it,
probably. Barton thought of it as female. He called it
"Whnee," after the sound of its rather plaintive little cries
when uncertain what was wanted of it. It tried to be help-
ful with the ship's few chores, and Barton came to think of
it as a nice-enough kid; too bad she came from such a rot-
ten family. Occasionally it would make the Demu lifted-
tongue smile at him, and oddly he found the gesture not
at all repulsive, but rather appealing.

Siewen was no trouble; he was only a shell, not a per-
son. He reflected the thought or policy of the One in
Charge; once that had been the Director, now it was Bar-
ton. Any authority was good enough for that which had
once been Doktor Siewen.

The Director was no problem either. Barton simply
didn't bother to take the splint-harnesses off his arms,
even when they bad probably healed. The other Demu-
human tried to unstrap the Director once, but Barton
caught him and so reacted that neither Whosits nor
anyone else tried it again. It took another set of splints;

Barton guessed he was in a rut.

But what the bell; it worked, which was more than
Barton could say for much of anything else he'd tried
lately. The only late effort he liked much was his clothes.
He'd hated the Demu robes, which all the others still wore.
He had essayed nudity but found it too reminiscent of his
captivity. Eventually he had ripped a robe into two
pieces: one made a loincloth and the other a short cape
that left his arms free. Barton didn't care what it looked
like; it was comfortable. He could use all the comfort he
could get.

Finally the ship approached Earth's solar system. Bar-
ton was going home. Not really, of course. There was
nothing for him there. He knew he'd be lucky to get a hear-
ing before being locked up as a public menace. But he had
to take the risk, because it was everybody's chance, may-
be the only one Earth would ever get. He wasn't looking
for a return to normal life. That wasn't in the cards; he'd
been playing too long with a 38-card deck. But there was
one thing, for sure.

Barton had survived; maybe Earth could survive. He
had to give it the chance to try. He was bringing home a

43

fair sample of what Earth was up against: the lobsters,
their ship and some of their other works.

The lobsters would be confined and studied; Barton
smiled grimly at that prospect. He wondered how long it
would take them to get used to the fact that on Earth it's
messy to piss on the floor. He might go to see the little one
sometimes if anyone would let him; they could say
"Whnee" to each other and maybe now and then she'd
raise her tongue in the Demu smile.

He couldn't bring himself to worry about what might be-
come of Siewen or Whosits; he had enough worry on his
own account. But he hoped someone—someone more
capable than he—would take care of Limila. All Barton
could do was try to take care of Earth, and maybe of Bar-
ton with luck.

The ship could help a lot. It and its weapons would be
analyzed and copied, maybe even improved. Human
science had been moving fast, the last Barton had heard;

no telling how much further it had gone.

Most important, though, was showing Earth what the
well-barbered humanoid wouldn't be wearing next sea-
son if the Demu had their way; as modeled by Siewen and
Limila and Whosits. Barton thought he knew how the
people of Earth would react.

They wouldn't like it any better than he did. They might
decide to teach the Demu what it meant, to cage a man.

44

II.

Humpty Dumpty

Barton approached Earth like a boy asking a girl for his
first dance. He was dubious of his welcome, both in space
and on the ground. Stalling, he took a course that kept the
moon between his ship and his destination, while he tried
to think his way through the situation.

The alien ship and its occupants were bound to be
something of a surprise to the home folks, and it would
take time for Barton to get his story across straight. He was
braced for that necessity.

What' the locals would make of his companions was
something else again. It would require a sharp observer,
he thought, to tell them apart at first: the Demu, God rot
their hypothetical souls, were remorselessly thorough in
enforcing conformity of appearance. Barton was hit by
a surge of belated relief: maybe he looked like the wrath
of God and fresh out of thunderbolts, but at least he still
carried all his normal appendages.

The moon approached and was past; Earth was ahead.
The blast of a warhead, a megaton at least, caught Barton
off guard. The Demu shields blocked heat and other radi-
ation, but the buffet dumped Barton out of his seat and
slammed him against a wall, bad arm first. Cursing, he
clawed his way back to the controls.

Evasive action was skittering zigzag toward Earth;

Barton did it, while fiddling frantically with the commu-
nications controls. Not too much chance that Earth and
Demu frequencies or modulation systems would match
up, but worth trying.

45

From outside the ship he could hear nothing but in-
coherent noise. He figured it was probably the same at the
other end, but he kept talking anyway.

"This is a captured alien ship. For Chrissakes don't
blow it up; it wasnt all that easy to get God DAMmitI"—
as another warhead went off near him—"I said I cap-
tured this thing. I stole it; you need it. Lay off the stupid
fireworks . . ." and so on. There was no sign that anyone
was paying attention.

With artificial gravity, he didn't have to mess around
with the gradual approach. Barton guessed that the
shield-effect would keep him from getting fried; he hit air
in a full dive. He scared himself by the narrow margin he
had left when he pulled out level. But at least he was down
where nobody could get a clear shot at him, and with
enough speed to beat anything local that he knew about.

He was over the Pacific; that was all he could tell about
the geography. It was either dawn or sunset; he'd lost
orientation after that second blast. Barton bet on dawn
because he didn't know how to fly the ship near the sur-
face in the dark. He hoped he was right, because he didn't
know how to speak Chinese, either.

Meanwhile he kept saying things like "All I want to do
is land this bastard and let somebody look it over. My
name is Barton and I used to live here." Somebody was
hammering on the other side of the control-room door,
wanting in. Somebody could go to hell, the way discipline
seemed to have done around here. Out in space where he
could leave the controls and move around, no one had
bothered him. this way. Barton decided he'd make a
lousy drill sergeant; his teachings didn't seem to stick
very welL

A voice came over the comm-gear; someone on the
ground (a computer, more likely) had decoded the
Demu modulation pattern and matched it. Probably hit-
ting every frequency band in reach. Barton suspected.
"Calling the human on the Raider ship," the voice said.
"Are you ia control of that ship?. Come in, please."

"Yeah, yeah." said Barton, "I got the ship; where do I
put it?'* His relief was so great that the event hardly reg-
istered: that this was the first contact he'd had with Earth
since the Demu had taken him. How many years had it
been? He had no idea.

A nervous laugh came from the other end. "You sound

46

human enough, all right," the voice said. "Are you
alone?"

"Hell no; I brought the Tenth Marines with me, band
and all. What did you think, dummy?" Barton caught
himself. "Sorry; I'm a little bent out of shape. No. I'm not
alone, but I'm in charge. I have two of the Demu—the
Raiders, you call them; I guess they've been back here
some?—as prisoners. Take it easy on the little one; she's
just a kid. Hasn't done anything, that I know of, to have
taken out on her. The big one, her old man, was Director
of the research station that carved up the other three on
here, that used to look like us but don't any more. To him
you can do any damn thing you want, except kill him:

that's my privilege; don't anybody forget it" Barton
caught himself just short of fully raving.

"OK," he said, "will somebody talk me in to land this
bucket someplace, please?"

"Are you low on fuel or anything?"

"No." Low on patience, maybe, but he didn't say it.

The voice talked him in. The Demu instruments he
knew how to operate, lacking Demu ground-based loca-
tor equipment, were no good to him. Local radar spotted
his position and course so that he could be told how and
when to turn, when to slow down, and what to look for at
the designated landing site. He had guessed right on the
dawn part; they brought him down somewhere in New
Mexico. It was about noon there.

Barton sweat the landing, but the ship turned out to be
practically foolproof; he was sure he was overcontrol-
ling, but it touched ground gently. The Demu shield
helped, he supposed. He felt the large muscles in his neck
and shoulders relax almost explosively, and only then
realized how tense he had been.

But maybe this was no time to relax. The outside
viewer showed him a lot of tanks and artillery surround-
ing him at close range, so he was in no hurry to chop the
ship's protective field. "What the hell is all the hardware
for?" he asked rather plaintively.

"Well, you must realize we can't take any chances,
Barton."

Barton laughed right out loud; he couldn't help it.
"Buddy, you're taking chances right now you don't even
know about. You don't have any choice, come to that. I
can help your odds. And get this: I'm not taking any
chances at all. I don't have to; I've done that bit." He

47

thought a minute, aimed a device and briefly activated
it.

"That big hunk of gun off to my left," he said. It was the
largest of the lot, that he could see. "Tell 'em to point that
at me; just to point it. And see what happens."

Barton waited. Nothing happened, because he had
used the Demu unconsciousness weapon on that gun
crew. He had to make his point, and sometimes it takes a
while. Patiently he waited until the voice channel qui-
eted.

"All right," he said finally, "somebody has to trust
somebody and I will if you will. Can we can the crap now
and get to it?"

"What do you want?" The voice was tense and a little
shaky.

"Nothing much. Just get the hardware off me and I'll
keep mine off you. There have to be some big wheels out
there someplace who want to talk. I want to talk with
them, too, because I damn well have news for them. So if
they'll come here to this ship I'll come out and meet 'em,
and bring my zoo with me. We can talk, and it's perfectly
safe for everybody unless some damn fool tries to cross
me."

"I don't understand that last part. Barton."

"Be your age." He was dealing with paranoias, he told
himself, so he had to fit the part. As though he didn't, al-
ready ... "I push one button and we have a three-hundred-
mile crater around here. I'll have the button in my hand."
He heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Can we just talk now,
. instead?"

Barton had no such button. But he knew that some-
times a man has to bluff a little.

He shut off the voice channel: best to quit while he was
ahead. Systematically he checked through the control
assembly of switches, across and down, deactivating all
but standby power to the ship. He was struck, wistfully,
by the fact that he'd never learned the function of most
of those switches—had never activated them, had never
dared. Well, other people could tackle that job now, if
things worked out.

Barton looked around the control room of his ship.
Hell, it was like leaving home. Not that there was anything
he needed or wanted to take along. His snappy two-piece
outfit, much smudged, was the lot. Barton turned
abruptly and joined the others in the main compartment.

48

There they sat, all in Demu robes. No way of knowing
which had hammered on the control-room door at a cru-
cial moment. Barton didn't ask; it made no difference.

"We're on Earth," he said. "We go out now, to meet the
people. If you have anything you want to keep with you,
bring it. Siewen, Linula: interpret."

Little was said. Siewen shrilled a few lobster phrases to
Whosits and the Director. Limila sat looking starkly
ahead. Wbnee scuttled to her bunk and picked up a few
items to tuck into her robe. Barton wondered whether
the others were out of brains or merely out of ears. So he
repeated himself, only louder.

It took a while, but eventually Barton herded every-
one out of the Demu ship to talk to the home folks. He
faced a General Parkhurst, a Presidential Assistant
Tarleton of the Space Agency and a bevy of news-media
types among the trailing retinue. Barton put thumbs-
down on the newsies. "Get those bastards out of here,"
he said. "They never get anything right in their lives, the
first time. This is too important to let them fuck it up.
Later, maybe, but not right now." But be was too late to
stop them from taking pictures of the two Demu and the
three pseudo-Demu. Not that it mattered all that much,
probably, but it did bother him.

General Parkhurst was a small dapper man; his idea of
efficiency was to do everything in a hurry. He took several
reels of taped notes in the first hour. Then he departed
abruptly while Barton was still trying to explain the dif-
ference between the Demu and his other companions.
Barton shrugged and didn't miss him much.

The civilian, Tarleton, was a different bucket of clams,
a big sloppy slow-talking bear of a roan. He asked and he
listened and he observed, without trying to tell Barton
what to do. Barton had all his passengers shuck then-
robes and hoods to show themselves, whether they liked
it or not.

The Director was apparently quite indifferent to being
paraded before an alien species. Of course his upper
limbs were still strapped into splint-harnesses, so there
wasn't much he could have done about it.

The smaller Demu shrank timidly until Barton patted
it on th» head and said "Whnee" in a gentle, encouraging
tone of voice. Then it displayed its chitmous protrusion-
less exoskeleton in relative confidence. Barton had un-

49

splinted its healed arm some time ago, and also Whosits*;

he still didn't care to trust the Director that far.

'These are the Demu, the race we're up against," he
said. The big one ran the show at our zoo, as I said before,
and it's the daddy or mother or something of the little one,
if you can figure out how. She's his egg-child, anyway.
What that means I don't know; they haven't said."

"It might imply more than one method of reproduc-
tion," Tarleton said mildly, talking around the stem of his
unlighted pipe. "Now how about these others?"

'Two of them used to be human males," Barton began,
'The skinny one with nothing between his legs is a Doktor
Siewen; they amputated his spirit too, I think. Whosits
there won't talk anything but Demu, so I don't know his
name; supposedly he's still male, but not much of one by
the looks of him."

Tarletoa looked closely at the pertinent parts of Whos-
its, something Barton preferred not to do. There was a
sort of nubbin; it might still work, at that. Hardly seemed
worth it, though.

"There's no fertility," Tarleton said, "or won't be for
long. Apparently one gonad is left, tucked neatly back
into the abdominal cavity. The Demu must not have
realized that this would produce sterility and eventual
impotence." Whosits' serrated Ups twitched but he said
nothing.

"This is Limila," Barton said then. "She's a woman of a
humanoid race much like ours: the Tilari."

"A woman?" Tarleton said slowly.

"Hell yes," Barton said. "Use your eyes; they didn't
cut her butt off." He toned his voice down; he hadn't
meant to shout. "Dammit, she was beautiful, Tarleton.
Different from us, several ways. An extra toe and finger
she had, all around. Forty teeth. Breasts set down low like
so"—he gestured—"forehead clear up here by the ears.
But beautiful. And mostly our kind of people.

"Why for Cfarissakes, Tarleton," he said, mind jarred
back to the bloody death of the other Tilari woman, whose
name he'd never known, "they're even interfertile with
us." His jaw locked. "Don't ask me how I know. Not just
yet."

Tarleton didn't ask. Unlike General Parkhurst, he
seemed to seme that at the moment Barton was some-
thing like a time bomb coming to term, needing careful,

50

patient defusing. Barton was dimly thankful for the
man's presence.

Tarleton motioned the five exhibits to resume their
robes, and directed the laying out of food and drink
he'd ordered earlier. Apparently he did not see any of
the five as human; he hadn't addressed a word to them.

"Can the Demu eat our food?" he asked.

"Damned if I know," Barton answered. "All I ever
saw them eat, and all they ever fed me, was liquids and
several kinds of wet lumpy glop. If they can't eat our
stuff there's plenty of theirs on the ship. Siewea can
fetch it"

The Demu ate Earth food all right, chewing with their
hard sawtooth lips. But the other three couldn't manage
anything except liquids and "glop" foods; their lips
looked lobsterlike but chewing was out of the question.
So Siewen was sent to the ship for Demu rations.

There was a hassle when the military guard, left by
General Parkhurst, didn't want to admit Doktor Siewen.
Barton headed for the ship; before the guard could shoot
him, Tarleton intervened.

"Get that sonofabitch away from my ship!" Barton ex-
ploded. "Who the hell does Parkhurst think he is?"

"Easy now," Tarleton said mildly. "The General natu-
rally tends to think in terms of security. The guard
doesn't realize that you, of course, have free access." He
motioned the guard away to one side, where he wouldn't
bug Barton.

"Any more of this crap," Barton continued, "and
Earth can go whistle. We'll see if maybe the Tilari,
Limila's people, have a better idea of how to use a ship."
Limila cringed; he had no time to wonder why.

"It'll be all right now. Barton," Tarleton said. "Come
on; have something to eat. Youll feel better."

And in truth Barton did. He hadn't realized how
much he'd missed the smells, tastes and textures of his
own planet's foods, all the years he'd spent in a Demu
cage.

For the first time, he thought to ask how long it had
been. The answer was a little less than eight years. Bar-
ton repeated the current date. "What d'ya know?" he
said. "I was forty a couple of weeks ago. Could have
had a birthday party if I'd known." He grimaced.
"Yeah, sure. Some party!" But Tarleton was talking on a

51

radiophone link to someone he addressed as "sir," and
only nodded absently.

After lunch a lanky technician insisted on taking
fingerprints. He didn't seem too put out that Demu fin-
gers had no recognizable patterns, but was a little upset
that no one except Barton had enough fingers to fill all
the blanks on his forms. Barton tried to explain that
Limila's prints couldnt possibly be on file; the man
grinned, and drawled, "Orders, buddy." He was so phleg-
matic about it that Barton merely shrugged. Tarleton
relaxed visibly.

Whosits' prints were taken by main force while he
protested shrilly in lobster language, but the Demu made
no such complaints. The Director certainly didn't; Bar-
ton had finally unstrapped his arms in honor of his first
Earthly meal, and the Director was experiencing freedom
of movement for the first time in a long while. Twinges
and all, probably. Barton kept an eye on him at first;

then he got tired of the necessity and went into the ship.
He came out with a small device necessary to the opera-
tion of the controls; even if the Director managed to
sneak onto the ship, he couldn't get away with it. If the
Director had had the sense to do the same thing at the
far end of the ride. Barton thought, things could have
been rough.

Tarleton was trying to explain what the problem was.
Bureaucrats and administrators with the habit of ex-
plaining to Barton what the problem was bad helped him
decide to drop physics and take up painting. But this
man seemed like a sensible sort, so Barton decided he'd
better listen.

"The problem is," Tarleton said, "that we need to
study the ship, and quite near is the best facility for that
purpose. Also we need to study the Demu and—er—
the others, and a hospital on the East Coast is best for
that. In Maryland, as it happens. But," he concluded,
"the hell of it is that we need the Demu, the big one at
least, on hand here for information about the ship."

"Yeh, and Siewen and Limila to interpret," Barton
added.

"Precisely. Any ideas?"

"Well, just offhand, Tarleton, I'd say a medical or
life-study lab is a lot easier to move than the stuff it's
going to take to check out this ship. And if anything goes
wrong, like maybe blowing up the whole schmeer, you

52

want a lot of empty country around. You're not going to
find that in Maryland."

Tarleton looked at him obliquely. "Speaking of things
blowing up, how about that button in your pocket? The
three-hundred-mile-crater button you mentioned earlier?"

Barton grinned sheepishly. "No such animal," he ad-
mitted. "All it was. those fogheads had a lot of guns
aimed at me and I didn't like it." He was surprised to
see the shudder that shook Tarleton; he hadn't realized
the man had been so tense under his slow easygoing ex-
terior. "I'm sorry," Barton said. "I'd have said some-
thing before, but I forgot all about it."

"That's OK," the big man said. "Let's get to work
figuring things out" He ran Barton through the high
points of his story again; he got on the phone to D.C.
several times. He even questioned Siewen briefly, though
it was obvious he would have felt as much at ease inter-
viewing a giant grasshopper.               •

Then it was time for another meal. Afterward Barton
was really and truly pooped out of his mind. It was hard
to tell a coherent story, leaving out the hallucinations,
and Barton figured, he'd better not tell anybody about
that part. Not ever.

Some improvised quarters in kit form had arrived by
truck and were in process of assembly, but Barton said
the hell with that. "We'll sleep on the ship. I'm used to it,
and the guards can make aure nobody goes sleepwalk-
ing."

Tarleton didn't like the idea too well, so Barton showed
him the locking device he'd removed from the ship.
"Here, these are the keys to the car. You hold 'em for
tonight." He looked the other man in the eyes. "I guess
you know what this means: I have to trust you a lot. I
wouldn't want anyone else, like that Parkhurst, to get his
hands on the gadget OK?" Tarleton nodded, and Barton
shepherded his charges aboard for the night. After eight
years or so, that was Barton's first day back on Earth.

The next few days were hectic but inconclusive. Quar-
ters were erected for the research people who were be-
ing moved in, as well as for Barton and his entourage.
There was a hassle the second day when Limila refused
to be quartered anywhere at all away from Barton; they
settled En a two-bedroom unit not far from Siewen and
Whosits and the two Demu. The latter had a larger unit.

53

built much the same. Except that there was no guard on
Barton's quarters.

Portable lab buildings were brought to the site, and
truckloads of gear with which to equip them. The ship
itself. Barton at the controls, was moved to the vicinity of
a complex of buildings about five kilometers away, be-
hind a low range of bills. Fat lot of good that would do,
Barton thought, but kept his reservations to himself.

And eventually General Parkhurst trundled his guns
and tanks back to the nearby Army base he commanded.

Trickles of response began to come in from the out-
side world. Barton's fingerprints were verified, and Dok-
tor Siewen's; Whosits* were not on file in any country
lending cooperation. Barton hoped no one had wasted
much effort looking for Limila's.

Barton got a post-mortem on his own former personal
life. His father had died five years ago, and his mother a
few months -later; he had no siblings or other close rela-
tives. Seven, years after his disappearance Barton had
been declared legally dead. His ex-wife and her new hus-
band were living well, helped somewhat by his estate,
since fais paintings had gradually become popular
enough to be valuable. His ex-mistress, Leonie, had mar-
ried and gained four children, plus ten or fifteen pounds
of weight for each of them.

Well, it was all pretty much as he'd expected. Par for
the course. Barton could find no emotional reaction in
himself; it was as though his former life were someone
els&'s—a total stranger's.

Tarleton assured him that while his estate was legally
out of reach, a grateful government would see to his fi-
nancial well-being. Barton would believe that when he
saw it, but the keys to the car were in his own pockets
again and he hadn't signed anything yet, he reminded
himself. He requested a small safe for his bedroom and
set his own combination; the keys were secure enough
for now.

Idly, once, he guessed at the value of the Demu ship in
terms of ransom for the planet Earth. Then he shrugged,
and moved a mental decimal point four places to the
left. He'd be lucky to get a dime over living expenses and
a consultant fee, but no harm in trying. Besides, he
wanted to see the chintzy bastards sweat when he hit
*em with the big numbers. Just for kicks; he hadn't had
many of those in the past eight years.

54

Doktor Siewen's middle-aged son and daughter sent
their kindest personal regards. They were so glad their
father was alive and safe, but Barton noticed they didn't
offer to visit him or vice versa. He suspected they'd seen
those first news pies, before the government had sup-
pressed the story. Siewen didn't seem to notice, or care.

And still there was no word on Whosits. Maybe Sie-
wen had been wrong; maybe Whosits wasn't of Earth ori-
gin after alL Well, who cared? Not Barton, for surel

Tarleton filled him in on what Earth knew of the Demu,
the "Raiders."

"The ship that got you was spotted on radar, but no-
body believed it. It was too big." Barton gave him an
estimate of the size of the larger ships he'd seen at the
Demu research station. Tarleton said the radar bad
shown something a lot bigger. Barton wondered if the
protective shield could have bollixed the readings. Tarle-
ton shrugged. "We can check that out when it's time for
you to fly this one for us next." That was OK. with Bar-
ton.

"We have no idea how many people that ship took,"
Tarleton continued, "because every day, all over the
world, people disappear. Some are murdered, some are
accidents and suicides, some disappear deliberately.
But the best estimate is that the Demu got at least sev-
eral hundred."

Barton looked surprised. Tarleton raised his eyebrows.
"Well, of course," he said. "you 'saw only the people—
including those not of this planet—in your own, er, cage.
A ship of the size you indicate could have contained
many such.

"The Raiders, the Demu, have been back twice since
then." That too was news to Barton, though he'd guessed
something of the sort when he first heard the term "Raid-
ers." "Once about four years ago; they must have taken
over a thousand that time. And then roughly two
years later." Tarleton smiled grimly. "That time we were
ready, or thought we were. With the high-G rockets and
warheads, like the ones thrown at you when you came
in. The Pentagon still claims they got that ship, but judg-
ing from the results with yours I'd guess the Demu were
merely startled and cautious, and withdrew for the time
being.

"Well, with luck and a good analysis of your ship,

55

Barton, we may be in a considerably better position to
handle them, next time they turn up."

Barton nodded. That was what he had in mind. For
starters.

Research got under way so unobtrusively that Barton
hardly noticed how quickly it developed. On the ship
and its weapons, on the Demu, on Siewen and Limila
and Whosits. And then, as he had known it must, on
Barton.

The physical exams were all right. He was organically
sound, he was told, and had been living with a lower
background-radiation level than Earth's. He took the offer
to have his lumpy arm rebroken and set to heal straight;

he had it done with a shoulder block rather than a gen-
eral anesthetic. The cast was light and didn't bother him
half as much as the unset break had for so long.

His teeth needed some work. All right; dental care
was available at Parkhurst's Army base. Novocaine
though, not gas.

He was questioned repeatedly and in detail, by persons
and teams of several specialties. Considering that he had
to edit a number of important details out of his experi-
ences, he told a fairly straight story. What he omitted was
of a personal nature, mostly: the two mutilated women
who had successively shared his cage, and some of his
stronger reactions both before and after escaping. And of
course, any mention of self-hypnosis or hallucination.
The only mental irregularities he admitted were the tem-
porary memory-loss effects of the Demu sleep gun.

He had devised, he thought, a fairly credible explana-
tion of his escape: that in the absence of any better idea
he'd formed the habit of lying on the food-service area of
the floor after meals, and that once, finally, the thing had
malfunctioned and let him through.

Everyone bought it, except the psychology boys. Dr.
Roderick Skinner, acting head of the branch in the ab-
sence of a Dr. Fox, called on Barton one afternoon.
Limila was elsewhere, being interviewed. Skinner carried
a briefcase, from which he extracted an untidy clip-
board. "Barton, 111 tell you frankly that I'm not yet sat-
isfied with the total picture." Barton waved him to a
chair.

"Yeh, well, sit down. Be with you in a minute." He
went to the kitchen, opened a can of beer. He thought
for a moment and decided what the hell, he might as

56

well waste a beer on this clown in the interests of public
relations. He didn't ask, but merely brought another one
out and handed it to the psychologist. "OK, shoot. What
don't you like?"

"That's the trouble. Barton; I'm not certain. Every-
thing seems to check, but the data do not quite explain
the reported events."

"Well, I've told you everything I can." That much was
true. Barton thought; he carefully had not said he'd told
everything he remembered. He savored the difference.

"We ran it through the computer, Barton, and we keep
getting nulls in the output Any idea why?"

"Not my line. What's your idea?"

"That there are nulls in the input—in your report. So
we're going to have to check: for them."

"If you have any new questions, ask away. I've an-
swered the old ones enough times, I think."

"It's not a matter of new questions. It's a matter of con-
firming your answers to the ones we've already asked."

"You want to look at the Demu research station your-
self? Bon voyage. Skinner; it's a long trip."

Skinner's laugh wasn't convincing. "No, we'll do our
checking right here. Barton. With you."

"OK; get on with it, then."

"I didn't mean right here, actually. The necessary
drugs are best administered in the laboratory under con-
trolled conditions."           ''

"Drugs?" Controlled conditions—Barton had had
enough of thosel He went rigid inside. "What the bell
are you talking about?"

"A simple hypnotic. Barton. Quite harmless. We think
that some crucial memories are hiding out in your sub-
conscious mind, and we must get them out in the open,
for analysis."

"Not with hypnotics, you dont. Not on me. The
Demu—"'

"I'm afraid we have to; you see—"

"You have to shit, too, if you eat regular! No dice,
Skinner. You take your drugs and—"

"I think you forget who you're talking to!"

"And I think you forgot where you are. You're in my
place. Get out."

"It won't do you any good to be hostile. Barton. I can
have you brought in to the labs, you know."

That did it. "Uke this?" He grabbed Skinner, pulled

57

him upright, spun him around. The man was yammer-
ing; Barton didn't listen. He aimed Skinner at the door.
He didn't exactly throw him out or kick him out, either
one; it was a combination of both. The door was open
but the screen wasn't. Nothing fatal, but messy. "And
stay out, you son of a bitch!"

Skinner wouldn't be back, but Barton knew he was in
the soup, for sure.

He had stalled off all requests to take mental tests,
but now he'd blown it. He went looking for Tarleton,
trying to think of an excuse to get the man to take the
heat off him, but he was in D.C. briefing the President
or something. Barton thought again. Dr. Fox, whose
minion he had thrown through the screen, was arriving
the next day. Barton decided to be one of her first cus-
tomers, and, next morning, was.

Dr. Arleta Fox was a compact woman in her thirties,
with frizzy aubura hair and a face like that of an
especially attractive Pekingese. Her smile was friendly
but made Barton wonder if he were really out of range
of a fast snap. She asked him what the problem was. Well,
that was a nice switch.

"Your boy wanted to poke hypnotics into me," Barton
said. '*! got mad and threw him out."

"Yes, I believe he mentioned that," Dr. Fox said, with
considerable understatement. "What's your twistup on
hypnotics, Mr. Barton? You know we have to get all
the subliminal data you may have—things you saw with-
out noticing that you saw them."

"I had enough different kinds of dope from the lob-
sters to last me," said Barton. "In my food, in the air:

you name it; I had it. I dont need any more. 1 tried to
tell Skinner, but he wouldn't listen."

"He had his orders, Mr. Barton." The smile. Uncon-
sciously. Barton pulled his hand back. "Perhaps that was
my mistake. But you see, we have no real psychological
data on you at all, more recent than eight years ago be-
fore all this happened, so I had no way of knowing there
would be a problem." Barton nodded, but said nothing.

"I'll make a bargain with you, Mr. Barton. As I said,
we have no recent psychological information on you,
whatsoever. If you'll take the standard battery of tests,
over the next few days, we'll shelve the question of using
hypnotics."

"For how long?** Barton asked.

58

"Indefinitely. Until you give your consent Whatever
you say."

"Never, then. It's a deal. Doctor. Thanks." Barton
stood up.

"Here tomorrow morning at nine sharp, Mr. Barton?
We'll provide pencil and paper."

Barton smiled, nodded and went out, surprised to note
how heavily he was sweating. Well, he wasn't out of the
woods by any means, but maybe he had a Chance. At
least they couldn't open his mind and see what. was
there, (hat not even Barton knew about for sure. He
wasn't ready to look at that stuff himself, and he knew
it Meanwhile he didn't want anyone else grabbing a
sneak preview.

He caught a ride to the ship. Nothing much doing
there: they were still piddling around snipping off bits
of materials for analysis. At this rate, Barton thought,
the ship was going to look as though it had been gnawed
by mice* before the government in its infinite wisdom
actually got around to seeing what the damn thing would
do.

However, he had one pleasant surprise. Kreugel, Tarle-
ton's crew chief for ship operations, greeted him. "Hey,
Mr. Barton! I think we're going to get the handle
on the artificial gravity, and that's not more than a jump
or two from their space drive."

Barton was flabbergasted. ^Now how in hell did you
manage that?"

"When we learned how to read the circuit diagrams
and equipment drawings, it turned out to be awfully close
to what the Space Agency labs have been working on for
the past three-four years. Close enough that I think we've
nearly got it whipped."

"Hey, hold it," said Barton. "What circuit diagrams?
And how did you leam to read them, anyway?" He
felt as though he were in a play and hadn't read the
script

"They're built into the viewscreen circuits." Barton
felt like a damn fool; why hadn't he dug up any of this
stuff, in the months he'd had?

^ou wouldn*t have found them," Kruegel went on,
"because the switches that throw the schematics on the
screen wont work when you're under power, without
throwing a special cutover switch that doesn't give any
indication until you do move the circuit-diagram controls.

59

You wouldn't have hit the combination by random
chance in a long time even if you'd been playing games
on the board, and in your shoes I don't imagine you felt
much like doing that." Barton's ego pulled its socks up
a little.

"So how did you find it?"

"Well, Mr. Barton, you know we've been interrogating
Hishtoo, the bigger crawdaddy, with that poor devil
Siewen interpreting. Some of our other people are trying
to learn the Demu language so we can work faster, but
so far they're getting nowhere fast." So the Director's
name was Hishtoo; how about that? Or something that
sounded like Hishtoo. "Well, when we asked where the
devil the tech manuals were for this beast here, he got
cagey and wouldn't talk. So Mr. Tarleton put a hammer-
lock on him and leaned on it and said something about
crab salad, and Hishtoo began talking and just plain
wouldn't stop." Barton grinned, not a nice grin. So Tarle-
ton had paid attention to his report—the early version
—after alt Crab salad, yetl

"Well, good on Tarleton," was all he said. "Stick with
it; you're doing great." He wandered around a little and
decided to go back to his quarters. There was DO vehi-
cle handy, so he walked it. Sweating in the hot sun felt
good, for a change.

Back at the quarters he hesitated, hating to enter.
Limila seldom spoke to him lately except in answer to a
direct question; her silent withdrawal was hard to take.
He supposed she responded to the interrogations of the
data-gathering team, or someone would have told him
what the problem was. He shrugged and went inside.

He didn't see or hear Limila at first. The tri-V was
blaring; he turned the sound low. Then he heard her, in
her own bedroom. He opened the door a few inches and
saw her as well. Curled into a tight ball in the middle of
her bed, she was crying in great racking sobs. After a
moment he shook bis head, closed the door gently and
turned away. There was nothing he could do.

He poured himself the stiffest damn drink he could
manage, and watched the stupidities of tri-V. The 3-D
picture was new to him, but the content of the medium
hadn't improved a bit in eight years, or since he could
remember, in fact. If anything, it was getting worse. Or
maybe it was he who was getting worse .. .

Barton opened a package of tri-V-advertised pre-

60

pared food, heated it and ate it The taste, when he no-
ticed it, was about like that of a well-composted pile of
mulch.

Returning to his drink and ignoring the tri-V, Barton
ran in bis own head the ultimate tri-V commercial he
could imagine.

"Buy Musbie-Tushies," it went, "the truly effort-free
food! Mushie-Tushies are pre-cooked, pre-chewed, pre-
swallowed, pre-digested and pre-excretedl Just heat
them up and throw them down the toiletl" Barton fin-
ished his drink, turned off the tri-V, and went to his own
bed. He caught himself short of slamming the bedroom
door; Umila might be asleep. Whether she was or not,
the thought of her kept Barton awake another hour, not
pleasantly.

Next morning he was at Dr. Fox's office at nine sharp,
as agreed. Not one second late; that was his commitment
to her. Not more than five seconds early; that was his
commitment to himself. Nine sharp, as nearly as he could
manage.

Dr. Fox smiled continually. Barton didn't listen closely
to what she said or to what he answered; it was small
talk and not relevant. Bla-bla-bia, she said in polite
tones. Bla-bla-indeed, he answered gravely, equally po-
lite. Maybe it even made some sort of sense.

When she got down to cases, he paid attention. First
there would be a simple IQ test. Well, not a simple test,
but a test simply for the measurement of his intelligence.
OK; he presumed he had some of that left and be didn't
mind if they measured it.

The test was part verbal and part written, and all of it
no sweat. Barton's memories, which had been suppressed
and foggy early in his captivity, and spotty for nearly all
of it. had begun coming back more rapidly since his es-
cape. He and Tarleton had discussed the phenomenon
early in their acquaintance, in light of the fact that mem-
ory suppression was a side-effect of the Demu uncon-
sciousness weapon. The gun crew Barton had zapped
when he first arrived had been pretty foggy-minded for
several days afterward. And the Demu had used the
gadget on Barton a number of times, while they had him.

But now his logic and memory circuits were, so far as
he could tell, in reasonably good order. He breezed
through the many sections of the test, not giving much of
a damn how he came out on it but still giving honest an"

61

swers when he could settle on any answer at all. And
in most cases, he could.

The test was a long one; it was past noon when he
finished and time for lunch. He and Dr. Fox said smiling
bias-bias at each other while they ate, until she men-
tioned that next on the agenda was a battery of
personality-evaluation tests.

Barton knew what that meant. They would rate him
on or off the permissible scales of Aggressive-Submissive,
Masculine-Feminine, Dependent-Independent—oh yes, the
whole set of categories that he could not possibly fit
correctly from where he stood, after nearly eight years
in a cage. What it added up to v/as'a rating of Sane-
Insane. Barton knew he would flunk.

"And which tests are you using. Doctor?" he asked.
She named the series. It was unfamiliar to him, but a
book of that title caught his eye, on a shelf not too far
out of his reach. I think, thought Barton, it is time I had
a bad attack of the clumsies.

"Could I have another cup of coffee?" he asked. Pre-
creamed pre-sugared instant cr^d, but he didn't say so.
Dr. Fox poured it for him and handed him the cup.
He dropped it, spilling the liquid toward a stack of pa-
pers on her desk-

His apparent effort to save the papers pushed them
off the edge. He and she both dived to save them; their
heads hit squarely. Barton was braced for it, so while
the lady got her eyes back in focus and her Jaw back up
where it belonged, he neatly'-lifted the book he wanted
and tucked it down the front of his trousers. Then he
helped her up, helped her pick up the papers and mop
up the mess.

"Hey, I am sorry. Doctor," he said. "I guess my co-
ordination still isn't what it should be." He paused. "You
all right? Me, I think I'm getting a headache. You sup-
pose we could put this next one off until tomorrow?"

Dr. Fox hadn't had a chance. Nine sharp? No, you'd
better make that one p.m. Bla-bia, smile, see you tomor-
row. Barton hoped without malice that she was too
woozy to wonder how a roan could pilot and land an
alien spaceship, who on solid ground couldn't keep from
spilling his coffee.

He went directly home. Limila wasn't around; she was
probably with the interrogation team. At the moment he
felt he could use the absence of personality pressure.

f                  62

Barton had to beat those goddam tests or they'd have
him, for sure; he knew it. Several times since his return
to Earth he'd caught himself just short of assaulting
someone he found excessively annoying. With intent to
commit mayhem. He knew this was not unusual in the
overcrowded cultures of Earth; he also knew it was
grounds for getting locked up.

Barton had been in a cage for a long time; he was not
about to be locked into another one. That was what the
problem was.

For starters, he took the tests honestly (he'd gambled
that sample copies and grading instructions were in the
book; they were). The answers he got were about what
he bad expected; Barton was not safe to have at large,
even to himself. Well, he'd have to chance that, the same
as he*d been doing for some time. As for other people—
well, he figured he'd taken his own chances long enough
that it wasn't out of line for others to share them now.
He knew no one else would see it that way, though it
should be obvious that anyone who did away with the
Iri-V announcer, for instance, deserved a bonus ... Oh
well.

Looking at the summaries of "preferred" (sane) an-
swers, Barton knew he couldn't possibly memorize enough
of the responses to give a reasonable picture of a man
with his head on straight; it couldn't be done. But there
had to be a way.

The series of tests ran to a total of over 1,300 multiple-
choice questions: five choices per question. The odds
against him were incalculable. But what about a random
approach? Barton looked about the room.

A pair of ornamental dice sat on a low table. Barton
took one die in his hand. Six choices: #1 through #5, the
answers to any question on the test. #6, leave it blank.

Barton threw the die and marked the result for each
of the 107 questions on the first test. Then he turned
again to the Evaluations section. Hopeless.

"These results indicate either a fragmented incoherent
mind or a highly irresponsible attitude. In either case
there is urgent need of custody and therapy." OK, OK,
he thought; I've already bagged that idea.

Barton's situation didn't need a drink, but he did. Ha
mixed it about half as heavy as he really wanted it. He
sat down in front of the tri-V set, thought about turning
it on, then got up and carefully turned the bulky heavy

63

thing around to face directly into the wall. At that point,
Limila came in.

As usual she did not speak. Barton had long since
quit offering unanswered greetings, though he knew he
needed to talk with her and maybe vice versa. In fact she
was the only person he knew that he could talk to, about
a lot of things. But that problem would have to wait.

She got herself some food and took it into her bed-
room, softly closing the door behind her. Barton ached,
thinking of how she must feel at what had been done to
her. But he shrugged it off; he had to, just then. He
ranged around the place, looking for something to spark
his mind toward a way to beat those damned tests and
stay out of a cage. Because he wouldn't go. Not again,
he wouldn't.

His eye was caught by the supply of canvases and
paints in the far dimmest corner of the room. He'd asked
for the materials several days ago but hadn't used them
yet. Maybe it was time he did; it struck him that some-
times the hands can tell the mind what it really means.

Barton arranged the easel, the canvas, the palette and
brushes, the lights. He hadn't painted for eight years;

he had no idea what he was going to do. But he needed
to do it; he knew that much. Barton blurred his mind
and began. Working, he lost track of time.

A sound behind him brought him out of it. A harsh
accusing sound. Barton turned and saw Limila, saw-
tooth lips squared in an almost-human grimace of horror,
blank Demu lack of features throwing the horror back
to him. She shook her head, the baid earless skull shin-
ing in the" overhead light. "No more. Barton," she
panted. "No MORE!" She wheeled and disappeared
through her bedroom door, slamming it and throwing the
bolt against him. As though there were any need for
that, he thought sadly.

But what had caused her reaction? Barton looked at
his canvas and gasped in shock. What he had painted,
what he had doodled while his mind looked the other
way, was Limila. Limila the undented, as he had first
seen her. Several views. Two full-faced, one with closed
curved-lip smile and one showing the tiny perfect teeth.
A profile highlighting the delicate lean nose and over-
the-ears front hairline. A pair of complementing three-
quarter studies. Two full-length figures. And each sketch,

64

though lacking in fine detail, was lovingly exact in con-
tour. No wonder Limila could not bear to see them.

Barton turned his ears on. It was about time he did
that; the noises from Limila's room were not nicer He
took a run at her/door, jumped and landed with both
heels alongside the door knob. The lock broke; Barton
sprawled inside, to see Limila turning and twisting as she
hung with her neck in an impromptu noose.

He never knew how he clawed her down from her ad-
lib gibbet, though several shredded fingernails took long
enough to heaL He gave mouth-to-mouth breathing to
the sawtooth lips he had not been able to bring himself
to kiss since the Demu had cut their sweet curves into
harsh notches. He said her name over and over. And
when he saw that she was conscious and could hear
him, he said to her, "Don't ever do that again. I need
you; do you understand me?" She nodded, weakly.

"Limila," he said, "I don't know yet what we can do
about how things are. But 111 work on it. You hear me?"

"You can do nothing. I am as I am." Her eyes were
closed. Barton shook her, gently, until she opened them.

**And the Demu had me in a cage for eight years,"
he said. "I thought my way out of that one, or we
wouldn't be here, would we?" She looked at him blankly.
"Give me a little time, wont you? To try to find a way
out of the cage we are in."

The mangled lips twisted m what might have been a
smile. Barton blotted it from sight by kissing her smooth
forehead. He held her for a moment longer and then
said, "Forgive me. For hiding from you, for not paying
attention because it hurt to see you. I won't do that any
more. You understand?" Her head nodded against his
lips. He got up slowly, turned away, stopped at the shat-
tered door. "I'll do something."

Barton slept without pills; his dreams were not of hor-
ror. And he woke knowing what he had to do next, to
stay out of a cage.

At one o'clock he met Dr. Arleta Fox. All of ten

seconds early, in fact; under the circumstances Barton
felt he could afford to give a little. He put the pilfered
book back in place under cover of clumsily dropping his
jacket when he hung it up; Barton knew he had to clown
it a little and he figured he could get away with that
much. Dr. Fox was tolerant.

65

"Don't be nervous, Mr. Barton," she said. "You
needn't be. Your intelligence tests show no significant
changes from the earlier data in your file- A slight drop of
no importance. These tests are so sensitive that what you
had for lunch could shift the results by five points, and
that's approximately the degree of change we have here."
Dr. Fox smiled. By now, Barton's subconscious knew
she wasat really going to bite him; he didn't flinch. "So
now," she said brightly, "are we ready for the personality-
evaluation series?"

I don't know about you, lady, thought Barton, but /
sure*s bell am. Because now he knew how to beat their
system, for a while, at least. All be needed was a little
cooperation.

"Sure, I'm ready," he said. "One thing, though. I'm a
little nervous today. Could I have a closed room and no
interruptions until I'm finished?" He tried to smile dis-
armingly. It didn't feel much like it, from the inside.

Dr. Fox bought it, at least. "Oh, certainly," she said,
and escorted him to a small, comfortable room. With
ashtrays and everything.

Ever since Barton had willed himself dead enough to
fall through the floor of the Demu cage—all the way
home on the ship and ever since—he had, with one ex-
ception, stayed clear of self-hypnosis and the hallucina-
tions that had saved him from Demu domination and
mutilation. Because be wasn't a captive mind any longer,
and a free one can't afford to goof off if it wants to stay
free. So Barton had tried to stick with the real world all
the way.

But policy must change with circumstances. When Bar-
ton sat down to fill out the 1,300-plus questions of the
personality-evaluation tests, he shoved his mind into
full-hallucinating gear. What he tried to bring into being
was the thirty-two-year-old Barton and aH his attitudes,
before he had been zapped and abducted by the Demu.
He knew it was a pretty thin trick but it was the best he
had. And it began to work. So be it.

Barton had no idea how long it was taking him to an-
swer all the questions on Dr. Fox's fancy test; he stayed
with it until he was finished. Then he snapped out of his
earlier-Barton hallucination and paid very close atten-
tion to reality. He punched the buzzer; when Dr. Fox
answered he told her he had 'finished and was ready to

66

leave. The time turned out to be late evening; he'd
skipped dinner and hadn't even noticed.

"Why don't we have a drink and a bite to eat in the
lounge before you go, Mr. Barton?" she asked. Why
don't we break open my skull and get it over with,
Dr. Fox? But the hell with it; he had to go along, a lit-
tle.

The lounge wasn't bad; the lighting and music were
within his tolerance and Dr. Fox wasn't pushing him
about anything. Barton ordered the strongest drink he
figured he could get away with under psychological ob-
servation. He got a bonus; food service was so slow he
had time for a second one. Partway into it he realized he
couldn't afford to get smashed, either. But physically and
mentally he was floating free, ready to move.

He wasn't surprised when one of the lumpier and more
muscular of the young lab techs brought a sheaf of pa-
pers to Dr. Fox, whispering in her ear somewhat more
than was really courteous. She began to leaf through the
stack, skimming.

Barton figured they had him cold, but he wasnt going
to make it easy. There was a pot of coffee on the table
over a heater; he poured some for Dr. Fox.

Foe, one thing, if he needed to throw the rest of it at
Muscles' face it would be quicker if he already bad the
thing in his hand. So he held onto it for a moment, wait-
ing to see what Dr. Fox would say.

She said it "Mr. Barton, 1. can hardly believe these
results." Barton wasn't too surprised but there wasn't
much he could say- The technician left them. Barton re-
turned the coffee pot to its place.

"Your test results," Dr. Fox continued, "are almost
precisely the same as the way you tested eight years
ago." She smiled, frowned, scowled and looked blank.
It was like a major earthquake on a small scale, thought
Barton.

"Our computer read-out," Dr. Fox went on, "allows
only one conclusion. It indicates that your capture and
imprisonment have inflicted a so-called 'freeze trauma'
upon you. You appear to be frozen into your earlier
emotional attitudes, without much reference to any hap-
penings since the trauma began."

Well, if you'll believe that, Barton thought, you'll be-
lieve anything. But what he said was, "It doesn't feel
that way to me, but I guess I can't argue with you ex-

67

perts, and the computer and all." Oddly, he found that
he enjoyed skating on thin ice.

"The tests were really very tiring. Dr. Fox," he said.
*The food is good but my appetite isn't up to it. I hate to
be a poor guest, but if I don't go home and get some
sleep about now, I'll probably cork off right here and
have to be carted home." Dr. Fox was understanding
and obliging; soon Barton was delivered to his quar-
ters. Liniila was still awake. Just sitting, looking at the
walls.

"I was soon going to bed," she said. "I will now."

"All right," said Barton, "but not in there. In here."

At first Limila expected more than Barton was able to
give. He could not make love to her mutilated self, nor
did he try. But he could hold her and cherish her; they
could give each other warmth. After a while, Limila ap-
peared to understand how it was with them, how it had
to be. She cried, but it did not hurt Barton as much as
he expected. After a little longer it didn't hurt at all, be-
cause it was a different kind of crying. Whatever it was,
he succumbed to sleep before he figured it out.

He woke up alone. Well, Limila would be over at the
ship, helping with the translating. Tarletoa and Kreugel
had become wary of having only one translator. Frail
and shaky as Siewen was becoming, no one knew how
far he could be trusted.

Barton fixed himself breakfast. More real food was
coming in lately, to replace the TV-dinner junk that had
first been shipped to the site. He broke three eggs into
the frying pan, thought a moment and added another.
The bread was standard glop-type but not too bad when
toasted. There was real coffee.

Idly, Barton wondered what to do next. Dr. Fox was
off his back for a tune; probably she knew something
was fishy, but it would take her a while to get her
nerve up to doubt the computer results. He wasn't
needed at the ship immediately; someone would have
told him. He'd like to get the cast off his arm, lightweight
or not, but the doctors had told him not to pester them
again for at least another week. It wasn't limiting his
activities; it itched, was all.

When in doubt, he decided, take a walk. Wd never
been much for gratuitous exercise Before, but now he
found he liked to walk when he had the time for it.
So he clothed himself and stepped outside. The day was

68

hot and sunny, which was nothing new around here,
but he liked it anyway.

His way took him past the quarters of the Demu and
the Demu-ized. As he approached them, he wondered
how and what little Whnee had been doing lately. At
first he had looked in on her occasionally; she'd been
pleased to see him, as near as he could tell. Then a cou-
ple of times she hadn't been at home; she was being
studied by a research team. A little perturbed, he'd
checked with Tarleton and been assured that the small
Demu would not be harmed. Then Barton had got busy
with his own concerns and had had no time for much of
anything else.

As he passed the guarded house he saw Whnee look-
ing out a window. He was across the street, but he
paused and walked over. The guard said, "Yes, sir?"

"I'm Barton. I see the little Demu is at home today."

"Yes, sir. It and the Freak; he's here all the time,
though. The teams gave up on him." That would be
Whosits. Well, Barton had given up on Wbosits a long
time ago.

"How about the young one? They give up on her
too?"

"Oh no, sir," the guard answered, "they're pretty
happy about that one, the way I hear it. It's just their  ;

day off today. Sunday, you know." Barton hadn't known.
His work and Tarleton's paid no heed to the weekly
calendar, so neither had he.

"I think I'll stop in and see the kid a minute," Barton
said. A thought came to him. "Hey, OK. if we go out for
a little walk?"

"Just a moment, sir. I'll ask it." The guard turned and
entered the house, leaving Barton a little puzzled.
Ask it?

A few minutes later, the guard escorted Whnee out-
doors. No robe and hood now: Whnee was wearing a
small sunhat, a light loose garment that covered the
torso but left the limbs bare, and sandals. The lobster
face looked incongruous, but on the whole Barton
liked the effect. The standard Demu garb held bad con-
notations for him, naturally enough.

"Hello, Whnee," he said.

"Hello, Barton. But my name is not Whnee. It is
Eeshta,"

"You talk English!"

69

Whnee*s—Eehta's—tongue lifted in the Demu smile.
"Yes, Barton. They have taught me- I wanted to leam.
1 wanted to talk with you. Now we can talk."

Barton looked at the small lobsteriike Demu in its ab-
surd but pleasant Earth-type garb. Remembering. How
its egg-parent had kept Barton as a caged animal for
years. How be had broken this one's arm, slapped it
into silence and later, unconsciousness. How he bad kid-
napped both and brought them to Earth as prisoners. He
had treated this small one with kindness or at least with
tolerance during the voyage, yes. But still be wondered
what he and Whnee, or Eeshta, had in common to dis-
cuss. It might be interesting to find out.

"OK," he said. "Want to come for a little walk?" The
guard nodded; as the oddly assorted pair turned away,
Barton saw the man looking after them.

"I like your outfit," Barton said. "Kind of a change
from the old one."

"Yes. That is out of place here, so I changed to this.
Dr. Ling chose it." Dr. Ling? Oh, yes; Barton remem-
bered. Female doctor, Chinese ancestry, in charge of the
team studying Demu biology.

"Well, it looks fine, Whnee—I mean, Eeshta."

The smile again. "Call me Wbnee if you like. Or
Eeshta. Either is all right."

"Eeshta. I'll try to remember. Anyway, what-all else
have you been learning?"

"Very much. Most important, that you are Demu."

"What?"

"That you are people. Demu is our only word for peo-
ple. We are taught to believe that all others are animals."

"Yeh, I found that out the hard way. Not as hard as
some others we know, of course."

"Barton, I am ashamed. For us, who call ourselves
Demu. For what we do to others, treating them as ani-
mals. Because they do not speak our words. And when
they do, we make them like Siewen and Limila and the
Freak. I am glad you did not let us do that to you, Bar-
ton."

"You call him the Freak?"

"He is. He is one of you but pretends to be one of us.
He wears the old clothing. He will not speak his own
language. It is our fault, of course. We have broken
him."

"Hell; you didn't do it."

70

"But if I had been older, I would have. I believed it
was right, also."

"Well, we all do what we have to," Barton said. "I
wasn't exactly gentle with you there at first, either. I
can't see that I had much choice, but still I'm sorry you
had to be hurt."

"So am I," Eeshta said. Barton looked at her sharply,
but apparently it was a purely matter-of-fact comment
"Barton, I was so frightened then! Attacked by a vicious
animal, I thought. Injured and tied and beaten. Almost
I died of fright"

Barton started to say something but thought better
of it.

"I first had hope, Barton, when you let me drink. You
could have not done that." Eeshta made a grimace Bar-
ton hadn't seen before on a Demu. "I am glad I did not
know your language then. If I had known you were say-
ing you would eat me alive, I am sure I would have died
of hearing it"

"Who—who told you about that?" Barton didn't,
bother to deny it or say it had been a bluff. It had
been, but this was no time to expect her to believe it.

"Siewen," she said, "or Limila. I don't remember now.
It is not important." She looked at him. "What is im-
portant is that we made you do that. I am ashamed."
Barton had no answer. Hell, the kid was right, wasn't
she? It? Nobody had told him the findings, if any, on
the Demu, and he'd been too busy to think to ask. Well,
it might make a good change of subject; the present one
bothered him.

"Eeshta," he said, "what does it mean that you're
Hishtoo's egg-child? I mean, is there some other kind of
child, with you people?" She paused for a moment,
stopped walking. Barton thought it might be time to turn
back; they'd come quite a way.

"It seems strange to us. Barton, that you people are
male or female. Only one or the other, I mean. We are
both, all of us. But not so strongly, to see. That is why
we didn't understand, and spoiled Siewen and the Freak."
And Limila?

"I will show you," she said, and pulled up her garment,
baring the torso. Barton didn't see anything especially
noteworthy, only the flexible chitinous body shell, with
the little bumps and dimples up the front.

"Look closer. Barton," Eeshta said. "See the small

71

raised portions, and the indented places? How they
make a pattern up the middle of me there, thus-wide?"

He nodded, thinking: "So that's what the non-skid
tread is all about. .."

"It is the same on all of us," she said, "so that if any
two come together, they fit, each feature." True: the
pattern was symmetrical. With two Demu face to face,
every bump would meet a dimple. There were about a
dozen of each. Barton was too embarrassed to count
carefully, it had been a long time since he'd played
"... and I'll show you mine."

"In breeding season," Eeshta continued, "two adults
come facing together and hold. From the concave parts
which have the eggs, a substance flows that hardens and
maintains the two tightly together but does not block the
passages. From the convex parts then come cells to fertil-
ize the eggs. The two Demu are not entirely awake but
are in bliss. A day later comes the hard work of break-
ing loose from each other. Then the eggs are laid, each
adult's into his own breeding tank. The hatching and
growth .cycles are complex, too long to explain now. Only
a very few of many survive. Dr. Ling is writing a paper
on it, I think."

"I'll try to get around to reading it."

"So for me," Eeshta concluded, "Hishtoo provided
the egg, not the other cell."

Yeah, I think I've got it now, Barton thought. Hish-
too's her mommy; at the same time Hishtoo was being
some other little Demu's daddy. Or several. And Whnee,
or Eeshta, wasn't a "she" at all; the concept didn't ap-
ply. Nonetheless Barton continued to think of the young
Demu as female.

"Well, thanks for telling me," he said finally. "I think
we'd better be heading back now, don't you?" Eeshta
was agreeable; they began the return walk. They had
gotten well away from the building complex and were in
open country; Eeshta seemed to enjoy looking around,
observing the terrain. The walk back was mostly silent.
Something was nagging at Barton's mind, something
about Eeshta. It wouldn't come clear. Maybe more con-
versation would jog it Loose.

"What are you going to be doing next, Eeshta?"

"I want to learn more. Much more. There is a great
deal to leam, I think."

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised. But then what?" He

72

really shouldn't push the kid this way. Barton thought.
How can a prisoner make plans? But at least Eeshta was
only a captive, not a zoo creature and experimental ani-
mal as Barton and the others had been.

"If you ever take me back to my people," Eeshta said,
"I will be a—a missionary, you call it. I will tell how you
are also people and not to be treated as animals or
made like Siewen or the Freak."

'That's a worthy cause," Barton said absently. Then
it hit him. "Like who?"

"Like Siewen or the Freak," she said in puzzlement.
Siewen. Not "Shiewen."

Barton had become so used to the sh-zh iopped-tongue
accent of Siewen and Limila that he no longer heard it
consciously. So he hadn't noticed until now what had
been nagging at him—that Eeshta's pronunciation was
perfect.

"Say after me, Eeshta," he said. "Siewen. Shiewen."

"Siewen. Shiewen. Why, Barton?" Then Eeshta gave
the Demu smile. "Ob, I see. It's the ttfmg they made for
me. Look."

She opened her mouth wide and pointed to its roof.
There was a piece of acrylic plastic there, like part of a
dental plate. And it made a ridge that Eesbta's short
tongue could touch squarely to make the sounds of s
and z.

"Every morning I must spread a paste on it so it stays
in place," she said. "The man who made it showed how
to do this. A dentist, he is called."

A dentist. Dental plates. Barton, you are the most
stupid man in the world.

"We'd better get on back, Eeshta. There are some
things I have to do."

They walked faster then, not talking. Barton was in a
hurry when he left Eeshta off at her guarded home. He
took time, though, to thank the guard for letting her come
walking, to gravely thank Eeshta herself for the plea-
sure of her company and to assure her he'd see her again
soon. Eeshta gave him the Demu smile and went indoors.

Barton hotfooted it to his own quarters. As he tried to
get Tarleton on the phone, he was thankful that Limila
wasn't there. He didn't dare let her know what he
had in mind, until he knew more. Tarleton wasn't in bis
office, and Barton couldn't get through to the ship; those

73

lines were hot most of the time. He flipped a mental coin
and decided to stick his neck out; he punched the num-
ber of Dr. Arieta Fox, and got her on the third ring. He
wasted no time in idle chatter.

"This is Barton. About the medical group here on the
project—how are we fixed for plastia surgeons?"

It took a little time. Dr. Fox raached the ship via a
priority line. Tarleton checked back to see exactly what
Barton had in mind. When Barton totd him, be didn't
argue.

"I feel stupid as hell," Barton said, "for not thinking
of this sooner. The only saving grace is that none of the
rest of you bastards did, either." He could say that to
Tarleton, because bis real respect was no secret to either
of them.

"I suppose the reason we didn't—and believe me,
Barton, I feel every bit as badly about it as you do—is
that we have only seen your companions as they are
now."

"Yeah, I guess that's so. But hell, I don't have even
tha^excuse."

"You had your own worries, Barton. Nice that you're
working out of them."

Two days later Barton was talking with a plastic sur-
geon named Raymond Parr, a tall languid-seeming
man, in an office not far from Dr. Fox's. They were look-
ing at Barton's paintings of the Limila-that-had-been,
alongside some unflattering closeups of Limila as she
was now. "What do you think you can do. Doctor?"

Parr was in no hurry. He looked at the pictures and
at the paintings. Finally he spoke. "It depends on how
far you and the prospective patient are willing to go. I
assume from my limited knowledge of this entire project
that expense is no object. A great deal more can be
done in the way of repairs, these days, than most people
think. But there are limits; in some cases these depend
on whether it is appearance or function that you have
in mind." Dr. Parr raised his eyebrows at Barton as if
he'd asked a "question; Barton shrugged the ball right
back to him.

"All right; let's go down the list systematically. I could
add a toe to each foot with a cartilage graft, but it
wouldn't bend naturally; same thing with me fingers. I'd
advise you to leave all that alone, but it's your choice; it
might be worth it on the feet, at that, for better balance.

74

The nails are gone; if you like, I can recess niches for
cosmetic glue-on nails. For social purposes a few well-
shaped daubs of nail polish would do nearly as well, and
be less difficult and expensive." Barton shook his head
with impatience, but he was making notes.

"Well, whatever you choose," the doctor continued.
"The navel is no problem; any of my assistants as a rou-
tine chore can remodel one or delete it or punch out a
new one in a better cosmetic location. As to the simula-
tion of external genitals, it's a simple matter to stretch
folds of skin and bond them into place, if you wish. And
I assume you'll want the minor abdominal scarification
removed."

Too bad that's not all it would take for Siewen or the
Freak, Barton thought wryly.

"Plastic insert breasts are common these days," Parr
went on, "but a padded bra would do the job nearly as
well, unless one of you is a fetishist." Parr never knew
how close he was, then, to sudden violence; Barton didn't
let his face show what he felt.

Parr paused; it was a habit he had. "I realize the head
and face are your major concern, Mr. Barton." Well,
about tinsel "I assume you realize a wig will be needed.
along with false eyelashes and stick-on eyebrows." Bar-
ton nodded; would this sonofabitch ever get to the point?
"And dentures, of course." Of course. *The tongue is
beyond my skills; amputation''of muscular tissue cannot
be reversed at this time."

But the face, you fool, you goddam fool; the face.

"Our remaining problems," said Parr, "and they are
the most important ones, of course, are the nose, the ears
and the lips." Barton braced himself.

"I can make her a good nose by use of cartilage grafts,
with perhaps a bit of plastic implanting if need be; the
skin will stretch and bond to it. I will not guarantee to
match your paintings exactly because these things don't
work that predictably, but I can promise you a present-
able and even a handsome nose."

He hesitated. "Mr. Barton, I couldn't guarantee you
a thing about trying to restore the ears. Skin, even
grafted skin, won't stretch and bond dependably, around
the extensive concave angles that make up much of nor-
mal ear structure." Parr sighed. "I suggest you settle for
cosmetic prostheses, soft-plastic ear-cups."

75

Well, if it had to be ... the wig would cover them,
anyway.

The lips, now.

"The mouth presents a real problem." Yeh, let me
tell you what the problem is. Well, he would in a min-
ute, Barton thought.

"Tissue has been cut away in sawtoothed notches at
about a 45-degree angle, nearly a quarter of an inch into
both upper and lower lips. The question is whether to cut
back to a smooth line or try to divert some of the tissue
from the tips of the serrations into the deepest part of
the gaps. The one alternative would shorten facial length.
nearly half an inch; the other might leave wrinkles in
the lips, even though we'd use stitchless bonding at the
surface layers. In either case we must semi-detach and
stretch some mucous membrane of the mouth's inner
lining to constitute the outer visible lip tissue when the
operation is complete, and this is always chancy. It
might not hold, or it might contract and puH the lips in-
ward. The least risky alternative is to cut back all the
way and make do with the shortened facial structure."
No, Doctor; safer than that is to hang yourself.

There was more discussion; Barton hadn't got it all
straight on the first reading, and he needed to have it
very straight indeed. He thanked Parr and told him he'd
be in touch in a day or two. As an afterthought he asked
the doctor to remove the cast from his arm; it came off
like peeling a banana. Then Barton left and talked to the
dentist, whose name he could never remember for more
than five minutes, and to Tarleton, who gave him the
full authorization he needed.

Barton was becoming accustomed to having to get
authorization for things; it had taken him a while to
realize that other people had to have some say-so. But
with Tarleton it wasn't so bad.

Then he went home. Limila had dinner hot on the
range for him; she herself was eating some kind of damn
mush, as usuaL Barton could have kicked himself.

"Hi, Limila," he said; she was answering him these
days. "We've got some things to talk about."

"Hello, Barton. All right. You eat first, though." Her
ragged mouth bent, and Barton realized she was trying to
smile. She hadn't given him the Demu lifted-tongue smile
since the first night they'd slept together. But only slept . ..

Barton ate, he had developed a good appetite, mostly

76

for high-protein foods. He wasn't putting on any weight;

thank Heaven for small favors.                ..

Then he had to talk. "Limila . . ." he said, and began
to tell her slowly and haltingly, starting from where he
himself had started with Eeshta's pronunciation aid, all
of what he and Dr. Parr had discussed.

He got only a short way into it when Limila started
crying and couldn't stop. Barton said a little more, but it
didn't help. He caught and held her to him; that didn't
help, either. Then he got mad.

"Don't you want to get back more to yourself?" he
shouted, holding and shaking her by the shoulders. Her
soft fingertips with no nails moved on bis face; instinc-
tively, she was trying to claw him. His anger vanished;

he realized she was fighting the revival of hope, that she
couldn't stand to have it and lose it again. Barton could
understand; he'd been through it.

He gentled her, gradually. And finally ventured speech
again.

"Limila," he whispered, where her ear should have
been, ''won't you at least listen to what can be done and
decide how much of U you want to try?" She nodded
against his face.

"But not now. Barton, not tonight. It's too much to ac-
cept. I can't." They held each other tightly. But that's
as far as it went, even later in bgd together.

The next day they could and did talk it out. Barton
worked from his notes, in order; it was the only way he
could think to do it. Parr had said that even a stiff
cartilage toe would help in walking balance, so Limila
reluctantly agreed to have both feet chopped open again,
if it might help. Not the hands, though; who needs a stiff
finger? She did want Barton to find out whether a graft
could minimize the unsightly jog at the wrist, where the
Demu had stripped away the two fingers. Barton made a
note; it was something he hadn't thought to ask.

Emphatically, Limila wanted her belly free of the simu-
lated Demu sex-organ pattern. She didn't care about a
navel one way or the other, but Barton thought she
should have one so she agreed. Somehow, though, he
couldn't bring himself to argue in the matter of external
genitalia; it was a little too personal, or something.
"Many Tilaran women," she told him, "are circumcised
much this same way. It was a beauty fad of some years
ago." Barton suddenly realized there was a hell of a lot

77

he didn't know about the Tilari culture. Well, he'd never
asked.

Breasts? "I don't know. Barton," she said. "Dead plas-
tic lumps under my skin? But yet they might make my
body feel better-balanced again." She cupped her hands,
one at each side of the lower edge of her ribcage.

Barton laughed, and gently moved her hands higher.
"No, more like this, Limila. You're on Earth now.
Haven't you noticed?"

Angrily she pushed his hands away. "I am a Tilari
woman. Barton. I will have Tilari breasts or none at all.'*

"But—" he began. She shook her bead, would not lis-
ten to him. "Oh well; skip it for now. You and the doc
do whatever you decide between the two of you. But—"
He wasn't getting anyplace, so finally be did skip it.

She nodded absently at his mention of wigs and so
forth. Barton asked if she'd like to have one right away,
and maybe the dentures. She shook her head.

"With this face? No, thank you. Barton. I prefer the
hood and veiL" Limila had added a half veil to the
Demu garb, for working with humans, hiding everything
but her eyes. Only at home with Barton would she show
her face.

She was disappointed that nothing could be done
about her tongue, but moderately cheered by Barton's
reminder of the prosthesis that had corrected Eeshta's
pronunciation. And she was unhappy that Dr. Parr felt
he could not rebuild her ears.

"I suppose you had better have him provide the plastic
ones," she said. "1 do not know if you would have no-
ticed, but my directional hearing is almost absent. The
cups of the ears serve that function." Barton kicked him-
self again for having taken so long to think of doing any-
thing about Limila's difficulties. Oh sure; he'd had his
own problems, as Tarleton had pointed out. But was
that excuse really good enough?

Her first real enthusiasm was for Parr's confidence in
his ability to recreate her nose. "Oh, Barton! That will
be so wonderful. I hate this face, and that is a thing I
hate most about it. But what about . . . ?" She touched
her lips.

In a quiet voice he told her the two choices Parr had
given.»

She had to think about them. "If he tries to spread
tissue to fill these in," she said, touching a finger to one

78

of the harsh notches, "the result may be lumpy?" Barton
nodded. "Or be must cut back, so they will be shorter."

"Yes."

"Second choice is preferable, I think," she said. "But
I can talk about it more with Dr. Parr, what he thinks
chances are in each case."

They left it at that Limila was already late at the
ship, engrossed in their discussion, neither had noticed
the time. "Come on; I'll walk you over to the motor pool,"
he said. Limila put on her robe, hood, veil and sandals,
found her notecase. They set out

Jeeps were available, but no driver. Barton hadn't
driven a car in eight years; it seemed like a good time to
practice. He didn't have a driver's license, but he hadn't
had one for the Demu spaceship, either.

The controls were different from the ones he'd known,
but he figured them out without much difficulty. He and
Limila arrived at the ship safely, without even a close
call. They found Tarleton fuming quietly and pretending
not to.

"We've hit some snags here," he said, giving them only
a bare nod as greeting. "Siewen can't make head or tail
of the astrogationai data. Limila, your people have in-
terstellar travel; maybe you can do better with it"

"I picked up a little of it on the trip back," said Bar-
ton. "Want me to sit in?"     ^

"Later, maybe. Glad you came.out, though; I have an
item or two. for you. Why don't you go on into the ship
and let Kreugel fill you in? I'll be along as soon as we
get this other on the road." He and Limila walked to the
nearby prefab as Barton climbed into the ship.

Kreugel had blueprints and circuit drawings spread
over most of the control room. "Hi, Barton." he said*
"Good to see you." They shook hands.

"How's it-coming?"

"Not bad, not bad at all. The theory boys are handing
us some pretty weird answers, though. For instance, how
long are the Demu supposed to have had space travel?"

"Oh, since about the time our ancestors left the forests
and started using antelope bones for clubs, I'd guess.
Why?"

"That's about what I thought," said Kreugel. "Then tell
me how come. Barton—tell me how come in all that time
they never improved their space drive?"

"How do you know they didn't?"

79

"Well, we dont, really. But we think so. The thing is
that the drive the Agency was working on—given a cou-
ple of clues from this ship—turned out to be a better,
more efficient drive than the one the Demu have."

"Couldn't that be coincidence, or luck? If true?"

"Maybe. But now again, once the Agency got their
drive working—"

"They have it working?"

"Yes, as of last Friday," Kreugel said, grinning. "Any-
way, from nothing but static test runs, the boys came up
with about sixteen different ideas for further improve-
ments. Now what does that tell you. Barton?"

"It doesn't tell me the Demu are stupid, if that's what
you mean. They are in some ways, such as their cul-
tural inertia, but that little Eeshta is nobody's dummy."

"Not stupid. Barton. Just not inventive. You see it
now?"

"I'm not sure, Kreugel. You tell me."

"The guess is that the Demu didn't invent this drive in
the first place. They got it from somebody else, somehow,
and just plain copied it. The same with the other stuff:

the leaky no-splash floors, the sleep gun, the protective
shield and all the rest of it. All it would take, Barton,
would be the capture of one ship, plus a reasonable level
of technology and a lot of patience- I'm told we could
have done it ourselves as early as—well, whenever semi-
conductor application was first being developed."

"Late 1940s," Barton recalled. "Well, it's an interesting
idea, but what's so important about it?"

"It means that we can build ships that outclass the
Demu—and that maybe they can't improve theirs with-
out a model to copy."

"Hmm, maybe so," said Barton. "I wouldn't bet too big
a bundle on it, though."

Tarleton came in. "Hi. How far along are you?"

"Just that somebody thinks the Demu are copycats,
not inventors, and stole their antigravity and everything,"
said Barton. "I'm not totally sold, but it could be. What
else is there?"

"Not too much. But before you leave I'd like you to
check Limila's interpretation of the astrogational data.
She's pretty sure she's right, but you're the one who
worked with it." Barton nodded, waiting for Tarleton to
continue. Kreugel waved them off and went back to his

80

blueprints. The two men moved out into the other com-
partment.

"Kreugel tell you the Agency has its own drive work-
ing?"

"Yeah, and improved six ways from Sunday over this
one, he says. No kidding?"

"Fact," said Tarleton. "The lab people are going out of
their minds with the possibilities. Apparently they were
only a couple of Jumps from the whole antigravity thing
already. They have to admit that those jumps weren't in
the direction they were trying to go; they'd been on a
wrong track. But they claim it would have been a matter
of only a few months. They could be right; those lads
don't spend too much time in blind alleys."

"So what's next?" Barton was getting bored with the
Agency's ego trip.

"Well, they've cobbled together this one ship, a sort of
breadboard model, to experiment with. Washington is in
a hurry to settle on an adequate design and get into pro-
duction: the old argument between 'Get it on the road
now' and 'Give us a little more time so we can make it
betteri' You know."

"Afraid-1 can't help you much on that," Barton grinned.
"I learned a long time ago to keep my neck out of policy
arguments."

"Maybe so, but I want your advice on the auxiliary
hardware. Just how far do you think we should go in du-
plicating what the Demu carry?"

Barton shook his head impatiently. "I don't know all
that much about it, Tarleton. We don't need their fancy
floors; plumbing's simpler. Or the no-source lighting; it's
nice to have no shadows on your control console but not
necessary. I imagine those two items would be a'big part
of the cost problem, so skip 'em.

"When it comes to weapons, maybe I brought you the
wrong ship. The bigger ones may have stuff we don't even
know about, and you can bet that Hishtoo won't be telling
us anything he doesn't have to. This crate has the uncon-
sciousness weapon—the sleep gun, you call it—and the
shield. Personally, I don't even know what the shield will
handle and what it won't. But if there's more ofiense or
defense on here, I never found it."

"Yes, I thought that would be about the size of it. No-
body else found anything more in the way of weapons,
either. But we still haven't elimuiated the possibility of

81

another of those tricky 'Enable' switches like the one for
the circuit diagrams. It's a slow cautious process, checking
out alt the combos on that control board.

"Anyway, they're testing the shield, all right. Took a
pilot model out into space on a rocket shuttle, with all
sorts of test objects and instruments and telemetering
equipment inside. Now they're throwing everything at
it but the kitchen sink."

"Any useful results?"

"So far. the sumbidge will take anything we know how
to throw, except for coherent radiation. That goes through
it like a knife through cheese."

Barton laughed. "So we just take a big-daddy laser . .."

"So big it takes up the whole central axis of one of
our new ships ..."

"And ZAP1 Well, I hope it works."

"That makes a crowd of us. But we still have a prob-
lem."

"Let me tell you what the problem is," thought Bar-
ton. But the other man didn't say it.

"How effective is the shield against the sleep gun or
vice versa?" he asked. "That's not a simple question. It's
a matter of the power to the gun and the power to the
shield, the distance, and the time of exposure."

"So what the hell? Test it."

"On whom. Barton? We've already used it to knock
Hishtoo out once, to make sure it would work on the
Demu as it does on humans. We don't dare take a chance
oa scrambling his memories much; we need the hard-
shelled bastard, for what information we can worm out
of him."

Well, by God, there was a problem. It would take a
lot of testing to get the necessary answers, and the sleep
gun played hell with memory. Who was going to volunteer
for a case of amnesia? Not Barton, for sure; he'd had
that bit, and still he wasn't sure all his mental nuts and
bolts were back in the right bins.

"Yeh, you've got a point. Lemme think a minute . . ."

There had to be answers; Barton thought of one. Some
men and women were trapped in cages, permanently.

"The hopelessly insane, Tarleton. It's their memories
that have them tied up in knots. The sleep gun might
even cure a few. If it doesn't, they haven't lost a hell of a
lot. have they?"

Tarleton looked dubious. "Pragmatically it makes

82

sense, but we'll play hell trying to get authorization. A lot
of people would holler bloody murder, you know."

"Federal booby hatch," said Barton. "That big one near
D.C. The Agency can slap Security on the whole bucket."

"You give harsh answers, don't you? Well, it can't
hurt to try, I guess. Thanks." Barton was beginning to
make motions preliminary to leaving. "Oh, don't forget
to check Limila on the astrogation; OK? And in a few
days we'll want you to take some student pilots up in
this ship. Also in the new Agency model, to show them
how it goes and give us an operational comparison."

"Hell, any of your trainees could fly this thing right
now."

"Yes, but they haven't done it. You have." Barton
shrugged an OK, and left. Outside, he realized he hadn't
said goodbye to Kreugel. Ob well; the man probably
wouldn't want to be interrupted again anyway.

Over at the prefab he checked Limila's interpretation '
of the data necessary to travel from Star A to Star B. As
he had expected, she had it right. He noticed that Hishtoo
seemed distinctly wary of him; that reaction didn't hurt
Barton's feelings. Siewen didn't say much, but seeing
him gave Barton an idea: maybe, before working on Li-
mila, Dr. Parr could use a trial run.

Limila wasn't needed for the rest of the day, so Barton
took her with him in the jeep. He enjoyed testing its per- '
formance and handling over the bumpy dirt road, now
that he had the hang of it. First he stopped by Dr.
Parr's office to make sure the doctor could see LimHa
that afternoon. Then he and she went home for lunch and
a shower; the day was hot. There was a note in the mail-
box; Dr. Fox wanted to see Barton.

Dr. Parr had priority; they went to his office imme-
diately after lunch. Although he had seen the pictures,
the doctor was visibly shocked when Limila doffed the
veil and hood. He hid it well but fooled no one. Quickly,
though, he put his professional manner together and care-
fully examined Limila's head and face, hands and feet.
He didn't ask her to disrobe; Barton remembered that
Parr considered the problems of the torso to be minor.

"Your description and pictures were accurate, Barton,"
he said. "I see no reason to change the prognoses I gave ,
you earlier. Does she wish to proceed?"

"Hell, Doctor; ask her. She's right here in front of you,
brains and all." Parr colored.

83

*Tm sony, madam," he said; Barton didnt bother to
correct him about Limila's marital status. "It is only
that..."

"I know," said Limila. "I cannot ever get used to it,
either. That is why I hope you can help me." Her eyes
filled with tears. Parr was obviously shaken,

Barton cut in to display Limila's wrists and ask if any-
thing could be done about the jog where the fingers had
been cut back.

"Either plastic sponge or cartilage could be used to fill
out a smoother line," Parr said. "Cartilage would be best
but we will be using quite a lot of that elsewhere; the
supply is not unlimited."

"Well, however it works out," said Barton. "Look, I
think I'll leave you two to work out the details. The lady
shrink wants me again. See you at home, later, Limila.
See you too. Doctor, and thanks." Handshake, pat her
shoulder, and out.

Dr. Arleta Fox welcomed him smilingly. He noticed
that her dark-red hair had been shortened a little and
tamed a lot; it was nowhere near as frizzy as before. She
wasn't a bad-looking little woman. Barton thought, if you
liked strong jaws and didn't mind the implication of te-
nacity.

"We'd like to do some nonverbal tests today, Mr. Bar-
ton." You mean "you," lady; "we" don't want to do any-
thing of the sort. But he smiled and nodded; the two of
them exchanged polite bla-bla-blas on the way to the test-
ing room.

The ceiling was low and gray, and Barton's guard went
up. This woman had been reading the reports on him,
realty reading them.

But the tests weren't too bad. First there were a num-
ber of color-filled sheets of paper bearing abstract pat-
terns. He was supposed to choose which he liked best,
and least, out of a dozen or so groups of five each. In-
evitably he was drawn to the gaudiest, most violent
combinations and bored by the pastels; naturally he an-
nounced the opposite choices. Dr. Fox looked dubious,
but didn't say anything.

Then came the good old Rorsctiach ink blots: 'Tell
me what you see in these, and tell me a story about
each one, if you can, please."

Barton saw a mutilated woman dying in mindless pain.

84

"This is a little boy in a Hallowe'en mask. He is going out
trick-or-treating."

He saw two grotesque entities ready to lock in mortal
combat "A boy and a girl are having a picnic, out in the
country." The room was air-conditioned, but he was
sweating worse than he'd done outdoors in the heat. Dr.
Fox paid no apparent heed.

Barton saw a group of pseudo-lobsters who had once
been human beings. "I get the impression of a family of
baby rabbits. I guess my imagination is throwing in the
ears; they sure aren't in the picture, are they?" He
hoped it looked like a smile, what his face was doing on
the outside. Because that had been too close.

Finally it was over and he could leave, smiling and bla-
blaing with Arleta Fox. In another job, he felt, he could
have liked her.

When he got home, Limila was fixing dinner. She ap-
peared happier than he'd ever seen her, though with an
undertone of anxiety.

But "Later, Barton; eat first," she said when he asked.
For a girl who had never seen Earthly foodstuffs until re-
cently, he thought (not for the first time) that she was
developing into one helluva good country-style cook.

Idly he noticed a row of scratches down her right arm.
Not so idly, he saw that some were red and swollen.
"What's all that?"

Testing for allergy reactions to antibiotics, it turned
out. Dr. Parr had no wish to resort to full-asepsis surgery
if he could help it; bacteria abound, and mutate. And he
wanted to begin operations the next afternoon, if possible.
Starting with Siewen.

Barton nearly had to laugh when Limila told him of
the Great Breast Controversy. Parr hadn't quite under-
stood Limila's differences from Earth-human; he'd been
flabbergasted when she told him where she wanted
her surrogate breasts implanted. "Then he refused," she
toid Barton. "He said he cannot rebuild an anatomy he
doesn't know. So we decided none at all, for this time. He
thinks I will change my mind ..."

But there was more. Barton could tell. And for once,
he did want to hear what the problem was. He was a long
time getting it out of her. Finally in bed, in the dark,
holding each other like two small children afraid of the
bogeyman, she said it.

"The pain. Barton. The pain again. I am afraid."

85

"WeH, sure," be said, "these things hurt some, as they
heal up. But it's not all that bad. I mean, it's sure as hell
worth it, isn't it?"

"No, I mean the cutting, the stretching, the binding to-
gether, all of that It was very bad before. Barton, with
the Demu. Why should it be easier now?"

He sat upright, dislodging her from his embrace. "For
Chrissakesi Didn't the Demu put you to sleep for all that
butchering? Or even give you a shot or pill to kill the
pain?**

They hadn't The sleep gun? *They never use it again
on one they have decided to make Demu. With much use,
effects on memory become permanent" Barton cringed,
thinking what she must have endured.

"But you don't think we do surgery that way? You
have surgeons on Tilara; what do they use to control
pain?"

'There is a drug; pain becomes ecstasy. I think you do
not have it here."

"If we have, it's probably illegal. We use anesthetics;

you go to sleep, and wake up when it's all over. Didn't
Parr say anything?"

"No."

"Did you ask him?"

"About pain,' I ask. No trouble, he said; we do it with
a general. I say no. Such a foolish ideal**

"Huh? I don't get you. Run that one through again."

"A general? Like the man Parkhurst? What could he
do?"

Barton broke up; he couldn't help it. Grabbing Limila
and hugging her fiercely, he laughed so hard that tears
came. He hadn't laughed like that in over eight years. Then
he explained, gently, the difference between a general
officer and a general anesthetic. When she understood,
Limila managed a small laugh of her own. It was tentative,
tremulous, but in the right direction. "It'll be all right,"
he said. "Really, it will."

He held her close until she was asleep. For a time he
had little luck getting himself to sleep. He was thinking
how much respect, even more than he had accorded her,
Limila deserved for what she had gone through. Or Sie-
wen, for that matter. Or even Whosits.

Next morning Barton was to take Dr. Parr to the ship,
as well as Limila. At the motor pool, no one hassled him
for permission about anything; they assumed he had it.

66

From Parr's office he called the dentist; might as well
have impressions made for plates as soon as possible.
The height factor could be measured as soon as lip sur-
gery was complete, but Parr had said the mouth would
then be too tender for impression work.

At the ship, Tarleton was in a hurried mood. Com-
pared to the stow beariike man Barton had first met, he
was practically a streak of lightning. "Barton," he said
at once, "the new ship, up at Seattle, is ready for compar-
ison testing; Boeiog really pushed it to meet the contract
Tomorrow we take this one up there. All right?'*

Barton shook his head, not in negation but to get his
bearings. Yes; all right. "OK, Tarleton; I'm ready if you
are. But I want you to meet Dr. Parr, the surgeon who is
going to do the job on Limila and the rest. I hope it
doesn't bust your program any, but he needs Siewen and
Limila for a while, starting this afternoon."

Tarleton started to swell and possibly burst like the*
frog in the fable, but he too shook his head and con-
sidered his priorities. "How long?" he asked. "Will I have
access to them for questions if I need them?" Barton
turned to Dr. Parr for the answers.

"Not for the first three days, Mr. Tarleton. Even with
the newer drugs, it takes that long to reduce the swelling;

it used to take weeks." He paused. "Will that be satisfac-
tory?"

Tarleton started to speafc. Then he looked at Limila,
her mangled face hidden by the hood and veil. He looked
at Siewen, too. "Hell, I guess I can spare three days. Con-
sidering everything. After all, I'll be busy up north that
long, before I can leave Barton on his own."

It was settled. Tarleton wanted to run Hishtoo through
one last intensive grilling session before he turned Siewea
and Limila over to Parr. To pass the time, waiting. Bar-
ton took the latter into the ship for a guided tour and
some chat with Kreugel. There wasn't much that was news
to Barton, but be liked Kreuge! and didn't mind hearing
again what obviously interested Parr. The only new facts
were the initial results of testing the sleep gun versus the
shield: as expected, given the maximum of power to
both, you were safe behind the shield unless you were loo
close to the gun for too long. The parameters were still
being evaluated, but the limits had been determined. Bar-
ton didn't ask about the effects on the test subjects. He I
didn't really want to know.                              \

87

Toward lunchtime, he and Parr bade goodbye to Kreu-
gel and went to the prefab, to pick up Limila and Siewen.
No one had asked Siewen whether he wanted to be re-
modeled or not; Barton because it never entered his mind,
and no one else because this was Barton's personal proj-
ect. Siewen had heard the proposal discussed and hadn't
said anything one way or the other, but then he never
did, except to answer questions. Not any more.

In the prefab were Tarieton. Limila, Hishtoo, Siewen
and two people Barton knew by sight but not by name.
Assistants of some kind. He nodded to alL

"You have it about wrapped up for now, Tarieton?"
he asked. The place was tense: Tarieton was obviously
displeased, Limila stood in an apologetic stance. Siewen
looked as if he weren't there'at all, and Hishtoo looked
defiant

-What's' the problem?*' said Barton, and mentally kicked
himself for saying it that way.

"Oh, Hishtoo's up on his high horse.** Tarieton sounded
weary. "He's just realized we're going to take this game
back onto his own home grounds, and he doesn't like the
idea." .

Hishtoo suddenly shrilled a rapid burst of lobsterese.
"He says," Limila interpreted, "that we animals had best
not dare disturb the homes of the Demu."

**Wen now, is that right?" said Barton. He knew he
looked nasty; he knew he sounded nasty. Above an, he
knew that he couldn't afford to show it, not before Tarie-
ton, of all people. But he couldn't help himself. He walked
up to Hishtoo, face to face. "To you I'm an animal?'* he
said softly. *To me, you're crab saladi"

Hishtoo cringed and turned away. "I'll be damned,'*
Tarieton said in a bushed voice. 'That hardshell under-
stands more English than he lets on." He turned to Bar-
ton. **When I said that to him I was twisting his arm and
shouting. But you said it just like 'Pass the bread' and it
got to him."

"Not quite," said Barton, knowing he shouldn't. "More
like 'Pass the crab salad."" Tarieton looked at him, but
said nothing more except the usual so-longs. Barton
herded Parr and Siewen out to the jeep, Limila following.
He agreed to meet Tarieton in the morning, and drove
off.

Lunch at the Barton-Limua residence was on the awk-
ward side. Doktor Siewen was being as nonexistent as pos-

08

sible. Limila's reluctance to show her face to anyone
except Barton was eased somewhat because Parr had al-
ready examined it, but her discomfort was apparent,
Parr's appetite was scanty for a man of his size; the rea-
sons were obvious. Barton ate like a horse and compli-
mented Limila on her cooking; it was one of his days to
be contrary (though the food was good).

Next stop, he announced, was the dentist. No, come to
think of it, first they would drop by and pick up Whosits;

Barton hadn't seen him for weeks and hadn't missed him,
but the Freak would also benefit by a set of dentures, so
that he wouldn't have to subsist on mushy gloop all his
life. So what the hell . . .

The guards at the door of the unit housing Siewen,
Whosits and the two Demu accepted Barton's authoriza-
tion readily enough. Eeshta was pleased to see Barton; he
expressed his own pleasure at seeing her. Wfaosits was
something else again. He didn't want to go anywhere. ,,
Barton and Parr took him out the hard way but not very;

Whosits was so flabby as to be wholly ineffectual.

The dentist was noticeably jolted by the looks of his
patients, but he took Limila's and Siewen's dental-plate
impressions with reasonable aplomb. Whosits made a
problem of himself; he refused to open his mouth. Dr.
Parr explained the purpose of the project, but Whosits
paid no heed. Barton took over then, not gently. Whosits
not only opened his mouth but then also kept it closed—
on the second try—for the proper length of time to
produce a usable impression. Meanwhile Parr was ex-
plaining how he was going to help Whosits look present-
able once more in human society. He was working with a
tough audience.

As soon as the hardened impression was removed,
Whosits reared back and spoke words. Actual human
words, the first Barton had ever heard from him.

"Nein; neini Ich bin Demul DEMU; Horen Sie?"

Barton shook out his rusty knowledge of German and
tried to talk with the creature, but that was all Whosits
would say. "Oh, the hell with it," Barton said finally. "If
this nut wants to stay a lobster, why argue with him?"
Parr said nothing. He did not object when Barton dumped
the Freak back at his own guarded quarters, before the
rest of the group went on to Parr's office and improvised
operating room.

(Later, through hush-hush channels, Whosits' finger-

89

prints turned out to be those of one Emst Heimbach,
missing from East Berlin for about five years. Barton sug-
gested, "Why dont we dump him back where be belongs?"
but Tarieton said. "Hell, if we did, they'd blame his con-
dition on us." The old Cold War had softened into almost-
free trade, considerable real cooperation and very little
risk of hot war. Barton learned, but somehow the propa-
ganda part continued as idiotic and irritating as ever.)
. parr summoned a couple of nurses to take charge of
Limila and Siewen for the preliminaries; Barton was
about to become superfluous. He took Limila in his arms,
pushed her hood back enough to kiss her forehead. "I'll
-"see you m a few days," he said, **when I get back from
Seattle." She nodded but said nothing. "Look now. I'd be
around with you if I could; you know that. But Tarie-
ton wants those test runs in a hurry and I'm tagged for it
You'll be all right; Parr is good. And I'll see you, soon
as I can."

"All right. Barton," she said, finally. "I hope then you
can like what you see." She turned abruptly and followed
a nurse out of the office, not looking back. Siewen and the
other nurse trailed after.

Barton looked at Parr. "I know you'll do what you
can.*'

"I'll try to do better than that. Barton. You know?
The hardest thing to realize in 'this case—please don't
take offense—is that I should be seeing her as a woman
to restore. Forgive me, but I've been seeing a something
to be turned into a woman."

Barton sighed, not angry. "Yes, Doctor; I know how it
must be for you." They shook hands. "However it works
out, be kind to her."

Barton went home to be alone with himself and his
memories. It wasn't fun. He skipped dinner and got
drunk. Not too drunk; he went to bed at a reasonable
hour. Alone, and missing Limila more than he would
have thought possible.

Knowing that Tarieton, next morning, would be like a
cat on a hot stove. Barton got up early. He breakfasted
quickly and with his packed suitcase was at the ship a
few minutes ahead of the other man. Three of the four
student-pilots were there before him; the fourth arrived
almost on Tarleton's heels.

Tarieton cut into the exchange of greetings. "All right,

90

we're here. Let's get on board and stash our luggage."
They did so quickly, and followed Barton into the con-
trol area.

The room normally seated two. Tarieton had had four
more seats installed for training purposes. Even though
these were small, bucket-type shells, the seating was
cramped. But they all wedged in; no one complained.
Well, they'd better not have, with Tarieton on edge as he
was.

Barton explained the major controls. "I wont bother
running you through the whole switch panel because
ours are different, they tell me; our people left out a lot of
things on here that we won't really be needing, so as to
get into production sooner.

"The principles will be the same. Start out with all the
small toggles off and your guidance lever here and go-
pedal here, both in neutral; then you apply power with
this blue jobbie in the middle." He knew they'd heard
the instructions before but it didn't hurt to tell them again,
and at the same time reinforce his own knowledge. "All
right, here's your outside viewscreen and here's your
'Drive on' switch," pointing them out, throwing them and
remembering how in the Demu aircar he'd discovered
them in reverse order. What a panic that had been. "Arti-
ficial gravity, indoors here, set to hold at one-G. Now
we're hot to trot; here goes nothing." And he took the
ship up.

He took it straight up at maximum lift, because he
wanted them to realize immediately the kind of power
they'd be handling. At an altitude of about one thousand
kilometers he made the tightest right-angle turn the ship
would manage, pointing out the rather incredible G-forces
that, because'of the artificial gravity field, they were not
feeling. Then he slowed to roughly orbital-drift speed, put
the major controls to neutral, and clambered out of the
pilot's seat.

"OK, I want each of you to play around with this can
for a while, out here where it's safe. You first, Kranz."
Kranz climbed gingerly into Barton's pilot chair; Barton
squeezed into the empty one. "For now," Barton con-
tinued, "we work only with the two drive-control levers;

leave all the little toggles alone unless I tell you different.
And don't use more than half power. Just play loose in
this general volume of space. OK?"

Each man had about a half-hour of practice, mostly

91

experimenting on his own with only an occasional sug-
gestion from Barton. Kranz started cautiously and grad-
ually built up his confidence. Slobodna, the next man,
did the opposite, applying all his allowed half power im-
mediately in violent maneuvers, losing orientation and
scaring himself. But then, after a few minutes of more
cautiously feeling out the controls, he too achieved a de-
gree of mastery over them. The other two, Jones and
Dupree, began with medium-power settings and modest
acrobatics; each progressed to as proficient a handling of
the craft as could be expected in so short a time. Barton
was satisfied with the lot of them,

"OK, Dupree; that's fine," he said. "I might as well get
back in the saddle now, and take us down. My gut says
it must be nearly time for lunch."

"Just a minute." It was Tarleton.

"What's the problem? Aren't you hungry yet?"

"Damn it, Barton! Don't you think I want a turn at
driving this kiddie car?"

Barton laughed; hell, he should have thought of that.
"OK, Tarleton, she's all yours."

Tarleton was a model of caution and precision. He
never applied the maximum-agreed power nor made vio-
lent rolls or turns. He returned the ship quite closely to
his starting point and to drift speed before turning it
over to Barton.

"Thanks, Barton. I just wanted to fly a spaceship once
in my life. You realize that once the program is under
way, an unqualified guy like me won't have a chance."

"Hell, you can fly any ship / have any say-so about,
any time you want." Tarieton was silent; finally Barton
realized why. He, Barton, probably wasn't going to have
any say-so about these things much longer, is what it
meant. Well, maybe. People had had that kind of at-
titude about Barton before. Like the Demu, for instance.
Barton filed the whole bit for future reference. After all, it
wasn't as though he'd failed to provide for the contin-
gency.

"OK, gang," he said. "I'm going to haul her down like
a real bat, so you can see how she hits air. Then 111 ease
her back, just above SST traffic levels, and go in quiet
from there." He chuckled. "It's going to be fun trying
our own ship; from what I hear, it has considerably more
legs on it than this baby has."

He took her down like a real bat indeed; his passen-

92

gers, including Tarleton, were noticeably shaken. Barton
chuckled to himself, thinking how they might have re-
acted to his first atmospheric entrance, when he'd guessed
wrong and nearly joined the Submarine Service before he
pulled out of his dive. He decided not to mention that oc-
casion.

He flipped a jury-rigged switch for the special channel
to Boeing Field; Control gave him the OK to drop in on
a straight vertical. He made a good landing because the
Demu shield allowed no other kind. He wondered if, la-
ter, everyone shouldn't learn to land without the shield,
just in case.

Barton had heard that it always rained in Seattle, but
the six of them stepped out to face a sunny day. Claebum,
the Space Agency's liaison roan, apologized for the un-
usual heat wave—all of 80 degrees. After New Mexico
it felt like a cool pleasant early-morning. In fact, the time
was a little after noon; they had lunch at a nearby restau-
rant. Claeburn suggested the company cafeteria but
Tarleton wanted a drink with his lunch, and insisted. Bar-
ton was damn glad; he wanted one too. He was appalled
at the size of the luncheon check picked up by Claeburn.
Inflation hadn't slowed down.

After a briefing so lengthy that the drinks had had
plenty of time to wear off. Barton put the prototype. Earth's
first starship, through its paces. It carried about 50 per-
cent greater acceleration than''the Demu version, nearly
as much advantage on tight turns', and an interlock that
would not allow bard maneuvering to overload and blow
the ship's internal gravity field. Barton hadn't known, and
was surprised enough to say so, that such a danger existed
on the Demu ship; apparently he had been wildly lucky
not to exceed the limit. Especially, he thought, on his first
reentry to Earth. He felt uncomfortable, having his igno-
rance exposed. He felt it put more chinks in his image
. than he really needed.

The revised controls were no problem. There were
about two-thirds as many toggles as in the Demu ship—
larger, more widely spaced, and each clearly labeled.
Claebum had run them through the list of functions, any-
way; it couldn't hurt. Barton could see that pilot training
was going to be a real snap, especially after the four
trainees, Tarleton and even Claebum had given the new
ship a workout. The procedure was like that of the morn-
ing tryouts, but faster and smoother. And more comfort-

93

able: the seats weren't so crowded. Barton felt that they
were definitely making progress-
Over dinner, just the two of them, Tarleton explained
the Agency's plans. "Tomorrow and the next day, you
take those four men up and wring them out on naviga-
tion, test procedures and trouble-shooting; stuff like that.
Pilot practice is incidental at this stage, but they'll be
getting it, anyway. Mainly, though, you're training the
next generation of instructors."

"Jeez," Barton protested, "I don't know any more about
testing and trouble-shooting than they do."

"But they think you do," Tarleton answered. "Here are
the books; you and I can go over them tonight I've
skimmed them; they're well put together, easy to follow.
All you have to do is keep two jumps ahead of those four
guys for the next few days. Then you come on back south
in the Demu ship and they're on their own."

"But why me?" Barton was sincerely puzzled. "Why
not the guys who wrote the books?"

"Because you are the one man on Earth who has ac-
tually piloted an interstellar trip. I know and you know
how much luck you needed, but you have no idea
how much the simple fact means to the Agency. They
think you're Superman. It's simpler to let them keep
thinking so, because then when you pass your students as
trained they'll figure some of it rubbed off. You see?"

Barton saw. He saw, moreover, how maybe it gave
him a handle on something he wanted, something he was
utterly damn well going to have.

"Tarleton," he said, "if • I'm all that important, how
about letting me in on the Top-Hush? I mean, we're
building ships and training pilots. What are we going to
do with them?"

Tarletoo was quiet for a time. "All right, Barton,** he
said finally. "I guess you deserve to know. Most of it,
anyway.

"We're having forty ships built, all about the same
as the one we flew today, but more advanced. You no-
ticed ours is somewhat bigger than the Demu ship, to
carry the more powerful drive. The hulls and loose hard-
ware have been in production since the second week after
you got home. I've put in the OK. to go ahead and stan-
dardize on the drive units as-is, based on our tests today;

the theory boys can incorporate later improvements into

94

our second fleet, and so on. And what we're going to do
should be obvious. We're going after the Demu."
"We?" said Barton, very quietly.

"Well, not you or I personally, of course. After all—"
"The hell you say!" Barton hadn't meant to put it like
that, but there it was. "Me personally! Very definitely,
me personally. Who the hell's fight do they think this is,

anyway?"

"Well, I know how you must feel, of course, but you
can't really expect the Agency and the military to let an
outsider into the act, can you?"

"I can," said Barton. "I can and I do. You think I
can't?" Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the stack of train-
ing books off the table; they landed on the floor in dis-
array. He looked Tarleton in the eyes, both of them
suddenly quiet.

"You want me to pick those books up, Tarleton?"

After a while, Tarleton nodded slowly. Barton picked
up the books, dusted them off, stacked them neatly. "All
right. Barton, you've made your point. I'll do the best I

can for you."

"You'll get me one of those ships. In charge of it."

"I'll try."

"You'll do it." He leaned forward across the table.
"Listen, Tarleton, I can do a lot more for you, than be
some sort of lousy figurehead. You say we're going after
the Demu. Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"That's stupid. You know how big they are? I don't
either, for sure, but I do know a little, from what Limila
learned. I told it, but maybe nobody paid attention.

"They inhabit—that's inhabit—about a dozen planets.
To our one. On top of that they have 'farm planets' with
a few Demu supervising populations of ready-made
Demu like Limila and Whosits—but of many races» not
only humanoid. They have those poor bastards brain-
washed into altering their own children to the Demu style
of looks. Then they have research stations like the one I
was at, the one that had never seen humanoids before.
There were six ships at that station alone, until I stole
one. Three of them hadn't been used for a while, by the
looks of them, but they were there. And you're going
after the Demu with a lousy forty ships?"

"What else can we do?"

"Unite and conquer, for Chrissakesi Limila's people,

95

the Tilari, have star travel. All they don't have is the
shield against the sleep gun, or any idea how to find the
Demu. We can give them both."

"Well, yes," said Tarleton. "I'll put through a memo
upstairs in the Agency, on that idea. You give me the
location of the Tilari planets and—"

"Limila will give you that stuff when the expedition is
in space, no sooner. Christ on a crutch, you think I trust
a bunch of Agency wheels to keep the faith for you? No
sale. I'll go ahead with this training jazz, on your word to
go to bat for me. But the Agency gets the scoop on the
Tilari—and how to find the other races they know who'll
want to get into the act and could help a lot—you get all
that when we're on our way, not before." He wasnt
bluffing. He'd talked the matter over with Limila; she was
in full agreement with him.

"It might work. Barton." Tarleton spoke slowly. "But
how do you know the Agency couldn't get the informa-
tion directly from Hishtoo?"

"If Limila doesn't feel like interpreting for you? How
much do you trust Siewen's abilities any more? Even if
Hishtoo just happened to be feeling cooperative, which I
doubt. Think about it."

Tarleton, from the looks of him, did think about it
"I think you've got us boxed. Barton. And you know
something? I'm glad of it. Because as you say, it is your
fight." Barton looked at him and felt he could trust the
big man. He purely hoped so.

The training went about as planned. On Barton's fourth
day at Seattle, after seeing Tarleton off to New Mexico by
SST, he was riding supercargo observing one of his first
four students instructing a new batch of trainees. Three
days later he decided the program had become self-
sustaining as scheduled, and packed his suitcase. He had
lunch with Claeburn and the four original trainees, enjoy-
ing this goodbye scene a lot more than he had expected.
About an hour later he lifted the Demu ship off for New
Mexico.

Just for the hell of it he got clearance to go by way of
Luna. He cruised slowly back and forth above the surface
at eyeball range, seeing the manmade installations and
the undisturbed areas that had thrilled him on TV in his
younger days, when the first landings had been made.
With a sigh for that younger self. Barton turned back to
Earth.

96

It took him a little time to locate New Mexico and get
talked in, but eventually he found the proper spot and
set the ship down. Tarleton had left the site for the day.
Barton got a ride to his quarters. He called Parr and got
no answer, so he had a shower before preparing a pre-
packaged dinner and eating it. The package was na-
tionally advertised over tri-V and tasted like it, but
Barton hardly noticed. He was too busy being lonesome.

He called Parr again; for a wonder be got him on the
first try. He could. Parr told him, see Limila the next day.
In fact, the timing was good; the bandages were to be re-
moved tomorrow. Maybe she could use Barton's presence
in support. Barton tried to ask detailed questions but was
brushed off. "Come see for yourself," was bow Parr put
it. Barton growled his thanks and hung up.

He was still restless; tomorrow was a long time away.
There had been a day-old note in the mailbox: Arleta
Fox was in urgent need of his company. Barton was in no
hurry for that interview. He supposed he'd have to give
the lady one more session of brainpicking at least, before
he got the hell off Earth again. But the later the better.
He was too close to making it, to take any more chances
than he could help.

Now in the early evening, he decided to walk off his
tensions, out in the clear air. He thought to look in on
Eeshta, realizing that he hadn't had a real visit with her
since the time she'd given him^he clue to Limila's plight.
Limilal It was going to be a long night.

The guard was unfamiliar but recognized Barton's
name. "Do you want to go in, sir?" he asked.

"See if she'd like to come out for a little walk," Barton
said. "We'll be back before dark. It's OK with Tarleton."
The guard nodded and went inside.

Sooner than Barton expected, the guard came back
with Eeshta. She was wearing a small cap and a short
sleeveless robe, and sandals. Looking more acclimated all
the time. Barton thought. He was surprised at the glow of
real pleasure be felt at seeing her. "Hello, Eeshta," he
said. "How's it going with you?"

She Demu-smiled at him. "I am happier now. Barton."
she said. They strolled westward into the after-sunset light.
**I learn much about your people. They are so different.
Not only from ours, but from each other. It is very new
and very challenging, to try to understand. I try to tell
Hishtoo, my egg-parent, but he does not want to hear. He

97

says I am becoming an animal." She hissed—the equiva-
lent, Barton knew, of a sigh. "Perhaps one day he will be
wilting to team." Barton decided he wouldn't bet much of
a bundle on that possibility.

"How's the Freak doing, these days?" he said.

"Heimbach? I do not know. They took him away sev-
eral days ago. I have not seen him since." Barton was
faintly surprised that Eeshta knew Whosits' real name.

"Who took him?" Not that Barton cared, particularly,
but it was something to say, to keep her talking.

"Tie man Tarleton and others I do not know." Tarle-
ton hadn't said anything . . . Well, what did it matter?

"What else are you learning, Eeshta? Anything you es-
pecially enjoy?"

"Oh. yes. Barton! Your music. It is so different from
ours. Some of it, I am told, is out of my range of hearing.
But it seems I hear parts you do not. I think if I stay
here, music will be my study and work. I like it so very
much."

Barton was no music buff himself, but he asked Eeshta
about her favorite composers and performers. He didn't
give a damn what they discussed; he simply wanted the
young Demu to feel comfortable with him. He realized be
might still be feeling guilt for having roughed her up so
much at first acquaintance. But the way it fett to Barton,
he liked the lad, was all.

As the conversation hit a lull, it struck him that
Eeshta might not know what she and her little speech-
prosthesis had done, inadvertently, for Limila. So, as best
he could, he tried to explain what had happened, what
was being done.

"They make her as she was? It seems not to be possi-
ble. But so good, if true."

"Well, not exactly the way she was," Barton admitted,
"but a lot closer. Some things, like the teeth, will be artifi-
cial. But for the most part we hope she'U look pretty
much like the original model, or at least a close relative.

"The doctor is doing some work on Siewen, too,"
he added. "What he can."

"Poor Siewen," Eeshta said. "Some things are not pos-
sible for him, too late. And Heimbach?"

"The Freak wouldn't have any part of it, not even
teeth. I guess he likes eating mush all the time."

"I feel badly. Barton. For Heimbach, for Siewen and
Umila, for all the dead ones where we made worse mis-

98

takes. But now for Limila, and some for Siewen, I can
feel better. For helping, even not knowing I helped."

"Well, you know now. Eeshta. And we're grateful to
you, believe me."

"Of that, I can be glad."

The short twilight was ending. Barton took Eeshta's
hand; they jogged back toward her quarters, laughing as
they ran out of breath from the unaccustomed exercise.
At least Barton was laughing; Eeshta's mouth was doing
something he couldn't make out in the dim light, but he
felt she shared his mood. Then they were home.

Her home, at least, such as it was. He started to say
goodnight but Eeshta spoke first. "Barton," she said, "soon
you go seeking the Demu, my people? I have heard it. It
is supposed to be secret from me. But many do not bp-
lieve I understand your speech. They speak where I
hear, though they should not."

Barton nodded. "Yes, we have to visit the Demu at
home. You can see that."
"I must go with you."

"You want to go home? Yes; sure you would. But this
trip won't be too safe, you know. You'd better wait

awhile.'*

"No, now. Barton," said Eeshta. "I know; you will
fight. With the ships. You must. Demu will not talk with
what they think animals. You will force them. But I must
be there, when first there is talk."

Barton didn't argue; she was right. But would Tarleton

agree?

"I'll see what I can do, Eeshta." His arms acted with-
out his volition. It was only after Eeshta had entered her
quarters, and he was walking away toward his own, that
Barton thought, "Well, I'll be go to hell if I didn't hug that
hard-shelled little crittur!" Somehow it didn't bother him
any.

Barton barged into his own quarters, shucked his shirt
and shoes, and poured himself a hefty slug of bourbon.
He looked, and carefully poured half of it back into the
bottle. He sat, and sipped, and thought a lot. He went to^
bed early, and slept much better than be had expected.^

Dr. Parr the next morning, tall, languid and about to
get a flat nose if he didn't take Barton off the book pretty
soon, was in no hurry. "The patients will be with us

99

shortly," he said. "Meanwhile let me explain some of the
problems." Yeh, let me tell you what the problem is.

The trouble was that Pan- told it in medicalese, which
might as well have been Greek. Finally Barton had had
it. "Goddammit, Doc! Did it work, or not?*'

"See for yourself." Parr pushed a button on his desk;

shortly, three wheelcbair patients were brought in. Three?

AU were wearing loose hospital-type bathrobes. Two
were bald; the third had a towel around its head, band-
ages covering its face, and five toes on each foot. That one
had to"be Limila, but Barton knew Parr was going to run
the show his own way. So he took a deep breath, and

hoped for more patience than he could reasonably expect
to have on tap.

The first chair carried a tall skinny guy who didn't look

especially familiar. A little, maybe, but not much. "Say

hello to Mr. Barton," said Parr.

"Hello, Barton. I am Siewen; remember?"
It wasn't, really, but there were lips and a nose, and

dentures that beat the Demu accent The ears. Barton

supposed, were plastic. But what the hell.

"Hello, Doktor Siewen," Barton said. "How do you
feel?" Feeling very unrealistic, himself. How long could
he keep up this charade? How long could Limila?

"Much better, thank you," said Siewen. "It is good to
be able to chew food again. And to pronounce cor-
rectly." Well, good on you. Buster, Barton thought, turn-
ing to the second wheelchair. The man was no one Barton
remembered.

"Who's this?" he asked Parr.

"Heimbach, of course."

"I thought be wouldn't play ball"

"Mr. Tarieton requisitioned him for tests of the Demu
shield versus the sleep gun. After the third test, Herr
Heimbach rediscovered the desire to be human rather
than Demu." Dr. Parr grinned. "As it happens, I was able
to improve things somewhat, that are not visible through
the bathrobe." Barton thought he should probably feel

glad for Heimbach, but he couldn't seem to find time for
it.

He shook his bead, hard. The formal touch, he sup-
posed, was required.                              '

"That's fine. Doctor," he said. "It has been interesting
seeing your success with Doktor Siewen and Herr Heim-
bach. May we excuse them now, please?"

100

Parr nodded. The two were wheeled out. Barton was
left alone with Dr. Parr and Limila. He walked over to
her, and for the first time she looked up at him. Then she
stood, and was in Barton's arms. For a moment they only
held each other. Then, unsatisfactorily through the gap
in the bandages, he kissed her, very gently.

The rest of it still took a while. Dr. Parr fussed about
the unprofessional aspects of the reunion until Barton told
him, not politely, to get on with it. Then the bandages
came off, along with the towel. Not the robe, though.

The nose and lips were not quite the originals; Barton
had known better than to expect perfection, though the
nose was very close to it. But below the bare scalp and
the fake brows and lashes was a human face. Barton
found it comely and knew he could find it lovely, given
the chance. The few hairline scars had already begun to
fade; they would not be noticeable. He looked at Limila's
new lips and was thankful for the existence of Dr. Parr,
for they were close to what he had remembered. Only a
little shorter.

Limila wasn't happy with the dentures; they were com-
fortable enough, and effective, but she wanted her full
forty teeth, not merely the human twenty-eight. But she
was glad to have the little ridge, so that she no longer
talked like a comic drunk; Barton figured she'd settle for
the rest of it eventually. He noticed that she hadn't yet
bothered with simulated naits on toes or fingers, though
recesses had been made for them."

The soft plastic ear-cups, part plug-in an/I part glue-on,
were so realistic that Barton first thought they were reaL
Then he noticed they were cooler to the touch than real
ears. Well, he could live with them if she could.

He wasn't going to ask about anything under the bath-
robe, but she told him anyway. No breasts; from a quick
study of dress styles she was resigned to wearing Earth-
type falsies in company, but bedammt if she'd have them
implanted permanently on her Tilari body. All right . . .

She confessed that she had allowed Parr to restore the
appearance of external genitals, as well as the navel.
"When I found it really didn't hurt," she said, "it might as
well be as much the way you would like, as could
be done."     •

Barton hugged and kissed her a lot longer than Pair
appreciated, before he allowed the doctor to throw him
out. He went home with more of a load off bis mind than

101

he had expected, and hardly noticed what his pre-
packaged lunch didn't taste like.

In the afternoon he took a jeep and went shopping in
the nearest medium-sized town, about eighty kilometers
to the southwest. He had dinner there, and drove back
in the evening. That night he slept without chemical aids
of any kind.

The next morning, up early, it took Barton so long to
reach Dr. Parr's office, by phone, that he could have
walked there and saved time. He was told that he could
not see Limila again immediately; Parr was running final
postoperative checks on her. But, if be would come over
around three in the afternoon, Parr finally got across
through Barton's protests, he could probably bring Limila
home. If the tests turned out all right Barton thanked
him sheepishly and hung up.

He decided to visit the ship; he had nothing else he
wanted to do. As be started out the door, the phone rang.
It was Dr. Fox.

"I'd like to see you this morning, Mr. Barton.**

"Well, I was just going out to the ship."

"I spoke to Mr. Tarleton, there, and he tells me he
wont be needing you today. So why don't you come here
instead? Nine o'clock?" He had to agree, he guessed, so
he did.

Seated across the desk from Arleta Pox, Barton won-
dered at the tenacity with which this small woman dug
for the worms in the undersoil of his mind. She was smil-
ing but he didn't trust it.

After the usual perfunctory chatter, she said, "I un-
derstand that Dr. Parr's corrective surgery on your com-
panions has been remarkably successful."

Barton nodded.

**Do you suppose the woman—Limila?—might con-
sent to taking a few evaluative tests now?" Limila had
refused anything of the sort, earlier, and the Agency
(meaning Tarleton) didn't see that it had any right or
authority to try to coerce her.

"I dont know; I'll ask her, if you like. But what do you
expect to learn that she hasn't already toy the biological
and cultural teams?"                 ^CQ£?ll4D

"Why, a million things! She's the first persfiET-we've
met of a whole new race. If we're going to have contact
with them, and I assume we are, we need to know some-

102

thing of what they are like psychologically, as individ-
uals."

"Do you think she'll be typical, after what she's been
through?" Then he could have kicked himself. Why re-
mind the doctor that Barton had been through a few
atypical experiences himself?

"Given a little time to stabilize, now that her appear-
ance has been restored, I think she can give us a valid
picture of what the Tilari are like. I wish she had been
willing to cooperate before; the comparison would be very
informative. Well, at least I can extrapolate after retesting
Siewen and Heimbach."

"You've tested them?" He shook his head incredu-
lously. "What did you find out?" Yes, lady, let's talk
about somebody else, everybody else. Anybody but Bar-
ton.

"Doktor Siewen, as you probably know, seems to be
devoid of normal motivations. It remains to be seen
whether his change in appearance will reactivate him to
any significant extent. I had little time to work with Heim-
bach between his reversion to human speech and the
beginning of the surgery by Dr. Parr; he is a very con-
fused man. I realize that he was semi-amnesiac for a time
from the results of the so-called, sleep gun, but my feeling
is that Heimbach has a very weak ego." She paused.
"Quite different from yourself, for instance, Mr. Barton.

Quite, quite different."

"Oh, hey. Doctor," Barton stammered. "Am I all that
much of an egomaniac, in your book?" Watch it. Barton;

watch it!

"A strong ego is not the same thing as egotism, Mr.
Barton. I mean that unlike Heimbach you have a strong,
even a fierce sense of your own individuality; it is of cen-
tral importance to you. And you have a very powerful
.will to survive."

"That's what the tests say?" So he hadn't fooled her
much, after all.

"I didn't need the tests to tell me that; your report of
the eight years with the Demu was enough. The tests,
in fact, have been unsatisfactory because they dc not
show me the man who could do what you obviously did."

Barton felt that he was in over his head. "Well, we all
know a person can-do more than he thinks he can, when
he has to. Maybe it's just that I was under a lot of stress

103

there, and back home here I can let down and relax."
Like hell he could!

"Possibly. Another thought is that due to repeated ex-
posure to the Demu sleep gun you still may have been
partly amnesiac when you first took the personality tests."

"But I took the IQ tests at the same time; just before,
actually. And you said they read about the same as what
was already on file for me."

"Well, as 1 say, I'm not sure yet. So that is why I'd like
you to retake the personality test series now, Mr. Barton,
if you would."

When in doubt, stall! "I really wouldn't have time for
all that today. Doctor. Early this afternoon I'm supposed

to pick Limila up at Dr. Parr's; he thinks she can come
borne now."

"I didn't mean the entire series, Mr. Barton," she
said. "A few key sections; a couple of hours at most. And
it's only nine-thirty ..."

He was hooked. He knew he couldn't get away with
hallucinating bis younger self again to answer all the
questions; for one thing it would look fishy if he asked for
full privacy a second time. Well, maybe he could halluci-
nate a little of it now and then, without her noticing.
Throw a modicum of confusion into the works. Unless
she were more devious than he suspected—and he sus-
pected one hell of a lot, where Arleta Pox was concerned
—by now he had her fooled into thinking he was sane,
safe to be at large. Ail he needed to do, probably, was
soft-pedal himself on the parts he couldn't hallucinate.

She brought out the test forms—Form B, so his an-
swers from last time would have done him no good even if
he could have remembered them—and he sat down. He
wasn't directly under her eagle eye, but she could look
him over any time she wished, while he couldn't look to

see if she were looking without being conspicuous about
it

He did the first few questions straight, then tried to
dredge the younger Barton up to answer the next few.
He couldn't do it. Whether it was her presence or whether
he'd simply lost the knack, he didn't know. He hadn't
practiced self-hypnosis since his escape, maybe that was
the answer. But one way or another, he was stuck with

his present self and its attitudes, to cope with a lot of
tricky questions.

All right; the hell with it. Tarleton needed the help of
10^

the Tilari and other races. He couldnt get it without
Limila's cooperation; in effect, that meant Barton's. Even
if this lady does catch me out, he thought, she still works
for Tarleton. He kept telling himself that, trying to be-
lieve it

Finally he was done. Sweat from his armpits ran down
his sides. He took the finished sheets to Arleta Fox, who
did not look, up until he laid the papers before her.

"All completed, Mr. Barton?"

"Best I can do. Doctor."

She pressed a button: a girl came in to take the test
sheets. Presumably for scoring; no reason the doc should
do al! that routine stuff. The girl had gone before Barton
realized he hadn't noticed what she looked like—whether
she was pretty or not. That wasn't like him.

"Would you like a cup of coffee before you go, Mr.
Barton? 1 would have offered you some before, but I
didn't want to interrupt your concentration."

"Yeh, sure; thanks." He -sat across from her. He didn't
want coffee; he wanted a drink, and to get out of here.
But best to play along, just now.

The girl returned, bringing coffee- This time Barton no-
ticed that she was slim and pretty, with blond hair cut
considerably shorter than be would have preferred.
Well, at least she could grow it if she wanted to, he
thought with a pang, thinking how nice it would be if
Limila had the same option.

"Do you have any idea when the expedition is leav-
ing, Mr. Barton?"

Barton looked at her. Not the old security-leak ploy,
for Cbrissakes!

"Oh, we all know about it. But you don't have to tell
me anything Mr. Tarleton told you not to. I merely
wanted to get some idea of when I should cut off re-
search and turn in my reports. They always tell me, offi-
cially, about twenty-four hours ahead of deadline. Then
I don't get any sleep for a while until the reports are com-
pleted."

"Always?"

"I do research for a lot of things, Mr. Barton. This does
happen to be the first interstellar expedition I've preppcd
for; yes." It was a wry smile, the one she gave him then.

"I don't really know. Doctor," he said. "I was up at
Seattle for a week, got back yesterday afternoon. No;

day before, it was. Anyway, I haven't seen Tarleton since

105

he left Seattle, and the last I beard there was no firm
date set. Or if there was, he didn't tell me."

"You dont need to sound so defensive, Mr. Barton;

I believe you. More coffee?"

"No, thanks; I'd better be going. Thanks, though." He
got up, they said goodbyes and he left. He wished that
either he didnt feel so much like liking Arleta Fox or that
he had less cause to be wary of her. His feeling for her
was not sexual. Oh, he considered her attractive enough;

Barton had no prejudice against small sturdy women.
But what grabbed him about her was the compact tidy
bulldog mind that the fierce little jaw so strongly implied.
Too bad it made her such a danger to him.

Barton didn't feel like heating another frozen lunch, to
eat alone. He got a jeep from the motor pool and drove
out to the ship area. He caught Tarietoo and Kreugel on
their way to the new cafeteria. It had been established in
a big hurry when Tarleton got tired of bringing his own
lunch in a paper bag.

"Wait up for another hungry man, will you?" Barton
called, and they did.

Inside, they went through the line and soon were sit-
ting with laden trays. Barton didn't talk much. He was
thinking of how to ask for what he wanted. Tarleton was
telling Kreugel that the first ship of the Earth-built fleet
would be here for testing tomorrow or the next day.

Kreugel would be installing the central-axis laser weap-
onry.

Then Tarleton noticed Barton's silence. "What are you
chewing on, over there?"

"Beef Stroganoff, it says on the menu. And a couple of
questions.'*

"I thought the Strogaooff was pretty good, myself.
Shoot the questions."

"OK," said Barton. "First, do you have any kind of
proposed takeoff date yet?"

"For the fleet? Sure."

"Do I qualify to know it?"

"You're specifically authorized, I'm happy to say. Just
four weeks from now, Saturday the 12th, with a possible
week's slippage. OK?"

"That's pretty fast, isn't it?"

"Things get done fast on crash-priority," Tarleton said.
"I haven't been just standing around here cracking whips,"
Barton. As soon as any item, any part of the ships is

106

cleared for production, I start it through the line. For in-
stance, a lot of the drive components were firm several
weeks ago. I goofed on a couple and had to have them
done over again when new improvements were sug-
gested, but the waste was minor for a job of. this magni-
tude. Before I left Seattle I put the go-ahead on the last
remaining components. Production and testing is seven
days a week, twenty-four hours a day: overtime and bo-
nuses for the working troops all the way down the line.
My guess is, two-to-one we don't need that extra week.

OK?"

"Damn good, Tarleton. You really know how to run
a railroad." He hesitated. "Now I want to ask a favor."

"Ask ahead," said Tarleton. "You have a couple com-
ing, assuming they're reasonable."

"OK. I expect you want Limila to check over whatever
your amateur translators have been getting from Hishtoo
lately. And maybe you'd like me to sit in at first while?
your boys check out our first production-line ship. Right?"

"Yes," Tarleton agreed, "I did have those things in
mind. So what's the favor?"

"Limila comes home this afternoon, I think," Barton
said. "She and I can work with you tomorrow and the
next day, no sweat—one or two more if you need it. But
then—Tarleton, I want to take her on vacation. Show
her the country; be a couple of tourists. Get lost from here
—see the sights and meer' the people. She needs it, you
know, if she's going to be able" to give her people any idea
of what we're really like. I mean, a project site doesn't
give much of a true picture, does it?**

Tarleton was silent for a moment. Barton could sense
the wheels going around, in that brain he had learned to
respect more than a little. "Dammit, Barton," he said fi-
nally, *'you're right. I should have thought of that. I
guess I'm too wound up in production schedules. Fair
enough; you and Limila bit here bright and early tomor-
row, and I won't keep you a day longer'than I have to.
You'd better see the Finance Office today if you can, and
put in for expense money for your tour. Those people
cant put a stamp on a letter in less than forty-eight
hours." Barton grinned; he knew about that.

Kreugel hadn't said much but he shook hands and said
"Good luck" when Barton stood up to go. "Remind me to
show you how our zap-gun works when you get back."

"Yeh, I want to aee that. OK, be seeing y'alL"

107

Barton did stop at the Finance Office on his way home;

he had plenty of time. A Mr. Will Groundley was queru-
lous and resentful that Barton should want anything out-
side the routine. Barton's patience lasted quick, as the
saying goes.

"Look," be said, "call Tarleton. He'll tell you yes or no,
and tfaen you do it or you don't. But don't quote me any
more goddam regulations, Groundley. We both know you
can find something in your books to let you do anything
you want, or keep you from doing anything you don't
want. So get off the pot. Either you have the money here
for me tomorrow, or Tarleton will find me somebody who
wilL"

He didn't wait for an answer; one more word might
have exceeded the limits of his control. He walked out
and went home. For a change there were no notes in his
mailbox. That was nice.

Before heading for Dr. Parr's, Barton unwrapped the
results of his yesterday's shopping trip. Jeez, he hoped
Linula would like them. He ran his fingers through the
one he liked best...

Parr was not as infuriatingly languid as usual He
seemed embarrassed, instead. "Good afternoon, Mr.
Barton," he said, "I'm happy to tell you that Limila
checked out iOO percent; I can discharge -her uncon-
ditionally. She'll be with us in a few minutes." Parr
smiled; it took him a while to do it. "Would you like
some coffee while we wait?" Might as well; Barton did
fais nod. A young orderly brought coffee; they sipped it,
bla-bla-ing politely. I was a bla-bia for the Space Agency,
Barton thought

Then Limila came in, carrying a small suitcase. She
wore a sort of turban with earrings pendant from her
plastic lobes, a loose-fitting short chemise with contours
that indicated Earth-positioned falsies, and half-calf
suede boots. It wasn't the greatest ensemble Barton had
ever seen in his life. but she moved well in it and hxs
heart sang.

"I. can come home now, Barton," she said, "but first I
must thank Dr. Parr for what he has done." She turned
to Parr. "Doctor," she began, but choked on it. She tried
once more. "Doctor. You have made me a person who
wants to live, again."

Parr wasn't used to raw emotion; Barton saw him
108

trying not to react to it. Barton took him off the hook; he
pulled out one of the wigs from his shopping trip.

"Here, Limila,'* he said, "take that thing off your head
for a minute, and try this on."

The hair was long, black and glossy; there was a lot of
it. The forehead was in the high range for Earth, but of
course nowhere near the over-the-ears Tilaran hairline.

And Limila didn't like it at all. "Bartoni This is not
me. This is one of your women. I do not have hair grow-
ing so far forward. You must remember that?"

"It's the highest-foreheaded wig I could find. And it
looks good on you."

"Nol I am Tilari!" She tore it away, threw it against

the wall.

Barton had had enough. He caught her by the shoul-
ders, taking great care not to grip her as hard as his
impulse demanded,

"Now look!" be said. "You are on Earth, not on Tilara.
You're wearing plastic Earth tits, aren't you?" She
looked at him, blankly.

•Tits?"

"Breasts, dammiti" Barton relaxed his grip. Limila

nodded slowly.

"All right," he continued. "So while you're here you
wear the local-style scalp fixtures, too. So that you can
mix with people without them staring at you all the time.
When we get to Tilara you can do it your way. In fact
I'll get a special wig made for you; as soon as I can.

"But meanwhile, Limila," Barton said in a harsher
tone than he intended, "you pick that wig up and dust it
off and put it on your head, and we will go home."

Nobody said anything. Limila followed Barton's in-
structions. The wig looked a little mussed, but not badly.
Dr. Parr wore a pained expression, as if he desperately
needed to visit the toilet but was too polite to say so,

He looked even more as though he'd. never make it
when Limila went to him and kissed him strongly, before
letting Barton lead her away.

In the Jeep, Barton couldn't think of anything to say;

he was too taken with Limila's new appearance as seen in
his peripheral vision. He was embarrassed to look at her
directly too much or too often. In fact, he was just plain
embarrassed, a feeling that was strange to him. He was
glad when they reached their quarters and the ride was
over.

109

He parked the jeep and walked with Limila into the
house. Then he asked her.

"The doc's a pretty good guy, huh? Naturally you're
grateful to him."

"Oh, of course," she said. "And I had not made love •
for so long, either."

Before or after the bandages came off? Barton didn't
ask; any question would be the wrong one. Tilara was not
Earth, he told himself. But now he saw why Dr. Parr had
been so uncharacteristically embarrassed.

Umila was happy, bubbling. She found things Barton
hadn't known were in the freezer, and prepared the best
dinner he'd had in a long while. She showed him, from
the suitcase, two more dresses. Dr. Parr's nurse had
helped her order them. She drank with him, bathed with
him, and eventually went to bed with him.

First, though, she asked, "Barton, do you want me to
wear the wig to bed?" She had it in her hand.

"Suit yourself," he said. "Whatever you want."

"Without it I do not repel you?"

"Hell no!" said Barton. "Look, Limila: one time I
was going with a girl who did fashion modeling work.
She was quite a doll—long blond hair and a face like an
angel with a body to match. One night I went to pick
her up for a date, and damned if she wasn't shaved as
bald as you are right now. This nut of a fashion designer
bad her do it, to get some publicity for one of his shows.

''Well, it startled the hell out of me. She wore a wig on
our date, of course, but she took it off for bed because
she didn't want it mussed up. At first it was odd as hell
seeing her with no hair, but after a while I took it for
granted; Jt was still her, wasn't it?" He chuckled. "In
fact it looked better on her than the crew-cut stage when
she grew it out again."

"But I thought that' was part of why you couldn't . . ."

Barton shook his head. "No, Limila; that wasn't it. It
was what they had done to your face. I'm sorry I could
never see past that, but I couldn't."

"Do you like my face now?" she asked. "It is not as
before, really."

"I like it," he said. "It's not exactly as I remember you;

no. But it's close enough that it could be, almost It is you,
Limila.

"Limila!" he whispered against her cheek, and that

110

was enough talk. Barton didn't get as much sleep that
night as he was used to, but he didn't miss it.

Before he went to sleep, it struck him that this was the
first" sex of any kind that he'd had since leaving the Demu
research station. He had not been able to bring himself to
love the Demu-ized Limila, and yet her presence, her ac-
ousing presence, had inhibited him from seeking other
women. Well, how about thati Until freed from it, he'd
had no idea how heavy upon him had been the burden of
Limila's disfigurement. He sighed, yawned, and drowsed
off into relaxed slumber.

Limila was nervous, next morning. "At the ship. Bar-
ton, what will they think? I am all new. Almost I want to

hide, to wear the veil."

Barton laughed, then sobered. "Don't worry about a

thing. They'll stare, sure. Why not? You're worth looking

at, you know."

"And before, I was not."

Barton went to her. "I'm sorry. It's just that now you're
you again." Then she smiled, and it was all right,          '

She took as much time choosing between three dresses
as if they had been thirty, but finally chose a white
smock. Carefully she donned and brushed the wig, ap-
plied tinted polish to the glue-on fingernails she was
wearing for the first time. Barton could see that they
were not going to be "bright and early*' as Tarleton had

specified, but he controlled his impatience.

Eventually they were ready to leave. Barton drove
faster than usual and made up some of the time; they
were about ten minutes late. Tarleton was waiting, pac-
ing back and forth alongside his car.

"Well, there you are!" he said. "I've been—" Then he
saw Limila, and stopped. "Great day in the morningi"
He reddened. "I mean, uh—how do you feel, Limila?"

"Like a person, like myself again. It is not exact, no.
And much you see is artificial. But I see me in a mirror
and want to be alive, not dead. For that I thank you who
authorized that it could happen, as well as Barton and
Dr. Parr." She went to him; before he knew what was
happening she pulled his head down to hers and kissed
him soundly. "You see? I do thank you."

"You're—you're certainly welcome." He was redder
than ever. "Look, are we going to stand around out here
all day? We've got work to do."

111

Inside were only Hishtoo and a guard. Doktor Siewen
was still under Parr's care; old flesh heals slowly. The
guard was new; to him, Limila was a pretty woman, not a
phenomenon. Hishtoo's response was something else; he
came forward, stared at her closely and burst into
outraged-sounding babble.

Limila laughed. Tarleton looked at her in wonder. Ob-
viously, Barton thought, he'd never heard her laugh
before. It did make a nice change of pace.

"He is furious with me," she said. "He says he found
me worthy to be Demu, had me made Demu with great
effort. Now I waste it and choose to be animal again. He
scrapes his hands clean of me."

"He's breaking my heart," said Barton- "I weep big
tears."

'Tell him," said Tarleton, "to can the clatter. There's
work to do. And that goes for us, too." So they got down
to the laborious business of asking questions, of cross-
checking the answers they could not trust, against pre-
vious results. Hishtoo lied about half the time but his
memory was not perfect; he could be caught in incon-
sistencies. These weren't thrown back at him; that wasn't
the idea. But by careful checking, the facts slowly
emerged. It was a tedious process, but it was the only
game in town. Eeshta, unfortunately, had no technical
training.

Barton spent only a short time with them; his main
business was with Kreugel, and the ship.

Barton and Limila worked hard for Tarleton that day,
the next and part of a third, before his requirements
were met. At lunch that day he told them they were
cleared to go touring, vacationing.

"Fine business," said Barton. "Is the 12th still on for
takedffT*

"Looks like it," Tarleton said. "Why don't you figure on
getting back here by the 10th? In time to check with me
and maybe confer a little, that day?"

"Fine by me. Look, would you run through the money
thing again?"

The government had reimbursed Barton, by act of
Congress, for the value of his lost estate. In fairness he
should have received the amount as of the time he had
been declared legally dead. But some deskbound nit-
picker, by dint of an obscure regulation, had managed to
fob him off with the lesser sum that had existed at the

112

time of his disappearance, before the vogue for his
paintings. When he heard, Barton said a few four-letter
words and shrugged it off. He'd long since forgotten his
earlier idea of soaking the government a real bundle for

the Demu ship.

He was on an adequate though not lavish salary, and

there was provision for expenses when he was off the
project site and out into the world; that part had been
explained to him earlier, but he'd been preoccupied with
other matters and hadn't paid much attention. On the
Seattle trip. accommodations had been provided; Barton
bad spent nothing but a little pocket money. So Tarleton

patiently went over it again.

"Your expense-account setup is a modification of the
old per-diem system. You draw a flat $200 a day ordi-
narily, Any week your expenses run over $1,400 you
. either swallow the loss or turn in complete receipts if you
want to pick up the difference. Up to you. If you're plan-
ning to hit any really plush resorts I advise you to collect
the receipts. I've put in a special voucher for Limila to
get $100 a day. Previously she's been on the books as a
. temporary ward of the government. You can draw the
full advance at the Finance Office this afternoon."

He grinned. "I heard about Groundley trying to give
you the runaround yesterday. That was one too many;

he's been a nuisance before, and I'd been looking for an
excuse to fix his wagon. He's been reassigned to the filing
section, so if they can't find your file you'll know why."

Barton and Limila thanked Tarleton, shook hands
with him and Kreugel and went home, with a no-
problems stopover at the Finance Office. Barton sin-
cerely appreciated Groundley's absence ...

They made love, packed luggage. Barton exchanged
, the motor-pool jeep for the rental car he bad arranged
to have delivered, and they were off and away. Limila
was wearing the shortest of the three wigs Barton had
bought. It was a short-cut, smooth-cap effect. All were
black; Barton couldn't imagine her any other way. It
remained to be seen whether she would have a different

•   idea,
:     She didn't seem to have, when they reached the town

and shop where Barton had made his earlier purchases.
Mrs. Aranson, the owner, was startled when Barton
removed LimUa's wig. He borrowed a piece of chalk
and drew the Tilaran hairline on her scalp, correcting it

113

•i'

to her eventual satisfaction. Mrs, Aranson made sketches,
took careful measurements and jotted them on the paper.      ::;

"Black and long, like the longest of the three I bought
the other day," Barton specified, "And send it here." He
gave the lady their address at the project. "How soon do
you suppose we could have it? I'll pay extra for speed,
because after the 10th of next month is too late."

"There will be no difficulty meeting that date, and no
need for extra payment. But with these contours—rather
unusual, you must admit—I'll have to design the piece
to be held by adhesive at front and back. Will that     ':

method be satisfactory?" Limila 'nodded; she seemed     "'
totally unruffled. Mrs. Aranson obviously wanted to ask    .•&
more questions, but could find no way to do so without    ^
breaching her calm professional courtesy,                     •a'

Barton took her off the hook. "The role in question,"    ^.
he said, not lying, really, "is that of a lady of an alien    ^
race, from another planet." Mrs. Aranson smiled. These    1|
actors and actresses; they'd do anything!

Back outside, Limila was in a sunny mood. "Thank     '".
you. Barton. Now when we come to Tilara I will have     ^
other teeth made, also, with the full forty." She looked at
him, put her hand on his arm. "But if you like me better
as an Earthwoman, then when we are alone I can wear
Earth teeth and Earth hair. And Earth tils'" Barton
broke up laughing.

"Honey, you wear just any little ol' thing you damn     :

please! Or not..."                                         -,;'

His comment reminded Limila that her wardrobe left
something to be desired in the matter of quantity. She     ^
shopped rapidly, but it was an hour later when Barton     ^
paid the clerk and they were ready to drive on.

They had gone about fifty kilometers further across
the high desert plateau when Barton realized he'd for-
gotten to say goodbye to Eeshta, or to put it to Tarleton
that she should accompany the expedition. He made a
mental note.

They stopped for the night fairly early. Barton spotted
an attractive motel, shortly after they left their narrow
two-lane road for an Interstate freeway. After quick
showers, they beaded for the motet's restaurant.

"We have twenty-two days free and clear," Barton
told Limila over dinner, "not counting today or the day
we're supposed to get back. Suppose I pick up some
maps at the service station. I can tell you what kinds of

114

country we have around here in various directions, and
you decide what you'd most like to see."

"That would be nice. Barton," she said, "Can we be
among some of your forests, and mountains? And see the
ocean?"                                ./

"I wouldn't be surprised. Would you like a liqueur
with your coffee?" She would. Then they returned to
their room, passing the motel pooL In the room, Limila
sighed.

"Anything wrong?" Barton asked.

"I would so much like to swim," she said- "I have not
swum since Tilara." He started to say go right ahead,
and then saw what the problem was. Limila's padded
bra wasn't made to fool anyone, under the current styles
of swimsuits. Not that many of the swimmers had been
wearing suits.

"Excuse me a minute," he said, and went to the man-
ager's office. He noted on the way that the poolside sign
quoted a ten-o'clock closing time, and that no one could
see into the pool area if the gates were closed. He es-
timated that by ten it would be getting chilly; they were
still in plateau country.

For money in hand the manager was quite willing to
close the pool two hours early and turn the gate key over
to Barton for the rest of the evening. The expression on
Limila's face when he told her (he didn't mention the
cost) made it well worth wnile.

Waiting, Barton put his mental note about Eeshta into
written form and mailed it off to Tarleton. Then he and
Limila swam nude together until the chill chased them
indoors, though they'd tried a little mutual warmth in the
water. It was fun, but more under the heading of plea-
surable gymnastics than true passion.

Three weeks together. Forests and mountains and the
ocean; yes. Motels and hotels and ethnic restaurants
and miniature $5 hamburgers at drive-ins. New Mexico,
Arizona, California, a brief journey into Mexico. All the
way up the California coast and further to Oregon and
Washington. A quick visit to Canada. East into thf
Rockies, and then south again, back toward the project
Love in the morning, in the afternoon before dinner, and
again late at night; nearly every day was like that. Bar-
ton knew he was forty but he felt more like twenty. The;

spent their three weeks' expense money in the first twc
and forgot to keep receipts; what the hell. Barton's

115

checkbook had his "estate" and accumulated salary to
draw on. And once he got off Earth again, he had no
idea whether he could or would ever come back. Mean-
while he was having the best three weeks he could re-
member, eves.

Limila wasn't complaining, either. She liked what she
saw of Earth, its people and its scenery. Some things must
have been greatly different from Tilaran ways; they
seemed to puzzle her mightily. Barton tried to explain;

she appeared satisfied, usually, with his attempts. Oc-
casionally he asked her about equivalent TUaran cus-
toms, but she shook her head. "You must see; I could
not tell you so that you would know." OK; he'd settle
for that.

Barton was surprised that no one seemed to notice
that Umila's hands were each short a finger by Earth
standards. He watched her a lot, the second and third
day, and finally saw what she was doing. She had a way
of using the fewest fingers possible when eating, say;

she'd tuck one or two under, out of sight. Barton didn't
ask whether the action was deliberate or unconscious; it
worked, didn't it? Barton was all for anything that
worked; he always had been. He decided that Parr's
cartilage graft, to eliminate the jog at the wrist, also
helped conceal the difference.

The first week their free time had stretched endlessly
ahead; the second week he put the deadline out of his
mind; during the third it rushed upon him like a jugger-
naut. He ignored it as much as he could. But the night
they stopped at a little town in southern Colorado, he
was right on schedule. They would reach the project
site on the afternoon of Thursday, the 10th, as Tarleton
had requested. Part of Barton's mind was damned good

at keeping schedules, he decided, even when he didn't
want to.

After dinner Barton took the car down the street, to
replenish its fuel cells. When he got back, Limila had
maps spread across her bed. She looked up at him. "I
have been looking to see all the places we have been.
May I keep these maps, please?"

"Sure; of course. Whatever you want. Why?"

"You have a lovely world. Barton. I would like these
to remember it."

"Oh belli" he said. "I should have been taking color
pies; we could have, easily enough. I didn't think of it.

116

Hey, look: I can order up a bunch of tourist slides for
you."

"For roe, no need. Barton. TUarans have full visual
recall; we use photographs only to transmit information
to one who has not seen personally. Some pictures to
show other Tilarans would be nice, yes. I use the maps
merely to focus memory on a given sight," Barton made
a note to get the pies, anyway.

"Barton?"

"Yes?"

"I have liked Earth; it has been good to me. I wonder
if you will like Tilara. It is beautiful, too, but differently.
And our ways are very different, you know." Barton
didn't know much of anything, be felt, but he'd long since
done a lot of guessing.

It was their last night of freedom, of total privacy.
Nostalgia for what they had had together made it sweet.
Just before sleep they held each other gently. Limila'
cried and Barton wanted to, and both knew why. For

now it was over.

/

It was a long drive next day but Barton pushed the
car, driving faster than he usually did. They arrived at
the project early m the afternoon. The mailbox had its
quota of messages: Dr. Fox wanted to see Barton; Dr.
Parr wanted to see Limila for final routine checkups;

Tarleton wanted to see both of them. Somebody was
obviously going to have to take'seconds.-

There was also a box from the wig shop. Limila set it

aside, for the time being.

They were unpacking. "Fox can wait," said Barton.
"In fact I'd like to dodge her completely, if I could get
away with it Tell you what; let's run over to see Parr.
I'll wait; it shouldn't take long. Then we can go and chin

with Tarleton."

"No," Limila said, "you drop me at Dr. Parr's and go
meet with Tarleton." Barton started to ask a question,
but didn't. A special goodbye for lucky Dr. Parr. Well»
dammit, the man had earned anything she wanted to
give him. And Limila was not of Earth, If that's what she
wanted, so be it.

,"OK," he said, "I understand."

"Barton," she said, and kissed him. They didn't gel
away just then, after alL

117

So he caught Tarletoo at the midaftemoon coffee
break. "Nice trip?"

"Great, Tarleton. Thanks for the vacation; I needed
it. Now how do we stand?"

"I hope you're not superstitious. Barton, We've had to
allow one day of slippage; Up-Day is Sunday the 13th.
It was two days for a while but we caught up one of
them."

"Will all the ships come here first? I see only six out
there now."

"Four more come here; there'll be four groups of ten
each. I couldn't tell you before—it was Top Clam—but
the groups are leaving from different bases: here, Seattle,
Houston and someplace in Russia they won't tell us for
sure."

"Russia? You're kidding me, Tarleton." But Tarleton
wasn't Early in the game the Agency had realized that
forty ships were more than the U-S.-Canadian complex
could produce within any reasonable time limit. So under
top secrecy,. Tarleton's superiors had gotten permission
to deal quietly, behind the scenes, first with their coun-
try's out-of-hemisphere allies, then with the "neutrals"
and finally with their nominal antagonists. The result,
Barton was surprised to learn, was that the First Demu
Expedition would consist of seventeen U.S. ships, seven
from the USSR, three each from Britain and Western
Germany, and two each from Japan, France, Australia,
China and the Greater Central African Republic. Sev-
eral other countries had pledged at least one ship to the
second fleet, given the data and the additional time.

"How in hell did everybody manage that, Tarleton?"

"How in hell did you manage to get your ship from
the Demu?"

Barton grinned and shook his head. "OK, I get the
message.

"Now then. How about me? Personally. Do I get a
ship or don't I?"

"You do, in a way."

"What is that supposed to mean? I told you—"

"Easy, Barton. You get a ship. But there's been an
unexpected development. Of all people, / ended up in
command .of the whole damn fleet!" He grinned. "Some
of the military shit green when they heard about that, I
shouldn't wonder."

"But what about my ship? Is it or isn't it?'*

118

"It is. Except that you'll have your boss—that's me-
nding with you. And maybe looking over your shoulder

sometimes.

"Hell's bells. Given the choice, do you think I want to
ride with anyone else?" Well, it was a compliment of
sorts. Barton poured them both some more coffee. The
other man looked ready to go back to work, and Barton

had more on his mind.

"Who else rides with us?" he asked. "Limila has to, or
no deal. How about Eeshta? Did you get my note about

that? And who else?"

"One at a time, Barton; OK?" Barton shrugged. "The
ships are built to carry twelve but we're crewing them
with ten, all but ours; it rides full. The idea is that if we
lose a ship but not all the people, we'll have someplace to

put the survivors. You see?

"Standard crew is four qualified pilots, two communi-
cations techs and four weaponry artists. Everybody
doubles in brass for the other chores. Sound reason-
able?"

"OK so far. Now come on with it. What does the

Easter bunny have for me?"

"All right. You get Limila and Eeshta and you have
to put up with me and with Hishtoo. Don't argue; we're
going to need Hishtoo, somewhere along the line. You
know it, if you stop to think for a minute instead of. look-
ing stubborn.             k

"That leaves seven slots. Ydu and three of them will
be pilots. I and one other will be communicators. You'll
be one. short on weapons people. And all of us a little
overstretched, guarding Hishtoo during part of our off-
watch time."

Barton thought a minute. "Let me tell you what the
problem isn't. Limila is your other communicator, or
maybe Eeshta is and Limila is a gunner; we can figure
that part out later; it's a long haul. And I see no reason

to guard Hishtoo."

Tarleton looked skeptical, so Barton told him. "No-
body guarded him on the trip back here, did they?"

"But he had casts on both arms, or splints, or some-
thing."

"Any reason he can't have them on again?" Barton

asked. Tarleton looked shocked. "I wouldn't even have
to break his arms this time, though I don't mind a bit if
you're dead set on realism. Well?" Tarleton still looked

119

shocked; Barton laughed. "I'm kidding, man. Hell, all
we need to do is keep him locked up."

"I see your point. The Agency figures to give Hishtoo
free run of the ship, using some of our manpower to
watch him. We may as well not bother their heads about
our improved version."

"OK, Tarleton; it's a deal"

Tarleton looked embarrassed. "There's one more
thing. Fm sorry, but Dr. Fox went over my head. Her
professional standing is such that I can't overrule her in
her own specialty."

Barton's guts went cold. "What's to overrule, specifi-
cally?"

"She has a red tab on your card and she won't lift it
until you take one more test run with her. I hadn't
thought we had any problem there, but she seems to
have a real bee in her bonnet. Believe me, I'd have
squashed this if I could. I need you and Limila both;

you've convinced me. And I wouldn't really expect
Limila to want to come along if you were grounded."

"No," said Barton. "If that happens, I'll tell you what
else will."

Tarleton waited.

"You and the fleet will go looking for the Demu, all
by yourselves. You could take Eesbta along by force, I
suppose, aad Hishtoo of course. But if you took Limila
that way she'd never help you find her people. Or the
Demu. Don't try it.*'

"I have no such intention. In fact"—Tarleton looked
a little sheepish—"I'm going to give you the keys to the
car, if that'll make you feel any better. Do you remem-
ber that first day, when you handed them over to me?"

Barton remembered. Well, he had picked the right
man. "Thanks, Tarleton," he said. "I'll take the keys
now, if you don't mind." He got them,

Tarleton wanted to talk some more, trying to give
reassurance, but finally recognized Barton's preoccupa-
tion and let him go. Still driving the rental car. Barton
went home. There was another note from Dr. Fox, this
one marked "Urgent." Limila was steaming in a hot
bathtub. Dinner was simmering on the stove; it smelled
good. Barton fixed a drink for himself and thought about

a small woman with a bulldog mind, and about ships,
and cages.

Limila came into the room, wearing a short robe and
120

the Tilari wig. She stood before him, waiting for his re-
action. Her look was anxious.

A line came tS Barton, out of a comic strip from his
childhood. "Funny," he said, smiling, "how a pretty girl
looks good in anything she happens to throw on." Then
she was in his lap, and the problem, if there had been
one, was over.

During and after dinner he brought her up to date.
"But why do you fear this Dr. Fox?" she asked. "What
can she do?"

"She can put me back in a cage, Limila. She has the
authority. She can look in my mind and decide that I
belong in one, and I'm afraid she will."

"But that is foolish. Barton." He shook his head. He
knew that in the back of his mind was something that
shouldn't be allowed to run loose. But it would, anyway,
as long as he was alive. Determinedly he changed the
subject and made it stick.

That night when they made love it was with an air of
desperation, and sadness.

The next morning they were cheerful enough, at
breakfast and when Barton drove Limila to the ship for
briefing. On the way. Barton turned the rental car in to
the motor pool and took a jeep in exchange. He and
Limila talked, but of nothing in particular. They had
a habit of doing that sometimes, he kept telling himself.
Tarleton must have been watching for them; he met
them just outside the prefab where Limila usually

worked.

"Hi, Barton," he said. "Limila, we have a problem
here. Either Hishtoo or Siewen, or both of them, may be
getting cutesie with us. And the question is too important
to take chances. Come on and we'll run them through it
again."

"Maybe I could—" Barton began.

"You go see Fox; she's kicking up a storm," Tarleton
said. Then, over his shoulder, "See you later," as he
escorted Limila into the building.

"Yen," Barton said to nobody, "ol' Indispensable
Barton. They Just couldn't get along without me." The
funny thing was that the incident truly depressed him;

he hadn't thought he was quite so touchy.

Well, he might as well go see Fox. It was starting out
to be a lousy day; why spoil it? Moodily he drove off in

121

the jeep, kicking up great bursts of dust by gunning it
through the more powdery parts of the bumpy road.

Home again, he decided he needed a shower to cool
off. He changed into fresh clothes to replace those he'd
dusted up so thoroughly, horsing around with the jeep on
the way in. He tried to call Dr. Fox and let her know he
was on his way. He couldn't get through; the local phone
exchange was having one of its own bad days, which
were frequent lately. So he set out, unannounced and
unenthusiastic.

Barton found himself driving jerkily, and knew the
tension was getting to him. He was so close to his goal—so
close. He felt as though the raw ends of his nerves had
grown out through bis skin. Normal sensations became
almpsL-pain. Everything jarred. He forced himself to
breathe slowly and deeply, trying to relax, as he parked
the jeep and walked to Dr. Fox's office.

Arieta Fox greeted him pleasantly enough. "Do stt
down, Mr. Barton. This is Dr. Schermerhom, our new
intern.** She gestured toward a bullet-headed young man
with a short, scraggly beard. He and Barton shook hands,
mumbled greetings, sat

"111 be with you in a moment; let me refresh my mem-
ory first This is the latest computer read-out on your
overall test series. A quick skim, only, if you don't mind."
And what. Barton wondered, if he did mind? He rec-
ognized the thought as pointless.

Covertly, he appraised Schermerhorn. Intern? He
looked more like muscle to Barton; he had the size and
weight Well, we'll see, thought Barton. He hoped he
was wrong.

Sooner than he would have preferred, Dr. Fox got
around to him. "Mr. Barton," she began, "I'd like to ask
your cooperation in a few more experiments. Brief ones,
I assure you." Barton saw her seeing his face freeze, but
she smiled and waved a hand as if to mitigate something.
"You must understand," she said, "that our basic purpose
is to gain some comprehension of the Demu mind, so as
to know what our race faces in the future."

"How does my head help you with that? You have two
for-real Demu, and three people who were bent pretty
far in that direction. Plus the ship."

"The study of the ship is in good hands. It is not my
province; I deal with living minds. In this case I have
very few to deal with, and some are of little use.

122

"You know as well as I that Siewen is reduced to
something of a pushbutton mechanism. His data and
logic are intact, but^in a sense there is no one home to
operate them. He answers questions literal-mindedly,
ignoring connotations.

"Heimbach is so disoriented as to be useless not only
to me but to himself. Having no access to his earlier rec-
ords, I cannot tell whether his condition is a result of his
treatment at the hands of the Demu, or whether he has
always been an incapable personality."

Well, she had those two pegged right. Barton thought.
And himself?

"I have bad no opportunity to study the woman
Umila. I do not like to begrudge you your vacation
tour, but I'm afraid I do. Because it eliminated my only
opportunity to learn about the mind of the Tilari race.
There is no point in trying to perform such a study in
only a day or two, I'm sure you'll agree.

"Of the two Demu, we can get only the grossest of
behavioral data from the adult. The younger one, on the
other hand, is so eager to learn that she is rapidly be-
coming more like one of us than one of her own race,
which we need so desperately to understand."

"Yeah, the kid has come a long way in a hurry," Bar-
ton said. "I noticed that."

"So that leaves you. Barton." Well, at long last, she
had dropped that goddam phony "Mister." "You see why
you're so important to us? You're the only one who went
through the entire ordeal and came out fully human."
(Want to bet?) "They didn't cut you up physically or
break your spirit. You are the one who escaped and
brought us back the whole package. And I think perhaps
you may be the most important part of that package.'*

"I think you're reading too much into the fact that
once in a while somebody does luck out. You already
have my head on your computer tapes, along with the
story and all my knee-jerk reflexes. What more can you
get from me that you don't already have? In my honest
opinion, I think you're looking for something that isn't
there." He wished with all his heart that he could afford
to have an honest opinion.

She looked at him, long and hard. "Damn you, Bar-
toni I've analyzed the tapes from that simpleminded
computer, and I don't believe the *freeze trauma' theory
any more than you do. I wish you would allow question-

123

ing under hypnotics. Oh, you needn't worry; I promised
not to use them without your consent, and I won't. But
you're keeping things back. Not on purpose, probably.
But you have valuable data that you won't give me.
You can't, because you won't look at it yourself!"

Entirely too close for comfort, lady. Oddly, as Arleta
Fox became a greater and greater threat to him, his
reluctant liking for her increased. Of course, it was not as
though he could let his feelings make any difference to
anything.

"I don't know about all that," he stalled. "You could
be right; how would I know?" With an effort, he smiled
at her. "All right; you must have something you want to
try, to get at whatever you think I know that you don't.
Or you wouldn't be bothering now, would you? So what's
the pitch, Doc?"

"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Barton.'* OA-oh! Back
to the phony deal; watch out. "A few further nonverbal
experiments. That is, not written tests; I may ask some
questions, of course. May we have your cooperation,
Mr. Barton?"

Well, what could he say? He nodded.
"Dr. Schermerhom," she said, "would you show Mr.
Barton to Lab B? I'll be along in a minute, as soon as I
abstract the notes I'll need, from the file here."

Schermerhom, doctor or muscle, whichever, politely
showed Barton through a maze of corridors to a door
marked "Laboratory B." He rumbled a key ring out of
his pocket and found the key that fit. Out of the corner
of his eye. Barton noticed Arleta Pox briskly rounding
a hall comer to join them.

Schermerhom opened the door, and gestured for Bar-
ton to precede him. Barton moved, still watching Dr. Fox
over his shoulder. Then he looked at the room he was
entering,

The ceiling was low and gray. The room was empty,
barren, about ten feet square with no other visible open-
ings. The opposite wall lighted; he saw the outline of a
robed, hooded figure.

Eight years hit Barton like a maul. Adrenalin shock
staggered him; he lurched, recovered. Almost in one mo-
tion he turned and grabbed the doorframe, kicked at the
door Schermerhom was closing. The door swung back.

124

Barton was on his way out. On his way out of the Demu
research station and stopping for nothing.

Scbermerhorn was too big, .too strong to mess around
with; Barton braced a foot against the edge of the door-
frame and launched himself. His head caught Schermer-
hom square in the face. Barton landed in the middle of
the corridor, on all fours; Schermerhom sprawled on his
back against the opposite wall, blood spurting between the
fingers held to his face. Instant nose job, thought Barton,
getting up. Well, things were tough all over. And the ceil-
ing back there was low and gray.

Schermerborn tried to sit up. Barton kicked him under
the ear; he fell back again. Behind him. Barton heard a
noise. He looked around, and suddenly was back oa
Earth. It wasn't much of an improvement.

Incredibly, Arleta Fox was still coming toward him.
"Wait, Bartoni" He shook his bead impatiently; there was
no time to waste, talking with a dead woman. He moved
toward her, flexing the hand on which he'd landed much
too bard.

Finally she had the sense to back away. "No, Bartoni
It's all rightl That was the testi" Yes. I know. Doctor,
and now here come the results. Sorry. But you could be
worse off. You could be in a gray cage.

She had stopped backing now. but was still talking.
Never shut off a source of information while it might still
be of use. There wasn't that much hurry.

"Barton, let me explain, pleasel" Oh hell; why not?
Barton stopped, but not before he was within reach of
her.

"What's to explain?" he said, dead-voiced. "You
caught me out, didn't you? Just the way you wanted."
The trouble was that he didn't want to kill her. She was
small like Whnee—no, Eeshta—and female, as he had
come to think of Eeshta. And she hadn't harmed him.
herself; she had the potential, was all. Suddenly Barton
knew that he would not, could not hurt this woman. But
he mustn't let her know. The hostage principle had got
him loose from the Demu; maybe it would keep him out
of a cage here, too. If he worked it right...

She was still talking; he tried to tune in. ". . . what we
needed to know. Barton. Don't you see?"
"Sorry; I missed that. Say again?"

"We knew you were obsessed with something that was
blocking communication. We had to find out what it was.

125

It was obvious that you had flummoxed the other tests,
but I don't know how and I don't care." She paused.
"Well, I do, really, but that can wait. Anyway, we set up
this room, as you had described it, and brought you here.
That was it. You see?"

"Yeh, I see. You found out what I couldn't let you
find out. That Barton isn't safe to be running around
loose. But here's how it is. Barton is going to run around
loose anyway. As long as he is alive, that is." The trouble
now was that whatever she might say, he couldn't afford
to trust it.

"So right here is where you quit talking and start lis-
tening."

He hadn't misjudged her tenacity. She was still trying to
talk after he stuffed her mouth full of his handkerchief
and tied her gauzy scarf around her face to hold it. She
tried to claw the scarf away; he used her belt to tie her
hands behind her back. She kicked at him with her high
heels; he faced her away from him and gave her a solid
knee square in her compact rump, hard enough that her
eyes were running tears when he turned her around
again.

"Now lookit, Dr. Fox," he said—gently, considering
the panic that racked him—"you just behave yourself for
a couple of hours until I get me loose out of here, and
you can sleep in your own comfy bed tonight and forget
all about it."

He looked over to Scherroerhora, who had managed,
barely, to sit up. "You, therel If you want to kill this lady,
all you nave to do is to get on the phone or ring the
alarms. If you want to see her alive some more, just rinse
your nose and don't do any one more damn thing until
she tells you so in person. You got that?" The man
nodded, but Barton didn't trust him. There was an easy
answer; the door to Laboratory B opened only from the
outside. Schermerhom, with a little help, went inside.
Then Barton began steering Arleta Fox down the corridor,
hoping he remembered his way out of the place.

He did even better, by luck. He came upon a side exit
that opened directly onto the parking lot. In the jeep he
fastened the woman's seatbelt and drove away, planning
as he went. There had to be a chance or two left.

First he stopped by his and Limila's quarters, locking
Dr. Fox in a closet for safekeeping. He packed a couple

126

of suitcases and a grocery bag. He called Limila at the
project site.

"Don't say anything, Limila; just listen," he said. "I'll
be out there in less than half an hour. Watch for me; I'll
be in the jeep. Ill go directly aboard the Demu ship, with
alT we'll need for a head start. Get loose from whatever
is happening and join me fast, because then I have to
take off in a hurry. You got it?"

"Yes, Barton. But why?'*

"They caught me out, Limila. I have no choice. Are
you with me?"

"Yes, Barton. Of course."

*4Then watch for me, Limila. And be ready to move
fast" He retrieved Arleta Fox, led her to the jeep and
buckled her in. He set out for the Demu ship. It had
served him once ...

Approaching the ship area. Barton was on the lookout
for a possible reception committee. There was none; no
one was close enough to notice anything unusual as be
hurried Dr. Fox aboard the ship. Relieved to find it un-
attended, he took her to the control room. It was the best
place to keep her, he figured, until Limila arrived.

Almost at once, Limila joined them. He hugged her
briefly, then turned to the doctor. "OK, lady, you can go
now." He removed her gag, turned and knelt to fumble
with her wrist bonds.          >.

"I won't go!" She spun to face Aim, looking down at
him for once.

"Now, look! You're free, you're loose, you're safe. Get
your ass out." He reached for her; she backed away.

*'I won't."

The hell with it. Barton stood, grabbed her, retrieved
the handkerchief and scarf* and replaced the gag. She
scored one good bite on his thumb.

"All right, if you want the Grand Tour you can have
it Here, Limila; hold her, will you?*'

It was time, past time, to seal the ship. He did so, re-
turned to the control console and sat down. He inserted
the "car keys" assembly.

It didn't work. It just plain didn't work.

Well, they had him. Nothing he could do, and no point
in taking it out on Arleta Fox, though it had to be her
doing. He would have to run on Earth, not in space, was
an. But he'd give them one hell of a run. Barton would.

The viewscreen lit: Tarleton's face appeared. Barton

127

hadnt noticed that the ship's switch was on. It didn*t
matter. What mattered was that his talk with Limila had
been bugged. That figured.

"You sonofabitchi You said you were giving me this
way out if I needed iti"

"Barton, I was overruled. I gave you the keys to the
car. Somebody went over my head and had your drive
disabled some other way. I'm sorry; I wouldn't have
okayed that."

"Yeh, sorry. I guess you wouldn't OK, the Agency
keeps/the ship. I can't carry it off in my pocket"

"Or anything else. A lot of guards showed up here a
minute ago, and I'm afraid they have you surrounded. So
come on out, why don't you, and talk it over? We can
figure out something.**

yBarton looked at the sleep-gun controls. No, they
couldn't have been dumb enough to leave those opera-
tional. Of course it wouldn't hurt to try the thing if they
went to rush him.

What else did he have on his side? Nothing but a
woman he didn't want to hurt, and in fact couldn't The
bluff didn't seem worth pulling.

"How about a head start in the jeep, Tarleton? A lousy
half-hour, for services rendered?"

"It's out of my bands, Barton. You'd better come out**

The hell you say. Barton said goodbye to himself. He
pulled Limila to him and kissed her. Not long; there'd
never be long enough. Then he let her go.

"Well, so long, Tarieton,'* he said. "You were a good
guy; luck with the Demu." You have an easier touch
than I do, maybe, he thought. Seeing a bare, gray room.

"What the hell do you think'you're going to do?" said
Tarleton.

"Bartoni" Limila cried. **Do not go. You cannot!"

"No," said Barton, "I guess I can't, from here. No
place. So I might as well listen to Dr. Fox now, for I
don't intend ever to listen to her from inside a cage." He
cut the viewscreen and activated the Demu shield. He
stood, and removed the gag and bonds from Dr. Arleta
Fox.

"So speak up. Doc."

Wearily, he waited for her to tell him what the prob-
lem was. His mind blurred.

". . . very ironic, really," she was saying. ". . . in
a cage, yes, all those years. Naturally you would do any-

128

;thing—nearly anything—to avoid such a trap again.

"The terrible irony. Barton, has been that your mind
Is sound" as a rock but you wouldn't believe it. Your one
great phobia, of course, was being caged. That was the
only aspect out of normal range, and understandably.

"So you cheated on the early tests"—she sighed—
-and I suppose I'll never know how you did it. At that
point you probably were not safe to run loose, as you
put it. But at the same time you were too valuable to
- lock up."

Barton's head, he thought, was not only running loose;

it was baying at the full moon. He wished to hell some-
body would say something that made sense.
"It ever occur to anybody to level with me?'*
"How could we? We didn't know, because you hid
your real self so well." He had to admit she had a point
there. Not that it mattered much, now.

"Besides, you wouldn't have listened. It had been too
long since you had been able to trust anyone, since you
had had anyone you could trust." And was there anyone
now? Yes—Limila. But what could she do?

"Barton, you came home broken, like Humpty
Dumpty. And gradually you have put yourself together
again. No one else could have done it for you."

All the king's horses. That didat make sense, either.
Humpty Dumpty was an egg,. If Barton was an egg, he
was a very bad one.

. "I don't know what you're talking about Maybe you
do, but I don't."

"You do. Barton. Think about it: In spite of your
! hatred, your quite natural hatred for the Demu, you took
; pity on Eeshta and then befriended her. You stood by
:,. Limila when you literally couldn't stand the sight of her
:\\ —Tm sorry, Limila, but I have to make him see—and it
was largely your doing that she is as she is now. You—"

Barton shook his head. She'd made it sound good for
'. a minute, but he couldn't buy it. "I threw Skinner through
the screen door. Closed."

"That was early on, and he was a nincompoop, be-
sides. But yes. Barton; at that time, before I'd met you,
; you were one small hesitation away from custodial care.
My hesitation.

;,  "But—I Aside from guarding your mental privacy,
;you were cooperative. You worked with Tarieton and
Kreugel; you worked hard. You trained pilots and in-

129

structors. You proposed a plan to bring other races to-
gether to help us against the Demu menace. You insisted
against all odds upon going back to face that menace
again, personally. And when you thought I was the worst
possible threat to you—"

Well, she'd had to get to it sooner or later. Now, at
last, she was making sense. "Yen; I busted your muscle
boy's face, and kidnapped you."

"He's not a muscle boy; he really is an intern. It was
his own fault. I warned him to be careful. But either he
didn't take you seriously, or you were simply too fast for
him."

"What difference does it make?" Barton was tired,
very tired. "I blew it, the whole bit. Let's get it over with.
I'm not going back in any cage, is all. Not alive."

For a small woman. Dr. Fox heaved a very large ex-
asperated sigh. "Barton, it is time you stopped being so
singleminded. As I said . . . when you thought me the
worst possible threat to you, you. still would not hurt mel
Is that the reaction of a man who isn't safe to run loose?"

"I kicked your ass pretty hard, there." Why were they
talking so reasonably?

"Oh, thati I've fallen harder, at the skating rinki" Her
gaze dropped. "Well, almost . . ." Abruptly, she turned
to Limila. "Is there any way, do you think, to change the
mind of this stubborn man of yours?"

"I do not know. Dr. Fox, but / believe you."

She had turned against him! Now they had him al-
most in a cage, and Limila was on their side.

There was nothing left. He had to get out. Where to
go? No matter; there had to be a place. Smash Arleta
Fox and go!

But she—she was small, and female. He didn't know
... The walls, it seemed to him, were turning gray.

"Limilal" the woman said. "Help me. Quickly!"
-^ One at each side, holding him, they kept Barton from
falling as his knees began to buckle. He shook his head,
tried to speak but could not It was Dr. Fox who spoke.

"Barton, cant you believe that I mean you no harm?"

He beard her as from a great distance, but he felt her
pressed as closely to him on one side as Limila was on
the other. And now his legs supported him again. His
arms came to life; be held both women, fiercely. He
looked at the walls, and they were not gray. Not gray at
alL

130

'^    "Shit!" he said. "Barton, you always were the dumbest
-• man in the world!"

Neither woman contradicted him*

Two days later, right on schedule, the First Expedition
lifted for Tilara. Barton had had Limila give Tarleton
the necessary coordinates over the viewscreen before
they left the Demu ship, as soon as Arleta Fox had an-
nounced all-clear and sent the guards home.

Barton found himself regretting that Dr. Fox couldn't
have come along with the fleet. It was a damned shame,
he thought, that he'd wasted his opportunity to get better
acquainted with that tough little bulldog mind of hers.

She was a winner, that one. And Barton always liked
a winner.

131




The Learning of Eeshta

Author's note: the astute reader will notice
that in this short story I have taken certain
liberties with the order of some events that occur
in "Cage a Man" and "The Proud Enemy."

—F.M.B.

-   The young person is surrounded by the animals. In this
'^ room on their planet Earth—a strange room, all plane
-- surfaces and right angles—Eeshta is their captive. One
of them has taken its robe and hood; under the odd dis-
crete lighting sources, the smooth exoskeleton shines
ivory tinged with red. Eeshta is one of the Demu and
eggbom; the symmetry of its head is broken only by
the eyes and their brow ridges, the nostril openings and
serrated chewing-Ups below, and the slightly flanged
'  earholes.

The heads of the animals are marred by fleshy and
/ fibrous growths. Although their general shape is accept-
.^ able—head and body, arms and legs—they do not have
^ correct appearance. None but eggborn Demu have cor-
f.y rect appearance without aid. When captured animals
.•; learn to speak as Demu and thus earn citizenship, they
,.', are given whatever aid is needed.

^    But now it is Demu who are captive—the young
^ Eeshta, its egg-parent Hishtoo, and three not eggbom.
\- Taken by an escaped animal named Barton, they are
Y; brought in Hishtoo's ship from the Demu planet Ashura
^ to Earth. Although its arm was broken in the struggle of
^ capture, Eeshta no longer fears Barton, for Barton en-

- cased the arm for healing and offered no further injury

-<- during the long journey.

Eeshta fears these others; it does not know what they
~y want of it, except to learn to speak with them. Demu do

not speak with animals or in the tongue of animals.
Hishtoo has told it thus, and the young person respects
the word of its egg-parent. After a time the animals cease

their attempts.

One enters who is Demu but not eggborn. It is of the

type that grows young inside itself; before its citizenship
it bore on its chest the growths by which such persons

nourish young.

To correct the appearance of such a one requires much

aid. Knives and other instruments eliminate the growths
on head and face, remove the teeth, notch lips, and
shorten tongue to proper proportion. Chest and crotch
are pared to smooth and sightly contours. Fingers and
toes are rendered clawless, and if necessary, the number
at each extremity is reduced to the proper four. And on
the abdomen the single useless depression is replaced by
a pattern simulating concave oviducts and their matching
convexities that produce cells to fulfill the eggs. This is
how deserving animals are honored for their intelligence.

It has always been the way.

The one who enters is called Limila; en Ashura its
appearance was made correct. It wears proper robe and
hood but has added a cloth that covers all the face except
the eyes. It did not do so on the ship, during the trip to

Earth.
It approaches. "It is that you do not speak, Eeshta,

and that you should."

"It is that you, Limila, not eggbom, speak with ani-
mals. I do not."

"It is that you are foolish. On this world you can now

speak only with Hishtoo or with me, or the other two
who are made Demu. Much is to be learned here, and

you learn nothing."

"You may leam, and tell me in our own speech."
Limila nods. "That for the present we do it so. Also, I

ask questions and you answer. Later, we speak more of

this."
"It is as you say, but that I have my robe 'and hood."

The garb is returned; the questions begin. An animal
speaks to Limila, who asks the question. When the
young person answers, Limila speaks to the animal.
Eeshta's fear is soon dead of boredom, as it waits while
things are said that it does not understand. It finds itself
trying to understand, and quickly changes its thought.

136

"It is," says Limila, "that we would know of your

age."

'That I am nearly three fingers, of four, toward end
of growth." Beshta waits while Limila and the animal

speak.

"It is that your duration may be counted in revolu-
tions of your planet around its star."

"We do not count it so. And Ashura, where Barton
escapes and takes our ship, is not my planet. The revolu-
tions of my own planet, while we are on Asbura, are not
known to me."

Finally the speaking ends. Eeshta is taken to its place
and, with Hishtoo and the others, fed. While eating, it
does not speak with any, nor wish to.

"She's a hard-shelled little devil, isn't she, Limila?"
Annette Ling smiled - across the table; then her delicate
Oriental features moved in a slight frown. "In more ways
than one. Not as bad as Hishtoo, though. That one
wouldn't talk at all."

"He talks. Doctor Ling, when Barton asks through me
or Siewen to leam of the ship, to build others. Hishtoo
fears Barton, and with reason." She shook her head
under the hood. "They are not he and she, of course;

each is both. I have listened too much to Barton—and I
suppose it is natural to assign gender in terms of size."

"Yes.' You know, I'd like to meet this Barton of

yours."

Within the concealment of hood and veil, Limila
shook her head again. "Not mine, not now. He allows
me to live with him, but cannot bring himself to ...
touch me."

For a moment, embarrassed, Annette did not speak.
She brushed fingers through her short black hair. "Uh—
Why does 'Hishtoo fear him?"

"You have not heard? How he forced the ship from
Hishtoo, to bring us here? He was without food, but
had Eeshta captive. He threatened to begin eating her
alive."

Doctor Ling gasped. "Would he have . . . ?"

"I do not know; I have not asked. But once aboard
the ship, he broke both Hishtoo's arms so Hishtoo could
do no mischief. And when Barton says to Hishtoo, 'crab
salad,' Hishtoo answers any question I ask."

137

Annette Ling's laugh was shaky. "I'm not so sure I
want to meet the man, after aIL"

"You must remember, he had been seven years—•
more than that—in a Demu cage. The ship was his only
chance of escape. And he had no other way to restrain
Hishtoo safely, short of killing him."

"Yes. Yes, I can understand that. And he rescued you
and the other two?"

"We were there, at the ship. Although Barton had
refused to learn Demu speech, Hishtoo offered him cit-
izenship as an inducement to return Eeshta safely, and
surrender. We were supposed to be ... exhibits, to per-
suade him. Hishtoo did not understand Barton very
well."

"I should say not." Annette paused. "Umila, do you
feel that Eeshta will cooperate more fully, eventually?
To counter the Demu threat, the raiding and kidnap-
ping, we must know more about them. Eeshta is the
only window we have any chance of opening; it would
help a great deal if we could speak with her directly."
She raised a hand against an unvoiced protest. "I don't
mean to say—your help has been invaluable. But
still . . ."

Behind the veil she saw maimed lips move in a kind
of smile. "Yes, Doctor. As Eeshta would say, I am not
eggborn. For more than six years, after what was done, I
lived as Demu. But even yet, I know them only from
outside." Her hands, together, clasped and unclasped.
"And Eeshta? I do not know. The Demu never speak
another's language. It may be that they cannot leam as
we do. We can only continue to try."

^Yes, and hope for success." A knock sounded. "Come
in." A boy entered with coffee and a snack plate. An-
nette moved papers to clear space on the table. "Thank
you." she said. He smiled, set down the tray, and left
the room.

"I'll pour, TJmila. Cream? Sugar?"

Her cup prepared, Limila raised it. She held it before
her veil a moment, then set it down. 'Thank you, but I
do not want any, after aIL I must go now."

"Limilal We're going to he working together a long
time, probably. Can't you—?"

"You have seen me." The voice was flat, wooden. "In
the pictures, at least. Do you wonder that I hide myself?"

A small five-fingered hand shot out to grasp one that

138

now had only four. "Oh, damn alll I do tend to forget
that anything is important, except my work. But I feel I
know you only from outside, and—well, it was a long
session; you should have some coffee and a bite to eat.
ril go out, if you wish. I'm sorry, Limila. Forgive me?"

Limila shrugged. "You have not harmed me; it was
done before. And if you wish to see me, I can bear it if
you can. When we are alone ..." She removed the veil
and pushed back the hood.

For long seconds, seeing what had been a woman's
face, Annette Ling could not speak. "Yes," she said at
last. "When we are alone. Thank you, Limila." She
busied herself, leafing through her notes.

"Now I'd like you to look at the questions my team
has prepared for us to ask Eeshta tomorrow. Do you
think perhaps . . . ?"

As they talked, Limila sipped coffee and ate small
bits of cheese and wafers. Without teeth it was a slow
process.

The young person has eaten. It sits with its egg-parent
Hishtoo and the two Demu not eggbom. They are of
the type that does not grow its young inside but supplies
cells to fulfill the eggs. Siewen, the frail one, supplies no
more such cells. It is one of the first of its kind to be
made Demu, and live; there was not knowledge that to
provide correct appearance" to its legs-juncture would
render it useless for breeding. Like Limila, it speaks with
, animals, but only in response. Here among Demu it does
not speak.

The other has taken the Demu name Shestin and does
not speak with animals. It has been given citizenship
later when more is known of its kind. Its appearance
where its legs join is not fully correct Protrusion has been
minimized but not entirely eliminated; this one, it is
hoped, retains ability to fulfill eggs. It shows no signs of
wishing to do so. On the ship it did not speak to Barton.
Barton called it Whosits. Those who bring food call it
The Freak.

Hishtoo addresses its egg-child. "It is that you speak
with animals?"

."I speak with Limila, who speaks with animals. I do as
you."

"It is that I should not. But the animal Barton—"

"It is that first you do not speak with Limila in pres-

139

ence of animals. But when Barton makes the sound 'crab
salad,' then you speak. I do not kno^ that sound."

From Doktor Siewen comes a harsh cackling.

"It is," says Hishtoo, "that your mind is not waking
when Barton first makes that sound. Then, if I do not give
the ship to it, it eats you. On the ship it destroys use of my
arms. And the animal Barton eats me now if I do not
speak of the ship with Limila and Siewen. But I speak
much of &o truth."

"It is that if Barton finds you speak not truth,
Hishtoo . . ."

"It is that we have no certain way of safety. That the
worlds must know the Demu and become Demu. Barton
eats me before I allow it to eat our race."

The young person pauses, thinking of what it knows.
"It is that Barton harms me also when we meet, but not
again. I do not know when it says to eat me, for, as you
say, my mind is not waking. It is tfiat the animal puts its
hand to my head and makes a soft sound when I have
pain and want no more."

"It is that you forget, Eeshta, that it is an animal and
of no assured mind. You forget no animal is Demu. Bar-
ton has not our speech, nor correct appearance."

"You say much truth, Hishtoo. I think on your saying."
The young person thinks of what it knows, and of what it
does not know.

Limila waited. When Barton arrived, his dinner would
not take long to prepare. He did not need her to cook for
him; he could manage well enough on packaged meals.
But he had brought what was left of her away from the
Demui she had no one else, and felt he deserved some
payment for suffering her monstrous presence. So she did
what she could, though she found it ever more difficult to
talk with him.

A groundcar stopped outside; Barton's footsteps ap-
proached, and he entered. "Hi, Limila. You have a good
day?" He sounded as though be were reciting a set
speech.

"Well enough, I suppose. Are you hungry. Barton?"

He looked at her, then away again. When they were
alone she did not wear the veil; it was no use. On the ship
he had seen her too long without it.

"In a little while—any time you're ready. Right now I

140

need a beer." He made busy at the refrigerator, then sat
near her.

"Hishtoo's lying* you know," he said. **At least half the
time, maybe more. That big lobster is nobody's foot"

"You have charged him with lying?"

Impatiently, Barton shook his bead. "Wrong approach.
Let him think he's getting away with it. For now, at least.
No, we just keep asking questions, sometimes the same
ones from a different angle. He'll slip up; he already has.
Well transcribe the tapes and cross-check; feed it to the
computers. Nobody can lie consistently over the long haul.
The parts of his story that don't stay put, we can throw
out. Where it hangs together, it's probably fact And
sooner or later we*U figure out how the Demu ship works."

"And the Demu mind. Barton?"

He looked at her, his expression unguarded for a mo-
ment, as though she still had a face. "That's the hard part,
isn*t ii? What you're doing. We need force, sure—ships,
and all—to stop the raids. But we need to know about
them, too, and the little one's the key. How you coming
with her, by now?"

"It is hard to be certain. She answers questions, but
obliquely."

"Comes by it naturally. I expect; her egg-daddy's a liar
by the clock. Too bad—I've gotten to like the kid, but she
sure as hell comes from a rotten family."

Explanation was too difficult; she served dinner instead.
Barton ate silently, saying only. **Hey, pretty good there,"
after the first bites. When he finished, he said, "You want
to watch the Trivia or anything?"

"The Tri-V? No, Barton."

"Yeh; well, maybe 111 read awhile."

"Yes, Barton." But she needed to talk. "Barton?**

"Yeh? Something?" He seemed interested, so she
plunged ahead.

"Barton, how did you know not to leam Demu lan-
guage?"

"Huh? Oh—well, I didn't. I mean, I didn't know . . .
what happened, if you did. It was just, they pushed me
around so long, before they tried the talky-talk, that by
then I was too stubborn to do anything I thought they
wanted. There's a lot happened that I never told you . . ."




And a lot, she thought, that I can never tell anyone. "I
wish I had been stubborn. Barton. But I Was alone and did

141

not want to be alone, and I did not guess that harm could

come from learning."

She stood and went to him. Once more, she thought,

and then not again. She took his hand. "Barton? I—"

He clasped her to him but turned his face away. She
heard him curse, his voice thick. Then he said, more qui-
etly, tt! wish I could, Limila. I wish . . ." He released her.

"Oh, hell! I'm going to bed."

She went to her own room. This is not life, she thought;

I am not living. I need to work yet awhile for others, and

then I can stop.

The thought comforted her more than any had in a

long time.

The young person sits with Limila and the animal Ling.
The fourth o( the second four of questionings begins.
Against its will, Eeshta understands more each time, of
animal speech, but as Hishtoo has said to do, it pretends

ignorance.

Also,. it understands some meanings of Ling's face
movements. The downward-together pull of the small
dark growths above the eyes means the animal is dissatis-
fied. The young person has known this meaning earlier,
for on the ship Barton often made the sign—but never
the upcurving of incorrectly smooth mouth, meaning plea-
sure, that Ling makes. Eeshta has made the Demu sign of
pleased feeling, mouth opened slightly to show the tongue
uplifted, but Ling does not understand until Limila ex-
plains in animal words. Then, to Eeshta, Ling lifts its
own tongue, so incorrectly long.

Eeshta is certain Ling comes to understand some Demu
speech, also. It sometimes speaks before Limila repeats
Eeshta's saying fully. On Ashura, perhaps Ling would
soon be worthy of being given citizenship and correct ap-
pearance . . . though Eeshta is surprised to find that with
familiarity the animal's deformities are less offensive and

seem almost natural

Now Ling speaks directly to Eeshta but in its own ani-
mal speech. "Eeshta, do you know what I say? You do

know, don't you?"

"Limila, it is that Ling speaks. That you tell its saying

in our tongue."

"It is that I hear you," says Ling, "that you hear me,
also. That we forbind and enfeet," The last has no mean-
ing; Ling is not yet worthy of correct appearance.

142

"It is that I am pleased that Ling attempts Demu
tpeech, Limila. That it may continue to do so."

Ling turns to Limila. "I didn't get that last." Limila
repeats Eeshta's words in Demu and then in animal
tongue.

"I know you understand me," says Ling. "Why won't
you answer? Limila? Why?"

The young person shakes its head; animal gestures de-
mean less than animal words.

"The Demu see no view but their own, Annette. We
can only keep trying."

"Yes. But not today, Limila; the hell with it." And to
Eeshta: "It is that you go to your place, that another time
we speak in both our tongues."

"Limila, it is that I go to my place."

As the young person leaves the room it hears Ling say,
"Sometimes I think Barton had the right idea the first
fane."

The young person sits with Hishtoo. Across the room
SSewen looks at nothing, while Shestin very softly speaks
an old Demu chant it has learned. Outside, on guard so
that all must stay in, is the animal that speaks much with
upcurved mouth when it takes Eeshta to and from its place
here. Eeshta thinks upon a matter.

"Hishtoo, when Barton crushes our annshells. it is that
there is much pain."

"That the animal gives us pain, we remember."

"Is it that there is much pain in the giving of correct
appearance?"

"Much pain and loss of body liquid. It is done over
, many days, or animals die of becoming Demu. When Bar-
ton and the others are taken, none on Ashura had experi-
ence. We lose many as we leam. Siewen is one of the first
to live, and Limila. It is that each for a time is near to
death." -

"That I find it not good, Hishtoo, to give such pain."

"It is that the pain is not from us, Eesbta, but from be-
ing animal without correct appearance. That animals may
become Demu, we do what is proper."

"Is it that the pain is soon gone?"

"As correct appearance heals, pain goes. And we learn
a thing, Eeshta. On each day of correction we give the
greatest pain first, so that often the mind becomes not
awake and does not feel more of what is done."

143

"That I am pleased you give no pain without need."
A sound is heard. Siewen is crouched over, holding it-
self. Its shoulders shake and it makes harsh rasping sounds
with its breath. Eeshta moves to bend and see under its
hood. Its face below the eyes is wet.

"Siewen," says the young person, "is it that the food to-
day is not good to you?"

The animal of the upcurved mouth closes the door of
the room behind Eeshta and remains outside. The times of
questioning now count nearly to two fours of fours. Ling
sits behind the squarish thing that is always covered with
papers. Limila sits to one side; it no longer hides its face,
and has thrown back its hood. Its smoothed head is deeper
and less wide than is quite correct, but the shell of it is in-
side and difficult to reshape. Attempts to make such
changes cause dying, and so are now abandoned on Ash-
ura.

The young person moves a seat closer to the others, and
sits. "It is that you ask and I answer," it says. "That I
would now ask."

Limila would speak, but Ling waves a hand and says,
its mouth curving: "AH right, Eeshta, we'll make a deal.
Ask anything you want—m English—and we'll answer.
What do you say?"

**That I do not use your speech, that I must not. Hish-
too—'*

Ling waves the hand again. "Forget Hishtoo for a min-
ute. We've been asking questions, playing by your rules.
If you wish to ask in turn, you'll have to play by ours for
a change."

Eeshta considers. Already it speaks with an animal,
though in Demu tongue. And what it would ask, it needs
to know. There is no need to inform Hishtoo . . .

"Then tell me what you really want to know from me.
And why."

Ling nods. "We want to know about you, about your
people. How they think, and why they do what they do."
"What we do? What is it that we do?"
Limila brings its hands near its face, its two fours of
fingers pointing stiffly toward itself. "This!" It touches
here and there on its head and body, and its extremities,
"And this, and this, and this!"

"It is only that you are given correct appearance,

144




a." Startled, the young person uses its own speech
is not rebuked.

-^ "But why?" Limila's voice is high and harsh with strain.
.H^Do you know what it is to be cut and sewn, and to have
'wo face?"
^ "I know you had pain, yes."

"Pain? I saw others die and envied their luck. The flesh
was bad enough, and the teeth. But"—it indicates the jog
«t the base of its hand—"the disjointing of bones! And
^ herel" It points to the nostril openings. "There was bone.

-f: .A saw, and the chisels. After the first of it I could not see,
3! for the blood. Pain? You do not know of pain, Eeshta.
^ Why, how, can you possibly do such things?"
^-   "But, so you could be Demu and not animal. And now
'•' flat is a long time past. You healed, and are Demu and

-•- have no more pain."

^   "No pain?" Limila's breathing is harsh and rapid.

**Eeshta—Eesbta, how would you like to have your arms
\ cut off?"

At first frightened, after a moment the young person
realizes there is no threat. "I would not; no one would,
/ But why ... ?"

"Suppose you met a race of super-Demu with no arms,
They give you correct appearance by removing yours.
How would you feel?"

"But without arms, how could they?"
"Damn your stupid little soul to Barton's hell, they'd
« bite them offi" In awkward haste, Limila pulls its robe
^' from itself, crumples it, flings it against a wall. Unlike its

-/ conduct, its appearance is most correct for one not egg-
;' born.

""'   "Annette?" says Limila. "Would you show yourself
.^ completely?" Ling looks for a mpment at Limila, then re-
moves its own garb. The two stand together. Ling's ap-
,. pearance is not at all correct, but in it Eeshta can see a
'v kind of symmetry.

"Look!" With one hand Limila touches Ling, and with
, the other, the same portion of itself. "Thisi" The mouth,
". me growth above it that is partly bone, the flaps at the

sides of the head, and at top and back the fiber called
-> hair.

"Thisi" The lumps on the chest, the changes at the ex-
tremities, the fiber-covered protrusions where legs begin.
"This! Thisi This!"
It pauses, breathing heavily. "These things are all part

145

of her. They were part of me, too, until you—your people
—took them from me. My face was myself. Now I have

no self."
"But you are Demu, Limila,"

**Am I? No. I am not eggborn; I cannot in breeding sea-
son lock to another bearing eggs and at the same time ful-
filling that others. I cannot go to Sisshain once to visit
and perhaps a second time to become—or if not, no

shame to the eggs."
"No shame to the eggs," Eeshta responded.

**I cannot even truly have correct appearance. I am not
Demu, Eeshta. I am only something that was once a
woman, who can no longer he a woman or even a person,
from what the Demu have done to me. Because of that I

am of no use, even to myself."

The young person is confused. "But the Demu mean
no harm, only good. Not to take, but to give. It has al-
ways been our way, when we can, to help animals. I am
sorry, Limila, that even though not eggborn, you can find

no pride in being Demu."

"Pride? Pride?" Limila shakes its head. "Eeshta, you
work very hard at not understanding me. Barton, I sup-
pose. would call it a racial trait. Let me try again. Eeshta,
would you prefer to live, or to die?"

"To live, of course, Limila. To live."

"Yes? Why?"
"Because—because alive I can do and learn. Dying

ends all of it."

Limila still stands, feet apart. Its legs shake, but it does

not seem to notice the shaking.

"Yes. You are right, Eeshta. Dying ends all of it. But
for me it is all ended now. It ended under your knives, on
Ashura. And I would rather die than live as I am.** .

"No. Limila—I"
"If I did not feel I were needed here for a time yet, I

would die tonight."

"But how is that? Have you a sickness?"

No Demu mouth ever moves as Limila's serrated lips
move now. "Not the kind you mean. My sickness is only
that I would take a knife, and let out all my blood, so as

to die."

The young person resists belief. "But that is—no one

does so except those twice-come to Sisshain, who would
become but do not become—no shame to the eggs."

"No' shame ..." Umila murmurs. "You are beginning

146

<•.
s-. -

to understand. I cannot become, as you would, because I
am not eggborn. And I cannot become in my own way,
because of—because of having been given correct appear-
ance. This is what you do to me and others. This is what
must be stopped. This is why we need to know of you. Not
to hurt you. But to stop your hurting usi"

The young person is troubled. "Can you not still be-
come, Limila, in your own way?"

"My way? I have no face; I have no self. There is no
one left who can become. I would have—Barton would
have been my most needful person—and he cannot stand
the sight of me. I cannot stand the sight of what is left,
either. It is not Limila. I am inside, but no one can see me,
and I can no longer see myself.*'

All that Eeshta knows collapses; nothing is left but to
believe. "But then." it cries. "Hishtoo is wrong. We, the
Demu, are wrong. For to give such hurt—it cannot be
correct.'* It hardly notices that it speaks in the tongue of

animals.

It goes to Limila and holds that tall person in its arms
as though for breeding—although Eeshta is one of four
fingers short of breeding age, and Limila not eggborn.
And the feeling is not of eggs, or of fulfilling eggs.

"Limila, it is that I help you, that I learn in both our
tongues. That I try to tell Hishtoo, though I think Hishtoo
does not listen or understand. That when you go to our
worlds, I go, also, and tell what you say, so that it is

known.

"Whatever else, Limila. it is good that Barton brings

me here."

Barton got home late; the Tri-V was off and the
lights were dim. "Hil Anybody home?"

"Yes." The voice came from the kitchen. "I am here,

Barton."

She sat on one chair, leaning back with her feet oa an-
other. The drink she sipped was dark between the ice
cubes; the bottle on the table was bourbon. She wore no
robe or hood; for a moment he saw her as she once had
been. The light was dim, and the slim body almost the
same—but the moment passed, and again she was face-
less.

"Had to work late." He rummaged in the refrigerator,
found a beer, and opened it. "A breakthrough on the
Demu space drive, if Hishtoo slipped as bad as we think

147

he did. So I ate m that crackerbox cafeteria, by the ship.**
He sat, and swallowed beer from the bottle. "How'd it go
with you, today?'*

"We broke through, also. Barton. The young Demu has
decided to cooperate." She sipped slowly at her glass.

**No kidding? You cracked the shell? That's great' Hey,
how did you get through to her?"

"Personal talk. Barton. Exchange of reminiscences,
among all of us there."

"Yeh? I'll bet you did most of it, Liroila. Didn't you?"

"I was of some help; the matter is not important." But
•the ring of her voice belied the words. "At any rate, it
has agreed to leam and exchange information, to reduce
the conflict that must be."

He wanted to go to her, but then she would expect
more than he could give. "Well, that's great I'm glad the
kid's shaping up.'*

"Yes. We should make much better progress now."

"Good, Hey, you look tired. Rough day, really, wasn't
it?"

Her maimed lips lifted into a ragged curve. "It's all
right. Barton," she said.

"I'll live."

The Proud Enemy

148

To CLARION WEST—

AND THE
EXPOSITORY LUMP

Barton took the ship straight up.

A million kilometers out from Earth, with Luna in
quadrature, he cut power and coasted Ship One into solar
orbit. The rest of his command. Ships Two through Ten,
were not far behind. The other three squadrons, following,
showed on the screen as groups of dots.

Beside Barton the big, bearlike man chuckled. "Hurry
up and wait, is it? That was quite a takeoff."

"I figured you'd want your. command ship first at ren-
dezvous, Tarleton. So I got us here."

"I wasn't complaining. I've ridden with you before—
remember?"

Barton grinned. "Yeh, 1 know." He glanced at the
screen, "They're coming up pretty good. You want to talk
them into formation?"

Tarleton nodded—even the fleet commander had to
wear two hats; his second one was communications. He
activated the board and began coaching squadrons and
individual ships into a dish-shaped formation, curving
back from Ship One as center.

"Spread your group a little, Slowboat. Our drive wakes
may be harmless below light speed, but let's don't get
into bad habits. Right?'*

"Right," said Slobodna, and Squadron Two dispersed
slightly.

Tarleton smiled and turned back to his second-in-
command. "Well, Barton, there they are. The first star-

151

ships Earth ever built, and all ready to go. Do they look
as good to you as they do to me?"

"From here? Better." Barton shivered, remembering
how close it had been—whether he'd ride this ship or stay
home, in a cage. And the years he'd been caged by the
alien Demu ... well, that was what the fleet was all about.
"Do we move it now?" he said.

"It's all yours."

Barton punched coordinates into the fleet's linked
computers, took a deep breath, and stabbed a finger at
the activating button. As one, the forty ships accelerated.

"Next stop, Tilara. Anything more we need, before
the all-ships briefing?" Tarleton shook his head. "Okay."
To the woman sitting behind him. Barton said, "Limila,
you want to get the others in here now?"

"All right. Barton."

"You'd better take ap Fenn or maybe Scalsa with you,
to bring Hishtoo. Just in case that big lobster is still on his
high horse."

"You think Hishtoo would harm me while you are on
this ship? But, very well; I will ask Scalsa's aid." Briefly,
before leaving, she touched Barton's cheek.

As the control-room door closed behind her, Tarleton
said, **That*s some woman you have there."

"Yen. I noticed."

"What I meant is, that if she's any sample of the Til-
aran race, we need them as allies."

"I told you that before."

"Relax, will you. Barton? We're in space now—the first
time any of us have ever left the solar system under our
own power. Or had the chance to meet other races ...'."

"Except as Demu captives! Yen, I know. Let it go,
huh?"

Behind them the door opened; the crew of Ship One
entered, along with the two Demu escorted by Limila.
Vito Scalsa came last and closed the door. The group—
three men, five women, and two Demu—stood as if un-
certain what to do next.

Tarieton didn't say anything, so Barton did. "Okay,
it's time for the bossman to talk to the troops. Let's the
rest of us get to the sides, out of center stage." He stood
and motioned the others to either side, bringing Limila
and the two Demu to stand with him. "All yours, Tarle-
ton."

Tarleton pushed buttons. On the large screen at the

152

front of the room appeared a segmented, composite pic-
ture; each of the forty ships' control rooms was shown in
miniature. The circuit was multipled; here and there Bar-
ton saw people waving hellos to others they recognized on
their own screens.

Tarleton cut it short. "All right, we can chatter later;

it's toll-free." The picture became still. "I'm Tarleton,
commanding this fleet. I came into the job by way of being
presidential assistant to the United States Space Agency
and then in charge of getting the ships built. So it's new to
me, and I expect I'm going to need all the cooperation I
can get." The smiling, hand-waving miniatures on the
screen looked fully cooperative to Barton; he nodded in
satisfaction as Tarleton turned to him.

"Now I want you to meet Barton, second-in-command.
You've heard of him—his escape from the Demu in their
ship that be brought back to us, along with three other
prisoners and the two Demu here." He motioned to the
smaller man. "Okay, you take it"

With deliberate confidence. Barton moved front and
center. "I'm Barton. In a way, it's my fault you're here.
Some of you I don't know, but we'll be getting better ac-
quainted, over this gadget

"Most of you have the background. But this was a
hurry-up job—there were some last-minute people brought
in. So I'll skim through it aJittle.'* He paused,- thinking of
where to start, how to keep ,it short. "We're riding a
souped-up version of the Demu space drive—the Labs
improved a lot on the one I swiped. Besides their own
weapons—the Shield and the sleep-gun—we have the
only thing we could find that will punch through the Shield.
High-powered lasers. They may have more stuff; we
don't know.

"Maybe you noticed the empty space at the front of
your ships. That's on purpose. Before we tackle the Demu,
we're going to visit some other folks; we need all the help
we can get. And if they have any weapons we can use,
we'll have the room to mount them."

Making speeches. Barton reflected, wasn't his specialty.
What next? Oh, yes—exhibit the two Demu. He mo-
tioned for them to join him.

"These are Demu. The big one in the robe and hood
—that's their standard-issue clothing—is Hishtoo. He was
in charge of the raid that grabbed me, and others, off
Earth. And he ran the research station where I ... spent

153

nearly eight years in a cage." He could say it now, but

still not easily....

*The little one is Eeshta, Hishtoo's egg-child. I'll ex-
plain that part later." Eeshta wore a short smock, and a
cap like that of a baseball player.

*They're exoskeletal," he said. "Invertebrate. Take a
look." He made a sign for the two to disrobe. Eeshta com-
plied readily but Hishtoo refused. That figured. Barton
saw no reason to force the issue; one was enough. So
Eeshta's chitmous form was displayed for the fleet's en-
lightenment.

Some of the viewers appeared shocked by the serrated
lips, the lack of nose or ears, the smooth featureless crotch.
With a vague feeling that Eeshta might be embarrassed,
Barton gently patted the hairiess skull.

"Don't think of the Demu as monsters," he said. *They
evolved in their own way, that's alL Those lips are rock-
hard; they chew with them. Open your mouth, please,
Eeshta . . . see? No teeth—and notice the short tongue."
Eeshta lifted it. "That's bow they smile." The smile was
turned to Barton and he responded, human-style.

"They're short one finger and toe all around, by our
standards. That's all right—the Tilari. the first race we're
going to meet, normally have six of each.

"I generally think of Eeshta as 'she,' but each Demu is
both male and female. I don't know whether you can
make out, over the screen, this pattern of little dots up the
middle of the abdomen—but that's why you don't see
anything where you expected to. They lay eggs, tiny ones
that mature in breeding tanks. That's all I know about

that side of it."                                         '

Shrugging tension out of his shoulders, he took a deep
breath. "None of these differences make them monsters,
or even enemies. They're our enemies for one reason only

*because they're firmly convinced, as a race, that the
Demu are the only true people—that all the rest of us are
merely animals.

"So they raid and take captives—and when an 'animal'
learns their language, they do their best to make it look
like a Demu. With knives, they do that. Most of you have
seen pictures of the results, I think,

"And that," said Barton, "is what we plan to bring to a
screeching halt!" Return-volume on the screen was turned
low, but the sound of cheering was clear enough. Barton
waited for quiet

154

"They can be taught better." he said. "They can learn.
Eeshta, for instance, has already come around to our way
of thinking, on that point. Egg-daddy there is another
story—to Hishtoo we're still animals, and uppity types at
that.

"The Demu aren't going to change their minds easily.
Before we can get them to listen to us—well, we're prob-
ably going to have to whip their hard-shelled butts." He
turned to Tarleton, but the big man waved for him to con-
tinue.

"We can't do it alone," Barton said. "They're too many
for us. That's why we're going after some help first." He
i    beckoned Limila into the field of view. "This woman is
of the Tilari, the first race we seek as allies. And if she's
at all typical, they'll be damned good ones.

"The Demu worked her over—as I said, you've seen
the pictures. One fine plastic surgeon is the reason you
wouldn't recognize her from them."

Limila smiled. The restored curve of her lips parted to
reveal teeth fashioned in a dental laboratory. No one
would know by looking, thought Barton, that her nose
;.    owed its shape to a cartilage graft—or that the ears were
^    soft-plastic prostheses.

i?      She wore her Tilari-fashioned wig with its high
^-    Elizabeth-I hairline showing smooth scalp forward of. her
€    ears. The long black hair was swept up and displayed
f    how Tilari are hirsute solidly to the base of the neck, be-
ll    hind.

it      Barton didn't feel like mentioning the breasts the Demu
^ , had taken from her, nor that the Earth-style plastic sub-
H    stitutes under her dress sat more than ten centimeters
|    higher, on her rib cage, than the TUaraa norm.
|1      "I am glad of being here," she said. "Tilara will give
||   you welcome, as Earth gave to me."

H      "Limila's people," said Barton, "have suffered Demu
If   raids for a very long time. Because of the sleep-gun there
H   could be no detection or defense. But several hundred
1'   years ago, a Demu scout ship crashed. The crew was
killed, and the Tilari had a quick chance to get a little in-
formation. Not much—the Demu came in and got the
ship—and most of the study group, too.

"But the survivors had some good pictures. Limila has
seen copies, and she confirms that the Demu ship we took
is almost identical to the crashed scout." Barton's smile
was grim. "We took pains to make our ships look a little

%                           155

different... so that the Tilari don't try to blow us out of
their sky before we have a chance to get acquainted."

He turned to Tarleton. "Anything else, for this go-
round?"

"Just the slide show; 111 take that."

"Jeez—and I was trying not to be long-winded!"

*'you did fine." With relief, Barton moved aside, hug-
ging Umila with one arm and briefly squeezing Eeshta's
shoulder. Hishtoo stood woodenly; without ceremony, Bar-
ton grabbed a handful of robe and jerked the Demu off-
stage.

Tarleton pushed buttons. On the screen appeared a
stellar map—a spiral arm Joining the edge of the galaxy's
main body. He moved forward, until be could reach the
screen with a pointer.

"Here's Earth," he began. "A long way out, you notice.
Now our first stop is here—about a hundred and sixty
light-years down the Arm, and close to the middle of it,
laterally. We can't see the Tilari stars from Earth—too
much other stuff in the way. Other people we want to see
are roughly here, and here.

"Here is the Derou research station, where Barton and
Limila were. Close to three hundred light-years, and to-
ward the outside edge of the Arm. The major Demu plan-
ets are about here—down a bit more, and back toward
the middle again. All of this is transposed from the Demu
charts;—it should be fairly accurate. We had a little trou-
ble finding some of the reference points, but nothing to
worry about."

"No worry," said Barton. "When we ring the doorbell,
they'll answer."

With a brief grin, Tarleton stepped back from the
screen and laid the pointer down. "Keep in mind," he
said, "that while to us these distances are vast, they cover
onty a segment of our spiral Arm. Compared to the gal-
axy itself, they are insignificant I think we need that per-
spective.

"One more thing. Beyond the Demu suns, toward the
galaxy proper, lies a volume of space entirely devoid of
habitable planets. The charts end there. I don't know any-
thing more about it, except that we won't have to worry
about any neighbors on the other side of the Demu.

"I think that's all for now. Maintain acceleration at
half-max, Go ahead with ship and squadron training

156

)-

, !

programs, and if you have any questions, ask." He cut the
screen circuits.

"You did okay yourself," said Barton. "But are you
sure they have translators on the Russian ships, and the
Chinese—?"

"And the French, and German, and Japanese and
Central African. Hell yes, Barton."

Impatient with himself. Barton shook his head. "It's
just—all this got put together in such a fucking hurry. A
lot of it, I wasn't in on; I keep worrying maybe we forgot
something. Okay—that's your department and you're
good at it; ni try to quit jogging your elbow.

"So now we have a minute," he said, "let's go over it
again—how we handle this command routine."

The discussion was short ....

The way it worked in practice was that Barton ran the
fleet. Tarleton rarely gave orders; when be did, it was Bar-
ton who relayed them. With the three "hats" he wore—
ship commander, senior squadron commander, and the
fleet's El Segundo—it all seemed reasonable enough.

Especially to Barton.

The first time be took the bit in his teeth was when he
found a list, taped alongside the comm-board, of the
names of the forty ships and their commanders. He took it
to Tarleton.

"Look—we can't use this 'tting. If we're ever in a hurry
we won't have time to look up names—and damned if I'm
going to try to memorize the lot Half of them I can't pro-
nounce anyway."

"You have a better idea?" Tarieton's voice was mild.
When the fleet was nearing completion he had been tense,
harried; once in space, he had again become the easy-
going, bearlike man that Barton had first known.

"The ships are numbered—what more do we need?
And the commanders know who they are; we don't have
to tell them. When I call a ship or a squadron I'm talking
to the guy in charge, no matter who answers the phone.
Okay?"

"That's fine with me. But when you announce the pro-
cedure, could you put it a little more tactfully? Some of
the national contingents—particularly the smaller ones
—are sort of proud of their ships' names."

Barton thought it over and nodded. All ten ships of his
squadron were U.S.-built—and seven of "Slowboat's"

157

command, which also included three from West Germany.
Tamirov, the Russian, had seven of his own, two Central
African and one French. Estelle Cummings commanded
her three British ships, two each from Japan, China, and
Australia, plus the second French vessel. The French
hadn't wanted their forces split, but neither had anyone
else—the decision had been made by drawing lots. Cer-
tainly, Barton realized, national prides could be touchy.

When he went on the screen he stated, truly, that his
procedures were designed for fast tactical operation. "But
so that we all get used to it," he said, "let's stick to just
the numbers for all our official communications." As far
as he could tell, no one objected to the simplification.

As the ship-days passed. Barton handed on further in-
formation when he happened to think of it It was not that
he took his responsibilities casually, but merely that he
had had no time, previously, to organize what he knew.

Tarleton seldom used the viewscreen circuits except in
his special capacity of expert on the ship's weaponry. It
was he who explained the alarms that integrated incident
energy, time and distance to warn if a vessel's Shield were
seriously threatened by a Demu sleep-gun. He demon-
strated flie adjustments for obtaining optimum rise curves
in pulsing the mammoth lasers that occupied each ship's
central axis. And especially, he was a stickler in his insis-
tence that every Shield be kept in perfect balance at all
times.

Barton was glad to be spared these chores. For one
thing, he wanted more time with Limila than he could
usually manage.

It was not merely that they were lovers, though they
were—and had been, since the restoring of Limila's face.
But also they spent much time in talk—exchanging the
questions and answers for which there had been no op-
portunity on Earth-

And Barton was learning the Tilaran language. Others
were, too, of course—but he wanted to know it in depth,
with all the nuances he could absorb. It was a musical
tongue, rich in intonations that conveyed the subtleties.
Barton made progress, but slowly.

Back on Earth, when Tarleton showed him the Space
Agency's assignments of ship's quarters. Barton had r&.
acted violently. "Hishtoo and Eesbta," Tarleton said,
"will be in Six, which locks from the outside. Eeshta
doesn't need locking up, of course, but we don't want

158




Hishtoo getting into any "mischief." Barton nodded. "Cabin
One, directly behind the control room, is yours and mine.
Limila can room with Myra Hake, my assistant comm-
tech, and two of the other women can—"

"What in hell do you think you're talking about?" Bar-
ton demanded. "What kind of silly-ass game is this?
Limila rooms with me, and you know ill"

Tarleton laughed. He hadn't laughed for a long time,
probably—now it rolled out of him, loud growling belly
laughter, until he sat wheezing. "All right, Barton," he
said, finally, "I'm sorry—but I couldn't resist that." He
waved a band to fend off Barton's indignation. "This, I
should have said, is the Agency's official assignment of
quarters."

Barton had to grin. "You're a sadistic bastard, you
know that?'*

"Sure I am." Tarleton wiped his eyes. "But look—
why do you think the ships have double compartments,
when a pair of dormitories would have been cheaper?
Because we do have mixed crews, and I don't have any
silly-ass ideas—as you put it—that they're all monks and
nuns. So I said to myself, why not make things comfort-
able and congenial, for whoever wants them that way?"
He looked squarely at Barton. "All right?"

Barton nodded, and left. As he had intended all along,
he moved his and Limila's gear into Compartment Two.
At first, the living arrangements of the rest of the crew
were monastic, but soon Tarleton was sharing Number
One with Myra Hake, a tall, sandy-haired woman of con-
siderable energy and competence. A few days later. Bar-
ton noticed that Myra had been replaced by one of his
copilots, a short, sturdy brunette named Alene Grover.

Other cabin exchanges occurred; Barton didn't keep
track—it was none of his business. Eventually it struck
him that with five men and five women sharing five com-
partments, the Agency had had to be kidding. Or else
Tarleton had been. Barton decided not to ask which ....

He did ask, one day, whether the other crews were
evenly divided by gender.

"No," said Tarleton. "For our own ships, I tried to
swing that, but somebody got into the aptitude-rating files
and went over my head with some last-minute reassign-
ments. So we have a few six-four combinations, both
ways."

Barton frowned. "Six-four? Oh. yeh—I forgot. We're

159

the only ship running full; the others only carry ten each.**
He laughed. "Well, it gives them room for a little incom-
patibility."

'That's true. Anyway—for the rest, the British have
one seven-to-three imbalance; I don't know why. The
French and Germans are balanced but I don't have infor-
mation about the Russians—their rosters list only last
names and initials. And I can't make heads or tails of the
African and Chinese names."

"Ignorant Yankee I" Barton grinned as he said it "Me,
too. But—bow do you figure a seven-to-three setup is
going to work out?"

"Flexibly, I hope. I gave one order on the subject—
verbally—to the effect that individual morale is top pri-
ority. Because we may be out here a long time."

"Yeh. Well, Tarleton, I hope it works. We have enough
to worry about, without personal problems."

"Yeah. Just keep your fingers crossed."

The pressure of trammg kept most personnel too busy
to worry overmuch about their libidos. The crash program
on Earth had been limited to the bare bones of necessary
knowledge; these now needed fleshing out in practice.
Piloting and navigation, communications, weaponry and
ship maintenance—there was always plenty of work.
And only in space were airiock-and-suit drills meaningful.
The captured Demu ship had had no suits or airlock,
but it was assumed that their raiding and fighting ships
would be so equipped.

The logistics of shipboard life could not be neglected—
for instance, somebody had to cook. Ship One was lucky
—or perhaps. Barton thought, Tarleton had stacked the
deck—three competent cooks were aboard. Terike ap
Fenn, the big weaponsman, was the best of the lot,
though Limila ran him a close second. Barton, who could
boH water without burning it if he read the directions care-
fully, was properly grateful.

He was not merely grateful for Limila's other achieve-
ments; he was thoroughly impressed. He had expected her
to pull her weight on the conun-board, and perhaps do
standby duty at Weapons. She had become not merely
adequate but expert at both specialties and was well on
her way to becoming a middling-fair pilot. And Barton
had already known she could cook ....

It struck him that if she were representative of the
TUari, the hoped-for alliance might wind up with Earth

160

playing second fiddle. The idea didn't bother him much—
he didn't care who led the parade, so long as someone did
a good job of it. But it was a damned good thing. Barton
thought, that there were no politicians along on this junketl
•

They were-five weeks out, about a third of the way to
Tilara, when the first rabbit came out of the hat Myra
Hake, now sharing Cabin Number Four with one of the
pilots, had a problem. Tarleton was catching some over-
due sleep, so she posed it to Barton and Limila, who had
the duty in Control.

"I've missed my damned period, is what!" she said.
"And with ten months to go on a one-year contraceptive
implant, that should be impossible."

Barton had no answers, so he kept silent. Limila sat
quietly for a moment, looking thoughtful, then said, "I
have an idea. Can you spare me here. Barton, for the rest
of this watch?" He nodded. "Myra, come to our compart-
ment. please. I must ask questions, that I may seek a
valid solution."

Barton wanted to ask a couple of questions himself,
but this wasn't the time for it; he had his own routine to
follow. But after he had drilled Vito Scalsa in ship ma-
neuvers and Terike ap Fenn in weapons control, his watch
was done. He joined Limila in Compartment Two.

"So what's with Myra? Did you find out?"

"I can't yet be sure, Bartons-But I think that in your
women this cycle is related to the lunar tide of Earth. Not
so rigid as clockwork, but somewhat akin. Here, our ar-
tificial gravity is constant—with the clock absent, the re-
sponse may fail. Or so I think it."

"If you're right, what can be done about it?"

"I have done it, Barton. There must be time, before we
see if the problem is solved. I must ask if others are in like
case.

"But, with help from an expert computer person—a
Miss Chindra of Ship Thirty-four—I have set our gravity
fields to pretend the variations from your sun and moon.
Not entirely accurate—I chose the phases as they have
progressed since our departure, the best that Chindra and
I could remember. It will have to do; we will see if this
corrects."

Suddenly, Barton realized he might have a problem of
his own. Well, partly his own .... He wondered how to

161

ask, because no matter what he said at this late date, he
was going to sound pretty stupid.

"Look, Limila—maybe I was locked up too long, away
from everything—because it only struck me, just now. But
I mean—you never have, since we ... I mean, are you
pregnant? Or did the Demu . . . ? You can't be past it
. . . are you?"

She shook her head; he was certain she repressed a
chuckle. "No, Barton, to all questions. The answer is
more simple. That cycle is not of Tilaran women. With
us, ovulation is voluntary act; only thus can placenta
form. On Tilara are no accidental conceptions."

"But—the woman in the cagel" Long since, he had told
her of the Tilaran woman, scarred in mind and body by
the Demu—how. never guessing that their species might
be interfertile, he had succumbed to both their urges and
unwittingly brought her to agonizing death in futile, abor-
tive childbirth. The telling—of his desperate, unskilled
efforts to help, while the Demu stayed hid behind their
blind, gray walls and let the woman die—it had not ab-
solved his inadvertent guilt, but the sharing helped him to
bear it Now Limila touched his face.

"But they took away her control of her mind," she said,
"so of course she would ovulate, of instinct Barton! It is
not a thing you could have known."

"Yeh, I know," he said. "But I wish to hell I could
have."

"Of course you do . . ." And in the ancient, tuneless
way, she soothed him.

Later, Barton looked in on the control room. He found
Tarleton talking on a four-way hookup, to the other squad-
ron commanders. "Sit in, will you. Barton? We're having
an argument about how the drive works."

"Sure—hi, everybody. But what's the problem? Slow-
boat knows it backwards and forwards, and his doctorate
in physics is a lot newer and shinier than my near miss
at that brass ring."

"He explained it, all right" said Tarleton. "The trou-
ble Is, the rest of us don't speak Higher Math." On the
screen, SIobodna grinned. "And the one time I heard you
talking about it in plain language, the parts I understood
seemed to make sense."

Barton shrugged. "I feel a little like Newton trying to
tell Einstein, but okay." He sat; against regulations, he

162

set his coffee cup on the ledge below the comm-board.
"Here's how I got it from one of the Bell Labs people
when he was drunk enough to talk English. . . .

"The main drive field gets positive traction, on some
aspect of space-time that we can't measure or even detect
in any other way. The only way we know it's there is that
the thing works."

A voice came from the screen. "Tamirov here. A ques-
tion: we are above light speed. Where is relativity, time
dilation, mass increase?"

"Well, that's the other part of the drive. Ordinarily,
when something approaches light speed, what happens
is—well, you know about time being at right angles to
space?"

"Mathematically, yes," said Estelle Cummings. "But
I've never been able to visualize it."

"Join the club," said Barton. "But now cut your idea of
space to one dimension—your direction of motion—and
think of time as perpendicular to that. Okay?" Cummings'
long, heavy blonde hair rippled with her nod.

"All right. Your time is always at right angles to your
space—and everyone else's is to theirs, if you follow me.
But at high speeds, Einstein says, your space vector begins
swinging off at an angle, toward everybody else's time
vector. And vice versa—your time gets mixed into their
space. You see?"           '•

"I see where you're heading," said SIobodna- "But
you're not there yet."

"Okay," Barton said, "you're still going in the same
direction in space, of course, but it's as if you were shoot-
ing at an angle and wasting most of your thrust off to one
side. And at light speed itself, ordinarily it'd be like push-
ing altogether sideways, with no forward thrust at all. Be-
cause your space-aad-time vectors would have swung all
out of kilter with the velocity.

"So the second part of the drive holds those vectors in
line where they belong; that's all. It takes power, sure—
but the load is linear with speed; we can handle it And
so we don't get any mass increase. The only effect we
notice, above light speed, is, that our drive wakes—they
still propagate at "c"—become deadly as hell, at close
range.

"Did I get it about right, Slowboat?"
"I have to admit it sounds a little funny, Barton, but it

163

fits the math." Cummings and Tamirov nodded agreement;

Barton hoped they weren't merely being polite.

"If anyone else is as hungry as I am," said Tarleton,
"I move we adjourn." No one objected, so he waved a
hand in signoff and cut the circuits. "Ready for lunch,

Barton?"

"For me it's dinner, but I'm with you. I'll just check to
see if maybe Umila's hungry, too, and join you in a few
minutes."

tie got sidetracked. Outside the control room stood
Eeshta. From appearances, the small Demu had been
waiting a long time and was prepared to wait even longer.

"Eeshtal What are you doing here?"

"Waiting. Barton, we must talk."

"Sure, sure—I haven't seen enough of you lately, any-
way. Just a minute; let's see . . ." Behind Compartment
Number Three was a small lounge, intended to keep card
games and bull sessions from getting underfoot in the gal-
ley. Like many another good intention, this one hadn't
worked—coffee went with cards, and a sticky table was
small price for it. So, as usual, the lounge was vacant.
They entered and sat.

"Okay, Eeshta. What's it all about?"

"Barton, I worry for my egg-parent. And if not for him,
then for you."

"Hishtoo getting cabin fever? Isn't someone bringing
him out to walk around awhile every day?" Barton
thought of the years he had been caged at Hishtoo's re-
search station. No daily walks for Barton—and food that
oozed up through the floor. Hishtoo should have it so
good. . ..

"He comes out, yes. But his mind, no. I fear; he says
strangely to roe—not real, sometimes, I think. But if real
—*/ real—I fear even more. For you. Barton, and for
Earth."

"Hishtoo's laying on threats, or something?" Barton
considered the idea. "Maybe you'd better tell me about
it"

"Threats? Closely to that, yes. You know what he said,
on first hearing of this fleet."

Barton laughed, not long or with humor. "Yeh. That we
animals-had best not disturb the homes of the Demu. But
hell, Eeshta—you know we're not on any war of exter-
mination. We're simply out to convince your people that

164

we are people, too, so lay off the zoo bit and the fancy
surgery."

"I know. Barton, and am of agreement. It was not right
to cage you, to cut and change Limila and Siewen and
the Freak. So many others, too—it is good, I think, that
you did not see."

"I saw a couple—no, skip that. But what else about
Hishtoo?"

"If he says what is real, no an imagining of his own
wishes, then I fear—and you should fear."

"Just what does he say?" Questioning the young Demu
about its parent. Barton felt like some kind of Gestapo
agent—but what choice did he have?

"He says of Demu history, long long past. How from a
far place we came—whether from deep in this galaxy or
even from another, is not clear. But Demu came where
we are, and wiped away any who would not have us
there."

"You mean, if the natives weren't friendly, they got
clobbered? Eeshta, we're not exactly primitives, to be
overawed by a little technology."

"Not like that. Barton—a terrible war! Not in small
space, a few planets only. It was from outside our place
that the Demu were attacked. That outside was wiped
away; it does not exist"

Yes, he thoughtl Down the Arm from Demu country,
the space with no habitable planets. God Almighty! It
could be! And if it were, what the hell was he heading
the fleet into? What might he be doing to Earth?

But wait a minute—was this interpretation for real, or
a fantasy of Hishtoo's? "Eeshta, is this the first you've
heard of that war? And if so, how come?"

"I have been—am—too young to be told fully of Demu
glory. So Hishtoo says. It would be at an older time. But
now he tells me, so you will know." Mentally, Barton
shrugged off his Gestapo uniform; without it, he felt a lot
better.

"There's more to it, Eeshta, isn't there?"

"So much more; your speech does not hold it all. But I
will try." She looked up and to one side; she began to
sway rhythmically. Her voice became a chant....

"The Demu come from far—
The Demu come, and live—
The eggs grow, the worlds know the Demu.

165

Others know the Demu—

The animals who had this place,

Who now make space for Demu."

Her voice was thick; Barton had never heard it so.
-And what happened, Eeshta?" In a hushed tone, be asked
it

"The ships that come—they soy,
Proud Demu, be you gone—
In our space is no place for Demu.^
Others came before you—
Now none remain to call us foe,
And so shall go the Demul"

Barton muttered to himself, "I'll bet that went over like
a lead kite!" Eeshta stiffened; the swaying became more
rapid, and her voice raised in pitch:

"The others went, the Demu stay—
The Great Race dead, or gone away—
Its heritage is Demu.
Never go the Demul"

Eeshta's eyes closed tightly.

"The war will be, the Demu know,
And worlds will go, for animals
May not command the Demu.
The Demu rise—the eggs must grow,
The worlds must know the Demu.
Though worlds are gone, the Demu stay—
Ever grow the Demu—
Ever . . . grow the . .."

". . . Demu." Barton whispered it Eeshta shuddered
and crumpled forward, hands covering her face. Barton
moved quickly to put his arms around the small creature.
"Are you all right?"

After a moment, a nod. "Yes, Barton. But it is a strong
thing that Hishtoo tells. Real, or not real."

"How real do you think it is?"

'To him, I think, all. And to me, almost, in the telling
of it. The true danger I do not know. But it is for you to
be very careful Barton, because I do not know."

166

"Yeh. Thanks—I'll keep it in mind." What to do with
her, now? She shouldn't go back to her quarters just yet,
and maybe catch another load from Hishtoo; she wasn't
up to it. "Hey," he said, "how'd you like to take a tour at
the comm-board? Myra Hake's on watch—she says you're
coming along really well. Want to sit in with her for a
while?"

"Yes, Barton. A change of thought is good."

"Okay, fine." Then a phrase from Eeshta's chant caught
his attention. "Wait a minute—what was it?—that part
about the Great Race. Do you know what that means?"

"No, Barton." Shaking of head. "When it was said, I
asked, but Hishtoo would say no more. He was startled,
I think, by what he spoke. For to him there could be no
Great Race—no people, even—other than the Demu.
There is a children's rhyme, but—no, I do not remem-
ber."

He had to leave it at that.

Entering the control room, he turned Eeshta over to
Myra Hake. "See you later," he said impartially to both,
and left for bis own quarters. He was thinking he'd
damned well better take some lessons from Eeshta—
Demu language lessons.

He found Limila napping but not difficult to wake.
She was hungry, too.

Tarleton's meal had also been delayed; the three ate
together. The big man looked gloomy, so Barton didn't
mention his own new bag of troubles. Instead, guessing
that he was due to get another one unloaded on him, he
ate silently—preferring to enjoy the meat and ease diges-
tion. Hishtoo's thing could wait—whatever it was, it
wouldn't erupt until they approached Demu territory.

What did bother him was that for a time, listening to
Eeshta's chant, he had caught himself wishing he were oo
their side.

Could that be the real weapon?

Finally, over coffee, Tarleton told them what was on
his mind. "It's ap Fenn—he has it up for Myra again and
won't take no for an answer. And she's quite happy with
your pilot—what's his name?"

"Cheng," said Barton. "Cheng Ai. But who's ap Fenn
with now? And why can't he be satisfied with Jier for a
while?" He considered what he knew of Terike ap Fenn—
a large, lowering bruiser who was the ship's best weapons-

167

man as well as its best cook. Why couldn't competent
people carry their competence over into their personal
lives? Wryly, be conceded that the question might some-
times apply to himself.

"The past couple of weeks," Tarleton said, "he's been
with that little matcbstick blonde—Helaise Renzel. One
thing he doesn't like is that with both of them in Weapons,
they're on different watch schedules. But I nosed around
a little, and found that he's the one who's initiated all the
recent cabin changes. If ap Fenn isn't a problem, he's cer-
tainly working on it."

"You mean his grass is always greener on the other
side?"

"Something like that—and he's making waves. Barton,
can you do something about it before we have ourselves
some real trouble?"

Barton felt his stubborn streak rise. "What's wrong
with you doing it? You're the admiral, with the scrambled
eggs on your hat." Looking sheepish, Tarleton spluttered.

Limila put her hand on Barton's arm. "No, Barton.
This is for you to do." He looked at her. "Tarleton is a
fine man," she said, "but he might not in your place have
succeeded in bringing the Demu ship and all of us to
Earth." She turned now to Tarleton. "You must under-
stand, I mean no offense. But you are one who looks long
at all parts of a question. And sometimes only one side
allows survival. Barton of all people understands this, in
instinct. He—"

"—Sometimes does it the hard way," Barton finished.
**AU right; I'll talk to ap Fenn." He looked at Tarleton,
but the other man stared silently down at his coffee. "I
can't guarantee he'll wind up fit for duty. Do we have any
problem about that?" Without looking up, Tarleton shook
his head.

By forethought, Barton gave his dinner time to settle
before looking in on ap Fenn. He found the man at home
in Compartment Three, on pouting terms with his room-
mate. Barton felt that Tarleton's term "matchstick blonde"
was unfair; Helaise Renzel was slim, but delicately curved
and—to Barton—attractive. __

Nonetheless his request for her to leave was brusque
and only marginally courteous. Barton wasn't looking for-
ward to the encounter; he wanted the side issues out of

168

the way. But his move allowed ap Fenn to take the offen-
sive.

The man had remained seated. "What the hell are you
butting in here for. Barton? I know you're the big cheese,
but these are my quarters."

"Yours?" Barton moved a chair slightly, and sat
"That's right. Now, what do you want here?"
"I thought the cabin was yours and Helaise's, Jointly."
"It has been. But I have other arrangements in pros-
pect, ;/ you don't mind."

, "Maybe I do,'* said Barton—watching the other man,
taking his measure. "But it's not what / mind. The way I
get it, you want to trade Helaise in for Myra, who is
settled in with Cbeng. None of the other three are will-
ing to change, but you're trying to bull it through anyway."

Terike ap Fenn glowered. "Yes, I am. I lived long
enough in the Service, in a mustn't-touch situation. Now
things have changed—we get to live the way we want to.
So don't try to stop me from doing it, because you can't."

Barton kept bis tone casual. "The hell you say, ap
Fenn. The hell you do say."

By Barton's standards, ap Penn was terribly slow on
the draw. Barton watched him make up his mind to rise
and annihilate, watched him start to carry out his decision.
Barton didn't give him a chance; given ap Fenn's size
and weight, he couldn't afford to. Taking a solid grip on
the arms of his chair, he swung both feet up and planted
them full force in ap Fenn's face'. Too bad there wasn't a
dentist on the ship, he thought, as he rose wearily to stand
over his late foe. And he wondered what else in the way
of first aid would be needed.

Ironically, Myra Hake was Ship One's medical techni-
cian. After stuffing and taping the nose, she dutifully
plugged several dislodged teeth back into the unconscious
man's bleeding gums. "But," she confided, "I'll be sur-
prised if more than two of those will actually reroot"

She gave Barton a long, close look. "Did you have to be
that rough?"

When it came to long, close looks, Barton knew he was
second to few. "No, of course not," he said, finally. "I
could have waited until he or Cheng killed the other. Or
Helaise got her pride hurt bad enough to do something
really stupid. And then I could have punished whoever
was first out of bounds.

169

"The way I did it, I went to the guy causing all the
trouble and asked him to stop. He thought ha'd beat my
head in but he wasn't fast enough, and lost some teeth. If
you think I liked having to do it that way, you're out of
your tree.

"You still want to second-guess me, Myra?"

Finally she shook her head. Her attempted smile was
feeble, but Barton was convinced that she meant it "No,
Barton. And thanks. Sooner or later he might have killed
Cheng—and I happen to love Cheng.'*

"Well, / happen to think that makes Cheng a very
lucky guy." He grinned. "You know I'm safely taken, so
I guess it's okay to say that in my book you're one whole
lot of fine lady."

She nodded. "Why, thanks. Barton." He turned to
leave. "Oh, I almost forgot. Tell Limila for me that her
trick worked, with the gravity." Barton scowled, puzzled.
"I mean, my clock's running again just fine." Glad of a
little good news for a change, he grinned again and left
her.

When he went to the galley for coffee, he found Tarle-
ton and Limila waiting for him. "How did it go with ap
Fenn?". Tarleton asked.

Barton didn't like the question. "Ask him yourself."
He set down the empty coffee cup and got out a beer in-
stead.

"What's the trouble? Something you don't think I
should know?" Barton shook his bead. Eventually, Tarle-
ton would find out for himself—meanwhile, why bother
with it? That was all.

But he wasn't to be rid of the subject. Liese Anajek and
Vito Scalsa, of Compartment Five, joined them. The dark>
wiry Scalsa, who was shaping up into a grade-A pilot,
didn't say much. Liese, a small, rounded, birdlike girl
from Indonesia, couldn't hide her curiosity. Oddly, she
didn't look as if she could swat a fly, let alone handle
Weapons. But she was good at her job.

"I hear you had to crumb Terike, Barton," she began.
"Wow! Teeth all over the deckl What was it, anyway?
Girl trouble?" Barton nodded; he didn't want to talk, but
no point in denying the facts.

"He's certainly been the rounds," said Liese. "First
Alene, then Myra, then me, then Helaise—and now he's
after Myra again. I can't figure him out—did he go

170

'•     i.

i

through the list on a trial basis and then make up his
mind, or is he just a butterfly at heart, ever flitting from
flower to flower?"

"It doesn't matter," said Barton. "He's taken his last
flit."

"How do you know?" the girl asked.

"Because everybody else is satisfied where they are.
It took a while, yes. But look at you two, for instance.
You're practically spot-welded."

Liese broke into laughter. Barton stood; the change of
pace gave him a good opening to leave the group.

"Just a minute," said Tarleton. "Look—I don't want
you to think I was criticizing. I wasn't. It was my job and
you did it for me, so how you did it was up to you.

"But now I'm worried. Ap Fenn is a proud man, even
a vain one. What if he tries to get back at you?"

Barton shrugged. "I'll think of something."

"Well, whatever it takes, you have my backing. He's
good at his job, but on this expedition you're worth ten of
him. So even if you have to ... I mean, Limila's good on
weapons, too."

"Oh, hell, Tarleton! I'll go talk to the guy, when he's
out of shock. He gives me any trouble a little bluff can't
cure, and he'll get a change of roommates, all right."
Barton grinned, not nicely. "Ill move him into the ice-
box—Cabin Six—with Hishtoo."

Finally, he got away from the uncomfortable conversa-
tion. At least, Limila hadn't asked any questions.

Cheng had the pilot watch. Barton put him through
some training exercises, although these had now become
ritual rather than necessity. The man was embarrassed
and grateful about the ap Fenn incident, and kept trying
to thank Barton, but Barton wouldn't let the discussion
leave the mechanics of the control panel. As he left, he
clapped Cbeng on the shoulder. "Just let it lie; I'll take it
as read." Cheng smiled in obvious relief.

In Number Three he found a tense, frightened Helaise
ministering to ap Fenn, who growled in surly mumbles
through swollen lips. Barton's presence obviously in-
creased her discomfort, but she said nothing beyond a
noncommittal greeting.

"Helaise," he said. Then, "Well,- ap Fenn, where do
we stand?"

171

Ap Fenn scowled but refused to speak.

Helaise turned on Barton. "How could you do that to
him?"

"It wasn't easy. Ap Fennl I asked a question. Speak
up."

"Maybe nest time you won't be so lucky." The words
were muttered.

Explosively, Barton released an exasperated sigh.
"Next time? Man, this expedition is no schoolyard—it's
a life-or-death matter, for the human race. I can't—and
I won't—be bothered, worrying about some muscle boy
with a childish grudge. Yes, that means you! Now hear
me, ap Perm—and hear me well.

"If there is anything like a 'next time' with you, you
know what happens? I'll tell you—you will damn well
get out and walk."

Ap Fenn snorted, then winced at what the pressure did
to his damaged nose. "I imagine Tarletoo will have
something to say about that."

"Hell yes, he will. Hell wave to you and say *Bon
voyage!*, is what. You think I'm stupid enough to try to
bypass Tarleton's authority? Well, I'm not"

Ap Fenn still didn't answer; Barton decided to rub it
in a little. "As a matter of fact," he said, slowly and with
relish, "when I came here earlier today, I had full
authority to use my own judgment about you. No limits.
Because by circumstance—I won't say merit—I'm more
valuable to this expedition than you are. I suggest you
keep that in mind."

Time to throw the man a bone, deserved or not?
"On the other hand, you're right—I was lucky. I'd hate
to tackle you even-steven. If I'd figured you to get so
hostile, I'd have brought a sidearm to equalize things."
Pure soothing soap. that; big as ap Fenn was, and quick
at weapons control, be had little skill at personal combat.

"Now why don't we drop it? You're good at your job
and we can use you. But forget about swapping
roomies any more, because everyone else is settled and
satisfied. If you aren't"—enough carrot, time again for
the stick—"you can swap bunks with Eeshta, and move
in with Hishtoo." That should do it.

"Come on. Helaise; the Shield is due for a balance
check. You haven't been through those procedures
lately." Until ap Fenn had time to cool off, he wanted
her out of that room....

172

At the door they met Limila, carrying a tray of dishes
steaming hot from the galley. "I will stay with him
awhile," she said.

Barton and Helaise went to the rear of the ship and
check-marked their way through the Shield-maintenance
routine. It went slowly, because she wanted to talk.
Well, Barton figured, she might as well get it off her chest.

Terike is not a bad man," she said.

"So how come a good man wants to throw you out?"

"He's greedy, like a little boy—he's been repressed.
Now he is breaking loose, and can't stop grabbing for
the next goodie on the Christmas tree."

Barton had to chuckle. "Before this came up, did he
treat you okay?"

She nodded. "Yes, mostly. He's not very sensitive to
anyone else's feelings, but he does try. Even now, it's not
(hat he means to hurt me—but suddenly he has this big
urge for Myra, and simply can't see anything else. Or
anyone..."

"Childish, is what How the hell did such an unstable
character ever get past the screening tests?"

"He has an uncle, high up in the Agency." Silently,
Barton used some high-up obscenities with regard to all
politicians.

When (he tests and adjustments were finished, he com-
mended Helaise on her work and they went forward to
their separate cabins. Barton found that Limila bad not
yet returned to Number Two; he washed up and lay
back for a relaxing doze. When he heard a knock, he
thought he'd forgotten and locked the door, and got up
to admit Limila. But it was Helaise who stood in the
doorway.

"Anything wrong?"

She seemed flustered. "I—she—I mean—Barton, I
have nowhere else to go."

"Ap Fenn throw you out? Well, we'll see about that!"

"No, Barton. She—Limila—is with Terike. She told
me to come here. Didn't you know?"

"I will stay with him awhile," Limila had said. Barton
had thought, sure, stay long enough to feed him—but
apparently she had meant considerably more. He felt
empty. He couldn't be angry—not at Limila—but sud-
denly he wanted to take Helaise like a bull, a tiger, a
force of total destruction.

173

He didn't, of course. He took her, and she him, be-
cause each needed the other. But very gently.

When Uroila came in, they awoke. She looked as
though she had been beaten in such a way as to leave no
marks.

"Please go to Terike, Helaise," she said—and would
say no more until the girl had gone. Then she looked at
Barton. "I thought I was doing a right thing."

Barton was stumped. Finally, "Maybe you'd better tell
me about it"

Umila sat facing him. "On Tilara, there is a way a
woman may stop a killing matter between her man and
another. It is not law, only custom. But if she goes to the
other man with a gift of food and herself, for that time,
and is accepted, that man has agreed to end the matter."

"How about her own man?" Barton's growl was deeper
than he intended it

"He must accept the truce or the woman kills herself.
Thus die custom is not lightly followed, nor broken."

Well, I should think not, thought Barton. His anger—
no, resentment—at Umila was replaced with a kind of
awe.

"So what happened?" His voice was quiet, and he
knew he must not touch her—not yet

"At first—1 should have realized—Terike could not
understand. He did not believe I meant it. Then he be-
came excited, eager. But when I removed my clothing,
be—he could not do anything, after all.

"And then be laughed, a laugh to hurt me. And he
said I am to tell you that you are quite welcome to your
plastic bitch."

For a moment. Barton was like a statue. "I see," he
said. Without hurry, he got up and dressed.

"Barton—what are you going to do?"

"Nothing much," he said. "Just kill Terike ap Fenn a
little bit"

"No! You cannoti"

"The hell I can't. I have Tarleton's express permis-
sion."

"But that was for the good of the ship—not for only a
personal matter."

"He said I could use my own judgment Well, I've
used it"

174

"Barton, you must not. Or if you kill him, I must kill
me."

He turned on her. "This isn't Tilara; the custom
doesn't apply! And besides, the sonofabitch didn't accept
you."

"He tried to do so; it is not his fault that I do not
have breasts."

He was beaten and he knew it, but still be tried. "Why
do you want him alive?"

"Except that Helaise needs him, I do not care if be
lives or dies. It is you, Barton, who must not do this kill-
ing, for this reason."

Barton slumped as if she had let me air out of him.
"All right, Limila—you win. Ap Fenn lives unless he ac-
tually attacks me—and I won't goad him into it. But I
am going now, to tell him something."

"I may go with you. Barton?"

"No."

At Number Three, Helaise answered his knock. Bar-
ton pushed in, patted her cheek, and spoke directly to
ap Fenn. "I got your message." The man said nothing,
only glared.

"Maybe I didn't get it quite straight; maybe you'd like
to repeat it." Still no answer. "Let me ask you—did you
understand the terms of Limila's offer?"

"I think so, yes."

**Then you know why you're still alive." Ap Fenn
tried a smirk; it was not convincing. "AH right—by Tilar-
an custom, this matter between us is at an end. I so
agree." Ap Fenn did smirk.

"But," said Barton, "any further move by you—even
one word—and it's a brand new ball game. In fairness,
I have to tell you that" And he left

Limila asked for, and got, a verbatim report. Big-eyed,
she nodded. "You have beaten him—you have freed me
from the consequences of my act. Barton ... I I am very
glad that you will never be my enemy."

For a few days Barton was edgy about the incident, but
nothing more happened. He and ap Fenn spoke only in
line of duty, but that was nothing new—they'd never
had much in common. Barton had enough work to

175

keep him busy, so eventually he relaxed and—mostly
—forgot about it.

Except that he didn't trust Terike ap Fenn behind his
back, and never would.

The next time he found Eeshta on comm-watch, he
proposed the matter that had been on his mind since
their last meeting.

"You wish to speak Demu, Barton?"

"Yes, Eeshta—for when we meet your people. Will
you come to my quarters when you're off watch? After
you've eaten and rested, of course." Eeshta was agree-
able.

Limila spoke Demu, but Barton wanted to work both
with her, the linguist, and with Eeshta, the native-
tongued. He progressed more rapidly than he had ex-
pected, and decided he must have absorbed more than
he'd realized of what the Demu had tried to teach him
in captivity. Then, he had refused to learn out of sheer
stubbornness and resentment—and because he wanted
to keep his own mind a mystery to his captors.

Only later had he learned that the refusal was all that
had kept bis anatomy safe from the drastic surgery the
Demu practiced on "animals" who learned their jailers'
speech.

Barton couldn't match the high-pitched Demu intona-
tions, but he mastered the hissing sibilants well, to
Umila's and even Eeshta's satisfaction. And as the fleet
neared the end of the first leg of its journey, he decided
to give his new accomplishment the acid test. Eeshta ac-
companied him to Compartment Six; they entered. Sit-
ting, the older Demu looked at them in silence-

"I greet you, Hishtoo," said Barton. "It is that we now
may speak."

Hishtoo stood, then turned away. "I greet you, Hish-
too," Barton said again. "Is it that we shall speak to-
gether?"

Still facing away, Hishtoo spoke; the hood muffled the
Demu's voice. "It is that you are not Demu, but animal.
It is that Hishtoo does not speak with animals."

Nothing that Barton—or Eeshta—could say, made
any apparent dent in Hishtoo's obstinacy. Eventually,
Barton shrugged and gave it up. He had bis answer, any-

176

way—his speech had been understood, all right. It would
do....

The fleet, slowing and tightening its formation, ap-
proached Tilara without challenge, more closely than
anyone had expected. But finally the hail came. Tarle-
ton had comm-watch; since his fluency in Tilaran was
minimal, he put out the squawk for Barton and Limila
to come take the call.

Limila had briefed Tarleton, from her layman's un-
derstanding, on Tilaran communications frequencies and
modulation systems. She had done well; the controls re-
quired very little adjustment to bring a clear picture
and voice over the viewscreen.

Barton gestured for Limila to take over—if need be, he
could supply answers to questions concerning Earth.
Automatically he transposed her Tilaran idioms into
their English equivalents.

*'To the Tilaran ships, greetings," she said. 'To you
speaks a woman of Tilara—once taken by the Demu,
now returned here by people of Earth. It is their ships
you see—they who seek your aid and offer theirs to you.

"In especial is this man beside me. He is Barton, who
took me from the Demu of his own force and without
help. He is become to me my most needful person and is
to be granted that respect by- all, though he is not Tilar-
an." Barton began to feel embarrassed.

"I ensure," said Limila, "that we of these ships, that
number three twelves and four, are of friendship, of
help—of hope to end the Demu terror. Our weapons are
for use only against your enemies, who are also ours. In
your kindness, give us the neednesses to come to rest on
Tilara, where all may share knowledge and grow to
share effort—that the Demu take us no more.

"Did I say it right, Barton?" she whispered.

"Hell, I couldn't have done it better myself." And
that, he thought, was pure truthi

The Tilaran speaker proceeded to give landing in-
structions. Limila translated for Scalsa, the pilot, and
Myra Hake relayed the information to the fleet. "Looks
like everything's under control," said Barton. "Let's go
have us a drink, Tarleton." The other nodded, and the
two men repaired to the galley where Barton opened a
cold beer. Tarleton poured coffee for himself.

177

**What, in particular, do you want me to do while
we're here?" Barton asked.

The big man paused, then said, "Just about what "you
would anyway, I guess. Hang with me in conferences, to
bolster my lousy grasp of the language. Back Limila up,
where she may be a little shaky on facts about Earth. We
have to impress on these people that we need help,
that it's a hurry-up operation, and that we're all-out to
help them, too. And get all the social data you can—so
our troops don't go around dropping bricks."

Barton nodded. "Fine—that's about what I thought
Now, how much local exposure do you want Hishtoo and
Eeshta to get?"

"How much do you think is wise?"

"For the general public," Barton said, "let's keep it
purely on the viewscreen. I'd hate to see some bunch go
hysterical and mob them—especially Eeshta. I couldn't
chance her with an unselected audience, if you see what
I mean."

"I do see." Tarleton hesitated. "Uh—another point
How are you and ap Fenn getting along?"

"He's alive, isn't he?" Barton's voice was flat. "What
more do you want?"

"I've . . . never quite understood that situation. Barton
—while we're down on Tilara, would you prefer that
we trade him off to some other ship?"

Barton needed no time to consider the proposal—he
had a mental picture of ap Fenn, safely out of Barton's
reach, indulging childish spite by discussing Limila. But
he answered mildly. "No—I'd rather have him where I
can keep an eye on him. I mean, guess what could hap-
pen if he tried his tricks on a crew that wasn't braced
for him.'* Tarleton looked doubtful, but did not press
the point

Guidance to Tilara, and the subsequent landing, pro-
ceeded smoothly, Back in the control room for the land-
ing approach. Barton was first impressed by Tilaran
architecture—except as a last resort, it seldom used
straight lines or solid colors. Conic sections were favorites,
especially the ellipse and parabola, and colors blended
smoothly from one shade to another. Tilarans were not
slaves to symmetry—one side of a building might be
convex paraboloid and the other concave elliptical. The
effect. Barton noted with approval, always seemed to

178

come out right Belatedly he noticed the plentiful growth
of treelike foliage, but had no time to pick out details
before Ship One touched down.

A few minutes later, four hundred humans—including
one Tilaran and two Demu—had landed on Tilara.

"There'll be a short delay," said Tarleton, "before
the reception committee shows up. Time for a quick
briefing." For the first time since liftoff, he was unmis-
takably taking charge. Back in his own element, thought
Barton—well, good enough.

The big man signed to Barton and Limila. "For this
first meeting," he said, "I think six of us is about right
You two, of course, and the other three squadron com-
manders." Limila whispered something to Barton that
he didn't quite catch, and left them. Tarleton turned to
Myra Hake at the comm-board. "Hook up the squadron
honchos for me, would you?" Then. to Barton, "You
give them the drill, right?" Barton nodded.

Myra nipped toggles and made low-voiced requests.
Soon the picture split into four quarters: Barton saw
himself, Slobodna, Tamirov, and Cummings.

"Hi, Slowboat—Tammy—Estelle. We're all elected to
go out with the boss and meet the new neighbors, so
gussy-up and come on over. I don't have the full land-
ing layout, but Ship One is spine place in the middle—
shouldn't be too hard to find. Any questions?" The two
men shook their beads and cut screens. Slobodna had
been one of Barton's first pilot trainees on Earth, and the
Russian was Slowboat's own prize pupil—they wouldn't
have questions, Barton reflected.

Estelle Cummings was still on. "Uniform of the day?"
she asked.

Barton studied her image on the screen—the strong
features framed by her long, blonde hair. He had never
met the tall, big-boned woman, didn't know quite what
to make of her. She pushed the fall of hair back from
one side of her face. Beside her stood her husband,
Max, a surgeon. He was shorter than his wife, but from
what Barton- had heard, they made a good team—no
pecking order. He brought his mind back to business.

"Uniform, Estelle? Whatever you like. I don't think
our hosts are the type to be picky." She nodded and
switched off, as Limila returned, having changed to a
short, loose robe.

179

"I've had my fingers crossed for that ship," said Tarie-
ton.

"Cummings'? How so?"

"That's the one I mentioned, with the seven-to-three
ratio—seven men to three women. With one of the
women married—and the ship's captain and squadron
commander, at that—things could have gotten messy.'*

"What arrangement did they come up with, do you
know?"

"I haven't asked," said Tarieton. "As long as it works
for them, it's really none of my business." And that,
Barton reflected, was one of the things that made Tarie-
ton a good man to work for.

Myra Hake turned from the viewscreen, which now
showed the area near the ship's lowered access ramp.
•It's time for you to go out, I think. Company's coming."

The three disembarked. Breathing deeply of the air of
her home planet, Limila pointed ahead, where the Tilar-
an delegation approached. The long, straight wig was
brushed back to hang free behind her. The loose robe,
in shades of pale blue-green, disguised the shape of her
body, but a gust of breeze showed Barton that she'd al-
tered the harness of her padded bra. The false breasts
now sat lower and wider, approximating the natural
Tilaran location. He hid a grin.

The other three squadron commanders converged to
meet them; all six walked toward the nine Tilarans
who waited a few yards distant. Barton noticed that
Tilarans did not come in blond; hair was black like
Limila's or dark brown with reddish tinges.

Of the nine, there could be no doubt which was in
charge. He was not the tallest, nor more richly dressed,
nor did he carry himself with arrogance. But while he
looked squarely at the visiting group, the other Tilaran
men and two women looked mostly to him.

He stepped forward. So did Tarieton, bringing Limila
witfi him.

"I am Vertan," the Tilaran said, "There exists a num-
ber to distinguish me, if need be, from other Vertans.
You are as if invited here; feel yourselves home-born of
Tilara. Now I have said too long, before giving a new
friend turn to say."

*T am Tarieton," said the big man, slowly. His accent,
Barton realized, was really bad. "I do not say your

180

speech well. So if it may be, Limila, our first Tilaran
friend, says for me." He reached to shake Vertan's hand,
appeared to realize that the gesture meant nothing to the
Tilaran, and started to retract the movement. But after
a moment's pause, Vertan reached out and clasped
Tarieton's hand with his own.

"This is how you meet?'* Vertan motioned to his reti-
nue, and a handshaking free-for-all ensued. Before it
was over. Barton was sure he'd shaken hands with one
of the women at least three times.

When order returned, Tarieton—speaking through
Uroila—outlined the Earth fleet's background and pur-
pose. Limila translated both ways directly, omitting such
frills as "he says." Barton observed that Vertan's occa-
sional questions were very much to the point.

After a time the TUaran raised a hand and began to
recapitulate what he had been told. "You wish us of
Tilara," Limila relayed, "and such others as are of like
interest, to join you in forcing issue to the Demu." Tarie-
ton nodded.

"You have and will share the Demu sleeping-weapon,
their Shield against that weapon and others, and your
own uniform-radiation device that penetrates the Shield."
Another nod,

"Have you other weapons?"

"Not on this fleet Everything else we tried, the Shield
stops."

"Some of our own weapons might be of help. Do you
want?'*

"Sure, of course. Anything that can crack the Shield."

"But we cannot know until we meet the Demu."

"How's that?"

"The sleeping-weapon- On our ships that survive
Demu contact and are not taken, no one can remember
the happening of battle—that our weapons were used or
had effect."

Sure, Barton recalled—the memory-blanking. With
heavy exposure, the damage could be extensive, even
permanent. Nice trick....

"Can't hurt to take them along," Tarieton said. "Just
in case."

For the first time. Barton cut in. "You're missing the
point"

"So?" Tarieton didn't sound disturbed.
"Like back home. We float up a Shielded hulk, loaded

181

with instruments, and cut loose at it with everything these
folks have. Then we know."

Limila looked at Tarleton. He nodded, and she re-
peated Barton's proposal in Tilaran. Vertan smiled, and
half-bowed toward Barton.

"We can proceed so." He looked at Barton more
closely. "You are he who took the Demu ship?" Umila
did not translate.

"Yes, with much fortune."

*Then you of all be home-bom among us." Barton
couldn't think of an answer, so he tried the half-bow in
return. Judging by Vertan's smile. Barton had made
adequate response.

"Next of importance." Limila was relaying again.      ;

"Two other peoples, of friendship to Tilara, are also of
possibility to join against the Demu. These are the     ^
Larka-Te and the Filjar. You meet them' in an early     J
time—some here on Tilara. Their weapons are as ours,     a
for we share.                                               r

"Others of acquaintance to us would aid but have not      ^
the way." Tarleton asked for a repeat, and learned that
several other races had the willingness to help, but not     -i
the resources.                                                ^

"I think we're agreed, then," said Tarleton. "Can we     *
set up a schedule of conferences and arrange a place for      ^
them?"                                                    •I

"At soonest. I will inform direct to your ship."              ^

Barton decided that the party was about to break up,     i*
but first Limila stepped forward to speak quietly with     H"
Vertan. After a moment, he embraced her. In low tones     H
they spoke further, then separated, both smiling. But     ^
when- Limila returned to Barton's side, he saw tears in
her eyes.

Barton had bet on a final orgy of handshaking, and he
won. Then after brief "so long"s to Slobodna, Tamirov,
and Cummmgs, the walk back to the ship was silent. Far
off, among buildings edging the spaceport. Barton had
his first clear look at Tilaran trees. The foliage appeared
feathery, with more yellow to its green than most Earthly
vegetation. The breeze brought a light flowerlike fra-
grance, though he saw no recognizable blooms.

Inside the ship, Tarleton said, "See you at dinner?
About an hour?" and left the other two. In Compartment
Two. Barton and Limila doffed clothing. He had been

182

right—she had lengthened the bra straps so that the
pads now sat low and wide on her rib cage. She looked
at him, but he made no comment.

He made drinks and gave her one; they sat relaxing.
Finally, he said, "You know Vertan before?"

"I knew of him; we had not met. He is one of great
respect."

"I noticed, and I agree—he's a man, in anybody's
league."

Limila smiled. "You want to know of what we spoke,
that you did not hear?'*

"Sure, if it's any of my business." Well, she'd saved
him from asking. . . .

"We spoke of teeth. Barton—of teeth and of tits. Soon
I shall smile to you with forty teeth, again. And perhaps,
though it is not yet certain, I no longer will need to
wear dead padding. Vertan is to set a meeting of me
with Tilaran surgical experts, and in a day or two I will
know."

A couple of hours' talking in Tilaran, Barton thought,
certainly brought back her native turn of phrase in a
hurry. Not that he minded, so long as he knew what she
meant. . ..

"That's fine with me, honey—whatever you want."

And at dinner, they and Tarleton were agreed that the
fleet's first day on Tilara showed considerable promise.

Conferences—planning sessions—began the next day.
A Tilaran ground car delivered Barton and Tarleton to a
building at the edge of the spaceport, indented into a
grove of the feathery trees. Its shape was a simple para-
bolic ellipsoid. Inside, the surface blended smoothly
from copper-colored at floor level to shining silver at the
top.

The first order of business—exchange of technical in-
formation—went slowly at first, as the two groups be-
came accustomed to each other's modes of thought Top
priority was the project for testing the weapons of the
Tilari—and their allies—against the Demu Shield. But
the longer they talked about it, the more complicated it
became.

Barton found himself becoming impatient. He felt his
boss was too easygoing, too willing to allow the discus-
sions to get onto side tangents. While the squadron lead-

183

era and other specialists continued to talk, he drew
Tarleton aside.

"Look—we're wasting time. They're talking projectile
systems; we already know the Shield will stop those. Hell,
it stood up against our fusion warheads, didn't it?"

"True," said Tarleton. "But we can't really tell our
new allies, can we, that most of their arsenal is effec-
tively a pile of junk?"

"We don't have to. But can't we zero-in first on the
possibles, and let 'em test the other stuff later? You've
listened to the pitch, same as I have—they have just
three things that might work. I want to set it up to test
those first, so we'll know what the hell—if anything—
we have going for us."

"Three? Did I miss one?"

"Okay." Barton held up his index finger. "One. The
TUari twin-ion beam, that converges when it hits solid
matter, and induces kiloamps of high-freq current in the
target. And they have that in a handgun model, believe
it or not. I think that gizmo should be number one on
our list."

"AH right, I agree. What else?"

Barton now had two fingers extended. "The plasma-
gun. Whose is that? I didn't get all the spiel. . . ."

"A Filjar development—and that's the one I missed;

I didn't understand the explanation."

"Me either, in detail," said Barton. "But what I did
get is, it throws a sort of souped-up ball lightning—a
plasma that's stable until it touches something. Then it
unstables in one hell of a hurry, focused toward the point
of contact. Only drawback is that comparatively, it's a
little slow."

"But will it penetrate the Shield?"

"Jesus Christ! That's what we want to find out!"

Tarleton shook his head. "Sorry. Trying to think in
Tilaran, all day, has me a little confused."

"Yeh—me, too. Don't worry; we'll get used to it."

"I hope so. All right, then. Your third candidate?"

Barton had forgotten his finger-counting routine. "The
Larka-Te high-drive torpedoes."

"I thought so, from the way you looked when they
were being described. But that's a projectile system, isn't
it?"

"Not quite," Barton said. "It starts that way, all drive
164

and warhead, so it goes like a bat. In fact, the drive is
the warhead, if I have that right.

"But why it might work is that when it hits and the
drive begins to blow, it blows in a coherent wave front.
And while the front end is blowing, there's a matter of
picoseconds when the back end is still pushing. So I
think it's worth a try."

"All right. Barton. We'll arrange to put those three at
the head of the line, for testing, and not worry about
how long it takes to check out the rest."

"Good enough. One other thing, though. So far, we
haven't talked about when we land and have to get out
of the ships, in Demu territory. It's a safe bet the Demu
have the sleep-gun in portable size—and maybe indivi-
dual, one-man Shields. We don't, and we should. Hell,
we haven't even worked up hand lasers."

"I know, Barton. Look—this was discussed on Earth.
The decision, was, that rather than delay the fleet, we
wait to develop personal hardware until we saw what our
allies might have to offer."

"All right—so here we are and here they are. When
do we get to it? Just in case the Tilaran ion beam doesn't
fill the bill?"

"Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any."

Barton was satisfied; the two men rejoined the group.
Tactfully, as always, Tarleton arranged the agenda so as
to test the three "possibles" jirst, and initiated a project
to work on development of personal Shields and weap-
ons.

By the end of the second day, a firm schedule had
been set. Slobodna would have a Shielded instrument
package—complete with telemetry—in orbit the fol-
lowing day, with three more in reserve in case of too-
vigorous success against the first one.

On that cheerful note, Vertan issued an invitation.
"Our work is well. Now, also at leisure should we meet."
In other words. Barton translated, come to the party. He
was right. Two evenings hence—come prepared to re-
lax.

One thing bothered him. The Earth group had met no
members of other races present on Tilara—nor were any
such to be present at this first social occasion. The next
time he and Limila were alone together, he asked her,
"How come the apartheid?"

'165

"It is difficult," she said, "for persons of any race to
accustom to other races, at first, even without facing
several differing kinds immediately. You will meet the
others later.

"But now—here is what you must tell your people, of
the customs of Tilara."

Barton listened, then shook his head. "They'll never
believe it," he said. "You tell 'em." And he stuck to that

The problem was the casual, friendly Tilaran attitude
toward sex, considered as a social grace. He should not,
Barton realized, be surprised—from their first meeting,
Limila had made it clear that the ideal of sexual monog-
amy did not dominate Tilaran culture, even superficially.
But now he found that be had not understood the extent
of the difference ....

On social occasions, Tilarans wore loose robes—for
the specific purpose of facilitating intimate advances.
One might. Barton learned, be intimately fondled at first
meeting, if the other person were attracted. Consent was
not mandatory—Tilarans took "no" for an answer, with
good grace.

But there was a form—a protocol—to it, that be found
hard to understand, and despaired that most of fleet
personnel would ever understand.

The first thing he did was to make sure that Terike ap
Fenn wasn't oo the list to go to the party. The second
was, he insisted that Limila repeat her briefing lecture
at least twice. And still he had his doubts.

A few more. than fifty Earthfolk attended the function
—one from each ship, plus a few extra. At first. Barton
was nervous as hell—too nervous to pay due heed to the
lush decor of the place. He sipped a tart, greenish wine
and hardly tasted it, preoccupied with wondering how he
should react if groped under his Tilaran robe. After a
while, when nothing happened, he began to feel ag-
grieved—how could he protect bis virtue if no one
propositioned him?

He turned to whisper to Limila, to make a joke of
his unease, and saw her leaving the room—accompanied.
Beside him was another Tilaran woman, obviously young,
whose long, reddish brown hair was coiled into a sin-
gle curl falling forward over a bare shoulder.

She spoke. "Limila meets the one who long ago, be-

186

fore the Demu took her, was her most needful person.
Is it not happy for them?"

Barton couldn't have said "yes" if someone had of-
fered him a drink. Sure, it was all right by Tilaran cus-
tom, but . . . Then, showing her small Tilaran teeth in a
smile, she reached under his robe.

"I am livajj. Might you be with me now. Barton?
Limila has said you may not wish to, but that it is fitting
to ask."

When in Rome, thought Barton, and allowed her to
take his hand and lead him away. And when they were
alone, livajj met him not casually but as though she had
loved him all her lifetime. Barton was shaken; he felt
unworthy, but did his best—hoping that best would be
good enough—to be to livajj as she was to him.

She seemed to have no complaints or reservations. And
later, her good-byes to him were warm and happy.

He decided to ask Limila no questions. He didn't
have to—next day, back at the ship, she told him the
answers anyway.

"Barton, it was so good to be again with Tevann. I
am glad you did not mind and that you were with the
little livajj. So young, she is, but of good thought." Well,
yes. Barton mused—that, at the very least.

"Limila," he said. "That js how it is, with all your
people?"

"Yes, of course. You know that. Barton—you pretend
you don't, but you do, and have for long. With conscious
control of ovulation, and lack of sexual diseases you
have on Earth, why should it be otherwise?"

"But—I would have expected things to be sort of
—oh, casual, I guess. Just for fun. And there was cer-
tainly nothing casual about livajj."

"Nor about you with her. Barton, I would think. Free-
dom is not a thing to be taken lightly. But now—is
there more you wish to ask, that you also know already?"

Barton thought. "No, I guess not. Except Just one
thing—am I still your most needfur person?"

"Always, Barton. Always. You gave me back my life,
and before that, you helped me through the time when I
was not alive. That was then—and now it is as we say,
simply that you are my most needful person." She drew a
shuddering breath. "Am I yours?"

187

"Do you have to ask that?" It turned out she didn't,
really.

Apparently no one from the fleet had blown any gaffs,
for Tarleton was now invited—solo—to meet represen-
tatives of other races who were on visiting terms. Over
dinner, be gave Barton and Limila his impressions.

"You'll have to see the* Larka-Te, to believe them.
They're impressive—not especially tall, but slim and
elegant They make you feel they're something special

—and it's not anything they do on purpose. It's just the
way they are.

"The Filjar remind me, a little, of myself in a fur
coat. Big and lumbering. But Vertan says they're not
easy to push around." Well, thought Barton—neither
was Tarleton, for that matter.

"The big question mark is the Ormthu. They're new
to the Tilarans—made contact only a few months ago.
There is one Ormthan oa this planet—I repeat, one—
unsupported by any troops or weaponry, and treated
with utmost respect. I don't know when I'll get to meet
him; Vertan wasn't sure. But if I didn't misunderstand

—and I may have—the Ormthu long since came to
peaceable terms with the Demu, on the grounds that if
you're tough enough, you get left alone. So apparently
they're neutral, where the Demu are concerned. We'll
have to find out more about that—if and when we ever
meet the Ormthan."

"Tevann has seen it once, briefly," Limila said. "In
rest, like a large pink egg, but with ability to shape it-
self as it wishes. A head, eyes, mouth, arms—all form
at need, and retract when need is gone."

"Like an intelligent amoeba?" Tarleton asked.
"I think, yes. But warm to touch, it is told, and not
wet-
Barton shook his head. "I guess it takes all kinds. But
look, Limila—you must have seen Larka-Te, and Fil-
jar, too. Can you tell us more about them?"

"On Tilara, before, I was seldom where they go—I
saw them only a few times, and at distance. But with the
Demu were several of each, taken as we. Along with
other peoples not known to me."

"Did I see them? I don't remember any."
"No. Barton. These were taken earlier, by another

188

ship. And I did not see them whole, but only after the
Demu had changed them. Quite different."

"I'll bet." The thought of Demu surgery gave Bar-
ton's voice a harsh edge.

"In some ways not so terrible as for Earth people or
Tilarans," she said. "The Larka-Te produce not live
birth, but eggs—like your birds. No breasts or outside
sex—so not as damaged as your people or ours, except
face and hands and feet—and hair, of course." A strand
of her wig twisted between thumb and finger.

"Yeh," said Barton. "And how about the Filjar?"

"You would have to see. Size, bulk of Filjar is of large
part fur and loose folds of skin. Slow movement is not of
bulk, but slower racial characteristic of nervous system.
But Filjar minds are fast and keen.

"Filjar with fur removed, loose skin cut away and
made tight, are strange to see. The ones I saw did not
adjust—they set their minds and, of purpose, died. And
they had not lost sex, even—when not of use, it retracts,
so Demu did not notice and remove."

"Bully for them." The comment was a conversation
stopper and Barton knew it—but what else was there to
say? "Well, I guess we all have things to do—right?"
Barton didn't, but he left the table and set out to look
for something.

In the control room he (pund Vertan, the Tilaran, in
discussion with Vito Scalsa. Both were having difficulty
with the language barrier; Barton volunteered to inter-
pret.

"What we're working on," said Scalsa, "is coordination
and timing. Flight plans—all that."

Barton knew what the problem was. The Tilaran
space drive was similar to that of the Demu, but less ef-
ficient—it could match the Earth ships in top velocity
but not in acceleration, either line-of-flight or turning.
The difficulty was in planning departure times and rout-
ings so that all would arrive at rendezvous in Demu
territory near-simultaneously.

"When we think we know agreement," Vertan said,
"we find we have, one or other, failed to make all num-
bers of same kind." Tilaran duodecimal numbering had
confused matters before—Barton was surprised that no
one had come up with an overall solution. He thought
about it—why, hell, it was simple!

"Scalsa, you're good on the computer. Why don't you

189

program the tin beast to run all calculations parallel—
decimal and duodecimal, both? Tag your input 'data
whichever it is, and run comparison-conversion checks
on your double readouts to catch any glitches. Won't
that do it?" Switching to Tilaran, he repeated the pro-
posal to Vertan.

Scalsa grinned. "Sure, it'll do it. / should have thought
of that." He frowned. "You know why I didn't?" Barton
waited. "Because I had the idea I was here to take or-
ders, same as back on Earth, working for the Agency."

"Well, from now on you're here to think, too, Scalsa."
Barton saw he had been too abrupt, and added, "No
blame—I know how it is." He spoke briefly to Vertan—
putting him and Scalsa on their own again—and left
them.

He found Limila, in their compartment, packing a
suitcase. What the hell? She looked up from the dress
she had folded neatly, and smiled. "Hello, Barton."

"Yen, hello. What's going on? You moving out or
something?"

"For a time, yes." She stood, came to him and em-
braced. "I told you—I am to have TUari teeth again.
Perhaps even breasts, of a sort. And for that—to find
out—I must go to a surgical place, what you call a hos-
pital. Only a few days—and then we know. Barton, how
I am to appear in life for all our time. You do not ob-
ject?"

Barton's anxieties collapsed—goddamn my paranoid
instincts, he thought. He held her close. "Sure not. Can
I come to see you?"

"I would think so. I will ask. Barton .. . ?"

"Yes."

"Good. I will have to change clothes, anyway."

Next day the prospect of meeting Larka-Te and Filjar
helped take Barton's mind off Limila's absence. Over
breakfast, Tarleton gave him additonal briefing.

"Don't smile at the Larka-Te, any more than you can
help—it confuses them." Barton felt himself looking puz-
zled. "Among themselves," Tarleton continued, "they con-
verse with facial expressions nearly as much as with
words—and mostly with variations, or modes, as they
call them, of the smile."

"How do they manage talking over a voice circuit?"

"They don't. The Larka-Te never bothered to invent

190

voice-only communications. Until they had a workable
picture-phone, they made do with writing—including a
sort of hieroglyphics for the accompanying smile modes.
Used as punctuation, no less."

Barton thought he saw the problem, now. "So if we
smile, they think we mean something we don't?"

"Precisely. A Larka-Te may say 'welcome,' and be
smiling in anything from the 'my dwelling is yours' mode
to the 'I have waited long for vengeance' mode. Re-
duced to nothing but words in a foreign language, they
have a hard time of it. The ones here on Tilara have
had a lot of practice—but still, try to hold it down on
the grins."

"I'll keep it in mind," Barton said. "By the way, are
they all men? No Larka-Te women?"

"I have no idea—they haven't said. They all dress
alike, and the names don't tell me a thing—any more
than the Filjar names do."

"Yen—how about our furry friends? Anything in
particular to watch out for, there?"

"Nothing special, except don't try to be in a hurry.
You won't have to worry about facial expressions—
with all that fur, they don't really have any. And again,
I have no idea which ones might be male or female. All
that loose skin and bulky fur doesn't tell you much."

"They don't wear clothes?"

"Just a sort of utility harness, with pockets and such.
Several different kinds—according to rank, maybe, or
job function—I don't know."

"They don't sound too interesting, somehow."

"Don't sell them short, Barton. They wouldn't be on
the same team with the Tilari if they didn't have some-
thing on the ball."

"Yeh, I guess so. You ready to go?"

A few preparations later, they left the ship. As usual,
a Tilaran driver waited in a silent, oddly shaped ground
car, to take them the kilometer or so to the conference
building. At the end of the ride, Barton thanked her. She
smiled in reply.

Inside, with about half a dozen each of Larka-Te and
Filjar added to the usual group, the building seemed
crowded—but Barton found that the feeling didn't last
long. During the introductions he was somewhat be-
mused, wondering how the Larka-Te managed to be so
impressive.

191

They were not tall—the tallest matched Barton's own       ^
height, which was average for Earth. But there was a       ;'.
lean, proud look to them—hawklike, almost, yet not
predatory. Barton caught the name of the first one—
Corval—and missed the rest. It was par for the course;

he'd never been good at names.                                /

There were no discernible sex differences. All the
Larka-Te wore snug, bulgeless tunics, brightly colored,       f
reaching to midthigh. Each had short, light-reddish hair;       ^
in the front it fell to cover perhaps half the forehead,       f
Like a crew cut growing out, thought Barton—or maybe       s
it was like fur and grew no longer. Or then again, pos-     • %
sibly the Larka-Te were conformists. Nonetheless, Bar-      |
ton could not ignore the impact of their lean, intense      ^
faces.                                                        I-

Tarleton was saying the right words; Barton had only      f
to nod. Then he saw Corval smiling at him, and realized      ^
he had let his own face slip. Quickly, he pulled it back
to solemnity.

>   "You have heard, then." Corval spoke in Tilaran.
Barton signed assent. "Be not of care. Barton—we know
you do not share that means of communion, that your
face does not mean what it says." Somehow, Corval's
nonsmile was most expressive. "Do you know what your
face said?"

"I'm afraid not. Nothing of discourtesy, I hope."

Corval curved his lips in a way that could mean noth-
ing but delight. "It said, 'May I help to produce your
next egg?' Not that such is possible. . . ."

Oh, Christ! What to say? "You're not—you don't
produce eggs, yourself?"

"No. But even if so, one -of your race could not assist
—no more than the Filjar or Tilari. Our seed does not
mix and act But I say this—even without your knowing,
your face said a thing of kindness. Be us friends now,
Barton."

"Yes." Either humanoids took naturally to handshak-
ing or Corval had run into the custom before—Barton
reached out instinctively, and there was no delay. These
egg-laying characters, he decided, were impressive—he
could like them.

Now the Filjar came forward—taller than Barton but
not so tall as the Tilari, they loomed huge in sheer
breadth. He reminded himself that the appearance of
bulk was illusory. And from the colored harnesses—

192

leather?—no two alike, depended pouches and imple-
ments.

The Filjar, too, shook hands. Firmly but not painfully,
heavy, blunt claws pressed Barton's skin. The last of the
delegation—Kimchuk, if Barton had the name right—
stayed by him.

"Pleased to be with you, to find Demu at last." The
Filjar spoke in a slow. tenor monotone. Tarieton had
been right; no expression showed through the sleek, dark-
brown fur. Except for the eyes—Tarieton hadn't men-
tioned those. They were large and deep—not bearlike
at all. Barton thought—more like deer.

"And we are pleased to have you," he said. "Tilari
tell us, Filjar are worthy friends."

Momentarily, Kimchuk inclined its head to one side.
"Tilari tell the same of Earthani." Earthani? As good a
name as any, thought Barton. Kimchuk spoke again.
"You are Barton? Taker of ship from Demu?" Barton
nodded. "Our songs will tell of you, of that taking."

"I had much fortune, Kimchuk." Barton was em-
barrassed; he could never be comfortable in a hero suit.
"Tell of that, too."

Kimchuk made a high-pitched snort and clapped a
hand to Barton's shoulder. Startled, Barton decided the
sound had to be laughter.

"Fortune that prevails against Demu is fortune made
of purpose. But our songs w&l be of Barton who is, not
of some storied god who treads stars."

"Then one day I hope to hear your songs." He had
struck the right note; Kimchuk clasped his shoulder
again.

The assembly was preparing to settle down to business;

the two moved to join it. First was SIobodna's report—
the verdict was in, on the three major weapons systems.
Barton listened with interest. Slobodna spoke in English,
pausing for Tamirov to translate into the common lan-
guage, Tilaran.

"First, the Tilaran twin-ion beam—it punches through
the Shield and is effective after penetration. Traverse, to
follow a moving target, is rapid enough for our needs,
and—at close range—so is propagation speed. Against
the Shield, effective range is roughly three hundred kilo-
meters. Beyond that distance, the Shield produces in-
stability in the beam and shorts it out. On unshielded
objects the range is three to four times as great"

193

There was a pause while Tamirov ran conversions of
number systems and units of measurement.

"Range varies," Slobodna continued, "as the square
root of applied power. We can get some advantage by
beefing up the power source, but not much—well run
into space and weight limitations."

Tarleton stood. "Okay, let's take a breather while the
specialists make a horseback guess—keeping time limits
in mind—of the optimum power increase we should
go for. AU right?"

"Just a minute," said Barton. "Slowboat, what's the
range of the handgun model?"

Slobodna conferred with Vertan, then said, "It hasn't
been tested in space, or against the Shield. In atmosphere
it breaks down at about a hundred meters."       ^

"Then we need the hand lasers, and we need them
bad." Tarleton nodded, and the two men sought refresh-
ments.

Coffee and its alien equivalents were served; the racial
groups tasted each others' beverages with differing reac-
tions. Earthmen and Tilarans had previously traded sam-
ples—largely with appreciation—of coffee and the tart,
bubbling Tilaran klieta. Now Barton tried a cup, given
to him by Corval, of a pale, lukewarm liquid that seemed
to have no taste while he sipped it, but afterward pro-
duced in his mouth a warm, tangy glow. Corval's reac-
tion to coffee seemed noncommittal; he did not ask for
seconds.

Kimchuk started to offer Barton a shallow dish filled
with a thick gray substance that looked like mud soup,
but seeing the Larka-Te beverage in his hand, said, "No,
wait another time. The two are not well together." Bar-
ton took a rain check—it was time to get back to the
agenda, anyway.

As they sat down, he said to Tarleton, "I just thought
of something. Remind me to bring it up when Slowboat's
finished,"

"Next," said Slobodna, as cups were cleared away,
"we tried the Filjar plasma-ball projector. Within its
limits, it can't be stopped—it not only penetrates the
Shield; it destroys it and keeps going. But it's slow—
much slower than ship speeds. And once launched,
there's no way to alter its course.

"So we recommend that the plasma-gun be installed
on all ships, but reserved for use at close quarters."

194

"How about a land-going, portable model?" asked
Barton.

"It won't work in atmosphere. The instant the plasma
emerged, it would blow."

Slobodna's conference with the FUjar was brief, deal-
ing only with the mechanics of installing the weapon on
Earth ships.

"The Larka-Te high-drive torpedo," he next began,
"cracks the Shield ooly within a certain range of rela-
tive velocities. Too fast or too slow, and it blows harm-
lessly. But within a considerable range"—he read off
the numbers and waited while Tamirov converted
them—"the torps penetrate, and smash whatever is in-
side. To get those results, we used up all four of our
clay pigeons and two more that we haywired from spare
parts. But by tomorrow we'll have a couple more
ready, to check out the other systems.

"We're not entirely sure why the velocity hangup, but
we think it's the way the torp itself blows, from front to
back. So at some speeds the reaction front stays in coo-
tact longer, with the Shield interface, and breaks it down.

"But we know how to make best use of this weapon.
Add limiting circuits to the spotter and firing equipment,
• so that the torp won't go if the relative speeds aren't
right. It won't be difficult; Scalsa was running computer
simulations on it, this morning." Then, to Tarleton,
"Anything else I should cover?"

"You hit all the bases just fine. But Barton has some-
thing he wants to bring up."

Slobodna stepped down and Barton took the floor,
signing for Tamirov to interpret. "One thing I'm not
sure is clear to everybody. It just struck me a few min-
utes ago. That is, you've all lost ships to the Demu, so
we can expect they have all these weapons also. Which
means we have to plan offensive and defensive tactics
based on the properties of the ion beam, the plasma-gun,
and the torps. Our one edge is the laser—and that's only
true until the Demu capture one and have time to copy it."
The nods that answered Barton were thoughtful and sober.

Lunch-break came. Slobodna's team conferred with
the Larka-Te; elsewhere Barton heard discussion of his
own latest point.

Barton found Tilaran food sufficiently different from
Earth's to be intriguing, yet similar enough to make his
digestion feel at home. Four sat together. Tarleton and

195

Corval spoke slowly, making heavy weather of Tarle-
ton's accented Tilaran- Barton and Kimchuk ate in si-
lence, which was fine with Barton; he felt pooped.

Kimchuk excused himself for a few moments and re-
turned with two dishes; he offered one to Barton. Un-
fortunately, the stuff not only looked like mud soup—it
also tasted like it. But under the attentive gaze of large
Filjar eyes. Barton dutifully ate the thick mess. What the
hell—it wouldn't kill him!

And then he felt a slow relaxation, a welling of re-
serve energies. The knots in his mind untied themselves
—he was at peace, yet alert. In his thought patterns,
nagging discrepancies fitted themselves together, in har-
mony.

It wasn't, he thought, like the hit from a drink or a
joint His bead hadn't speeded up, slowed down, nor
lost itself in contemplation. Except for the removal of a
lot of niggling, extraneous pressures, he was exactly the
same Barton he had been five minutes earlier. He-turned
to face Kimchuk directly.

"Whatever that may be, it is of good."

"We find it so," the Filj'ar replied. "On a day of ef-
fort, the release given by the dreif adds to what may be
done well." For a moment, Kimchuk was silent. "For
that day, once is ail—for help or harm, more would do
nothing. You feel so?"

"Yes." Barton felt—knew—that sleep would be nec-
essary to reset the mind's mechanisms, before the sub-
stance could act again. He found it strange to know such
a thing by intuition or instinct, but he did not doubt it.
Nor was he surprised to see a similar dish at Tarieton's
place, and at Slobodna's.

Combined-fleet logistics occupied the afternoon ses-
sion. Tarieton, proposing a tentative plan, put Scalsa's
double-track computer readouts to good use. Again
Tamirov interpreted.

The point was that taking the whole Earth-Tilaran
fleet to Larka and then to Filj, to pick up the con-
tingents from those planets, was the slow way and the
hard way. Tarieton had a better idea.

"Once we're ready," he said, "it makes sense to dis-
perse—and assemble later, down-Arm, in striking dis-
tance of the major Demu planets. First we iron out the
weapons problems, and the organizational stuff. Then,

196

with the planning done and only the hard work left to
do, we can start setting schedules.

"At that point, one of our squadrons—I had yours in
mind, Slowboat—can accompany Larka-Te ships to
Larka, and help there in any way that is needed. Such
as design modifications of Larkan ships to carry the laser,
and so forth.

"At the same time, yo^ squadron, Tamirov, can be
doing the same drill with the Filjar. Cummings, your
group stays here and comes to rendezvous with the Tilari
ships. AU, right so far?" There were no complaints.

"Meanwhile, as soon as Squadron One is rigged with
as many new—to us—weapons systems as it can use, it
takes a high-grav trip to Larka and to Filj. Mostly just
to say hello and confirm schedules. By then, some will
already be heading for rendezvous. On that, we're still
working out the timing."

Vertan rose. "And have all heard and understood
choice of meeting point?"

Barton caught a nudge in the ribs. "This is your baby,"
Tarieton muttered. "You explain it."

Barton stood. "Flash the map, will you, Tarn?" On
the wall, distorted only slightly by the curvature, ap-
peared a section of the galactic Arm. Tilari, Larka-Te,
Filjar, and Demu areas glowed in different colors. Bar-
ton walked closer to the wall, and pointed to a blink-
ing spot of light, near a patch ot deep black.

"Here's rendezvous," he said. "Just short of Demu
territory, and hidden from their guard planets by this
dust cloud." He spoke through Tamirov; his reasonably
fluent Tilaran was not, he felt, up to precise technical
description. "We hope to synchronize well enough to
meet and barge out all together before they spot us—
and close enough that, from then on, acceleration dif-
ferences won't be much of a problem.

"We want to converge on their major world, Demmon,
before they have any chance to gather and meet us. If
we can take that planet as hostage, we figure they won't
dare force a fight—they'll have to talk instead, and
that's what we're after." Well, the hostage principle had
got him free from the Demu. There were worse means
—especially if the bluff worked.

"At least, that's the plan, unless someone comes up
with something better." He paused. "Questions?" There
were several, but none he couldn't answer.

197

Slobodna took charge again; the discussion concerned
ways of installing Earth's "big-daddy laser" in ships not
designed to leave the central axis vacant for it. The
problem was not simple. Slobodna suggested parallel-
tube construction outside the main hull. A TUaran ex-
pert countered with the proposal of a folded-path
generator to be mounted at front-center of each ship.
People brought out calculating machines, textbooks, and
charts—and the argument was on. Barton decided they
were doing fine without him, and relaxed.

Corval approached and sat beside him. "You Earthani
decide, what is to be done."

Barton remembered not to smile. "Not of our need,
Corval. We say what may be done. Perhaps someone—
you, Vertan—says a better thing. We speak together—
it is the better thing, all agreed, that we do."

"I am not of complaint," said the Larka-Te. "It is
good that one says, this we will do. It is good that an-
other says, it can be better, and is heard. When I say
that you decide, I say it as a needed thing you do, that
is of good."

Not a gripe, then, but a compliment—Barton kept
his sigh of relief sotto voce. "It is of good that Larka-Te
and Earthani have minds together." As Corval rose and
moved away, his nonsmile gave Barton a warm feeling.

But, Piljar supennud or no. Barton was pooped. He
sat suently, half-listening, until Tarieton approached him.
"I think we're about wound up. Ready to go?"

"You never spoke a truer word."

Hands shaken to completion, the two escaped. Out-
side in the ground car, the young Tilaran woman waited.
Barton hoped she hadn't waited all day, then decided
that Limila's people would not so waste an individual.
Maybe, he thought, he'd spent too much time in the
Army. Or in the Demu cage.-. . .

As they approached the ship, Tarieton spoke. "What do
you think?"

Barton wasn't sure what he thought, because he wasn't
sure what Tarieton meant. He turned to look at the big-
ger man, and saw in his face only expectancy.

Then he knew. "I think," he said, "I like the new
neighbors."

It was close to dinner time, but Barton didn't go
into the ship. He let Tarieton off there and asked to be

198

taken to Limila, at the TUaran "surgical place." Despite
his sketchy description the woman nodded, and drove
toward the far end of the spaceport. Soon they were off
the bare field, moving among trees and buildings.

There was little traffic—only a few other cars—and
Barton realized he knew practically nothing about the
Tilaran economy or way of life. This was the rush hour?

There were no streets. Buildings were placed seem-
ingly at random, interspersed with trees and shrubbery.
In the open spaces the ground cover looked a little like
moss and a little less like grass; its greenness was quite
Earthlike. The car's soft, bulky tires left no marks.

The building, when they reached it, didn't look, to
Barton, much like a hospital. It was not large—about the
size of a two-story, ten-room house—and was irregularly
convex with, here and there, dished concave sections,
Some of the latter were tinted windows; others were
opaque. The Tilaran flair for shading colors was evident.
A broken corner near the entrance showed Barton that
the color—at that point a pale blue-green—was not
any kind of paint; it went solidly through the material.
His artist's curiosity was roused—he decided to ask later
about the techniques. Meanwhile, his interest lay inside.

He arranged for the driver to leave him and return
later, after she had eaten. The time period, if Barton's
grasp of Tilaran chronometry were at all accurate, was
about an hour. '

He left the car and entered the building. He found no
registration desk or information counter—in what
appeared to be a combined bedroom and living room, a
male Tilaran sat, reading. As Barton entered, the man
looked up but said nothing.

"I would meet with the woman Limila," said Barton.
"She is here?"

The Tilaran nodded, stood, and led the way along
a curved, narrow corridor. They passed three doors. At
the fourth he stopped, nodded again, turned, and went
back the way they had come.

Barton knocked on the door. The material was some-
what elastic; his knock made hardly any sound. He
lifted the handle and opened the door. The room was
much like the first one he'd seen. And Limila, sitting in
profile to him, was also reading.

For a moment, making no n^/e to draw her atten-
tion, he looked. The long wig, tumbled loose over the

199

shoulders of a turquoise robe, hid part of her face—bu(
the lines of brow and nose, of cheekbone and mouth,
caught at him.
"Limila. . . ."

"Barton!" Tossing the hair back with a quick move of
her head, she rose. He moved to embrace her, but she
put a palm against his chest. "Hold me, yes—but greatly
gentle." All right—he could do that, and did.

When they had kissed long enough, he asked, "What's
the matter?"

"I show.'* She opened the robe. Low on her ribcage,
where once her wide-set breasts had been, were two
palm-sized bandages. Barton's eyebrows asked his word-
less question.

"It is cut to explore—to see what is there yet, of use
to restore what the Demu took. As well as may be done."

She smiled. "Not a bad hurt, this, except when
touched, pressed."

"That's good." Barton recalled that the Tilari had not
developed anesthesia. "But there is a drug," Limila had
told him—"pain turns to ecstasy." When the drug wore
off, though, he supposed the situation would be a little
rough.

"What—uh, what was found?"

"I am not yet told. Tomorrow I will learn. But, Bar-
ton ..." Her expression became intense.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Teeth, Barton. Is it important to you, that sometimes
I have Earth teeth?"

"I don't get it. What—?"

"There is a way now, a new way, that teeth might
again grow of me." As she described what she bad been
told. Barton recognized it. ". . . From another, a dead
child, perhaps—that part from which grows a tooth, im-
planted. . . ." Dentists on Earth had transplanted tooth-
buds before Barton was born. He didn't know why the
practice had never become widely spread—whether
there were bugs in the process or if it was merely too
expensive.

"And so I would have Tilaran teeth, in size and num-
ber. Would that disturb you?"

He almost laughed—then he realized she was serious.
"Good Lord, no! Hell, get sixty, if you want" She hesi-
tated, then smiled-

"For a time, while they grow, I will be with none.**

200

True; dentures over sprouting tooth-buds would be not
only painful but unusable. She shrugged. "But, so it was
before."

Barton thought of another problem. Demu cosmetic
surgery included shortening tongues to Demu standards

—in speech, the sounds "s" and "z" became "sh" and
"zh." Limiia's denture bad a transverse ridge the short-
ened tongue could reach, for better pronunciation. But
when he asked, she had the answer.

"I thought to inquire. It is all right; surgery can pro-
vide."

Careful to avoid the bandaged areas. Barton hugged
her. "Anything—anything that helps you feel more
like yourself—well, don't worry about me. Just go ahead.
Okay?" He wished she would not go to such lengths to
defer to him, but he knew why she did it. He had taken
her from the Demu, and on Earth—when it was alien to
her, and she to other eyes only a mutilated monstrosity

—he had been her one anchor of stability. But Barton
didn't want to be her lord-and-master. "Most need-
ful person" suited him a lot better. . . .

They talked further; he brought her up to date on the
latest conference results. Then they kissed again, and he
left As he passed, the male Tilaran looked up and
nodded.

Outside, car and driver waited as agreed. The end of
twilight was near; the clea'r air bore pleasant, unfamiliar
fragrances. Barton enjoyed t&e ride, and at the ship,
bade the woman a cheerful good night.

It had been a long day. Although he knew there was
much he and Tarleton could discuss profitably, he had a
quick snack, retired to Compartment Two, and went to
bed early, for a change.

For the next two days he did not see Limila—he was
told that she was not to be disturbed, and that was that.
Knowing his own tendency to stubbornness. Barton sur-
prised himself by accepting the restriction without pro-
test.

Work kept him busy. The Job of fitting new weapons
into the nose sections of the Earth ships turned into a
real jigsaw puzzle. Many drawings and scale mockups
were tried and discarded before the first sample nstalla-
tion began. It worked, largely because Corwi, the
Larka-Te, had a genius for spatial configurations and an

201

unorthodox way of tackling them. Barton's admiration
grew; he could appreciate the results but could not fol-
low the process by which Corval reached them.

As soon as the prototype was complete, Tarleton put it
to use in training his weapons personnel on their new
equipment.

Fitting the alien ships with lasers was more difficult
The Tilaran folded-path model could not handle the
power required; effective range would be less than half
that of the Earth version. Slobodna's outside-tube idea,
though unwieldy, was adopted—except by Corval. On
his own ship, the Larka-Te removed everything forward
of the drive unit, along the central axis, relocating the
uprooted items helter-skelter. To Barton, the result
looked like Riot Night in the gasworks—but it worked.

The next time Barton saw Slobodna, he asked him
about the hand weapons. ". . . And any luck on the per-
sonal Shields?"

"The hand lasers and sleep-guns look good; Vertan's
ready to start production. The Shields—well, they work
fine, but the generator is too heavy to carry in combat.
We're trying a new approach, and, at the least, we can rig
the present model on motorized carts, to cover men in
small groups."

Barton frowned, then nodded. "Yeh, that's an idea.
Well, stay with it, huh, Slowboat?"

"Right. Hey, you know that one each Larka-Te and
Filjar ship headed home this morning, to start things
moving from that end?"

Barton had heard; he nodded. Moving on to his next
job, he found himself wondering at everyone's calm as-
surance that Larka-Te and Filjar fleets could and would
be organized on such short notice. But then, he reflected,
Earth had reacted in a hurry when he alone brought a
Demu ship and news of the threat. And these races had
known the Demu longer than Earth had ....

Inside the conference building, Barton poured him-
self a mug of klieta and leafed through the latest planning
sheets. Integration was setting in, he saw—Corval would
leave his own redesigned ship to ride with Slobodoa when
Squadron Two lifted for Larka; Kimchuk would accom-
pany Tamirov to FUj.

Logically, he supposed, Vertan would have joined
Tarleton on Ship One—but the presence of the two Demu
left no vacant quarters, and Barton himself would have

202

complained to high Heaven at the prospect of losing a
trained crew member. So, instead, Vertan would join
Estelle Cummings in the lead ship of Squadron Four.
Well, Barton told himself, nothing ever fits all the pigeon-
holes.

He noted that there would be further interchange of
personnel for liaison purposes. The details were still be-
ing run through the conference mill. And he had read
enough, for that day.

On Ship One, sitting at dinner with Tarleton, he real-
ized that it had been two days since he had seen Limila.
All the days were long days now; Barton felt his age as he
hadn't since he was eighteen and discovered the fine art
of staying up all night. He said so.

"Well," said Tarleton, "tonight you'd better rest up a
little extra. Another party tomorrow night—it's the week-
end."

Barton had never figured out the Tilaran "week"—
for one thing, it was not of fixed length. The weekend
concept was simple enough, though—party time.

"Yeh, wow," he said. "Okay—I'll get braced for it."

"Get braced for more than that."

"Oh? What else?"

"Tomorrow I am allowed to meet the Ormthan."

"The joker in the deck? The strange cat who walks by
himself?"

"Yes, all of that. And I've insisted that you meet him
with me."

"Thanks—I think. Anything special we're supposed
to know?"

"Only that the Ormthu are worthy of respect."

"Yeh. You run into anybody around here, so far, who
isn't?"

"No—but I get the distinct impression that this one is
something special,"

"Okay." Barton grinned. "I'll wipe my feet on the mat
and try to remember not to spit on the floor."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd worry. I mean, worry
more."                                              ^

"Why worry? The critters are neutral, aren't they?" w

"That's what I'm afraid of." Gulping the last of his cof-
fee, the big man rose. "See you tomorrow."

"Sure thing—if they don't call it off." Tired, Barton sat
awhile, brooding, before he too called it quits for the day.

203

He was lonesome in Compartment Two, but eventually
he managed to get to sleep.

Next morning, as he and Tarleton were finishing
breakfast, Vertan entered. Liese Anajek, escorting him,
said, "Another customer. Or did the cook quit?"

Vertan smiled. "I am of thanks, but have eaien."             i

"Have some coffee, then," said Tarleton, and poured      f
it. "An unexpected pleasure, Vertan. A little last-minute
briefing?"

"Of pertinence to the Ormthan, yes. To say again the
limits of our knowledge." Tarleton signed for the Tilaran      j
to proceed.                                                 3

"Half a year ago, as has been said, we first knew such a
race to exist. The Ormthan ship appeared—our warn-      r
ing devices did not tell its coming—its landing was of
complete surprise. Immediately the one creature, and no
other, left the ship. It brought with it several cased be-
longings, but had no clothing or arms. So we knew not to
fear, for it showed trust and thus asked our own."

"It knew your language, right?" said Barton. "So it
knew something about you already."

"Yes, It said it had come to make our peoples of ac-      ?
quaintance. Our person of command at that time, a
woman of the name Jilaar, gave it welcome. Groundcars
were brought to carry it and its cases. When the cars were      ^
of a distance from the ship, it lifted and was gone. Again      |
our instruments gave no sign—but by eye its path was      |
seen to be of care to avoid harm to our own craft, in air     -|
and above."                                                ||

"Dumped the baby on your doorstep and vamoosed,"     ^
said Barton. "And what have you learned from the     ^
Ormthan, to now?"

"For the most, that it is of friendship—and, when it      ,
knows us of sufficiency, would commerce with us. That it     ^
is long agreed that Ormthans and Demu do not meet, for
help or harm. That its name—or perhaps title—is Orm-
thol. That it seeks always to know, and thus asks many
questions. But the larger part is what we do not know."

"What kind of things?" Barton said. "Remember—I
have heard very little of what you say now."

"Of Ormthan numbers or power, we know nothing.
Of the place of its home worlds, Ormthol says only that
we will know when the knowing is of need. It speaks not of

204

its customs or interests, only of our own. Yet we cannot
be of doubt that it is of good intent."

Barton could. He was, he knew, no longer the para-
noid who had first escaped the Demu, but doubting the
unproven was still one of his strong points. He said noth-
ing, but made a few mental notes.

Finally, realizing that Vertan had no more to say un-
asked, he said, "Is there anything special, in meeting with
the Ormthan, that we should say or do?—or not say or
do?"

"No more than among ourselves. It acts and speaks in
courtesy. One matter of difference, perhaps—be not of
offense if you ask and are not given answer."

"And what if we choose not to answer some of its ques-
tions?"

Vertan looked startled, as if he hadn't thought of that
possibility. Barton wondered if Tilara had any pastime
that resembled the game of poker.

"We had not considered of doing so," the Tilaran said.
He smiled. "The result might be of interest." Tarleton
raised an eyebrow; Barton shrugged.

Before leaving the ship, they showed Vertan the prog-
ress of weapons installations. He showed keen interest,
and said, "Tilara has thanks that such ships as this are of
our friends, not of our enemies."

"The friendship of Tilara honors us," said Barton in
Tilaran, "as does that of the Larka-Te and Filjar."

"What we do," said Tarleton, "we do together—all of
us." Barton noticed that his accent had improved—but
still had a long way to go. And as for going, it was now
time . . .

The Tilaran woman drove them to a building that sur-
prised Barton—it was the first he had seen on Tilara that
utilized straight hues and plane surfaces. A five-sided
pyramid, perhaps twenty meters in diameter and ten in
height, truncated at a shallow angle, it was all of one color
—an iridescent golden brown.

"The structure," said Vertan, "was made by us to the
Ormthan's asking. We find it of a strange seeming."

Barton nodded. It wasn't that the building was ugly,
he thought—but surrounded by the subtle curves and
shadings of Tilaran architecture, it had a decided impact
on the neighborhood.

The three left the car, and Vertan led the way through

205

rows of feathery bushes. At the door, a trapezoidal inset,
the Tilaran placed his palm flatly against it. After a mo-
ment it slid to one side, and they entered.

The ceiling was low and gray—for seconds, Barton
fought his instincts back from the edge of violence as the
Demu cage, nearly eight years of it, screamed in his skull.
He caught himself—he grabbed his mind by the back of
the neck, shook it hard, and made it function.

Afl right: one, it could be coincidence. And two, may-
be this Ormthan was one tricky son-of-a-bitch—so watch
out Barton took his head out of combat gear—but kept
one mental foot on the clutch ...

He estimated the room—oddly shaped, with area out
of proportion to its height—to cover more than half the
ground floor of the building. The lighting came from web-
like configurations of luminous spots, dotting all sur-
faces. Except for a few large cushions grouped loosely at
its center, the room was bare. Barton walked to the near-
est cushion and sat. The others followed him but re-
mained standing.

A little to his right, a rounded pink object formed from
its upper surface  a head-shaped protrusion—and
opened two blue eyes, then a mouth. "Earthani, and
Vertan, be welcome."

The hell of it was the thing spoke in English. Accord-
ingly, Barton raised his mental sights.

He waited, but neither Tarleton nor Vertan made an-
swer. All right, then—Barton felt the excitement of chal-
lenge—he would play it by ear, his own way.

"Our thanks," he said. "I am Barton, of Earth. You
are Onnthol?" The head resembled an impressionistic
sculpture—aside from eyes and mouth, only hints,
vague contours of other features existed. The effect, Bar-
ton decided, was not unpleasant

"I am Ormthol, here to learn and speak for the Ormthu
as you speak and seek to learn for the Earthani. Shall we
inquire together. Barton of Earth? What would you
know? I shall ask much, for to learning there is no end."

Barton thought—hell, either the blob knew its English
or it didn't "Is Ormthol your personal name or your job
description?"

"The question surprises. I had not considered the
concept—with us there is a joining, not a difference be-
tween the two thoughts. And which thought does Barton
serve?"

206

No doubt about it; the alien was quick. "Barton ap-
plies to me, not to what I do. I've done a lot of different
things. Right now I work for Mister Tarleton here. He's
in command of our ships and I run the show when he's
busy." It struck him that he had never before called
Tarleton "Mister". . . .

"Earth has not previously traveled ships to visit oth-
ers. What does Earth seek?"

There was only one answer. "The Demu."

"And with the Demu, what does Earth wish?"

"We wish"—oh, the hell with diplomacy!—"an end to
raiding, an end to carving people into imitation lobsters.
Live and let live."

"Your view is admirable. Likely, the Demu will not
share it."

"Ormthol, what do you know of the Demu?" Tarleton
was motioning for caution, but Barton shook his bead—
it was time to shit or get off the pot.

"Much," said the Ormthan, "that would aid you, but
that it is long promised we do not say to any. Ask, though
—ask and ask, for it may be that you find questions I am
permitted to answer."

"I take it you're not really great buddies with the
Demu?"

"Long ago our races met, competed, and reached lim-
ited accord. A major factor of our agreement is that we
do not have contact." The >blue eyes closed; the mouth
disappeared. The pseudohead -became a vague, blind
sculpture. The Demu hadn't lost a lot, thought Barton,
by agreeing to leave this race alone—they'd play hell
trying to carve a pink egg into lobster form.

The Ormthan wasn't helping much, but Barton
couldn't afford to let the talk end. If Tarleton had handed
him the ball. he'd better run with it- "What does your
agreement allow? What can you tell us?"

Eyes and mouth reappeared. "Not what you need to
know. That matter is sealed—you roust learn it, if indeed
you do, as did the Ormthu."

"The hard way, you mean."

"You state things aptly. But your askings are less apt."

Rack your stupid brains. Barton—it's your move, noA
body else's. Rummaging through his pockets he pulled
out a print of a star map, showing the segment of spiral
Arm between Earth and the planet-bare space below the
Demu. He pointed to the Demu sector.

207

"Is that accurate? Is that where we must come to terms
with the Demu?"

The Ormthan gazed, and extruded a thin tendril; its
tip moved on the star map. "I may say as much as this. The
major Demu planet is here, as you show it. But here"—
the tendril moved—"on this planet, was accord reached
between Ormthu and Demu. Not elsewhere."

"And you think that's important?" No answer. "All
right, you do." He looked more closely at the map. "The
planet is in that dust cloud? Hey, Tarieton—that's the
cloud we plan to rendezvous at, out of sight of the Demu
guard planets t" The big man nodded, but said nothing.

"Not in dust cloud—the planet and its sun sit indented
in a clear pocket of space, seen only from one view—so."
A little toward the inside of the Arm, from Tilara, Barton
noticed—and directly opposite to the side of the cloud
that faced the rest of Demu territory.

"You say that's where we should go, then? Can you
say why?"

"Only that something there is to the Demu of great im-
portance. What it is, I do not know entirely and could not
say in any case. But one who sees, it is said, cannot fail to
know its importance. And you will go as you choose, not
as I direct you—for I do not."

"Right. We'll think about it." That dust cloud—the
pocket—would be one bad place for the fleet to get caught
in a trap. Barton thought. Especially if the Demu saw
them coming ....

But it was a lead, a start. Another thought: "Do you
know what weapons the Demu have, besides their Shield
and sleep-gun—and weapons copied from the Tilari and
others?"

"On such matters, I am not informed."

Well, so much for that. Barton hitched up his guts—
here came the big one. "The blank space—the belt with-
out habitable planets—on the other side of the Demu . . .
they say they made it, in war. Did they?"

Without shoulders, the Ormthan managed to shrug.
"We do not know. The Demu, know you, were here be-
fore us, in this reach of the galaxy. And so also was the
dead space.

"It has been thought that if the Demu could do so, we
the Ormthu would have suffered it. Yet we live, and thrill
of life and learning."

Barton started to answer, but with a pseudoarm the
208

Ormthan waved him to silence. "The Demu are a puzzle
we long ago agreed, reluctantly, to leave unsolved. You
wish a solution—the Ormthu, who by nature speak as
with one mind, share your wish. But whether you reach
truce with the Demu, overcome them with your weapons,
or cease to exist and your worlds also, I cannot see. What
my next-day holds is clear from what my this-day pro-
duces. But what your next-days hold. I do not see. Go
with the joy of learning."

No booze, no coffee, tea, or dancing-girls—time to
split, thought Barton. No way to shake hands without a
pseudopod showing, and be-damned if he'd reach first.
As he'd thought earlier—the hell with diplomacy. Not that
the creature had been unhelpful ....

One thing he had to ask. "About the ceiling . . . . "

"You admire it?"

"It is neither high nor colorful. Is there a reason?"

"You came to ask of the Demu. Within bounds, the sur-
roundings were made appropriate." Barton couldn't be
sure whether he saw the hint of a smile on the disappear-
ing mouth, but he was sure of one thing—the Ormthan
had a sense of humor—and his mind relaxed.

On their way out, he thought of another question, but
waited until they were back in the groundcar. Then,
"Tarieton—Vertan—all the time we were in there—
how come neither of you said one goddamned word?"

Vertan looked blank. Tarieton frowned, then said,
"I'm not sure. Every time I felt like speaking up, sud-
denly I didn't. Does that make sense?"

"Maybe," said Barton. "You know—I think that
Ormthol is really one strange cat." No one answered him.

They arrived at the conference building m time for
lunch. Barton greeted Slobodna. "How's it going. Slow-
boat?"

"Fine as frog fur. The prototype of the lightweight-
model personal Shield has a few bugs in it, but we're
working on them. For a fact, planning and implementa-
tion are getting to be almost routine—I wouldn't have be-
lieved it"                                           A

"That's because we're dealing with some truly hign"
grade people," said Tarieton.

"Yeah, I'd noticed. Hey—you and Barton try some of
this sticky soup here. It looks like an unhatched rubber
boot, but wait 'til you taste it."

209

Barton had found the mixture of Tilari, Larka-Te,
FilJar, and "Earthani" cuisine to be quite an adventure.
He had been faced with a few items he couldn't stomach,
even under the amused gaze of the person whose favorite
dish it waa. But for the most part he'd enjoyed the new
tastes and textures. And the- "sticky soup"—"It, tastes
as good as it looks bad. I'm having seconds." The taste
seemed familiar—but he couldn't place it.

"You enjoy?" It was Kimchuk, the Filjar.

"Truly. It is of FilJ?"

"Of Treka, another Filjar world. A ship came this day
from Treka. We requested of it the ouilan for you and all
here to share. We are pleased it is to Earthani taste."

"Very much so, Kimchuk. Our thanks." The Filjar
tipped its head to one side in its characteristic gesture,
touched Barton's shoulder, and moved away.

Tarleton, who had been talking with Corval, the
Larka-Te, approached. "Barton, the whole thing is run-
ning on tracks, for now. Why don't you and I skip the
afternoon session and go back to the ship? Vertan and
Corval agree we're not needed. And we have a couple of
things to talk about."

"Okay with me," said Barton. They made their good-
byes.

The Tilaran woman brought the car; the ride to the
ship was silent. Walking up the ramp, Tarleton said, "My
quarters; okay?"

Alene Grover, who shared those quarters, was present
when they entered. Because they had been on different
watch' schedules for most of the trip. Barton was not well
acquainted with the sturdy, bushy-haired woman. Now,
he paid heed to her.

"Hi, Alene."

She smiled, a slow smile that showed only the tips of
large, white teeth. "Hello, Barton." She pushed back
the heavy, black hair that had fallen forward across one
cheek. "Must be a strategy meet, to get you two back here
this time of day. Should I leave?"

Barton grinned. "Not on my account. Ask the boss."
He waited while the two embraced, kissed, and disen-
gaged.

"No—it's nothing Top Hush," said Tarleton. "Let's
sit down. Anybody want a drink?"
Barton sat. "You think I'll need one?" he said. "Well,

210

that white-green Tilaran wine makes nice sipping, if you
have some chilled. But what's the discussion?"

Tarleton brought out a cold bottle and frosted glasses.
"It's not a big thing—merely the party tonight"

"What about it?"

"We're all invited."

"Well, what's wrong with . . . ? Oh, yeh; I see. Who's
watching the store, right?"

"Too right. I'm certain we could safely leave the ships
unguarded, but still . . . ."

"Yeh." Barton thought. "It's not our way, that's all.
Instinct, or custom—but we 'Earthani' leave somebody
in charge. At all times—no exceptions."

He swallowed wine. "Well, hell—can't we just tell 'em
that? The Tilari don't strike me as fanatics; I expect
they'll put up with our little foibles. If they even, notice—
you think they'll take a head count or something?"

"Not really," said Tarleton, "but I wanted your opin-
ion. All right—how far do we follow our custom? Every
ship?"

Barton shook his head. "Not necessarily. Hell, they
lock from inside, and the locks can be put on remote to the
squadron command ships. For real security. ;f you like,
add a ten-way viewscreen hookup."

"Sounds good. You set it up, will you?"

"Sure. But I'll leave it up to each squadron—Slow-
boat and Tammy and Cummings—to decide between
one-man watch or one per ship. Okay?"

"Yes, that's probably best. We don't want to discour-
age initiative."

Barton scowled. "Well—in one area we do. This ship."

"I..." Tarleton paused. "Spell it out. will you?"

"Well, there's Hishtoo, of course. We can't just leave
him locked up, because the hard-shelled morphodite
needs a little regular exercise, as well as meals. So some-
body has to be here, big enough to handle him if he gets
any bright ideas.

"Eeshta certainly doesn't qualify—and even if she
did, it would be unfair to strain her loyalties that way, be-
tween us and her egg-daddy. So we need one more, here
on this ship."

"Any suggestions?" Tarleton topped-up glasses all
around; the wine was moving slowly, but obviously with
appreciation.

211

"One guess." Barton's voice came out flat and harsh.
"You think I'm turning ap Fenn loose aground?"

"Aren't you being a little hard on that one? He's been
behaving himself."

"You're damned right he has. He knows what hap-
pens if he doesn't" Barton grimaced; it still hurt, what
the man had said to Limila—and hadn't paid for. He
made a gesture, pushing with his hand. "All right, I do
have a personal thing there. But that's not why I want
him kept aboard. I don't trust the sonofabitch out in
company, is all."

"That's good enough," said Tarleton. "Tell him he has
the duty tonight."

"No—you tell him. From me, he'd be sure it was per-
sonal—from you, maybe he'll take it as just part of the
fob."

"As you say. But you set up the rest of it, won't you?"

"Sure—might's well do it right now. See you .. . . "

Tarleton's smile and gesture were vague, as though his
thoughts were elsewhere. Alene Grover sat straight,
and said, "Barton—we'll see you at the festive brawl to-
night?"

"Sure thing." He left—next stop, the control area.
His own thoughts, now, were of Eeshta. It was hard on
the kid, being cooped up on the ship so much, getting out
only for short, accompanied walks. But there was no
help for it....

As it happened, when he entered the control room,
Eeshta had 'the comm-watch. "Hi," he said. "Everything
okay?"

"It is well. Barton, though today there is little to do."

"We can fix that. How about a squadron-command
hookup?" When Eeshta had arranged the connections,
he passed along the agreed security instructions and had
them read back to him for confirmation. With that task
completed and the screen cleared, he had begun to coach
Eeshta on putting a call through to Limila—not an easy
job through the Earth-Tilaran communications inter-
face—when he was interrupted.

"You really are a grudge-holding bastard, aren't you?"
It was Terike ap Fenn. Barton turned and looked at him
•—yes, the man was riding an adrenaline high, for sure.

Barton paused before answering, then spoke softly.
^es, maybe I am. But what does that have to do with any-
thing?"

212

"Everybody else gets off this damned ship, and I don't!
Are you trying to tell me that's not deliberate?"

"I'm not trying to tell you anything—I don't have to.
You take orders, mister!"

Ap Fenn's face reddened. "The great god Barton!
You know something? I've half a mind to break you in
two, right here!"

Thinking it wouldn't be right to give this dumb clown
what he was asking for. Barton restrained both his rage
and his smile. "Stay with the other half, ap Fenn. It's bet-
ter for your health. And now I think—"

"Don't tell me what you think! I may have to take or-
ders from you, but I don't have to listen to what you think.
If my uncle were here—"

And that did it. "Shut up!" Barton shifted his voice
down a few gears. "Get out of here. You've been told what
to do. Not by me—by Tarleton. Go do it." He was down
to a gravelly monotone. "Now. You hear me? Now."

Full of breath, ap Fenn exhaled explosively, wheeled,
and made his exit.

So much for that, thought Barton. One more such scene
and by God he would put ap Fenn in with Hishtoo. If
pushed, Tarleton would buy it...

Myra Hake and Cheng Ai, the rest of the duty watch,
had listened without comment. Now, in a subdued tone,
Myra said, "Sometimes he's a little hard to take, isn't
he?"

"No," said Barton. "Not bard to take. Hard to leave
alone."

He gave up the idea of calling Limila. In his present
mood it would do no good for either of them. Instead, he
went to his quarters. Compartment Two. It was lonely
there,

Leaving the ship for the gala occasion. Barton decided
that he still wasn't in one of his better moods. Only one
groundcar was at hand. He and Tarleton, Alene Grover,
Myra and Cheng boarded it—the rest would have to wait
until a second car arrived. The Tilaran driver assured
them that one would soon be there.                     A

The ride was short; the destination was new to Barton
—a building considerably larger than the site of the ear-
lier party. It would have to be, he thought, to accommo-
date nearly four hundred from Earth and probably
several times as many Tilarans—and others.

213

Inside, under a high-domed ceiling, artificial clouds
of vapor, lit by constantly moving beams of colored light,
drifted above the crowd.

"Pretty spectacular," said Alene. Tarleton murmured
agreement. Absently, Barton nodded. As they moved
through the assemblage, his gaze scanned everyone -he
passed.

"Looking for someone?" said Tarleton. Barton gave a
start, then grinned. Of course he was, though he hadn't
realized it—livajj. ".So young she is, but of good
thought." Oh, knock it off, Barton told himself—you old
tomcat....

They came upon a wine-laden table—one of many—
surrounded by a group of TUarans, with a sprinkling of
Larka-Te. It was time for refreshment and discussion.
Barton tried to follow the conversation, making polite
noises and hoping they were the right ones. His gaze wan-
dered.

He saw a Tilaran woman move close to Cheng Ai. He
could not see what happened but he could guess, for
Cheng first looked startled, then smiled, and shook his
head. Smiling also, she patted his cheek and moved
away. Cheng and Myra whispered to each other—her
expression was questioning, his was smiling disclaimer.
He'd give a pretty. Barton decided, to have heard that
exchange. When in Rome....

He found himself in a conversational vacuum of his
own making, and drifted away from the group—solitary
among the hundreds. His glass was full—his attention
was diffused and free-floating. When he recognized
someone he exchanged greetings, then moved on.

A Tilaran greeted him by name. The man's face
seemed familiar, but Barton couldn't place it. "I am of
regret," he said, "not to recall your name."

"We are only now of direct acquaintance. I am Tevann
—Limila may have said of me."

Tevann—he who had once been Limila's most need-
ful person. No wonder Barton hadn't recognized him;

he had seen him only once, a brief glimpse. "Yes, of
course," he said, "and that it was good to be with you
again. It is of pleasure to know you." On the males. Bar-
ton had decided, the Tilaran hairline resembled a beard-
less Shakespeare rather than Elizabeth I. Like all
TUarans, Tevann was tall and lean. Barton found his air
of vitality attractive; he liked the man.

214

is.
~~   **I would speak of Limila," said Tevann. "You Earth-

"fcpi are of different ways between men and women—our
Ways may be of disturbance to you?"

Barton shook his head and smiled. "For a time, per-
haps. Now I am of understanding for Limila's joy and
your sharing of it. She has said you once were her most
needful person—for that, I am of respect for you."

In silence, they sipped wine together. Barton had
learned that the Tilari did not drink toasts, as such—in-
\ stead, after an appreciated statement, the listener drank
' lightly, without comment. The pause was brief.

"Persons may change," said Tevann. "The one most
^ needful may become of less need—and another, in her
"' place, of more. Always, such changes, of agreement be-
t tween all. But had Limila not been taken by Demu, I am
of the thought that Tevann aod Limila would not have
changed."

Barton braced himself. "Your want is of Limila—to
^ return to you?"

|    Tevann clasped Barton's wrist gendy, then released
F it. "No, Barton—that is not a thought of what may be.
[ What I say is this—that Limila was of such need to me,
and I to her, that it is of good, that you and she are now
each so needful of each other."

"I am not yet of understanding—only of willingness
to hear."

"She and I were of such closeness that our life was of
one house together—a thing of rareness among us. She
had a son of me. Then our friend Renade implored that
his first child be of Limila, and we were of agreement.
Then followed, a daughter, of me. I am of great fondness
for the young of Limiia, of Renade and me. Even now
that they are of full growth and finding persons needful
of themselves."

"You speak, though, of Limila." Barton was absorb-
ing the news that Limila was the mother of three—and
had never mentioned it. But he was still waiting for the
kicker....

"Yes—I would say of Limila. When I knew she was
taken, I was of despair. For long and long, I was of no in-
terest for any other, in her place—and when one came to
my acquaintance, I was of blankness and could not see."
"Yes," said Barton, "I can understand.*'

Tevann smiled. "Then, as it will. a time happened that
I saw, and knew Uelein, who is not of your acquaintance.

215

And now for long we have been most needful, each to the
other."

"I am of joy for you—for you and Uelein. I would be,
if I may, of her acquaintance. But—what more of
Limila?"

"That. when you came here—when Limila came here

—again I was of despair. For I had promised Limifa of
all time, and now I had promised Uelein also. And though

—as you are of knowledge—a Tilaran can be many
things to another, only one can be most needful."

"Many peoples are of that feeling." Still, Barton waited
for the other shoe to drop.

"When, on viewscreen, I saw and heard Limila, I was
of shock."

"Yeh—the Enoch Arden bit." Tevann looked a ques-
tion; Barton shook his head and signed for the other to
continue.

"Then when she spoke of you—that you are her most
needful person—Barton, my mind was of peace. Then
I could be with her—we could be of ioy!"

The pause, Barton felt, deserved a little silent wine-
sipping—so he did, greatly relieved to know what the
problem was. "That you have told me these things,
Tevann, is of good. I am of thanks to you."

The Tilaran smiled, touched Barton's hand, and
turned away. Barton stood a moment, wondering if he had
lost anything in the translation. No—it made sense—
and he was pleased to find that Limila's former most-
needful person was someone he liked thoroughly.

Again" drifting through the crowd, Barton felt de-
tached. He was not drunk; his mind was clear. Limila
was right, he thought—no one could handle the impact
of too many alien concepts all at once—there was a dis-
orienting effect. Okay, he told himself—simmer down,
now....

His .glass was empty and he was thirsty. Ahead, in a
dim comer, he saw a group gathered around a table. Ap-
proaching, he nodded to persons half-seen in the dimness
and filled his glass. The wine was cool and tart; he rolled
the first sip on his tongue before swallowing.

Turning away, he was met; someone pressed against
him. "I ask of pardon," he said, and sought to move.

The person was shorter than he, so not Tilaran surely.
'Try English, Barton." He bent to look more closely;

thick, springy hair brushed his cheek.

216

"Alene?" he said. "You get lost, or something?"

"No, Barton." And under his robe, he felt her hand
move.

"Hey, now ..."

"Tilara grows on one, don't you find?" Her voice was
soft.

"Yeh—sure. But you and Tarleton . . . ?"

"On the ship, yes. But at a Tilaran party? The customs
of the country, Barton—I have carte blanche. Do you?"

"I guess so ... yes—sure. But why me?"

"I want to know you. Barton- When we were first on the
ship, before Tarleton and I were together, I told him I
wanted to know the man who started all this—and he
knew what I meant. He thought about it a minute, as
though I'd asked a question, and then said yes, it was all
right."

Barton laughed. "You mean, be gave you permis-
sion?"

"Not exactly. He was worried it might hurt one of us,
and then decided it wouldn't. He was concerned. Barton."

"Good of him. But then, he's a good man."

"Yes. You see that little door, over there? Is that a place
where we could—?

They went, and they did. And for all her brash exterior,
Barton found great sweetness to Alene Grover.

From outside the quieth little room came unquiet
sounds. Barton raised his head; for a moment he listened.
He kissed Alene fiercely, in lieu of taking longer about it,
and got them both robed before opening the door. Out-
side, the sounds were clearer. No doubt about it, he
thought—it's a hassle somewhere. What the hell could
be going on? He pointed his senses toward trying to find
out, gripping one of Alene's hands to keep her with him.

He pushed through milling groups that seemed, them-
selves, to have no purpose of action. Ahead, the crowd
parted momentarily; he saw Tarleton moving through a
large doorway to the left

"Come on, Alene," he said, and tried to move faster.^
Then he saw she was hobbling, her feet only half into her
shoes. He bent, pulied the shoes off, and banded them to
her. "Now come on!"

Several Tilarans, doing nothing in particular but
blocking Barton's way, were bunched against the door.

217

He needed both hands, and released Alene'S. "Follow as
close as you can."

"Yes, Barton, I'll be all right. This doesn't look dan-
gerous."

"Of pardon, of passage, of need to progress! Gangwayl
Party through! Lady with a baby!" One language was as
good as another, as Barton bulled his way through the
clutter and reached the door. Inside, he paused to get his
bearings.

At the near side of a milling group, Tarieton was argu-
ing with Vertan; he gripped the Tilaran by the shoulders
and pushed him away. Turning, he saw Barton, and said,
"If he won't help, the hell with him!"

"What's needed?"

"A doctor. It's bad. He—"

"Squawkbox over there, isn't it? Alene! Holler for
Max Cummings, will you? And now, Tarieton—what's
the goddamn problem?"

"Ap Fenn."

"But he's on the ship!"

"He was. He isn't. He's over there bleeding to death."

"Oh, shit!" Barton took a deep breath. "All right—
what did that silly sonofabitch do now? And what's he do-
ing here?"

Tarieton gestured toward a comer; a Tilaran woman
huddled there, crying. Her heavy, pointed fingernails
were smeared with blood.

"She did it?" Tarieton nodded, and Barton moved to-
ward her.

"Aren't you going to have a look at ap Fenn?"

Barton turned. "If you think first aid has priority, you
do it. Two races are more important than any one man."
He went to the woman and crouched to speak with her.
After a time, she answered. "It was not of purpose," she
said, **not of purpose. . . ."

It took a while to get it straight; Barton tried to be pa-
tient, and eventually she became more coherent.

"As you know, we touch, of question to be with the
other. When the Earthani touched me, the touch was not
of my liking, and I answered that I was not of that wish.
You must know—"

"Yes," said Barton. "Choice is of both. But then?"

"He was of force to me—of pain. I could not under-
stand—we are not of that way; it is not known to us. And
when I knew his intent—"

218

"You clawed the living hell out of him." He rephrased
the remark in Tilaran. "You were of need that he stop.
You were of hurt to him, but the hurt was not of your pur-
pose."

"You are of understanding. So it was,"

Since no one else volunteered, Barton said the things
necessary to take the woman off the hook of the situation.
As he rose to rejoin Tarieton, Max Cummings entered,
and Barton forgot the woman entirely. He followed the
surgeon across the large room and had his first look at
what had befallen Terik-e ap Fenn.

He didn't like it, and didn't look twice. He waited long
minutes until Cummings completed his work before he
asked any questions.

Cummings looked mild and wispy; he didn't talk that
way. "Well, I saved his balls—he may end up sterile, but
they'll keep, I think. Anyway, no one deserves to perpet-
uate his genes if he's stupid enough to try to force a Tilaran
woman."

"Or any woman," said Barton.

"There is that. Next—he retains his damaged left eye,
but it may not be much use to him. And there are possible
internal injuries—a bad bruise under the sternum, per-
haps from a kick—without laboratory facilities, I can't
be certain." Cumoungs shrugged. "Unfortunately, that's
the best I can do."

"Under the circumstances you're doing just fine. And
thanks. Now, if you'll pardon me"—be turned to Tarie-
ton—"What I'm sweating is how the bastard got here in
the first place."

Tarieton shook his head. "I don't know."

"You don't know? Why the hell not?"

"We can't contact the ship."

**And we're still pooping around, here?" In reflex he
reached a hand out toward Tarieton, then pulled it back.
"I don't believe this—it has to be a bad joke." The hand
clenched into a fist. "Let's move."

"I've asked for a car. Wait a minute—here comes
Vertan."                                            H

The Tilaran approached. "I have called. A vehicfe
wilt be of your service, shortly."

"Yen, thanks," said Barton.. "And while we're waiting
—Vertan, what's this about your refusing to help? Re-
member, • Tarieton?—you said that, when I got here.
What happened?"

219

"When the shouting started," said Tarleton, "Vertan
•and I went to see what was up. When we saw, I asked him
to get help. He refused—that's alt."

"The hell you say." Then, "Vertan, why is it you would
not be of help to an Earthani in need of that help? Is this
how you are of friendship?"

"Barton—were you not told of his act?"

"Yeh—he got rough. I mean, he was of force to the
woman. If he lives, there will be punishment. Of - your
jail, or ours?"                     ^

"I do not know of jail. But why must he live?"

Barton considered what he had heard. "Vertan—
what is the Tilaran way, with those who violate your
laws?"

"We are of reason, of persuasion, that all be of good ac-
tions. If a person will not, and al! cannot be of safety from
that person, the matter is of death. But first there is talk
and agreement."

"Your custom is of greater harshness than ours. But of
this man's act, where was talk and agreement?"

"The woman said he was of force; she showed the
marks- No more was needed—all were of agreement."

"I don't exactly remember being asked for my vote."

"You were not of presence." Vertan turned aside as
another Tilaran spoke to him, then said, "Your car is now
of readiness."

"All right," said Tarleton. "Thank you. Later, Vertan,
we will speak of this matter."

The Tilaran inclined his head as the two men left.
Tarleton beckoned to Slobodna. "You heard most of
that, Slowboat?"

"Enough, I think. I've alerted the ships, as you said.
And appointed some folks to pass the word that we leave
the party early—and all together. When do you want me
to pull the chain?"

"Hmm—stay near a squawkbox, or have someone on
it who can find you in a hurry. Barton or I will give you the
office, either over the box or by messenger."

"You think we're in a jam?"

"I don't know. Not in danger, I think, but maybe on
our own, from here out."

"I hope not," said Slobodna. "I've come to like these
folks."

"Me too," said Barton. "But have we come to know
them?"

220

"That's the question, all right," Tarleton said. "Well,
there's the car—let's go. See you, Slowboat. And stay oa
top of it. Right?"

"Will do." Slobodna turned back to the group inside,
as the other two entered the car.

To Barton, the ride to the ship was interminable. Nei-
ther man spoke—what was there to say?

The ship was supposed to be buttoned up. It wasn't—
it was wide open, the main ramp down and the airlock
door ajar. Barton won the sprint to the ramp. Peripher-
ally, he saw the other man turn aside, into shadows. No
matter—he charged into the ship, nerves keyed high in
readiness for the unknown.

Empty—all compartments, the lounges, and galley.
No need to explore the drive room—its seal was intact.
The control room was locked from inside, and his pound-
ing on the door brought no response. He heard a sound of
thin crying—but it came from the airlock. On the double,
he went there.

Just inside, he met Tarleton, half-supporting, half-
carrying Helaise Renzel—it was she who cried, standing
crouched, blonde hair plastered wetly across one side of
her face. Her mouth gaped squarely, in agony.

Barton spoke first. "Hishtoo has the ship! How the hell
can we break into the controtroom?"

Tarleton shook his head. "Hishtoo has a ship, but not
this one. Helaise saw. She's hurt—get Slowboat on the
box and have Cummings out here five minutes ago. Tell
him who's injured, and how."

Then Barton saw her arm, bent horribly between el-
bow and wrist, with a sharp end of bone showing through
the torn skin.

Above the break, deep, saw-toothed lacerations oozed
blood. Hishtoo—he's paying me back, all right!

Barton activated the compartment's screen; sooner
than he expected, he reached Slobodna's man at the
party. Some party! He relayed Tarleton's orders and
signed off.                                           ^

On Tarleton's bed Helaise huddled, moaning; beads
of sweat rolled down her cheeks and forehead. Like a
mother elephant, the big man fussed over her, not daring
to touch. But all his concern wasn't helping anything.

All right; Barton knew how to reduce a fracture. He'd
learned the trick in the Army, the hard way, and Renzel's

221

frail arm should be easier than an infantryman's mus-
cular leg. The jagged end of bone would carry bacteria
into the wound, but that's what antibiotics were for—
and he needed this woman in shape to tell her story.
Some pain-killer would have helped, but he didn't, know
where Myra kept the stuff.

So he talked Tarleton into position for helping, and
applied traction to the crumpled arm. It straightened;

Helaise screamed once. then bit her lip; blood ran.' When
he thought he had it right, he said to Tarleton, "Can you
bold it right there?" At the man's nod. Barton got up and
poured a jolt of his boss's best bourbon. Helaise wasn't
in shock, near as he could tell, so the stuff should help.
And when she sipped it, her color began to come back.
As. an afterthought he gave Tarleton a taste also, then
took one himself before giving Helaise the last of it.

"Now we're bourbon-brothers," he said, "so you can
tell us what happened. Like how come you stayed here,
and not ap Fenn."

The tale was short but ugly. After his defeat at Barton's
hands—or, rather, feet—ap Fenn kept Helaise afraid
of him and more afraid to complain. When he saw that
everyone who knew he was assigned to ship duty had left
in the first car, he made Helaise back his story, to the rest,
that she had the duty and he could leave with them. At the
party he figured to avoid Barton and anyone else who
knew him for AWOL. "... and if you did see him, what
could you do about it, in public?"

Fear, not loyalty to ap Fenn, had kept Helaise from
calling to warn Tarleton and the rest. "And I still fear
Terike. What will happen to me when he comes back?"

"Nothing," said Barton. "Because hell be locked in
Compartment Six. Which brings up a point—Hishtoo.
What happened there?"

She had taken food to the Demu, and he'd knocked the
tray aside and grabbed her. Barton nodded. "Must have
known you were the only one of us aboard; that hardshell
always knew more English than he let on. Then what?"

"Eeshta tried to help me; he knocked her down. Her
mouth ran blood but she got up and ran, crying out, *I will
not let him take the ship to Sisshain!' Hishtoo dropped
roe and went after her, but she slammed the control room
door in his face. He shouted something after her—in
Demu, I think."

"So that's who's in there," Tarleton said,

222

"Who else?" said Barton. "Once you said Hishtoo
didn't have this ship—and that's the next job I men-
tioned, how to get to her. She's hurt, or in shock; that's
why she didn't answer your calls."

Barton shook his head. "All right, Helaise. The rest of
it?" She'd tried to run but she was half-stunned. Hishtoo
caught her, and slammed her forearm against his knee
until the bones gave.

"Then he bit me—horribly—and I heard him speak
in English."

"Crab salad," Barton muttered.

"How did you know that?" She tried to sit up, and
failed.

"Hishtoo has a long memory. I said that to him a couple
of times, when the break was on the other arm. His. But,
anyway. Then what, Helaise? Did Hishtoo have a
weapon?"

He hadn't. He'd dragged Renzel out of the ship, across
the spaceport- A car passed; to avoid its lights, Hishtoo
pushed the woman one way as he fell the other. She could
still run, and found hiding in shadows under another ship.
"He couldn't find me. I lay there a long time." And even-
tually she saw the Demu climb the ramp into a Tilaran
ship; a few minutes later, that ship lifted. Then she
walked, and sometimes crawled, trying to seek her way
back. But when Tarleton found her, she didn't recognize
where she was.

Barton nodded. "That covers it. And that blows it.
Hishtoo's off to tell all good Demu that now is the time to
put down the upstart animals." He felt his lips stretch
over his teeth and knew he wasn't smiling. "Tarleton,
we can forget the surprise party. The birthday boy is go-
ing to be damned well braced for it"

"We can't sit on this," Barton said. Again he punched
for a circuit to the party building, and this time asked for
Vertan. Soon, on the screen the Tilaran appeared.

Barton spoke first. "Hishtoo has escaped, taking a
ship of the Tilari. He goes, we think, to a place of the name
Sisshain. Is its location of your knowledge?"

"No, Barton. Of Demu planets, we know only from the
maps you show us. Except for Demmon, their major
world, we know not of names. But now—what is to do?
And of what mischance did the Demu escape?"

Irritated, Barton shook his head. Post-mortems

223

wouldn't put Hishtoo back in Compartment Six. But
maybe he'd better soothe the Tilaran. "It was ap Feno—
the man who was of force to the woman. He put his duty
here on a woman, who was not of strength to contain
Hishtoo. She is injured and of great pain. As for now,
Vertan—can you send a ship after Hishtoo? Your pilots
must be of greater skill than he, in your own ships."

"Of what hour was his departure?"           , -

Barton thought "The time is not of certainty—only
that it preceded discovery of ap Fenn with the woman."

"Then effectively he is beyond detection range, since
we know not of his direction. And it was your part to keep
the Demu of no harm to us."

The entry-request light blinked—Cummings, prob-
ably. Barton let his resentment flare. "If you are only of
futility and recrimination, Vertan, the matter is not of
immediacy. We will speak of it later." He cut the screen.

"A little rough, weren't you?" Tarleton's voice was
edged. "Are you trying to cancel the alliance?".

"Oh, bullshiti I'm tired of people hitching from the
cheap seats. First, Vertan wouldn't help with ap Fenn—
now all he can say is that Hishtoo was our problem.
Where the hell was his own security, that let Hishtoo get
away with his ship?" He shook his head, "Skip it—I think
Cummings wants in."

"One thing, first. You're the one. Barton, who said
that two races are more important than any one man.
Have you changed your mind?"

In midstride, Barton paused. "No—no, I haven't
It's just that I'm beginning to wonder if one of those races
is going to pull its weight after all." Tarleton did not an-
swer.

Barton half-walked, half-ran to the main airlock.
Cummings was there, all right, and the doctor wasted no
words. "The man is dead. Where's the woman?"

"Follow me. Ap Fenn died, huh? Not much loss, may-
be, but it still bugs me that the Tilari wouldn't help."

"They couldn't have saved him. After all—without
hospital facilities—and there wasn't time to move him—
I didn't quite manage that myself. The things you saw
looked bad, but the real damage was internal. Ruptured
spleen—internal hemorrhage. The Tilarans don't know
our anatomy well enough to have handled that in the
emergency situation." Well, maybe not—but Barton

224

was still angry. It was the principle of the thing, he grum-
bled to nobody.

In Compartment One, Tarleton showed signs of strain.
Holding constant tension for any length of time. Barton
realized, was a fast way to get tired. "Want me to take
over for a while," he asked, "until Dr. Cummings has it
under wraps?"

"No. A little longer won't kill me."

"Okay—then I'll get on the control-room problem."

"Try the screen from the galley. Barton. It's usually
left on 'Open' from the control end."

"Okay. Hey, fill Slowboat in, will you, when you get a.
hand free? I got sore there, and forgot. Besides being-in a
hurry to answer the door."

"Right." With a motion of the head, Tarleton waved
him off. As Cummings began inspection of Helaise's
arm, Barton left. He decided he could do without the
next few minutes in Compartment One, anyway.

In the galley he first poured a cup of coffee. It was old,
strong, and rank—it tasted like Barton felt. He flipped
the switch that put the control room on the screen. Tarle-
ton's hunch paid off; the screen lit.

Eesbta was there, all right—he could see her, slumped
in the copilot's seat—hat off, head down, hands over her
earholes—unmoving. But sitting up like that, she
couldn't be dead, or unconscious. In shock, he thought—
but why, and how?

"Eeshta," he said. "Eeshta—this is Barton. Eeshta,
it's Barton. Are you all right?" Dumb question—obvi-
ously she wasn't all right. "What's wrong, Eesbta? It's
Barton—let me in. Get up and open the door, Eeshta.
Whatever's wrong, open the door—let me in to help you.
It's all right, Eeshta—nobody blames you for anything.
It's all right—let me help you."

Over and over, repeating and varying, Barton pleaded
with the young Demu. But except for an occasional flinch-
ing movement, Eeshta made no response. Barton kept
trying, but he felt he was running out of steam. Finally he
paused, silent—and saw Eeshta begin to tremble, a
tremor that built until it shook the small form.

"Whnee?" Without thought he said if the first sound
Eeshta had ever uttered to him in communication. Shrill
and plaintive, he made it. And suddenly the small Demu
was on its feet, facing him.

225

"He cursed my eggs," Eeshta said, one slow syllable
after another. "Hishtoo cursed my eggsl"

Not immediately, but soon, Eeshta unlocked the door.
Disregarding the question of whether his action suited
the exoskeletal Demu instincts. Barton gave way to his
own and cuddled the small, unhappy creature. Sounds
of Demu distress mingled with his "there, there" .and
"It's all right" and "Okay now—nothing to worry about."
Barton began to feel a little foolish, but gradually the kid
was calming down.

When Eeshta was quiet, he asked, "Can you tell me
about it?"

"Barton—Hishtoo cursed my eggs. My own egg-
parent!"

"Well, how did it happen? Mind you—I don't think it
really counts."

"It does! I defied him—and all of Demu pride. So he
cursed me . . ."

"First, he broke loose—right? And grabbed He-
laise?"

"Yes, Barton. He said we take this ship, and Helaise
as prisoner, to Sisshain. There we copy your new weapon
that we do not have—and wipe you from our sight."

"I see. And then, Eeshta?"

"I find that although I am Demu, I must not let him do
what he says. I try to turn" Helaise free; Hishtoo with ter-
rible force throws me to a wall. But I am not dead—bleed-
^S, yes, but living. I win to here and lock him away from
me. But his curse follows—as the door closes, I hear it.

"Barton, that curse can kill. Why am I not dead? Hear-
ing it, I want to be dead—I belong dead. So why do I still
live?"

The idea required careful handling—witch doctors,
Barton knew, could kill by the victim's faith in their
powers.

"Eeshta," he said, "do you believe all the things that
Hishtoo believes?"

"Barton, you know I do not—did I so, there would be
no disagreement . . . and no curse. I would be whole, not
filled with the death that is soon to come."

"You're missing the point, youngster. Curses—and
believe me, I'm an expert on curses—only work between
people who believe the same things."

"Can such a thing be true?"

226

"It's a fact. Really—it's been proven, on Earth. Now,
you no longer believe as Hishtoo does—right?"

"That is right. Barton—yes."

"So Hishtoo, any more, can't put a curse on you and
make it work." Barton had a touch of inspiration. "And
of course you can't put a curse on Hishtoo, either. You
see?—it wouldn't work at all."

After a long silence, Eeshta nodded. "I see, now.
Thank you for explaining—I could have died of my own
ignorance, could I not?" Her tongue lifted in the Demu
smile. "Barton, you are good to me."

"Then, is everything okay now?"

"Almost, I think—though it will take time for me to
know fully, what you say. But there is still one thing."

"What is that?"

"I am very hungry."

"Hell, so am I. Let's go!"

In the galley, after washing Eeshta's face. Barton de-
cided to try a little culinary bluffing. Ordinarily he limited
his "cooking" to the heating of Frozen Freddies, but he
felt like taking a flyer. As a boy, on camping trips, he'd
scrambled a few eggs without disaster—the Tilaran soft-
shelled variety couldn't be too different . . .

He did not say "eggs" out loud—not to Eeshta—he
merely scrambled them, threw in bits of green pepper
and a dollop of Worcestershire sauce, and hoped for the
best. As they ate, he thought: Barton, actually you are
one hell of a good cook. On your better days . ..

"Still hungry, Eeshta?"

"No, Barton. I am satisfied."

"Good. Me, too. A little coffee?—I made a fresh pot."

"I would like that." Barton poured for two. No side-
arms—they both drank it black. And now he set out the
star map he had brought from the control room.

"Eeshta—can you find Sisshain on this map?"

"What is it, that you would do?"

"I don't know yet. Nothing, maybe. Or if the place is
important, try to get there before Hishtoo."

Eeshta shook its head. "How could you? He is so far
ahead."

"This ship is faster than the one Hishtoo took. We
could do it."

"And kill, then, my egg-parent?"

"I wouldn't think so—no reason to, that I can see. Get

227

there before him if we can, yes. But killing isn't what we
want. As you know. We want to meet your people before
they're prepared to fight, and not have to fight them.
But Hishtoo, if he gets there first, could warn them—and
then there would be war, and killing.

"So—on this map, can you locate Sisshain?"

Eeshta puzzled over the map, drew a finger across it.
"I think here. Barton. Far from my early home or-Aom
where you were, or from the centers of Demu power. But
somehow, in our heritage, important. It may be the world
of our beginning."

Eeshta's finger jerked back, away from the map. "I
should not tell you—or all Demu may curse my eggs!"

Barton sighed. "Eeshta—you have agreed with our
purpose—that Demu should not capture other peoples
and mutilate them—that such things should be stopped.
But they won't be stopped, unless you help me. Eeshta,
where is Sisshain?"

Tentatively, then firmly, Eeshta's finger touched the
map. Barton felt relief—he'd thought he had it right the
first time, but it never hurt to make sure! "Good. Thank
you, Eeshta."

And it was the hole card—the planet the Ormthan had
mentioned. For its sun sat in a pocket of a dust cloud,
approachable from only one direction.

"More coffee, Eeshta?" Barton was thinking that he
hoped the small Demu wouldn't be hurt by whatever
happened. Remembering Eeshta's chant, he added a
few hopes for Earth's welfare.

"Barton. What do you do now?"

"I don't know yet. We had our plans—I suppose you've
heard them; they were no secret. We hoped we could just
turn up and show our muscle and say 'let's talk.' But now
that Hishtoo has escaped, I'm afraid that won't work.
Probably our best bet is to get to Sisshain ahead of him, if
we can,

"There are other problems—ap Fenn is dead, for one
thing. And the TUari . . . well, we'll figure that out later."
He stood. "Shall we see how it's going with Helaise?"

In Compartment One the scene looked cozy enough.
A slim, plastic dressing covered the broken arm, but
Helaise held her drink—by eye, much milder than the
one Barton had given her earlier—in her other hand. Her
^hair was brushed back into relative neatness.

228

From his big easychair, Tarleton asked, "Is Eeshta all
right?"

"She'll do," said Barton. "Here, sit down. Eeshta." He
remained standing. "Did you get hold of Slowboat?"

"Yes. He called back."

"What's the scoop there?"

"Everybody's cooled down—apologies and condo-
lences all around. I told him to use his own judgment—
no need to break up the party until some of the other con-
tingents begin to leave—but for all our people to be care-
ful with the polites."

"Good enough."

"Yes. Now, how about you. Barton? You have any-
thing new?"

"We know where Sisshain is—where Hishtoo's going.
It's the world the Ormthan told of."

Tarleton frowned. " B ut why would he go there?
That's not where the Demu keep most of their muscles.
I'd expect him to hit for Demmon or for one of the guard
planets, at least."

"I purely don't know, Tarleton. Any ideas, Eeshta?"

"It may be that Sisshain is the place where decisions
are made."

Barton nodded. "That figures. Tarleton!—we have to
get there first." Over the big man's protest, he said, "Not
the whole fleet, but a strike force."

Tarleton's expression changed. "Of course. How many
ships?"

"That's your decision. You're strategy; I'm tactics.
I'd settle for one Earth ship, as long as I'm on it." He
reached to the mini-bar and poured himself a slug of his
host's bourbon. "Cheers, Tarleton."

He turned to the woman, resting now but still pale.
"You feeling better, Helaise?"

"Lots. Thanks to Max's little needle. And he's leav-
ing me some ampoules, for when it starts hurting again."
She sounded a little punchy. Barton thought, but not bad.
Now she frowned. "One thing: What about Terike's
body? Do they have cemeteries here? Or cremation, or
what? I mean—he wasn't the best man I ever knew, but
still he should have some of the good things said over
him."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," said Cummings.
"Tilara has different customs. The body was taken to be
used in agriculture."

229

"Oh, no!" Her voice broke in a sob. "How could they?"
Tarieton tried to comfort her, but she cried all the harder.

"Helaise!" said Barton. "Let the body help grow tur-
nips, or whatever. You want good things said, we'll say
them. Over your memories of the good side of Terrke ap
Fenn. That's what's important."

"How can you say that? You hated him!"

"A little, yes. And for cause. Not to want him "oead,
though; I don't like that any better than you do. And I
stilt have a bone to pick with the Tilari, that they were
willing to let him die without trying to help. That's how I
feel, Helaise."

Slowly, she nodded. "All right; I guess you mean it."

Barton rose and moved toward the door. "Just a min-
ute," said Tarieton. "We're not through here."

"Oh? Okay, shoot."

"You're still working for me, I think. While that's true.
I don't want you picking any bones with the Tilari. Com-
ments?"

Barton thought it over. "Yeh, comments. You sif back
so much, sometimes I forget who's running the show. And
that's no complaint; I like having a free hand. But if you
don't want me taking over too much, it's about time you
spoke up."

"I'm doing it. Mostly I have no complaints, either; you
run a good fleet. But policy's my bag. You stay out of it."

For a moment, surprise at the challenge kept Barton
s3ent. Then, "Right; we each have our own job. All right
—outside of regular operations I won't say Word One to
Vertan, without your okay."

"Good enough. And when it comes to fleet opera-
tions I'm not putting any wraps on you. You understand
that, don't you?"

"I'm not with the fleet any more; remember? I'm on
the hit force, to Sisshain." Tarleton's brows raised, but he
said nothing.

Helaise was dozing; her outburst had drained her
energies. "She might as well be in bed," said Max Cum-
mings. Tarieton shrugged, lifted her gently and carried
her to Compartment Three.

"I would be with her," said Eeshta. "If she wakes,
needing something, I could bring it." The young Demu
brought a few things from Six and settled in as night nurse,

230

showing no signs of planning to sleep immediately. Cum-
mings said good night and left the ship.

"All right," said Tarieton then. "Let's talk strike force.
When do you want to leave?"

No arguments? Good enough. "About three hours
ago. No—a couple of days, to get the hardware together.
And I need to see Limila first. . . ."

"Sure. The hardware, I'll expedite. You think about
the makeup of your strike team; we can settle it tomor-
row. Right now, I want a look at that map." They took
the map into the control room, where Barton spread it
across the operations desk.

He pointed out Tilara, the major Demu worlds and
their guard planets, and the dust cloud, with the pocket
facing away from Demu space. Deep in the pocket, one
star held lone sway. Tarieton put a finger to it. "That's the
one the Ormthan mentioned?"

"Good memory. As I recall, it was a single mention."

"When that one talked, I listened." Then Tarieton
proposed that instead of going straight for the cloud,
Barton should first get that obstacle between him and
the Demu guard worlds. Less risk of detection that way,
he said. Of course the detour would add to Hishtoo's lead,
but as Barton said, Hishtoo was limited to light-speed
communications just like everybody else, and would
have no chance to alert any other Demu worlds. While
it would be best to catch Mishtoo in space, the real need
was to prevent any ship leaving to take word from Sis-
shain. "Assuming he does go there," Tarieton added.
"And if he gets there first, what's your plan?"

"Depends on what we find. Maybe sit down and look
around—or hang loose upstairs and hold the line until
the fleet arrives."

"Sounds reasonable." Tarieton yawned. "Barton, I've
about had it for tonight. Excuse me?"

"Sure. See you." But before Barton could leave, the
entrance alarm blinked and sounded.

"Must be the troops coming in," said Barton. "I'll get
it."

Tarieton sighed. "I'd better stay and hear if there's
any news. In the galley?"

"Right." Barton walked to the main airlock. Awaiting
entrance was no crew member, but Vertan. Barton spoke
his name, nothing more.

231

-Barton. I may enter?" Barton waved him in, and ?ed
tile way to the galley. "I am of regret," the Tilaran said,
"for the hurt to our friendship. Of the man ap Fenn, that
you and we were of ignorance to the ways of the other.
Cummings has told me that our help would not have been
of use. But had I known how you feel of such matters, I
would have been of willingness.

"Of the Demu's escape—I was, in speaking, of, shock
and surprise, and am now of apology. Part of the fault is
of ourselves, that the Demu could take our ship. Shall
we both be of forgiveness, Barton?"

Hell—his promise to Tarleton surely didn't cover the
acceptance of olive branches! "Be it so, Vertan. And
again of friendship." Pausing at the galley's open door,
they shook hands.

"Be of welcome, Vertan," said Tarleton. Then in
English, "I gather we're all buddies again?" Barton
nodded. "Coffee, perhaps?"

"It is of pleasure," said Vertan. "Is not 'buddies* of
friendship? I am now, from study, of some skill in your
language. Shall we speak in it?"

"If you like." Tarleton did so. "I'm still not too good
in yours, I admit. And what is your thought here,
tonight?"

"First was to repair friendship. I think—I hope—that
is done. Then, to exchange facts and discuss the plans—
the changes of plan—we must put before the group to-
morrow. You have thought on this already, perhaps?"

"Yes," said Tarleton. "We know where Hishtoo is go-
ing. Barton will take a small force and try to get there
first. The fleet will follow as soon as possible. Barton?"

The latter had stood. "Go ahead with the fill-in," he
said. "I'll get the map. And I have a few questions my-
self."

A few minutes later the three were tracing routes and
estimating time-distance factors. "It is not a certainty,"
said Vertan, "that you can overtake Hishtoo. With two or
three days' lead, a very good pilot and navigator could
negate your advantage in acceleration, between here and
Sisshain. Do you know whether Hishtoo is so skilled?"

"He's traveled plenty," said Barton, "and in Charge of
a ship, at that—it was his raider that picked me up on
Earth, But whether he was the brains or just the brass. I
don't know." He paused. "I just thought of something.

232

Your ships' controls work a lot different from ours, or
from the Demu's—and that could hamper Hishtoo."

"But the Demu have captured Tilari ships, in the past,"
said Tarleton. "I wonder what the chances are, that he
might be familiar with your control systems ...."

"We had best," the Tilaran said, "assume the most dan-
gerous possibility."

"Right," said Barton. "And there's where I have ques-
tions."

He didn't like the answers. Hishtoo's ship carried a
laser, installation complete except for the power leads—
and a full set of instruction manuals. Barton had seen
those manuals; they were good, very graphic. Hishtoo
wouldn't have any language problem.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "that puts knobs on it.
Hishtoo has to be stopped on Sisshain—if not sooner."

He asked further. Vertan could supply the stolen ship's
drive-wake patterns, for detection and identification in
space, but not until the next day; that particular computer
file was not attended at night. All right; Barton asked
about Hishtoo's fuel supply, and other weapons the Demu
might have, both ship's and personal- None from Ship
One, he knew; in port, handguns stayed locked up. "And
I assume your ship was empty."

Briefly, before he answered, the Tilaran's face twisted;

Barton wondered at the look. of it, for the news wasn't all
that bad. Hishtoo had enough .fuel to reach Sisshain or
another Demu world—Demmon, say—but not to go first
to one and then another. He .probably had two ion-beam
handguns, but in space, what good were they?

The ship's nose carried one large ion-beam projector, a
plasma gun that had been intermittently malfunctioning,
so maybe it was working and maybe not, and only one of
the two high-drive torpedoes it would normally carry; the
other had been used in testing and not yet replaced.

"We did get a few breaks, then," said Barton. "Any-
thing else?"

"Yes," said Vertan. "The part I do not like to say—
or think about. The ship Hishtoo took—it was not empty."

"You mean he killed some of your people?"

"Or worse, that he did not." Face contorted, Vertan
shook bis head. "Two were on board. In charge, a man
named Gerain. And visiting him, his most needful per-
son. Her name is livajj—a person well loved by those
who know her."

233

livajjt "So young she is, but of good thought"
"I know her," Barton said. "Damn it all! Hishtoo does

learn."

"What do you mean?" Tarieton spoke. "What's wrong?
I mean, 1 know it's bad, but what—?"

Barton felt old. 'The hostage principle, is what. Same
as when -I used Eeshta against Hishtoo, to bluff my way
onto the Demu ship I took to Earth. If I catch up to Hish-
too, he breaks livajj's arm, gets on the screen -to me and
says *crab salad.' The only difference is, Hishtoo won't be
bluffing. You saw what he did to Helaise."
'Then he has achieved immunity?" Vertao.
*'You mean we're stymied?" Tarieton.
^Hell, no." Barton shook his head. "But it's bard. And
111 be breaking my promise to Eeshta, too."

"You lost me. Barton. Maybe you can spell it out?"
"What Hishtoo doesn't realize, the big hard-shelled
copycat, is that the stakes are too big now. With roe it
was Eeshta's life against letting me board the Demu
ship. I was stretched all out of shape and Hishtoo had a
gun; not a bad bet, in his view. And even if I got on the
ship, what could I do with it? Where be missed was, you
cage a man like an animal long enough, what comes out
u an animal. When he pulled the gun, be learned that."
"I follow you," said Tarieton. "But what about now?"
"Like I said; he's made the stakes too big, especially
now that he's got a laser. No two people's lives-—" Bar-
ton's teeth gritted. "He won't eat anybody alive—but I'll
have to gun the ship. If I can." He shuddered. "That's
where Eeshta comes in. When she fingered Sisshain for
me, the idea was that I had no intention of killiag Hisb-
too."

"Will you tell her?"

"I have tol If we ever make talk-contact with the
Demu, Eeshta's the key to all- of it. With somebody in that
spot, you don't fake. Besides, on straight merit, the kid
deserves the truth."
"And if she turns against us?" said Vertan.
"If we have to do things without her, the hard way,
better we know it now."

"What you must do. Barton, is very hard," Vertan said.
"Bad enough, for me, will be the telling that Gerain and
livajj are as dead. At least, can you do so, dead swiftly
and without pain."

The Tilaran stood, saying he must leave and declining

234

the offer of a spare compartment for sleeping. "My most
needful person waits, and I would not disappoint her." So
the two men escorted the Tilaran offship to his groufldcar,
shook hands, and watched him drive away.

"How'd you make it up so quick?" Tarieton asked.
"He said he was sorry and I believed him. Instant
peace pipe."

"Yes? Well, good. For a while there, I was worried."
Barton saw lights approaching. "Two cars, there. The
crew?"

"I'm afraid so." Tarleton shrugged. "Not looking for-
ward to reciting the whole situation again, for them."

"Hell, I'll do it, if you want." But Tarieton shooed him
away, saying that one of them had to be able to think in
the morning, and sloshed full of coffee, the big man
couldn't sleep, anyway. So Barton went aboard, and was
asleep before any returning footsteps may have sounded
outside his door.

He woke refreshed; the load on his mind had settled,
some. He dressed and headed for the galley passing the
control room he saw Cheng asleep. Well, any of the
alarms would wake him, fast.

No one else was up; Barton was stuck with his own
cooking. Well, what was wrong with scrambled eggs again,
and some toast? Figuring that he wouldn't be alone very
long, he made a large pot of coffee and cooked for several.

Heavy-eyed, but looking cheerful, Alene Grover was
his first customer. She leaned to hug him; her hair
brushed his cheek. "Tarleton's still with the dead. I didn't
try to wake him."

"Good job you didn't. He can use the sleep."

"Yes. Any of those eggs have my name on them?"

"Help yourself."

She did, and sat across from him. "Hell about Terike,
isn't it? I can't say I liked him—I was his first roommate
here, you know, and it wasn't the greatest relationship
I've ever had—but he had his good points.

"I guess he was pretty badly out of line with the local
girl last night. But I can't see that he deserved to die for
it."

"By these people's lights, he did. But in case you hadn't
heard, they didn't kill him, even by inaction—it was an
internal injury that Cummings couldn't spot until too late.
And on the woman's part, it was self-defense. As to ap

235

Fenn, I agree with you. I won't miss him personally, but I
didn't want him dead. Tarletoa fill you in on all the rest
of it?"

"Quite a lot, yes. Oh, those poor Tilaransi"
He wasn't up to this. "Is it all right with you, Alene, if
we don't discuss them just now?"

"Yes, Barton." For a time, they ate in silence. "Bar-
ton?"
"Yes?"

"Last night, being with you—I liked it. I'm glad we
did."

"So am I, Alene."

"Barton, do you suppose ... ? Can we, sometimes?"
"Not on the ship. Not unless the rules—our customs—
change a lot."

Her eyes widened, "And if they did?"
"// they did, agreed by all—hell, yesi Did you need to
ask, Alene?"

"Maybe not—but I liked hearing the answer."
"You smile nice, but you have egg on your face. Lit-
erally, I mean."

She laughed and used her napkin. "When it comes to
romance. Barton, you're in a class by yourself." But as she
patted his cheek and left, she was still smiling.

Barton had begun to think he had run out of customers,
when Eeshta came in to the galley. Her chitinous face
could show no sign of fatigue or refreshment, but she
moved well. "Good morning. Barton."

"Morning, Eeshta. You get enough sleep? Breakfast
there in the cooker, still hot." He set up more toast.

"Thank you—I am rested, as is Helaise. Is there
enough food for us both?"

There was. Eeshta dished up two plates and put them
on a tray. Barton distributed the toast when it appeared,
and added two cups of coffee. "Can I deliver this, or
would Helaise rather be left alone?"

"She would see you, I think. She asked my help in com-
posing her appearance." So he poured one more cup of
coffee and they set out. Barton moving carefully to avoid
spilling anything.

In Three, Helaise Renzel lay gracefully arranged,
propped by pillows, hair shining-smooth, smile relaxed. A
slight puffiness around the eyes gave the only sign of inner
disquiet Barton greeted her. She seemed to want to apol-

236

ogize for something, but he said, "Eat first; talk later."
With her left hand, she managed the fork well enough.
When the food was done, and Eeshta had gone for more
coffee. Barton said, "All right. What's on your mind?"

The gist of it was that Helaise had done everything
wrong, that the whole mess was her fault and no one
else's. Listening, Barton shook his head, and waited his
chance to repiy. When it came, he pointed out that it
took everybody in a situation, to make it happen, "You.
me, Terike, the woman he tried to rape, the two Tilarans
who weren't paying enough attention to ship's security—
Hishtoo, even Eeshta. You realize that back in 1982 if
I'd been someplace else instead of where the Demu
grabbed me from, most likely none of us would be here!"
He shook his head. "Assigning blame, Helaise, is the
world's most futile pastime. So drop it."

Mouth working, fingers twisting in her hair, she nodded.
"Yes—it's like bragging, isn't it? 7 did it.' All right; I
won't, again."

Eeshta returned with the coffee, explaining that she'd
had to wait while a new batch was made. "Fresh is better,
anyway," Barton said. "Thanks." But he'd had enough,
really, and drank only about half the cup before be rose
to leave.

As he stood, Helaise said, "Did you mean it, that all
of us who knew Terike will say the good things about
him, together?" He nodded, and she said, "I'm glad; he
should have that. There was a great deal wrong about
him, but not everything."

Barton shook his head. "There's a great deal wrong
about most of us. Some have better luck coping with it, is
all." He turned to Eeshta. "Could you come with me a
little while?" He wasn't looking forward to his talk with
the small Demu, but might as well get it over with.

Your place or mine, he thought, then led Eeshta to
Cabin Two. As they entered, Limila*s absence hit him
afresh. He motioned Eeshta to sit, and sat also.

"Eeshta, I have to tell you something—something bad."

The small person sat straight, primly. "Hishtoo is
dead?"

"No—no—but I told you, remember, that I don't want
to kill him. That is stili true. But I said I had no reason to
do so—and that is no longer true."

"What has changed. Barton?"

237

He told her of the Tilaran prisoners, and how he
thought Hishtoo would use them, and why. And what he,
Barton, would have to do about it. Eeshta made no pro-
tests, indulged no hysterics; her questions were simple
and logical. There was something, Barton thought, to be
said for the Demu mind—it had definite possibilities.

'The trouble is," he concluded, "that I can't give'him
what he wants. You know that."

"Yes, Barton." Eeshta paused. "I have thought of when
we met, and you used me to take the ship. Now that I
know more of you, I think you won, over Hishtoo, with a
lie. For I do not think you would have killed me—even
then, and desperate as you were."

Barton's breath left him with a great shudder. "Yes,
Eeshta. You're right."

"But why did you not tell me this before?"

"I didn't think you'd believe me. I thought it would
sound like a cop-out."

"I see. Barton, you have the pride of a Demu. That is
both good and bad."

"Yeh. Thanks ... I think. But the problem is, Hishtoo
won't be bluffing. So no matter what I said before, Eeshta,
right now I don't see any way out of killing the lot of
them."

"Barton, why do you tell me this?"

"Because if we're going to work together, when we
meet your people, we have to be honest with each other.
I don't think you ever lie to me, and I mustn't lie to you.
Understand?"

"Yes. 1 believe I do. And it is true, I do not lie. Barton,
I hope you need not kill my egg-parent—and I believe
^our saying, that you have no wish to kill. But as things
are, if you must, then you must. And I have no choice but
to accept that need."

Barton gave a relieved sigh. "You're all right, you
know that?"

"Yes, I am in good health, and not overly troubled.
Shall I now see to Helaise?"

"Yes. Good idea." Eeshta left him shaking his head.
Would he ever stop underestimating that young, alien
mind?

In the control room, where Myra Hake had the duty,
again Barton had to talk through all that had happened,
and what to expect next. He was getting tired of the re-

238

C-

plays, but could find no way to skip them. Eventually he
got the answer he was after, which was that Myra and
Cheng would be willing to go with the strike force.

The rehash stirred his own resentments, though, and he
aired them: not only had ap Fenn endangered the alli-
ance with the Tilari, he had also enabled Hishtoo's escape,
with a laser, and blowing any possible advantage of sur-
prise. "If he were here alive, right now, I'd be hard put to
keep from breaking his stupid neck for him!"

Myra nodded. "I can see that. But was it all his fault?"

A sudden realization obscured her words—the gut-
level knowledge that ap Fenn's insult to Limila had been
avenged, forever. Somehow, the thought made Barton
feel petty; he shook his head, and said, "That goddamned
politician, Terike's uncle. Using Agency pressure to pass
an unstable man through the screening test. He—"

It still didn't work. "Assigning blame," he'd told
Helaise, "is the world's most futile pastime." And what
was he doing, now?             ^

"Skip it, Myra- We all do what we think we have to,
and sometimes we don't know our ass from third base."

Before she could answer, the screen lit. and Tarleton
said, "Barton. Join me in the galley and help wake up my
brains?"

"Sure." The screen blanked. "See you, Myra."

Tarleton had the map spread, its corners held down by
dishes. Down-Arm from Tilara'appeared a new dark neb-
ula—a coffee stain. Barton grinned. "Watch it with the
stellar geography."

"Oh? Yes—it doesn't wipe off very well. Here. sit
down." Facing the map upside down, Barton sat. Watch-
ing his boss pick at the remains of his breakfast. Barton
decided it must have started out as a good-sized meal.
Tarleton looked up, and said, "Have you thought about
what you'll need for the Sisshain mission?"

"Depends. What do we expect to run into. there? How
many alternatives can we plan for?" The two men talked
it out. If the Demu at Sisshain beat off the strike force, or
if Hishtoo changed his mind and went somewhere else.
instead—either way, a ship would have to retreat. And
report to the combined fleets in transit. "But that means."
Barton said, leaning forward, "the strike force can't leave
until you set the fleet's schedule. Or else no ship coming
from Sisshaiu could possibly make rendezvous."

239

Not so, Tarleton claimed. He was updating fleet liftoff,
and since pinpoint rendezvous was out of the question,
Scalsa was programming for "... a space-time corridor,
whatever that is. Does it sound workable?"

Bartoa shifted his mind back, to his studies toward a
doctorate in physics. "Sure. Flexible, prearranged pa-
rameters. Parallel input to the tin brains on all ships;

shouldn't diverge too much, in the length of time we'll jie
out of contact. Just so you keep schedule."

"We will." Any ships not ready, Tarleton said, would
be left behind to form a second contingent, with its own,
later rendezvous "corridor." He sipped dregs from his
coffee cup. "Now—how many ships do you want?"

Barton had thought about that. Now he said, "Three, I
make it. One to land, if possible." Tarleton's eyebrows
rose. "Well, how else do we find the thing the Ormthan
mentioned, the thing of importance?" The big man
nodded. "One ship to stand off, the way you said, and
stoolie back to the fleet, maybe. And a third. Just in case,
for the hell of it. Okay?"

Tarleton kept trying to get liquid from his cup; no luck.
"All right; which ships, and what personnel?"

Barton grabbed the cup. "If you want to pickle your
kidneys some more, let me get you a refill." That done, he
sat again. "The other two ships, and their people, just
pick me good ones. For myself, I'd like this ship; I know
its quirks by now, and that could be handy in the clinches.
Personnel, though ..." He wanted people he knew, but
obviously he couldn't swipe all of Tarleton's top hands.
Scalsa, for instance—the fleet needed him worse than Bar-
ton did. And Liese Anajek stayed with Scalsa, of course.

Bartoa started with the obvious. "Eeshta has to come;

in a way, this is first contact. I want Cbeng and Myra, and
they're willing, so there's one pilot and one communicator.
I can double in weapons if I have to, and Limila's trained
herself in all three jobs. But I suppose we should have
one full-time weapons man with no other job on his
mind."

"Or hers. How about Helaise? Her arm won't be a
problem long." While Barton tried to decide why he didn't
like the idea, Tarleton said, "Aren't you running awfully
shorthanded?"

"No. It's my ship that lands, if any do, and on the
ground, numbers won't count. Not the difference between
six, and ten or twelve." About Renzel, he made up his

240

mind. "I'll talk to Helaise; if she's willing, find me one
more good hand to equalize the watch loads, and we're
in."

Tarleton's cup was empty again; he looked at it as
though he had caught it cheating at cards. "A pilot who
can shoot, that would be?"

"Right. Now, then—two things 1 want, if there's time
for them." First was a "side gun"; Corval had suggested
putting a gyromagnetic valve between the exciter and the
laser's delivery system, and running an auxiliary system
". . . to exit between the main airlock and the view-
screen above it. .Side-shot capability, with traverse. On
my ship, anyway. Can you do it in time?"

"Shouldn't be a problem; we have plenty of spares. But
your tube has to go right through the middle of Compart-
ment Three."

"With a short crew, who cares? Now I've got one for
Vertan. Originally, if we landed on Sisshain it would be
for an official confab, after convincing the Demu that it
was best to talk. Now it's a whole new ball game—
maybe a sneaky one."

"Barton, you drive someone crazy! What's your point?"

"Remember how I got out of the Demu research sta-
tion?"

"Masquerading as a Demu, you mean?"

Barton nodded. "That's the ticket. And it might come
in handy on Sisshain—but I don't especially want to carve
up a Demu to get the mask. So' maybe the Tilaran plas-
tics industry could whomp us up a few, and some four-
digit gloves." He held up one hand, little finger and ring
finger together. "And footgear. Eeshta can model for
them. We'll need robes and hoods, too—and this has to be
one fast job of work."

"I'll call Vertan before I head for the conference build-
ing. As soon as we're done here."

"Far as I'm concerned," said Barton, "that's right now."

"Good enough. What are you going to do next?"

"Go see Limila."

It wasn't that simple. Myra put his call through, but
Limila was elsewhere, undergoing treatment; late in the
afternoon, Barton could see her. Barton had no luck get-
ting further information from the Tilaran woman at the
other end. She might, he felt, have been trained in any
Earth hospital he knew.

241

Well, should he hit the conference scene with Tarieton?
No—first, talk with Helaise. In Three, he found Eeshta
starting to take the invalid's lunch tray back to the galley.
The young Demu paused, and said to him, "I have
thought more on what you said of Hishtoo and his curse.
Peace grows in my mind."

"Good for you. Any time you want to talk some more,
so do I." Eeshta left; he turned to Helaise. "If you feel
as good as you look, I may have a job for you, I'm takiAg
three ships after Hishtoo, hotfoot. You want to be my
chief gun girl?" He saw her hesitating. "On my ship the
roster is Cheng, Myra, Limila, Eeshta, you if you agree,
me, and some fella Tarieton picks out of the records."

She counted fingers, "Rather a short crew, isn't it?" He
repeated what he'd told Tarieton, and she said, "Then
why the new man? Oh, I see!" She laughed. "Company
for poor little Helaise." Barton spluttered, and she said,
"Well, whoever he is, he won't have a very hard act to
follow. And I can't say I was looking forward to being a
fifth wheel around here." Eeshta returned; she opened a
beer for Barton and put a- few in the cool-box. Helaise
sighed. "I'd thought of transferring to a ship with imbal-
ance between men and women, with sharing rather than
pairing."

"Is that what you want, then?"

Before she could answer, Eeshta spoke. "I do not un-
derstand. So much concern as to who is with whom—and
ail the time- With the Demu it is not thus. There is a sea-
son, and beforehand it is agreed which twos shall be
formed. The time comes, and it is done and over, until
the cycle returns and the eggs again ripen."

"Different peoples, different ways," said Barton. And
I'll bet, he thought, that there's no such thing as a Demu
soap operal "It's no wonder you don't understand us,
Eeshta. To tell the truth, sometimes we don't understand
ourselves all that well." He turned back to Reuzel.
"You still have a job offer, Helaise."

"Can I think it over? See whether Max thinks 111 be fit
enough in time, and then let you know?"

"By tomorrow?" She nodded. "Sure; -fine. Welt, I'd
better get moving. No rest for the wicked. See you,
Helaise—•Eeshta."

He went looking for Tarieton, didn't find him in the
control room or galley, so went to Compartment One.
Alene Grover answered his knock and question. "He's

242

gone to the conference. Said for you to come along if you
got bored, but no need. Care to come in and sit a spell,
Barton?"

We're on the ship, he told himself—we shouldn't. But
he went in, anyway, and sat and talked for a while, mak-
ing no advances at all. He wasn't sure whether he was re-
lieved or disappointed when Grover made none, either,
but after a time he excused himself and went to Cabin
Two. He was lying down, half dozing, when Tarieton
paged him from the galley.

The boss was drinking coffee again, this time with Liese
Anajek. "That Stuff'11 kill you," Barton growled, and
opened a beer before joining them. "So what's the scoop
from today's big confab?"

"About what you'd expect," said Tarieton, "or maybe
a little better. The hand weapons—you'll have them. The
personal Shields—well, it's hoped they'll be ready—
enough for strike-force personnel, anyway—day after
tomorrow when you lift. If not—do you wait, or go with-
out them?"

"It's up to me?" Tarieton nodded. "We go without
them."

"Yes. I couldn't make that an order—but I didn't
figure I'd have to."

"What else?" Barton felt his guts grinding into action
gear. By God, finally it begins!

"Your Demu disguises—no problem. Vertan says they
have a lightweight variable-stiffness plastic that's perfect
for the job. Eeshta models for them this afternoon; •she'll
only be needed for an hour or less. You'll have the stuff in
time."

"Good. I'll tell Eeshta."

"I already have." Barton blinked. "We've updated the
fleet schedule," Tarieton continued. "Scalsa's already
feeding route-and-timing data to the Tilarans and our own
squadron commanders."

"I won't even see Vito until the strike force leaves,"
Liese said, mock-pouting, "unless I disguise myself as a
computer tape." Considering her rounded little form,
Barton suppressed the obvious comment,

Instead he asked, "When's the new liftoff?"
"It's a staggered operation. One of Slowboat's ships
left today for Larka, and one of Tammy's for Filj, to set it
up. Our contingent here leaves ten days after you do."

243

Barton shook his head. "How the hell do you figure
on making rendezvous if Scalsa's still working out the

timing?"

"He's got enough of it. We moved the meeting spot up
closer. Where's the map?—oh well, it's just up-Arm from
the coffee stain.

"The ships that left today have that data—the place,
timing, and approach velocities. On rendezvous—which
will be a little strung out, I grant you—we can distribute
the rest of the trip schedule that he's working on now."

"Yeh," Barton said, "it could work. What's your esti-
mated attendance?"

"You mean, how many make the deadline? Better than
eighty percent, we think."

"Murphy's Law says different."

"I allowed for that. The initial estimates were more
optimistic, by quite a lot. I took a fudge factor, then dou-
bled it."

Barton grinned. "In that case, I buy it. Your guessti-
mates were generally good when we were putting our own
fleet together. It's just our friends-and-neighbors that had
me worried."

Tarleton looked at him, hard. "Are you still carrying a
chip—about ap Fenn, or anything?"

Barton shook his head. "No—I don't think' so. It's
just that—that incident showed me, we don't know as
much about these people as we might think."

"I think we know enough. If you don't agree, maybe
we'd better ask some questions fast. Any ideas? Or just
general misgivings?"

Barton thought about it. "One idea, maybe. Have we
ever clarified with everybody what happens after we win?
// we win?"

"But that's obvious, isn't it?" said Liese Anajek. "The
Demu stop raiding."

"Right—as far as it goes," said Barton. "But after ap
Fenn, it struck me—maybe our friends have some .further
ideas. Like revenge. Hell—before I got to know Eeshta,
I used to think that way myself. And these people have
been victimized for centuries, not just a few years. It
might be they won't be satisfied to let it go at a cease-fire."

Tarieton's face showed concern. "I hadn't thought of
that—but I will. Barton, tomorrow morning I'll put
Vertan on the griddle—in a subtle way, of course—and

244

find out what his thinking is, and that of the Filjar and
Larka-Te, about what happens afterward."

Barton laughed.

"What's so tunny?" said Liese Anajek.

"You have to see it from where I sit. Here we are,
about to tackle the invincible Demu—and worrying about
their welfare!"

Leaving the galley for the control room, Barton tried
again to reach Limila. He encountered, via screen, the
same taciturn Tilaran woman. Limila was there, yes. No,
she was not available to come to the screen. No, nothing
was wrong. Yes, Barton could visit her. Yes, it would be
permitted that they dine together. Yes. Limila would be
informed.

Barton thanked the woman, thanked Myra for setting
up the call, asked her to promote a groundcar for him,
and !eft for'Compartment Two to bathe and change. On
his way, he stuck his head into the galley.

"Dining out tonight, Tarleton," hth.said. "Back some-
time this evening."

"Oh? Anyone I know?"

"Yeh. Limila."

"Oh—fine—give her our best, won't you?"

"Sure thing." And he was off. Barton was—to get all
duded up to go see his best girl. Four days can be a long
time.

He drew the same driver; she understood quickly where
he wanted to go. At destination, unsure of reaching her
duty station via the Tilaran communication system, he
asfced that she return in approximately two hours.

He entered the building and found the first room empty,
so he followed the corridor to its fourth door and knocked.
Limila's voice answered, "Be of welcome." He opened the
door.

"Barton! It has been so long." Sitting in bed, propped
up with pillows, she held out her arms. He didn't keep her
waiting.

But, "Careful," she said, as he started to tighten his
embrace. "Under the robe, I am connected to things. With
tubes, pipes." She smiled then, and held the smile until he
noticed that her teeth were now smaller, and more
numerous.

245

"Pete's sakes! They've grown Tilaran teeth for you al-
ready?"

"Oh, no—these, too, are manufactured. But the part
against the gum is made soft, so that I may wear them
even while the new teeth grow. Except for a short time,
perhaps, I shall not have to eat glop food again."

"And what else—?"

She waved him to silence, and to a chair beside the bed.
"No, Barton—tell me first of your progress. When does
the fleet depart? Do all the problems find solutions?

"And you. Barton—in my absence, have you moped,
or sensibly taken consolation with the little livaji?"

Stunned, Barton said, "Has no one told you anything?"

"Told me what. Barton?" The smile was gone. "No,
nothing. Tell me now."

"I don't know where to start—it's bad, most of it. Oh,
the work on the fleet itself is going well, but—" He began
with the party—ap Fenn's French leave, the attempted
rape, and the man's death from it.

"Against her wisi^?" Limila shook her head. "He is as
well dead. But there is more—?"

He told of Hishtoo's escape, and the parts Helaise and
Eeshta had played. ". . . And that ship has a laser; we
can't let the Demu have it, to copy. But that's not the
worst." And haltingly, he explained the plight of the Tilar-
an hostages.

"Oh. no. Barton—not livajj! And poor Gerain, too. But
what can you do?" So he told her of the strike force and
its limited hopes.

"Day after tomorrow, we leave. We had to wait until the
new weapons are installed—plus a few other things we
need—I'll explain later. With our greater acceleration
factor, we still have a good chance to catch Hishtoo be-
fore he reaches Sisshain."

"Sisshain?"

"That's where he told Eeshta he was going—and it's
the jackpot planet, the one in the dust cloud, that the
Ormthan mentioned. But when—if—we do" catch
him. . . .

"It's bad, Limila—very bad. He won't surrender—
not to animals. He'll try to use livajj and Gerain for lever-
age—'crab salad'—remember? And I can't let that hap-
pen, or give in, either. I'll have to kill—kill the ship, and
all of them. Kill livajj!"

She took his hand and squeezed it, gently. "Barton.

246

Don't you think livajj—and Gerain—would prefer that?
Even if Hishtoo were not to rend their flesh. They have
seen the pictures—what was done to me, to Siewen and
the Freak. livajj is young; to suffer that would break her
mind. No, Barton. I know you would save them it you
could. But if not, the death is better."

He found he was gripping her hand brutally, and loosed
his grasp. "Yes—you're right; 1 know that. But still. . . . "

"You will do what you can. As always. Barton." Gently,
he kissed her.

"Okay," he said. "For now, enough about my worries.
But"—he gestured toward her robe, where it bulged
strangely—"what's all this? About you being hooked up
to plumbing. Is something wrong?"

"No—nothing. Oh, I must tell you—all that has hap-
pened—I almost forgot. It is the tits. Barton. They are
real!"

Barton looked askance at the bulges. "That big?"

She laughed. "No, that is the machinery. So that my
body accepts them." Biochemical jargon wasn't Limila's
strong point in English, nor Barton's in any language, so
the explanation took a time. But he did gather, immedi-
ately, that the new breasts were transplants.

"She was climbing, and fell from a height and did not
live. She was young, Barton—very young, so they are
quite small. I have asked will they grow to the size of my
age; none can say. But I do ribt care. It matters only that
they will be real upon me." Then her face showed sadness.
"But even so. Barton, I would not have them if I couid
choose her to be alive instead."

"I know." Briefly, before asking further, he hugged her.

Barton knew about transplants—how the body's own
immune reactions rejected foreign tissue. Unfamiliar
enzymes were treated as hostile invaders and repelled.
On Earth, the suppression of immune reactions worked
as a stopgap method, but seldom permanently.

The Tilarans, if he had it right, removed the offending
enzymes from the blood as it returned from the new tissue,
so that the defensive mechanism was not alerted. At
the same time, Limila's blood was gradually shifting the
enzyme balance of the transplants until it would be com-
patible with her own.

"And soon," she said, "I can be free of the tubes and
machines."

"How soon?"

247

"Five days, they say—maybe six. Why?—Oh—**

"Yes. How much of a Job is it to disconnect the plumb-
ing? Because the strike force lifts—has to lift—in two
days." The muscles of his face twisted his expression into
harsh lines. "Will I have to leave you behind?"

She frowned slightly, thinking. "No. I was told, when I
asked of what marks would be left on me. At the start,
you know, it was thought to put dead matter into m^, for
appearance only. I said no. Then was proposed the pulling
of fat layer and skin. tying it from inside so as to protrude
convincingly, but lacking the sensations that once were
there. I was ready to agree. But when the girl fell and
died^ I was offered these of her. And so I asked what it
would mean."

"And?" Why, Barton wondered, did he have to love a
woman who took so long to get to the goddamn point?

"Oh—the tubing, yes. It is not difficult. It is to be
pulled, when the time comes, gently and slowly. I am told
the pain will not be great. As it leaves me, there will be
some blood, but not of danger. The bandaging will be as
of small cuts. No, Barton—I am not to have to stay be-
hind."

His sigh of relief was more evident than he would have
wished. "That's good. I wouldn't have liked to do that"

"Nor I, Barton. As it is, I have been from you too
long."

He looked at her. "Yen. Well—after you're unhooked
from those tubes—"

A sound at the door interrupted them—something be-
tween a knock and a scratch. "Be of welcome," Limila
said.

A woman entered—the one Barton had met on the
screen, who granted information like pulling teeth. He
smiled at her; after all, what the hell. . . ?

"It is of time for feeding," she said. "Are both of plea-
sure to eat here?"

"It -is of best convenience," said Limila. The woman
brought a wheeled cart, laden with covered dishes, and
left with Limila's thanks. Barton realized he'd been hun-
gry for some time.

They seldom talked during meals, and did not now. As
he finished. Barton looked at his watch. Unadopted to the
longer Tilaran day, it was of little use to him off the ship—
except to measure specific intervals, as now. But he no-
ticed that his Tilaran driver was due to return roon,

248

"Barton—was it a good meal?" He realized he had
hardly noticed.

"Good, yes. But I was thinking too much of other
things to appreciate it as it deserved."

"Yes—I saw. You do that too much. More than you
should."

"I know," he said. "Maybe later, when there's not so
damned much to worry about—oh well. Look—when
can you come back to the ship?"

"I will ask. Tomorrow, if it may be, would be best."

"It would." He looked at her- "Limila—I wish you
were free of all that hardware. Well, it won't be too long
.... I guess I'd better go outside now. The driver should
be back with the car pretty soon."

He bent to kiss her. When he would stop, she held him.

"Barton? As we ate, I, too, thought of other things. And
I think that if I were to move so as to lie this way, and
you were to—no, more here to the right of me. Shall we
see, now . . . ?

"Barton, see the opening in this cover, over where it
grows to me? Reach, touch the tip of your finger inside.
They say the nerves are to heal together, but I do not—
Barton! I feel your touch! Barton, it will be as it was!"

"Barton?" she said, when again it was time for talk. His
hand cupped the back of her head; she reached and
pulled it in an involuntary caress over her scalp, free of
the Tilaran-styled wig that lay to one side. "I could have
had that girl's hair, too—or the skin that would grow it.
Should I have?"

"Huh?" The caress ceased to be involuntary.

"It was offered. It is in preservation, should we return
here and I choose. But I wished to know your feelings,
and could not reach you, so I said no, for this time. Was
I wrong?"

"Hell, I don't know. But you shouldn't have waited on
me, Limila. Do what you want to do."

"Perhaps I did." Starting at the bridge of the nose she
ran her own fingertips up her forehead and, without
pause, over the smoothness of her head. "I would choose
your wish. Barton, because I am of two minds. Some-
times, in this matter, I have felt bereft—more so, even,
than of breasts. But at other times it is of much enjoyment
that I may clean my hair but not have it wet on me
for so long, so inconvenient."

249

Barton laughed. "Well—as long as you're satisfied, for
now! We'll be back here, you know." He suppressed the
thought that the Demu might have something to say about
that. "You can make up your mind then—okay?"

"Yes, Barton. And now I see you look again at your
wrist; you must go. Once more kiss?" They did. "If I am
not to the ship tomorrow, then my message, saying the
reason, will be."                                  ^

"All right. Good night, Limila."

He went outside; the car was waiting. Somehow, a
great load was off his mind—and he hadn't even managed
to tell Liroila about Alene and himself. Well, he knew she
wouldn't get fashed . ..

Riding back to the ship he was more relaxed—mind
and body—than he had been for a long time.

She is good for me, he thought—very good for me.

Back at the ship, he found Tarleton in the galley. Had
the man ever left it in the past few hours? Barton decided
not to ask.

With the big man was a bigger one, a stranger, who
rose and introduced himself before Tarleton could do so.

"Mister Barton, I think? I am Abdul Muhammed,
perhaps to join your ship. I am trained as a pilot, and in
weaponry." The man stood more than two meters tall;

Barton estimated that he grossed perhaps 120 kilograms.
His handclasp, obviously restrained, was still stronger
than most.

"Glad to know you. Barton's all you need, though."

"How is that?" A half-smile showed white teeth against
his blue-black skin.

"I mean, you can skip the 'Mister,' "

"Ah. yes—I understand. You do not need titles. I will
remember."

"Abdul is the top weapons man in Squadron Three,"
said Tarleton. "When I asked for him, Tamirov practically
sang the 'Volga Boatman' with string accompaniment."

Abdul laughed. "If you are not Joking, please let me
continue to believe that you are. Tamirov is a fine com-
mander—but I have heard him sing."

I like this guy already, thought Barton. "Hey, sit down,
everybody," he said. "I need a beer. Anybody else?"
Abdul held up a finger; Tarleton pointed to his perpetual
coffee cup. Barton did the honors, and sat with them.

"How's Limila?" Tarleton asked.

250

"Fine." Barton grinned. "Some new developments—
tell you later—but she's okay to go with the strike force."

Abdul spoke. "Limila—she is the Tilaran woman, the
former Demu prisoner?"

"Yes," said Barton, "and now my most needful per-
son." Deliberately, he used the Tilaran phrase.

"I see." For a moment the black man was silent. "The
Greater Central African Republic saw fit to put only
men into space. My own most needful person, as you put
it, tends our two children in a pleasant house amid a
grove of fruit trees. I hope to meet her there again. But
even more, Barton, I hope she is spared what came to
your woman. That is why I am here."

Barton made up his mind, "Glad to have you, Abdul—
you just signed on." The handshake wasn't so bad, he
found, once he was braced for it.

As the three exchanged information, and Barton and
his boss confirmed plans, the shank of the evening went
fast. Everything was on the money except the personal
Shields; their readiness was still up for grabs.

Barton excused himself and went to bed early- Limila's
absence did not haunt him now; instead be felt her past
and future presence.

Next morning he found Tarleton in the galley ahead
of him. "You live here?" Barton asked. "Or do you go
home to sleep?"            ,.

"Both, maybe. Barton, I've made up my mind—this is
your ship, for the strike force. There are only four of us
left on here, who aren't going, and the other ships are
carrying ten each with two spare bunks. So I'm taking
over Ship Two—it's one of several that carry command-
type comm-gear—by bumping' a couple of its people to
other ships. We'll be riding full, in Two."

"Okay—fine. How's my side gun coming?"

"It'll be ready—on all three ships."

"Even better. You picked the other two, then?"

"Yes. One of Slowboat's and one of Estelle's. The com-
manders will be at the conference today."

"Sounds good." Barton moved to where Eeshta was
running a miniature food-production line. "Morning, ,
Eeshta. Got a couple batches of scrambled? I'm hungry.
And maybe a little toast and some sausages."

"Of course. Barton. The sausage is not quite prepared,
but soon."

251

"Fine," he said. "How's Helaise doing?"

"Her arm heals and its fever lowers. But now her mind
fevers, I think—and she will not say what disturbs it
Though I have asked." She filled a plate to his order and
handed it to him.

"Okay, thanks—I'll check on it." Back at the table/he
relayed the conversation to Tarieton. "Should I follow

this up?"                                                'f-

"No; I'll do it. Today is strike-force day at the confer-
ence building—it's more your potato than mine. I'll give
you my notes from yesterday. Try to remember to write
down any important developments—all right?"

"Sure." Barton ate silently. Then, dabbing up the last
morsel, he said, "You picked me a good one, in Abdul
Muhammed. I'd trust that man to back me up, no matter

what."

"My opinion exactly. With his intelligence, I don't un-
- derstand why he's not commanding a ship, at least."

Barton shrugged. "Politics, probably—it usually is.
Look at ap Fenn."

Tarieton said nothing.

"All right," said Barton. "Scrub that—sorry I brought
it up. Now, about today's agenda—fill me in a little, will
you?"

Tarieton did so, and Barton left for the conference with
more in his head and notebook than he expected he could
keep straight. But he would try ....

Entering the conference building, he was met by Slo-
bodna, accompanied by a short, sandy-haired man. Barton
felt he should recognize the latter, but couldn't place him.
"Hi, Slowboat."

"Morning, Barton. You remember Kranz?"

"Oh, sure I do, now." Other than Barton, Kranz had
been the first man—and Slobodna the second—to fly the
captured Demu ship. But that had been months earlier;

Barton hadn't seen the man since. "How are you?" They
shook hands.

"Just fine. Barton. My ship got the nod to go with you
on the strike force. I hope you're not superstitious—it's
Ship Thirteen."

Barton laughed. "The only unlucky numbers I know
are the ones that lose at roulette—and I don't play rou-
lette."

252

"Me neither." Kranz looked toward the entrance. "Hey,
I think we're about to meet our other sidekicks."

Estelle Cummings approached; a dark, thin man es-
corted her. "Gentlemen," she said, "I should like to in-
troduce to you. Captain Lombard of Ship Thirty-four.
He joins you with my highest recommendation."

They exchanged names and handshakes all around.
"Let's stick together pretty much," Barton said, "so we all
get the same info and don't have to pass it around later.
Okay? I know we won't get too much chance to confab on
our own plans, but Tarleton's asked for a skull session
this evening on Ship One, if that's agreeable."

It was. Referring to Tarleton's notebook, Barton
checked on each ship's current state of preparation. Prog-
ress was good; he decided that these people knew how to
work fast under pressure. He was almost through the list
when the conference was called to order. "Okay—we'll
get the rest of it at the first break."

Vertan spoke; he gave a brief status summary and as-
signed troubleshooters to a few problem areas. Slobodna
reported on weapons, including Barton's side gun. "The
weapons group can discuss this at the break, and decide
how many ships it is feasible to convert." He did not men-
tion the individual Shields; Barton made a note to ask
him later.

Scalsa described, as simply as possible, the complex
arrangements for rendezvous tetween the various groups.
"Don't bother to write this down," he said. "We're feeding
it to each ship's computers; you can get a readout on your
own boards." He related the contingency plans—for a
later rendezvous of ships that couldn't meet the accel-
erated deadline, and for the possible meeting with part or
all of the strike force returning from Sisshain. The con-
cept of a time-space corridor for rendezvous confused
several. Not Corval, though—when Scalsa ran into diffi-
culties explaining it, the Larka-Te took over for him.

Then it was break-time. Vertan joined Barton's group
and was introduced all around. "It is good to have you
back. Barton." He spoke in English. "Is all well now, with
you and your ship?"

"As well as circumstances allow—yes, progress marches.
The strike force—I guess that's next on the agenda, but
we leave on schedule, late tomorrow. Far as I know, we'll
have everything we need—everything we've thought of,

253

that is—except maybe the personal Shields. Oh, yeh—

how about our Instant Demu kits?"

"Those are to be delivered to your ship this morning."

"Good. That was a fast job, Vertan—thanks."

"They are well executed- The young Demu cooperated

well- I ... I spoke with it, Barton. And behind that bony

mask I found a young person that I could easily befriend..

I had not expected such a thing."

Barton hid a grin. "Yeh—the kid grows on you, doesn't

she?"

"She? But I thought—"

"Oh, sure—they're bisexual—but our language doesn't
allow for that very well. And Eeshta being small, I—and
most of us, I guess—tend to think of her as her."

Vertan nodded. "I can understand. And—it does give
hope, the young one's attitude. . . ."

"Yes—but It's the adults we have to worry about. We
never made any kind of dent in Hishtoo's hard shell—his
mental one, I mean."

"No. But some of our own people, and allies, are as
rigid. Many resist Tarleton's saying that the Demu are to
be stopped only, and not punished. They consent because
they must, but deep in their beings they do not agree."

'Trouble, you think?"                 »

"None, I would hope—but the balance may be fragile."

"I'll tell the boss." A nagging worry surfaced in his
mind. "How come we haven't seen Corval or Kimchuk
today—or any of their people—to talk with? Are -they
bugged with us? Offended, I mean?"

Vertan shook his head. "No, Barton. It is that you have
had trouble. As is their custom, they leave you to re-
cover from it, and signify your recovery by approaching
them."

"Oh? Interesting—and useful to know. But if you see
them first, tell them our trouble is past and their company
is welcome. All right?"

"I will do so. And now I see my assistant beckoning.
Will you permit my departure?" Smiling, Barton nodded.

He turned to Slobodna. "I notice you didn't mention
the one-man Shields in your weapons roundup. Will we
have them?"

The other man frowned. "I wish I could tell you. The
team's working like crazy, but there's an instability in
one of the phasing circuits. It didn't show up until we
applied heavy stress, testing, and they haven't 'ocated it

254

yet because the damned thing is intermittent. You know
how that is."

"Yeh, I know. So—what do we do?"

"Pray, maybe. Meanwhile we've delivered two of the
earlier model, on the self-propelled carts. They're stable,
and good for protecting a group in the open. Some of the
lightweights haven't shown the flaw yet, but it seems to be
unpredictable. If we don't get a solid solution, do you
want to take a chance on the ones that haven't failed, or
just skip it?"

Barton didn't have to think twice. "Take the chance.
One thing—you're testing under maximum sustained
attack. If we get into that kind of bind, we're already in
big trouble."

"Okay. But we'll keep plugging, right up to the last
minute, before we give up and hand you that option."

"Good enough, Slowboat. Oops—looks like I'm being
paged."

It was, indeed. Barton's turn at the podium. First, he
thanked all for their concern with the Earthani's troubles,
and reassured them that he was once again accessible to
his friends. Then, unsure of how much Tarleton had told
of the strike-force plans, he gave a fast roundup, including
contingencies. "And I guess that covers it," he said.
"Questions?"

Tamirov interpreted for a Filjar. "Why go we to Sis-
shain, and not to Demrribn where Demu power is
massed?"

"Because Hishtoo goes to Sisshain. And because on
that planet is something of importance to the Demu—
more so than the ships and weapons of the Demmon sec-
tor."

And what is this thing? I do not know. How do you
know its importance? I was told. By whom? I may not
say. Are we, then, to go in ignorance? Yes—as we our-
selves go; there is no choice, if we are to go at all.

The emphasis on Barton's final remark ended that line
of questioning.

Next, a Tilaran asked why the Demu, if beaten, were
not to be punished. Barton inhaled deeply.

"We know of one race, only, that achieved agreement
that the Demu do not molest it. That agreement has
worked. It did not include punishment. We follow a suc-
cessful precedent. If we were to try to punish, the result
might be not peace, but endless war."

255

The questioner persisted, but Barton shook his head
and would not answer. Finally, be said, "Come with us,
or do not. In either case it will be as I have said." As be
left the podium, he thought: not exactly my day for tact.

Lunchtime. Barton chose a bowl of ouilan, the Trekan
"sticky soup," and was surprised that the limited supply
of such a delicacy had not been exhausted. With it he
took a cup of Tilaran klieta; the two flavors blender

well.

As before, his group sat alone. But as Barton sipped the
last of the klieta, Kimchuck approached, a shallow bowl
in each furry hand.

"Dreif, Barton?" Barton nodded, and smiled his
thanks. "Effort of talk shows effect on you. The dreif
will restore." This time the mud-soup look and taste didn't
bother Barton; he took it gladly, and soon felt the char-
acteristic relaxed alertness.

'Thanks, Kimchuk. Say—I don't suppose we could get
a little of that to take along? With the strike force., I
mean?"

The Filjar tipped its head to one side, and back again.
"Would be glad, Barton. But cannot."

"oh?"

"Dreif must be new. In a day it changes and is of
harm, not to be eaten. Making dreif is secret skill; 1,-do
not know. Among Filjar here, only one does."

"I see. Well, thanks anyway, Kimcbuk." Too bad, he
thought—that's a great little booster shot you've got there.
The FilJar clasped Barton's shoulder and left to rejoin its
own group.

The conference reconvened, analyzing in detail the
morning's results. Barton followed the talk until it began
to repeat Tarleton's notes from the previous day, so closely
as to make little difference.

It wasn't exactly repetition, he decided. It was dissec-
tion of problems down to the level of individual tasks—a
level that Tarleton had to leave to others. Barton listened
with half an ear and let most of his mind wander. Some of
its wanderings were less pleasant than others—livay and
Gerain, for instance....

At the next break, Corval came to offer Barton a cup
of the Larka-Te beverage that was first tasteless, then all
aftertaste. He started to accept, then remembered.
"Thanks, Corval, but I'd better not. I had some dreif from

256

Kimchuk, at lunch—and he says the two do not go well
together."

"He is right," said Corval. "Very well—it will not be
of waste." The Larka-Te was smiling in one mode that
Barton bad learned to recognize without mistake.

"I see your smile and am of gladness," he said. "Tell
me, Corval—of what are we in agreement?"

"Of the Demu, of punishment." The smile changed to
one Barton could not interpret. After a moment, Corval
put it into words. "Do we punish an animal of predation,
even though it kill our young? No. We prevent—if we
cannot otherwise, we kill it. Punishment is not of rel-
evance.

"We go to prevent the Demu. It may be some must be
killed that the rest agree of prevention. But once agreed,
what point of putting hurt to Demu for hurt given by
Demu?"

Slowly Barton nodded. "I'm glad you agree, Corval.
But do you speak for all Larka-Te?"

"For most. And those who are not of agreement will be
of obedience."

"That's good to know. I am of thanks, Corval, that you
have told me."

The break was over. As the final session began, a
Tilaran came to Barton. "Your ship would be of speech
to you." Barton followed the man to a viewscreen. It was
Tarleton calling.

"If they're down to the small stuff," he said, "why don't
you come on back to the ship? Pass the notebook to Slow-
boat, and remind the strike group that we meet here to-
night for a recap. Okay?" Barton nodded; the screen
went blank.

He briefed SIobodna and took his leave. Outside, the
car waited; obviously, Tarleton had known he'd be ready
to return. He greeted the woman driver, got into the car,
and sat back to watch the scenery.

The feathery trees were less yellow now; the green of
foliage showed, in some cases, a purplish tinge. It came to
him that he had no idea of Tilara's seasons—except that
be was pretty sure the current one was not winter.

He'd have to remember and ask Limila ....

Entering the ship, he saw and heard no one. By habit,
he went first to look in the galley.

He froze. "Hishiool" The robe and hood, the lobster

257

face—figure too large to be Eeshta. But—Hishtoo? The
surging adrenaline, buffered by Kimchuk's dreif, began to

subside.

"AU right—what the hell is this?"

The creature's laugh was soft. "Realistic, isn't it. Bar-
ton? I thought you'd be pleased." The voice was a

woman's.

For no reason, Barton was disgusted with himself. He
took a beer from the cool-box and sat across the tabfe
from the disguised prankster.

"You're right—it's a damned good job. But Hallow-
een's over now; take off your head and let's see who's in-
side."

The hood was thrown back; the gloves came off. The
mask wasn't so easy—"Help me. Barton"—it was like
pulling off a rubber boot. Then, there was Helaise Renzel,
grinning through the tangled blonde hair that fell to veil
her face.

"Well. Nice to see you out and around, Helaise, That
first look, though—it just about had me back in diapers.
Whose idea?"

"Oh, mine. I modeled it for the others, and then decided
to stay in costume and give you a personal preview." Her
hands were busy, disentangling her hair, smoothing back
the strands as they came loose from the mass.      r
"Where is everybody?"

"Various places. Everyone seemed to have something
to do, or maybe think about—I don't know. So I just
stayed here and waited for you."

"Anything wrong?" The cast wasn't hampering her
movements, he noticed, and thought: That's good.

"No—no, nothing's wrong." She wasn't looking at him.
"Oood." He swallowed the last of his beer, rose, and
got another. "Well. Have you decided—has Max Cum-
nungs said—whether you're coming with the strike force?"

Head down, fingers working through the last tangles of
her hair, she said, "Max cleared me, all right. But I'm
not going; I'm staying. Alene will join you instead." With
her hair now m fair order, she dropped her hands to her
lap and looked up at him.

**Alcne? I don't think I get it. Explain?"
The hair was still good for a spectacular toss of the
head. "It's simple. I've moved in with Tarleton."
"You've what?"
"Moved in with Tarleton- In Compartment One, on

258

Ship One, with man. Number One. Do you mind. Barton?"

Jesus Christ!—was there no end to the supply of kooks?
Sure as hell, he thought, she saw her move as a power
play. Well, maybe it was contagious—she'd been with ap
Fenn quite a while . . .

"No," he said. "I don't mind—I don't mind at all. It's
none of my business, except that I stilt need a weapons
man for the strike force. But one thing I'm curious about."

"Yes?" Her air of disinterest struck Barton as overdone.

'Tve worked for Tarleton a long time—a lot longer
than you have. He has a lot of good qualities. And I'm
wondering—which of these attracted you the most?"

Eyes bright, mouth stretched past smile into grimace,
she answered. "He's big. Barton! Not just tall—he's
Number One! I had to live with Terike—a large man who
was small inside. You beat the living hell out of him—and
I couldn't have you, except once. And then I couldn't
even have poor goddamned Terike, because he died."

"Are these the good things you wanted said over his
memory?"

"Damn you. Barton!" She almost screamed it. "All
right—it was a corny idea, wasn't it?" She shook her bead,
hair swinging. "No, not that, I guess—it's more that
whatever good there was to say, I've already said it,
when the hurt of his death was fresh and I felt guilty for
it. Does that make sense?" ^

"I guess so. All right—consider the ceremony can-
celled. And now what?"

"And now I have Tarleton—Number One. And I'm
going to keep him."

How had she managed it? No matter—she had. "Well.
My best wishes, Helaise. And keep one thing in mind,
will you?"

"What's that?"

"Tarleton is Number One. Don't forget it. Treat him
that way."

She looked away. "Yes, Barton—I know." Then she
met his eyes. "If you want to speak with- Alene—about
going on the strike force, or anything—she's in my old
compartment It's torn up a lot, installing your spare laser
—but she's there."

"Yes. I see. Thanks. Perhaps I'll look in on her a little
later." He thought briefly. "Tell Tarleton I'll see him after
dinner." If LJmila wasn't back yet. Barton was of a mood

259

to eat alone, in Two. He'd had enough company for a

while.

In Two, no Limila—Barton bathed and changed,

found himself hungry. Back at the galley he found He-
laise gone; Cheng Ai was loading a tray with two thaw-
and-heat dinners to carry out.

Cheng smiled at him. "It's not very good, but it's quick."

"Yeh, I know. I'm probably having the same." tie
wanted to say something to Cheng—but what? "Hey.
You and Myra ready to plunge with the strike force to-
morrow?"

The man nodded. "Oh, yes. We would come in any
case, since you asked for us. But we talked it over, Myra
and I, and decided we are glad to be asked—to be relied
on in such an important matter."

"You both earned it—I just hope you never regret it."

"We'll take our chances, the same as you will. Bar-
ton."

"Your dinners are getting cold, Cheng. See you. '. . ."

Barton was tired of the frozen stuff but too lazy to try
anything more ambitious. He brought out a package,
thought a moment. On the intercom circuit, he punched
for Cabin Three.

"Yes?" It was Alene, all right.

"Barton. Speaking from the galley, and hungry.' How
about you?"

"Oh . ..." A few moments of silence. "Thanks—but
I don't feel like joining a group just now. Later, maybe."

"I was thinking of heating a couple of Frozen Freddies.
If you can't use company, I could hand yours in to you,
and leave. Okay?"

"Well.. . yes. And thanks. Barton."

"My pleasure. And signing out—I go to heat the meat."

The process was rapid. Soon, with a tray in each hand,
he used a knee to knock at Alene's door.

He had expected more of a mess from the laser in-
stallation. There was only a hole in the bullside paneling,
and a line of bracket mountings hanging from the ceiling.

"I'd like to join you for dinner," he said, "but I'll
leave, if you'd rather,"

Pause- Then, "Oh, come on in—I don't mean to be a
surly hermit. And thanks again, for stirring me up to

eat."

Alene was another silent eater, this time at least. With

260

i     side glances he appraised her appearance, trying to guess
1.     her state of mind—it could be important-
A        If she had been crying, it didn't show. The black,
t'     crinkly hair told him nothing—it was bushed out no
1     more thaa usual, and no less. Funny, he thought, how it
felt so much softer than it looked.

He eked out his last bites of food so that they finished
the meal in a dead heat. Then they looked at each other.
"Coffee or anything?" he said. "I'll get it."
"If you'll settle for beer, it's in the box. I could use
one."

Barton did the honors and sat again. "Welcome to the
strike force, Alene. If you really mean it, that you want
to go. For my part, I couldn't ask for anyone better."
She shook her head and did not speak.
"You don't want to, after all?"

"Oh, that—sure I do. I wanted to, before, but I
couldn't—because of. Tarleton having to be with the
-i--   main fleet. And now—well, now I can. It's just that. . . ."
,1       "Alene—what in hell happened? I think you have to
"'     tell it, and if you're riding with me, I have to know your
t    mind."

f      "Yes, Barton—all right. The plain fact is that Helaise
\.    needs him more than I do. I love him—have loved him
^    —but I can control my needs. Helaise can't—in some
I    ways she was a fitting match for Terike.
|      "Tarleton went this mormng, to see what was troubling
^    her. When he came back. Barton, he looked—-old. And he
said he would have to take her to him, instead of me.
That he would have to."

Barton growled in his throat. "The trouble with
Tarleton is, he's never learned that sometimes somebody
Just needs a good swift kick in the ass."

She laughed. "I like you. Barton—I really like you.
You expressed my own thought, exactly. But as you say,
Tarleton couldn't do the kicking."

"It does take a certain amount of training."
"Yes. But you know what really hurts?" He shook his
head. "It's that I could have shared, and so could
Tarleton. But she wouldn't—so we all have to do what
the little cripple wants, so as not to hurt her little feel-
ings. Barton, I could kill heri"

"So be my guest." Alene, he thought, was getting
healthier by the minute.

"Oh, stop iti I couldn't, really—I don't want her dead.

261

I just want to stomp her silly little pointed blonde head
into the dirt." She drew a deep breath. "Figuratively, of
course—or maybe a little more than that. Barton, I'm
talking gibberish—stop me."

"You're doing fine, for now. What else, about Helaise?"

"She's so aggressively a one-man woman." Seeing
Barton's raised eyebrows, she tried again. "Correction,
She insists on having a one-woman man. Better?"     ^

"Not that, either." Remembering what Helaise had
said the previous day, he shook his head. "Since—
Hishtoo—her attitudes have been swinging like a pen-
dulum gone crazy. But in this case, I think, it's not the
man she can't share—it's the status. And maybe more
than that, really. Her pride has taken a lot of lumps on
this ship, you know.

"But let's forget the sociology—how do you feel? Are
you prepared for the strike-force situation, just three
ships all on our own—and you, all on your own? Are
you, Alene?"

Long, she looked at him. "I was that bad, with^ou? I
hadn't thought so. Well, then—damn you to hell, Bar-
ton! Alene Grover can make it on her own—any time,
any place, and in any companyl Satisfied?"

"Very much so." He reached for her hand; she pulled
it away. "One thing, though—I wasn't rejecting you—I
value you very much. My point is that when the ship—
or you—needs to act decisively, I might not be around. I
could get clobbered, you know, just like anybody. So,
what's important is, can you cut it on your own?" Silence.
"Well, can you?"

And now her tears flowed. Through them, blinking,
she tried to look Barton eye-to-eye. "I can! You know
something? You're as hard-shelled as Hishtool** She
wiped at her eyes. "Now will you get your ass out of
here, so a lady can do a little genteel crying?"

Barton left. Sometimes, he thought, a guy can make
a guess and come up lucky.

In the galley he found Tarleton with Myra Hake.
"Barton," the man said, "Helaise said she's told you
about.. . the changes. I—"

"She told me. And I spoke with Alene. I don't need to
talk about it any more, unless you do. I think Alene will
do fine on the strike team. Glad to have her."

"Yes. Well, that's good." Tarleton frowned. "You're

262

right—no point in talking. Maybe I just wanted you to
tell me I'm doing the right thing."

"Maybe."

"I see. All right—our strike meeting is due in a couple
of hours. Here, I guess—more room for everybody.

"Oh—Limila's back. Came aboard a few minutes ago.
I didn't know where you were. She said to tell you she'd
be in Two—and hungry."

"Thanks." Barton punched the intercom for Two.
Lirnila, it turned out, would settle for thaw-and-heat food.
He set about preparing it. Tarleton rose and left the
galley.

"You can be pretty hard on people, can't you?" said
Myra.

Barton turned to her. "What the hell was I supposed
to say—that I think he's done ginger-peachy fine? I
don't. And Tarleton's a big boy now—he has a right to
his own mistakes. But I don't have to pat him on the
back tor them." He looked closely at her. "Did you?"

"A little, I guess. I couldn't exactly put my heart in
it."

"Then why bother? You think he can't tell the dif-
ference?"

"I don't know. Probably. Your food's ready, Barton."

"Thanks." Leaving with it, he said, "Cheer up, Myra.
Tarleton'll be okay. Especially after tomorrow, when
we're gone from here."

She only nodded.

In Two, Barton set Limila's dinner down and em-
braced her, careful of the two ungainly lumps that bulged
her robe.

"Welcome home, lady!" They sat, chairs facing across
the small pull-down table.

"You are not hungry. Barton?"

"I've eaten."

"Something more is wrong? It seemed so, when I
spoke to Tarleton, but no one would say, so I did not
ask."

As she ate, he told her, keeping it brief. "It's a mess,
but nothing fatal."

Limila shook her head. "Poor Helaise—trying to he,
through another."

"Poor Helaise, hell! How about poor Alene? She's
the one that got the dirty end of the stick."

263

Limila chewed and swallowed a final mouthful. "No.
Helaise forces herself upon a man who takes her because
of pity. If she had been willing to share—but no. Tarleton
will try to be good to her—through the hate that will
grow as he misses Alene, he will try. But—"

"You're underestimating the boss-man." He poured
coffee. "Helaise caught him on his soft side, yes. But 'five
gets you ten that if he sees it won't work, he'll have her
off his ship before the fleet lifts. And save her face when
he does it, too."

"It may be you are right—I hope you are. But—you
say of Alene?"

"She'll make it all right. We talked—she's hurt, but
she's tough."

Limila smiled. "Certainly she has a rare chance. The
new man, Abdul—I met him—is he not beautiful? And
of a good mind—even the few words I had of him
showed me that. He will be welcome among us."

"That's for sure. He impresses the hell out of me, and
I don't mean just his size,"

"But if—I wanted to say. Barton—if Alene should
need of you, I would gladly have it so."

He smiled and took her hand. "I know you would.
Maybe you will." Hell's bells—he still hadn't told. her!
"Uh—in fact, you already have—at the party, when ap
Fenn was getting himself killed."

Knowing full well that he couldn't possibly be in the
doghouse, still Barton felt relief at the way Limila smiled,
then.

The intercom sounded; Barton answered it.

"Cheng here. Company's coming. Meeting starts in-
about ten minutes."

"Thanks. See you then," said Barton. He and Limila
dressed and went to the galley. The group assembled
rapidly: Tarleton and Helaise, Cheng and Myra, Vito
and Liese, Abdul, Alene, and Eeshta.

Kranz was the first off-ship arrival; with him were a
heavy-set woman and a boy who looked about seven-
teen: Inge Larssen and Clancy Ferns, respectively.

"If you want any hot-pilot work," said Kranz, "Inge's
your girl. dance's reflexes are equally good, but he
slicks to weapons." At first glance, the two hadn't im-
pressed Barton much; he looked at them with new ap-
preciation.

264

Captain Lombard, Estelle Cummings* nominee, ar-
rived during the introductory chatter. The girl who ac-
companied him was small and dark, slim in her bright
sari. In any other context. Barton would have guessed
her to be no more than twelve years old. Her forehead
bore a red caste mark, and when momentarily she faced
away. Barton saw that her black braid of hair reached to
the bend of her knee.

"Miss Chindra," said Lombard. "Absolutely top-drawer
in communications—and Chin also makes computers
jump through hoops." Yes—Barton remembered now.
Limila had mentioned this one. It did look as though the
strike force would be carrying some top talent.

Tarleton spread the star map on a table and started
the show. It was old stuff to Barton—he followed it with
the top of his head, made comments as indicated, and at
the same time pursued more personal lines of thought.
Should he have patted Tarieton's ego a little? After all,
the man had charge of the combined fleets—his stability
was essential. Barton thought about it, and found no
answers-

Helaise, he thought, acted the queen bee to perfection.
She said little, but somehow Barton was reminded of
some newly favored king's mistress—fresh from slopping
hogs and -determined not to show it. But what had
evoked this -side of her, that had not shown itself during
all the preceding months?                            \

He saw her mouth twist slightly, in reaction to some-
thing Tarleton said. What was it?—something about
Hishtoo. And then, to Barton, the whole problem, all the
pieces, fell neatly into place. Of course ....

Hishtoo—the strike team was going after Hishtoo. And
after what had happened to her, getting anywhere near
that big lobster—or any other—was the last thing Helaise
warned. So—how to wiggle off the strike team with her
pride intact? Simple enough—she had tied herself to the
one man who had to stay with the fleet.

It was too bad, he thought—it was a lot more than her
arm that Hishtoo had broken. He hoped she wasn't count-
ing on the command ship as a guarded baven of safety
in case of battle—^or if she was, she didn't know her new
man very well.

But he revised his earlier opinion—it wasn't a good
hard kick she needed. Helaise was in need of repairs—

265

and. Barton thought, unlikely to get them. Helaise
Renzel, casualty ....

No point, he decided, in saying anything to Tarleton—
either the man would figure it out for himself or he
wouldn't. And a dollop of fear wasn't such a bad thing,
objectively, in someone holding down the weapons job.

The discussion wound toward a weary close.' Equip-
ment, supplies, timing, goals, tactics, methods, aontin-
gencies—all were belabored at length. Finally, Tarleton
said, "I think we've covered it. Any further suggestions?"

"I move the meeting adjourn," said Barton. He stood,
knowing that if he had timed it right, others would follow
suit. As usual with him, it worked. Taking Limila's hand,
he said a few good nights and gave a general handwave
to the rest. "Good show, Tarleton. See you in the morn-
ing." He took Tarleton's nod as permission to leave.

Back in Cabin Two, he asked Limila, "What do you
think? Is it solid?"

"Don't you know, Barton?"

"I have my opinion. I want yours, too."

"Yes. So I thought. It is, I think, of enough good."

"I think so, too—but thanks for the double-check."

To Barton, the next day moved too fast for him to
follow, and yet endured forever. He talked with Tarleton,
with Scalsa, with Alene—and it seemed as though he
had never known them, had perhaps newly met them.
The talk was wooden—as was his own mind, <his day.

Tarleton, Helaise, Vito Scalsa, and Liese Anajek were
moving their belongings to Ship Two- Barton hated good-
byes—he said them early and briefly, and caught a car
to the conference building.                     ^

When he found Slobodna, he wasted no time on for-
malities. "How's with the Shields, man?"

"I'm afraid we honestly don't know." Slobodna's voice
rounded sheepish but his face wasn't built for it. "We
think we have it whipped—but there isn't time to test
heavy, to make sure. We're making the indicated mod-
ification on all the units, including the eight that didn't
fail. You get those—use at your own risk. I'm sorry as
hell. Barton—I hoped we'd do better."

Barton poked a gentle fist at the man's arm. "You did
your best, Slowboat—we'll ride with that."

Leaving Slobodna to his work, Barton talked with
Vertan for a time. The Tilaran seemed in need of re-

26G

assurance—Barton gave it, with confidence that he had
to manufacture for the occasion.

He spoke with Corval and with Knnchuk, gravely ex-
changing pledges of trust and friendship. He meant every
word, but no word rang true to him.

Vertan drew him aside. "The Ormtban is here, and
would be of speech with you!" And in a curtained alcove
at one side of the building. Barton again met the pink egg
with the head on it.

"Barton of Earth."

"None other, Ormthol. Would you wish me well?"

"All of that—and victory. But what of afterward? For
the Demu?"

"As with you, Ormthol—live and let live. // we win.
But I hope we can have contact with them, afterward."

"For what purpose?"

"You've heard of the young Demu with us? From that
one, we think the race can learn to outgrow its ways."

"I have heard, yes, Barton—and have been greatly
interested. If you did not require that one for the meeting
with its elders, I would ask that you lend me its-company.
For the Demu are an unsolved puzzle, and always I
would learn."

"Yeh. Well—later, maybe, with luck. Anything else
on your mind?"

The Ormthan vibrated, shook. Laughter, thought i
Barton. Probably. "Your pardon—it is the question. On
my mind, you ask, is there anything else? Much and
always. Barton. It is a racial trait, a major one—our
preoccupation with the joy of learning."

"Yes—all right. Now—a question, maybe?"
"Whether or not I may answer, you are free to ask."
"On Sisshain—the Demu thing of importance. You
said something like, one who sees it cannot fail to recog-
nize its importance."

"You remember well my saying."

"Okay. Now—can it be recognized from a distance?"

"You will know it from afar, I am told."

"How?"

"I was not told that."

It was time, Barton felt, to get the hell out. He said
the formalities—including thanks—and left, with the
nagging thought that anyone with good sense would have
asked better questions.

Before leaving the building he went through the rig-
267

marole with Vertan also. Marking time before departure,
nothing seemed entirely real to him.

At the ship it was the same. Tarleton, Helaise, Vito,
and Liese—all characters in a play. Only when they left
did he turn to Limila and find a thread of credence.

"When do we lift?" he asked.

"Not long now. Barton. The others have grouped to
the control room. Shall we Join them?"          ^

Alene Grover sat in the master pilot's seat "Do you
want to take it, Barton?"

"No, you go ahead—I'll sit here." Beside Limila.

"All right. I'll lift with the signal."

She did. The strike force was on its way.

For eight days the ships drove, not toward Sisshain
but toward the line that put Sisshain and its dust cloud
between them and the major Demu sector. Optimum
angle of approach to that line, for least time to Sisshain,
had been computed by Vito Scalsa.

Once in space, Barton found himself free of his pre-
departure disorientation—everything was real again.
Getting himself into gear, he checked the angle-approach
problem with "Chin"—Miss Chindra, on Shin Thirty-
four—and was not surprised that she checked Scalsa
within one second of arc. He told her so.

"His calculations," she said, "were from Tilara. Mine
had to consider distance already traveled, and the course
change to avoid incoming ships as we left the Tilaran
system."

"Thank you." Barton matched the gravity of her
speech and face.

The first day, Barton and Limila moved into Cabin
One. The change had nothing to do with status—One
had command-comm facilities and Two did not. The
omission had sometimes been inconvenient, and Barton
was glad to be rid of it.

Alene Grover took Compartment Two. Cheng and
Myra retained Four, and Eeshta stayed in Six—but now
without benefit of the outside lock. Abdul Muhammed
was in Fiv&—the tube of Barton's side gun crossed Three
at a height that made that room unusable even for
Eeshta, let alone Abdul. Barton was surprised at how
soon Three became filled with everyone's excess belong-
ings.

268

As the strike force accelerated, ship-to-shore com-
munications suffered—the time lag grew, and signals
weakened. Long before light speed was reached, the
three ships would be cut off from Tilara. When Tarleton
called, late in the second day, it was obvious that there
could be no further contact.

"I guess this is it, for now," the man said. "Barton—
how does it look?"

"I think we have a winning combo on here. No weak
links." Immediately, Barton regretted the implicit slap
at Helaise. Nothing to do about it, though—anything he
said would make it worse. He waited through the trans-
mission lag.

"Yes—good,*' Tarleton said. "Well, the fleet will fol-
low, on schedule. Looks as if the number of slowpokes,
the second wave, will just about match the original fudge
factor."

"Before you doubled it, you mean—not bad, not bad
at all. Well, after rendezvous, just be on the lookout for
any of us heading back from Sisshain like a bat outa
hell—in case we run into something we hadn't figured
on."

Another wait. "I know. We've set up a think-tank to
brainstorm possibilities we may have missed. Well, Bar-
ton, you know the priorities—that helps our guessing a
lot, and"—a noise surge smoldered the next few words—1-
"very likely, with luck."

"We're losing signal," said Barton. "So long—see you,
some place."

At first he thought the circuit was dead. Then came
"—Hear much of—too far, I—and good—" There was
nothing more. Barton cut the screen.

Well, now he was on his own, for sure. The feeling
was not unpleasant.

Once, only, Barton checked Abdul Muhammed
through piloting and weapons drills—the man was su-
perbly proficient in both; he displayed an intuitive talent
for predicting the variations of Barton's simulated prob-
lems. Suspecting a touch of E.S.P—which would be of
no help in real battle at spatial distances—Barton tested
the man against computer-generated situations. The re-
sults were equally good; E.S.P. was not a factor. Abdul,
Barton decided, was simply one hell of a good man at
the controls of ship or weapons.

269

"You certainly don't need any more training that I
could give, Abdul. Just practice when you feel like it.

Okay?"

"When on watch and not otherwise busy, it is my
habit to work against problems—random series—from
the computer. I would like to continue to do so."

"Oh, sure—fine." Barton thought of something." "Tell
me—does the computer ever win?"

"Of course. Barton—I do not restrict its parameters.
Sometimes it almost appears to become angry, and by
sheer force it—what do you say?—wipes me out."

Barton laughed. "Well—if you can make the computer
throw in its reserves, you're doing all right." And after a
little more routine chatter, he left Abdul to his hobby.

He went below and made maintenance checks on the
drive's tuning and the Shield balance. Returning, he
found the entire crew in the galley, with the view^creen
on relay from control. They were playing the familiar
game of "What's going to happen?" Barton poured
himself some coffee, and sat in.

The alternatives were solid enough: Hishtoo would go
to Sisshain or he wouldn't; Ship One would catch him
first, or not. At Sisshain they could either handle what
they met or would have to run for help. And the permu-
tations of these choices were finite.

"... unless," said Barton, "we're overlooking a joker
in the deck." He turned to Eeshta. "What do you think?"

"I know little of Sisshain, Barton, but I know the Demu.
You wish to speak with them, and I would like to be-
lieve that they will listen. But I think there will be much
death, and I grieve, that I must be a cause of it.' Even
though, having seen what I have seen, I know that my
people, the Demu, do wrong, and must change. No matter
what happens to me, if against all Demu will and pride,
you force that change."

Barton frowned. "I don't think I understand you."

The small creature sighed. "When all is over, if I live,
I must submit myself to Demu judgment, for what I do
now. To Hishtoo—or if he is dead, to another. And if I
am told to die—"

"Forget -it, Eeshta! I won't let you do any such thing."

"Barton—though I have come to know you and feel
well of your people, yet I am Demu. and know what
my actions mean. I am pleased that you value my life—

270

but even so, I will do what is required of me." Standing
now, Eeshta left the galley.

Limila held Barton's arm or he would have followed.
She said, "Do not fight her thought now. But think upon
it."

Frowning again, he shook his head. "Yeh—the Demu
mind. She's our window on it. But I won't let her sacrifice
herself. .,."

"Nor I," said Limila. "But no point, now, to argue.
Our part is to save our effort for the occasion, if it
comes."

"Yes." Gently, careful for the apparatus she still
wore, he bugged her. And decided to keep his mouth
shut.

After a pause, Abdul looked at his watch and an-
nounced that he was going back to control, to make a
data check in real time for the upcoming course change.
As he left, Cheng stood, and drew Myra up also. Saying,
"Time to go. I'm due on watch in an hour." Well, Bar-
ton thought, it made sense if you listened right.

Alene said, "There goes a good pair. I never under-
stood why Myra and Tarleton didn't mesh, before he
and I—well, it doesn't matter, does it?'*

Without thinking. Barton said, "How do you iik9
Abdul?"

Alene's face went blank. "I don't seem to exist." She
rose- "Will you excuse me?"

Left alone with Limila, Barton said, "The famous
Barton tact strikes again. Mind telling me what I did
wrong this time?"

Limila shook her head. "There is a difficulty between
them, it would seem. But I bad not known, either." And
that was that.

On the eighth day they changed course. To minimize
time iag the ships grouped closely; from Thirty-four,
Chindra gave the coordinates. Oa the mark, all three
ships shifted thrust vectors; straight ahead now, though
not yet visible, lay the dust cloud. "Good job," said Bar-
ton, to Abdul—and, by screen, to the other two pilots.

Inge Larssen grinned. "We do our best." On Thirty-
four, Lombard touched an eyebrow in casual salute, and
behind him Miss Chindra shyly raised a hand. Barton
smiled and waved back to all of them, then signed to
Eeshta to cut the screen.

271

It was time for Cheng to relieve Abdul of the watch.
Barton waited while Cheng, straight-faced, confirmed
the course he'd watched Abdul lay. The formalities done,
Abdul turned to leave. Barton followed. "Got a few
minutes? Like to talk with you."

"Surely. Will you join me in Compartment Five?"

A good host, Abdul produced cold beer. As tffe two
sat. Barton decided he was getting used to the other's
great size. Trying to think of a good lead-in, he said,
"How are you settling in, on here? Any problems? I
mean, confusion about different customs, anything like
that?"

Like a god blessing his worshipers, Abdul Muham-
med smiled. "ID general, I have been made to feel very
much at home; you have good people here. But yes, I
am often puzzled. I observe, though, and think—and
in most cases I come to understand,"

"Most, huh? Anything puzzling you right now?"

Face blank, the god Abdul became an enigmatic
Buddha. "Yes. Alene Grover. I believe she wishes to
cohabit with me."

I've heard of worse problems. Barton thought, but he
waited, and Abdul said, "She is a fine woman. But I may
not do such a thing."

Barton sighed. "I expect she'll live. You told her yet?"

"I find the prospect difficult. Barton, I would-explain
to you- Another beer, perhaps?"

"Sure. Thanks." Barton settled back, into listening
mode.

"It is not," said Abdul, "that I am a Puritan; I do not
find the concept valid. My people's sexual customs,
originally quite ritualized, underwent many changes dur-
ing and after the rebellions. Including a period of recoil
to a brand of Puritanism much the same as that accepted
in your own country for so long." He smiled again.
"You see, I am historically cognizant."

"You are, that. But then what's the problem?"

"On its ships, my country sent only men. So my wife
has said that while I may have no woman, she will have
no man. My words cannot reach Earth, to tell her she
might be more free. So in fairness, I may not accept.
Alene Grover. Do you understand?"

"Yeh." Shit oh dear—people could sure find ways to
make things tough on themselves! "Like me to say any-
thing for you, to Alene? Get you off the he ok?" A little

272

horrified. Barton found himself volunteering, of all things.

"If you would. Only that I act from duty, not from
choice."

"Okay. Next chance I get, I'll do that"

The next day, Myra detected a star-drive wake.
"Either it's an old one," she said, "or else we're getting
only the fringe of it. But in the latter case, it could be
Hishtoo."

"Too faint to identify?" Barton asked.

"Yes. Most of the pattern detail is blurred."

"How far ahead of us, do you think?"

She shook her head; the sandy bangs needed trim-
ming. "Indeterminate—no data, or not enough. If the
courses converge, we'll learn more."

"Good enough. Stay on it, and log everything."

"1 will. I already have. Barton—sometimes I wonder
why you don't try to tie my shoes for me!"

He looked at her. "I'm sorry, Myra. I guess some-
times I fall into the delusion that I'm doing all the think-
ing on this boat. I know better, too."

She frowned. "No. I was wrong. Barton. I forgot that
while I'm doing my job, you have to try to do every-
body's."

Barton grinned. "One way or another. As long as it
works."                  ^

After dinner that evening, back in Cabin One, Limila
announced. "Barton—the machinery—I think it is time
to rid me of it."

Barton was familiar with the look of the bulky en-
zymic filters that hid the transplanted breasts—a lot of
metal and plastic, was all, with tiny colored lights flicker-
ing out information he didn't understand.

"You sure this stuff is ready to come off?"

"It is as I was told it would be. The lights say it—that
the tissues have become the same, and I can have my
own tits again. Though they will be small."

She had told him before, but he wanted to be sure he
did it right. Yes . * . pull the tubes out slowly, gently. Dab
the blood away and spray the small wounds with
Tilaran anti-infectant. Apply the bandages. Simple
enough . . .

Limila gave no sign of pain but Barton was nervous,
anyway. The tubes were longer than he expected. The

273

gush of blood each time startled him, though it was small
and brief. The bandages covered tiny incisions at the
bottom of each breast. He was surprised to see no other

scars.

"It is around the tip, at the color change, and so not
apparent. The skin was lifted and stretched mjJCh, to
accomplish." She half-sighed, half-laughed. "Do you
mind, that they are so small?"

Truly, he hadn't noticed. Now he looked, and spoke
the truth. "They're just fine, Limila. Whether they grow
more, or not. As long as you like them."

She looked at him with silver eyes. "Barton, I will not
forget. You have loved me without them. And now, love
me with them. We can be less gentle, if we like."

The drive trail—Hishtoo's or another's—departed
from the strike team's course. Barton considered follow-
ing the spoor, but decided there wasn't enough evidence
in favor. During the next few days, the detectors gave
no sign. •

Barton hadn't exactly avoided Alene Grover but he
hadn't sought her company, either. Then one ,day th&
two were alone in the galley.

He eyeballed her. "How's it with you, Alene?"

"Not bad for a loner. I told you I could make it." She
looked good—the brash, bushy hair, the strength in her
smile—eyes clear, not puffy.

"I should tell you something. Privately. Your place?"
She nodded.

In Two they sat facing, over beers. "You were saying,
Barton?"

He told her what Abdul Muhammed had said. Her
smile was rueful. "I'd figured it had to be something like
that. I knew the big gorgeous joker liked me, all right.
And I like him—I still do. He's good, that one." She
sighed, then exaggerated it. "I would get stuck with a
monastic. On the other hand, why the hell am I—are any
of us—so damned hung up on sex, anyway?"

"Well," said Barton, "the way they designed these ships,
there wasn't room for a volleyball court. So we make
do. .. ."

Eyes narrowed, she met his gaze. "Barton, if you try
to offer me a charity fuck—I will kick you square in the
balls!"

"Who, me?" Barton rearranged his thinking. "Wouldn't

274

dream of it—you're not the type. You want to know—I
liked everything a lot, with us. I like you. But no charity.
I don't happen to be a charitable man."

She had leaned forward so that her hair hid her eyes.
Now she raised her head. "AH right, Barton—I guess I
asked for that. 1 like you, too. But if you ever want me
again, you're going to have to ask—and ask damned
nice!"

He gauged the risk and laughed, right in the face of
her vulnerability. "That's fine, Alene," he said. "Maybe
I will."

He left before she could find an answer. But she was
smiling.

They had entered Scalsa's "corridor"—where a return-
ing ship might need to rendezvous with the fleet. Barton
saw to it that numerous landmark sights were taken—if
he had to meet somebody in a hurry, he wanted to know
the neighborhood.

A week later the detectors caught another sniff—
fresher, and pointing toward the area of Sisshain—quite
possibly Hishtoo. Barton called a viewscreen conference.

"We've got a nibble. Time to go maximum accelera-
tion."

An hour later, Limila—on comm—called him back to
control. "The other ships. Barton—they fall behind."
Sure enough. Ship One was .visibly pulling away from
Thirty-four, which in turn was building a slighter lead
over Thirteen-

"I suppose there were bound to be small differences,"
he said. Then he laughed. "Know what? I'm betting that
Tarieton looked at the test-flight results of all our seven-
teen U.S. ships, and picked the one with the longest legs."

"But.what do we do?" she asked.

"Set up the three-way again, will you, please?"

As soon as Limila had Kranz and Lombard on the
screen. Barton said, "Here's where we split up, it looks
Hke. I have to follow this trail at max. Lombard, you
ease back just enough not to lose Kranz—okay?"

Kranz said, "I warned you about Thirteen, didn't I?"

"No problem," said Barton. "If it had been the fastest,
Tarieton would probably have made it number One.

"All right—we'll still be in talk range for a while, in
case there's anything to say. When we lose touch—well,
you know the plans. Good luck."

275

By Barton's next "morning," Ship One had opened a
sizable lead over the other two. The current rate of
separation was nearly one light-second per hour, and
increasing-

The "trail" was stronger—Eeshta, who had the comm-
watch, showed Barton the numerical readouts. ^'They're
getting stronger, faster," he said. "I wonder what the
curve is." He began to punch the data into the computer
input.

"I've done that," said Abdul, from the pilot's seat,
"but of course you may wish to recheck." Barton shook
his head and hit "Cancel."

"It's an exponential, Barton. Of low order, but still
indicating a good rate of overhaul."

"Good. Eeshta, are we getting good enough definition
yet, to try to match detection patterns? These readings,
against the pattern Vertan gave us for Hishtoo's ship?"

"I do not know, Barton. No one has shown me how
to do that." Mistake number "leventy-leven," Barton
thought. When do we run into the one that kills us?

"Hmm—I've seen Myra do it, on a dry run. Let's
see if I can remember how it goes." He turned the- de-
tectors, ranged for max gain allowable by the noise
level, and switched the pattern onto the screen. It was
clear, and reasonably steady. "Strong enough, all right."
Then he punched the computer code for Hishtoo's pattern
and fed that, also, to the screen.

Visual gibberish. "Well, either it isn't Hishtoo, or else
I wasn't watching close enough when Myra did it."

"Myra remembered to put both feeds through parallel
chopper circuits, and alternate the phases," said Myra.
"It works better that way."

"Oh, hi! Didn't see you come in. Okay—would you take
over, and show all of us how to do it right?"

"Sure. You have it all, except—here, the chopper, to
alternate the two feeds." On the screen appeared a fast,
steady blinking. "Now, just run the computer signal
slowly around the phase circle—that's right. If the blink-
ing stops—"

A clear pattern showed. It wavered, as Barton over-
ran the setting, then steadied. He took a deep breath. "It
looks as if we have the right party, friends."

"It does indeed," said Abdul. "Myra, can you—"

"I'm doing it. Just give me a minute." Her hands
were an over the board; Barton couldn't begin to follow

276

her actions, but he saw her repeating some steps and
guessed she was rechecking. She turned to him. "We've
cut his original lead by better than half. But we're also
slightly more than halfway to Sisshain. See, here on the
readout? It's going to be close."

"I—" he began.

She cut him off. "I want to confirm these figures with
Chindra while we're still within range, and get from her
an optimum turnover point based on max accel and decel
all the way. Sorry, Barton—you were going to say?"

"You just said it, Myra; I'll get out of here and let
you do your job. Coming, Eeshta? You were relieved
five minutes ago."

"I will stay. Barton. Perhaps, Myra, you will later
have time to show me things I have not learned, and
should know to perform my watch correctly?"

"Sure, Eeshta. Why don't you sit here, alongside me?"

Cheng arrived to relieve Abdul, so Barton had com-
pany on his way to the galley. They found Umila and
Alene chatting over the remains of breakfast- Barton said
his hellos.

"Hi, Barton. Hello, Abdul," said Alene. "Excuse me."
She drained her cup, rose, and left the galley.

Barton raised eyebrows to Limila. "Anything wrong?"

"No new thing."

"Oh- Well—have you heard the news? Of course not
—we just got here with it. That ship up ahead—it's
Hishtoo, all right, and on course for Sisshain. And we're
catching up—maybe fast enough, maybe not." He gave
her the numbers of it. "Say, why don't you go tell Alene?
It might cheer her up."

"Firsthand news is better, Barton—you tell her. Abdul
can keep me company—if you're not busy, Abdul?"

"No, not at all. This is a time to relax. And there are
many more questions I would ask, about Tilara."

"Okay," said Barton, "I'll get out from underfoot."

Alene answered his knock. "Come on in, I guess.
What's up?"

He told her.

"Well," she said, "at least now we can see some action
ahead. I suppose that calls for a celebration. All 1 have is
beer, I'm afraid."

"Not quite all, Alene." He reached out. First she tried
to pull back; then she let him hold her. He made no

277

further move, until she kissed him. And then, gently, she

pushed him away.

"That wasn't charity. Barton; I can tell. But, no,
thanks." Puzzled, he waited, until she said, "You know,
I don't need sex, as such. I love it, mind you, but I don't
need it, physically, the way men seem to. I never have

to—well, never mind...."

For a few seconds, she frowned. "What I've always
needed was to be close to a man, and I guess I've never
known any other way to get that closeness. Am I con-
tradicting myself?"

"No, I don't think so. Uh—you said something about

beer?"

"Oh, sure." She got out one for each of them,'and sat.

"What I'm trying to say is, you told me I had to stand
on my own feet. I've been working at it, and now I think

I can-"

Barton picked his words. "You don't need to be so

close, now?"

Her bushy hair swung with the headshake. "Not as
much. no. And what I do need—" She laughed. "You do
give a nice hug, Barton. I like you. But the fact that
you're the only game in town is a lousy excuse for going
to bed with you. Even though I liked it, when we did."

Barton swallowed a lump of ego, and said, "So did I—
but I think you're right about the rest of it." »

She smiled, showing the large white teeth. "I've
learned to need less in the way of emotional support,
and to get what I do need in other ways. In fact, it's time
I broke the habit of sulking at Abdul." Shrug. "Not his

fault."

Well, now. Barton tried to keep his sigh of relief under

wraps. "That's good; I know it's bothered him some. One
other thing, though—and this is not a pass at you. Alene,
it's all right to need people a littte more, sometimes. We

all do."

"Sure; I know. And I—" A knock interrupted her.
Barton got the door; Myra was there. "You weren't
anywhere else, so you had to be here." She handed him a
readout strip- "These are Chindra's figures for turnover,
arrival at Sisshain, and our chances of catching Hishtoo
first. I ran a set, too, and there's not enough difference

to matter."

"Rough it out, will you, Myra? I'll read this later."
"Sure." Accepting a beer from Alene, the tali woman

278

sat. "Figure turnover in about forty-nine hours, toward
the middle of day-33. From then, thirty-one days to
Sisshain at max decel, and nearly thirty to the most op-
timistic guess at catching Hishtoo."

'That long?" Barton had hoped for better.

"We've been close to max all along, you know. Now,
then—we're starting to lose signal with the other ships.
Anything you want to say, or ask, before we do?"

He thought. "Well, if you haven't already, and you
probably have, get me their arrival guesstimates for
Sisshain."

Myra grinned at him. "I don't have them yet, but I
did ask. Any minute now ..."

"Good on you. Well, give them the usual best wishes,
and all."

"I will." She stood. "Back to work. Alene, thanks for
the beer."

"Pleasure. Come again." Behind Myra Hake the door
closed, leaving silence.

Barton broke it. "Anybody around here hungry, besides
me?"                                                ^

Grover stood to face him. "I am. Soon as you try me
with that hug again, once." He did; then the meeting
adjourned for lunch.

Cheng and Eeshta had the watch; appetites satisfied,
the other five stayed talking in the galley. The question
at hand was Limila's: Now that they had Hishloo spotted,
could the Demu detect Ship One, also?

Barton knew the answers, so he didn't listen too closely
to Abdui's explanation. First, Hishtoo couldn't "see"
anything through the turmoil of his own drive wake.
Second, on accel a ship's wake—the gravitic ripples,
ionization, magnetic turbulence, unstable particles—all of
it propagated rearward. And at light speed, at that, so
that even on decel, with Ship One's wake shooting out
ahead, Hishtoo couldn't spot it until he dropped below
"c."

Myra frowned. "Then could one ship sneak up
through another's wake and pull a surprise attack?"
And when Abdul told her that above light-speed, the
wake itself would destroy the attacking ship, she wanted
to know how, on decel, they could pass through their
own wake.

"Our drive fields are more intense than their product,"

279

Abdul said, "so they deflect it to the sides. But—" His
raised hand anticipated the next question. " . . . not the
wake of another ship, because it cannot be of exactly^the
same pattern."

But why didn't the Shield protect at any speed, Limila
asked, and this time Cheng fielded the question. "The
Shield's built to work in normai space, not in a drive
wake. There, the Shield's own collapse would destroy the
ship within it."

"Then the drive itself is a weapon!"

"It could be," said Barton. "Except, in practice it'd be
damned hard to get into position to use it."

"But, Barton—if we overtake Hishtoo in decelera-
tion?"

He thought, nodded. "Yes; approach on a parallel path
to keep our own view clear, then swing over. But—it's a
killing weapon, Limifa. No other way."

Hand to mouth, she gasped. "Oh! livajj and Gerain—
I had forgotten them." She stood and fled, but failed to
reach the door before her tears flowed.

Barton's vocabulary, then, did him little credit. Alene
Grover patted his hand. "That makes two of us."

The gathering broke up. In Control, Barton "ran a
number of simulations based on Chindra's tapes—
Hishtoo's choices of turnover points, the Demu's conse-
quent decel rates. It still came out a tossup.    ,

He prowled the ship. Eeshta was in Six, door closed.
Barton wanted to talk to the youngster—but not in his
present mood. He took a test kit from Three and ran a
full series of maintenance checks that weren't due for
another week. Only when he had pooped himself thor-
oughly did he return the kit and approach Compart-
ment One.

At least it wasn't locked; he entered quietly. Limila
was asleep. Barton tiptoed across the room; as quietly as
possible—the bourbon only gurgled, but the ice rattled—
he made a drink. Then he sat in the half-dark, thinking.

When he made a second drink, the tinkle of ice was
answered. "Barton?"

"None other. You feeling better?"

"I am, yes. And a little hungry."

So—she will be all right now.

As the days passed, tension grew. Turnover came on
schedule; Ship One, on max decel toward Sisshain, still

280

closed slowly on Hishtoo. The readouts varied; some in-
dicated that the Demu would be overtaken in space;

others showed him grounding with impunity.

"He does not keep constant deceleration," Abdul said.
"He may be changing it, cut-and-try as you say, as his
own computers show his course overrunning or falling
short."

"Maybe that's where he's weak," said Barton. "If he's
never had to make a speed run before, he's having to
figure it out the hard way. That could help us."

When Barton told how it had gone between him and
Alene, Limila looked thoughtful. "She knows, of course,
that I would not begrudge. She was with you, once, when I
could not be. So now that she has no other . . ."

Barton quoted Alene on the subject of lousy excuses.
"No, honey; it's nothing to do with restrictive morals or
anything. This is strictly her own mind. Declaring in-
dependence, I think."

He wasn't sure he'd made it clear, but Limila nodded.
"Then that is good." She went silent, and looked sidelong
at him. "New subject, as you sometimes say. I have
progress to show. Look and feet, both." One hand ex-
tracted her Tilaran-styled dentures; she opened her
mouth. Barton looked; sure enough, here and there, the
tips of new teeth showed. And his hesitant finger traced
the ridges of bumps that hadn't parted yet. Seemed
straight enough, he thought, the whole set of alignments.

He nodded, and waited while she put her mouth back
together. Then he said, "Any trouble yet, teeth interfering
with the plates?"

She shook her head, "Oh, no—and not .for a time yet.
As I said, the flexible elastic lining—there will be, I was
told, only a brief period of real inconvenience. And it is
much too soon for that."

"Well, good. Glad to see that things are working so
well." They better had, too—because Barton purely had
no idea how to handle the problems of a teething adult.
He hoped he wouldn't have to.

On day-50, seventeen days after turnover and fourteen
short of Sisshain, Barton took the last half of Myra
Hake's watch. "I have stuff to run through Tinhead, so I
may as well take the duty, too. Go get drunk, huh?"

She shook the bangs away from her eyes, and smiled.

281

"Well, not exactly. But maybe Cheng and I will take a
few practice swings." She left with a light step. Barton
exchanged greetings with Abdut, who was holding down
pilot watch, and set to work.

An hour later he had all the answers he was going to
get, and turned to Abdul. "The beast still can't teH me
whether we catch Hishtoo. Well, I'll try it again tomor-
row."

Abdul's reply, he didn't expect. "It is good that you
have solved the problem of Alene Grover."

Well, the serve's in your court, Barton. Return it.
"How's that?"

"As in the olden days, with my people. When the mate
of friend or brother was quite naturally entitled to com-
fort and support, approved by all. It is good to see the
ways of my ancestors found worthy by others." Abdul
cleared his throat. "Had it not been for my agreement with
my wife, I myself would have been glad to cherish Alene.
For she is a splendid person, is she not?"

"Right," Barton growled. "But don't tell me; tell her."

"Did you not tell her for me? My regrets?"

Exasperated, Barton gave a snort. "Not the same thing.
Abdul, don't you have some common sense to go with
your brains and good looks?"

After a pause, Abdul Muhammed smiled. "Your words
are harsh, but your face is not- But very well. It will be
difficult to speak so to Alene, but at the first opportunity
I will do so."

"First opportunity in private. Tust the two of you."

"Oh? Very well; you know your own people best, I
suppose."

Somehow the conversation had gotten totally off
track. Barton thought, and said, "You've got one thing
wrong, Abdul. All I did with Alene was talk. The rest of it,
that she can get along without any of us, she figured out
all by herself."

Down, down the galactic Arm. Barton felt a malaise of
no apparent cause. He recognized it, though—it was the
same unease that had plagued him throughout his years
at the Demu research station. Then. he had thought it
the natural result of being caged like an animal. Ap-
parently, there was more to it, than that . , .

He spoke of it to Limila. "Oh, yes," she said. "It is
known to us. You see. Barton ..."

282

He understood most of what she said. He knew that
spiral arms are spiral because in the nature of things,
outer orbits are slower than inner orbits. So what she was
telling him, he decided, was that he was uncomfortable,
"down here," because with respect to angular momentum,
his moment of inertia didn't feel at home.

That discussion sparked another. In her explanation,
Limila quoted Tevana, and now Barton remembered the
talk he had had with Tevann—how many days ago?

And how to ask—to change the subject? But she was
his most needful person, and he wanted to know.

"Limila," he said, "I just recalled something Tevann
told me."

"Yes, Barton?"

"About your children. You had never mentioned
them. Why didn't we see them? Or did you?*'

"But no. They live far from where we were. One is on
Chaleen, another of our worlds. All are grown—two
have children of their own, Tevann tells me. But there
was not time to arrange travel and visits. Barton—you
must know that. Tevann promised to send messages, to
tell them I am alive. More must wait for our return."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "But why. Barton, if you
were puzzled, did you not ask before?"

He didn't answer; he was too busy thinking. She'd
handed him more than he had asked for—that was for
sure. Limila a grandmother? Well, what was wrong with
that? He knew Earthwomen who'd achieved that status by
the age of thirty-five, or less. But now he was curious
about something else.

"Limila—how old are you?"

"In your years? Your numbers? I must think." She
frowned. "Oh . . . not greatly more than eighty. I would
guess."

"Eighty? But you're a young woman. With us, eighty
is—old."

"With us, too, of nature. Barton. But with the treat-
ments to stabilize metabolism, we live long and are
young for long. It is strange we have not talked before of
these things, but I thought—you do not have such
treatments on Earth?"

"No." I will grow old, thought Barton—and she will
not.

"When we return to Tilara," she said, "you must have
the treatments."

283

"Yes—maybe." If they worked, for Earthani. Barton
blue-funked. He didn't know why Limila's revelations
bothered him so much, but they sure as hell did.    "•

Nearly a week it took him, to shake off the effects and
regain—mostly—his normal spirits.

Down the Arm. Day-60—on the screen showed three
dots of light. Two of them—close together and slowly
closing—rapidly approached the more-distant third:

Sisshain.

"It's still a tossup," Barton said.

"What's his estimated lead now?" said Alene.

"Only about a light-minute, maybe a little over. But
our rate of approach is dropping off, damn it! On decel,
our exponential curve has a negative exponent."

"Barton, look!" said Eeshta. "What is happening?"

The Hishtoo dot now maintained constant distance
from its pursuer.

"He's speeded up!" Alene.

"Reduced decel, you mean," said Barton. "But why?"

Abdul had entered unnoticed; now he spoke. "He has
dropped below light speed, and now detects us. I- will
obtain a readout of the exact time and coordinates. What
can be done?"

"Two can play." Barton's grin was tight. "Back off
decel, Alene. Back off until we start closing again." .

"But what if—? Barton, we'll overrun Sisshain'"

"Do it. If we overrun, so does Hishtoo—he can't land,
either. And he can't keep too much speed, or he won't
be able to turn inside the limits of the dust cloud. We
have the bulge on him in turning radius, too." He
slammed a fist into his other palm. "If only the other
ships were in talk range!"

Of them all, Abdul showed no excitement. "What
would you wish to do?"

Barton wheeled from the board, faced him. "We could
chase Hishtoo to the limit where we could land and he
couldn't. Then the others could bag him."

"They might, anyway," said Alene. "But you're for-
getting something."

Barton exhaled, shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised—
it happens all the time. Now what?"

"According to Vertan, once Hishtoo is this close to
Sisshain, he doesn't have the fuel to go anywhere else."

284

"Grover, I love you!" In jubilation, he hugged her.
"Go get 'em, kid!"

"He pulls away more rapidly," said Abdul. "How—?"

"He's made turnover again," Barton said. "Match
him, Alene! Not turnover—just slack hell out of your
decel." Again, the two dots approached each other.

"You have all forgotten something," said Eeshta.
"Hishtoo need not land. He need only speak with
Sisshain, and perhaps more ships will rise from there, to
warn the Demmon sector, than you can intercept."

"If I catch up with him, he won't be speaking to any-
body!"

"But," said Abdul, "I thought you did not wish to kill
the hostages. Of course, if it is necessary . . . . "

"Burning off his antenna systems won't kill anybody."

"Barton," said Alene, "he's slowing again. Fast!"

"Another turnover? Wants us to overrun him, meet
and pass too fast for any action. Or else he passed light
speed, lost us again, and panicked. Whatever—just
match him, is all."

She tried, but Hishtoo reversed his action, and then
again. And with each move, the Demu increased either
the distance or the relative velocity between the ships.

"This method—matching his moves after the fact—
will not be effective," said Abdul. "He has the initiative;

he is acting, while we can only react, too late."

"I never said he was stupid," said Barton. "You got
any suggestions?"

"May I take the pilot's seat? What I have in mind is
easier to do than to explain. No reflection, Alene Grover,
on your abilities. Under a great disadvantage, you have
done well."

"No offense at all, Abdul. I'm a good Jet-jock if I do
say so, but you can make that computer do tricks I never
heard of." They changed places; as he watched the
screen, Abdul began running simulations.

"You guessed then, Alene. I too am limited to reacting
to received data—but I am responding not to Hishtoo's
moves as shown directly on the screen, but to a com-
puter prediction, in real time, of his response to my next
change, on the basis of his earlier actions.

"I will lose ground—rather, I did lose ground—you
see it, here?—on the first move, for it had to be made
arbitrarily, to establish a baseline. But now we are work-

285

ing with a converging series and should soon begin to
gain appreciably."

And it worked. Barton saw—sure as hell, it worked.
First slowly, then more rapidly, Abdul recouped from
Hishtoo his advantages of distance and speed-differential.
The dot that showed the Demu's ship darted frantically.

"He now makes changes at random, I believe," said
Abdul. "That method will not help him—his actions
cancel each other, and the computer can work with
trends as well as with individual moves." The dot sub-
sided to a slow, steady drift.

"He's not doing anything," Alene said. "What's hap-
pened?"

Abdul consulted the screen, checked a tape readout.
"He has established a constant deceleration that will
bring him to rest at Sisshain. I will set course to intercept
at soonest."

"I don't understand," said Alene. "Has he given up?"

Barton shook his head. "He hasn't quit—not Hishtoo.
It's just that he can't do it with his ship, so now he'll do
it with the hostages." His face took on the feel of
weathered rock. "Or so he thinks. I'm sorry, Eeshta—
sorry for all of them, and for us."

Eeshta spoke. "When do we come to meet with
Hishtoo?"

"If he makes no change—" said Abdul. "—Wait, let
me try a variation." For nearly two silent minutes he
ran calculations. "We both are off the original course,
and thus at a lower velocity than before, toward Sisshain
itself. His present—and optimum—deceleration is now
considerably less than our own capability. Barton—
may I suggest?"

"May? Hell, it's an order!"

"What? Oh, I see." Abdul's smile was broad. "Very
well—on straight deceleration we would reach Hishtoo in
approximately thirty hours. At that time he may be
within communication range to Sisshain. I presume we do
not wish that to occur."

"Abdul—if you don't get on with it, I'm going to climb
you like a tree, stand on your shoulders, and punch you
in the nose!"

"Abdul Muhammed laughed. "Yes. Then I propose
something we could not have done earlier, with our
higher direct velocity—that we make turnover and ac-
celerate for a time, then reverse again to pass Hishtoo

286

while still exceeding light speed—and finally, apply
maximum deceleration until Hishtoo catches us."

After a moment. Barton whooped- "You'll blind-side
him! He'll know we've passed him but not until after the
fact, and then he won't know where the hell we are—
until we knock to collect for the charity drive. Abdul—
did anyone ever tell you you're a genius?"

"Oh, yes. But always that I would never make anything
of it."

"Oh? How come?"

"My scholarship to University was athletic. It was
predicted that my brain would be scrambled in playing
rugby, or perhaps soccer."

Except for Eeshta and Limila, everyone laughed. In,
the room, tension diminished.

"Okay then," said Barton, "when is the party? For
Hishtoo ..."

"In slightly over six hours. If we gather here at 2100,
ship's time, there will be ample time for preparation."

"Okay—good enough. Alene, if Hishtoo changes so
much as his socks, call me. Correction—call Abdul; I'd
only be the middleman, anyway."

"Right. And I'll pass the word to Cheng when he takes
the watch—in case you don't see him first."

"Good enough," said Barton. He and Abdul left for
the galley, leaving Alene and JSeshta to finish the shank-
end of their watch. Certainly, thought Barton, it had
been an eventful one.

They found Cheng and Myra dawdling sleepily over
a prewatch brunch. "Hey," said Barton, "you missed the
show—starring Hishtoo, as Houdini the escape artist."

"Hishtoo? What happened?" Suddenly both were wide
awake.

"You tell 'em, Abdul—I'm pooped. See you all later."
Feeling only mild hunger, Barton found a slice of cheese
to munch, on his way to Compartment One.

Limila was awake, dressed and fed—ready to share
beer and information. Barton gave her a full report. The
news excited her. At the end she smiled for a moment,
then shuddered.

"Mostly it is good, Barton—that we can perhaps stop
Hishtoo from rousing Demu power against us. But now
we must face—oh, the poor, young livajj!"

"I'll do everything I can—you know that. Lunila,

287

would you rather stay away tonight? It might be ugly.

"After seeing me. Barton, as I came from the Demu—
how can you say that anything else is ugly?" She shook
her head; the motion rippled the long Tilaran wig. "No—
I must be there, and see. If only to know, to say to the
other needful ones of livajj and Gerain, how it was tha^
they must die, and how well they undertook the death."

"Assuming we get back ourselves."

"I have no fear that we will not." She looked at him
squarely. "Barton, I do not entirely understand the
Earthani theological construct called Hell. But if it
were to exist, and you were to be taken there, I would
have no doubt of your return." She paused. "Have I
said, I wonder, what I wished to say?"

He could only hug her, and he did. The rest would
have to wait.

At 2100 hours, the seven gathered in Control. Eeshta
sat farthest from the screen. Barton went to her.

"Eeshta, perhaps you shouldn't be here. You don't
have to be."

"I must, yes. Barton, I know what may happen'. But I
do what I do because it is right. And I will not hide away
from what may come of it.'* Eeshta's gaze was steady,
eye to eye. "Do not ask me to. Barton. I am Demu."

"I know," he said. "That's the hell of it."

"What do you mean?"

'The more I know you, Eeshta, the more I see the
good side of your people. But I can't let that stop me, stop
us all. The Demu have got to be made to let other people
alone."

"Yes, Barton, I know—or I would not be here as I
am."

"Yes. Well, I hope ... I hope it goes better than I
think it will." He left her and took his place. Abdul—
who eke?—as pilot, with Myra Hake on comm—leaving
the weapons seat to Barton. For if killing were to be
done by his decision, he was not going to delegate the
dirty work.

On the screen Hishtoo's ship grew from a dot to a tiny
silhouette, seen from the rear and at an angle. The pass-
ing maneuver had gone well; now both ships, decelerating,
dropped tail-first toward distant Sisshain. But Ship One,
ahead, was slowing harder, allowing Hishtoo to overtake.
And the Demu could neither see Ship One nor know of

288

its proximity. If Demu could sweat. Barton decided, Hish-
too should be sweating quarts.

"Getting close, Abdul," he said. "About time to pop
out through his wake—much closer and it could shake us
up pretty good, even at these speeds. When we come out
of it, tilt and try to give me a dead-bead on his nOsv, U
the way in."

"As well as I may," said Abdul. "He will move when
he detects us."

"Maybe—we'll see. Just try to keep the laser on tar-
get, if you can. Too bad the forward delivery system can't
traverse." He grinned tightly. "So stay loose for quick
alternatives, just in case."

"You have other plans?" said AbduL

"Yeh. The sleep-gun's on, for one—in case we crack
his Shield good, we've got him. Watch it now—here comes
the wake."

Out of that hazard, Abdul's closing of the last few hun-
dred kilometers was rapid. "When do you wish—?" he
began, but Barton waved him off. Hishtoo had spotted
Ship One and was changing deceleration—and perhaps
course; Barton couldn't tell for sure.

He had to think fast. If be had the ship turned to bring
the sidearm laser to bear, Hishtoo would be out of range
in seconds. The chance wasn't good enough. But Abdul
was having trouble keeping Any part of Hishtoo's ship in
Barton's sights, let alone the nose of it.

Barton activated the Tilaran ion beam; it had limited
traverse—and the range was close. Where the beam
touched Hishtoo's Shield, a golden glow appeared. Bar-
ton heard hull plates creak, forward, under the stress of
the sweep-magnets.

And at the nose of Hishtoo's ship a flower of blue fire
bloomed; where his antenna systems had been, twisted
stubs remained. Barton drew deep breath and leaned
back in his seat.

"Get him on the screen, Myra. Tilaran frequencies."

"With his antenna gone?'*

. "Do it. This close, he'll hear us—maybe not good, but
good enough. Move us in closer, Abdul—ready to dodge
if he goes to point at us. And go in on a spiral—I've got
another target in mind. . . ."

Ship One was still "behind" Hishtoo; the spiral
brought Barton the view he wanted. Briefly, Hishtoo's
side-mounted laser tube showed, dead-center. Barton's

289

own laser drove through the other's Shield and cut a great
swatch from the side of that tube. He didn't know
whether the weapon was permanently disabled—^ut the

odds, he thought, were improving.

The picture on the screen was streaked and wavering,
but good enough for Barton's purposes. In the foreground
he saw Hishtoo—by nature, the exoskeletal face showed
no expression. Behind him were two bound figures—
livajj and Gerain. From what Barton could see, blurring
and shifting, Hishtoo had not harmed them—yet. But
Barton knew why the Demu had the two with him, on

display, so to speak.

Time to say hello—"It is that I greet you, Hishtoo,"

Barton said m Demu, "May we speak now?"

The voice was distorted, too, but Barton could make it
out. "It is that Hishtoo does not speak with animals. I

will speak with my egg-child."

Wih no further prompting, Esehta came forward. "Hish-
too, it is that these are not animals, but DemiL You are

to speak with them."

"Is it that you are without sight, Eeshta? You see they
are not Demu—that they have not correct appearance.
As these with me are not Demu, but animals.- But it is
that they will learn, Eeshta, and on Sisshain, become

Derou."

"Whnee!" Barton recognized Eeshta's call of distress.

Eeshta switched to Tilaran. "livajj! Gerain! Do not leam
of Hishtoo's speech—do not! Or he will do of you as was
done of Limila—and Siewen, and the Freak. You saw—
you would be as dead." Eeshta turned away and stag-
gered; Limila caught her. "Limila, I am sorry. But it was

needed, to say it."

"You were right to say it. I was as dead."

Barton had been trying to get back to Hishtoo, now he
could. "Hishtoo, it is that I want of you the two Tilarans,
who are Gerain and livajj. I will have them. We have
protective coverings for moving between ships—"

"It is that you have nothing, animal, I proceed to Sis-
shain and you do not hinder- Or it is as you have said to
me—crab salad." And he lifted livajj's forearm to his chi-

tinous, serrated mouth.

"Hishtqol" Barton's shout was urgent. "It is that your
first bite is your last. I kill you, Hishloo, if you draw her

blood."

290

Hishtoo gave a pulsed hiss, the Demu laugh. "Kill me,
kill all," he said. "It is that I think you do not."

"But it is that I do." Then, m Tilaran—"Gerain—
livajj, my dear—I am of grief. In moments you may be
dead, of my doing. It is of need greater than your lives, or
of ours here. Be, if you can, of understanding, of accep-
tance. And—"

"Barton!" It was Ivajj. "I know—I understand enough.
And so does Gerain. So do of need—and be of peace."   i

Hishtoo pushed her aside. "Why is it that you kill, anM
mal? To kill your own—why do you?"

"It is that you give me them, Hishtoo, and I do not
kill. You, or anyone."

"It is that I give you nothing, animal."

Say that word a few more times. Barton thought, and I'll
show you what it means. But he said, "It is that you give
me only their safety, Hishtoo—your saying that you wiU
not cut and change them. Give that, and I do not kill."

Hishtoo did not answer in words—on the monitor
screen came a burst of light. "Swing us right, Abdul!"
Without thought. Barton's hands moved—switch laser
output, traverse, activate! The ship rocked and shud-
dered with impact.

"What was that. Barton?" Limila.

"The—" A wave of blackness hit him.

"What—?"
"I—" And another wave.

"Barton!" And another ...

"Abdul—I"

"—Get us—

"—away!" The ship lurched.

291

The surges of blackout grew less and finally ceased.
Alene was first to speak. "What the hell was that?"

Barton shook his head, clearing it. "First, the Laffka-Te
high-drive torpedo. I tried for it with the side-gun—don't
know if 1 even touched it—those things are fast. More
likely, the propagation-speeds didn't match right for
Hishtoo, and the Shield took care of it.

"But it got the Shield, too, sort of. See that meter—
oscillating? The Shield's out of balance, blinking on and
off. And every time it blinked off, Hishtoo's sleep-gun got
through. Nothing we could do but get the hell out, before
he could get his ion beam on us."

He turned to Abdul. "Good job, maa—you can drive
my kiddie-car, any time you want." Then, "How's our
position now?"

Abdul shook his head. "He's ahead of us again. I'm
sorry—if possible, I would have done differently. Bat the
recurrent unconsciousness would not allow connected
thinking. My hand was on the power control—I, could
only push it, applying maximum deceleration. Another
choice would have been preferable."

"Don't feel bad about it," said Alene. "You got us^out,
didn't you?"

."She's right," said Barton. "And under those circum-
stances, it took some doing.

"Now, then—with Hishtoo ahead of us, we're the ones
blinded by our own wake." He thought. "Tilt us, Abdul.
Our wake-cone spreads about five degrees from canter.
Tilt us—oh, make it ten."

Abdul looked puzzled, but his hands moved on the
board. Then he smiled. "I see, Barton—a side-vector to
take us out of our existing wake, and enough tilt to see
past the edge of our new one and locate Hishtoo again."

"Right." Several minutes passed. Then: "There he isl"

"Can we catch him?" said Alene.

"I doubt it," Barton said. "But it wouldn't do us any
good if we did—not until we rebalance the Shield. He'd
just knock us out again. All we can do is follow, and get
to Sisshain as soon as possible." Abdul reset the course.

"But then," said Limila, "why does he not attack? As
we did, from the blind side?"

"Several reasons, maybe. Weapons. He's used his only
torp. If he tested the Filjar plasma-gun, he may have
found that it's still unreliable. And I think I got his laser.
That would leave him just the ion beam and the sleep-

292

gun. We've got him outgunned—and he can't know our
Shield's fucked-up.    ^

"Mainly, though, he doesn't have to fight now. He
can beat us to Sisshain, so why fake chances?" Barton
rubbed his throat. "Would somebody kindly get
me a beer?"

"Sure," said Cheng. "Anybody else?" Limila took the
comm so that Myra could go with him; the two soon re-
turned with beer, coffee, klieta, and a tray of. assorted
snacks.

"As long as we're allowing goodies in Control," said
Myra, "let's do it right." No one made any objection.

Barton found he had no appetite. Limila, relieved of
comm duty, came to him. "Do not feel badly, Barton.
You did of your best, to save them—and they know it."

"Yeh. Close, but no cigar—not good enough, Limila.
But you're right—no point in brooding about it. Let's go
fix that damn Shield."

Barton found the job more difficult than he had ex-
pected. Normal realignment procedures failed; the result
was still unstable.

The group had scattered, leaving Cheng and Myra on
watch. Barton went to Five—maybe Abdul could help.

"Yes," said Abdul, "I worked in repair of units dam-
aged in our testing at Titara, I will see what I can do."

Only two were needed in the work, and "Limila was
tired; Barton seat her off to rest. It was a long job—before
Abdul had any results to announce, Barton also felt fa-
tigue.

"There are, of course, damaged components," Abdul
said, finally. "It is the 'lock' circuit that is most severely
affected. For the rest, I think, I can compensate."

The question was whether Ship One stocked all the
right spare parts. Although the Shield couldn't possibly
be needed for another day or two, and both men were
overdue for sleep, neither was willing to stop work until
they knew exactly what they were up against. So first they
checked inventory on computer readout, and then went
to root through the parts-bins physically. And a good thing,
Barton decided, that they did follow through; records
showed a spare exciter for the lock circuit, but the
damned thing wasn't there!

While Barton was trying to work up enough energy to
swear, Abdul said, "If I may disable one of the Larka-Te

293

torpedoes, we can manage." The torpedoes, he went
on to say, contained a very similar circuit package;^all
he'd have to improvise was the connectors, a mounting,
and a phase-shift network. To Barton it didn't sound
that easy, but if Abdul thought it was, why argue? And in
any case, two torpedoes plus the Shield beat hell out of
three and no Shield. Though Abdul said the robbed tor-
pedo could still be fired as a solid missile—and maybe a
dummy could come in handy, sometime,

So Barton okayed the idea, and headed back to Com-
partment One. He went in as quietly as he could, but
Limila woke anyway. "Barton? You are still up?" She
stretched, "Oh, I am so refreshed!'*

Barton wasn't. But he knew the look of her, and be
damned if he'd turn his woman down twice in one day.

Short of sleep, he was up before ship's-noon, feeling
reasonably energetic but somewhat less than clear of
mind. Limila was gone; he didn't find her in the galley,
either, when he stopped by for coffee and took it up to
Control. There, Alene and Eeshta had the watch; Barton
sat alongside them. "Morning. Any news?"

"Not to speak of," said Alene. "Abdul and Limila are
running around with circuitry coming out of their ears,
if that helps."

"It had better. Without the Shield, we're m mucho
tough."

Alene nodded. Eeshta said, "Barton. May I speak?"

"Huh? Sure, of course; any time. You know that."

"Then I would say this—that while I am glad Hishtoo
is not dead, and the others, still you should have killed,
Barton—while you could yet do so. Am I wrong to say
it?" .

Barton gripped the small Demu's bare, homy-cara"
paced shoulder. "No—not wrong, Eeshta. But you see—
I didn't want to pull the trigger until 1 had to—on livajj
and Gerain, or even on Hishtoo. And then while we were
still arguing, he shot off the torp—and school was out."

"Yes, Barton—I saw. I could have told you what he
would do. But I thought you knew."

He laughed briefly. "Maybe I did know—maybe I just
got fat and sassy, and thought I could match whatever
move he made. Anyway, it doesn't matter, Eeshta—ex-
cept that they're still alive, and so are we. All that's

294

•a"
^

changed is, now we have to do it—whatever we do—at
Sisshain."

"Yes, Barton." Eeshta's head bowed, then straight-
ened. "So that you know not again to relax vigilance
against Hishtoo—that is all."

"I won't, Eeshta. And thank you."

"May I be relieved of watch for a moment? I would
have klieta, if you permit."

"Sure thing. I'll hold it down."

When Eeshta was gone, Alene said, "You know some-
thing, Barton? That kid scares me."

"That right?" He paused, thinking. "I see what you
mean—but it's not fear, Alene; it's awe. How she could
come so far, so fast. All by herself, and after one hell of a
bad start. The first time I met her . . . well, skip that;

just take my word for it, she had no reason to love the
Earthani.

"And yet, after only a few months on Earth, on her own
hook she decided that when it comes to the Demu treat-
ment of captives, we are right and her own people are
wrong. To the point that she's willing to die for what
she thinks."

"I know. Barton—that's what I mean. She scares me."

"Well, there's worse ways to be scared. And . , . oh,
hey—Abdul! How's it going?"

"Very well. Barton. The modifications consumed much
time, but after I have eaten, another hour—two, it might
be—and the Shield will again be complete. Then only re-
alignment remains—a brief task, as you know."

"Need any help?"

"Not immediately—Limila is doing all that is needed.
Later, perhaps. If so, I will ask."

"Fine; do that." Abdui left them. "Anything else hap-
pening, Alene, in the way of progress?"

She shook her head. "Every now and then we tilt and
take a look. Hishtoo's still on constant-decel for Sisshain.
We're catching up a little, but not enough to count"

"Yeh—that figures. What's the latest guess as to when
he lands? And when we do?" Eeshta returned with her
klieta. Barton rose and turned the comm back to her,
and Eeshta made the lifted-tongue Demu smile.

"The latest," said Alene, "looks like just under three
days, for Hishtoo. Us?—we'll be close enough to watch
his landing on visual, I think—maybe just a matter of be-

295

ing minutes behind. Oh, Barton—have you looked out-
side yet, today?"                                :,

"No. What's to see?"

"Show him, Eeshta." The young Demu turned switches;

Barton watched the screen as Eeshta slowly panned the
view through a full circle.

The change was that in the lower portion, no stars

showed.

"I get it," Barton said. "We're entering the dust cloud

—the pocket in it, I mean."

"Right," said Alene. "Pretty soon there won't be any-
thing to see except a few stars directly behind us."

"And Sisshain ahead," said Eeshta. Her tone was
hushed. Barton sympathized—he felt a little subdued

himself.

He stood. "I think I'm enough awake, now, to eat

breakfast." He waved a hand and left.

He found the galley empty, and set about scrambling
eggs and making toast. He ate slowly, thinking ahead—
to Sisshain. Guessing in a vacuum, he decided, was get-
ting him nowhere fast—he went to check on Abdul's
progress.                                      /

In the drive room, Abdul and Limila were -working
quietly, exchanging only a few words now and then. Bar-
ton watched silently for a few minutes, then spoke.

"Things coming along all right? Need any help?"

Limila looked up. "Good morning, Barton. Yes, it is
well. A short time now, Abdul says, until we may test and

realign."

Abdul finished the set of connections he was making,
before he, too, looked up at Barton. "She is correct. Un-
less further damage has escaped my notice, it is only a
matter of tedious assembly until the Shield is again com-
plete, prepared for testing."

-that's fine. Need another

"So we'll know pretty soon-
set of hands?"

Abdul shook his head. "No, I think not. Unless you

are tired, Limila?"

"No, I am of good energy. I shall be hungry again,
though, when the circuits are complete, before the test-
ing."

"I, too," said Abdul. "At that point, we will pause."

"Okay, then—I'll get out of here and let you get on

with it."

Barton returned to the galley and brooded over a cup

296

of klieta, alone. This damned waiting, he thought, was
enough to stretch a man all out of shape.

The morning passed, and lunchtime, and the testing of
the Shield. Abdul found and replaced another damaged
component that might cause instability under stress. By
midaftemoon the Shield was as good as new. The jury-
ringed assembly from the torpedo looked to Barton like a
plumber's nightmare—but if Abdul vouched for it, Bar- \
ton was satisfied.

Deeper into the mouth of the dust cloud. That day—
and the next, and the next—dragged interminably. The '
seven spoke less and laughed seldom, each caught in
his or her web of tension. There was no bad temper,
no irritability—it wasn't that kind of tenseness. It was,
thought Barton, like bleeding to death, one drop at a time.
And about two-thirds done with it. ...

Day-64: the day that would see Ship One landed on
Sisshain, or—or what? A riddled hulk? A ship in dire re-
treat from Demu force? Barton wished he knew. But at
least now, by God, they were getting down to cases!

He didn't bother with breakfast, but took a pot of cof-
fee along to Control. Soon he had a full crew; Cheng and
Myra had been relieved from their "night" watch but
made no move to leave. Alene was pilot, Limila on comm,
and Abdul sat at the weapons position. Barton prowled,
unable to sit for long.

"How close?" he said. "When does Hishtoo land?"
They were slowed to a fraction of light-speed; the ship's
wake, streaming ahead, was only a tenuous obstacle to
viewing or detection-

"Very close," said Limila. "Soon—less than an hour.
He has passed the star—Sisshain's primary that is off the
left side of our present view. As soon, we will pass it. He
is inside the orbit of Sisshain, thus approaches its daylit
side."

"That's a help," Barton growled, "unless he swings
wide and orbits when he gets close. How far behind him
are we?"

"The prediction," said Abdul, "based on present
courses, speeds, and decelerations, is that we land
twenty-five minutes after Hishtoo. The margin of error is

297

five minutes, plus or minus. If we are not prevented or
deterred, of course."                            ^

"Of course." Barton paused by the seat he wasn't using,
to sip cold coffee. "Any more ships spotted? Or other

signs of activity?"

"It is yet too far," said Umila, "to note details of Sis-
shain—even under high magnification. But our picture
becomes clearer; SOOD we can see much more."

"Yeh—good. Excuse me a minute." He was carry-
ing too much coffee, both in his nerves and elsewhere. A
few minutes later be returned to Control—this time with a
hastily assembled sandwich and a cup of klieta—and

sat.

"Nothing new?"

"Not yet," said Alene. The waiting continued, with lit-
tle talk.

On the screen, Sisshain grew. Limila ran the magnifi-
cation up, and slowly scanned the visible hemisphere.
Suddenly, Barton sat erect.

"Back it up, and to the left a little—there!" He stood,
moved to view the screen at closer range. "Just what the
hell is that?"                                  -\

Whatever it was—the needle-like glint visible at such
distance—it was big. "There is no way to judge scale,"
said Abdul, "but if I may venture a very loose estimate,
the object is at least a kilometer in height—quite possi-
bly, more."

"And Hishtoo's headed for it," said Alene. "Close to
it, at least."

"I think," said Barton, "we just hit the jackpot. The
Ormthan said, one who sees the thing cannot fail to know
of its importance. Limila—don't lose Hishtoo, of course,
but any time you get a chance, give us more detail on that
thing. And its surroundings—the terrain could be a big
factor."

"Yes, Barton. The shadows are deceptive, but the ob-
ject appears to rise from the side of a mountain, about
halfway of its height."

Barton squinted. "That's more than I can make out,
from here. How tall a mountain, would you say?"

"I do not know yet—not outstandingly so, I would
think. I—oh, now I see a thing here. The shadows—look!
The tops of mountain and object are nearly at a level.".
Barton looked. "Yeh—I think you're right. If the

298

angle isn't fooling us. Okay—now, how's Hishtoo do-
ing?"

The view swung. Hishtoo was approaching atmosphere.
For a fugitive. Barton thought, his approach was con-
servative. Which reminded him ....

"Alene," he said, "let's change seats. I'm relieving
you."

She looked at him, startled. "But why. Barton? Am I
goofing?"

"Not a bit of it, Alene—you're doing fine- I'm taking
her down, is all. Got some ideas, and wouldn't be able to
say 'em fast enough to do any good, in a pinch. Okay?"
He smiled at her, and after a moment she smiled back and
let him take over.

Barton checked his control settings, flexed both bands.
"Show me Hishtoo again." The screen shifted. "Yeh, I
see. Now the surface behind him . . . hey, beautiful
picture! Look—the whole mountain is covered with trees
—no landing, there." The screen again brought Hishtoo's
ship into sharp focus.

"Clear space," said Alene, "off to the side of the pic-
ture. Not a very big one."

"Yes," Barton said, "and looks like he's dropping to-
ward it. No other ships, that I can see. No buildings—
nothing. Camouflaged, maybe?" He shook his head; no
point in guessing. "A couple of items in a hurry, people.
, Limila—that monolith." The screen showed it briefly.
Closer now, it glowed with rippling iridescence, polychro-
matic, stippled with random markings.

"Some show," said Barton. "Limila, on the way in
I'm going to make a pass at that thing, I want cameras
and instruments on it, recording.

"Abdul. If we make it down, I intend to land as close
to Hishtoo as I can. Switch the laser to side-arm—now.
And as soon as you get the chance, bum the hell out of
his drive generators. You know where they are, close
enough—slash around a tittle extra, to make sure." He
frowned. "Oh, yen—put the sleep-gun on, too. Now.
Full strength, spherical distribution. And leave it on, after
landing—just m case they got infantry."

"Barton?" said Limila. "Why disable Hishtoo's drive?
He has no fuel left, to leave Sisshain."

"He could get some. And why let him hop around
any further on Sisshain?"

299

"Yes—I see. Look, Barton!—Hishtoo is landing. And

it is where we thought."

Sure enough; the stolen ship had come to rest. Briefly,

the view expanded to show both clearing and mountain
—ship and shining, flickering monolith. GodI—that thing

was huge.

"Okay—it's visiting hours!" Barton's hands moved; he

heard gasps as the screen showed wheel and swoop, Sis-
shain's surface expanding and sliding across their field of

view.
The mad slide went on, and on—twenty minutes, Ab-

dul had said? Or was it forever?

Barton was taking her down like a bat out of hell. Well,

he'd done it before. ...

The giant needle, shimmering—"Get it!" he .shouted.
Trees almost close enough to touch, passing so rapidly
as to blur into dull-green carpet. Sisshain swung to the
side and vanished—one glimpse of Hishtoo's ship—as
Barton pointed his straight up, then at tilt to kill lateral
momentum, then up again.

Seconds short of touchdown, Barton's controls went
dead; the ship fell at an angle. The Shield absorbed
most of the impact; Ship One rocked dangerously and
then settled upright, between Hishtoo's ship on one side
and sheer ocher cliffs rising on the other.

Barton looked around. "Use -that goddamn laser!" Ab-
dul unfroze and obeyed; Hishtoo's ship would not lift

soon again.

"Okay, we're down," said Barton. "But that last part

wasn't my idea."

He flipped switches, checked instruments. "Well," he
said finally, "it looks as if Hishtoo isn't the only one
who's grounded. The Demu had a weapon we didn't
know about—probably in the Washington ^onument
up there. Because some way, I don't know how, our drive
has gone dead as a mackerel."

The outside view-scan showed no one, Demu or other-
wise, within its range.

'Too bad," said Barton. "We might have got lucky and
caught somebody in the sleep-field. It's still on, isn't it,
Abdul?" The man nodded.

"Well then—I guess I go calling on Hishtoo. I'll
need—"

300

"You may look. Barton," said Limila, "and with care,
of course. But I think that ship is empty. For a moment
as we came here, I saw—here, it is recorded, I think."

She ran the tape into the screen circuits. Reduced to
slow motion the flash of view, lightning-fast as it had
been, stretched into seconds. Speed and magnification
blurred the picture, but one thing was clear. On the op-
posite side of Hishtoo's ship, the main airlock was open,
its ramp down. "They are gone, you see."

"Maybe," said Barton, "maybe not—could be a
mousetrap, a setup. 1*11 have a look, anyway."

"And I with you. Barton," said Limila. "You do noti
go alone,"      ,

"But—" He saw there was no use arguing. "All right."
"And I, Barton," said Eeshta. "I too must go."
He turned to her. 'Wo—and that's flat. We need you
for later, when we meet your people and—I hope—
talk with them. You can't be risked in some dumb shoot-
out, at this stage."

"And can you?" But Eeshta shrugged in resignation.
"Very well—it will be as you say."

"All right—now here's what we do—" .

A cloverlike growth carpeted the ground. It did not
show footprints; if Hishtoo was gone, there would be no
tracking him. Circling one-to either side, Barton and
Limila approached the other ship. To their right, Alene
Grover moved toward a pile of boulders—to take cover
and then, if necessary, give it. On the ground beside Ship
One, Cheng and Myra waited in reserve- If there were no
fight, they would begin a search, circling outside of view-
screen range—for Hishtoo, his hostages, or anything else
of interest.

All five wore the nonguaranteed portable Shields and
carried sleep-guns—redundant, in view of the ship's
sleep-field—and either ion beam or laser handguns. No
breathing gear: Demu presence meant the atmosphere
was suitable.

On Ship One, Abdul Muhammed—carrying the new
title of second-in-command—was left at the weapons
board and Eeshta at the comm-board.

Out of the corner of his eye. Barton saw Alene reach
her position. All right—time to move in. He gestured to
Limila and she returned it; then they moved forward and
the bulk of the crippled ship came between them. Round-
301

ing it. Barton stayed close to the hulk—remembering an-
other time, another ship.

The ramp was down, all right. He saw it and Umila,
rounding the ship from the other side, almost at the same
time. They exchanged signals—he to approach, she to
move past and cover the airlock at the top of the ramp.

Nothing barred him from walking up the ramp and into
the ship—nothing at all. It was too easy. On the ground,
Barton found a dead branch of wood, thick as his arm
and over a meter long. He picked it up and threw it at
the ramp. At the impact, the ramp snapped shut, up into
the body of the ship. Fragments of wood feu. Then,
slowly, the ramp lowered again.

Mousetrap wasn't a bad guess at all, thought Barton—
Hishtoo must have really souped the hell out of those
motor circuits. He saw smoke drifting from the -airlock,
and on a hunch, threw another piece of wood. Nothing
happened—a one-shot trap, now burned out.

"Umila? I'm going in. If you don't hear anything that
sounds like trouble, come on up in about five minutes. If
you do hear trouble, play it from out here—and get
help."                                       , ^

"I will do as I think best. But most likely as you

say."

Cautiously but not slowly. Barton climbed the ramp.
At the airlock he paused and listened. From inside, no
sounds came; he entered. After a quick inspection he re-
turned and beckoned to Limila.

"There is nothing here," she said after further explora-
tion, "to show that Hishtoo or livajj were ever on this
ship. Gerain, yes—a few belongings that are of a male
Tilaran. Nothing more."

"At least there's no sign that Hisntoo hurt them any.
All right—we might as well get out of here and back to
the snip."                                 -  ^

Outside, Barton waved for Alene to join them; to-
gether they trudged back to Ship One. "Where's Cheng
and Myra?" Barton asked.

Alene answered. "I gave them the high-sign to start
search, as soon as you came back out the first time. Was
that all right?"

"Fine." said Barton. "Let's go on in and button it up.
We'll set the screen to watch for them—a perimeter

watch."

The two scouts were beyond view-range. Barton dis-

302

covered when he reached Control. Eeshta had last seen
them going behind a low range of hills at perhaps a kilo-
meter's distance. An hour later, after the reconnaissance
of Hishtoo's ship had been discussed thoroughly, the two
reappeared in line-of-sight, moving slowly and showing
fatigue.

'They look as hungry as I feel," said Alene. "I'm go-
ing to cook up some stuff. Anyone who's chicken to try i
Grover Special, never before tasted by man or beast, raise
your hands—and cook your own dinner!" No hand
raised. "All right, you're not chicken—you're just lazy."
She exited toward the galley.

When the entrance alarm sounded, the screen showed
Myra and Cheng waiting. Soon the two entered Control.

"I'm bushed," said Myra. "It's been too long since I
walked so much. But one thing's certain—our sleep-field
didn't catch anything, unless you want to count a few
small furry creatures."

"Perhaps I should turn it off for a time," said Abdul,
"and allow those a chance for escape."

"Sure," Barton said. "Set it to go on again if anything
big—people-size—trips the alarm."

Before he could ask more questions, Alene called din-
nertime. "Here's trays made up for whoever has the
watch. Everybody else dish up for yourselves, in the gal-
ley." Abdul and Eeshta stayed on duty; the rest ad-
journed.

Sarton decided not to ask what Alene had put into
dinner; it tasted better than it looked. He did have an-
other question, though.

"Cheng? Myra? You sure we don't have any sleeping
beauties around here?"

"Quite sure," said Myra. "We scouted to the perimeter
of the field."

"You what? Now that's a good trick. How do you
know?"

"We thought about it," said Cheng, "and tested. Start-
ing at the viewscreen perimeter we went out on a gradual
spiral—"

"Not to miss anything," said Myra.

"And finding nothing," Cheng continued, "we de-
cided to test the extent of the field in atmosphere. It was
not difficult. One of us would switch the Shield of the
other off, then on again."

303

"Either a quick blackout, or not," Myra said. "We

took turns."

"Godrfamre it!" said Barton. "Didn't anybody tell you,

you could lose a chunk of memory that way?"

"We used only very brief—momentary—exposures,"

said Cheng. "We notice no ill effects."

"I hope you're right. But—you sure you didn't miss
any live corpses? I mean, you covered a lot of territory."

"We're pretty sure," said Myra Hake. "One person,
given time to hide, we might have missed. Those three
together, caught by surprise, we could not have missed.

You see the difference?"

Barton saw. He agreed, and congratulated the two on a
good job well done. ". . . but the next time you want to
go fucking around with the sleep-zapper—or anything
else you're not briefed on—for Christ's sake, ask first!"

Grave-faced, the two agreed. Barton didn't believe a
word of it. But either they could take care of themselves
or they couldn't, and bis bet was that they could.

The main thing was what to do next—and that was
his decision, no one else's.

There was only one possible answer. "Tomorrow
morning," he said, "some of us are going up the moun-
tain to see the totem pole. Dressed like locals.

"Be thinking about it."

Barton and Limila, next morning, were the last to as-
semble in the galley. Alene was serving breakfast; Cheng
and Eeshta were packing marching rations into belt
pouches, to be worn under the Demu robes.

"A bunch of early birds," said Barton, and noted that
the replies were cheerful. He took a cup of coffee and sat

"Hungry?" said Alene. He nodded, and she set a tray

before him.

"Past service. Thanks."                  . ^
"Barton," said Abdul, "I have information about the

drive."

"You got it working?"

"No, I cannot. But I know what has happened.**

"Damage permanent?" Barton said.

"Again, no. But it is not a matter of repair. Focused on
this ship is a beam of incident energy that neutralizes
and cancels the wave forms of our exciter output, so that
it cannot activate the generator fields."

"Through the Shield, it does that?"

304

"Yes, Barton. Like the laser, this beam is coherent
radiation, but of dimensions that penetrate our hull with-
out damage to it. I tried a method of evading the effects,
but my effort was fruitless."

"What was it?"

"I changed the exciter frequency slightly—there is a
workable range each side of peak tuning, without much
loss of efficiency. But the Demu device followed my ad-
justments exactly."

"In other words," Barton said, slowly, "we're stuck
here until we can get to their gadget and turn it off."

"It would seem so."

Barton had another thought. "They'd have" conked us
at high altitude, if they could have. And you know—I bet
they tried. It's a damned good thing we came in fast, and
took that side swoop at the monolith—that's probably
what threw them off. Otherwise, we could have been
splattered over a couple of acres. Shield or no Shield."

"Jesusl" he said. "Abdul—make a tape, warning off
Thirteen and Thirty-four, so they don't try to land. Beam
it straight up, thirty-degree spread, max power, and leave
it running—loop tape. Okay?"

"Yes, Barton—immediately. Is there anything else
I should do?"

Barton thought. "Yes. Can you rig a good loud alarm
to sound off if the interference stops and the drive goes
operative again?"

"Easily. But why—? Oh, I see."

"Yeh. So that whoever's available can lift this baby the
hell out of here—fast. Waste fuel like crazy by going all-
out max, and stay low and flat until Cleopatra's Needle is
I ''ow the horizon. Everybody got that?"

"But, Barton," said Limila, "what of those who are not
on the ship at such a time? Are they to be left?"

"No. The ship comes back later, of course. Comes back
the same way—low and fast and sneaky—and makes a
sidewise pass at the monolith with enough speed so that
if the drive goes dead, you can coast out of range, to
safety."

"That range would be a matter of estimate," said Ab-
dul.

"Hell, yes—the game doesn't come with any guaran-
tees on it."

"I know. Very well, I will arrange the tape and the
alarm."

305

"Okay—and good work, Abdul, finding out what the

problem is."

At another table, Myra and Limila were sorting
the Demu-disguise components by sizes. "Barton," said
Limila, "you have not spoken of who is to go, and who to

stay at the ship."

"I know. I've been thinking about it." He, Limila and
Eeshta bad to go, for sure. Anyone else? And if so, who?

He could afford no weak links—not, he thought, that
any of his people could be called weak. But Cheng and
Myra—who could hardly be assigned separately—were
not weapons-oriented, despite their precautionary train-
ing. Nor did they speak Demu.

Abdul was a true artist with weapons—never mind that
Barton's landing had momentarily paralyzed him—and a
maa Barton would like to have backing him in hostile
country. He spoke very little Demu but had picked up a
limited listening vocabulary.

Alene, now . . . Barton appreciated a sort of native
ferocity he detected in her—but she was impulsive.
Could he risk her in a deadly situation that might call for
subtlety as the key to survival?                 ,

He decided. "You and I, Limila—we go, of course.
And Eeshta—and, I think, Abdul."

A series of hisses startled him—Demu-fashion, Eeshta
was laughing. "Did I say something funny, Eeshta?"
Barton's voice was mild; he was puzzled, not irritated.
"If I'm making a mistake, please correct me."

"It is Abdul, Barton."

"You don't think he's a good choice?"

"In all but size. Barton, he would be admirable. But
no Demu is so very large, nor even closely to it. Limila,
I would say, is near to the greatest height believable as
Demu."

Barton had sat straight; sow he leaned'back in his
chair. "Thanks, Eeshta. I guess if it weren't for you I'd
have pulled a real blooper. Maybe you'd better keep
tabs on me, and sing out if you catch me doing anything
else stupid."

"Very well. Barton. But it was not stupid—you could
not know."

"Yen. But—" He thought, I could have asked, damn
it! Am I to kill us all, yet, with my single-minded lack of
vision? Abruptly, he chose his course.

"Just the three of us, then. The rest stay."

306

"Wait a minute," Alene protested. "What about me?
You know you need another gun—at the least."

He answered in Demu. "It is that you know not the
tongue of the land."
"What did you say?"

"You don't talk the local lingo. We couldn't communi-
cate in the presence of Demu. If you forgot, in a bind,
and said even a few words in English, we'd all be up the
spout. I'm sorry—in a different situation, there's damned
few people I'd rather have backing me."

'Td be careful," she began. Then, "No—you're right
Grover's tough and Grover's smart—I think you'll grant
me that—but Grover's mouth does have one of the light-
est trigger-pulls known to modem man. 1 hate to admit it,
Barton, but you're right." Her eyelids lifted; reflected
light flashed from widened eyes. "But it's not just because
I'm a woman! My father's even worse!"

He laughed—he had to laugh. After a moment, so did
she.

"Well," he said, "it's Halloweeo, kiddies—time to get
dressed up for trick-or-treat. Incidentally—everyone
who's staying home—if you wander around outside, go
costumed. That way, if you're seen from a distance you
won't set off any flares." He frowned. "I should have
thought of that before we went out yesterday, but as usual
I was in too damned much of a hurry to think at all."

"Barton," said Limila, "I Bo not like this mood—blam-
ing yourself, calling yourself stupid. It is no mood in
which to start an enterprise such as we now undertake."
She looked at him. "I would see you alone."

In Compartment One, Barton expected a lecture. He
was agreeably surprised.

Under the dark blue sky, the day was sunny, the air
cool. Inside the headpiece, though, Barton felt smothered
—the Tilaran plastic was somewhat pervious to air, but
not enough for comfort.

His eyelids burned. Around the eyeholes the plastic
was thin and flexible, adhering to the lids in a perfect
match under the lowering brow ridges. But another un-
foreseen difficulty had arisen—in any adequate light, the
eyelashes were a dead giveaway that whatever Barton
might be, he was not Demu. So, one by one, Limila
had plucked them out, and now the lids were sore and
swollen. Limila, of course, lacked lashes—the Demu had

307

removed them permanently. She merely removed the

false lashes she usually wore.

The robes and hoods were bulky and awkward, but
Barton had worn such garb before and soon adjusted his
stride to move more easily. At his belt, under the robe,
he carried food pouch and water bag, his Shield genera-
tor, and a small two-way radio set to ship's frequencies.
Under one arm was bolstered a sleep-gun—under the
other, a hand laser. Limila carried a Tilaran ion-beam

weapon; Eeshta was unarmed.

.The four-digited gloves bothered Barton a little—
the two smaller fingers confined in one tube, and the
loss, as with any glove, of tactile sensation. The foot-
wear, Barton thought, was the best of it. Simulating
bare Demu feet, the outline was mittenlike—the great
toe separate, the rest together in a casing marked and
indented to indicate three nailless toes. The heavy soles
gave good protection and sure footing.

On inspection, before leaving the ship, - consensus
had been that Barton and Limila were nearly as con-
vincing as Eeshta herself.

Still puzzled about Hishtoo's reason for coming to
Sisshain, Barton reopened the question as they walked.

"Truly, I cannot say," said Eeshta. "As I have told
you, Sisshain is of such importance to the Demu that it is
both duty and privilege for the fortunate among us to
come here at some time in their lives."

"Yes. Abdul's people once had a simitar custom."

"He has said—the place, Mecca. But as to Sisshain—
Hishtoo my egg-parent traveled here, in his younger
days. He has spoken of it to me, but not greatly, as I am
too young to be told of such importances. Also my other

parent, Tashin, was here."

"Did they come here together?" Limila asked.
"No. At the times of their visits, they did not know
each other. Nor do they now, except casually. The Demu
do not carry the intimacies of breeding into their later
personal lives. Each keeps ties with the lives of its own

egg-children, nothing more."

"Ann Landers would starve to death," Barton mut-
tered. "You didn't have contact with your other parent?"

"Tashin? I have met Tashin. Long ago Hishtoo and I
visited him at his home in Shestri, on Demmon—when
we lived on that planet. Tashin greeted me civilly and
wished me well."

308

H     This isn't getting us anywhere, thought Barton, and let
's:   the subject drop.

•^     At the end of their first hour of walking, first in sun
;    and then shaded by trees, they had seen no one, nor
"'•   signs of any. Occasionally some small brown animal,
f.   furry and plump, scuttled across the ground to take ref-
^   uge in a tree. The three were climbing now, a gradual

rise—if not the foot of the mountain itself, then close to

it.

The thick growth of trees looked unfamiliar to Barton,
,?   but not alien—mottled grayish brown bark, straight

sturdy trunks that branched above, leaves like dark

evergreen but wider and thicker. Pulpy-looking, Barton
:   thought, but a fallen leaf picked from the ground was
|r   tough and springy to his touch. Barton found its pungent,
It   spicy smell rather pleasant.

:'.     Gradually the slope increased. The climb was tiring;

-^   their pace slowed. Bartob called a rest stop. "We're on
^:   the mountain now, all right. Snack time, if you want to."
t     "How much farther, do you think, Barton?"

i?     "No way of knowing, Limila, until these trees thin
'y   out a little—or we walk smack into the thing. We've been

S  going straight up-slope, near as I can manage it, so we
.s^,  shouldn't miss by much." He turned to Eeshta. "You
1^  tired?"

"Not badly. Barton. I grew for the most part on Dem-
mon, where gravity pulls more strongly, before going to
Ashura."

"To where?"

"Ashura—the planet of the research station, where
you were."

Barton laughed. "You know, that's funny—I never
t^ -ight to ask the name of the place."

"I thought you knew. The questioning teams, on Earth,
asked me such things."

"I guess I had my head into too much other stuff,
then." He rose. "Okay—everybody ready to move on?"
Snacks were finished; the three sipped water and re-
sumed the climb.

As they proceeded, the forest grew less thickly. The
change was not great—Barton remembered that the
mountain was tree-covered to its peak—but now he
could see that they were on a ridge with sides that
dropped away more steeply as it rose. It vexed him, for
the ridge slanted about ten degrees to the right of his

309

chosen course, but he had to follow it—the alternative
was a steep descent and steeper climb to regain lost alti-
tude.

Where the ridge ended, the major mass ahead rose
sharply from a talus slope of broken rock. "Must we
climb that?" Limila said.

"Not here. We'll follow along the lower edge, as far as
we can. To the left—the ridge brought us quite a bit
the other way, and it looks like it might not be quite as
steep above, over there. And at least there's no trees di-
rectly above us, for a while. Maybe .... "

Picking their way along the tumbled fringe of the
talus, they continued. Now Sisshain's sun was hot; sweat
flowed under Barton's robe. Reaching a point at which
the ridge began to drop off steeply, they bad to leave it,
and began to clamber up and along the loose rock.'

On the treacherous footing, progress was slow. Barton
cautioned the others, and saw to it that no one was ever
directly in line below another. He paused frequently,
not only to rest but to squint, uphill and at an angle
against the sun, through binoculars Limila had carried.

The side of the talus petered out at the edge of a bare
wash—a gully—that cut almost directly up-slope. Stand-
ing at that edge, Barton looked up—and saw the mono-
lith.

"Holy ^Christ!" Showing at the immediate left of the
gully's top was whal he guessed to be the upper third of
the thing. "If that's what I think it is—t

"Let's get to moving."                         '

Climbing the gully took the party into afternoon, but
until they reached the top, they made no midday meal.
Above them, the mountain—forested once more—rose
less steeply. And from their vantage point they could
see, above the trees, almost the whole of the' dazzling,
iridescent tower.

Now Barton would speak. "It's a ship! It has to be the
biggest goddamned granddaddy-starship ever built; it
can't be anything else. I wonder who. , . ."

"Who but the Demu, Barton?" said Eeshta. "Now I
understand."

"Understand what, Eesbta?"

"From things Hishtoo said. Barton, and from talk
among the young as I was growing. We are not told. so
we fasten onto chance hints and make ideas—theo-

310

ries- We believed—and thought the grown believed also

—that Sisshain is our home world, the source of all
Demu.

"When Hishtoo said to me, on the ship before TUara,
'the Demu came,' I thought it was from Sisshain he
meant, to the other worlds. Remember, Barton—when
I told you what he said?"

Barton remembered—Eeshta's chant. His spine prick-
led.

"But now you think differently?" He knew what she
would say.

She did. "Sisshain is not our origin. This is the kind of
ship that brought the Demu to Sisshain. It may be the
ship—one of the ships—that burned away the worlds.
Further down the Arm, where none are now to be
found."

Slowly, Barton nodded. "Yes—it might be, at that.
Certainly, you're not related to what we've seen of the
local fauna. But take a look through these binoculars—
they adjust, like this- Then you too, Limila."

They looked. "See?" he said. "That baby's been out of
commission—or at least, not used—for a long time.
See those gouges? Deep ones. The cameras blurred that
detail when I made the pass at it, landing—we were Just
plain going too fast—but some of those marks must be a
meter deep, or more. And notice how the colors, and the
way they nicker, go all the way into the metal, if it is
metal. Hell, it has to be—or something just as tough.
From here, I don't see any holes that go through the
hull—I wonder how thick it really is.

"See the vegetation growik in some of the dents? It
doesn't look like much, from here, but some of those are
good-sized trees. Lower down, the ship's covered with
vines, something like ivy. It grows almost halfway up—
how many centuries would that take?

"Most of all, look at the little marks. Erosion patterns

—erosion patterns in metal. We're looking at a lot vr
time."

Eeshta looked at him. "You say, then, the ship is
dead."

"Not dead. Something around here has enough
whammy to lay a field on us at several kilometers that
kills our own drive. So, not dead—but not flown for a
long, long time. Maybe not in shape to fly. Or maybe
kept idle for some reason we don't know.

311

"Yet," he added, "Well—I don't know about every-
body else, but I'm hungry."

"Yes," said Limila. "We had forgotten of our lunch,
had we not?"

They ate; afterward, Barton waited another'half-hour
before resuming the march. They were getting close now;

he wanted everyone well-rested. For one thing, a place
—a thing—like this couldn't be deserted. He found him-
self tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Less than an hour later, they found the trail. Only a
foot-trail—from below it came up at their left, crossing
Barton's course at a slight angle. He stopped, looked at it.

Limila spoke. "Shall we follow it, Barton? Or stay
clear, with perhaps less chance of being seen?"

"We follow it. We're supposed to be Demu—remem-
ber? This gives us our first chance to start acting in
character."

The footing was easier, too.

The trail rose, skirted steep rises and crossed a nar-
row stream, the first they'd encountered. "Most of the
steady runoff must go to one side or the other, of the
way we came up," Barton said. "Shall we see if the local
water's fit to drink^" He knelt and scooped with both
hands together, smelling the first dip and tasting the sec-
ond. "Not as cold as I'd like—or expect—but not bad.
Not bad at all."

Belatedly, he wondered about the possibility of in-
fectious organisms. But what the hell, he thought—the
Demu had fed and watered him for eiglit years, and he
hadn't died of it. With no apparent qualms, the others
drank also.

To the left, a brightness flashed upward. Seconds
later, thunder rolled. After a moment. Barton spoke.

"Well, there went a ship."

"Ours, could it be?" said Limila.

"Not a chance—wrong direction from here. No—
Hishtoo has convinced somebody to get the word to Dem-
mon in a big hurry."

"Thirteen and Thirty-four may intercept it."

"And maybe not," Barton said. "Well—nothing we
can do from here, except keep going." Again they began
walking.

Not much later, rounding a tree-covered hill Barton
saw two things: less than half a kilometer ahead, the

312

great ship, all of it—and preceding his party, at perhaps
a tenth of that distance, a group of four robed Demu.

"Barton," said Limila, "what shall we do?"

"Start speaking Demu, for one thing," he said. "In a
minute, that is. Eeshta—I )ust thought of something." AL
the last minute again, danth it. "We should have names,
shouldn't we? Limila and 1, I mean. What would be
suitable?"

The lifted-tongue smile. "Names? I must think." Si-
lence, then a nod. "Oh, yes. You, I think, are Bashta.
And you"—to Limila—"are Linish.

"But do not give names until asked- You remember?"

Barton nodded. He had tried to take a crash course in
Demu manners and customs, but somehow there had
never been time for much of it. He had resigned himself
to relying, in the clutch, on Eeshta's and Limila's knowl-
edge.

"All right—thanks. From now on, there's nobody here
but us Demu."

At first. Barton kept a steady distance behind the
party ahead. Then as the trail took a slight angle past a
clump of trees, he saw a group of robed figures near a
door in the base of the titanic structure. They appeared
to converse; then some disappeared into the opening,
into the ship. Odds on, he thought, the gatekeepers just
passed in a squad of pilgrims.

He quickened his pace; gaining on the four ahead.
Limila caught bis robe, looking at him with an unspoken
question.

"It is," he said, "that these before us are received soon
by those near the portal. That we listen to what is sa^' "

"It is not to be so easy, surely? Simply to enter! It is
certain that they must guard."

"It is certain that they guard for animals, for Earthani
and Tilari. But do they guard for Demu?"

She nodded in agreement, and along with Eeshta
matched Barton's faster pace.

He timed it to come up behind the four almost as the^
reached the reception committee—hoping to hell that ir
doing so he was committing no breach of unknown eti
quette. He—all three—stopped a short distance behind
but well within hearing range.

Of the waiting group. Barton bet himself that the oni
with the gold-edged hood had to be the kingfish. Tha
one spoke.

313

"It is that the Keeper of the Heritage would know,
who visits and who would become?" The question had
the rhythmic sound of a ritual chant.

One of the four moved forward. "It is that I, who am
twice here, would become. These with me visit." The re-
sponse sounded equally ritualistic.

"You who visit, see no more the one who brought
you." Another receptionist led the three away, into the
ship. Barton watched and listened closely. "You who
would become, may you become as you wish." A small
cloth bag was handed to the one addressed. "This is to
use by those who do not become, no shame to their eggs."

The recipient dipped head and torso without bending,
and in tow of another guide entered the ship. Too bad,
thought Barton, that there hadn't been more ahead of
him, to deplete the greeting contingent a little better. For
now it was his turn.

Since neither Limila nor Eeshta stepped forward. Bar-
ton took the lead, and waited for his cue.,

"It is that the Keeper of the Heritage would know,
who visits and who would become?"

"It is that we three visit." Barton tried to match his
questioner's cadence.

"But it is that none visit, not brought by one who is
twice here. All know it."

"It is that I am twice here." Shit, I blew it already!
Now what?

"Then it is that you are named here." Barton took a
moment to figure that one. Oh, yes—let's check your
membership card....

"Tashin." Out of the blue he said it—and good-bye,
Bashta, whoever you were ....

Tashin?" The Demu mumbled into a device dimly seen
under its hood, and waited. "It is, say our records, that
Tashin is not living." Limila's gasp was barely audible. *

"It is that records may err," said Barton. "The records
say I am not here, but it is that I am here."

"It is that you are here, Tashin." Gold Hood dipped
head and body, upright- "Then it is that you are twice
here. You are here to become, not to visit. It is so.'*

"It is so." Barton wished he knew what the hell was
going on.

"Why is it that Tashin, who wishes to become, says
that he visits?"

Because my head was on backward! "It is that as

314

records may err, so may persons. Tashin, who would be-
come, thinks of much, and says in error. It is that
Tashin would become."

The rigamarole was back on track. "You who visit, see
no more the one who brought you." A robed figure led
Eeshta and Limila inside . . . and there was nothing Bar-
ton could do about it.

"You who would become, may you become as you
wish." The cloth bag; Barton took it. "This is to use by
those who do not become, no shame to their eggs."

Barton remembered to do the erect curtsey before fol-
lowing his own guide to the great ship. Only then did he
venture to feel the cloth bag, to determine the outlines
of the object within.

It was a knife in there—a sharply pointed, two-edged
dagger.

Inside the ship Barton paused, stunned. Seeing his
guide hesitate, he programmed himself to follow auto-
matically. But his mind rocked, bombarded by the total
impact of the place.

It wasn't the flood of colors, which flashed and changed
and flowed along every surface. It wasn't the thunderous
music—or what would have been music, to anyone who
heard mostly in the subsonic range. He thought: but the
Demu's hearing extends above ours, not below. It wasn't
the strange scents of the air, or its shimmer ....

Barton had once attended a showing of Escher's
works—M. C. Escher, the man who drew in more that
three dimensions, who twisted space so that one man
walked on a surface that was another's vertical wall, and
each validly oriented to the viewer's perspective. And
more—Barton had been amazed and delighted by the
exhibit. But now he found himself in an Escherlike en-
vironment—one little figure among many, madly juxta-
posed.

And which way was up? Shimmering air and vast dis-
tances diluted the reality of what he saw. But surely,
there—at the farthest reach of vision—six Demu
walked in single file, taking their slanting course up a
vertical wall.

He looked up. and was shocked—where was the top
of what he could see? Two hundred meters above? Five
hundred? The great ship was much taller, but still ....

And the space was half-empty, half-filled with spirals

315

and ribbons, floating circles, moving shapes that inter-
locked and moved apart again. Barton's attention was
caught by a meter-wide ribbon, probably metal, that
stretched like a twisted length of crepe paper almost ver-
tically from the floor to a vanishing poiot high above,
where other objects hid it. Perhaps twenty meters above
him, a Demu walked sure-footedly down its spiraled
course—while on the ribbon's other side, another, up-
ward bound, passed the first—each unseeing and oblivi-
ous of the other, each body extending nearly horizontal
from the double footpath.

Savagely,1 Barton shook his head. All right, he said to
himself, so they have artificial gravity on any individual
surface they damn well please. Quit acting like a coun-
try boy at the nudies, and watch it!

Still following the Demu guide, he looked 'around,
trying to find Limila and Eeshta. Impossible—robes and
hoods, shimmering air, shifting lights and colors—well,
it all helped his own disguise, too, for what that was
worth.

After about twenty minutes his guided path ap-
proached the center of the place. There, something new
was added—on the floor were two circles, each nearly
two meters in diameter and the same distance apart. One
was brightly opalescent, the other a deep, throbbing red-
purple. Demu moved onto the lighter one and rose ver-
tically, visibly unsupported. From above, others drifted
down onto the darker one. Beats the hell. Barton thought,
out of waiting for elevators,                    -i

Barton was led- to the opalescent up-circle. If I could
think of anything better to do, he thought, I'd do it. But
he couldn't—he followed his leader, who gave the pre-
ceding Demu about three meters' vertical head start be-
fore entering the circle. Noting, Barton did the same.

As he began to rise he heard a cry: "Eeshfa!" The ^
voice was Hishtoo's, and if Barton could have jumped
down he would have done so, even from the height he'd
reached before the voice registered. But if -there was a
way to move out of the path of the lift force, he didn't
know it All he could do was realize how thoroughly he
had managed to trap the lot of them.

He rose and rose—above the open volume, into space
divided by levels. He looked up and saw Demu entering
and leaving the lift—the way to leave, he saw, was to

316

reach an arm toward one of the large metal rings that
bordered the lift-space at each level. Barton quit cursing
his ignorance—down below, where he had wanted out,
there were no such rings. He was on the express, and no
help for it. Forever and a little longer, he rose.

Above, his guide whistled a signal. Not exactly a
whistle, but close. Barton looked up again; the top of
the shaft was near. By choice, he did not look down—
not even to see if Hishtoo were following.

The guide reached toward a ring, drifted to it and
grasped it, and stepped out onto solidity. Moments later,
Barton did the same. Then—only then—he looked
down.

He couldn't see the bottom, only rising figures in di-
minishing perspective. None were looking up; if Hish-
too was among them, Barton couldn't identify him.

The guide touched his robed arm, and he straightened
and looked around. A Demu approached and entered
I-    the down-shaft, paying Barton no special attention. The
^    lighting was steady here, a pale yellow with occasional

(bursts of orange, and the music was faint.
Barton was led along a corridor that was out of Escher
by Dali- It was not long; Barton guessed that they might
y    be near the pointed top of the great ship, where space
would be limited. The only door, at the end of the corri-
dor, was black and featureless—shocking, by contrast, in
its very simplicity. The guide reached toward it and
pushed; it moved only enough to indicate that it was
not locked.                                          \.

"It is," said the Demu, "that here, in the place of be-
coming, you become—or do not. I am become; now I
bring others who would." It gestured toward Barton's
cloth bag. "For those who do not become, no shame to
the eggs. It is said—I go."

Barton entered the room and closed the door—there
was no lock. Slipping the bag and its knife inside his belt,
he turned and looked around the room.

The lighting was steady and adequate, but not bril-
liant—the sourceless light he remembered from the cage
on Ashura, and the Demu ship. There were none of
the color effects he'd seen below.

The room, though large, was simple—black floor
gray walls, white ceiling. And the room contained nothini
but the pictures on its walls and the pedestaled statue

that crowded its floor. Puzzled, Barton began an inspec-
tion tour of the strangest art gallery he'd ever seen.

Demu were portrayed repeatedly, though subtly dif-
ferent from the way Barton knew them, and never
clothed. But the predominant life form shown, among
several others, was one Barton had never seen nor ever
imagined. It had too many arms and legs, too many eyes.
It was not spiderlike—it was simply a large humanoid
with too many arms and legs. too many eyes.

Barton looked, and looked. And then—he saw.

He took out the two-way radio, hoping to God that the
great ship's hull was pervious to its special type of emis-
sion.

"Ship One! Barton to Ship One!"
"Ship One here—Abdul speaking. What—?"
"First things first—tape this!" Quickly he told what
he had seen, was seeing—and what it meant.

"Got it, Abdul? . . . Okay, put it on the beam for
Thirteen and Thirty-four, along with the landing
warning. But coded, under seal. And the following in-
structions ..."

Abdul read it back; then there was a brief, silent
pause. "It's going out now. But not with the landing
warning—Thirteen and Thirty-four arrived this morning;

they are overhead, in synchronous orbit. Do you wish
one or both to pursue the escaped Demu ship?"
"No. I think we win or lose it, right here."
"Very well. Barton—I assume you are all right?"
"Remains to be seen—so far, I'm unharmed and un-
detected. Limila and Eeshta, though—we got separated,
earlier—a ritual thing, takes too long to explain." He
shook his head; that line of thought could freeze his
mind. "Anything new at your end?"

"Approximately an hour ago, more than one hundred
Demu approached, from the direction opposite to you."
"Armed how?"

"Hand weapons only, except for a self-propelled unit
ridden by one Demu."

"Portable Shield maybe, like our bigger ones?"
"No, Barton. The vehicle passed the perimeter of our
sleep-field; the driver fell off, and it stopped. Approxi-
mately - half the Demu also entered the field and
dropped; the other half have been busy, trying to retrieve
them. Some have fired their hand weapons at the ship,

318

but without effect. Naturally, we are alert for a major
attack, with larger weapons or by ships."

"Five gets you ten, it won't happen."

"Why do you think that?"

"Just like Hishtoo five days ago, Abdul. First, it's dan-
gerous, and second, they don't need to. Or so they
think . . ."

"I see- Is there anything further you wish me to do
now?"

"Well ... no point in giving your Demu there any
more amnesia than we have to, I guess. You might pull
the field in until they start to wake up. Then if they pull
back, ease it up to max. If they try to keep coming^
though, sock it to full strength and the hell with them."

"Very well. I will do so, making certain they have no
chance to reach their larger weapon. And—"

"Oh-oh! I've got company." The knock at the door
came slow and heavy. "I'll leave the channel open, this
end. Don't be heard from there unless I ask you a ques-
tion. Barton out."

He replaced the radio at his belt, activated his per-
sonal Shield. He took the sleep-gun in his right hand,
concealed under the robe- With his left, he opened the
door—not widely, only enough to see, and to be seen.

The Demu who had knocked moved to the side of the
corridor and back along it, past the group that faced
Barton a few meters distant.

Foremost stood Hishtoo, his hand weapon trained on
Barton. The design was unfamiliar; Barton hoped it was
the sleeper, not the ion gun or something he didn't know
about. Behind Hishtoo was Limila, unmasked and hood
thrown back—under her disguise, she had not worn the
wig- Beside her, Eeshta stood, and—Barton's heart leaped
—Gerain and livajj, apparently unharmed. Behind the
lot of them were five armed Demu.

"It is Barton?" said Hishtoo. "It is that you look
Demu, yes, as Limila does when I find her with Eeshta.
But inside is Barton."

At least Hishtoo was talking, not shooting—up to now.

"It is that you are not to be there. Barton. You are
not to become, for it is that only Demu become, and you
are not Demu, but animal. It is that you are to he Demu
soon, as Limila again, and these others when they
learn. But still not to become, for you are not egg-born.
So it is that you are not to be where you are." Hishtoo

319

beckoned with his weapon. Why hadn't he used it? And
what was it, anyway?

Suddenly, Barton knew—the important parts, any-
way. If it was the ion gun, Hishtoo couldn't fire it into
the place of becoming—whatever that meant, and Bar-
ton was beginning to have some ideas on the subject.
Ergo, for the time being. Barton stayed right where he
was.

And the sleep-gun? "After they decide to make a per-
son Demu," Limila had said, "they do not use it on that
person."

Well, now . . . but don't get overconfident, you dumb
bustard!

"It is that you are wrong, Hishtoo. It is/that I am be-
come, Demu or no."

"It is not so! It is that you are not Demu^and you
are not twice here!"

Twice here! "But it is that you are twice here, Hish-
too. You are to become. It is that you are to enter now,
and become!"

"It is not that I become. I have not that which is to be
used by those who do not become . . . . "

". . . no shame to their eggs," Barton finished. He
drew out the cloth bag. "It is that I have that for you,
Hishtoo." He held it out. To the group behind, he
spoke the first benison, in the chantlike pattern he bad
heard earlier. Whether or not it strictly applied, it
should affect Hishtoo.

"You who visit, see no more the one who brought
you."                                     -'

And then, to Hishtoo, "You who would become,
may you become, as you wish." Again he held out the
bag. "This is to use by those who do not become, no
shame to their eggs."

Hishtoo moved forward, then stopped.             ,

'Wo shame to their eggs," Barton repeated. Hishtoo's
hands rumbled as he tucked the weapon away. Like a
sleepwalker he came forward and took' the bag. Barton
opened the door to admit him, then closed it, the two of
them alone in the place of becoming.

Fascinated. Barton watched as step by slow step,
Hishtoo moved to view a statue, then another, then a
painting. Clearly the Demu had, for the moment, forgot-
ten Barton's existence.

But not for long. Jaws working, Hishtoo turned on

320

him. The gun was out again, the covered knife fallen to
the floor. "No! No! It is not true—it cannot be! The
Demu were never—" He couldn't say it. "You—it is
that I curse—I curse—" The hand and arm began to
shake; he dropped the weapon. But when he reached, it
was for the bag—the knife.

He didn't find it. Slowly, Hishtoo crumpled to the
floor and curled into a tight ball. His breathing was slow
and ragged; he no longer tried to move.

Well, thought Barton, what the bell—the fetal posi-
tion would be about the same in an egg, wouldn't it?

His guess had been right. But now—could he make it
stick?

"Barton to Ship One. Abdul? You heard most of that
—no, don't answer—here's what's important. Hishtoo
took a good look at the Demu family tree and went into
catatonic shock, it looks like. Barton out."

All right, back to the door. Funny, he thought—even
in a crisis, the Demu could not breach their own sanc-
tuary. Or maybe they were merely waiting for proper
authority—he'd better take a look outside.

Proper authority was there, all right. This one's hood
had no mere gold edge; robe and hood were solidly gold-
colored.

Barton spoke first. "It is that Hishtoo, who would be-
. come, lies without move or speech. It is not by me, but
by his seeing in this place. It is that some now might en-
ter and help—some who are to be here."

"It is that I am to be there," said Gold Hood, "as
you are not. But you are there, though you do not be-
come, being not egg-born. It is that I enter now." Barton
stood aside to allow it.

"And I!" cried Eeshta,

"No," the Demu said, turning in the doorway. "It is
not that you are to be here."

"It is that I am to be with Hishtoo', who is in need of
help."

"It is that you are not twice here, nor grown to proper
age. It is that you are to obey."

"But Hishtoo . . . !"

"It is that Hishtoo needs no help, that it is with Hish-
too as with all who first enter here. Hishloo becomes, or
uses that which is needed—the only choice of all who

321

would become. It is that you, the young, remain outside
the place of becoming and be silent."

"No." Eeshta advanced. "I am once here; I do not
come twice. It is that I enter now, to become or not." In
a quandary. Barton followed his hunch and let'her in,
blocking the other's attempt to bar her.

For long seconds, Eeshta looked around the room.
The young Demu drew in a great gasp. Then, unmistak-
ably, came the pulsed hiss of Demu laughter. "Oh, Bar-
ton! Poor Hishtoo!" No longer laughing, she shook her
head. "I am right to help him—without help he cannot
see this and still live."

"You understand it?"

"I think so, yes—enough. Later, perhaps, I will feel
its meaning more strongly. But now I must see to Hish-
too." She went to him, sat and took the tightly clamped
head in her lap.

"It is now for us to talk?" said Gold Robe. "It is that
I am he who takes the name Sholur, Keeper of the Heri-
tage. You are Barton who are here though you should
not be. It is that we decide now, what is proper, to do.
Most proper is for you to be made Demu."

"No," said Barton. "Most proper is for me to be as I
am, and the others, also, outside this place. Most proper
is that no more be made Demu who are not egg-born."
He gestured toward the room at large. "It is, Sholur,
Keeper of the Heritage, that I know the meaning of all
this. It is that I know what your people do pot—but
which they may be told, all of them, if things are not
most proper in my view."

"It is that you are here, and can tell nothing to the
Demu people."

"It is that I am here, but my voice is free from here."
He pulled out the two-way radio. "Barton to 'Ship^One.
Abdul—listen carefully. I'm going to ask you a question
in Demu. Answer likewise. And say it loud and clear—
you have an audience.

"IB it," he said, "that what I tell of the Demu place of
becoming is told to ships outside the Demu reach?"

"It is," said Abdul, haltingly but clearly, "that those
ships know what you say of that place. It is that they tell
it further or not, as you wish and as you say."

"Then it is that as I say before, I say again. For these
things not to be told, it is that I and ours be free to re-

322

turn to our ship, unharmed. That the ship be made
free to depart unmolested. That the Demu ship, going to
Demmon to rouse for war, be returned—or that another
follow, to change the message to peace. That there be
no war. That the Demu no longer take captives to
make them Demu. That—" He knew Abdul wasn't get-
ting more than half of it, but Sholur was—and he'd al-
ready told Abdul,^ in English. He added a few more
touches, then signed off.

"All that, you ask?" said Sholur.

"All."

"It is that the others, when they see here as you do,
ask less."

"It is the Ormthu you mean?"

"You know them?"

"On Tilara, we meet one."

"It tells you—? But they agree not."

"No," said Barton. "What I see here, I see for my-
self, with no telling from the Ormthan." True, he thought
—as far as it went. . . .

"Then it is as you say—no more Earthani to become
Demu."

"Nor the others."

"Tilari, FUjar, Larka-Te?" Barton nodded. "Tiengin?
Eroci?" Again the nod—he'd. never heard of the last
two, but what the hell.

"Nobody," he said.

"It is that the Ormthu do not ask so much."

"We are not the Ormthu; they speak not for us, nor
we for them."

"It is that you are not allied?"

"We know them little. We are not in conflict."

"It is that your terms are difficult, you who take the
name Barton—but that the Demu are without choice but
to agree."

"It is that I am pleased, Sholur, for the Earthani and
others."

"Then it is that I go outside this place of becoming, to
say what is needed. That our ship returns, or if not, an-
other is to follow and correct. All the things you say,
that are of now-doing. That no others are to be made
Demu, cannot be told to all 10 one saying, for many are
not near to listen."

323

"Yes, it is understood."

"Then I go, and return soon—for it is that there is
more to say between us."

"It is that I stay and await you, Sholur.'1^\s the Demu
reached the door, Barton had another thought. "It is also
that the three Tilari are to be here with me now."

"It is that they are not Demu. They—"

"It is that they are needed by me, that they enter as
you leave. That all things taken from them are re-
turned."

"It is as you say." Sholur departed without further
word. Barton looked to Eeshta, still cradling Hishtoo's
bead in her lap.

"You heard all that?" Eeshta nodded. "How's Hish-
too?"

"He relaxes slowly, gradually. He will wake, but not
soon."

"And then what?"

"If I were not here he would surely kill himself. But I
know what to say."

"You do?"

"Surely. I heard, as you did, what is said here. I heard
what you said to Hishtoo, to bring him to enter this
place. So when he wakes, and can hear me and per-
haps understand, I shall say to him, 'Hisbtoo, there is no
shame to your eggs.' "

"But he—" I will never, thought Barton, understand
this small creature.

"He cursed mine, yes. But you explained to me why
his curse was futile—I do not believe as he does. What I
say, though, Hishtoo will believe—to his good."

"I Mope you're right. I—" The door opened; Limila
entered, with livajj and Gerain. Both women embraced
Barton; he was hard put to free a hand to shake
Gerain's.

"You all right, everybody?" he said.

"Yes," said Limila. Then she saw Eeshta, and Hishtoo.
"But—what has happened? How—?" She looked around
the room, first casually and then intently. "Oh . . . ?
Yes—I think I see."

"I wouldn*t be surprised," said Barton. "But later,
honey. Help me off with the headpiece, will you? The
Keeper of the Heritage—Sholur, his name is—will be
back here pretty soon. He and I have to talk for a spell,

324

to iron out the peace treaty a little better. And then we
all go back to Ship One."

When Sholur entered, his first words were: "It is that
we leave this place and talk in another."

"Barton," said Limila, "do you think it is safe?"

"It is," Eeshta said. "The Demu do not break their
word."

"But, Hishtoo . . . ?"

"No," said Barton, "Hishtoo never broke his word to
us; he never gave it. He didn't pretend to be a Friendly;

he was an honest Hostile all the way. Let's go."

Barton and Gerain carried Hishtoo as the group fol-
lowed Sholur first to the drop-shaft, then dowa eight
levels—Barton almost missed the exit ring—and along
another corridor to a yellow-lighted room, furnished
with couch-sized cushions.

"It is that we eat," said Sholur, "and talk. It is also
that you sleep here when that is your wish."

Two Demu brought food. The stuff resembled the
"glop" Barton had eaten during his years of captivity. It
was served in bowls that each had a serrated half-spout
at one side, for Demu mouths to sip from. Barton tried
it—it tasted better than he remembered from Ashura,
but he wished that politeness would allow him to dig
into his marching rations instead.

The talk afterward took longer than Barton had ex-
pected. He found himself yawning—well, it had been a
long, hard day.

"It is," said Sholur, "that now you wish to sleep. That
which is left to say, we talk when you wake." The
Keeper of the Heritage rose and left them.

Barton checked the door. "Well, ifs not locked," he
said. "That's good, I guess." He relieved himself over the
gray quarter-circle at one comer of the yellow floor. As
in the Demu cage or on the Demu ship, the stream van-
ished without splash or trace. Good thing, he thought,
that no one present was overly burdened with modesty
—Demu plumbing wasn't built to allow for it.

He reported again to Ship One—that all was well
... so far.

He found no way to dim the lighting—all right, he'd
pull the hood over his head. The air was cooler than he
liked; he snuggled close to Limila and soon dozed. When
he half-woke to feel warmth against him on the other

325

side, he opened his eyes long enough to see two more
hooded figures huddled with them. He went back to
sleep without bothering to ask which was which.

Two hours after breakfast. Barton and Sholur shook
hands over a complete set of peace terms- If they weren't
truly complete, Barton hoped he'd left the proper loop-
holes for later changes. He was surprised, then, when
Sholur offered him—alone—a guided tour of the great
ship. Naturally he accepted.

From another corridor on the level of the place-of-
becoming, they entered the control area—or rather, its
bottom level—it occupied eight, and had its own pair
of lift/drop-tubes.

At the top level the hull was transparent—from in-
side, at least. It had the same refractive index as air—
no distortion—but the film of dust on the outside gave
Barton an estimate of its thickness: nearly five meters.

He counted sixteen control positions, similar to the one
on the Demu ship he had captured but each larger and
more complex. And this, he thought, was merely the top
concentration of control—the lower levels were filled
with lesser installations.

He sat at one position, and Sholur at another, beside
him- The seat-panel configuration was out-of-scale for
both of them; Barton had to stretch to reach a knob he
guessed to be the focus control- for a monitor screen. His
guess was right; the picture sharpened, and showed Ship
One from above and at an angle. The range was close;

Barton, scanned the ship's surroundings and saw no
"sleeping beauties." So the Demu had retreated when
Adbul gave them the chance. Good ....

His seat was comfortable enough, though subtly wrong
for his physique, but it extended to both sides of him
with troughlike depressions angling steeply forward. He
nodded—of course!

Sholur reached toward a switch and said, "It is that I
make your ship again alive."

"Wait!" Barton got out his two-way radio. "Ship One!
Barton here! Come in, please'"

"Ship One—Abdul speaking Barton, is there trouble?"

"No trouble. It's just that we're about to take the
damper off your drive, and I forgot to rescind the order
to take off. But that's no longer necessary."

"I see." Barton nodded and Sholur moved a switch.

326

ohir

"You should be live now, Abdul. How is it?"

"The drive is operative."

"Good enough. Stay tuned. Barton out."

Sholur turned to him. "It is that I show you, if you
wish, the extent of what we visit next." Barton nodded,
and on Sholur's screen appeared a line drawing, m
silhouette and cross section, of a torpedo shape. Barton
realized be was seeing a simplified schematic of the great
ship.

When he had oriented himself, be saw that more than
a third of the ship was dug into the mountainside—its
total length was nearer to two kilometers than one.
Everything below the level at which he had entered was
devoted to drive and power. And—weapons? He looked
at the upper segment and saw empty spaces. And won-
dered what had been removed, and when . . . how
long ago?

"Why is it, Sholur, that you show me all this?"

"It is that one who takes power should know what he
has taken."

"It is that I thank you, Sholur."

They left the control section, dropped into the vast
sense-numbing space Barton had first entered, and then
went below, among the looming hulks that were the great
ship's drive.

The ship—as a ship—was dead all right. Here and
there, at what Barton intuitively deduced were crucial
points, rows of units were interrupted by gaps—empty
spaces with nothing plugged into their exposed, compli-
cated connectors.

He knew enough of the Demu drive, original or modi-
fied, to see that single or duplexed components of those
versions were here multiplexed into feedback systems.
From where he stood, he knew he could rough-out a de-
sign that would jump Ship One's performance a magni-
tude—maybe two. Not that Ship One's hull could contain
the layout. . . .

He bad seen enough—all that he could handle in one
bite. Bemused, he paused to translate, "Let's go back up-
stairs now, Sholur," into Demu.

"It will be ail right, Barton," said Eeshta. They were
in the yellow room, all Barton's group; Sbolur had left to
arrange transport to Ship One. "I must stay and care for

327

Hishtoo. But I am provided a communicator; I can call
you at any time."                                  »

Barton looked at the device and flipped its largest
switch. The screen flickered, lit, and showed Myra Hake.
She said, "Yes, Barton? I thought this was Eeshta's
channel."

"It is. Just checking. See you pretty soon." He cut the
circuit. "Okay, Eeshta—but call me any time you need
to—you hear?" Eeshta nodded. Barton put his arm
around the small shoulders, squeezing hard for a mo-
ment before he released his grip.

Sholur entered. "It is that now you go to your ship.^

"Yes," said Barton. "That we do not delay." He and
Limila, Gerain and livajj gathered their accessories and
followed Sholur—not to ground level but a staging
area on their own level, where an aircar waited. A white-
robed Demu sat at the controls The four entered.

"It is that I may not leave here," said Sholur, "but
that this one knows where you go now. And it is that if
Eeshta says you would talk with me, I come to do, so, as
soon as I may."

"Sholur, it is that I thank you for your help. But that I
do not understand entirely why that help comes so
freely."

For a moment Sholur did not speak. Then, "Barton,
whom I find where you are not to be—it is that perhaps
you may succeed where the Keepers of the Heritage do
not." Sholur turned away, and the aircar left the great
ship.

At first the flight path was level; then it dropped to
follow the contour of the mountain. Interested, Barton
looked down to see if he could locate landmarks of the
previous day's trek. He caught a glimpse of the slant-
ing ridge and the talus slope at its head, and then the
aircar swooped at treetop level and landed beside Ship
One. The group disembarked; Barton turned back.

"It is that you fly with skill," he said to the pilot.

The Demu looked at him, then spoke. "It is that
Sholur, Keeper of the Heritage, tells me to bring you
here in safety. It is that if he did not, you are dead
among the stones of the mountain—and I with you,
gladly." The aircar lifted.

His laugh. Barton realized, was shaky; it didn't quite

328

make it. "Well, the troops don't always agree with the
generals, do they? Let's get the hell into the ship."

Barton called the conference in the galley, with view-
screen and alarms on relay from Control. He opened a
beer and sat.

A sound like thunder made the ship vibrate. 'There
goes Sholur's envoy to Demmon, to call off the war," be
said.

"But can it get there before the other?" asked Limila.

"Doesn't matter- The messenger on the first ship was
only that. This time he sent his personal number-two
fella. You can tell he's Number Two by the white edges
on his gold burnoose.

"Sholur's something on the order of a priest-king; what
he says, goes. We won't have any trouble—or not much.
Now let's all bring each other up to date. Abdul?'*

"Nothing significant has occurred here since we last
spoke. But 1 have a question. Now that our' drive is
operable, do you plan to rendezvous with the fleet?"

"No, we'll wait here, for Tarleton. He should run
into the relay beams pretty soon, from Thirteen and
Thirty-four, so he'll know what the score is. I'd like to
see his face when he finds out the fleet has an educa-
tional mission on its hands instead of a war to fight. Af-
ter the first jolt I expect he'll be a happy mani"

"I should think so," said ^Myra Hake. Then, "Bar-
ton? Is it true that most of the Demu who try to 'become'
kill themselves when they come out of shock?"

"The attrition rate is something awful—nearly ninety
percent. Sholur says the percentage is improving, that
someday the Demu will be able to face the truth without
mass suicides. But the Keepers think in terms of thou-
sands of years—and we can't wait that long to have the
raiding stopped.

"It's ironic, really. The Demu outgun us—even the
combined fleets—so badly I hate to think about it. But
the poor hard-shelled bastards are hopelessly vulnerable
to one simple thing—the truth."

"Look, Barton," said Alene Grover. "Maybe every-
body else gets it—you've talked all around it—but I'm
still in the dark. What's your gimmick?"

"Abdul hasn't told you?"

"I have told no one," said Abdul Muhammed. "The
information I sent out was locked and coded, as you in-

329

structed, to Tarieton's private cipher. I couldn't decode
that tape myself."                               f

"So except for those of us who were in there, you're
the only one who knows?"
"And soon, of course, Tarleton."

"Right. Well, this info is Top Sphinx—it has to be, be-
cause it could destroy the Demu as a race and a lot of
people would like to do Just that. But I think everybody
on this ship has earned the right to know it. Just remem-
ber—not only you don't tell it, you don't even admit
you heard it. Okay?

"All right. I took some pictures in there. ~Look at
them, Alene—Myra, Cheng." He handed them out. "See
the big fellas, with the extra arms and legs? -Well, they
were the Great Race, and that ship was theirs. The
Demu just copied it, partially."

"You can be sure of that?" said Abdul.
"The seats in the control room are built for people
with four legs. Good enough?" Abdul nodded, and Bar-
ton continued. "It must be hell to have to live in the
shadow of something like that. The Demu chose not to.
Instead, they wiped the Great Race out of the official
version of Demu history. Then they overreacted, and
began teaching their young that the Demu are the only
true people, that all other races are merely animals."

"This Great Race—" said Alene. "What happened to
it?"

"Even the Keepers don't know that one. There was a
war, against somebody or something. During it, the
Great Race cleared the lower Arm of habitable planets.
Then they just... disappeared."

"I still don't see the problem," Alene said. "Okay—
so a long time ago there was somebody a lot bigger. So
what?"                                   t

"Not just bigger, Alene—look at the pictures. The
Demu you see there aren't the same as the ones we know.
Maybe they weren't even iptelligent, originally—maybe
the Great Race changed them genetically. If that's
true, all this surgical changing of other races began as
imitation—as playing at being the Great Race them-
selves.

"But that's not all of it. If you look closely, you cao't
miss it. To the Great Race, the Demu were not only
animals—they were pets!

330

^

I

"That is the knowledge that kills ninety percent of the
Demu who face it."
"Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!" said Alene Grover.

His ninth day on Sisshain, Barton was standing watch
alone when Ship Thirteen relayed a call from Tarleton. The
picture was fuzzy but the voice came through clearly.

"Hello, Bartoni I've -studied all the material you seat
up. You win a pretty good war, don't you?" The big
man laughed. "Well, I don't mind if your name beats
mine out, in the history books."

"Mine's easier to spell," said Barton, deadpan. "Hey,
you sure got here pretty soon."

"Still about thirty-six hours out. That's our fleet—
when nobody met us in Scalsa's corridor, I decided we'd
better come at max, with the others arriving when they
got here.'1

Barton squinted at the picture. Besides Tarleton, he
recognized Vito Scalsa and Liese Anajek; the rest were
strangers.

"How's Helaise?" he said.

"Fine, the last I saw her," said Tarleton. "She stayed
on Tilara."

"I see," lied Barton.

"Yes. By the way, how come you're alone? Where's
everybody else?"

"Mostly over at the great ship—studying it like crazy.
Alene's in the galley, though. Want to talk to her?"

"Uh—yes. If you would .... "

Barton paged the galley and Alene came to Control.
"Hello, Tarleton," she said.

"Alene." The big man paused. "I'm alone now,
and...."

She frowned and started to turn away, then swung
back to face the screen. "I'll think about it. Okay?"

"Yes. Of course." Alene Grover about-faced and
stalked out. Tarleton tried to smile. "I suppose I can't
blame her."

"No," said Barton, "I suppose you can't." Tarleton
didn't answer, so Barton said, "Now then—can we get
on with it? We're finding enough problems to last you
maybe twenty years. Even moonlighting. . . .'*

" Twas the night before liftoff, and all through Ship
One ..."

331

"Barton," said Alene Grover, "you couldn't cany a
tune in a bucket."                             y

Barton grinned. "Another thing I can't do is worry
about it But if you don't appreciate my golden
voice . ..." He opened a beer and sat, considering the
events of the past eight days. Once landed, Tarieton had
made a lot of decisions in a hurry.

The combined fleets were preparing to disperse on
various missions, carrying Sholur's spokesmen to take the
"peace treaty" to other Demu planets; Ship One's job
was to return and inform Tilara. livajj and Gerain, had
Cabin Six, since Eeshta was to stay on Sisshain ^vith the
slowly recovering Hishtoo. He had neither become nor
died; a new factor had entered into Demu rituaL Or per-
haps, thought Barton, in a way Hishtoo had become.

Eeshta would not be alone. Tarieton's ship, Estelle
Cummings' and one ship of each allied race were staying,
to set up a joint embassy. It should work out, thought
Barton.

"Abdul—you have enough data on the great ship?"
"In so short a time? Hardly, Barton. But enough for
now. As I have said, the ship is dead only in that it was
deliberately disabled—I am certain—by the Great Race.
It could be lifted within five years, perhaps less,"

Barton sat straight. "Nobody heard that! Except to us
here, that ship is dead! Tarieton agrees."
Abdul shook his head, protesting.
"No, Abdult With the political mess on Earth, do you
want to see any of those idiots get control of that kind
of power? In fact," he said, "it's going to be tricky
enough as it is, keeping the existing fleet out of politics.
But that's Tarieton's problem—we help as we can, is all."
"I am convinced," said Abdul. "The ship is dead."
"Maybe not for always. Someday, under apied Juris-
diction . ..." He stood. "I don't know about anybody
else, but I'm pooped.

"We lift off early, tomorrow—and since I set her
down, m take her up. So good night, ali."

In Compartment One, when the door closed them into
privacy, Limila said, "Barton? I would ask you some-
thing."
"Go ahead."

"There is a thing I have not done for many years—
that tonight, here on Sisshain, I would do." Her eyes were
silver-irised wide, her smile unsteady. He remembered

332

—what had been done to her, all that had passed be-
tween them.

"Sure, honey—what is it?"

"I woul4 ovulate. Barton—do you approve?"

Finding no words, he nodded.

"Then—will we, now?"

Next morning, Alene Grover came to breakfast car-
rying a duffle bag.

"That's a pretty big lunch bag, isn't it?" said Barton.

"I'm moving to Ship Two. I mean—I don't have to
ask, do I? You can spare me, here."

"Sure, if you want. Going back to Tarieton?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know yet. But if
I leave with you, I won't have the choice."

Barton looked at her. "That makes sense. Anyway,
Alene—whatever you decide, best of luck."

"I know." She hoisted the duffle bag. "I guess I don't
need breakfast after alL Kiss good-bye?" Barton gave it,
and she walked away.

In Control, Ship One's complement watched Tarieton
on the screen, giving bis parting instructions. "I guess
that's about all. Barton," he said. "Have a good trip-"
and say hello."

"Will do. Over and out." He cut the screen.

Barton took the ship straight np.

333

End of the Line

To DAVE HARTWELL
WHO ALWAYS HELPS

Tilara

Until the three approaching spaceships closed in to box
Barton's own Ship One, he was glad to see them. Ob-
viously Earth-built, they had to be part of the second
fleet, and it was about time they showed up! Ever since
he'd made turnover, forty-three days out from Sisshain,
he'd halfway expected to spot the backup fleet But not
until now, two days short of Tilara and almost within
talk-distance of that world, had any of it appeared.

When the hailing came, Ab,dul Muhammed had the
watch; the outsized Central African paged Barton imme-
diately. Barton was in Compartment One, talking with the
Tilaran woman Limila, his' "most needful person" in the
Tilaran way of putting it. Both of them went to the con-
trol room, hotfoot style. Barton caught his breath. "What's
up, Ab^ul?"

The black giant gestured toward the viewscreen, and
Barton saw three ships in delta formation, nearing fast.
"They called. Barton—well, one of them did so—and
identified themselves. Ship Sixty-five and two others from
Squadron Three of the second fleet. I identified us in
return, and they asked to speak to Admiral Tarleton."
Abdul smiled. "I said he is not aboard."

Admiral, huh? Tarleton, now on Sisshain in charge of
working out the kinks in the Demu peace treaty, com-
manded the first fleet, all right But nobody, except Bar-
ton now and then in a joking way, had ever called him
"admiral." "What else did you say?"

337

"That you command this ship and that I would call
you. In the meantime I have kept the voice channel
shut down." A buzzer sounded. "I would guess they are
becoming impatient,"

Myra Hake had the comm panel; Barton nodded to
her, and the tall, sandy-haired woman shook the bangs
away from her eyes and made competent motiotas. The
screen's view split, the three ships smaller m .their re-
maining half and two men looking out of the other. One
of them, the heavyset one, said, "You're Barton? Second
in command of the first fleet?" Barton nodded, and the
speaker turned to his wispy-looking blond associate. "He's
the one. That takes care of a lot." Then, back to Barton:

"Start from the beginning and bring us up to date. Re-
cording."

From the beginning, huh? From when Barton bad been
snatched off Earth by the exoskeletal Demu and caged
for eight years and escaped and brought a Demu ship
back to Earth? And the first Earth fleet, forty ships under
Tarleton's command, had set out from Earth to Tilara
and allied with the people of that world, and with the
Larka-Te and Filjar? And Barton taking a strike force to
chase Hishtoo the Demu to Sisshain, and there finding the
secret that forced the Demu to stop raiding, and stop
carving other humanoids into the likeness of featureless
Demu? Not hardly; this officious-sounding Chubby Boy
had to know the first parts, or he wouldn't be here. But
"beginning," to Barton, meant all of that.       ;

He said, though, "You'll have it already, up to where I
took off after Hishtoo and his two Tilaran hostages. We
did save mem, by the way; Gerain and livaj) are aboard
here. And then Tarieton followed with the combined al-
lied fleets." He cleared his throat. "Everything after that
is in my report, which will reach you through channels in
due time." Barton hated to make reports at the best of
times, and he'd sweat Mood over this one, because he had
to leave out the secret of Demu psychological vulnerabil-
ity so that no revenga-minded group could wipe the Demu
out. He'd left out the mystery of the vanished Great Race
that had left the great ship moldering on Sisshain. And
particularly he'd omitted any suggestion that that huge
monolith could be put into working shape in a relatively
brief tame. But on the whole, he thought, it read plausibly.

"Report, hell," said Fatso. "Give me a sumairy, to

338

pass back to the admiral right away. That's one reason
we're out here."

"And why else, I wonder?" said Limila.

She said it softly, but the man on the screen must have
heard. Red-faced, he said, "To stand outpost against a
Demu attack; what did you think? In case the first fleet
lost the war. So tell me what happened."

Well, why not? "It won't take long," Barton said. "The
war's over before it started; we won it, bands down. On
the Demu world Sisshain, Tarleton's in the saddle. But
he's running an embassy, more, not an army of occupa-
tion. The main job is to spread word to other Demu
planets that the raiding is over and done with. Takes a
lot of coordination, but that was always one of Tarleton's
strong points." He paused. The heavy man's expression
puzzled him. "Anything else?"

"That's not much detail, but—all right; thanks. Barton.
Well pass it on in. And right, now, you get an escort to
Tilara. Just feel snug as a bug in a rug."

That half of the picture blanked; the view of the three
ships expanded to fill the screen. As they matched veloc-
ity with Ship One, Barton saw that these newer ships
were larger than his by half, and had nearly the same
edge in acceleration. Their central laser delivery tubes
were bigger, too, which probably meant more power. And
now that he noticed, around each center lay three periph-
eral muzzles. As the ships closed to box Ship One in, he
had a good clear view.

And wondered, why he being himself "took care of a
lot."

He'd taken it easy. Barton had, on the run from
Sisshain back to Tilara. Going the other way, chasing
Hishtoo to stop that Demu from spreading warning of the
first fleet's approach, he'd run Ship One close to max ac-
celeration most of the way, and part of it full out He was
no expert on space drives; he'd stolen one from the Demu
and thus given Earth interstellar capability, but all he
really knew about them was what he could understand of
what the Lab boys told him, plugged into his somewhat
obsolete studies in physics. And he'd never quite made
his Ph.D., at that.

But he did know that things wear out, so returning from
Sisshain he'd kept accel and decel at no more than half of
max. Since elapsed time for a given distance was a recipro-

339

cal square-root function of applied force, the trip hadn't
taken all that much longer. Sixty-four days on the way
out; coming back, maybe ninety. With the pressure off,
he hadn't bothered to keep close track, once turnover was
calculated and achieved.                           ^

It had been an odd trip in more than one way. Limila
was pregnant and teething at the same time. Tfae preg-
nancy was stUI early, not bothering her to any noticeable
extent, and the teething was the eruption of tooth buds
planted by Tilaran surgeons to replace the forty teeth the
Demu had taken from her when they had her captive.
The flexible linings of the Tilaran dentures still, accom-
modated the half-grown teeth, well enough. Maybe it was
only Barton's imagination that made his tall, lithe, woman
seem a little strange now and then. Well, if she wasn't
entitled to a bit of oddness after all she'd been through,
then who was?

He did wish she'd make up her mind, though, whether
to take the scalp transplant available on Tilara when they
got there, or stay with the Tilaran-styled wig to cover her
Demu-inflicted baldness. It wasn't that Barton cared, ei-
ther way; he merely wished that Limila would decide, so
she could quit stewing about it. She looked fine to him
right now; it no longer jarred him at all, that forward of
the ears the Tilaran scalp is bare by nature.

It didn't bother him, either, that her transplanted
breasts showed little if any sign of growing. They had
come from a young girl, killed in a fall while rock-
climbing, and the Tilaran surgeons had no idea whether
they would grow to mature contours. Well, Limila didn't
seem to sweat it much, and no doubt her bustline would
develop as her pregnancy did.

It was the nearness of Limila's home planet. Barton
thought, that set him musing on her possible^ problems.
Not a good time for it, really; he might have a few of his
own to chew on. He looked around the control room.
Cheng Ai, the other pilot, who shared Cabin Four with
Myra Hake, had come in; in low tones, Abdul Muham-
med was bringing him up to date. Noticing Barton's gaze
on him, Abdul paused, and said, "There is something,
Barton?"

"Yeh. Let's pool what we noticed about those ships out
there, best we can remember."

"I taped the view." Myra Hake said. "Run if on the

340^

aux screen?" Barton nodded, and again the three ships
showed, closing in.

Barton pointed out the added laser outputs, and Cheng
said, "I'm not sure, but to me the gasketing around the
three extras, on each ship, looks like pivot mountings.
Which means traverse capability."

"Flex feeds from the exciter,*' said Barton. "Tricky job,
but I can see how it could be done." The tape ended, and
Myra began it again. "Now, then, what else do they have,
or not?"

No hatches, Abdul pointed out, for the Larka-Te high-
drive torpedoes. No sets of nodes. Limila said, to emit the
Tilaran twin ion beam. "And the spitter for the Filjari
plasma gun," said Cheng, "isn't there, either."

"Right." Barton had made the same observations, but
it never paid, he felt, to do all the talking. Now was his
turn. "Except for the extra lasers, they're equipped the
same as we were when we got here. The Demu sleep-gun
and the Shield against it don't use outside equipment, but
of course they'd have both."

Limila touched his shoulder. "Why do you ask all this?
These ships are of Earth, are they not? So—"

Barton shook his head. "Not sure. Something about Fat
Boy's manner, on the screen, maybe. But doesn't it strike
anybody else as a little strange that those ships haven't
been modified to add any of our allies' weapons?"

Before anyone could answer, the comm-panel alarm
sounded and its screen lit.

The picture wavered, the colors were off by hundreds
of Angstroms; still the face looked somehow familiar.
"That's a Tilaran frequency, not fleet," said Myra Hake.
But the party on the screen was no Tilaran.

The face was compact: no Tilaran leanness there, and
a strong jaw. The hair was apparently curly and quite
short; the contour of it bulked out only far enough to
make a smooth line with the ears, and at the front it grew
to frame an Earth-style forehead.

Barton motioned. "Open to answer on the other half of
that pair of downside freqs, Myra. We're some distant,
still, but-—"

"I already did." Barton had to grin; he was always tell-
ing this woman something, slightly after the fact.

"Good." Yes, the Send light was on. He said, "Bar-
ton, speaking for Ship One, answering Tilaran call. Come

341

in, Tuara." He repeated it a few times; when he saw the
face on the screen change expression, he shut up.

"Hello, Barton. It's good to see you. Don't you recog-
nize me?" He knew the smile, all right; when he'd first
met this woman his instincts said the smile was prelude
to being bitten. And the crisp, calm voice cinched the
identification—attenuation and distortion notwithstanding.

"Doctor Fox!" He almost shouted it "Doctor 'Arieta
Bulldog Fox! What in all the hells are you doing here?"

He was glad to see her—overjoyed, in fact. No matter
that for months, back on Earth when he'd first returned
from Demu captivity as a mental basket case, she'd been
the worst threat to his chance to go out again arid take
the fight to the Demu. And to his very freedom, for that
matter, she being the boss psychologist and he the reluc-
tant subject But they'd worked that out—me bard way,
for both of them—and parted friends, more or less. Now,
coming toward Tilara into what looked to be a very iffy
situation, with no "i" dotted and no "t" crossed. Barton
said, "Doc, you're the best news I've had all day."

Up to now, he*d waited through the distance timelags
without impatience. This time he got nervous, until the
small woman said, "I'm afraid you won't say that, in a
minute." She leaned forward, closer to the pickup mod-
ule; now Barton could see that she'd aged a litue. Not
much, though; t&e vigor he liked about her still showed.
She said, "Get away from those ships. Barton. Don't land
where they tell you to.**

Not land on Tilara? He had to; hell, he didn't have fuel
to go anywhere else, unless it was damned close, and he
didn't know where such a haven might be^or the mo-
ment he put aside the fact that he couldn't escape the
second fleet's ships, anyway, and asked if she had any
ideas about where he might go. She didn't. So then be
asked, "Why shouldn't I go in and land, just like I'm
told?"

He saw her head shake. "I don't know, really. The ad-
miral's close-mouthed in a way; he doesn't ever tell a full
story. But he can't help dropping broad hints. And the
hint I got. Barton, is that you are in very real trouble."

It didn't make sense, so Barton began trying to sort it
out. For starters, a few facts about the second Earth fleet,
and how long had it been here, and how come it didn't

342

seem to have any weapons it hadn't started with, and—
Barton did ask a lot of questions, then.

The answers didn't help much, but he kept trying. The
second fleet had landed on Tilara more than sixty days
ago. The landing would have been earlier except that the
admiral overruled his chief navigator on the timing of
turnover, so as not to interfere with the admiral's birthday
celebration. "He said not to tell him what could or couldn't
be done. One of his favorite lines is that executives decide
and that subordinates carry out those decisions." But the
way it went, most of the second fleet reached Tilara with-
too much big-Vee and overran the planet and had to de-
cel and come back to it, quite a bit behind sked. One
squadron commander had refused to follow orders and
had landed on lime. When the rest of the fleet arrived,
finally, that commander was court-martialed for insubor-
dination and might have been executed if he hadn't es-
caped and hid out among the Tilaran community.

"That was Dupree," Fox said. "I don't know where he
is, because it's better if I don't, in case I get picked up by
ap Fenn's troops."

Jesus H. Caruso! Barton didn't know where to start
asking. Three questions she'd handed him, all at once.
He started with the easy one, and yes. Dr. Arieta Fox
had jumped ship. "When I heard a rumor that he might
even put you under arrest, all my misgivings came to-
gether, and I went to ground." She gave a shaky laugh.
"Literally and figuratively. Off the ship, and into hiding.
It's not as sordid as one might think. Barton. I'm staying
in the household of your friend Vertan, and it's really
quite luxurious."

Barton shook his bead as if he wanted to get rid of his
ears. Vertan? Vertan was the highest-ranking Tilaran that
Barton's group had dealt with, when the first fleet had
stopped over on Tilara. If Vertan was siding with Doctor
Fox . . . Again he went with the easiest question he had
left. "Dupree, you said. That's Armand Dupree, maybe?"
That man had been one of the first four, after Barton
himself, to fly the original captured Demu starship under
Barton's instruction. No Johnnie-come-after should have
court-martial clout over Armand Dupree; the man was
totally sound, dependable.

But Fox said, "He's the one, yes. He was right all the
way, of course, and his performance proved it. But on the

343

sixty ships of the second fleet, all five squadrons of it, be-
ing right is of little importance. What counts is being on
the right side of Admiral Karsen ap Fenn."

Well, he'd known it was coming, ever since she first
said the name. Barton chose his words. "Terike ap Fenn,
who came out from Earth on this ship, would be his
nephew?" Terike ap Fenn, the big lout who had caused a
lot of trouble on Ship One. Barton had had to clobber him
once; then the man had gone AWOL off the ship and
tried to force a Tilaran woman, and got his s^ipid self
killed for it. And allowed Hishtoo to get away to Sisshain
in a Tilaran ship, complete with hostages. Old-story to
Barton, old and sour—but still he had to ask.

"That's the one. yes," said Arieta Fox. "And the ad-
miral's still fuming about it, since he heard. That, Barton,
is one reason I became very worried, and left the space-
port to hide with Vertan."

Silent, Barton thought So here we are. Terike ap Fenn's
uncle, the big cheese at the Space Agency, and a political
appointee at that. In charge of Earth's second fleet? Sure's
hell it looked rancid, to Barton. All he said was, "Fox?
How secure are your communications there?" '

She blinked, and the miniature bulldog jaw tightened.
**There shouldn't be much risk. Barton. Ap Fenn won't
have anyhing to do with Tilarans—the Tillies,' be calls
them. He doesn't even have anyone learning" the lan-
guage here." The bulldog smile came. "I'm learning it,
since I left Ship Forty-one.'*

"So you think nobody's eavesdropping. I'd like to be-
lieve that" Barton shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We're
back in Lab B, Doctor Fox." From her expression, she
didn't remember the time she'd tested him past his limits
and suffered more than a little bit from his -explosive re-
action. So he reminded her. "Anybody that's not on my
side. Doc, takes what comes." And he wished he could
back up that confident-sounding reassurance. But she was
his ally, and it always pays to give your friends a little
boost

She didnt answer in kind. She said, "There is nothing
on Tilara that can withstand ap Fenn's sixty ships. He has
absolute power." Barton only nodded. And eventually she
said. "There is one thing. Barton. I don't really mind your
calling me *Doc,' or even 'Bulldog.' But my name is
Arieta, and my friends call me Arlie."

344

Barton thought about it; his mouth twitched unto a grin
or maybe a real smile. "Okay, Arlie," he said. "Keep m
touch."

"Oh, I shall, of course." On the blurred screen he saw
her nod. "But I wasn't finished yet; I have some more
information you might be able to use. And besides, it's
good to talk with someone who's outside of this mess."

Outside it? Maybe not for long. Barton said, "Let's
hear the news. And how do you like Tilara so far?"

Incredibly, the boss-lady psychologist giggled. "You've
been here; you know the local customs. Can you imagine
what it was like. Barton, to attend a Tilaran party with
no advance briefing?"

Barton could; by effort, he kept a straight face
while Doctor Arieta Fox described her experience.
"... reached up under that short Mickey Mouse robe
they had us all wearing, and put his hand on me, all the
time speaking with utmost courtesy—Barton, I have
never been so totally dumbfounded in my entire life! I
knew the language a little already. He was saying, 'If you
are of the wish to be with me, I am of that wish, also.'
And feeling me."

"It can be a jar, yeh," Barton said. "But that's Tilara
for you. So what did you do? Not slap the guy, I hope."

"Of course not! What do you think I am? A prude?"

Barton decided he'd better not ask any further on that.
He said, "You mentioned more news."

Somehow, Fox looked disappointed. She said, "That
party, I think, is where things went bad between the ad-
miral and the Tilarans. He showed up the next morning
with a black eye and a gashed cheek, and since then he
hasn't given the local authorities the time of day if he
could help it. I think perhaps he misjudged the situation
and made a wrong move. And Karsen ap Fenn is not a
forgiving man."

"I can imagine," Barton said, and thought, that the
men of the ap Fenn family sure played hell when they
ran up against free-minded women. "So from there,
what's happened?"

Colors on the screen were still wrong; Doctor Fox's
face went to a darker green. "I didn't get back to the ship
the next day," she said, "so I missed his conference, with
all officers above the grade of lieutenant-commander. But
the decision, I understand, was to stay on Tilara until
word came from the first fleet." Barton saw the woman

345

shrug. "That's the extent of my knowledge," she said.
"Except that the admiral has a new mistress now. Some-
body your fleet left behind on Tilara. After the party, he
moved her in. A skinny blonde, I'm told; I haven't seen

her."

Barton had, but not lately. All he said was, ''Thanks,
Arlie. Like we were saying, let's keep this channel open,
and talk later."

They signed off, and Barton thought. The blonde had
to be Helaise Renzel. and he'd consider her later. Power
plays, again! And he got the idea that while Tarleton had
got the first fleet out before the military .could lay hooks
oa it, the second flotilla hadn't been so lucky. AU officers
above the grade of lieutenant-commander? Well, so it
went. On Tilara, Karsen ap Fenn had a real live hierar-
chy going.

No way to cope with it, certainly, from out here. If at
all. Barton turned his mind to the present moment, which
was where it usually worked best, anyway. And opened
the floor to debate.

"The thing is," said Barton, "I don't have any answers.
There's not enough to go on." They still sat in the control
room. The other two Tilarans had joined the group—lean,
grave Gerain and his most needful person, the young
woman livajj. Ship One had a full quorum. At the mo-
ment, the quorum was eating.

"Unless you wish it. Barton," Limila said, "you need
not submit yourself to the mercies of this self-styled ad-
miral." Against the light in her eyes shone silver. "As we
have discussed—1*

"Yen, I know." They'd discussed it, all right. If he
threw Ship One on max decel, briefly, and then flipped
over and attacked? Laser, ion beam, plasma- gun, and
three high-drive torpedoes, against three ships? Maybe it
could work. "But don't forget, one of our torpedoes is a
dummy, nothing but a solid projectile." Because Abdul
had had to pull the guts out of it, after the abortive space
fight with Hishtoo on the way to Sisshain, to put the ship's
Shield back in working order against the sleep-gun. Bar-
ton didn't go through that part again; they all knew it.

*tThat's not the problem," he said now. "What is, is that
we don't know we're in that kind of trouble, to justify an
attack."

**I would tend," said Abdul Muhammed, "to give great

346

credence to the warnings of Doctor Arieta Fox. And

- yet..."

"Sure," Barton said. "If we do, and we're all wrong,
where are we? Even if I can stop those ships without any-
body getting killed, we're all traitors until proven differ-
ent." He slumped, straightened, and tried to shrug
tensions out of his shoulders. "And the other thing is,
then where could we get to?"

"Chaleen," said Limila. "The Tilaran world where lives
my eldest son, mine and Tevann's. On the charts I can
locate it, well enough for computer guidance." She pushed
her wig's long black hair away from her face. "If we
do not spend too much more fuel in slowing, we have
sufficient to reach Chaleen."

In a way, Barton wished she hadn't offered him the
option. It would be simpler to dive into one situation and
hack it out, win or lose, than to have to choose between
so many alternatives.

He thought about it. Should he have Myra call Ship
Sixty-five again, to see if he could get any clues from what
Fatty or Skinny said? He didn't think there'd be much.
Should he try to get through to the second fleet down on
Tilara, and maybe talk with the admiral his very own
self? No; that wouldn't work, because normal ships' com-
munications wouldn't reach out this far, through atmo-
sphere, except for fancy channel arrangements he didn't
have. Doctor Fox had to be using special, more powerful,
ground-based gear. So. be couldn't do any of that, very
weU.

Barton made up his mind. He didn't ask anybody's
advice—not again, he didn't—he simply made his de-
cision. "We'll go with these ships," he said, "and when
we get down on Tilara, we'll see."

Nobody seemed to like the idea any better than Barton
did himself, but nobody squawked, either. When Barton

'and Limila got away to Compartment One, he said,

: "What do you think?"

, She shook her head. "I do not want to think. You have
done that."

So maybe he was right and maybe he was wrong. Now

, was a different time. Undressed and in bed, he tried to
forget about everybody else, and Limila seemed to feel

^the same way. One thing: the small transplant-breasts
might grow or might not, but sure as hell their tips were
connected to the hot line. Limila rejoiced early, and after

347

a white Barton caught up with her, they laughed to-
gether.                              „-.       -
Then she turned to him. "Barton. There is danger.

No?"

"Sure. You knew that. Didn't you?"

Her hand stroked his chest, her hand that was missing
two fingers the Demu had cut away. "Always, .Barton,
since the Demu took me, there is danger. But you took
me back, and made me alive again. And so I trust you."
She sighed. "Tell me of the danger."

Barton didn't know why he felt embarrassed, He said,
To you, there shouldn't be any; I can't say, for certain.
We're setting down on your home world and you should be
in. free and clear." He moved to put a kiss where he
wanted to; a wriggle rewarded him. But the question still
stood. He said, "Arlie—Arleta Fox—says I'm in trouble
with the big cheese. I don't know why, yet. But I expect
HI find out pretty soon. One thing, Limila—I don't trust
anyone named ap Fenn, as far as I can throw him."

Limila settled for that answer, and they snuggled in to
sleep.

The three escort ships, next day, would have been sit-
ting ducks for any attack Barton might have wanted to
make. He didn't think much of the second fleet's orienta-
tion toward combat training. But like a good little sheep,
Barton kept Ship One in the middle of his escort-formation,
approaching Tilara.

Limila, on the comm, detected no coherent signals from
the planet—not even in scramble, which presumably the
admiral would use in talking with Barton's escort.

Boredom with jitters was the worst kind. Too full of
coffee, tired of pacing, not ready for a slug of bourbon so
early in his day. Barton asked Limila for a channel to
Ship Sixty-five.

Almost immediately, as if someone on that ship had
been poised and waiting for a call, the answer came. On
the screen, the skinny blond man appeared. "Light-
commander Vannick here. Can I help you?" Huh? Oh,
sure; now Barton remembered. Short for lieutenant, of the
colonel or commander persuasion.

He leaned over toward the screen. "Barton here,
Vannick. Feeling like a chat, is all. News from Earth,
maybe. And how did it go with the second fleet, on the
way out?"

348

Vannick looked wispy, but his voice wasn't. "About the
same as any new group, I suppose. Some problems; noth-
ing too serious." The news from Earth dealt mostly with
political and entertainment figures that meant nothing to
Barton; in his last sojourn on Earth, less than a year,
after nearly eight years of Demu captivity, he hadn't both-
ered to plug himself into the media versions of current
events. He nodded through the recital, hoping he man-
aged to look polite, until he found a hook to ask about
the fleet again. General stuff...

Now that Vannick was warmed up a little, he talked
more freely. The second fleet was Ships Forty-one
through One-hundred, divided into five squadrons. The
admiral had wanted to re-number everything from
scratch so he could have the number One, but the Space
|r Agency wouldn't go for it, so he took One-hundred in-
stead. "The Big Hundred, he insists we call it, though
of course, it's the same size as all the rest."

''What's the admiral like. to work for?" Barton thought
he knew already, but a few sidelights couldn't hurt.

Vannick's mouth twitched. He looked back over his
shoulder and then, maybe without meaning to, shook his
?head. "Just fine. A little demanding, but that's the way a
fleet commander should be." Uh-huh; sure. Letting the
matter pass. Barton asked who was running the five squad-
, rons. He recognized only two of the names; Jones was an-
i other of the original four he'd framed on the Demu ship,

and when Vannick came to Dupree's name, he paused,
'^T. forgot. Dupree was insubordinate and got busted.
Grounded, in fact Kaczca, his exec, got the promotion."

Over the screen came the sound of a door closing.
Vannick looked behind him again as the tubby man came
f forward. "What the hell's going on, Vannick? Who told
"' you to chat it up with these people?" He looked into the
• screen. "Sony, Barton. But we do have our orders."
' I'll bet you do. "I set up the call," he said. "It's not
Vannick's fault, uh—?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Gellatly," said the fat man. "Captain GeUatfy." With
a hard "g," and accent on the second syllable. Now Gel-
>latly frowned. "By the way, Barton, what's your rank? So
~. we can do these things right, from now on."

Barton was a long time out of the Army, and he
hadn't cared for it all that much the first time. He shook
his head. "Tarleton's fleet doesn't use military ranks. Just
job titles."

349

The other mm grinned. "Things change. We have to be
able to fit you into the T/0 or the admiral won't like it."

"Your admiral. I still work for Tarieton." He shouldn't
argue. Barton knew, but Gellatly really raised his stub-
borns for him.

"And Tarieton works for Admiral ap Fenn. That's in
the orders he brought; he read us the non-secret parts."
Gellatly squinted, then made a nod. "You have your own
ship. Barton, so I guess that makes you a captain. For
now, anyway." Carefully, Barton tried to show no reaction
to some implications of the last phrase. Gellatly raised a
finger. "I outrank you, though, because my rank dates
back to Earth, and yours is just being assigned. So now—"
He grinned again. "We know where we stand, don't we?"

"I doubt it." Barton waited until the grin went away.
**If we're talking rank, what's a squadron commander?
Or fleet exec? Because in the first fleet, I'm both of
those.'* He thought back, trying to remember the jargon.
"On detached service, at the moment."

"Now wait a minutel" Barton did so. Gellatly bit his
lip. "Well, commodores command the squadrons. And
there isn't exactly any exec, with us, so—"

"There is with us'. Arbitrarily, I'd say that in your fleet's
terms, I'm a vice-admiral." Navy rank wasn't h?s spe-
cialty, but it sounded good, Barton thought. "Which
means that until further notice, I outrank everybody here,
except the admiral."

Gellatly reached for his comm panel; the screen went
silent, and as the picture faded to blankness. Barton saw
the two men gesturing at each other.

"Not so bad," said Barton, turning away. "For the mo-
ment, not bad at all."

Others had come in unnoticed while he was concen-
trating on the screen. Now Abdul Muhammed nodded.
"Yes, you have stymied the Gellatly person. But you
realize. Barton, that your new rank lasts only until Ad-
miral ap Fenn thinks to take it away."

"Sure I do." Barton smiled. "But he can't do that, while
I'm still in duty status, without a court-martial. Which
needs the presence of the accused. I'm not planning on
showing vp."

"But that's desertion, isn't it?" said Myra Hake. "And
how—?"

"The how part," Barton said, "I don't know yet, and

350

I admit it needs some thought. But the point is that this
rank business keeps Gellatly off my back until we land. And
if we do get loose, I don't give two hoots in hell what
Karsen ap Fenn calls it."

"Barton?" Limila spoke. "Are you making tunes in
darkness?"

"Whistling in the dark, you mean? Maybe; it could be.
But there's still a lot of facts we don't have, which leaves
room for some of them to be on our side." He wasn't really
feeling all that confident, but he knew that if he shared
his misgivings, his crew would be more likely to freeze up
in the idea department. And he needed all the good ideas
he could get.

UmHa still thought they should zap the escort service
and head for the world Chaleen; Barton had checked the
coordinates she gave him, and Ship One had enough fuel
to ground there safely. The trouble was that even if a
surprise attack worked, and got them away clean, the
odds were that somebody would get killed. The new, larger
ships were bu'-lt to carry up to twenty people, as com-
pared to twelve for the first fleet; Barton remembered the
plans, from Earth. "Maybe sixty on those three ships, if
they're riding full." It wasn't that Barton wouldn't kill if
he had to, he explained to a group that knew that
much already, but rather that he didrft see the need, just
yet. "And most of the men and wcmen on those ships are
Just doing their jobs, nothing more. The admiral is their
boss and they don't know me from Adam's off ox. So—"
The discussion went a time more, before Limila shrugged
and ceded the point, saying that she hoped Barton would
not have to regret his forbearance.

"Right," he said. "I'll have a slice of that, too."
"And what," she said, "will you do to obtain it?"
"Try to call Arlie Fox, for starters. She's our window
to what's happening on Tilara, and maybe by now I have
enough info to ask: better questions."

But when Myra Hake got through on the channel Doctor
Fox had specified, it was the Tilaran, Vertan, who an-
swered.

"Barton! To see you again is of good. These new
Earthani who come—in particular, their person of com-
mand—to deal with them is not of pleasure. But now that
you are again of presence—" Vertan rattled on; Barton
hadn't used the Tilaran language in conversation for so

351

long that he kept missing things and having to ask for
repeats, but after a while he caught on again. And when
Vertan seemed to have unwound sufficiently for the time
being. Barton asked after Arieta Fox.

She wasn't there; she'd gone to an eating place near the
spaceport, to meet with her major contact in the fleet
Barton gathered that the contact wasn't sure of security
on the channels be used in talking from his ship. And that
contact turned out to be Commodore Jones, the first of
Barton's pilot trainees back on Earth. Barton hadn't seen
the man since, but working with Fox, he had to be one of
the good guys in the white hats.

Tilaran was still mixing him up a little, so Barton
switched to English for his next questions. Vertan an-
swered, "This man Jones, his position is shaky. He ques-
tioned the admiral's landing order, and carried his protest
too far, perhaps." The Tilaran's extended forehead wrin-
kled above the eyebrows. "This Admiral ap Fenn—he is
kin to the ap Fenn who—?"

Barton nodded. "Worse than that. He's the mush-head
who got Terike ap Fenn into the space service and onto
my ship. But what's it about Jones and the admiral's
landing orders?" It could matter.

And when Vertan explained. Barton decided that it
did matter. He asked two more questions. Had ap Fenn
done anything at all about interchange of technologies
and equipment on Tilara? And could a spare ground car
or two be left at the edge of the spaceport, on the side
nearest the building where Earthani and Tilarans had
first held conferences?

Barton liked both answers. As he and Vertan ex-
changed signoffs and ended the call, for the first time he
thought he might have an angle on the situation. Not
much, but maybe a little.

Hungry now. Barton' headed for the galley. Cheng
and Myra had the watch; the others followed Barton and
asked questions. But until he was fed, he stayed contrary
and wouldn't answer. Well, it was more than that; before
he said anything. Barton wanted to be sure he knew what
he was talking about. Meanwhile, after the first minutes,
everybody shut up and let him eat. It was no gourmet treat;

Ship One was mostly down to reconstituted rations.

There was still real coffee, though; now Barton sipped
it. He looked around at all the group and said, "1 think

352

we're going to be all right // Vertan knows what he's
talking about."

He still wouldn't answer questions. "About the gim-
mick, well have to wait and see; either it works or it
doesn't. I want everybody thinking ahead."

"And to what. Barton?" Limila said. "Unless you tell
us—"

He hitched upright in his seat "Okay; this part's more
for you, anyway. And for Gerain and livajj." He looked
at the other two Tilarans, "Suppose it comes down to if
we're on the ground and we run for it. I'm not sure that's
how it'll have to go, but let's say, for now. All right—
how do we keep hid out, best?"

Answers differed. The three Tilarans, in a city of their
own people, could easily disappear beyond the ability
of^-ap Fenn's people to discover them. For the others,
there were problems.

With the front quarter of her hair shaved off and the
rest darkened, wearing a loose robe that hid how high
her breasts rode on her torso, Myra Hake could pass for
Tilaran. No native of the planet was as short and stocky
as Barton, but maybe ap Fenn's people wouldn't
know that. Surely, though, they'd know that Cheng Ai
and Abdul Mohammed couldn't possibly be Tilaran, n0
matter what cosmetic disguises they might try.

Myra frowned. "Barton, I don't see why you think all
this may be necessary-to try. The admiral hasn't done
anything yet.'*

Barton didn't see, either; he just felt. "You want to
trust an ap Fenn again? I don't want to have to." He
gestured. "Yeh—I know we don't have real evidence.
But Arieta Fox said to stay loose from Karsen ap Fenn,
and when that little bulldog gets a hunch, I don't scoff.
Maybe I'm borrowing trouble. If I am, it'll be easy
enough to scrub the precautions." He leaned forward.
"So now let's get down to the nuts and bolts."

The next day, called out of bed to the control room
and stuck with a cup of stale coffee from the bottom of
an old pot, Barton had misgivings. On the • screen, the
image suffering a little from relay through Ship Sixty-five,
he got his first look at Admiral Karsen ap Fenn. A loud-
talking man, the admiral was. "You're Barton; is that
right?" It was, so Barton nodded. He wasn't enough
awake to talk much; he sipped more of the lousy coffee,

353

and tried to get his brains together enough to cope, here.

"Well, then. You will land. as ordered, and surrender
yourself for trial."

Even half-awake. Barton thought, he'd know better
than to spring a line like that on somebody who still
had command of an armed ship. But all he said was,
•Trial? For what?"

"For complicity in the murder of my nephew, Terike
ap Fenn." While Barton was trying to absorb mat one,
the admiral continued. "You, and all aboard with you,
wffi answer for that crime."

Barton shook his head. No point in trying to argue the
dubious merits of the case, as such; ap Fenn had made
up his alleged mind, and that was that. But the others
with him on Ship One—he said, "This isn't the same
crew that was on board when your nephew . . ."—he
didn't say, your stupid -nephew— ". . . got himself killed.
And the killing didn't happen on this ship, and the
Tilarao woman who did it got a local verdict of self-
defense. So—"

"I know a whitewash when I see one!" If the colors
on the screen were anything like true, ap Fenn's face
went purple. "And I won't put up with it. You, and all
those with you, will report to me for trial. Soon as pos-
sible after you've landed."

"Under what jurisdiction? Who's to be the judge?" He
already knew the answer to that one. Barton thought,
but he asked, anyway.

And he was right. "I am!" said Admiral Karsen ap
Fenn. "And don't give me a lot of bosh as to who's guilty
and who isn't You all were. And mat included Tarleton.
When I get my hands on that man—and I will, once
these infernally slow natives manage to refuel the
fleet—'

Barton's own hand was on the switch, reaching to cut
the circuit and end mis insane dialogue. But -before he
did so, he said, "I believe I understand your position,
Admiral. And your orders. When we meet in person we
can talk it over, more."

He hit the switch; the screen went dark.

"He is evil. Barton. Evil" Limila's silver-irised eyes
were wide; her mouth moved as though to spit something
out.

Myra Hake slammed a fist against her thigh. "I have

354

to agree, and I didn't think I even believed in evil, as
such. But that man—"

Abdul Muhammed made as if to speak, then looked at
Barton, and didn't. Barton said, "I don't like him pretty
much, either. And he's one hell of a threat to us all. But
let's skip evil." They looked at him, and he said, "Is a
five-year-old child evil?"

"That one," said Abdul, "is by no means a child."

"The hell he isn't." Barton slammed bis own fist down,
too hard against the edge of the comm-panel, making
him wince. "He and his nephew both. They act like itty-
bitty kids. They want what they want, right now, and if
they don't get it, they raise hell with everybody.
Tantrums." Trying to think what to say next. Barton
felt his face contorting, and made an effort to relax it
"No. The only thing evil about this whole pile of crap is
that childish people are able to get into positions of
power." He shrugged. "And that's politics, and always has
been and always will be."

When nobody answered. Barton said, "I was hoping
we wouldn't all have to run. If it turns out we can run.
But I'm not leaving anybody on here to take the brunt of
that idiot's frustration, in case the rest of us made it
away. And to hide out right, a little disguise is in order.
So let's get to work."

Myra Hake said, '^You mean it's Halloween, Barton?"

"That's right. Once we land, there wouldn't be time to
get all duded up, except for last-minute makeup work.
And even that part we could experiment with a little,
now."

With something to work on. Barton felt more good
than not. He said, "Okay. Let's start putting some cos-
tumes together, and do the stuff with the razors and the
hair dye, and see what the makeup will do and what it
won't." His smile felt more relaxed than he would have
expected. "Once we do this stuff, though, our viewscreen
picture is out of order, on the transmit side. Keep that in
mind."

Barton didn't have much of a suntan these days, but
still it took quite a bit of Myra's makeup to match the
shaved forward patch of his scalp to his forehead and
the rest of his face. He wasn't the only one who had
problems; Myra had it easy, going to Tilaran appear-
ance herself, but trying to use makeup so that Cheng's

355

eyes would look other than Oriental, she cussed a lot
And no matter what kind of stuff Limila used to try to
cover Abdul's ebon complexion, he never came out look-
ing much better than boiled potato. And that, Barton
reflected, was one of the good efforts.

Finally he called a halt. "Good as we're going to get, I
think. And let's not use all the gunk up now; tomorrow
is when we need it." He looked at the robes Gerain and
livajj had put together. "Those'H do, I think. Cheng and
I, we have to wear lift-shoes for tall. Abdul, anytime
we're in public as a group, you stay in the middle and
hunch down a lot with your knees bent. I know it won't

be comfortable. ..."

"From practicing," Abdul said, "I am assured, of that.
But I will manage." He shrugged. "If not, I assume we

shall be armed."

If they got caught, the tall man meant. Barton said,

"Let's not think that way. If we expect trouble—"

"Barton," said Limila, "you are one who always ex-
pects trouble. Which, I feel, is the reason you generally

surmount it."

She had him, there. Barton said, "Maybe. This time,

though, our best chance is to keep our heads down. So
let's do that. Now pack up everything you'd want to carry
along, and set it out handy."

Nobody argued. Barton scrubbed up and left the
group. He had time for a nap, when his own brief pack-
ing was finished, and before he faced the situation on
TUara, be figured he could use one.

Limila woke him. For a moment he thought she might
have something better in mind, and reached to her. But
she smiled and brushed his hand aside. "No, Barton;

there is not time. Ap Fenn is shouting into the control
room. And does be not resemble, a great deal, his
nephew Terike? In appearance, as well as in mind,"

Barton hadn't thought about it, or noticed, much, when
he'd first seen the admiral. Now while he washed up,
crapped fast, and dressed, be put a think on it. Asking
Limua to bring along some fruit juice and coffee from the
galley, he headed up the ship and reached the control
area. He pointed to himself and to the screen; Cheng
signed "Out at first!" to him and he knew no picture was
leaving Ship One. So, looking critically at the screen's

356

image of Karsen ap Fenn, Barton sat down to the comm
panel.

"Ahoy, Admiral. Barton here." Just for the hell of it,
that "ahoy."

"How do I know that?" Big scowl from the admiral.
"Put your picture through; I'm not in the habit of talking
to a blank screen."

"We got a systems failure," said Barton. "Or so I'm
told. So no pie, from here. You need to keep things even, I
suppose you could turn yours off." While he watched ap
Fenn, now seeing how the jutting brow ridges matched
those of dead Terike, how the heavy jaw lay mufiied by
this man's jowls. And bow the petulant mouth sat much
the same. Limila was right; uncle and nephew were cer-
tainly cut from the one loaf. But now it was time to listen,
so he did.

"Malfunctions are the fault of personnel." said the ad-
miral. "You don't seem to be too expert in personnel
management. But let that go; I called about something
else. My instructions to you."

"Of course," said Barton. Well, maybe he could learn
something. "Details, you mean?"

Details it was. After the first sentence or two. Barton
didnt listen closely because he wasn't planning to follow
ap Fenn's directions, anyway. They were all about how
and when and where Barton would present himself and
his entire shipload of friends'- to trial by ap Fenn. That
wasn't going to happen; win or lose, it wouldn't. So why
listen? What he -did, then, was wait for a noticeable pause.

When it came. Barton said, "This trial you're calling—
I guess you're doing it without lawyers and all that. Which
makes sense, maybe. But one thing. Admiral. Somebody
has to be able to say what really happened, and looks to
me as if the main witness you have on hand is me. So who
is it that's saying I helped kill Terike?"

The only way Barton could describe ap Fenn's grin,
then, was skunky. The man gestured to someone behind
him, out of the screen's range. He said, "My nephew's
widow will testify. That should suffice."

And sure as hell, the slim blonde who walked into pic-
ture range and looked into a blank screen at that end was
Helaise Renzel.

All right. Barton tried to make his brains move fast.
Helaise had had bad times. Beat up now and then by

357

Terike ap Fenn when they were roomies, savaged by
Hishtoo the Demu when he made his escape to Sisshain,
taken on by Tarleton when she worked on his sympathy,
and then—well. Barton didn't know how it had happened
that Helaise had been left behind when Tarleton took the
first fleet down the galactic Arm, to meet Bartoti at Sis-
shain. He didn't know, and in the ordinary case he
couldn't afford to care. But now—he said, carefully, "Hi,
Helaise. You're looking good. How you feeling?"

He remembered her queen-bee look, that she'd de-
veloped when she latched onto Tarleton, and that's the
one she gave him now. "Oh, quite well, thank you. Bar-
ton. And how do you feel?"

"Confused, you want to know." Exasperated; Barton
tried to let his breath come out without making a lot of
noise about it "I mean, what's this shit about me killing
Terike? You know damn well I had nothing to do with it
Nobody else on this ship, either." Breathing in, he didn't
do so well at quiet, any better than out "Helaise—what
do you think you're trying to pull?"

Her composure began to slip; Barton knew her well
enough to note the signs. But he saw her brace herself be-
fore he could say more, and he knew he'd lost the joust.
"You're only talking about what you did and what you
didn't. Barton. There are moral responsibilities, too.
You never allowed Terike to learn Tilaran customs at
first hand. So he went out unprepared—"

"The silly son-of-a-bitch went out AWOL and you
know ill" And tried to rape a Tilaran woman, and she
went ape and killed him for it Not on purpose, she didn't,.
but it happened. "He—"

"That's enough, Barton," said Karsen ap Fenn, "I've
recorded this little dialogue. At the trial, I think it will suf-
fice."

Feeling the way his face roust look, for a moment Bar-
ton wanted ap Fenn to see him. But that was silly. He said,
still trying to avoid a total break with Earth's authority,
"When I stand any kind of trial, Tarleton ought to be here.
He's been my boss, ever since I brought the Demu ship to
Earth and got us into space at all. I think—"

"But what you think doesn't matter," said the admiral.
"I'm in charge. I'll make the decisions. Land, and report
to me."

The two-word reply that came to mind. Barton swal-
lowed. While he tried to think of something else, Helaise

358

Renzel said, "I might be able to help you. Barton. I'll
come visit you, when you're down here, and we can talk."

Come visit? Meaning, Barton would be in a cage, to be
visited by people who weren't locked up. He looked at her
supercilious smile. "Helaise?"

"Yes, Barton?"

"Why don't you go piss up a rope?" He cut the circuit.

Turning around to face his people, who blessedly
hadn't tried to cut in and help him. Barton tried to put a
smile on his sweaty face. "I know. I didn't work that too
good. It may not matter."

Abdul Muhammed had switched the main screen to a
downside view; now he racked it up toward high-mag,
and said, "The port we near. Barton, where the fleet sat
before—dayside approaches it, and we should land not
long after local noon there. I am trying to get us a clear
view, but cannot as yet obtain clear definition of the de-
tails."

It was the port, all right, on the screen. And as Abdul
said, there wasn't much to be seen yet. Barton said, "When
the sun hits it, we'll get a good angle from visible light.
How soon?"

Abdul's answer gave Barton time to go have breakfast
and some fresh coffee. Limila and Cheng joined him, but
he didn't feel like talking. When they got back up to the
control room. Barton carrying-a final cup of coffee, the
screen showed dawn sunshine making needle-points of
light across the port. "Just grazing the ships* noses," he
said. "You get a count on them?"

"I make it fifty-three," said Cheng, squinting. "Barton
—has the size of the landing area been increased?"

Gauging by the positions of two buildings he could rec-
ognize, Barton shook his head. Looking puzzled, Cheng
said, "Then except for that small space at the center of the
landing formation, those ships are spaced about as tight
as they could be set down safely—or lift off again. With
the repulsion of the Shields, I don't see how—" Then his
eyes widened.

But before he could speak, over the intership circuit
came Gellatly's voice. "Are you there. Barton?"

Myra's grin was impish. "Vice-Admiral Barton will be
with you in a moment. Picture's out, though; sorry." And
she didn't bother to put Gellatly's picture on the aux
screen, either.

359

"Yon have downview, still, don't you?" The man
sounded worried.

Setting his cup down, Barton leaned across to the
conun-panel. "Barton here. Yes, our reception's okay.
Just a glitch in the transmit side. Easy to fix, probably,
when there's time for it."

"Yes. When you're down, we'll see to it" That's nice.
Gellatly cleared his throat "Here are your landing in-
structions. You will set down in the middle of the central
open area, my other two ships to follow and land at each
side of you. As you've probably noticed, it is necessary to
land with Shields off. I will be leaving you in a few minutes,
to put Sixty-five into synchronous orbit directly over the
port. Do you understand the situation?"

Sure; Fm boxed. "Yes, I do. One change, though; your
ships land just ahead of me, not behind." Over the man's
protest. Barton said, "Your drive blasts, on those new
ships, are bigger than mine. Takes more accuracy to
avoid damage to the ships you land beside. I know my
pilot; I don't know yours."

In the pause, it sounded like Vannick's voice in the
background, arguing with his commander. Barton
caught only 'a few words. Then Gellatly said, "Very well;

it makes no real difference. That's all, then. Gellatly. out"

"Roger dodger. Barton, likewise." Myra cut the cir-
cuit. Barton turned to wave a hand against a flood of ques-
tions. "Thing was, there, I wouldn't put it past ap Fenn to
have those ships give us a bath in drive blast Save him a
lot of trouble. Now, then—"

"But you're letting them put us in the middle of th.e
whole fleet!" Standing now, hands on hips, Myra looked
exasperated. "If we ducked over to the edge, at least
we'd nave a chance to run."

"We're landing right where I want to be," Barton said.
"Abdul, have you done sitdowns with the Shield off?" The
big man nodded. "That's good, because I haven't.
Well—" Remembering Sisshaio. "Not exactly. So you
take us In; all right?"

"And what will you do, Barton?" Limila asked.

"Oh, ni just sit down out of the way, over at one of the
weapons positions.'* He wasn't sure why he didn't tell
them all, straight out, what he had in mind. Maybe a feel-
ing that it would be bad luck to say it.

She kept looking at him. "I think I know what you are
going to do,"

360

Barton gazed at the woman he loved more than anyone
he'd ever known. "I wouldn't be surprised."

His words seemed to quiet the others. For long minutes
they sat, then, while Abdul Muhammed guided Ship
One downward, between the paths of the two escort ships
that now kept a slight lead. They hit air gently, without
much buffeting. And then, carefully, precisely, only sec-
onds after ap Fenn's ships touched down, Abdul landed
the ship in the narrow space that Karsen ap Fenn had as-
signed.

That's when Barton hit the sleep-gun switch.

When they all saw the indicator come on, there were
gasps. Barton stood up, talking. "All right. The sleeper's
on max power, hemispherical distribution. I'll set it to
turn off about twenty minutes after we leave here; we
really don't want the amnesia effect to make the whole
second fleet into a pack of zombies." He raised his voice
to override interruption. "Get the travel kits you packed
and assemble at the airlock. The individual Shields are in
the locker beside it. When everybody's there, buzz me here
and I'll come a-running." They weren't moving. Well,
there wasn't that much hurry, now, so he said, "Questions?
Fast ones."

The answers were easy. No, ap Fenn's people
wouldn't have individual Shields of their own, due to the
admiral's penchant for apartheid with the locals. "So
there won't be anyone shooting at us." But what if some
of the ships had their Shields on?

Limila laughed, then, so he nodded for her to answer.
"The closeness of these ships, at ap Fenn's orders. If they
began activating their Shields, the repulsive forces—"
She brought her hands together, then spread her arms
violently. "Poofl Like rows of dominoes, ships would
fall."

That seemed to be it, for now. "Okay, we move it,"
Barton said. "Let's just hope Vertan left a groundcar
where he said he would."

Sooner than Barton expected, Abdul called to give him
the go-ahead. He set the timer on the sleep-gun, went to
the airlock and shucked into his own portable Shield
harness, and when the lock opened, waved the group
down the ramp ahead of him. For a moment he paused,
then decided that if he tried to leave Ship One sealed

361

against ap Fenn's people, the admiral would have them
blast their way in. He patted the hulL "Good luck, ol*
trooper." And he followed the rest down to Tilaran soiL

Spooky, it was, walking through a jungle of standing
ships, with no sign or sound of life except the occasional
man or woman sprawled unconscious where the sleep-
field had found them. All Earth types, Barton noted: no
Tilari, let alone Larka-Te or Filjari. Then, nearly to the
edge of the port by now, another correlation came to
mind. The men's insignia of rank varied a lot more than
the women's. The latter seemed to be mostly noncoms or
very junior officers. And they were greatly outnumbered,
in the sample he was seeing. Barton frowned. In Tarle-
ton's fleet, Estelle Cummings ran a damn good squadron.
In ap Penn's, he guessed, she probably wouldn't even
rate her own ship.

Preoccupied, he started when Myra Hake nudged
him; he glanced up to see what she wanted. They both
looked pretty funny, he guessed, shaved frontally bald
and plastered with makeup to hide the paleness, but her
plain features still carried dignity. "We could do it differ-
ently, Barton. Why not'just unload the carcasses off one
of these ships, and take it? You or Abdul could fake past
that Gellatly without much trouble, I expect."

He thought back. "I guess you weren't there, Myra.
Ap Fenn let it slip that he was having a problem getting the
fleet refueled." For seconds, he laughed. "I wouldn't be
surprised but what the slowdown began when Arleia Fox
jumped ship. I didn't ask, though."

She nodded. "It wasn't that I thought you miss many
bets. Barton. But the idea came, and I had to check it."  -

"Sure. And always do that. Because like anybody else,
I do miss some bets." The more he knew this tall woman,
the better he liked her.

Nearing the port's edge, they passed the last of ap
Fenn's ships. Barton looked; a little to the left of where he
expected to, he saw two empty grpundcars. One wasn't
empty, though; when they reached it, they found Doctor
Arleta Pox slumped inside.

"Oh, hellf Barton said. "Well, let's get out of here,
quick. Who drives? I suppose I could figure out the con-
trols if I had to, but let's go with the experts. livajj?
Gerain?" Both Tilarans signed assent, and each took
driver's position in the respective cars. "Next question.
Where to? Vertan's place?"

362

"For a first stop, yes," Limila said. "I know where it is,
and so do Gerain and livajj. But it is not a place we can
stay."

They piled into the two cars and moved off in caravan.
Barton sat with Arleta Fox's head in his lap and watched
for signs of awakening. He said, "Sure, I know, Limila.
Not that I'd expect Vertan to be inhospitable, but that's
where ap Fenn might look first"

Tilaran architecture fascinated Barton, and Vertan's-
diggings were a prime example: no straight lines, but a
smooth van-colored blend of parabolic cross-sections
like a statue of a tall skinny armadillo, ranging from pale
blue around the lower sides to a deep copper shade along
the dorsal ridge. And at the larger end, an abrupt edge
framing a concave face that rippled in iridescent silver.
From the outside, no windows showed, but Barton knew
that various areas would be transparent when viewed
from inside. The entrance was in the concave face, of
course, and there the two Tilarans brought the ground-
cars to rest.

Arleta Fox was moving a little, making small breathy
noises, but nowhere near awake yet. Abdul helped Bar-
ton get her out of the car, and moved to pick her up and
carry her. It would have made sense for the huge man to
do the carrying, but Barton smiled and said, "Thanks, but
it's my job. The doc and I go back quite a way." By the
time they all got indoors, Barton could feel the woman's
weight growing by the step. But they were led to a spacious
room, where Barton could lay his burden onto a curving
couch of sorts, before he ran short enough of breath that
anybody could have heard him. Still seeing no sign of
returning consciousness. Barton stood up.

Vertan wasn't there; whether the welcoming Tilarans,
chattering six ways from Sunday with Limila and Gerain
and livaij, were family or servants. Barton had no idea.
He touched Limila's elbow, and she turned to him.
"These folks know what-the scoop is?"

"Yes, Barton. Vertan has informed them. He was to be
here soon, but now that is not likely."

"Why not?"

"Because he went to the Big Hundred, to confer with
ap Fenn."

Well, when you play your cards too close to the vest,
363

somebody's going to bet into the wrong hand. Barton
sighed, then relaxed. If he owed Vertan an apology, he'd
give it when the time came. For now, the drill was that
everybody could go to guest rooms and clean up, and all,
and for after that. Barton had heard food mentioned.

One of the Tilaran women, thinner than average and
with boldly strong features, was some kind of medic.
"Reshane," Limila said. "She will watch over the' awak-
ening of Doctor Fox." So Barton thanked Reshane, then
followed Limila to their temporary quarters. He was glad
to shuck the pack he'd been carrying, and was even more
pleased to share a hot spray bath with Limila, and then
part of a flagon of the pale green Tilarau wine he'd come
to like, during the time Tarleton's fleet had been on this

planet.

With ap Fenn's first mousetrap sprung harmlessly,

Barton felt relaxed enough to be a little homy, but there
wasn't time before the call for lunch, so be and Limila

settled on a rain check.

He ate with good appetite; in fact, everybody seemed
to. Tilaran cuisine tended to be spicy in a very delicate
sort of way, and that was something else Barton had
learned to like. During the meal he tried to figure out who
was who among the hosting Tilarans, but all he found out
was that Vertan's most needful person was away visiting
another family member, and did not share Vertan's resi-
dence full-time in any case. Well, he knew that the Tilaran
equivalent of marriage seldom included total cohabita-
tion. Sometimes, but not often. After a time of listening
he was fairly sure that two of those present were adult
children of Vertan or of Vertan's absent "spouse" or pos-'
sibly of both; beyond that understanding, he didn't push
it. And when Barton had had about as much of the lunch
situation as he really needed, the woman Reshane came

in and beckoned to him.

"The small Earthani is of waking, and would see you."

She led him to, and let him into, a small concave-
surfaced room that was mostly shades of pink with spar-
kling blue highlights, and left him. He found Arleta Fox-
sitting up, holding a beaker of the tart, bubbling Tilaran
beverage, klieta. As he went to sit facing her, on a puff-
stool that wasn't as wobbly as it looked, she gazed up at
him. "It's good to see you. Barton. But what happened?

364

I went to the port with Vertan, and waited for you in the
car. And woke up here. I—"

"Easy, Doc—Ariie, I mean." He sipped from his large
goblet of the green wine, then set it down beside him. "It
went this way." He told it as short as he could make it, then
said, "Until we got downstairs I wasn't sure, myself, just
how to play it. So no chance to warn you or anybody, even
if I trusted channel security. Vertan caught it worse, I'm
afraid. He was having a chat with the admiral, on the Big
Hundred." He frowned. "And I hope he's not in trouble."

Serious of face, Fox pushed fingers through her frizz of
hair. Seen up close, it was really cut a lot shorter than Bar-
ton was used to, on her. Fingers couldn't quite hide in it.
The woman said, "Vertan's safe enough. He has pressure
on ap Penn, not the other way around." The bulldog
smile. "When Vertan began ,to distrust the admiral, he
clamped down on refueling the second fleet. He'll give
the go-ahead when he feels reassured, and not before."
"Then Vertan should be back pretty soon, here?"
"I'd think so." She changed the subject, asking Barton
for details of how he'd sidetracked the Demu "war" so it
didn't happen. He told her, omitting the parts that had to
be kept secret, and when she spotted a hole in the explana-
tion and asked directly for answers, he shrugged and said,
"Sorry, but that's really Top Clam. I mean, Tarleton
could authorize telling you, but I can't."

After a moment, she nodded. "All right; I'll respect
that. Now. then—" She leaned toward him. "Let's talk
about Tilara."

It took Barton a moment to get the drift, but of all things
she was looking fiirty. He got his wineglass up in front of
him and said, "You mean the party you went to, and got
surprised how Tilarans talk body-Braille?"

Sitting back again. Fox laughed. "Barton, relax. It's
views I want to exchange with you—the ways this totally
different culture struck us at first—not belly rubbing."
His embarrassment must have shown, for she laughed. "I
adjusted to Tilaran ways rapidly. Barton, and that party
was only the first of several." She paused. "How old do
you think I am?"

He shook his head. "That's a game I never play; you
can't win."

She blinked. "Not bad thinking; not bad at all. Well,
I'm closing on thirty-five." Nearly seven years younger
than Barton; he'd have guessed the difference less, so

365                     \

good thing he hadn't. She said, "I gave up on virginity at
sixteen, and on any idea of celibacy at twenty-two. But in
my line of work, security and all, I had to be quite cautious
about my liaisons and never allowed them to develop into
affairs." He must have been staring; she shook her head.
"I've never seriously considered marriage."

Puzzled, he felt himself frowning. "I must be missing
something. What makes this my business? I mean, not

that you're—"

For an instant she looked mad as hell; then she re-
laxed. "Barton, will you quit taking everything person-
ally? The point is, here on Tilara I could drop atf that
sflly jockeying ana enjoy myself. Security, meaning the
admiral, doesn't care beans what happens offship. Ex-
cept the refueling operation, of course. So—" Her. stretch,
then, made her small body look more voluptuous than
Barton would have believed. "Well, I bad my little flings,
would you imagine it, and now I'm settled down for a

time."

"Sounds great." He didn't have to ask; she'd tell him.

She did. "Vertan's oldest son, Tchorda."

"Settled down, you say. In most needful person status?"

She shook her head. "Only as a temporary thing. He's
taken, that way, and that's included in our understand-
ing. But she's off-planet and won't be back for a while.
So, until then—"

"You're not planning to stay on Tilara, though."

**I don't know. Maybe until Tarleton returns here. Cer-
tainly Fro not going back to ap Fenn's little empire."

"Makes sense." He would have said more, but the
room's door opened. Outside, back from it, stood Vertan.
He threw off his robe and tossed it to one side, out of
sight, and walked in naked.

"I believe," he said, "that Admiral Karsen ap Fenn
arranged that my garment carry an eye-ear, a tracer
device. Without its presence, we can talk to better effect."
He closed the door,

Barton ignored the outstretched hand. "Just a minute."
Holding a fold of his robe up to hide his face, he opened
the door and went outside the room. Vertan's robe lay on
the floor; with his free hand. Barton felt around its hem,
and found a lump that didn't belong there, with a tiny
"eye" protruding. A metal ornament on a shelf looked
sturdy enough; with it. Barton pounded the lump until he
could feel only loose fragments through the cloth. The

366

ornament showed no damage; he replaced it and went
back into the room. "I killed the thing, Vertan. Simpler
that way. Now let's shake hands."

And now, joining the rest of Barton's gang. they could
talk, too. First order of business was to settle on a better
hideout, and soon. While ap Fenn's people couldn't just
barge in on Vertan without going through some formalities,
Barton gathered, Vertan couldn't stall the admiral off in-
definitely. Limila asked and got permission to make a
call. The voice-view terminal was in another room; when
she came back, she said, "I have spoken with Tevann.
His guest-space building is empty now, and can accom-'
modate most of us. If this is all right. Barton?"

Tevann—Limila's most needful person, years ago, be-
fore the Demu had taken her. But now with someone
else; Tevann had told Barton the name, when they met
once at a party, but Barton couldn't remember, "Sure,"
he said. "If we're welcome, that's fine."

"Good," she said. "This is in another town, not far
from here, and adjoining a smaller, auxiliary spaceport."

Vertan added some information. Tarleton's fleet hadn't
quite taken over all of the main port, but still .a lesser
one had been opened, to handle the overflow. Ap Fenn
insisted on sole usage, so all other space traffic now went
to the auxiliary.

"I wonder what happens if the big ship comes?" said
Arleta Fox, then put a hand to cover --her mouth, and
shook her head. "Cancel that. I'm not even supposed
to know, let alone say."

"You've already spilled, Arlie, that there is something.**
Barton said it quietly. Because he knew she didn't
mean the great ship on Sisshain. Because there was no
way she could have heard of it. So he said, "You're off
the Agency payroll now, ever since you jumped ship.
So what's the setup?"

She really didn't know all that much about it. Barton
decided after a while. But the Agency had another project
on the boards, begun a little before Tarleton's fleet left
Earth, and as usual the left hand wasn't giving" the right
hand the time of day. "It's a big ship, though," she said.
"I saw the assembly building—just a huge box to hide it.
And it's supposed to be a new principle, a drive that's
tremendously faster than your ships, or ap Fenn's."

New principle? From having talked with the lab boys,

367                       I '

Barton doubted it. Still, though, somebody might have
come up with the idea of multiplexing units, the way he'd
seen on the ship the Great Race had left to grow ivy all
over it. at Sisshain. "Well—" He shrugged. "We*U worry
about that when we see it." But his smile thanked her,
while mentally he filed the info for future reference.

Gerain was fidgeting; now he spoke. "It is not of need
mat livajj and I should hide; this ap Fenn is of no knowl-
edge of us." True enough; the two Tilarans weren't even
in Tarieton's records, let alone ap Peon's. And since they
were ship's people, Vertan made a call and arranged to
assign them to a Tilaran ship at the aux port, ahd for a

groundcar to pick them up within the hour.

Barton took a vote of the Earthani; it confirmed his

own disinclination to accept Vertan's offer to .'put all of
them on a Tilaran ship and get them safely away. "Tarie-
ton's going to be coming back here sometime. And he'U
be walking into a trap. Somebody has to hahg around
and warn him, and try to help. The way you did, Arlie,
for us." Vertan looked doleful, but he had to accept the
logic of it. Certainly, he admitted, he himself was not
equipped to play strategy and tactics among Earthani

factions.
Barton said, "How long you think you can stall ap

Fenn on the refueling? Sure's hell we don't want him going
to Sisshain. But he must have a few ships., fueled, for

patroh, like Gellatly's."

And then he found he hadn't known much about fuel
logistics on Tilara. The thing was that production was
feared to the normal rate of interstellar traffic. "Perhaps
four or five twelves of ships in a year," Vertan. said,
"though increasing, of course." Tarieton's fleet of forty
had laid quite an overload on me system, put the whole
caboodle on round-the-clock overtime and wiped out
the reserve stockpile. Then with the second fleet expected,
the higher rate of production had been maintained. But
even with the best of will and intention, ap Fenn wouldn't
be refueled yet. And the way things were, Tilara wasn't
busting its butt to .speed the job up. "While we would be
of joy to'see ap Fenn go," Vertan added, "we do not
wish him to be of access to our friend Tarleton."

So it was a delay game, the best that Vertan could
play without really knowing the rules. "Yen; thanks,'*
Barton said. He looked around the group. What else
needed deciding in a hurry? How about Arleta Pox? He

368

pointed to her. "If we figure ap Fenn to get a look-id
here, you want to hide out with the rest of us, so's not tq

catch a court-martial?"                               !
She hesitated, then said, "Thanks, Barton, but I don')

believe I will." The bulldog smile. "You see, I'm one o)
the few people in the second fleet that he couldn't pm
down with a military rank. Oh, mere's 'equivalent rank,
of course—'* She shrugged. "You can't dodge that, or nc
one would know where you're supposed to sit in the gal

ley."

"Where you sit?" Barton found it hard to believe, bu

obviously she wasn't kidding. "You're still a civilian

though?"
The woman nodded. "So I think I'll simply call in m]

resignation from the Agency. Ill be a little feisty abou
it, nitpicking about the exact termination date, and thi
transfer of accumulated benefits I probably can't collec
in any case." Now she grinned, "That's merely a mattel
of good offense being the best defense. Keep him argu
ing about my demands, so he won't' have time to pusl

at me with his own grievances."

Barton had to smile. "You're good; you know that?'
He shook his head. "You ever stop to think maybe you'n

in the wrong business?"

"No. But perhaps you are. Basically, we're boti

psychologists—even though I have the formal training

and you don't."

Whether she was right or not. Barton gave up ttu

argument.

The car came to take Gerain and livajj; Barton fel
a little sad, remembering how the young woman hai
approached him at his first Tilaran party, and the joi
he'd found with her. "So young," Limila had said o
livajj later, "but of good thought." And then she an<
Gerain taken hostage by Hishtoo, and Barton thinkhij
he'd probably have to kill them—but that had worke<
out all right. In point of fact, he'd wound up rescuing thi

two of them.

Now, he thought, as he and Limila exchanged hug
with the two departing Tilarans, he'd probably never s&
livajj again. So he savored her final kiss, then toucha
his tongue to a tear at the corner of her eye. His owi
eyes weren't all that dry, either, he noticed, "livajj," h

369                     I

said, u! value you; I am of thanks to have known you.
Be of happiness together, you and Gerain."

And when they had gone, Limila said to him, "It is a
pity. Barton, that you and livajj stayed apart all the way
from Sisshain. You need not have."

He squeezed her shoulder. "I know. Wouldn't have
felt right, though. I mean, we were running an Earthani
ship, not Tilaran." Not that anybody would have made
any fuss, hut still and all...

Limila shrugged. "It was of your choice, Barton. Yes."

Not until dark was the Ship One group moved from
Vertan's home. Barton wore his Shield harness, since
it wouldn't fit easily into his pack; he didn't ask how
anyone else dealt with the problem.

There were two groundcars, being loaded. Vertan
drove one; Barton and Liroila and Abdul Muhammed
got in with him. Barton in front alongside the driver, be-
cause he wanted a look at where they went. The other
driver was. Barton now knew, Vertan's son Tchorda.
Beside him sat Arleta Fox—along just for the ride. Bar-
ton guessed. Behind him, Myra Hake and Cheng Ai took
seats. In the dim light, Vertan waved back to his son, and
then the two cars moved out.

The absence of regular roads or streets on Tilara, as
far as he'd seen, still puzzled Barton. Now again he tried
to figure how Vertan picked his car's way across verdant
groundcover, between buildings spaced with no regularity,
and sdll knew where he was going. The cars weren't mov-
ing all that slowly, either, and the Tilaran excuse for
headlights kept Barton squinting. But he could hear-the
soft, bulky tires making swishing noises against the ground;

for sure, they wouldn't be tearing up the local turf.

He was beginning to relax and quit trying to figure
things out, when three cars came up at an angle to
block Vertan off, and slid to a stop that had to raise some
heD with the underfoot,

Barton turned to Vertan, in time to see the driver slump
down, no hands to the controls, and lie over against the
door.

The car was headed for the blocking cars, a bunding,
and a tree, in that order. And for the moment. Barton
couldn't reach the controls, which he knew only vaguely.
He tried to pull Vertan out of the way, but that job

370

took him a time. While be was still at it, the car, slowing
gently, swerved to miss first the cars, then the building,
and stopped short of the tree.

"What the hell?" He had Vertan out of the way now,
and settled in to see if he could find the go-pedal on this
buggy.

"There are safety features. Barton.w From behind him,
Limila's voice. "Not infallible, but sometimes helpful. As
how."

"Yeh, sure; thanks." People were getting out of the
cars up ahead. They had guns. Sleep-guns for sure, be-
cause what else had knocked Vertan out? Barton didn't
even remember turning his Shield on, when he decided
to wear it, but he must've, or why wasn't he dropped
flat like Vertan? And for sure, Limiia had hers turned on.

From the cars ahead, eight or ten people charged out.
Barton fumbled for his own hand version of the sleep-
- gun, found it, and dropped the lot of them.

"All right; who's awake?" Out of the car now, Barton
was in a hurry to get back in and get moving. Everyone
in their second car was out like pow; no help there. Bar-
ton looked around and saw a tall figure. "Abdul? You
had your Shield on?"

"It seemed a reasonable precaution. Barton."

"Yeh. Yeh, good. I don't suppose you know how to
drive one of these things?" *'

"As it happened, when I was here before, in Tamirov's
squadron, I enjoyed some of my spare time in learning
that skill. So—"

"So follow me." But first he had to help Abdul wrestle
the Ump figures in the second car, enough out of the way
to give Abdul the driver's seat. Then Barton went back
to the other car and got in.

Limila climbed in beside him. He said, "I think I know
most of this, from watching as a passenger, but tell me
the main handles."

She did, but then said, "I could accomplish this. Why
must you?"

"Because you might not push hard enough." Maybe
he was wrong; he couldn't know; Barton shook his bead.
"Navigate for me, please?"

She did, and quickly Barton learned the functions of
the controls he really needed. Following Limila's guid-
ance—and she waa very good at telling him without the-

371  .

aid of gestures he couldn't have seen—Barton ran the
caravan considerably faster than Vertan had done. After
a time they left all buildings behind and ran through open
country. From the shadowy look of the hills to either side,
Barton figured he might be missing a lot of good scenery.
But for right now, he couldn't afford to worry about it.
Not much chance that ap Penn might have a second team
after him, chasing tracers Barton didn't know 'about—
but if that chance happened, Barton wanted to be all

braced for it.

When it didn't happen, when the two cars reached

what Limila pointed out as sanctuary. Barton realized
he'd probably wasted a lot of adrenaline. Well, there
was a lot of that going around.

Tevann, welcoming the group, was as courteous as
ever. Just as skinny and handsome, too, Bartoa -thought.
But if Tevann and Limila wanted. Barton wouldn't be-
grudge- He exchanged embrace with the Tilaran, briefly
as local custom dictated, then watched while Tevann
and Limila took a bit longer about the hugging, before
Tevann drew back and said, "Is it of importance that

these cars be not seen here?"

Vertan was awake by now, and didn't look. or sound
too woozy. He said, "Of importance, perhaps not. Of
probability, though, a difference can ensue. One of dan-
ger." Looking as tired as Barton had ever seen him,
Vertan smiled. 'That we be of haste, removing tfae»two
vehicles to the holdings of myself, may be of best choice."
Your language says it funny, but you said it good.
Barton moved up to handshake the Tilaran. "Thanks,
, Vertan, for everything. You're right; get your cars back,

so*s ap Fenn won't guess too much."

'Tour thought is of merit." So Vertan left in one car.
His son Tchorda, with Arleta Fox beside him, followed
in the Other. Leaving the four Earthani, along with Limila,
to accept Tevann's hospitality. Shrugging tension from his
shoulder muscles. Barton followed the group indoors.

First came food and drink; then the contingent from
Ship One was escorted to quarters in the guest building.
Leaving them, Tevann said, "Tomorrow we may bs of
more speech. For tonight, enough."

Barton couldn't argue with that sentiment, and next
morning over breakfast he was in a chatty mood. While

372

he and Limila were bringing Tevann up to date con-
cerning the expedition to Sisshain, a Tilaran woman
Joined the group. Tevann stood, so the others did, also,
as he said, "I would have you be of acquaintance with
Uelein, my most needful person." He gave her their
Jiames in turn, and she shook hands with each—except
for Limila. Those two embraced; obviously they knew
each other.

Everyone sat. Tevann poured klieta for Uelein; the rest
continued eating. Barton studied the woman. She was
shorter than average for Tilara, not much over Barton's
own height, and slim even for her own race. Like livajj,
she was one of the minority of Tilarans whose hair was
a dark reddish-brown rather than black, and unlike the
majority, she wore it cut short. It looked, he thought, like

fur.

Limila had backtracked the story a little, repeating in
short form what Uelein had missed. Barton's attention
roamed, and was brought back when Limila spoke his
name. "Huh?"

"I asked you, Barton, if today will be all right for us
to go to the medical place. I told you—on the ship, re-
member?—that when we returned here, we would have to
see as to the treatments for you, to stabilize metabolism
and postpone aging."

"I—I'd forgotten all about that." And he had. In the
shock of learning that Limila had lived perhaps eighty
Earth-years and, due to Tilaran medical science, was
still physically youthful. Barton's mind had more or less
crawled in a hole and pulled it in after him. Now he
spoke his fear. "They may not work on Earthani the
way they do for you people." He shook his head. "I don't
know—"

She gripped his shoulder and shook it. "But we must
go and find out! Barton, you are not one to hide from
risk."

While he was wondering why he couldn't find an answer,
Myra Hake said, "Postpone aging? What's this about?"

Barton shrugged. "It gave me a jolt, I'll tell you. Limila,
here—" He gestured, "You wouldn't believe her chrono-
logical age if I wrote it in my own blood; the Tilarans hava
some sort of longevity treatments. Limila says they mighr
work for us, too. In fact, she only mentioned them by ac-
cident, because she assumed we probably had the
same thing." Talking about it made his mind work again;

373

he turned to Limila. "All right; I suppose today's as good
a day as any to see what we can find out,"

"Hold up a minute." Cheng leaned forward. "Taking
your word that such treatments exist, how far does it go?
Have you thought ahead?"

Barton wasn't sure what he meant, but Limila said,
"Why, of course you and Myra, and Abdul, must have
the same opportunity. And—"

"And. yes," said Cbeng. "I—"

Abdul broke in. "For myself, I shall abstain from any
such course, until my wife back on Earth can share it
with me. I have no wish to stay young while she does^not."

"It's not just us," Cheng said. "If something like this
hits Earth, what happens to the very delicate population
balance?"

For seconds, everybody talked at once. Then Barton
held up a hand and got some quiet. "This problem's go-
ing to take some thinking, and I admit / haven't done any,
yet." Now he thought, and said, "Add an arbitrary fifty
years, say, to the average lifespan on Earth, and for the
first fifty years, the ghost of Malthus is going to have a
field day. After that, the death rate catches up again and
things drift back to present normal. And there's ways to
minimize the bulge. Maybe tie fertility restrictions to
artificial longevity—make it an earned privilege, not a
right." The overwhelming complications confused liis line
of thought; he shook his head then, and said only. "Some
thinking, I said? A lot of iti But there's time for that, as
long as the word doesn't get out into the rumor factory.
And mainly, we don't know yet whether the Tilaran
processes even work for our species."

Cheng nodded. "Ordinarily I take a dim view of the
elitist concept of keeping secrets for the good of those
left ignorant, but this makes twice this year that I'm
forced to accept it as the lesser evil." Looking at Barton,
whose eyebrows had raised, he said, "The other? The great
ship, on Sisshain, of course."

"Oh, sure." Barton nodded agreement.

"Very well," Limila said. "Barton, can we leave here,
do you think, within the hour?" Again he nodded. "Then
I will call and arrange a meeting for us, at the medical
place."

Umila drove the car; she knew where they were going
374

and Barton didn't, and now there was no need for combat-
style driving. She left the scattered settlement that con-
tained Tevann's residence, and Barton soon realized they
were headed back to the city adjoining the main space-
port. When she pulled up and parked beside a building,
Barton looked at it and recognized it; this was where Limda
had gamed her transplanted breasts.

The place still didn't look like a hospital, to Barton—
an irregularly convex structure with concave sections
dished in here and there, roughly two stories high, and
finished in colors shading from pale blue-green near the
entrance to a fluorescent orange at the top of the side he
could see. As they left the car and walked into the build-
ing, a broken corner to one side caught his attention and
triggered memory. Same building, all right.

And inside, first what looked like a combined bedroom
and living room, rather than any sort of lobby. And the
curved narrow corridor, and the somewhat elastic door
that took a good hard knock to make any sound. From
inside it, someone said, "Be of entrance." And they went
in.

Doctors are doctors. Barton decided, no matter where
you find them. These two Tilarans, a man and a woman
wearing smooth, green, tight-fitting jumpsuits of a sort,
quizzed Limila as if Barton were deaf, mute, and incapa-
ble of understanding. Well, th& last part was close to true;

their terminology was new to him' and there was no point
in butting in and trying to learn it in a hurry.

So he kept his mouth shut and did what they told him.
He stripped, was scrubbed from the neck down with
something that turned out to be a depilatory—among
other things, probably—and submitted to the taking of (
a lot of samples from his goose-pimpled body. The place,
he thought, could have used a little warming.

He was handed a pill and swallowed it, and went onto
a calm, euphoric high that felt better than anything he'd
ever got from black hash in Nam. Each touch of needle or
scalpel made a delightful tingling that radiated from me
spot in ripples that closed together in the middle of his
head and left him shuddering with joy. One comer of
his mind remembered that Tilara didn't have anesthesia.
"There is a drug," Limila had told him long ago, back
on Earth. "Pain becomes ecstasy." It sure as hell did.

375

He tried to keep track of what samples were taken, not
all of them painful in any case. Blood, saliva, perspira-
tion, semen, lymph, urine, spinal fluid, skin tissue, a snip
of muscle, fluid from his left eyeball, the involuntary
tears that came from his frantic fear (drug or no drug)
when' they messed with his eye, wipings from his nose,
from his ears. Something happening at the back of his
thigh as he lay face down, and from the sound of it, the
sample was probably bone marrow. A probing aE his rear,
and he couldn't figure why they'd need to sample his
feces. But be my guest. Then some twinges, here and
there, that gave him no idea at all as to what was being

extracted.

Then they were done with him; be was taken to another

room and put to bed, flat on his back. The drug was wear-
ing off, but he felt only minor pains from their invasions
of his body. Limila leaned over him and said, "Until
tomorrow at this time you must lie as still as you find
possible. Otherwise, you may suffer very bad headaches,
at the least I will sit with you, as much as I may, to re-
mind you to avoid movement. But now, try to rest."

A whole damn day, stuck flat on his back with no
advance warning? Why, he'd go nuts. He was still think-
ing that way, a little outraged, when he realized he was

about to go to sleep.

When he woke, he was given his breakfast '•to drink
through a bent plastic straw. In the food they must have
put a lesser version of the drug, because Barton lay cheer-
fully groggy for what had to be quite a few hours. Some-
times, when he opened his eyes, Liroila was there;

sometimes it was a Tilaran he didn't know. When he woke
with his head working more or less, though, Limila
greeted him. "You are feeling better. Barton? Now it will
be all right for you to move, for us to return to Tevann's."

Return to Tevann's? Just like that? Barton blinked
once. "They figure the treatment won't work on me;

right?"                                •            -^-»^

Limila shook her head. "That is not the situation."

"Then what is? Don't I get a report?"

She told him, and then they went back to Tevann's

place.

"Here's how it is," said Barton, across the raised pool
376

that set in the middle of the foot-well, a few decimeters
below eye level. Around the perimeter of padded floor
that served for seating, Myra and Cheng looked at him
intensely, Abdul Muhammed with an air of total calm.
Tevann looked mildly interested, and Uelein as well.
Limila, of course, already knew what he'd say, and could
correct him if he got it wrong- The colorful little creatures
sporting in the pool, Tilaran equivalent of fish, would
hardly care. Barton took another sip of a local distillation
that came close to being bourbon but didn't quite make
it, and said his piece.

"AU they guarantee," he said, "is mat if I try this option
it won't kill me. Going to take them a while, I'm told, to
tailor the various stuffs to my individual metabolism.
They have to do that with their own people, even, and
this has to be trickier."

"And you don't know," said Cheng, "if it will extend
your life?"

"They don't know," Barton said. "We can try it, they
say, and either way I'll live, not lose anything. But it's a
pisser."

"How so?" said Myra Hake.

"Whether it works or not, you suffer a lot, for a few
weeks. Limila hadn't mentioned that part, before." He
shrugged. "Well, no reason why she should. Nothing much
comes for free."            ^

"And when would you know,".said Abdul, "whether or
not the treatment has been effective? In the sense of in-
creased longevity?"

"If over the next ten years," Limila said, "Barton has
not aged appreciably, then we might assume some benefit V
from treatment."

Myra said, "Barton—are you going to try it? Be the
guinea pig?"

He laughed, not for long. "Sure. Because guinea pig,
that's exactly right. Somebody has to, regardless of how
we work out the implications for Earth. And I seem to be
the only one in the crowd whose most needful person is
going to outlive him by maybe fifty years if he doesn't
come up with some kind of miracle."

"And the rest of us wait ten years, still aging," said
Cheng Ai, "until we see whether the gimmick works on
you?"

Myra Hake reached an arm around Cheng's head and

377

pulled him over to her. "Of course not, you dear idiot.
Three guinea pigs are better than one."

The waiting period. Barton thought, before learning
whether Tilari techniques could extend Earthani Ufespan,
took a lot of pressure off the worries about overpopulated
Earth. "So long as we keep this whole bundle under Top
Clam," he said. Nobody disagreed. Cheng and Myra went
to the main port area and underwent the same discomforts
Barton had endured. Myra brought back a supply of the
depilatory stuff, for use in maintaining the Tilaran front
hairline on herself and Barton and Cheng and Ahdul,
just in case the disguise might really fool anybody. Barton
was pleased; be was tired of trying to cover shaving
stubble with makeup, even though sunlamp treatment
had given the bared scalp areas about the same color as
everybody's original foreheads. Barton still thought their
attempts to fake Tilaran appearance looked pretty silly,
but it was the only game in town, so why argue?

Anyway, his body gave evidence that the effect wasn't

permanent.

Vertan came once to visit, and reported that without

Tilaran permission, Karsen ap Fenn had put squads of
armed Marines to patrolling the main port city. "They are
likely of search for all of you," he said. "I am by no means
of consent that he do these things, but as yet—"

"You don't want to start an open fight with the sbn-of-
a-bitch," said Barton, and Vertan nodded. Barton thought
a moment, and said, "Do you know what he's done about

our ship? If anything?"

Invested it with armed Marines, the answer came.
What else? Barton frowned. "But is he doing anything
about the extra weapons?" Not a chance that ap Fenn's
people on their own could replicate the twin-ion beam or
the plasma gun or the high-drive torpedoes, but...

**He has not asked of our aid," said Vertan. "And
should he, he will not be of receipt of it. Though to re-
fuse him might be of awkwardness."

"Yeh,** Barton said. "Awkward. But just hang in aw^

ward, Vertan, if that's what it takes."
If Twieton would only get back here!

But Tarieton didn't, nor did any ships from the first
fleet. Ap Fenn fumed, Barton was told, under the slow
niggling process of refueling as set by Vertan. Tiring of

- 378

secondhand reports. Barton once drove to the main port's
city and prowled the port himself, feeling that his Tilaran
disguise must stand out like a clown suit. But no one
challenged him,,and indeed he saw Karsen ap Fenn him-
self within quiet-hello range, and the man glanced briefly
at him and turned away and walked on. For a moment
Barton was insanely tempted to go after the admiral and
do his Tilaran impersonation on some sort of interview
format: "I am of the public bureau for information, of
disseminating current facts, and I would like to ..." But
then he shrugged and dropped the idea. Don't be stupid.
So he watched ap Fenn, well guarded by armed person-
nel, move away.

At "home," at the residence of Tevann and sometimes
of Uelein, Barton tried to relax and enjoy life. He wasn't
good at waiting; he never had been, which was one
reason the eight years in the Demu cage had made him a
little hard to get along with, by the time he escaped. He
knew all about that. Barton did. It didn't help much.

He had figured that Limila would spend some night-
times with Tevann, her most needful person in the old
days before her capture, and he was right Tilaran sexual
protocol pretty well put it up to him and Uelein, to tidy
up the edges; he knew that. But while he liked the
woman well enough, and she also seemed friendly. Barton
felt no urge or need for intimacy with her. Uelein was
sure enough a nice lady, but they didn't know each other,
any.

That lack hadn't always stopped Barton, though. One \
evening, left on his own again, he borrowed a car and
drove down to the nearby auxiliary spaceport Where
livajj and Gerain had been placed in jobs on a Tilaran
starship. He found the ship, and found welcome.

They—Gerain and livajj and several crewmates—were
eating. Barton was fed; he accepted klieta and some local
booze that had good clout but no flavor pattern that quite
fit what his tastebuds recognized. For now, though, it
would do.

And then Evajj bade him rise and steered him to a
quiet cabin, and made drinks for them both and sat facing
him and took his hand.

"Barton—it has been a long time. I am now of glad-
ness."

Suddenly it was the same as their first meeting. livajj
still wore her dark red hair in a heavy curl that came

379

forward over her left shoulder. Her lips still parted in a

smile of welcome. When in Rome—Barton sighed, and
went to her without reserve, and found that .he hadn't
forgotten one sweet thing about her, nor remembered
anything incorrectly, either.

Afterward, before he drove home, they fed him well
again, too.

Even with the flexible linings of the Tilaran dentures,
Limila's new teeth were stretching her jaw muscles. But
on their own, those teeth hadn't sprouted quite far enough
to work with any real comfort. Put that annoyance to-
gether with the developing pregnancy, and Barton could
see why Limila was a little touchy, sometimes. So when
she said she was heading in to the main port's medical
center again, he felt relief and didn't ask questions.-

She came back with her head bandaged and no wig
would have covered the bulk of it. "The scalp of that girl
is implanted on me. Barton. I will again, as before the
Demu, grow hair that I cannot wash and hang some-
where, conveniently, until it dries."

First time, this was, that she hadn't asked him about
making changes in the things the Demu had done to her.
So he grappled onto her with a hug, and said, "That's
good. We'll see how it goes." Well, they each had their

vulnerable spots. Barton's could wait.

<

As before, with the breasts, Limila's bandages also held
protruding bits of apparatus, dotted with small flashing
indicator lights. The trick. Barton knew, was to filter the
blood entering and leaving the transplant, removing the
enzymic factors that would otherwise cause rejection,
until Limila's blood shifted the balance and n& more
filtering was necessary. The indicators had been designed
to face forward, so she could use a mirror to check the
state of affairs, and Barton was glad of that much, be-
cause either he wasn't good at understanding the complex
sequence and its changes, or 'else she was no great shakes
at explaining it. At any rate, Limila seemed satisfie^i-^y
the progress the lights showed.

The tests on Cheng and Myra gave i^e Tuaran medics
enough info. Barton learned, to go ahead and develop
longevity treatments for Earthani. With only Barton's
samples to work from, there had been questions as to
what differences were individual to him and which

380

were inter-species constants. But three people gave the
Tilarans a baseline, so to speak, a way to define the
parameters of treated and untreated Tilarans and Earthani
on a clear-cut basis of "A is to B as C is to D." Which
meant. Barton decided, that at least they weren't flying
as blind as they had been.

Again, enzymes were an important key. It wasn't
enough to introduce modified ones into the body; the
trick was to convince the body, from then on, to produce
the modified variety. And the process. Barton heard with
foreboding, could kick up all sorts of painful hell for the
patient. Well, he'd try to be braced for it. Especially since
the ecstasy drug would interact and foul up the results,
maybe, so it couldn't be used.

Finally, Limila discarded the flex-lined Tilaran den-
tures; they were stretching her face past the point at
which her lips could close naturally. The abrupt shortening
seemed odd at first, but that, too, would go away to some
extent, and meanwhile Barton pretended not to notice.

One day Vertan came to announce that a Tilaran
ship, from Sisshain, had arrived. It was at the aux port,
having been turned away from the main one where its
captain had expected to land. But the exchange between
ship and ground had alerted Karsen ap Fenn, and the
admiral wanted to put the crew on the griddle. Or so
Barton stated it Then he said, "You going to let him?
You don't have to, you know."

Vertan spread his bands. "I will let him speak to the i
captain, in my own official place of work. And I have told •
her that she is not to give this man any of the confidential
reports she has from Tarleton. Progress of events, only,
in dealing with the Demu, she will relate to ap Fenn."

Confidential reports, huh? Barton was curious. But the
packets were labeled restricted, Vertan said, to channels
that did not include Barton. "And do you get to see
them?" Barton said. Vertan signed a negative. Barton
thought about it, and nodded. "How about you and I go
talk with this captain, first?"

"That," said Vertau, "was to have been my next sug-
gestion."

Barton hadn't been on Tilaran ships much; the layout
differed quite a bit. He and Vertan had come alone; a

381

crewman met them at the boarding ramp and took them
to captain's quarters. The woman who greeted them,
Barton thought, had to be as old as the hills, because her
face had deep lines and her hairline had thinned and
receded considerably. Of course, if he didn't know Limila
was Earth-eighty, he'd have pegged this one at maybe
sixty. But as it was ...

In hoarse, gruff tones, but obviously intending to sound
pleasant, the woman introduced herself. "Etraig, Captain,
at your service. It is of pleasure, your presence here,
Vertan. And Barton—we had not, before, been of meet-
ing." Barton shook her hand, Vertan embraced with her,
and she offered them seats and klieta. Once settled, she
said, "You would be of knowledge?"

"I would." Barton asked, and she answered straight-
forwardly enough. On Sisshain, things were going to plan.
Allied ships paired with Demu escorts had been sent to
the various Demu worlds, to announce the end of Demu
raiding and the start of peace- Only from the two nearest
planets had word come back, but on those the treaty had
been accepted. Well, Barton thought—when Sholur,
Keeper of the Heritage, laid down the law to Demu, they
heeded.

While Barton was trying to think what to ask next,
Etraig said, "A recorded message for you, Barton, I have
of the young Demu. Eeshta. Whose egg-parent, Hishtoo,
is largely of recovery."

"Eeshta? No kidding? I've wondered how the1 youngster
was doing." Well, a couple of times he'd wondered, be-
tween other worries, so it wasn't quite a lie. But now
Barton found himself eager to hear what young Eeshta
had to, say to him. "Etraig, will your equipment here
handle the recording?"

"It will. But if the message is of confidence ... ?"

He thought quickly. "Couldn't be- Not anything that
you and Vertan can't hear, Vertan trusting you as I know
he does."

So she put the capsule into a recess. Dressed switches
and turned a dial. Then the high, clear voice^^me.
"Hello, Barton. I am Eeshta, speaking. I hope all goes
well with you." Then came a pause, and the sound of the
pulsed hiss that was Demu laughter, before Eeshta spoke
again. And this time, in the Demu language. ""Barton, it is
that Tarieton worries. That although no trouble comes

382

from my people, since agreement, Tarieton would hear
word from you or from Earth. It is that the second Earth
fleet of ships is overdue, in his reckoning, that this frets
him." Pause again. "Barton, it is not that I laugh at
Tarleton's worry, I should reassure; only that I laugh at
others hearing this, who perhaps should not, and cannot,
know what I say to you." And yet another pause, while
Barton gave the kid some points for smart. Then: "It is
that Tarieton would know from you what occurs on
Tilara—and if possible to say, on Earth." A click came,
and Barton recalled that sometimes that sound came with
the tifted-tongue gesture that was the Demu smile. And
then in English: "That is all. Barton. I am well, and
Hishtoo improves with slow sureness. It is certain that he
will be able to allow himself to live, and he has not called
a non-Demu an animal for some days now. Since shortly
after you departed Sisshain, in fact.

"Barton, I hope I will see you again; the Demu owe
you much, and perhaps only I and Sholur appreciate how
much, yet. And I nearly forgot—I bear Sholur's greet-
ings, also. And now, from Eeshta to Barton, good-bye."
The recording clicked to aa end.

Before he said anything, Barton thought. Then he
nodded, and spoke. 'The part you didn't get, folks, was in
Demu. Actually, it concerned something I already had in
mind: we need to get word to Tarieton, down-Arm on
Sisshain, of the situation here." Well, he'd mentioned it
before, to Vertan, but somehow never got any real an-
swers.

Now he got one. Twice, Vertan had dispatched ships
from the aux port, for Sisshain. The first one, ap Fenn's
patrols had hailed and turned back. The second had made
a run for it and been overhauled, holed but not seriously
disabled by the Earthani laser, stopped and boarded,
brought back under escort.

"Why the heil didn't you say something?"
"I felt the problem was of Tilara, of myself to solve:

not of you. But I have become of willingness to ask your
advice."

Barton frowned. "You could've raised hell with ap
Fenn for firing on your ship. You didn't, so that means
you want to avoid open conflict at any price." He shook
his head. "Given a couple-three ships to work decoy tor
each other, I'd guarantee to break at least one past the

383

patrol ships. But if the admiral has even one ship fueled
for a long chase, it'd catch us."

Vertan didn't look happy. "So there is no chance to
warn Tarieton?"

Barton shook his head. Silently, he was lying. There
was a chance, all right. But it would mean knocking the
ships of the second fleet over like so many dominoes, and
there had to be a way to circumvent one megalomaniac
without doing that much damage.

Etraig and her first officer, a younger roan whose name
Barton didn't quite catch, hosted Barton and Vertan a
meal. Then it was time to get back to Tevann's place, and
after the usual thanks and felicitations, Vertan drove
them there, and left for his duties at the main port. In-
doors, Barton returned Umila's greeting kiss and then
called council and told the Ship One people what he'd
learned. They didn't like it any better than he did.

Myra Hake reached to tug the bangs she no longer had.
"You mean, Terike's ass of an uncle has Tilara bottled
up?"

"Sounds that way," said Cheng Ai. "Unless, as Barton
said, we land a ship in the middle of the second fleet with
the Shield on, and wreck things a great deal more than
we'd really like,"

Abdul Muhammed spoke. 'There is another possibil-
ity."

"Yeh?" Barton leaned forward, then sat back< The big
man would tell it in his own way, as be got around to it.
"What?"

"Inhibitor," Abdul said. "It was developed to keep fuel
stable for long storage in ground tanks, and must be
electrolyzed out before the fuel is usable. If the Tilarans
do not know of it, I can give Vertan the basic information
needed to make the substance. Then in the normal re-
fueling process he can introduce it into ap Fenn's ships,
and—"

"One moment," said Limila. "We are speaking of how
much time?"

Abdul shrugged. "Well, several months, I would Jfrink.
But—"                                      ^

"Then you must speak to Vertan about this idea," she
said. "But meanwhile—and in terms of time, there is no
conflict here—Barton and Myra and Cheng will undergo
the longevity treatments."

384

Well, Barton thought, he hadn't really expected a re-
prieve.

Limila's pregnancy was bulging a little. Her teeth
hadn't quite grown to full length; the discrepancy
bothered her. And her transplanted scalp itched where
she couldn't scratch it So when it was time for Barton
and Myra and Cheng to go in for the attempt at longevity
treatments, she begged off from driving them,

All right; Barton had been over the route a few times.
Turn right where the valley forked, and cut off short of
the main spaceport; from there he could find his way
easily enough. He repeated the directions to Limila; she
kissed him and sent the lot of them on their way.

Under the pale blue sky, with Tilara's sun warming
through thin high cloud. Barton drove the car. A little
apprehensive, he didn't feel much like talking. Myra and
Cheng, together in the seat behind him, spoke low-toned;

he could hear no words so they didn't distract him.

Barton's mind went into daydream-mode and his driv-
ing went onto automatic. When he saw the building they
wanted, be was surprised to be there so soon. He parked
the car and they went inside.

An hour later he lay trussed up in harnesses and tub-
ing, with a variety of needles and syringes plugged into
improbable parts of his anatomy. Again he was bald from
the neck down, but that was the least of the changes—f
now he saw his blood leave his chest, go into something
that looked like a food blender, and return, all via tubes
of more than a centimeter's thickness. The trouble was,
the returning blood wasn't exactly what he considered to
be the right color. And coming into him, it felt cold.

The needles inserted into his major joints—hips to
ankles, shoulders to wrists—were electrical. On some of
them he could guess the frequencies, pretty dose, }ust
from being "bitten" a lot in his undergrad physics labs,
The piece of metal in his neck, though, and the one enter-
ing his abdomen Just under the sternum—those were low-
freq, and gradually built within him a nauseous ache, and
overwhelming fatigue. For a time he wasn't sure whether
he was going to throw up or go to sleep, first. He didn't
throw up.

Waking was no better. He hurt and ached and felt sick,
or maybe poisoned, and had no energy. He didn't get fed,

385

because his nourishment came directly into his veins, they
told him. His mind moved upstairs out of the way, where
it didn't have to pay so much attention to the things that
made his body convulse, wracking in spasms. Barton
hadn't had the dry heaves since the morning after he
drank half a fifth of Southern Comfort when he was in
junior college, but compared to what he had now, the
earlier version seemed easy. He began to think he might
be learning what a friend's sister must have felt- like,
shrinking and slowly dying while chemotherapy failed to
stop the carcinoma that had eluded the radical surgery.
When nausea is the whole world, not a hell of a lot else

can really matter.
There came a time when Barton wanted out, oufbf all

of it. So that sometimes he cursed the stubborn thing with-
in him, that wouldn't let him give up, ever. But then he
realized that he was that thing. So there was no escape,
at all.

At first—how many days later?—be didn't recognize
the woman leaning down to face him. He knew, vaguely,
that she'd been here before, and often. But she couldn't
be anyone he knew, because none of the women in his
college classes had foreheads that reached back to the
ears. He couldn't understand anything she said, either.

Later—though he had no concept of time—some of
her words came clearer to him, and he remembered a
few things, and tried to speak. But this woman, her knew,
couldn't be Limila, because Limila was either bald or
wore & wig, and this person had a faint shadow of dark
fuzz on her head, growing in the TUaran pattern. Not,
therefore, Limila. The hell with it; Barton turned away

and settled into fretful sleep.

Then one day he woke without nausea; he felt weak,
but not sick. On a hunch, he looked and saw that the
low-frequency electrode was gone from his belly; he didn't
feel the ache-inducing stimulus at his neck, either. And
when Limila walked in, this time he knew her. Her scalp
carried more than a centimeter of new hair, so if Tilarans
grew the stuff at the same rate as Eartbani, Barton figui^d
he must. have been in Limbo just about an Earth-iriSnth.

Careful to avoid the plumbing, she sat on the edge of
his bed. Her bulge was prominent now; Barton couldn't
remember whether Earthwomen, when they began ex-
panding, did it in such a hurry.

386

She leaned across and kissed him. "Barton—you are
past the worst part now?" He nodded. "Only a few days
more, and you can come away from this place."

"That's good." His voice came out sounding like an old
man's. "How's Cheng and Myra?"

"They have had less difficulty than you. Because they
are younger, perhaps. Two days ago I took both to
Tevann's home. They are weak, of course, and have lost
much weight, as you have. But recovery should not take
any great time. Nor for you, either."

Barton had his doubts about that last part, but all he
could do was wait and see. "Anything been happening, I
should know?"'

"Yes, Barton. And not good." Two ships from Tarle-
ton's fleet had returned, several days apart. The first had
landed as directed, and ap Fenn's Marines had taken the
crew into custody. The captain of the second ship had
asked to talk to his opposite number on the first, or to
Barton. When ap Fenn denied the request and repeated
the landing orders, that skipper told the admiral where to
go, and tried to make a run for it. Ap Fenn's faster, more
heavily weaponed escort ships blew him out of space.
"And that was the end of Ship Thirty-four and our friend
Captain Lombard."

"Lombard!" Ship Thirty-four, one of the two that had
gone with Barton on the strike force to Sisshain. And his
mind formed the picture of ii small Hindu woman, black
braid reaching her knees, who looked to be twelve years
old—Miss Chindra, the genius-grade computer expert on
Lombard's ship. "That maniac—that murderer, ap Fenn!
I'll—" He found himself trying to sit up, but his outburst
threw him into a fit of coughing and he lay back, Limila's
hands trying to hold him quiet. "All right; I'll be good,"

"Barton, you must not excite yourself at this time."

"Sure not." But he felt his jaw muscles clamp; relaxing
them took a conscious effort. Rage shook him, and grief;

without warning be found himself sobbing so hard it hurt
him in the guts. Limila held him, and after a time he
could stop.

"Is it all right now. Barton?"

He shook his head. "It never will be. Not while ap
Fenn's alive." The admiral had been hunting them, had
he? From now, it was a new ball game. Once on his feet,
and back in some kind of working shape. Barton was
going to be the hunter.

387

He didn't know how, just yet, but he'd think of some-
thing.

Five days later, Limila came to take him to Tevann's.
Barton said his good-byes to the Tilaran doctors and all
the staff members he could find on short notice, and
walked his slow, fragile way to the car outside. Riding
through mist and a light drizzle, with hazy sunlight still
making the day brighter than not, he kept silent,- On ar-
rival, he got a boisterous welcome; his shipmates and their
hosts came outside as soon as the car stopped, and all
talked at once as they accommodated themselves to his
pace, going in. Lunch was accompanied by quite a lot of
wine. Barton wasn't used to the stuff lately, so afterward
he took a nap. He hadn't spoiled everybody's fun by mak-
ing the slightest mention of Karsen ap Fenn.

Later that day, and from then on, Barton applied him-
self to getting some strength back. He'd lost more than
ten kilos of weight, and a lot of it had to be muscle. So,
having to start more slowly than he'd like or would have
believed, he undertook a program of exercise and rest and
diet. He ate more than he wanted, and worked himself to
the point of nausea and near to collapse.

He didn't keep track of the days, only of his own prog-
ress. And for now, he said nothing to anyone, of his in-
tentions toward the admiral. When he had some kind of
good plan was time enough.

Finding a way to kill ap Fenn wasn't the hard part;

the trouble was that Barton wanted to kill only ap Tenn,
not a whole ship or maybe half the second fleet. So he
couldn't simply he his way into control of a Tilaran ship,
and put a Larka-Te high-drive torpedo into the Big Hun-
dred. That's the way ap Feoa would have done it, likely,
in Barton's shoes—but that was precisely why Barton
wanted the man dead.

So it took some thinking. Barton's project did. Well, he
had plenty of time for it. But time continued to pass, and
no notably good ideas came to mind," even when he'd
fought his body back to its normal strength and alertness,
and maybe a little better. By Barton's best guess, J^'d
passed his forty-second birthday sometime during the
hospitalized period when he didn't know one day from
another and couldn't care, so he didn't really expect
Olympic-grade athletic prowess from himself. Bu< he was
determined to get into reasonably good shape, and he did.

388

The morning he completed a five-kilo run without drop-
ping into a walk or getting a disabling stitch in his side,
he decided it was time to talk in council. He was panting
when he made that decision; his lungs felt like fire and
his legs ached, but still he felt good. Because now his
body would do what he told it to.

At the end of lunch, all having eaten together, he
sprung it. "I'm calling council. Maybe you've wondered
why I never said anything about ap Fenn's killing Ship
Thirty-four. I've wondered why you didn't, either, but it's
good you didn't. I wasn't ready; now I am. Not that any-
body else is stuck with what / want"

"I had told them immediately," Limila said, "that you
want the man's death. No one disagrees, to any significant
extent. But all consented that the matter lie until you
yourself propose it for discussion. Which you have now
done."

"Everybody two jumps ahead of me, huh?" The idea
rated a smile; he gave it. "Well, I don't have any real
plan yet. All I've figured out is what would do the job,
that I can't do." He told them, and saw agreement all
around. "I think we need to know how everybody feels,
before trying to plan."

Gripping hands, Myra and Cheng looked at each other;

then she spoke. "You know we're pretty much against

violence, Cheng and I; that's*one thing that attracted us to
each other. We've had weapons training, though; we're

death on targets." Her mouth made a twist, then straight-
ened. "But I liked Chin—she was as sweet as she was

smart and pretty. Killing her was an abomination! So I

think I could pull trigger on ap Fenn." She sighed. "But

ahead of time, I can't be sure. I guess that's not good

enough."

"It's fine," said Barton, "long as I know. You're willing

to help other ways, though?" She nodded; so did Cheng.

"Then well just plan things so that pulling triggers isn't

part of your jobs."

Limila started to say something; bis pointing finger

stopped her. "You're too pregnant for combat, and that's

that."

"Combat, yes," she said, "but not for target practice.

And basically that is what a sniper does." Now Barton,

trying to speak, was the one overridden. "In your plan-

389

ring, you will include that possibility. If only for a diver-
sion, to aid the primary assailant."

While Barton was trying to think of an answer, Abdul
Muhammed spoke. "Before the Central African Republic
was formed, a part of it was a separate country called
Uganda." Sure; Barton knew of it. He nodded. "For a
time it was ruled by a madman; he killed at random and
by whim. A plot was formed against him; one of my
uncles, in that country for business reasons, became a
part of it. His role was as Limila has said, to create a
diversion—in his case, at the crucial moment to appear
to run amok with a machete." Abdul's smile was wry.
"Amok is not indigenous to that area, but the conspirators
felt the simulation would be effective, nonetheless." "
Myra Hake gasped. "But what happened?"
Abdul shrugged. "The plot failed; the tyrant survived
and the plotters did not. But none of this was my uncle's
fault; he did his part, I am told, to perfection. And took
six guards with him, into death."

Barton frowned. "You're saying something. But'what?"
"That in case of need, I like to think I would \w as
good a man as my uncle was."

Barton' wouldn't go for the idea; he was adamant
"We're not going to have any sacrifice Jiitters, any kami-
kazes. If we can't exterminate ap Fenn without unaccept-
able risk to our people, we won't try it at all. Nobody
takes any worse chances than III take for myself—and
that's final."

Limila brushed a hand at her new hair, still too short
to make use of a comb. "And how far do you intend to
risk yourself?"

Barton looked at her. He'd always been honest with
this woman, and this was no time to stop. "To tell you the
truth, I haven't quite figured that out yet. Except that
when I try to guess the odds, I'll never put ap Penn's
death ahead of my own life, if I can help it."

Now Umila's expression relaxed. "So that you do not
lose sight of that criterion, Barton, I am satisfied."

Nothing was settled, but Barton needed an sfta^unch
nap, anyway. He wasn't sleeping too well at night, not in
long stretches, so he eked his rest out with brief daytime
dozes and the change seemed to work pretty welUfor him.
He was getting up, putting on his exercise clothes for an

390

afternoon workout, when Limila came in and said there
was a call for him. "It is Arieta Fox."

When he went to the terminal, he found he had sound
but no picture, incoming. He touched the switch that
would delete his own image at the distant end, then de-
cided the hell with that.

"Barton here. Who's calling?" Would LimUa know the
doctor's voice?

A quick laugh came. "It's your little bulldog friend,
Barton. Arlie, speaking. I have someone who wants to
get in touch with you."

Barton considered. Well, nothing to do but ask. "Like
who?"

"Annand Dupree. And perhaps I need a hidey-hole,
too. If I do, is there one available?"

He thought about it. Well, Tevann had been willing to
put up Gerain and livajj, if they'd needed it. "Yes, I
think so. But what's up, makes you think you're in that
kind of a jam?"

Pause; then he beard the faint sound of a sigh. "Have
you heard that Karsen ap Fenn had one of our own ships
blown to dust? One of Tarleton's, I mean?"

"I've heard, yes." For now, that's all he wanted to say.

"The captain of that ship was a good friend of Annand
Dupree. Armand made a plan, a risky one, to try to kill
the admiral. I wouldn't say that Annand was totally
stable when he heard about what happened to Ship
Thirty-four."

"Which speaks well of him," said Barton. "What hap-
pened, though?" He listened, while she told it the long
way. It wasn't that Fox was a sloppy thinker. Barton
thought. Not hardly. But the teller of a story always puts
in stuff that's important to him or her, that doesn't mean
doodly to the hearer, who wants the bones of it.

What it boiled down to was that Armand Dupree had
sent word asking ap Fenn for a review of his case, and
bad been admitted to the admiral's presence under all
sorts of supposed -mutual safeguards. It sounded pretty
kamikaze to Barton, but he shut up and listened.

He wasn't clear, the way she said it, how Dupree man-
aged to smuggle the gun in. But he did, somehow, and ap
Fenn moved too fast and got away alive, and then Dupree
shot his own way out of the trap planned for him. The
part that made Barton laugh was that ap Fenn wouldn't
be sitting down comfortably for a time, except on one

391

side. That Dupree had killed some flunkies, getting away,
Barton didn't find funny at all.

Not much to say, really. "Ariie. You think you're on a
secure line now?"

"It's a bootleg. Ap Fenn tapped my residence phone,
so I haven't been using it for anything important."

"You know this, how?" In a few words, she convinced
him, so he said, "You know you have to get here without
a tail on you, or not at all. Can you do it?"

"I think so." He heard her clear her throat "No, I'm
sure I can. It may take a day or two. All right?"

"Sure. And—Dupree comes with you, you say?"

"I won't seek shelter for myself, without him."

"Right We'll expect you both, then." Barton cur the
circuit Sure enough, he was beginning to collect the right
kind of people.

Two days, it took; then Fox and Dupree arrived. Bar-
ton recalled this one of his first four pilot trainees on the
original Demu ship as a slim, dapper man who looked
alert and wore a hairline mustache. The dapper part still
fit, and the alertness and the mustache, but the short man
had gone podgy since Barton last saw him. He moved
well, though, Jumping down from the groundcar and stalk-
ing over to shake Barton's hand. He said, "This is your
base? I thank you for offering shelter. We must compare
plans; I have several."

Barton didn't ask, plans for what because hcrknew.
He said, "I hope you have better ones than I do. But in
case nothing fast works, we do have a slow one going."
For Abdul Muhammed's scheme, to add "inhibitor" to
the fuel tanks of ap Fenn's fleet, was proceeding. Trouble
was. Barton kept in mind, that the results wouldn't hap-
pen in any kind of hurry. For now, he said no more, and
escorted the two guests indoors.

It was mid-afternoon and he should have been exercis-
ing, by his own self-set schedule, but it seemed to be
conference time, so Barton went along with that. fie sat
as chairman by habit and because no one else ever
seemed to want the job. After all the introductions.^and
explanations back and forth. Barton cut in.        ^

"I think the question before the house is the termina-
tion of Karsen ap Fenn. The chair is open to suggestions."

The trouble was, nobody had any good ones. Armand
392

Dupree had used up one of the best ideas—the apostate
pleading for a new hearing and forgiveness—without
success. "No," Barton said. "He wouldn't bite on that
again, or anything like it."

Tevann, not at all bloodthirsty on his own account, but
sympathetic to his friends' grievances, suggested some
kind of public celebration. "Of the most deplorable, to
pervert festivities so, but if such is the only way to bring
the monster from hiding ..."

Doctor Fox reminded Tevann that ap Fenn scorned
Tilara and its people and all its works. "He wouldn't
bother to attend."

Barton thought back. "He might, if we worked it right."
Everybody was looking at him, so he continued. "What
pissed him off around here, I think, was a Tilaran woman
telling him to get lost. And making it stick." He said,
"Suppose part of me services is a beauty contest, sort of,
and ap Fenn is the prime judge, and he gets the winner
he picks."

Uelein gestured negation. "No woman would consent.
Not to anyone not of choice, and to this man, none at all."

The syntax was a little funny, but Barton caught the
meaning. Before he could speak, though, Limila said,
"There is no thought that any woman will be of submis-
sion to ap Fenn. The prospect of such development,
though, will be of lure to bria^him from hiding."

But it wouldn't work; Barton knew that much. It was
too simple. There had to be more to it, before ap Fenn
would bite and be hooked. He tried to think; at first his
mind wouldn't give him anything useful, and then it did.
He raised his voice to cut through the quiet cross-talk.
"Tevann? I know you don't have government in the same
sense as we do. But could Vertan, for instance, fake it to
be of speech for this world?" Tevann gestured assent, and
Barton moved his thinking along the rails. He said, "What
if ap Fena gets hints that besides the beauty contest, he's
going to be asked by a high-ranking Tilaran to take over
this planet as some kind of viceroy or proconsul, govern-
ing for Earth?"

"Barton, I had not thought you were of madness," said
Tevann.

"And he is not," said Limila. "But ap Fenn is."

The hassle straightened out, and Barton was able to
get his third line into the proposal—that Vertan would

393

ask amnesty for Ship One's crew, Annand Dupree, and
Arleta Fox if she needed it by now. "As a condition,"
Barton said, "to granting him viceregal status."

Myra snorted. "He'd never agree."

"I don't expect him to. The idea is to give him some-
thing to haggle over, to fix his attention. Then—"

Arleta Fox gasped. "You mean you don't know,
Barton?"

"Don't know what?"

"While you were in that hospital, doing whatever it
was." That's right; she hadn't been told yet. Barton made
a mental note,-as she said, "Armand and you, specifically,
are on the proscribed list. Ap Fenn doesn't merely want
you; now he wants you dead or alive. And preferably
dead, the rumor says."

Cheng cleared his throat. "Simply dead? Without trial?'*
Fox nodded, and Cheng said, "It shouldn't make any dif-
ference; we already knew he planned to frame Barton in
a kangaroo court. But this! Barton, I'm abandoning my
dedication to non-violence for the duration. If you -need
any triggers pulled, I'll take one."

'That goes for me, too," said Myra Hake.

•Thanks." For a moment. Barton felt all choked up,
And suddenly he had second thoughts. "You realize, don't
you, that regardless of the rights and wrongs of this whole
mess, once you're identifiably involved with the execution
of this brass-bound murderer, you're outlawed from Earth
forever?"                                       r

"And you. Barton?'* Softly, Limila said it.

"Me?" He shrugged. "I don't need Earth; I don't live
there any more. When the fleet lifted—Tarleton's, I mean
—I figured right then that I was seeing the last of Earth."

He was almost sure he meant what he said.

Limila went to call Vertan, wanting to catch him be-
fore he left his place of work because channels there
were less likely to be tapped, and present, the group's
plan to him. Because if Vertan wouldn't go along with
it, back to the old drawing board. Barton wandered into
another room and got himself a glass of the pale eseen
wine, and came back to find Arleta Fox and Myra^aSake
in conference. Arlie had one hand to her forehead; she
squinted at a mirror held in the other.

"I don't think it'll work," said Myra. "Even if* we fix
you bald in front, the rest of your hair looks like no

394

Tilaran's ever did. Then there's the height problem ..."

No lean-faced Tilaran looked like a cute bulldog, ei-
ther, but Barton, eavesdropping, kept his mouth shut, as
Doctor Fox said, "I could wear Limila's wig; she's not
using it any more. And high-lift shoes. It's not as though
I had to fool real Tilarans. Just ap Fenn's ignorant
troops."

Now Barton joined them. "You sure the admiral hasn't
managed to buy himself a few Tilaran finks?"

Looking around to him, Arleta took her hand away
from her forehead. "I'm sure you think I'm silly, too,
even considering trying to pass for Tilaran." A quick
laugh. "Well, maybe I am. But I don't want to stay holed
up, unable to visit the towns." She shook her head. "I
think I'll try me disguise, anyway, and see how it looks.
If only to give me something to do." A shrug.

"Your question, though. No Tilarans are working for
ap Fenn, except officially and aboveboard, such as Fleet
Liaison. As for official cooperation with his insane ven-
detta—well, when he sends copies of his edicts around,
and of course in English rather than in Tilaran, Vertan
posts his copies on the dart board ia the lounge. And I
understand that the other recipients react about the same
way."

"Yeh; if rd thought, I suppose I should've guessed
that. I mean, what's ap Fenn got to offer that any Tilaran
wants?"                       » -

"That's it, of course." said Myra Hake. "He's shown
no interest in these people, nothing but contempt for
them. Calls them 'Tillies.' all that. Everything that Earth
had to offer in, a military way, they . already have,
from you and Tarieton."

She frowned. "I can't imagine how he can be so stupid
as to ignore the weapons that our fleet got, from our
allies."

"What I can't imagine," said Barton, "is the stupidity
that put that bastard in charge of the second fleet."

Before Vertan made a decision, Limila reported, he
wanted to consider the group's plan thoroughly. A con-
ference was in order, but it would be at least three days
before Vertan would be free to come and attend. Barton
shrugged. "Well, that gives us time to kick the details
around a little better, ourselves."

He stood. "But right now, my lunch has settled down

395

pretty good. I think 111 go out and stretch my muscles

some more."

Dupree went with him; the short man had decided that
he needed to get back into better condition himself.
"That's what defeated me when I tried for ap Fenn," be
said- "Because I still felt good—and moved well, I
thought—I hadn't realized how the extra kilos would
slow me down when I couldn't afford it." He made a one-
sided smile. "Since that fiasco, needless to sav, I have
put myself on a considerably more restricted diet."

Dupree had quite a bit of youth on Barton, but when
they began running, he couldn't keep up for long. Panting,
he waved a hand and said, "Go at your own pace." And
Barton did. Going up a rise, skirting a grove of feathery,
purple-tinged trees, Barton dropped into a Jog. Past the
grove he saw Cheng and Myra practicing on Barton't
improvised target range; as he passed, Arieta Fox came
to join them. Was everybody turning soldier? Barton
wondered. Well, a little over-enthusiasm couldn't hurt.

Running had become painless enough, now, that it left
his mind free for other thoughts. Odd, that since learning
of the slaughter of Ship Thirty-four, of Captain Lom-
bard and Miss Chindra and the other eight or ten he'd
never known. Barton had had no qualms at all about
eradicating Karsen ap Fenn. He had simply thought of
method, not justification. But one question lay not only
open, but almost unasked: What happens af forward?

It was time he put some thought to that question. '"

For one thing. Barton knew nothing at all about the
person or persons in line to succeed ap Fenn- .Maybe
Vertan could give him a clue, or Arlie Fox; he'd have
to ask. But the answers to such questions were out,of his
control, anyway, so meanwhile he might's well look at
his possibilities, objectively. If there was any such thing
as being objective, in a mess like this ...

One. Go to ground on Tilara and stay hid out, keeping
a communication line to Vertan in case Tarleton got
back or someone came from Earth, who might1 be ap-
proachable. Tilara was a planet, not a small to'uA; if
Barton's people wanted to hide from Earth's au^ority,
Earth's authority could go whistle. Especially since Bar-
ton, bringer of the means to stop the terror of Demu
raids, was sort of a hero on Tilara. And ap qpnn was
quite the opposite. But still, the idea didn't appeal. Hid-

396

ing out was all right when you had to, but Barton had a
hunch that he could get tired of it in a hurry. In fact,
he already had. Because after a while, what would he
do with himself?

Two. Get Vertan to let him (and his) have a Tilaran
ship, maybe Captain Etraig's, that he and Vertan had
visited. Now that Barton thought about the problem, he
didn't think he'd need any other ships for decoys, to get
past the second fleet's patroL The thing was, starships
lifted straight up because any other way wasted one hell
of a lot of fuel. So that's what everybody expected and
was braced for. But if all he wanted to do was, say, get
to Chaleen—and he remembered those coordinates—he
could lift and cut low and be halfway around the planet,
plowing air all the way, and then turn upstairs and lift
in any direction be chose. Hidden by the planet itself
when he made his move, he'd be long gone before the
patrol ships could get a fix on his drive wake. And then
they couldn't be sure of anything, because Vertan hadn't
given ap Fenn the file data on drive wake detection
patterns for Tilaran ships. And wouldn't- Barton could
escape, all right.

To Chaleen. And there again, what would he find to
do?

Three. Go for broke. If they got ap Fenn, there'd be
confusion like all hell wouldn't have. Plan on it, use it.
Have part of the troops ready 'to infiltrate the port, and
when the balloon went up, the rest to join them, and take
one of ap Fenn's own ships. The Big Hundred itself,
maybe, with whatever aura of authority it might still
carry, on its own. There was no inhibitor in that one
yet, and they could refuel at the aux port. And then—

Three-A. Go to Sisshain? Dump the problem on Tarle-
ton? Not really. Tarleton didn't need that kind of mess,
on top of his own job. Having to choose between friend
and official duty. No.

Three-B. Go to Earth. Lay the whole thing on the line,
start to finish. Barton shook his head. He didn't trust
politicians that much; somebody had put ap Fenn in
charge. The somebody wasn't about to like being told
how big a mistake that had been.

Three-C. Go to Chaleen, or some place like it. But
he'd already been through that one.

Four. And there wasn't any. Barton shook his head

397

and put his mind on hold. Because it wasn't communi-
cating very well.

Briefly he tried a Four that had him calling from the
control room of the Big Hundred and assuming the ad-
miralty in his own right. Then again he shook his head.
This wasn't a Tri-V show.

And then came a thought that stopped Barton in his
tracks. Nothing to do with the problem he'd been chew-
ing on. Just a complete change of plans, was all.'

He'd worked up a good enough sweat for now, any-
way, so Barton went indoors and sluiced it off with a
spray-bath. Then he looked for Limila, and found her
lying down but not asleep. "Does your body continue to
improve, Barton?"

"So-so. I think I've pretty well leveled off. Just a mat-
ter of staying in shape, from now on." He sat down on
the bed beside her. "Limila, why didn't you tell me that
ap Fenn's after my head now?"

Her eyes widened. "But I did; don't you remember?
At the medical place. And then you had forgotten, so I
told you again."

After a moment, be got it. "I had lucid spells earlier,
and you thought I was registering?" Hesitantly, she
nodded. "Well, I forgot the second time, too." She
started to speak, but he put a finger to her Ups. "It
doesn't matter; no harm done. Anyway, I've had a new
idea," He told her, and at first she was dubious, pointing
out dangers, but finally she agreed.

"If you can do this. Barton, it will be much better."

**Yeh; I think so, too. It was only that when we heard
about the slaughter, of Lombard and Chin and the rest,
I couldn't think of anything but the one way to do some-
thing about it"

She stroked his body, still damp from bathing. "Then
it is .a good thing that there was no way for you to act
immediately."

A shudder of relief took him; he hadn't realized the
strain until he came free of it. Then he bad a different
reaction. "Limila? Would you like—?" It bad beenfluite
a while, now.                                   ^

She smiled. "If we are careful; yes." So, quite gently,
spoon-fashion to avoid pressure on her, they made love.

Myra and Cheng were off somewhere together Barton
396

learned, exploring the hills that edged this side of thi
settlement. Tevann had driven Abdul to the aux port
apparently the home computer-terminal wasn't pro'
grammed for something he was trying to calculate, so he
hoped to visit Gerain and livajj and use the facilities oc
their ship. Barton got these data from Ariie Fox, through
a closed door behind which she and Uelein were closeted,
Well, all right. I'll tell 'em later.

As it happened, the whole group was never together
all at once until the afternoon that Vertan showed up.
So, since Barton didn't feel iike repeating himself, until
that meeting he sat on his idea and hoped it would
hatch something.

Vertan looked tired, and his expression was anxious,
as Barton and Dupree did most of the talking about the
proposed festival, and Barton kept waiting for a handle
for introducing his revised plans. The "beauty contest"
part baffled Vertan. For one thing, the Tilaran said, it
was inconceivable to humiliate a group of persons of
either sex by a public verdict that one of them was the
most attractive. And for another, even if normal courtesy
were to be sacrificed at this crisis point, how could ap
Fenn or anyone else evaluate a woman's attractiveness
without having sex with her? Which, assuming a reason-
ably sized slate of candidates, who would require con-
siderable persuasion to 'participate in such a grotesque
ritual even though it was only a farce for show, would
entail several days of scheduling. And—

"Hold it!" Barton shook his head. "Your logic makes
my head swim—and I agree with it, now that you point
these things out. But ap Fenn's used to beauty pageants
on a look-don't-touch basis, so we Just add a hint that
Tilaran custom gives the judge some privileges with the
winner he chooses, and—" Vertan tried to protest, but
Barton kept talking. "Of course it won't happen. It's all
a fake, remember? To get ap Fenn out in the open."

"To kill him, yes." Vertan nodded. "Very well; pro-
ceed."

"Kill him?" Barton pretended surprise. "I don't have
the faintest intention of killing Karsen ap Fenn."

He knew there'd be a hubbub then, and in point of
fact be rather enjoyed it. When eventually he got the
floor back, he said, "All right, so I should have told you

399                          !

sooner. But everybody was ramping around here and
there, so I thought I'd wait and spring it in full council."
"I am a patient man," said Abdul Muhammed,

-but—"

"All right," Barton said. "This idea hit me out of the
blue, the other day. We can destroy the son-of-a-bitch,
as he is now, without killing him. By the amnesia effect
of the Demu sleep-gun. I don't know bow much expo-
sure it takes, but—"

Then the yelling caught up to him, and it felt as
though Abdul Muhammed would pound his back right
out through his front. Cheng was shaking him by the
shoulder, and Myra's kiss tasted of tears. "Barton, you're
beautiful!"                                     '

He grinned. "I've never denied it."

Now they got down to cases. Vertan said he'd need
two weeks to set up the festival. Barton had to ask how
many days that was, because the TUaran week was not
of fixed length. Sixteen, it came out. Okay, then—the
fun and games would take place in the area just off
the main spaceport, and a temporary pavilion to handle
the size of crowd they wanted could go up in plenty of
time. So far, so good.

All right; that's where they wanted ap Fenn. Now,
how about the bait to get him there? Honor? Glory?
Power? It had to be believable. "Don't forget loot," said
Barton, and in that comment they found the answer. Ap
Fenn had choked off Tilara's interstellar trade; he al-
lowed ships to land, but not to lift off again, "So we
name him Chief Customs Officer or Lord Protector of the
Port, or something, and give him a cut of the customs

duties."

Then he had to explain to Vertan, for Tilara had no
such things. "So we offer him a cut of the customs duties
you don't have," Barton said. "There's a technical name
for it. Bribery." And even if they didn't get ap Fenn, as
planned, the gimmick would allow trade to move again.

Now it came down to who was supposed to do, what
to whom, and where. Barton still liked the idea of trying
to take one of ap Fenn's ships—the Big HundrpC by
preference—and logically that job went to people who
couldnt' fake it well as Tflarans. "So, Vertan—can some-
body filch us uniforms from this fleet, to fit Cheng and
Abdul?" Dupree still had his. Barton knew. 'Vertan

400

said it would be easier to have Dupree's copied, and that
made sense, because something in Abdul's size would be
hard to find.

The remaining crux, of course, was getting to ap Fenn,
and nobody could think of any better bet than the
"beauty contest." "The main thing there," said Barton,
"is that we set up our own rules and format- For
instance—"

It was Strike Force country again, and that was Bar-
ton's territory. Myra and Arlie Fox and himself were all
the primary troops he had. "And I," Limila insisted; he
couldn't budge her.

"All right." He made a nod to her. "And here's how
we use us. All robed-up ceremonially, as chaperones for
a group of contestants. I don't know bow Tilaran we'll
look, but we can try."

Following the group into the newly erected pavilion,
Barton thought that Arleta Fox looked like no Tilaran
he'd ever seen. Of course, she didn't look much like her
own self, either. Behind the artificial baldness above her
forehead, she wore Limila's Tilaran-styled wig. She tee-
tered on high-lift shoes of at least two decimeters. Under
her robe, false breast-bulges set low and wide in the cor-
rect Tilaran location masked any sign of her own smaller
mammaries. Myra Hake wore a similar harness, and her
sandy hair was dyed black. Limila had a wig in the
reddish-brown shade, and makeup altered her complex-
ion to match it. Barton didn't want to think what he
looked like; he'd never worn drag before in his life.

Vertan had done a good job, he had t<» admit, setting
up the pavilion—an unroofed auditorium that held, at
Barton's quick estimate, about five thousand people. A
little over that—"three twelves-third," Vertan had said.
Enough, people to confuse the issue when the crunch
came, anyway; that was what mattered. And looking
out of the seclusion booth, about halfway back on the
left side. Barton saw that Vertan had packed the house,
all right

From where Barton stood, the place looked nice. The
walls and minor partitions were done in tones ranging
from blue-green, to green-yellow—not exactly chartreuse
—with random sparkles here and there. The seating
looked comfortable and the crowd was quiet All right;

pretty soon the show would get on the road.

401

A little time, it had taken, to explain to the "beauty
contest" candidates that once they'd played their decoy
roles, they were to get 'out of the way, period. "To be
not of harm, to be of safey," Barton had said, then fi-
nally shut up and let Limila tell it, wondering if Vertan
hadn't leveled truly with these women, or it he simply
hadnt known how to make the situation clear.

There were thirty-two of them, and if it hadn't been
for the high hairlines and low-set breasts, any one could
have been a finalist at Atlantic City or wherever such
contests were held nowadays, in Barton's home country.
Most with black hair, a few with dark reddish-brown,
and two in between. All much the same height, standing
even with Limila as she gave her explanation. When
they seemed to understand, she nodded at Barton and he
responded in kind.

His robe didn't hang right; he hitched at it, then
reached to make sure he hadn't jarred his own wig out of
position. But he couldn't, really, in normal movement;

the thing was glued solidly, around the edges, because its
alignment was crucial. Barton fingered the improvised
remote trigger of the device hidden in the up-piled hair,
and reflexively touched the robe over his own false
breasts that contained the backup power pack.

Movement caught his eye. Up front at the rostrum,
Vertan and four other Tilarans came onstage. And from
the other side, ap Fenn entered, with a full squad of
armed Marines.

Well, nobody ever said it was going to be easy.

The first part went well enough. Barton thought. Ap
Fenn looked surly but was obviously taken by Vertan's
carefully worded offer of legalized graft at the spaceports.
Then Vertan threw the kicker, to engage the admiral's
attention as fully as possible, about amnesty for Ship
One. Except Barton. They'd decided that nobody should
try to say any good word for rotten ol' Barton, because
Karsen ap Fenn wouldn't go for it in any case, and
would simply back off from the whole pitch. But the
others: "They are, honored Admiral, of innocence' and
of regret They would be of reconciliation, if the adjgtfal
is of forgiveness."

And the son-of-a-bitch is buying it! Ap Fenn said
words agreeing, and moved to shake Vertan's hand on
the deal. Barton hadn't truly followed what the Inter-

402

preter had said, realizing that Vertan was using that
skilled person to give him thinking time between ex-
changes. But he had to agree that Vertan had picked one
capable woman.

Then came a couple of nonce-events, to pass time. Ap
Fenn was asked to preside, in an honorary capacity, over
the presentation of awards that Barton figured were prob-
ably invented for the occasion. It took a time, and Bar-
ton used it to sneak off and take a leak, so he wouldn't
be caught short in the pinch.

And then Vertan took the floor again. He looked seri-
ous, and Barton wished he wouldn't do that. But Barton
knew that Tilara had, in its culture, nothing that resem-
bled the game of poker.

The beauty candidates came in four .clutches of eight
each, and Barton's idea was that third in line would have
the best chance of catching ap Fenn's people off base.
"They have time to get bored, plenty. But the last set,
they start getting alert again."

So out of the seclusion booth, when their appointed
time came, filed the eight Tilaran women and their four
escorts. Barton had Arleta Fox in the middle, more or
less, so that if she had trouble with her balance on the
high clogs, it wouldn't show much. At first he fretted,
but she did better than he expected, so he relaxed on
that and worried where it counted more. They walked on
up.

Ap Fenn's squad of Marines stood close-spaced be-
hind the admiral. The beauty-contingent ritual was that
two women at a time came to pose before ap Fenn while
the pair's chaperone knelt behind and between them. So
when Barton knelt, the sleep-gun in his wig had a good
clear shot. First he made sure of ap Fenn, then raised
his head a little and moved it from side to side until the
Marines dropped.

Barton was beginning to get to his feet when the nasty
chatter of automatic-rate projectile fire came from be-
hind him.

Limila/screamed, a shout of outrage; he saw her grab
her guts and fall down. By instinct, like back in Nam, he
reached for weapons he didn't have and dropped to roll
under the slugs that screeched past him. But turning, and

403

then sitting up and the hell with it, he remembered where
he was, and why. And used his trigger.

Several hundred Tilarans went down when -his sleep-
gun hit them. But so did ap Fenn's butchers, at the back
of the pavilion. Barton stood up. He started to move
toward Limila, when something huge cast a shadow over
the whole place. He looked up and saw a ship that didn't
belong with anything he recognized. Damn it, there
wasn't time for anything new, here. But the sheer bulk
of the thing held him fixed. He saw it dip toward the
port, hesitate—dust clouds flew up, from the impact of
that ship's fields—and then it lifted again, and moved
across his view.

Toward where? Barton shook his head; he'd figure
that out, later.

Now he went to Limila. Her head shook violently;

Myra was holding her, and said, "We have to get out of
here; I can carry her."

"No," said Barton. "I can do it."

"You stupid son-of-a-bitch, Barton!" Myra screamed
it "If you carry Limila, who's going to tote the admiral?"

And then Barton came back to something like normal.
"Yeh, sure." It wasn't, he thought, as though he had all his
brains working. He looked at Limila, and her color wasn't
too bad. He scrunched down and moved things' around
and got Karsen ap Fenn up into a fireman's carry, and
said, "Which way, Myra?" Because Barton was in shock,
he knew, and had lost track of his head-

Myra steered him out of the pavilion and got them
started across the port. "If Abdul and the others have the
Big Hundred for us—" Well, thought Barton, maybe it
made sense.

No such luck, though. Abdul helped them aboard the
ship that ap Penn had dubbed the Big Hundred, but the
place was only a temporary shelter, not a way to go any-
where. Dumping the admiral into a chair. Barton lis-
tened. The fuel tanks were saturated with Abdul's inhibi-
tor, after all, and for now the ship was dead.       -

Its crew wasn't, though. "We were lucky enoughJ^ said
Abdul, "to get aboard without provoking comblt. And
once inside, our possession of individual Shields against
the sleep-gun made it relatively simple to take the ship
without inflicting casualties."                   •

404

"Yeh, sure," said Barton. "Any chance they got a medic
on here?"

"Ap Fenn's personal doctor,'* Abdul said. "He is not
yet awake."

"Soon as you can, get him up. Limila needs help, and
fast." Barton turned away.

Abdul Muhammed said, "You leave her now? What-
is more important?"

And Barton nearly hit the big man. Fuming, raging, so
angry that almost he forgot the needs of what was happen-
ing, he caught himself, and said, "Get that doc on Limila,
Abdul. Soon as possible, like I said. No point in me sitting
by her; I can't do shit. What I can do is frag Karsen
ap Fenn's mind back to kindergarten. And that's going
to take some time, and I'd better get at it."

Abdul blinked, and nodded. "Yes. I see." And from
the look of the man. Barton lost whatever resentment he'd
had.

Barton didn't ask aid, though; again he got ap Fenn
up over into a carry, and took him to captain's digs and
dumped him onto the bed. He heard someone following
him, and turned and looked, and saw Arleta Fox. She'd
scuttled the high-lift shoes; she was walking in good order.
She said, "Once you regress him, maybe I can heip."

Barton nodded; then he set to work. He slapped ap
Fenn awake and asked questions. The answers didn't
satisfy him; the admiral still remembered who Barton

•was, and that they were on Tilara. Barton hit him with ten
minutes of the Demu sleep-gun, waited a time, and used
his hands to bring the man awake again. Some while later
they had a third session, leaving ap Fenn's cheeks red and ,
swollen by the time he woke. It wasn't that Barton en-
joyed slapping the hell out of a zombie, but he had no bet-
ter way to make the son-of-a-bitch come alive.

This time, ap Fenn didn't know Barton from Adam's
off ox. Leaning closer. Barton said, "Where are you?
What's your job?"

In a plaintive tone, ap Fenn said, "The Space Agency

•—I'm highly placed there, you know. What kind of
whorehouse is this, that beats up influential customers?"

•He blinked, and for all that Barton could tell, maybe he
was even thinking. "I ..tell you—call me transportation
home, and tomorrow 111 send you a bonus, for luck."

405

-Sure. You do that." For his own luck, though, Barton
gave ap Fenn two more zap-sessions with a waking inter-
lude between, so that when he was done, the' admiral
seemed to speak as an ambitious and somewhat idealistic
young man of about the age of twenty.

Pooped out of his mind. Barton turned to Arleta Fox.
He hadn't been noticing that she was there, but now he

did.

She said, "This base is going crazy; the control room is
flooded with security calls." Looking very strange with
her Tilaran wig off, she said, "We need the admiral to
speak for us."

"But he can't. He doesn't exist now."

"I know," she said. "But wake him up and help me get
this pill down him, aad then we'll see if I know enough
about hypnosis."

With Fox's prompting, the confused young man (he
even looked younger) who had been the admiral, took his
Marines off their Alert status. It wouldn't help all that
much, but Barton wasn't so ungrateful as to say so; Fox
looked too happy.

The troubles were that he was scared spitless about
Limila, and that once they left the fuel-dead Big Hundred,
Barton had no idea where to go. Not knowing who ap
Fenn's successors were, or how long it would take them
to catch on, didn't help, either.

When Arleta put ap Fenn through a routine that got
some Tilarao medics onto the ship. Barton relaxed a little.
But not much. They were still in a hole, and Barton saw
no easy way out. If there was one, right now he was too
punchy to think of it.

Having ap Fena declare amnesty—reading it off a
paper would be simpler than coaching him—would look
just a bit too fishy. Might throw in a reasonable amount of
confusion, though, which would help. And, of course, he
had, the man himself, his physical presence, to use as a
hostage. Barton looked across to the groggy amnesiac,
and saw nothing left to hate.                     '

Ap Fenn smiled, a little shakily, and spoke: "CA not
certain why I'm here, sir. Is there something I sffimid be
doingr

"Just rest. for now. Arlie, can you cope here?" She
nodded, and Barton left the quarters and went tp the gal-

406

ley,, now used as an improvised infirmary. Limila was out

flat on one table, two Tilarans working over her. The
stranger standing to one side had to be ap Fenn's doctor.
Barton nodded to Abdul Muhammed, who stood guard
with a sleep-gun, and went to the other man.

"What's her condition?"

The man blinked pale blue eyes. He was thin, and
would have been taller than Barton if he hadn't been
noticeably stooped. He said, "I didn't have time to find
out. I stopped the bleeding, and I don't think she'd lost
enough blood to need a transfusion; then they arrived.
Which is just as well, since Tilaran anatomy seems to
differ somewhat from ours of Earth. Uh—pardon me,
but is the woman a relative, madam?"

Barton wanted to laugh, but once begun, he was afraid
he might not be able to stop. He'd forgotten that he was
still m Tilaran drag; now he took off his robe and falsies,
rolled down the legs of his jumpsuit, and peeled the wig
off. "I'm Barton. Pardon the glad rags; I guess they've
done their job." Because that disguise was tied to the
zapping of the admiral, before one big lot of witnesses.
He couldn't use it again, to effect.

The doctor stared, then put his hand out. "Sven
Barstadt. I don't know why I'm being polite to the one who
killed Admiral ap Fenn. We are creatures of custom,
aren't we?"                '•-

The handshake ended. Bartofi said, "He's not dead.
But he's not the admiral any longer, either. He may need
some special care." Barton knew he was talking to keep
himself busy while he waited. He knew he couldn't inter-
rupt the Tilaran medics; though he itched to know if
Limila was all right, he forced himself to stay away.

Barstadt smoothed back his 'sparse, fair hair. "What,
exactly, have you done to him? I mean, he's still my pa-
tient, and—"

"Nothing, physically. Just wiped his mind for him,
with the Demu sleep-gun. What talks out of his face, now,
is a sort of pleasant young guy, actually. Maybe smart,
too, when the pills wear off, but a little groggy at the mo-
ment."

Barstadt began to answer, but one of the Tilarans
turned and beckoned. Barton followed the doctor, and
was surprised when the Tilaraa spoke in English. "You
did your part well, Earthani. And the woman will live,

407

and should recover quite soon. But there was no possibil-
ity of saving the child; it had died already."

Without memory of leaving the galley. Barton found
himself at the airiock, starting down the ramp. He didn't
know where he was going, or why; all he felt was the urge
to move.

But there, halfway up the ramp and climbing, he saw
Helaise Renzel. Her mouth and eyes went wide, and she
turned, but he reached her before she could either scream
or flee, and dragged her up and inside. He closed the air-
lock. and now uncovered her mouth. "Hello, Helaise."

"Barton! What are you doing here? And when did you
go bald in front? I—" Voice high-pitched, she was chat-
tering.

"Why are you afraid of me, Helaise?" Now he had

•something to think about, to take his mind off ... "Why?"

"I didn't really mean it» Barton. We were a little drunk,
Karsen and I, and I was joking. I thought if I exaggerated,
he'd see how silly he was being. But he took it seriously,
and the next thing I knew, he was on the intercom, and
they blew that ship apart, and you and Dupree were on
the dead-or-alive list. I—" As she saw his face change,
she went pale; her knuckles went to her mouth. "You—
you didn't know, did you? Until just now..."

Through the red haze in his mind. Barton watched her.

**Then it was you, did it." Her head bobbed like a puppet's.

"But I didn't mean—"

''You never do. You never did." For long seconds, Bar-
ton fought with his own muscles. "Go to your admiral—
he's in quarters—and stay there. You give Arleta Fox
any trouble and HI feed you your arms." Slowly she
turned away. First her walk was shaky; then she ran.
Barton took a deep breath.                      ,

His record was still clear. He'd never hit a womaa in his
life. Except the one he'd had to kill, of course, on Ashura
in me Demu cage.

He found Limila partially awake, but she didn't know
where she was, or why, because the ecstasy drug hadn't
worn off fully. There was no reason for Barton to't|U her
anything just now, so he didn't. Cheng brougn^him a
Marine captain's uniform that fit him more than not. and
Myra cupped his scalp bare to suit the role. The visored
cap was too tight, but what the hell? Barton wasn't up to

408

running the show, so somebody had to; he'd go along with
it. Cheng and Abdul and Myra seemed to be doing pretty
well.                                                !

"Ap Fenn's exec," Myra said, "is one Hennessy. The
doctor told me. Hennessy's part Polynesian; ap Fenn
isn't, but his nephew Terike was, so maybe there's a con-
nection. But the thing about Hennessy is, he follows or-
ders; he follows the book."

Barton's mind came to life, a little. 'Try the amnesty
ploy?" So, to please the nice lady who was taking care of
him, Karsen ap Fenn on all-ships broadcast read the
amnesty announcement that Abdul Muhammed com-
posed. After that, ap Fenn called for a Tilaran ambulance
and gave it full clearance in and out of the port. Again be
read from written text; nobody wanted him having to
improvise.

He didn't know at the time that he'd be riding along
himself, with Limila and Barton and Cheng and Myra
and Abdul and Dupree and Arlie Fox, but when it hap-
pened that way, he made no complaint.

Before they left, Barton had brief words with Helaise
Renzel. He didn't figure she'd be raising any alarms, be-
cause what he told her, in some detail, was exactly how
he'd kill her if she did. And if he.didn't know whether he
was bluffing, how could she?      '
L

They didn't need to use their hostage, to get away, and
once through the hills to the residence of.Tevann, no one
could think of any particular use for ap Fenn, here out of
his command context. "Might's well send him back," said
Barton, so the Tilaran driver was instructed to return the
man to the main port. "God knows what they'll make of
him there, but he might turn into a good officer."

They went inside. Tevann wasn't there; Uelein said
that Vertan had called several times and sounded urgent.
Once Limila was made comfortable—she seemed stable
now, and was dozing again—Barton hitched up his think-
ing and put a call through to the designation Vertan had
left. When _the screen lit, Vertan's agitation was obvi-
ous. Barton calmed him a little by assuring him that they'd
pulled the Job off and got away clean. About Limila, he
said nothing.

"So," he wound it up, "what other problems have we
got, now?"

"It is the large ship," Vertan said. "The one that came

409

over us today and could not land at the main port." It had
gone to the aux port instead, he reported, and its captain
had cited priorities that brought refueling and other load-
ing immediately, ahead of everybody else there. Of
course, no other ship had clearance to Hit This one. it
seemed, did.

"How soon?" Two days, three, perhaps—Vertao
could not be sure.                             . -

"But it came here from Earth," he said, "in less than
half the time required by your fleet, or even ap Fenn's.
And its captain appears to know things that have occurred
on Earth since he left it"

"Is that right? Okay—thanks. Vertan. We'll be in
touch." The screen went dead, and again Barton
thought: Is that right?

Barton knew he needed a good night's sleep, but was
surprised to wake and find that apparently he'd got it At
first he felt pretty good; then he remembered what had
happened to Limila. But that loss no longer hit him like a
hammer; he knew sadness, was all. The problem was,
how was she going to feel? She was asleep, in a separate
bed now, so he didn't have to ask her right away.

He went through the house and found Cheng pouring
from a fresh pot of kliew the man poured another cup,
and .Barton sat. "Hennessy revoked the amnesty," Cheng
said. "On you. anyway; he didn't mention Dupree.'**

"I guess he caught on," said Barton. Well, he hadn't
really expected Renzel to keep her mouth shut, totally.
"Hennessy's acting on his own, is he? Not bothering with
ap Penn for a figurehead?"

*The admiral sits to one side and smiles, or looks ner-
vous. Hennessy does the talking. He doesn't sound espe-
cially vindictive, though. Barton. More like a man who's
plugging away, trying to follow the rules as he'knows
them."

"Book soldier, yeh. That's what Myra quoted, too.
From the doc.'* He shrugged. "Doesn't matter; if he's af-
ter my ass, I have to keep it out of his reach, is all." So
what else was new? Barton decided that was a good
question, really, so he asked it                  •

"Nothing more, officially," Cheng said. BartcOj^new
that Tevann's screen terminal taped official announce-
ments automatically; they carried coding to trigger the
equipment. Now Cheng frowned. "Hennessy's trying to

410               . \

make a deal, Vertan told Tevann. He's found out that his
ships are being tanked with inhibited fuel."

Probably, Barton thought, by trying to lift one off. He
said, "What kind of deal?"

A fairly limited one, it turned out to be. Hennessy
claimed to have no urge, as ap Fenn had had, to go after
Tarleton in any punitive way. He did want some ships
available to move, though—to Sisshain to gather infor-
mation, to Earth with reports, for instance. And again
unlike ap Fenn, Hennessy wanted contact with Earth's
other allies, such as the Filjari and Larka-Te. "So he
wants some ships ready to go."

"So, what's he offering?"

"To lift the embargo on Tilara. To discontinue the
blockade."

And that idea. Barton thought, had some interesting
possibilities.

Limila refused to speak or hear of their lost child. On
the second day she insisted oh trying to get up. Barton
wouldn't let her, and they were having quite a row about
it when the TUaran doctor arrived. To Barton's surprise,
the man sided with Limila. When Barton protested that
nobody could take a gutshot and be in shape t6 walk, so
soon, the doctor said, "You do not know the Tilaran
metabolism. And this woman has taken the longevity
treatments. Further, consider that it is her body; she may
risk it as she chooses."

So, against Barton's wish, he watched ^Limila stand
and then, pale Ups clamped to thinness, walk. She didn't
walk good and she couldn't stand straight, yet, but she did
move. When she had done several turns around the roqm,
and sat again, she took a deep breath that came out in a
ragged sigh. "I will live. Barton. Oh, yes; I will live. And
perhaps someday I will even enJoy it, again."

Hennessy certainly seemed to waste a lot of time think-
ing about Barton's crew from Ship One. The official after-
noon screeneast—Barton caught it live—carried the an-
nouncement that Abdul Muhammed and Myra Hake
and Cheag Ai were restored to the fleet's good graces and
should come collect their back pay. Arleta Fox's job was
still open and she was urged to return to it. Armand
Dupree couldn't be restored to prior status, considering
he'd actually tried to pot the admiral. But even so, bygones

411

were bygones and he, too, had some back pay coming. Or
so without ever once mentioning Barton*s name, Hen-

nessy proclaimed.

Barton had hit the tape button, and later, showing the
spiel to the group, he watched the reactions. At the end:

"What do you think?"

"If it's not a shuck," said Myra Hake, "we can't afford
to take the chance, anyway. Cbeng and I have been talk-
ing." She made a throwing-away gesture. "I mean, what
do we need Earth for? As you said once. Barton—we
don't live there now."

"So what is it you figure to do?"

Get on one of the Tilaran ships, was the answer. Go
visit the Filjari or the Larka-Te, or maybe one of the peo-
ples they'd never met but only heard about, like the
Tiengin or Eroci. "And there's an Ormthan at Fil)ar now,
the rumor goes."

Ormthan? How long now, since Barton had thought of
that protean amoeboid oracle, who had given him the
hint to the Demu weakness that avoided war with those
proud adversaries? Now he said, "Ormthan! The one
here—is it still here? Maybe—"

Tevann shook his head, "Still of presence, yes. But
shut away, of its own doing. Ap Fenn went there, and—"

Tevann told it and Barton listened. Vertan had es-
corted the admiral into 'the Ormthan's presence. The
ceiling, that time, had not been low and gray, but arched
and shining. But after ap Fenn had opened the discussion
with a couple of arbitrary, conversation-stopping de-
mands, the admiral had gone silent, and red in the face.
And then the Ormthan had dismissed the two of them,
and as soon as they were outside again, a shimmering
dome—almost transparent, but not quite—had ap-
peared. From what Tevann said now, it sounded to Bar-
ton as if the Ormthan's dome made the Demu Shield took
like a plastic bag. And the dome was still there; nothing
entered or came out, either one.

Barton considered the matter, and said, "I expect
there's a patrol of Marines there?" Tevann nodded.
'Then let's forget it." Barton cleared his throat. "So what
does everybody want to try?"                  ..

Myra and Cheng had said their joint piecg«<Abdul
Muhammed would stay on Tilara because he wanted to
get back to Earth, to his wife and children in their tree-
shaded- villa. Armand Dupree said, "I'm best off berthing

412               \

on a Tilaran ship, too, I think. I like the people, and I'n
coming to know the language, and I'm a good pilot in any
body's league. So I would think to manage, once awa;

from here."

Arieta Fox hadn't said anything. Barton turned to hei
now. She certainly didn't look her best—head bald ia
front and clipped to stubble for the rest of it, ears jutting
to each side of the bulldog jaw—but Barton liked her
"What you have in mind, Arlie?"

Her level gaze came right back at him. "I seem to have
joined your team, Barton. Unless and until you make a
choice I can't abide, is it all right if I tag along?"

Like a stone image, Limila had sat But now she
reached and took Arleta's hand, and squeezed it. "Be ol
welcome, Arlie."

It was too late to run over to the aux port, but not too
late to call and set up the visit, for tomorrow. Iivajj said
that if the blockade lifted, she was sure the ship she and
Gerain were on could use an extra hand or two, and the
ship next toward the control building wasn't full, either
Beyond that, she would ask.

Barton cut the screen and turned back to the group
"Well, looks as if we can find otfworld berths, given wf
need 'em." He felt like needing a drink, but before he weni
to get it, he said, 'Tomorrow we go over there, and maybf
split up forever. So right now I think we deserve a littif
party. Just in case."

They had it, and everybody seemed to have fun, mor<
than not. But Barton couldn't keep from wondering
What was he going to do?

Barton thought, next day, that Limila should sta;

home and rest. But she said she would go to see her ship
mates off—livajj and Gerain, as well as Cheng and Myr
•—even though the ships themselves might not be leavin
immediately. Barton hadn't decided to go or not, bu
When she did, he did. Arieta said the same.

"I will give my farewells here," said Abdul Muharo
med. And he Tcissed Myra and bear-hugged Cheng an
shook the hand of Armand Dupree. "May you all fin
shelter under the great tree." He smiled. "That is a reL
gious concept of my ancestors. While I do not believe
literally, the thought still has comfort."

Barton, from the driver's seat, waved a hand and the

413

moved the car out. The route to the port was easy enough,
and he found the ship they wanted first, with no trouble.
livaJJ met the group at the airlock, and Captain Etraig
offered Tilaran wine while she quizzed Cheng and
Myra about their qualifications. Then she made a call
to a nearby ship, and Barton was surprised at how fast
Dupree had himself a new job. The short man stood,
and reached to shake Barton's hand. "I wouldn't .have
thought," he said, "when you and Tarieton took me up
to try out on your Demu ship, that I'd end up this way.
But I expect that I'll enjoy it."

"Just goes to show," said Barton. "Good luck, Dupree."
After the man left, it was obvious that Etraig wanted
to start briefing Myra and Cbeng on what their new duties
would be. So Barton made poUtes and helped Limila up,
and they all said their so-longs. Myra almost spoiled it,
by saying, "What are you going to do. Barton? I'm wor-
ried."

But he said, "Get on a ship like this one, maybe. And
likely see you." So the moment passed, and finally he
and Fox and Limila made slow going down the ramp and
stood on bare Tilaran ground. Twilight was ending; in
moments, the darkness deepened.

Then they got in the car and he put' his mind to re-
tracing their course back out of the aux port. He missed
a turn, and found that ahead lay the huge ship from
Earth. Well, all right. He said, "Long as we're this- close,
let's have a look at that thing. I mean, I'm wearing the
rigfat costume to be entitled."

He wore the Marine uniform Cheng had shanghaied
for him—but with the insignia of rank turned upside-
down in the way that meant he was off duty. So, in theory,
nobody should bother him-

He drove quite near the new ship, before he saw a
painted perimeter line and decided it was best Co step
without crossing it. Looking up, he sighed. "That thing
is big."

"Yes," said Limila. It she had any interest at all, her
tone of voice didn't carry it. But when Barton said he
wanted to take a closer look, and got out, he found
that she and Arlie had followed him. She shouldn't do
this walking, he thought. But he couldn't argue wjtK her,
so they walked, slowly at her pace, toward the'%onster
ship.

He stopped short of it, and again looked up. Now it

414               ^

towered over them. Barton said, "How many times big-
ger do you suppose it is than the ships we know?" Not
like the great ship on Sisshain, he knew, but somewhere
in the middle of sizes.

Before Limila could answer, bright light struck. Bar-
ton turned, shielding his eyes from the spotlights. An
amplified voice shouted, "Stop where you arel" And
Limila slumped to the ground.

So Barton, with his own Shield nipped on as a matter
of instinct, and knowing that nobody from the second fleet
had portable Shields, pulled out his personal sleep-gun
and sprayed its radiations until, from out there behind
those spotlights, he heard no sound at all. Then he picked
Limila up and carried her to the big ship's ramp and
climbed to its airlock. No one stopped him; no one even
met him. He went inside and set Liroila down, then
turned to look back outside, because Arleta Fox was
still there. But she was up already and to the ramp, mak-
ing a shaky job of climbing it. Nothing else moved, that
Barton could see.

He started toward Fox, but she waved him back. "I'm
all right Just caught the edge of it, I guess." So he picked
Limila up again and waited until the small woman was
inside. Then he thumbed the airlock-closing button, and
watched the thing shut. "What are you going to do?" Ar-
leta said.                   ^

Barton tried to shrug; the burden of Limila didn't let
his shoulders move all that much. "For now, there's only
one real answer. This ship seems to have a status outside
the second fleet's authority. And sure as bell, there's more
space in it than anybody could search in a hurry."

So, not breathing too hard under Limila's weight be-
cause he was somewhat back in shape, and downstairs
was easier than climbing, Barton descended. Arleta played
rear guard. Barton had the. sleep-gun in one hand, but
nobody showed, so he didn't need to use it. He kept going
until they were past everything that looked to be quarters,
down where cargo holds should start—and then three
more levels. There he tried a big door, and it opened.
Cargo, all right. Going in. Barton made sure the door
closed behind them, after he hit the switch that kept
the lights on. He walked around until he found a place,
way back in the hold, with soft stuff they could lie on, and
set Limila down.

"This'll do for now," he said, "Wait here." The doc-

415

tor nodded, and Barton went back to cut the lignts.
Then, first stopping in a corner to pee on the floor since
there wasn't any other place to do it, he retraced his way
to where he'd left the others. The scattered dim standby
lights had stayed on; he could see well enough not to
run into anything.

Limila still slept; beside her, Fox sat upright. She said.
**How long do you intend that we stay here?"

Barton sat, too, at Limila's other side. He listened to
her breathing; it was slow and regular. "We can't do much
until she wakes up," he said. 'Three up and walking make
a better team than two up and one flat out." It wasn't
much of an answer, he knew, so he continued. "For now,
Arlie, I think I'll just lie down here and see if I can rest."

So he did. And until he felt the ship shudder and rise
under him. Barton hadn't thought he'd gone to' sleep at
all.

Limila was awake now. The last thing she remem-
bered was the sudden glare of light; Barton had to explain
to her where they were, and why. "It seemed like a good
idea at the time."

Fox was either awake again, or still; Barton didn't
ask which. She started to say something, but just then
the ship bucked and rang with vibration, so she waited
for the jarring to pass. When it did—and even through
the grav-field Barton could feel, subliminally,' the in-
creased rush of acceleration—he said, "We're up out of
air now. There's no way a ship this size is going to waste
the fuel to go back and land, and have to lift again. Not
even to extradite a bunch of desperate criminals, such as
us."

He grinned. "I'm not awfully hungry yet, but I'm get-
ting damn thirsty. Now that the ship's mushed plowing
air, and everybody upstairs can relax, let's go upland meet
our hosts."

Limila was walking better already, but still the climb
was slow. Barton, leading, kept his sleep-gun bolstered
but had a hand on the switch of his Shield, just in case.

The strange part was that climbing through ierel after
level of this huge spacecraft, they saw and heary no one
at all. When they reached the first deck of quarters,
Barton peeked into a few compartments. They were all
deserted. In two he saw odds and ends of people's be-

416               '

longings, the kind of thing somebody might not bothe
to take along when leaving. But those cabins, as well aj
others less littered, had obviously been occupied an(
then vacated.

"Running with a skeleton crew, maybe?" Barton aske<
himself out loud. "All moved into officers' digs, farthe
up?" This thing was so much bigger than Ship One, 01
even ap Fenn's ships, that he had trouble visualizin!
what size of crew it would need. Whatever it was, the]
had to be around here somewherel

When they found the galley empty. Barton used a fev
curses he hadn't remembered for a long time. On an]
ship at any time, there were always folks hanging arounc
the galley; it was the natural social center for everybody
who was off watch. But in this monster dining area, no
body at all.

He smelted coffee, though—and fairly fresh, not left
over battery acid, simmering into oily bitterness. The over
sized brewing um at the end of a long counter seemet
the obvious source, but when Barton went over an(
touched it, it was cold. Then he tuned his nose in an<
spotted the small pot steaming on a unit heater. He looke<
into it; it was nearly full, so he picked up three cups an(
poured them full. Turning to Limila and Arleta, he said
"I don't know about you^but maybe a little of this coul(
help me think better."

Nobody else spoke; they 'moved to a table and sat. Bar
ton set himself to face the main entrance, and scannet
to watch the two side doors, too. He was taking his firs
sip when Limila pointed and said, "There, at that table
Someone has eaten, recentlyl"

Sure enough, there was a tray, left by some slopp'
diner who hadn't picked up after himself. Barton got u]
and walked to look. Remains of egg and toast, dregs o
juice and coffee, smeared tableware. Somebody whos
watch-sked made this breakfast time.

But one tray? It didn't make sense. Barton rej'oine
the two women and sat, and sipped again. "Well, it's nc
bad coffee."

Limila had begun to answer when the man came ir
and yelled. "Who the hell are you? What are you doin
here?"

The man was short, blond, young, curly haired—an
417

most important. Barton saw, not armed. Barton got up
and walked toward him—not fast, and doing something
with ha face that he hoped would look like a friendly
smile. He reached to shake hands. "My name's Barton; I
was Exec on Tarleton's fleet. You've heard of it?" He
wasn't being entirely sarcastic; who knew what might
be happening nowadays, on Earth? But the young roan
nodded, and accepted the handshake, so Barton went on.
"I got in a little jam with the second fleet, so we hitched
a ride on here- I hope you don't feel obliged to tell the
second fleet everything you know? I mean, it's not your
mommy or daddy, is it? Because that could cause us
some problems, here."

Looking puzzled, the man shook his head. "This is an
independent mission, and a very important one. Acting-
Admiral Hennessy tried to opt us into his own" forces,
but our captain refused, naturally."

"Your captain," Barton said. "That's somebody I'd
like to meet."

The man's eyes widened. "But you can't. Not now.
Didn't you know? The whole crew's debarked on Tiiara;

the captain, too. I'm a volunteer, the only one aboard
for the mission. Or rather, I was supposed to be."

Even the first parts, for some sort of bare understand-
ing, took a lot of sorting out. The young man, who was
singlehandedly crewing the biggest starship Barton had
ever seen get off the ground, gave them guidance on fix-
ing themselves breakfast in this luxurious, semi-automated
eatery. Barton introduced his companions, and their
host said. "I'm Honus Hayward. They call me Honey."
He did a double-take at his own words, and his face red-
dened. "Don't get any wrong ideas. It's just a nickname."

Barton hadn't been getting any ideas at all. He said,
"Sure,-! know how it is. No problem." He stood, *md got
himself more coffee, from a fresh pot Hayward had made.
"What I want to know is, what's this important mission
you're on?*' He saw the stubborn look come onto Hay-
ward's face, and quickly said, "Or if that's Top Sphinx,
how about, where the hell are we going?"

Keeping in mind. Barton was, that courses- ian be
changed,                                      f

Except on the great ship that brooded, immobile, on
Sisshain, Barton had never seen a control area that this

418                '

ship's didn't dwarf. On the rearview screens he could see
that Tiiara was nearly twice as far behind as he would
have expected in such short time; another few hours, and
Hayward couldn't reach Hennessy with signals, even if
he wanted to. And to give the kid credit, he seemed to
have no such intentions in mind.

The screens that interested Barton were the ones
with the map spread across them. He recognized the
galactic Arm well enough, and a number of landmarks
on it. The dust cloud with the pocket that hid Sissham's
primary didn't show that sun, but the cloud itself was
there.

And the Demu volume of space, the same version that
Tarleton's maps had shown. Of course Barton had seen
better data now, but this was fairly accurate. And then,
down-Arm from Demu space, the wide belt, clear across
the Arm, where no habitable planets existed. The Great
Race bad somehow done that, according to the Demu
Sholur, Keeper of the Heritage. But how or why, no one
knew.

Still the map unfolded, reeling jerkily across the screens.
Below the dead belt, no data showed. But toward the far
side of what was known, a dim light blinked. "That's our
rendezvous point," said Honey Hayward.

"With what?" Barton shook his head, and heard Limila
gasp. "We don't know anything, down there. Do you?
Because if this is some kind of wild-goose chase—and
don't get antsy just yet, because if you do, I'll drop you,
Hayward—I may have to change the plans."

"You can't! I mean you mustn't. It's terribly impor-
tant—" Then, looking Barton in the face, Hayward slowly
nodded. "I guess I'm going to have to tell you all of it."

"Now that," said Barton, "sounds like the best idea
I've heard yet."

It began with rivalry between the two major branches
of the Space Agency, keeping secrets from each other.
While one group worked to improve the Demu drive and
help Tarleton get his forty ships together, the other went
its own path and didn't give Tarleton the time of morn-
ing. "But within days after your fleet lifted. Barton, they
sent a ship out."

To where? To scout the dead belt, from the far side.
To try to get another angle on the Demu. But, trailing
Tarleton's fleet, wasn't it a little late? No, because Group

419

B made a breakthrough into a new principle, based only
partially on the Demu drive, so that sizes and velocities
went up a lot.

But why? Barton meant, why weren't these two prongs
of effort coordinated? But before Hayward could answer,
Barton shook his head, because he already knew why:

to some people, including most politicians, nothing was
more important than revving up their egos and listening
to the echoes.

But none of that crap was important now; Barton
said so, and added, "The Demu are taken care of, but
the horseshit isn't. I don't know what your mission is,
yet, but so far you haven't convinced me that it's more
important than getting to Tarleton, to give bun the han-
dle he'll need to get the second fleet straightened out.
And fix things with Earth Base, too. So I think we. should
get up to your control room and start figuring some course
changes."

"But you don't know!" In a pale face, Hayward's cheek-
bones stood out red. "The ship that went down-Arm,
what they told us—"

"What they told you? You mean they got back already?"

The young man shook his head. "No, of course not.,
What they sent us, I mean. You see—"

For a moment, while he didn't understand yet. Barton
had his hand on Hayward's arm. Then he did get it, and
until he saw the cheekbones go pale, too, didn't- realize
how hard he gripped and shook that arm. Then he let
go. "You mean—you mean, Hayward, that those silly
Group B sons-of-bitches had faster-than-light communi-
cations? All along—and didn't tell Tarleton's group?"

"I—I guess so," From Hayward's expression, he
wanted to be someplace else, if at all. "But / didn't know.
Not any of it. Until our captain played us the tapes, once
we'd been diverted to Tilara to refuel for this mission,
and then asked for a volunteer."

Barton shook his head; none of this was the kid's fault.
Couldn't be. So take it easy; ask, but don't yell. "Tapes,
you said." And Hayward nodded. "You think, maybe
I heard those, I might make a Uttle more sense out of
this mess?"                                    A

Hayward bounced back good; he smiled ^p-w. "I
wouldn't be surprised."

The control area again. Quickly now. Barton noted
420              "

the switching positions that indicated how major func-
tions of subsidiary positions were multipled into the
chief pilot's board. He didn't see how any one person,
haywire multiples or no, could land this crate. But Hay-
ward had lifted it, and navigation in free space was
easier still.

He asked the one thing. This bucket's not to land;

right?"

Hayward's blond eyebrows raised. "How did you
guess that?" Barton told him, and Hayward nodded.
"You're right; we make rendezvous in deep spacer
then this ship's abandoned." Barton tried to speak, but
for once the young man overrode him. "There's no choice;

we'll be out of fuel, nearly. Our tanks are only about one-
tenth filled. And that's on purpose."

Estimating what full tanks would do, if Hayward were
telling the truth, Barton shook his head. "Fuel to get
where you showed me, though," he said, "is more than
enough to land us on Sisshain. Or even swing a right-
angle course change"—equivalent, they both knew, to
an extra landing and liftoff—"and head for Earth." Frown-
ing, Barton said, "So far, you haven't convinced me I
shouldn't do one of those things."

Riffling through a bank of switches, the kid said,
"That's what we're here for." The screen flashed a picture,
but it blanked before Barton's mind caught the gestalt.
"Just a minute." More '"switch-fiddling. Then: "Hell
with the official reports; they didn't get any action moving
at Base, so probably they wouldn't with you, either- I'll
run the bootleg tape that got us diverted to this mission.
It's mostly voice-only, not much picture, and that part's
blurry." One final switch; then they waited. "One of the
ship's Comm officers got this out, somehow. Obviously,
it's no kind of official report; we don't know who the guy
was trying to reach. Maybe Base knows, but they didn't
send us the lead-in section. What's here, though, made
quite a splash at Base. It does with me, too. Why don't
you give it a fair hearing?"

Barton did. The tape began, and he listened.

421

11,

The Others

I have to start where it begins.

We named the planet Opal because you couldn't call
it anything else. Approaching from sunward we got the
full lighted disk on our screens, and there it hung, at about
two million kilos, shining like the most glorious fire opal'
you ever saw. Even the brass back at Base, I'm told,
when they got those first tapes cleaned up by computer
enhancement, had to agree. Whatever official name had
been planned for that world is off the books and forgot-
ten.

I understand that in the first days of space travel, the
thing a lot of people found most surprising was the direct
live video coverage from the spacecraft and then from
the moon. I expect they'll feel the same way about faster-
than-Ught interstellar communications, now that the Labs
found a way to make phase-velocity do some useful work
and earn its keep. Someday, I wouldn't doubt, you can
sit on Earth and talk with your field man a hundred light-
years distant, and have him point his Phasewave set at
a patch of weeds so you can tell him which ones to' take
in for analysis. Or squat at home and watch aliens do
colorful native dances, on "Galactic Traveler," Uvexm the
Trivia. Not yet, of course. But soon, maybe, l^e-way
progress keeps snowballing.

Our planet Opal had indigenes, but we didn't call them
Opalites, even though it turned out later that we couldn't

422

pronounce their own name for themselves. They
started out as Opalites in the records, but that's another
official designation that went down the drain. The Others
are the Others, and that's that.

I was off watch when the initial down-party first saw
and then met the Others. Lisa Teragni, my ship wife, com-
ing back from breakfast while I was just getting up,
gave me the news. Secondhand, because she hadn't been
up in Comm herself. "But from what they say, Ren, I
can't tell whether these Opalites are more like people,
or more not." Xenobiology isn't her specialty; psychology
is. "They have all the right number of arms and legs and
eyes and ears, but I gather that nobody would ever
mistake one of them for Earth-human."

I snapped my other boot closed. "Let me get a bite
to eat. Then I'll take you to Comm and we'll both see.
Even if there's no locals on the screens at the moment,
there'll be a tape or two, we can run." Understatement;

the place would be knee-deep in them.

Actually, we didn't get up to Comm all that soon.
Usually Lisa and I had our watch-skeds in sync, but we
had two Comm people in sickbay and I'd been filling in
odd watches, so we hadn't been together much lately. This
seemed a good time to make up for it a little; Lisa was
by no means the least favorite of the ship wives I'd had.
In fact, we were talking of making it permanent, though
we knew that when it comes to advancement. Agency
policy makes it tougher on people who insist on paired
assignments. But then I never did expect to get rich,
anyway. The boots came off again.

Up above, when we got there, Rigan, the Comm
Chief, had the watch himself. He's a long, thin drink of
anti-freeze, but the chill is Just his normal grade of man-
ners. Once you figure that "I suppose it will do" is the
highest praise in his book, he's all right to work for. The
strongest condemnation he's likely to give is: "I think per-
haps you might try it over again." You have to read
him between the lines, and the lines are awfully close to-
gether. So when I brought Lisa into Comm and he said,
"I suppose it's all right," she took it as a hearty welcome.
Being a psychologist, she'd figured Rigan out in about
twenty minutes. It took me six months.

She said, "Good morning. Chief. Ren thought we might
be able to have a look at the Opalites."

'                       423

**We have pica," he said, "of the Others.** That was the
first time I heard the term; sometimes I wish it had been
the last. "You're certainly free to look them over. Sec-
ond." In case the lead-in garbled, that's me: Comm-
officer Second, Renton Bearpaw. The Bearpaw gets a lot
of mileage from the clowns I work with, if I knock over
a cup of coffee or anything, but it comes from a man who
could kill a buffalo with a spear.

I checked the screens first; no aliens showed. A moving
view above a tree-covered coastline—that would be the
aux craft itself, that had delivered the down-party while
we stayed in synchronous orbit, on its mapping run. Some-
body was swinging us a hilltop panoramic; another field
man showed close-ups of vegetation plus something that
resembled a fat, furry grasshopper. A red face arguing
into his pickup, and sweating; wherever the voice was go-
ing, it wasn't to us. Maybe he was complaining about the
heat. There were no Others in view, though; for them we

had to go to the still pies.

The trouble was that we expect man-shaped creatures
to look human, and these didn't. Skin texture looks hu-
man enough, and color ranges from a pinkish-beige to
deep reddish-brown. The differences, though. First picture
a human head. Now move the eyes up and out to Ihe
extreme front comers, nothing above them but a protec-
tive ridge. With independent articulation, those eyes have
almost a 270-degree scan without even turning the head.
Which the Others can do, nearly front to back like an
owl, or that carnivorous amphibian on Blaine's Mistake.
The ears are leaf-shaped cups, rounded, very mobile,
halfway back on the skull, at eye level.

The back of the skull, the cheekbones, mouth, jaw,
and neck all look a lot like ours. The nose would, too,
except that it comes out of a convex area rather than
having brows above and eye sockets to each side. linear
that the Others have different numbers of teeth, top and

bottom, but you can't tell by looking.

The torso as such is proportioned slightly longer, nar-
rower, and deeper than we consider normal. The arms
aren't set where we expect shoulders; they mount -lower,
move more freely, and can reach backward as easily as
forward. The legs have a lot of pivot, too; they're sety/ide
apart, not at the body's "corners" but a little above. And
the Others aren't plantigrade, like us and bears; they toe-
walk like dogs or horses.

424                  /

Let's see; what else? Well, they're mammals; the
breasts are set so close together that they look more like
one udder with two spigots. And on average height the
Others are a little shorter than we are, not enough that
it's always noticeable in individual cases.

Their hair is a fine, thick fur that grows only three or
four centimeters long, in a strip along the median line of
the head and body. About five to six centimeters wide, but
coming to a point where it terminates. In both sexes, one
end is just above the nose and the strip goes up over the
head and down the back. With the female it comes down
around and ends just below the navel, which is set about
the same as ours. The male's fur continues on up the front
of the body, and neck and chin, and stops on the lower
Up.

We didn't get all this from the pies, just then, because
ordinarily the Others wear a sort of loose, sleeveless tunic,
And the pies were off on the fur's color, which varies from
a bleached sandy hue to a bright copper-gold red, light or
dark in accordance with skin tone. But we did get a fair
idea of how the Others appeared. And Lisa's comment
still held: it was hard to decide whether they looked more
like people, or more not.

When Rigan sniffed and said, "Second? Don't you think
it's a little stuffy in here?*' J tactfully escorted Lisa out,
telling her I'd let her know how our watch-skeds meshed
as soon as I knew it myself. Rigan takes a little trans-
lation: "stuffy" means too many people. Often there are
eight or ten working in Comm, and we were only six,
including Lisa. But when the Chief said frog, I jumped.
Because he could have stood on status and refused to let
her in at all. I've worked under worse than Rigan; few
better, in fact.

It wasn't my watch, but I hung around, hoping one of
the screens would show the Others. None did, so I left.
Lisa wasn't anywhere I looked; finally, I remembered it
was her day for the weekly treatment she still needed for
a recent injury, since she was the one who found out the
hard way that the whatsit on Blaine's Mistake had close
to 360-degree traverse at the toothy end. By the time she
joined me in quarters she was due on watch; I gave her
a kiss for later and went back to fiddling with a bread-
board circuit I was working on. I hoped it was the pilot

425

model for an automatic tuner for Phasewave Relay.
There's nothing like trying to work yourself out of a job.

On my next watch I did see Others live and direct.
Funny—first they'd look near-human, and then com-
pletely alien. Not like Blaine's Mistakes. (Did the official
tape mention that Blaine's own mistake was trying to push
some peaceful-looking villagers around? As our first cas-
ualty, he rated a fairly impressive gravestone.) Ignoring
details like beaks and claws and iridescent scales, the
Blaine's natives move like humans. The Others don't; un-
til you see the particular grace and economy in any com-
pleted action, they appear to be embarrassingly clumsy.

Later we found that they had the same feelings, of
part-rightness and part-wrongness, about us. I guess that
makes sense.                                   ' '

Two days later, one of our ailing Comm techs was
ticketed healthy, so I had fewer extra watches to work
and could catch up on time with Lisa. And with the other
sick case nearly recovered, soon Lisa and I could get back
into full sync. About time, too,

So then Comm-First Btenkov, my immediate superior,
broke his stupid leg. Well, that's the way Rigan put'it,
and I had to agree. Blenkov had been down on Opal do-
ing Comm for the aux boat. Somebody had to take over,
and I got the nod.

I made a pitch to get Lisa assigned downside with me,
but it worked no better than I expected. Maybe that's
why it didn't work; I've never convinced my meager psi-
powers to be on my side.

The down-party, including the aux boat, was run by
Command-First Szabo, who was second only to Captain
Soong on the whole mission. I'd always tried to stay away
from Szabo; that one had a reputation for being daoper-
ous, and I didn't want to test it.

Szabo didn't look mean—a tall, rangy, Greek-god type
with more good looks than anybody needs, and the same
for muscles. Smiling a lot—but going by rumor, nobody
trusted that smile much. The words to keep in mind, the
way I heard it, were "explosive" and "unpredictable."iiTo
back them up, incidents were sometimes cited.      ^ ^

This gets important later or I wouldn't be telling it. The
trouble with Szabo, rumor had it, was that here was a
highly intelligent, capable person who used to be a func-

426                   /

tional male and now wasn't It's on the records that he
married when he was twenty, and fathered a child before
the divorce a few months later. I heard several versions
of what happened in between, but the parts that agree
with each other boil down to this: Szabo got some kind
of minor cyst or tumor, nothing serious, down near the
prostate gland. Operating for it, the doctor made a glitch
and cut the peripheral nerves that make sexual response
possible. Lisa says it used to happen a lot with one of
the kinds of prostate operations. The whole idea makes
me cringe a great deaL

At any rate, Szabo wound up with all his equipment in-
tact, but disconnected—absolutely no way it could work,
any more than an unplugged computer terminal.

Szabo reacted hard. He was smart; nobody ever pinned
the doctor's misfortune on him, and although killings show
on his record, they're always in line of duty or self-
defense. Usually with a commendation for him—pre-
sented, Fd guess, by someone who wouldn't look Szabo
in the eye because they both knew better.

He became the toughest, most iron-nerved and capable
person I've ever known. And dangerous, because he was
touchy about his difference; mention it in his hearing and
you have real trouble. The existence of sex was an intol-
erable insult; never remind him.

That's not too easy, all th^time.

When I hauled my kit onto the aux boat, Szabo met
me. "Cheers, Command-First," I said. "Anything particu-
lar that needs doing on here, with the Comm gear?
Blenkov was too full of needles to tell me much." As I
hitched my stuff along the narrow corridor, Szabo fol-
lowed.

"Nothing that I know of; it's all working. Bearpaw—
have you heard, yet, what they think of the Others, ship-
side?" He sounded worried; down-partywise, I didn't take
that as a healthy sign.

"Not much, Szabo," I said. "But if there's anyone who's
not confused, it's being covered up pretty well." You call
him Szabo because ever since he lost sex he hasn't used
his first name. To him, maybe, it means his former, com-
plete self. Which hints at a strange kind of pride, driving
him. Scary. But on impersonal things you can joke safely
because it gives him a chance to be human, and he needs
it. I didn't figure these things out by myself. Working

(                       427

around Szabo, a lot of the discussion behind bis back is
how to keep Szabo happy. It seems to help.

"The down-party's confused, too," he said now. "I'm
going down for a firsthand look." He shrugged, and gave
that angelic smile I always wished I could really trust.
"Not that I'm trying to out-guess the experts, of course."

We entered the tiny control room. "So you'll be in
charge of the boat, Bearpaw. On our way down, scan the
mission instructions. Anything unclear about the mapping
tour, let me know." He left, and I felt guilty about how
relieved I felt.

Nothing tricky in the instructions, but I looked and
found a couple of points I could ask about, because Szabo
liked that. So it was another part of the S.O.P. of working
with him, and for all I know, maybe he knew it and was
amused.                                     • '

We downed at a field base. I don't remember which
one, by letter-designation. Once we'd worked out the rou-
tine, on BIaine's Mistake after we crossed the dead belt
that lacks inhabited planets, they all set up pretty much

alike.

The difference here was the attitude. Whatever I'd ex-
pected to find,! didn't. Mostly, it looked as if the group
was dragging its feet on studying the place, because what
they'd learned already, they didn't like.

As Szabo's new Exec, I sat alongside him and looked
official for the folks Upstairs on the ship while he read off
his summary and fed pictures to the pickup. "Ifs ob-
vious," he began, "that we're meeting a species and cul-
ture quite different from ourselves. The Others—" For
the first time, I saw Szabo's face color. "I mean the
Opalites, of course. They're extremely puzzling to our

teams/'

Somebody Upstairs told him to cut the crap; actually,
the phrase was: "Don't bother with details of nomencla-
ture." So be it; the Others were the Others, and Upstairs

had signed the memo.

"Very well." Szabo nodded. Maybe he was on pickup,
maybe not. "The Others simply don't fit our pattern.
Their language appears to be rudimentary, but they, learn
ours with startling ease. Conclusion: they're highy^tele-
pathic, and may have as great a grasp of the stfcalled
*psi' powers as we have of physics. And possibly vice-
versa—as little physics as we have 'psi' control."

428                 , .

He cleared his throat "Apparently the Others dont|
fabricate their shelters or clothing; they grow them." Ha
read a field team's summary; the way it translated
through the jargon is that if the Others want a house or a|
tunic, say, they think at a bush and it grows what they I
want. I've never beard that version contradicted, anyway.

A faint note of disdain came into Szabo's voice, as he
said, "The Others seem to have no violent behavior pat-
terns whatsoever." Maybe it wasn't disdain; maybe it
was incredulity,

But skepticism, I couldn't mistake. "It's speculated that
the Others can directly affect each other's emotions—and
therefore, possibly, our own. I don't believe it, and in fact
I intend to go to the nearest village as soon as possible,
and test the hypothesis. For the moment, though, I have
decided to postpone the test until more important mat-
ters have been settled." Something about his logic, there,
bother me, but I couldn't decide what it was.

"One thing is certain," Szabo went on. "The Others
aren't primarily analytical-minded. They seem to operate
largely on intuition, perhaps aided by their hyper-sensory
talents, if those in fact exist." Well," I knew Szabo hated
the idea that E.S.P. or whatever could be of any real use.
Maybe he had a bad case of my own problem, that any
time my "psi" stuff shows up at all, it's wearing the other
team's uniform. But I know it works right for some
people, sometimes, and I don't begrudge them, much.
Szabo, though, took it all as a personal insult. Which
made me nervous, now.

"The Others* culture," Szabo said next, "is apparently
a hand-to-mouth affair; if they plan ahead, our people
haven't been able to find signs of it. Food, housing,
clothes—all seem to grow as needed, with or without con-
scious control. The same, I'm told, goes for their art forms.
The most recognizable one was described as a cross be-
tween painting and sculpture, with sound effects, and
what they do is pat a mass of miscellaneous material
roughly into shape, and go away and leave it. The next
day, the thing is fully formed. No research team can ex-
plain the phenomenon."

Looking uncharacteristically pensive, Szabo ended on
the cheery note that the Others certainly seemed to be
friendly enough. And if they weren't, we could blast
them off the face of the planet if we wanted to. Not that
we did want to, of course, he hastened to add. Somehow

,                       429

he didn't sound quite like the Szabo we knew and walked
askance of.

The parley done, Szabo and I ate with the field crew
and then I dossed down in the aux boat. But I couldn't
sleep. What bothered me was that Szabo hadn't told the
Upstairs brass the most worrisome thing he'd told me.
And why hadn't he?

What it was, a groundside team member working'alone
would meet up with one of the Others, and then his or
her squawktalker wouldn't answer for maybe an hour,
sometimes longer. Then when a call got through, the
party didn't seem to realize that contact had been broken,
had heard no calls during the break, and didn't know
what the caller was now perturbed about. And persons
who'd had these lapses tended to look sidelong at other
people who had also had them, but not to talk together.
It all made me wonder.

Szabo proposed putting somebody under drug-interroga-
tion, and maybe get a few facts, but then he turned right
around and talked himself out of it, "... until later."
Well, if he was blind and would not see, I was wearing
pretty dark glasses, myself.

Next day it was time to get on with mapping' the
coastal contours of the island-continent we were on. For
some reason, the drill was to do the coast first and fill the
rest in later. Blenkov got about halfway before he crunched
his leg; the other half shouldn't take too long, I hoped, if
we didn't run into complications. Famous last words.

Of the" other five people on the aux boat, my next-in-
command was Elys Rounds, a Medic-3. Compared to my
striking, big-boned Lisa Teragni with her half-share of
Polynesian genes, Elys looked as bland as she was blonde,
and as fragile as she was tiny. But since no little sugar-
cookie would be carrying Medic-3 rating, I didn't go by
looks. Well, she handled her watch duties fine, was a rair
grade of navigator, superb at weapons control on the
one incident we are not allowed to discuss, and of course
a thoroughly competent medic. Evaluation Reports don't
mention whether people are good in bed, so officially
she will have to go unsung on that score. Unofficially, she

is very nice.                             '             ji»

At the coast we picked up where Blenkov had left off,
trying to make up lost time. Ten days saw us nearly

430

caught up and close to halfway done with our leg of the
tour. And that evening, watching for a good place to
land for the night, I saw a village of the Others. For no
particular reason, I set down near it.

We hadn't been avoiding the Others, especially, but
we hadn't happened to run into them much. Once in a
while the brief visit with a small group if it happened to
be where we landed to take plant and animal samples—
that sort of thing. They always seemed friendly enough;

my earlier uneasiness had simmered down. I was even
getting used to the way they picked up our lingo so fast,
and seemed to know whatever we might need in the line
of help before we finished asking. Sometimes later it would
strike me that we really hadn't got what we wanted, though
Fd been fully satisfied at the time. I chalked it up to
natural confusion of meanings; just because they learned
fast didn't mean they got it all right.

Anyway, I landed dose by the village, and we but-
toned up our procedures for the day. I called my daily
report in to Szabo, to be relayed Upstairs. Then it felt
like time for dinner. I was a little grimy and sweaty, so
I went to spruce up some.

I was getting dressed again when it struck me that in-
stead of another routine meal on the boat I could be
visiting the Others and maybe learning something. I fin-
ished dressing and went to try my idea on the rest of the
crew. But they weren't there, in. the cramped galley. Elys
sat alone. I said, "Where is everybody?"

"They've gone ahead, to the village. Shall we go now.
too?"

In an open clearing among the odd, organic huts ringed
with flowering bushes, our people were being fed pro-
fusely; we joined them. The food was delicious—steamy,
delicately flavored meat; tangy fruits; crisp, chewy vege-
tables. I drank a pale wine with a flavor that owed noth-
ing to sweetness, and took a few whiffs from a carved,
ornate pipe. That stuff sent my head around the cir-
cuit, like the synthetic hash at my Mind Exploration
class when I was fourteen. But it didn't lose me the way
you can get lost at fourteen, because I'd already been
there.

The people from the boat, though, seemed to be lost;

except for Elys, I didn*t see any of them. Elys and I sat
with a few Others, everything so warm and friendly that

i                     431

I couldn't imagine what all the worry had been about
Well, in the morning I'd figure that out, and reassure
Szabo, and Captain Soong fretting Upstairs.

But right now I hoped nobody would mind if Elys
and I took ourselves off to a dark nook someplace. Great
idea, so I turned to Elys. But she wasn't there. She was
leaving the lighted area, leaving with a male of the Others.
I made to stand up and call to her, but my legs and voice
vetoed the move. A female of the Others came near me.
I wanted to ask what was happening, but she handed me
a cup of warm fragrant liquid, and when I caught the
fragrance of it I had to drink. It tasted as spicy as it
smelled. The alien female watched as I drank the cup
halfway; then she touched my hand and I let her take
the rest

Then this woman, this lovely woman of the Others,
came to me, and I knew how mistaken I had been to think
of her as alien. For I loved her, and lovingly we took each
other. No matter the consequences or delusions, I can't
regret that taking, for she was, then, the most beauty I
had ever known. Part of that feeling is still with me, even
though now I have a better idea what it means.

Elys, next morning, felt much the same way. We two
could talk about it together, a little, because we were al-
ready quite close. But I saw why field personnel, alone
with one Other, who turned off their squawktalkers for an
hour or two, would never say what had happened. No one
wants to be thought insane.

When the rest of the crew had straggled back aboard,
we lifted and got back to work. Everybody, I think, wanted
to finish the map circuit in short order. So from then on,
each day we started early and worked late.

Except for Elys and me between us, nobody talked
much. I tried to clear the air, saying, "What the hell, it's
no crime; we couldn't have known. And don't forget, it
happened to all of us."

One woman looked across and glared at me. "Nothing
happened. Not to me. If you say it did, you're a bar."
But when she'd returned to the boat, she'd had the same
look of glazed reminiscence that everybody else had.

Her name was Krehbol, I remembered—"theresa
Krehbol. She looked to be facing the end of her you^i with
fear and anger, with ill grace. I doubted that at any time of
her life she could have been called beautiful or pretty or

432

even handsome, but I had seen her in pleasant moods,
and then she was an attractive person. "All right," I said
to her now, "if you say so, then nothing happened."

"You'd better remember that" So I gave it up. Krehbol
was the only one who actively fought my efforts to get peo-
ple to open up and rejoin the human race; the rest simply
clammed it I couldn't see any way to help matters, really.
Especially after the night we landed not more than five
kilos away from an Others* village, and in the morning,
Krehbol was gone. With more of her gear than I'd have
thought she could carry.

We looked for her; we Kited over to the village and
asked the Others there. No luck; if they knew, they
weren't saying. I called Szabo but someone else an-
swered, "Hold on; I'll check Upstairs." And a few min-
utes later the answer came. "Continue with your mission.
We don't have time or supplies to waste, hunting down a
deserter."

I hope the Others have been kind to her. They can af-
ford that much.

So eventually we finished the shank end of the land
mass and approached our base camp. Now, I expected,
I could report to Szabo and end the mystery, to some ex-
tent And things might get back somewhere close to nor-
mal, if there is such a thing.

Szabo wasn't there. The Others had him.

Upstairs, I gathered, was having diarrhea. Up or
downside, nobody knew what to do. I was certainly no
exception.

The main thing was, no one knew what had become of
Szabo. or why. We didn't find out until later, but it will
make more sense if I tell that part now. It was simple
enough. Szabo got the cup treatment from a female Other,
and when the most beautiful, the ever-lovely, got to him
—well, his only possible response was to kill her. Being
Szabo, as he was, what else could he do? That cup is
strong medicine.

The Others couldn't have known; it's mostly on the
subconscious level that they touch us and each other,
and at that stratum Szabo was a healthy male; when the
female Other went warm to him, she would have no idea
she was pulling the pin on a live grenade.

At the time, though, official opinion had it that the Oth-
ers had turned unreasonably hostile, that grabbing Szabo

*                     433

was only the first strike. Our orders were to round up
everybody, and all the gear we could manage in a hurry,
and cut trail back up to the ship in its sync-orbit. Using
both aux boats, and I learned that Lisa, not by lier own
choice, was assigned to the second one.

Once we were all Upstairs, having salvaged more of
our equipment than I'd expected we could, orders were
to sit there. Until we got word by Phasewave thqt Base
had made up its mind what we should do. That's when I '
began to leam not to hold my breath until Base got around
to put its responsibility where its authority is. Because
Base made the great but natural mistake of leaving all
decisions to our illustrious Captain Soong.

I hate to cut down a man who shares even a tinge of my
own proto-Mongol gene heritage, but Soong is a book
soldier. If the answer isn't in the book, he will sit- on the
problem until one of them rots away entirely.

He can't have been this way all his life, because his rec-
ord is good. One of the early astronauts, riding chemical
rockets. Oh, not Mercury or Gemini or Apollo; he was on
the shuttles, later, and was some kind of hero on a rescue
, mission once. I*ve heard jokes that maybe he ran himself
a little too heroically short of oxygen, that time, too long
to keep his smarts going. My own thought is that prestige
and political clout notwithstanding, the man's over the
hill when it comes to decisiveness. It can happen. And
commanding a ship, with Szaho next in line. would make
anybody cautious.

Possibly by accident, Soong did one smart thing; he
lifted us out of sync-orbit, apparently outside the Others'
hypothetical range of control. Because until we moved, I
couldn't report what had happened in that clearing. And
then I could, and along with all the other field personnel,
spilled my guts as to what went on, downside, when the
squawktalkers went off. Most of us got interviewed, any-
way, and a summary was sent off to Base by Pba^awave,

I understand.

For what that's worth. Because then the two Others
turned up on the ship with us.

Either they could teleport themselves or they'd stowed
away in the aux boats and then hidden out for K while-
Captain Soong leaned heavily on the latter ideal'in my
opinion, it didn't support his weight too well.

The male, tall for an Other, ranked about medium on

434

their color scale; his name was Dahil. The female was
dark, of average height, and named Tiriis, or possibly
Tries; I've seen it spelled both ways, but that's only in our
alphabet. Far as I knew, I'd never seen either of them.
They greeted Lisa warmly, though, but she didn't re-
spond; she turned and walked away.

I followed her to our quarters and tried to talk; she
wouldn't say what was chewing her. Well, she'd been
aloof and withdrawn ever since we got back to the ship,
but people have a right to their own moods, so I hadn't
pushed it—not that there'd been time to push much of
anything. Our ship marriage had never been on an exclu-
sive basis, so she wouldn't be clawed about Elys and me,
downside, even if she'd had a chance to hear about that
part. So for a time I stewed about Lisa's silence, because
sometimes I can't see past my own nose, and it's not even
all that long. And then I quit nagging, and we talked other
subjects on a fairly friendly level, and I went back upship
to see what I could learn.

At the open level outside the galley, from a little dis-
tance I watched Dahil and Tiriis. Besides their simple
hot-weather garb, all they'd brought with them that I
could see was one pouch, each, of whatever passed for
personal effects among the Others, and a big transparent
"wineskin" filled with dark ggid liquid. Seeing it, I smelled
spice; that color had been in the cup I drank.

Somebody ought to be warned, I thought, but with
Szabo gone, Soong was the only one left to tell. Things
were confused enough that I got to him at his business
console without the usual red tape. But when I got there,
he was giving one of his more fogheaded sets of orders.
By the time I'd listened through it, one of his guards asked
me for my audience pass, so I'd blown my chance.

I'd heard, though. Soong's ideas of how to cope with the
shipboard presence of Tiriis and Dahil went like this:

capture them, kill them, hold them hostage for Szabo's
return, torture them for information, and call Base for ad-
vice. In that order. I had no trouble guessing what he'd
decide to do. Call Base.

He didn't get that far, because first he decided to inter-
view the Others in person. The same way the moth de-
cides to have a closer look at the nice flame. After they'd
turned his friendlies on for him, Soong initiated very few

435

calls to Base. And answered hardly any of the communi-
cations from there, that he bothered to read.

Base, I expect, truly had its bowels in an uproar. Look
at it their way. Reported aboard with us were two aliens,
intentions unknown, with mental powers of unguessed
extent, but obviously well out of the pea-shooter class.
And Soong wouldn't even answer questions.

Base couldn't order us home; they didn't want us
home. Later I saw their order to Soong. to blow up the
whole ship, including us, if necessary, to keep it out of
alien hands. The captain didn't even acknowledge re-
ceipt of that one. The potato was getting hotter, and Base
was running out of cool hands to juggle it with.

So was the Comm center: Rigan and Blenkov and I
and the rest. We had to say something to the repeated
queries, which became more heated as no answers ap-
peared. The pressure got to Rigan; he was driven to
deliver one of his most devastating criticisms, right to Cap-
tain Soong's face. "Sir, this latest communique carries a
definite note of impatience." Soong brushed him off;

maybe the man didn't even get the point. When Rigan
returned to Comm, he came perilously close to mutiny.
He said to me, "I'm not sure the captain understands the
seriousness of the situation." For Rigan, that's mutiny.

Meanwhile, Dahil and Tiriis had the run of the'ship.
How else, when no one could hold a hostile feeling in their
presence unless they allowed it? I wondered what they
were doing. So did everybody else, except possibly the
captain. I imagine he merely hoped they weren't doing
anything, or that if they were, he wouldn't hear about it.

Elys figured it out. We saw each other fairly regularly
now. Well, Lisa was coolly keeping herself from me and
wouldn't say why, so ... "It's that magic elixir of theirs,"
Elys said-

"What about it?"

"Dahil's trying not to be obvious, but once or twice I've
seen him talking with one of the women and offering a
drink. Five gets you ten, it's out of his plastic sack of
Hallucin-Ade."

"I think I see it coming, but spell it out."

"Sure you see it. Then they get lost for a whiles And
next time the woman shows up—"                &

"—she's not talking to anybody, much," I finished.
"Scheist on a shin splint 1 So that's what's wrong with

436

Lisa." Suddenly I wanted to go find her, tell her it was all
right. But it wasn't an appropriate time to rush away from
Elys, so I didn't. "Is Tiriis playing up to any of the men?"

"Not that I've noticed," she said, and frowned. "One
odd thing. Dahil ignores almost every woman who was on
the down-party. Could that mean something?"

"Maybe that whatever Dahil has in mind, once is gen-
erally enough. Indoctrination by seduction?" I shook my
head. "We got nothing like that, and Tiriis leaving the
men alone—no."

Then I had the idea. "If once is generally enough—
Elys, has any woman taken the initiative, approached
Dahil?"

"I don't know of any." Maybe t had a funny look on my
face, because she pulled back, brows raised. "You mean
me?"

I nodded. "You've been there; it won't throw you.
Now, look—this is important." Her expression said I'd
checked my brains in a locker somewhere and was inde-
cently exposed without them, but she was still listening.
"Share that cup with Dahil again. And the whole-works,
if it goes that way." I grabbed her shoulders, no harder
than I could help. "Here's the thing, Elys. Somehow, get
a sample of that spiced-up bug juice, and bring it "back for
lab analysis. Okay?"

She sighed, and relaxed. "]>t's nice to know you're still
making sense. All right, I see it. Now if Dahil only plays
aloAg ..." I left her then. We both had things to do.

The way things had been going, I'd lost track of Lisa's
watch-sked. But I got lucky; she was in our quarters.
"Lisa!" I tried to hug her, but she pulled away—as usual,
lately. "No!" I said. "Listen to me for a minute."

Dull-eyed and blank-faced, she looked at me. "What-
ever you say." Her voice hadn't always been flat like
that.

I said, "I know what it is with you. I know." She let
her head sag forward, and shook it. The hell with that;

I grabbed her chin and raised it until we could match
eyeballs. "All right. Lisa. So you shared the cup, with
Dahil or with another of them. Well, so did I, with one
of their women. I've been there, and so has practically
all the whole damn down-party. Does that tell you any-
thing?" I hoped it would.

For the first time in a long while, she smiled. Not

437

exactly the smile I was used to, but better than none.
"Yes," she said. "Quite a lot. I—I'm sorry I've been put-
ting you off. I guess if I'd known, I wouldn't have." Then
she cried.

We were close, I felt, to getting ourselves back to-
gether. So I kissed her, and so on, and although it was
a little soon for me, things went well between us. But
afterward she cried again, and wouldn't say why. I kept
, on asking, the way you do when you can't get something-
to make sense; she still cried. I would have let her be,
but it struck me that maybe she was hiding something
that could be important to more than just Lisa and me.
So against my own feeling I kept pressuring her until .she
told me.

She was pregnant, that's all. Which may not sound like
much, except that it should have been impossible; her
contraceptive implant was a one-year squib with ten
months to go. And until just now, she'd had sex exactly
once since I'd left the ship with Szabo, and at the time I
left, she had definitely not conceived. Downside, she had
shared the cup with DahiL                          -s.

Lisa, pregnant by an alien? I found it hard to believe,
but once the impossible is eliminated, you know what's
left. So all I could do, now, was try to soothe Lisa. Once
she realized that practically every woman in the'down-
party, and now quite a few here on the ship, was getting
the game treatment, she didn't feel like quite so much
of a freak.

But then she sat straight up, from where she'd been
snuffling gently against my neck. "Rent What if they
ay—7"

That's when we both really began to worry.

The trouble was, we had no one to report our suspi-
cions to. Captain Soong had holed up, talking to nobody
except the messboy who brought him his meals, and be-
tween all the rest of us there was enough authority to
wipe our own noses, maybe.

Two days later. Lisa and I had a chance to talk things
over with Elys. She'd approached Dahil, and all she'd say
about that was that she'd lifted a sample of liquid love-
bomb, all right As Medic-3 she'd authorized lab analysis
on it, but no results as yet. One personal note, tipugh.
She, too, was pregnant, and we could take our i-noice
between an Other or divine intervention.

438

We needed to know whether impregnation vsas the
whole idea of the Others' schtick, so it was my turn—to
approach Tiriis, for cup-sharing and all. She smiled and
said it wasn't "necessary," but before I could disengage
with apologies, she handed me the cup, anyway. Well,
what do you do?

I drank, and my mind changed her from an oddly
formed humanoid with a mild visual attractiveness that
grew with familiarity, to the essence of utter loveliness,
and from there you can guess. Even now, after twice
at that cup, I don't see a female Other the way you might.
I see beauty you wouldn't believe. But without the cup,
I'm content merely to appreciate it.

When Elys got the lab report, the results weren't much,
"Part of it's hallucinogenic, of course," she said, "and
there are some trace items that don't seem to mean much,
though we can't be sure. Also, we found something resem-
bling colchicine, which has sometimes been used lo stimu-
late plant growth."

I nodded. "Yes. The Others do mess with plants, don't
they?"

"Not the same way, I'd imagine," said Elys. "As I
understand it, colchicine doubles the chromosome count."
It wouldn't trigger ovulation, though, at any old point of
the cycle. But something did, apparently.

So we weren't sure what we knew, what it meant, or
who to tell it to, so as to get some constructive action
started. Two more days we met for discussion, and got
no place at all. Then Captain Soong came out of his
cocoon—not as a butterfly, but to call assembly of all
officers, and ratings of the first three grades. It was nice of
the captain, I thought, to wake up and remember he had
a ship to run.

All he said, to the lot of us seated in the galley, was,
"Our visitors have something to show us." Then he sat
down, and sure enough, Tiriis went to the viewscreen
controls and Dahil got up front to speak. I wondered if
she could handle those controls, and if so, how she'd
learned the skill.

To the ear, the Others talk oddly, because they leave
much detail to pass directly from mind to mind. I'm not
sure Just how much they put into sound waves and how
much not; stand by for a general impression.

"You want know on man Szabo," Dahil tegan. "Here

439

man Szabo." And on the screen, there he was. He'd been
missing for weeks now; this had to be a recording, and I
have no idea how much of it was played on a real-time
basis. All I can say is how we saw it.

I'd never seen Szabo nude before; I doubt if anyone
had, on the ship. He looked exactly like any normal
•man; his lack, which apparently had made him kill once
too oftfen, was inside and hidden. Asleep or drugged, he
lay supine on a cot, in a bare room.

One male and one female Other came on camera and
stood, one at each side of Szabo's cot, looking down
at him in silence.

"They think on man Szabo," Dahil said. "On where be
not," Tiriis added. Minutes passed; then the two straight-
ened up and came up past the camera to go out of sight.

Dahil said, "Man Szabo make right, now." For a mo-
ment nothing happened, and then, pulsebeat after "pulse-
beat, Szabo's erection grew. Like halfway up to a buffalo,
my old grandaddy would have said; I had to reassure
myself that size wasn't really all that important.

"Now man Szabo right," said Dahil. The stunned si-
lence broke, everybody talking and nobody listening.
Which was all right; none of it was worth listening to,
including me.

Then quiet came again, because Szabo was coming
awake and sitting up, then getting off the cot. He was
half-standing when he realized what had happened, and
he froze in that crouch, face writhing. Obviously the
poor guy thought he'd gone crackers and was hallucinating.
He reached to check by touch, then brought his hand
away; probably he didn't dare find out, for sure.

Soft-voiced, Tiriis said, "Man Szabo not know he right
We show."

They showed, all right. Nude, bearing the familiar cup,
a female Other came on screen. Gently drawing Szabo
upright, she put the cup to his lips and tilted it until he
drank; then she took the rest of it, Szabo's face relaxed.
He smiled; not the frightening smile we knew, but a com-
pletely open, defenseless smile, a shy one. And very
gently, he reached to her.

In the next few minutes there was no doubt that Szabo
was fully functional. None. "See?" said Tiriis. "Now he
right. Now he know he right." Then, when it erided, I
think the screened picture skipped some time, for su Idenly
the female Other was leaving. Smiling his new smile,

440

Szabo looked after her for a moment, then lay down and
slept so immediately that I suspect he had some help.

Elys said, "Then he'll be all right, from now on?"

"No." Dahil looked puzzled. "Why need? Is done for
now; can do again."

"You mean you'll make him right when you want to?"
She was near to screaming. "But the rest of the time, you
don't think it matters?" She took a deep breath. "It mat-
ters to him. Don't you see?"

"We see," said Tiriis. "We show." And on the screen
we saw the time I mentioned earlier, when Szabo as we
knew him took the cup, and went berserk and killed the
female Other. It wasn't a true picture, probably some
kind of thought-projection put onto tape, because the
figures were stylized, like line drawings. But there was no
uncertainty as to what was happening.

"So you're punishing him?" Elys challenged the Others.
"He couldn't help it; surely you can see that."

I bad time to wonder why the Others were letting
Elys scold them, instead of simply turning down her
emotional wick, before Dahil said, "See now, but with-
out try, not know. So make right and try. Man Szabo do
right. Soon now, more try, one. Man Szabo do right more,
then make right for stay. Or any when need." Elys, now
with several of us backing her stand, tried to explain
that the shocks of being made right and then reverting to
the same old bind would likely'urive Szabo all the way out
'of his tree.

Dabil made the odd twitch of his upper torso that
passed for a shrug. "Not us to say. Is said, now be done."
That was his final word, and the same for Tiriis, Szabo
would have to tough it out, was all. Neither of them said
what happened if he flunked the test, and nobody asked.
I know / didn't.

The story went around the ship. It wasn't supposed to
leak, of course, but naturally it did. Soong didn't bother
to scold anyone; I expect it took all his time and energy
to ignore his own problems.

You wouldn't think that in a situation like ours, weeks
could pass with absolutely no action taken. But that's
exactly what happened, Soong wasn't going to make a
move without orders, and Base didn't have enough info
to give any. So we hung in slow orbit, now as far from
Opal as we could get and keep that orbit stable, what

441

with other gravitational influences. The stalemate was

virtually complete.

Not entirely, though. None of us could fire our own
misgivings off to Base independently and hope to get away
with it, but the routine departmental reports could be
sent These were supposed to go out over the captain's
signature, and he wasn't even reading them, let alone
signing anything. But to save himself the bother of getting
ink on his fingers, he'd long ago given signature-stamps
to all his department heads. Thus, we preserved some
shadow of legality; we used Rigan's stamp.

Everything that was sent, I read in the Chrono log,
whether it went out on my watch or not. I couldn't see
that Xenobiology, for instance, had much new to say, but
maybe they'd give Base a little something to bite down on.

In the chain of command. Lisa was an odd side-link—
a First rating in Psychology, no one out-ranking her in
that line, but still under Medical so her material had to
be correlated with theirs. It worked out well; we needed
to rub together all the ideas we had. One new datum was
that the impregnation program, downside at least, was
intended to work in both directions. Because Tiriis was
definitely showing signs.

Elys had taken our first guesses to her boss, Medic-
Chief Mark Gyril. He's small and thin, deep-voiced and
long on brains. Nice, informal kind of person; when Elys
said she wanted me and Lisa to sit in on the worry ses-
sions, he said, "Fine; bring in two more chairs." And
that was that

Our first think-session, he summed up the mess. The
Others didn't seem hostile, but they didn't have to be,
when they could keep us from feeling that way. Did they
mean us harm? Unproven.

Elys, he guessed, could have had her sample of the
magic potion by asking. Because she couldn't have swiped
it, against Dahil's wishes- She looked shocked, but then
nodded, as Gyril added, "Either he doesn't care wnat we
learn, or thinks we can't analyze the stuff; I'd guess the
former." Well, so would I.

"I don't have a full analysis, and I couldn't synthesize
the fluid here. Back at Base, perhaps, I could do both; so
could the people there, for that matter." My impression
was that given the props, anything Base could *r-o, Gyril
could do better.                                )

442

His incomplete analysis sounded pretty good to me. The
side-trace items, he thought, stabilized the mixture and
counteracted our anti-fertility measures. The mind-bender
differed enough from other known hallucinogens to give
him the idea that it might be tailored to a specific pur-
pose. How specific? Gyril shrugged. Try cup-sharing be-
tween a human, or Other, and a member of some other
humanoid race, and then we might know more. But with-
out the cup, humans and Others weren't sexually at-
tracted. Or we weren't, at least; maybe they only drank
to make it look mutual. But the crux was, the Others
deliberately set up these encounters, while our people got
hooked without knowing what was going to happen. Well,
usually; Elys blushed and I expect I looked sheepish.

The component that resembled colchicine, the chromo-
some-doubling agent: "I can't prove- this yet, or possibly
ever, but it has to be the element that makes this
inter-species fertility possible, at all." He smiled. "I have
tissue samples from Dahil and Tiriisr you know." I hadn't.
."There's no real chance of disease-contagion between us
and they know it, but they humored me.

"Well. by several definitive criteria we're as interfertile
with the Others as we are with a stalk of wheat. There
are some interesting near-fits to the genetic layouts, but
the point is that they do not fit. Part of the cup's function,
I speculate, is to act on our respective germ cells so that
they will fit To produce a viable organism—& hybrid,
if you please, between us and the Others."

Lisa blinked. "But what would it be like? How would
it look?"

"It's a bit early," Gyril said, "but I'd like to get some
X-rays. Because the trouble is that your question is not
theoretical. It's very real—to you two, and to quite a
number of other women."

That wasn't the only real trouble; another was that if
he'd summarized our knowledge again two months later,
he couldn't have added much. For one thing, we never
did get any X-rays.

It's not really X-ray, doesn't even use hard radiation.
The old name holds over, because it's easier to say. But
we got no pictures, for many reasons or sometimes none.
Women didn't keep their appointments, or the techs were
busy and rescheduled them. Or the machine was out of
order. Or, more often, the job was just plain botched.

443

After our think-group got together to concentrate on see-
ing the work done right, and after four hours had a stack
of blurs and fogs and all-black negatives to show for it,
Gyril summed the matter up- "I think we can assume that
the Others don't approve of this line of research." He
grinned in a tired way, and we all went to his quarters
and had a drink, to simmer down.

The Others were stacking the deck on us, no doubt of
it. Some lines of investigation went fine, but always to
logical negative results. And some we simply couldn't get
off the ground; we'd forget proper sequence and botch
the results. After a time we quit botherin_g with any ap-
proach that ran into that kind of static, but made notes on
it, anyway—for there, of course, the answers lay.

Once Gyril said, "I may not be able to feel hostile to-
ward the Others, but sometimes 1 manage a certain an-
noyance. My thought is that one day I shall conduct this
research without them peeping down my brainpipe."
Good idea; too bad it didn't really apply.

And so it went. What we knew, what we even guessed,
we tried to slip into the reports that went to Base. Looking
at some of. it, Rigan went cautious and wouldn't let his
Soong-signature stamp be used. But Gyril had one of
those, too; no problem. The Xeno-folks sent a lot of stuff,
too; I hope Base could make more sense of it than I
could. If-they did, you couldn't tell it by the messages
they sent to Soong, which I doubt he ever read. Certainly
he answered none of it, or I'd have seen something in
the Chrono.

The Others didn't interfere with anything we sent out;

either they didn't understand about Base, or they didn't
care. In the latter case they were probably right.

Maybe if Szabo had been aboard, he could have been
primed to pressure Soong or even go over his head. Dan-
gerous proposition, it would've been, to make to Szabo
—but I wasn't the only one getting desperate enough to
try something dangerous. No point in bracing Command-
Second Nargilosa; she was crowding retirement," and had
a sort of myopic crush on Soong, anyway. Command-
Third Rocco was a political appointee; enough said. And
a doper, too.

It gets nervous, sitting for months in high j»rbit, doing
nothing much about a situation that's scary as \ all. Nearly
every woman aboard, capable of the condition, was into

444

late pregnancy. All, except those who had been downside,
by Dahil. Well, there were five who'd made the grade, by
human agency and with official permission, before we hit
Opal. Maybe the Others were considerate in not adding
an abortive chemical to the cup, or perhaps they weren't
up to that stunt; I doubt that anyone ever asked them.

But having every woman on the whole ship, who's not
past it, running about six months preggy, doesn't do a lot
for morale. Theirs, or anyone else's. For starters, only
five were volunteers; the rest had been drugged into it.
And knew that whatever they would bear, it was some-
thing new under the suns. The idea scared hell out of
some;, Gyril and Elys got worried that they might run
out of a stock of stability drugs that should have been
good for ten years, under normal conditions.

I had to think back, to recall what normal conditions
were. For one thing, we used to know what we were sup-
posed to be doing. But by now, even routine ship
maintenance was beginning to suffer.

And that's what blew the whole package. The grav-lift
biccuped while a woman was halfway up ft. Her broken
ankle wasn't serious, but she began to hemorrhage and
then miscarried.

It wasn't one of ours.

Only Mark Gyril actually saw the fetus; he said it
wasn't viable so he'd destroyed it. He took no pictures
' for record, which gave us a good idea who was pushing
bis buttons at the time. With Elys and Lisa and I all
questioning him, it got embarrassing; he couldn't look
either gravid woman straight in the eye when they asked
him what the unborn creature looked like.

His strained voice came out a lot higher than his usual
mellow, bass growl. "It wasn't . . . what you might ex-
pect. I can't describe it. I'm sorry; I can't." And finally
we realized he told literal truth; he couldn't describe it
because the Others wouldn't let him. Which gave me to
think, and I didn't like it much.

Especially I didn't like thinking how the women must
feel, each carrying Something in her belly—and this good
friend, the only one who knew, couldn't or wouldn't say
what. Elys probably had it worse, because a few days
earlier, she and Gyril had affirmed ship-marriage to-
gether, and now he was clamming up about the biggest
personal worry she had. What a way to run a honeymooni

445

Not that Elys was in any better shape for frolic now than
Lisa was—but the principle, I thought, still applied.

Muttering something, Elys turned away and began fid-
dling inputs into the holo-projector. A man's image
flickered into being; then it vanished and an Other's ap-
peared- The man again, then the Other, faster and faster.
She pushed the sequence-speed to tops, far past normal
usage range; the two images began to blur into one.

Gyril shouted "No!" and reached for the control. Too
late; something blew and we had a lot of smoke in. the
place. But for an instant, first, we saw both pictures at
once- Heads and torsos superimposed, but arms and legs
separate and clear.

In the dim back rooms of my mind, hackles raised.
What scared me was, that grotesque mishmash looked
right.

We left Gyril trying to soothe Elys down out of her
screaming tizzy. Considering everything, I thought she was
having the only possible reasonable reaction.

Back at quarters. Lisa and I needed some cleaning up;

over the past hundred years or so, I understand that the
stink of burning insulation hasn't improved much. Ordi-
narily we'd have hit the wash-off booth together and had
fun at it, but with her extra bulk now, that wasn't feasible.
So we hugged, and then I took myself off to the
communal officers' showers, which are handy for- relief
breaks during watches if you happen to feel the need
then.

Those compartments have G-control; I put mine on low
so I could float on strong spray and be pelted all over
with mild. Great! I needed to relax, and now I did. When
the warning buzzer rang, meaning that someone else
wanted in, I put G back to normal and stood up. I could
have punched "Wait," but it's more polite not to. And the
spray dwindled off, so the door could open and let some-
one in.

It was Szabo. None other. Not the Szabo I'd known—
from the way his face looked, this was Szabo' "made
right," as Tiriis had shown him on the screen. He grinned,
and stuck his hand out, and though I knew he could still
break me in half if he wanted to, he didn't scare me now.
I took the hand.                              P

"Hi, Ren," he said. He'd never called me anything but

446               ,

Bearpaw or Comm-Second, and that had suited me just
fine- But now...

I said, "Hi, Szabo. Good to see you." And before I
thought: "But how'd you get up here?"

The question didn't seem to bother him. "I'm not going
to ask," he said. "I'm afraid Dahil or Tiriis might tell me."
So it had to be the teleport thing, and Szabo didn't like
psi stuff. But he said, "My first name's Ferenc, Ren; feel
free to use it It got changed to Frank when my folks
went American, but I think I'll go back to my ethnic
start." Before I could think what to say, he reached for
the compartment controls, and said, "Low-G?" I nodded,
and tht.Ti we floated on spray, and bad to speak up to
hear each other over the splashings.

I didn't know what to say, except to ask if he had any-
thing to tell Base about the Others that might help the
ship get off the dime. He didn't, so I was stuck, because
I wanted to stay off the subject of his personal tran5£or-
mation in case it was still dynamite.

But he cut through all that. "Look, Ren—you're pussy-
footing, and you don't have to. I was what I was, and I
am what I am. The Others didn't owe me a thing, either,
except a fast blast in the head. In case you didn't know,
I killed one of them." Not out of fear, but because this
was his story, I said nothing. He said, "If it matters, I'm
sorry for the way I had to be with everybody, just to keep
, going. I envied eunuchs—at ^least their drives are gone,
along with their abilities. I was like a bird with its wings
cut off."

I damn near cried. For murderous, frightening Szabo.
With the water spraying, it wouldn't have showed, and
when I got my voice back, I said, "I'm glad for you.
Okay?" And he smiled, the new way I could trust, and I
flipped up to stand and leave. Low-G is nice.

"Just a minute, Ren." I paused. "I skimmed the
Chrono log; I know how the ship stands. You know as
well as I do, something has to be done." I never in my
life made a more sincere nod. "I haven't talked yet with
Captain Soong. I will, shortly. When I do, either he will
take action or I will." He shook his head. "Needless to
say, I won't harm the captain in either case. But he may
go into storage for a time. I think the log, in itself, will
justify any action I may need to take."

I couldn't argue with a word of it; I nodded, we shook

447

hands again, I toweled and dressed and left To go tell
Lisa.

I found her leaving our quarters to meet with Mark
Cyril and Elys. When I said I bad news, she said to save
it for the whole group, and took off as fast as her condition
would allow. Well, as she said, she moved pretty well for

a fat lady.

Elys let us in, and we all got sat down, and I sprang
my news. It brought quite a lot of startled comment, and
Gyril said, "Does this change anything we're trying to
do?" Before we could come up with anything that
quacked like an answer, Ferenc Szabo was on the inter-
com screen, announcing an all-ship broadcast. Looking a
little mussed up, he stated that since Captain Soong had
refused to abide by Regs, such as answering queries from
Base, Szabo as Command-First was stuffing Soong away
for future reference and assuming the title of Actrrig Cap-
tain. And shortly we were all beading back for Base at
the high lope. All complaints, I gathered, would be more
than ignored.

Well, it figured. But who was the man speaking for: us,
or the Others?

Later we heard how the takeover had gone. Under
pressure, Soong had agreed to let Ferenc move the ship
and inform Base. But as soon as he was alone, Soong
called in his personal bully-boy guards and sicced them
onto Ferenc. The personal-guard thing isn't m Regs, but
doesn't violate them, either.

Even Soong should have known better; there were only
six guards. At least he had the sense to send them un-
armed; six armed men can't help but get in each other's
way in a confined space, and then it doesn't take a
Ferenc Szabo to disarm one and use the weapon to cut
down the rest while they're still wondering which way is
Christmas. Officer-level combat training is quite effective.

Ferenc killed one. Not by choice; he caught, a full
tackle from behind while he was bending somepne, and
the impact broke the man. Two more were injured but
recovered; the other three had the good sense to run,
luckier than either they or Soong deserved.

So, like it or not, soon we'd be on our wa^ back to
Base. But not until ship's maintenance was up to snuff;

448

people began working long shirts. A major problem was
that a fair proportion of our best tech-ratings were
women, and most of those simply weren't in any condition
to move or climb normally; the work went slowly. But
eventually we moved out; behind us, Opal dwindled.

Earth with no stops, after all the delay in orbit, meant
pretty close to running out of groceries, but not quite.
Elys said we were bound to run short of baby food, with
so many women expecting sooner than not. Lisa said this
proved the acting captain was under the Others' control.
I said, why would the Others want their own offspring to
starve?

Gyril brought up the point that if the Others were
backing Ferenc, how did Soong's six heavies manage to
tackle him at all? That was the best question of the se-
mester, because it was our first hint that the Others'
powers had limits. Thinking back, none of us could recall
any instance of group resistance to the aliens' wishes. It
gave to think—and with hope, this time. Sometimes, even
parts of the problem give some of the answer.

No one looked forward to the time when the ship's
complement would suffer a forty-percent increase, all tiny
and fragile and loud and messy. But the classic nine-
month mark came and went, and that increase didn't hap-
pen; the pregnant, for the most part, stayed pregnant
Well. the five human conceptions delivered on time, with
'' great relief, and actually there were six; one woman had
worried needlessly all this time, because apparently she'd
slipped her implant schedule and been secured before she
went down to Opal. Well, once in a while somebody has
to get lucky.

The next months in transit were pretty miserable.
Women wretched with fear, and with wombs too bulky
and heavy to carry around. Lisa, bless her sturdy bones,
could still stand and walk. Elys couldn't, without help;

she looked like a small girl clinging to a large rock. Men
were sick with worry, trying to take care of the women
and afraid it wasn't going to be good enough; they were
so hyped up that it didn't take much to set off senseless
fights. I expect the women would have fought, too, some-
times, if they could have moved around well enough to do
it

To visit Mark and Elys, Lisa and I had worked out a
449

way to travel together through the standard-G corridors.
And on stairs, for no woman cared to trust the grav-lift
now. I walked bent over, crouching a little, with Lisa be-
hind me—her hands digging into my lower ribs, her great
belly resting against my lower back. Not the greatest way
to fly, but it got us from Point A to Point B. The ship's
few invalid carts were for people who really needed them,
and some of those had to do without. By contrast. Lisa
and I felt we were lucking out. So far.

To see Elys was* heartbreak. Not too long ago, that tiny,
bouncy wench could run your legs off in an uphill sprint.
Now she couldn't stand without a helper. Yes, it hurt to
see her.

Gyril looked like the wrath of God, and who hid My
thunderbolts? Heavy in study, he looked up as though
we were skunks at his picnic. Lisa tried to jolly him.
"How's the research, maestro?"

He did try to grin. "I'm studying the old Caesarian
operation—delivering the infant through an abdominal in-
cision." The grin faded. "You didn't expect, did you, that
any of you could deliver normally?"

That line was a stopper, but Lisa said, "You can do it,
can't you?"                                     ^

"Correctly, with minimum risk? That's what I want to
ensure."

"Good answer," she said. Then she pouted. "Mark,
come here and hug me; tell me it's going to be all right.
I'd go to you, but these days I can't get there from here."
So Gyril did, and Lisa did, and I knew who was reassur-
ing whom. Gyril's the Medic-Chief, but Lisa's the psychol-
ogist.

A week or two later, Gyril delivered the first of the
Children, as they're called now. Dahil and Tiriis were
there and observed, not interfering at all. What they did,
though, was set up their own infant-care ward. As soon
as the baby was out and obviously viable, they left Gyril
to take care of the trimmings, and a little later, Dahil
came back and trundled the infant off to the Others* own
bailiwick for further care.

So for some time, most of us had no idea what the
Children looked like. Only that after nearly fifteen
months' gestation, they were big lummoxes that had to be
cut out by _main force if their mothers hopef to live.
Though, come to think of it, we never heard now Tiriis

450

was delivered. But any way you look at it, that's not much
of a recommendation.

One thing that happened. When Dahil and Tiriis left
the delivery room. Mark Gyril got the acting captain on
the viewscreen and showed him the infant. "This is what
we've been waiting for. Your orders, sir?" ,

And Ferenc Szabo said, "You'll have to kill it, of
course."

"Come down here, if you please, and give me that
order in person." And Ferenc went there, looked at the
first of the Children.

Then he shook his head. "The order is rescinded. Doc-
tor, we are born at the wrong time."

If you think, as I first did, that the incident shows care-
lessness on the part of the Others, take a second thought
at it.

Quite some time passed before most of us learned
much about the Children. There were about thirty born
and living—three died—when I first saw one.

Describing them isn't exactly difficult; it's more like
impossible. If you haven't seen one, you can't realty imag-
ine it very well; if you have, you realize it's like trying
to describe a cow to a cabbage. As a starting point, re-
member how the Others look; then try to visualize the
double exposure we got when Elys burned out the pro-
jector. The first impression ...

*

. . . move separately, or any adjacent pair track for
two-eye focus, to front or rear or ...

*

. . . between the left legs, and female between the
right. As with humans and Others, elimination is centrally
located. It appears ...

*

Gyril refuses to speculate whether this means a tendency
to multiple births.

Later insert here. I find some of the tape erased or
garbled, and when I record it again, the same thing hap-
pens. I think I'm running into the same kind of censor-
ship, from the Others, that stopped us from getting X-rays.
Maybe they'll let this explanation through and maybe not.

451

Either way, Fm splicing from here directly into the next
part they haven't tampered with.

. . . sounds tike a bunch of little monsters, I realize,
but they're not Once you get used to them; which does
take some doing, they're quite an attractive form of life.
I don*t know how much of this is objective and how much
their own doing, because the Children's powers of mental
influence, when they use them, are cards and spades
over what the Others can do. Consider: newly born,
the first one changed Ferenc Szabo's mind, about killing
it, as soon as Ferenc was in the baby's presence. After
ten or twelve days, we found, they can reach you any
where on the ship. We have no way to test the effect over
longer distances.

Base does, of course, but for obvious reasons would
rather not make the final test. Which is to say, letting us
come close enough that the Children's influence could
reach Earth. And since it turned out that Base knew the
problem, apparently the Others hadn't stopped Ferenc
from reporting the situation as he saw it. Well, I never
claimed to understand the Others, and I still don't

So Base finally did something; they sent us a directive.
Per orders, Ferenc Szabo assembled the officer comple-
ment to hear it together, and piped it through the inter-
com broadcast circuit to the rest of the ship. The direc-
tive made more sense than I expected.

"Attention, Captain Szabo and all present" it began.
"You must not—repeat, must not—return here with the
creatures you call the Children. We realize you are low
on supplies. Consequently, a ship, basically similar to your
own, will be diverted from its present mission to re-
supply you in space. Rendezvous coordinates in space-time
will be given you as soon as possible. Meanwhile, to sim-
plify rendezvous, maintain your own vectors constant"

I thought, but what about the other crew, when Dahil
and Tiriis get at them? The person reading the directive
must have been reading my mind, too. "Except for one
male volunteer, your supply ship will be uocrewfcd. The
volunteer will join you; the ship will be abandoned once
you have transshipped your supplies. To ensure ti|is
outcome, that ship, after achieving rendezvous. will roe
left with no appreciable amount of fueL"

That part impressed me; Base was serious. I have some

452

idea of what these ships cost. Enough pure fright, ap-
parently, could overrule even budget considerations.

The voice continued, and I was surprised to detect in
it a real note of human feeling. 'To pronounce exile on
innocent, loyal Agency personnel is a hard thing. But
we have to do it. After you have, as rapidly as possible,
re-supplied your ship, reverse course. Proceed, at max
acceleration, back across the dead belt that lies beyond
the Demu planets, and continue until your fuel supply
falls below the point of no return. You understand, I
trust."

I got it, all right; what surprised me was that it made
sense. Now the voice came slower. "From there, you will
be on your own, to search out any habitable planet and
settle there. When you do, your ship's drive must be com-
pletely disabled, and all technical literature concerning
it, destroyed."

The throat-clearing, then, sounded embarrassed. "This
order, we know, demands complete sacrifice of your
own future plans. But we have no alternative. These
aliens cannot be allowed to take over the human race."
I wondered if Base had already made the decision when
they had only the Others to fear. Then I decided it didn't
matter what I wondered. What mattered was whether
Base had missed one vital point, here.

Not entirely, they hadn't: "The Others, if not yet the
Children, will put mental pressure on you to disobey
this directive. We ask you now, all of you listening, to
concentrate together on the thought, the purpose, that
you will remove this threat. Awake or asleep, never let
that group purpose leave your mind, and you win win.
Despite this alien attempt to force you to betray . . ."

Well, then it got hokey. But up to then—I don't know
where they dug him up, but somebody at Base had some
brains. Picked up the group concentration thing, how the
Others hadn't stopped Soong's goons from jumping Ferenc,
from Mark Gyril's report. Well, their idea, now, might
work, at that.

The wrap-up was: "You are heroes, all of you. You will
never be forgotten. Thank you." Funny thing. Given
the tone of voice, it sounded convincing.

As a matter of fact, we did start working on group con-
centration to resist mental pressure. Hung around and
even gave each other pep talks. Anyone alone, with no

453

one else's thoughts to help, is vulnerable, and we are
beginning to know it. The next...

. . . was changed, for rendezvous. Remembering co-
ordinates isn't my department, but the least-fuel compu-
tation had us already slowed to "rest," whatever that means
in the twisting Arm of a spiral galaxy, and moving back
down-Arm into the dead belt, before the supply ship
could reach us. Ferenc Szabo's been following instruc-
tions; I hope it works.

I hope you got all this, too. Hasn't been easy, getting
it on tape in chunks, putting it out on Phasewave the same
way. When it wasn't having to dodge Rigan—who, to
give him credit, hasn't snooped on me lately—it was
stooges of Soong's for a while. And a time there, I
was some cautious about Ferenc Szabo.

But either it's all gone out or it hasn't, and either you've
got it or not. We know a ship's coming, and there's only
two or three there could be, finished and launched since
we left, but we don't know which, or from where. We'll
find out, I guess.

And I don't know how long until rendezvous; S^abo
hasn't said.

But now at least you know why we won't be back.

If you're lucky.

454

III.

Decisions

"Do you believe that, Hayward?" Barton was finished
with the tape now. They hadn't tried to hear it in one
sitting, he and Limila and Arlie Fox, because Barton
kept turning it back to check on earlier things to make
sure he had them straight. So they'd had two meal breaks,
and to Barton, his day was getting into evening.

The young man spread his hands. "It all fits." He
turned to the console once more. "I'll punch up the
omcial-reports tape for you; just skim it, if you like. But
then see what you think."

"All right." Barton had plenty of time; he began with
the earliest message relayed to Base from the down-party
on Opal, and at first he skipped nothing. Then be nodded,
and began sampling only the first phrases of each
entry and punching ahead to the next start-code. When
he came to Base's order for the ship to get itself per-
manently lost, he listened all the way through. Then he
turned the playback off. "I guess I believe it, too."

He paused, thinking. From the start of Bearpaw's odd
tale. Barton had been piling up questions. He'd saved
them, because maybe the answers would be later in the
story, and a lot of them were. All right; Bearpaw's ship,
and the one Barton was on now, were magnitudes ahead
of those he was used to. But the grav-Iift and variable-G
showers were certainly derived from the original Demu
ship Barton had swiped on Ashura; Tarleton's fleet could

455

have had those, except that it would have taken longer and
they were in a hurry. Barton remembered the day those
things were decided; for a moment he wondered whether
any areas of these big ships had the Demu pee-through
floors, then shook his head. The matter simply wasn't
important.

And what was? Barton was tired; concentration came
hard. But before he slept, he wanted some answers.
So he began asking.

What Bearpaw's ship had and what this one had,, it
turned out, were two different buckets of clams. "We're
going to leave this one adrift, remember," said Hayward.
**A total loss. So as soon as we accepted the order to
divert, the ship was systematically stripped of everything
not essential to the mission. And that equipment was
unloaded on Tilara."

Barton asked for details. The faster-than-Iight communi-
cation gear was gone; after rendezvous, Beai-payy's ship
could do the report to Base. Maybe Hennessy on Tilara
would get his hands on the apparatus, make use of it, and
maybe not Barton had had another idea, but now he
dropped it. He cleared his throat; it felt dry. "How about
weapons?" He didnt know what he migfat want to do
with weapons, but it would be nice to know what he had,
just in case,

Hayward shook his head. *They dismounted the big
laser; it's gone. Of course we still have the Demu
Shield; they couldn't send us out totally defenseless, in
case we met Demu raiding ships. And—"

"And since the sleep-gun works from the same power
supply and some of the same wave-form generators, we
should have that, too."

"I'm not sure," said Hayward. "It's not my line of
work.",

Barton stood. "Let's find out." They went up a level
and Barton tried those controls; the indicators sho*wed
no power going out, so he led the way to the generator
turret and saw where components had been removed.
For a moment he was stumped, and if he hadnl been so
tired he might have done a little cussing. Then he grinfc •'.,
"Hayward? Do you know how to check your spareal\,»
ventory?"                                        y

Barton's faith in human inefficiency was rewarde^
456

When Hayward showed him where to find the parts
stocks, and Barton plugged things in where they belonged,
the sleep-gun came operative.

"I still don't understand," said Hayward, "why you
want that thing working." It was Barton's morning now;

in the Command-First's quarters that dwarfed the com-
partments on Ship One, he and Limila had slept well.
Arlie seemed happy enough living in the style of a
Command-Second. Hayward, of course, had captain's digs.

Pausing between bites of breakfast. Barton said, "How
should I know? What I want is all the options I can get."
He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe we could fake out
all those super-psi types and solve the whole mess with
one good shot of sleepy-bye." He grinned, then, so that
nobody would take the idea seriously. Because, he didn't.
But Limila nodded. So she knew he'd decided where
they were going.

One serious idea, he did have. Done eating, they went
above and Barton had Hayward put the galactic-Arm
map on the screen, "Show us our course, huh?" he said,
and Hayward produced a thin, curving line that arced
from Tilara to a point in the dead belt Leaning forward,
Barton studied it.

Finally he sat back. "Too far. No time and not enough
fuel." Before Hayward could speak. Barton said, "I think
/ you know already, but I'll make it official; I'm not going
to interfere with your mission. But still—" He slapped
a hand against the side of a console. "Those aux boats
Bearpaw mentioned. I don't know their range, anything
about them. But Tarleton needs some warning. And
maybe, if the budget-minded types hadn't been so pinch-
penny about stripping this ship . . ."

He saw Hayward gulp, and the man said, "They left
me an aux craft. In case, you know. One man to handle
the whole ship, and if something should go wrong—well,
I'm a volunteer, but not any kind of kamikaze.'*

"What's its range?"

Hayward told him, and Barton sat back. Again he
looked at the screen, and said, "We can do it. Bend course
enough to get within safe distance for the aux boat to
Sisshain, and this ship still rendezvous as planned."

Hayward's eyes widened. "Then you're taking the
boat to Sisshain?"

457

"No." said Barton. "You are."

"But why?" All three asked him that, and Barton had
no real answer. The real answers had been censored out
of Renton Bearpaw's tape, by the Others. AU that Barton
had to go on was a hunch—a hunch, and a memory.
But whatever had happened, and would happen on that
ship he'd never seen, he wanted to be there.

What he said was, "Tarieton needs information, not
me. I'm trouble for him, and dealing with Hennessy, he'll
have enough of that." Hayward tried to talk; impatient,
Barton waved him off. "If they'd left us P.T.L.-comm
capability, there'd be no problem. Well, not so big a
one. We'd call Earth, is all, and get things straight Now
we can't So we'll do it the way I said." He stood. "You
can navigate, Hayward. Or you wouldn't be here-**

The young man nodded, and Barton said, "Then rig
course to let yourself off for Sisshain, with a safety mar-
gin. Meanwhile, I'll tape the stuff for you to take to
Tarieton."

Nobody argued. Barton expected to finish his taping
in maybe fifteen minutes, but it took him nearly two
hours. Because every time he thought he had 't right, he
found he'd forgotten something.

The course changes looked right to Barton, and the
computer agreed, so Barton watched while Hayward put
them into effect Then everybody gathered in Hayward's
plushy quarters. Now that things were decided, even
though Barton had made most of the choices, the situ-
ation felt more relaxed to him. He couldn't take the sweet
wine, though, that was all Hayward had in the way of
alcohol, so he ran a computer check on the cargo, and
Arlie Fox went along and helped him find a case of
tolerable bourbon.

After that, the party went better, and when Barton
and Limila left, he knew he'd bagged about as much of
a load as he could use.                       '

He got away with it without a hangover, but that was
the only time Barton came anywhere near getting smashed-
drunk. He guessed he'd needed it, though, the once^' let
some of the tension off.                         y JT

Now as days passed and the ship plowed spacer 'me,
faster than the ships he'd known but still measuring, in-

458

terval by the slow movement of chronometers. Barton
studied this new ship. For he needed to know it, and
was determined that he would.

Hayward didn't seem to be so sure. One day he said,
"Do you really think you'll be able to take over, so
quickly? I mean, what if you miss something, and I'm
gone, and there's no one to ask?"

Barton rubbed sweat off his forehead. He'd run into
some trouble, with the haywired circuits that grouped all
important controls to one central pilot's position, and he
didn't welcome the interruption. Looking up, he asked how
long it had taken Hayward to pick up his own briefing.
Hearing the answer, he nodded. "About the same time
as I have, now. So quit worrying."

"But I had training by expertsl"

Barton snapped a refractory connector into place and
eased back onto his haunches. "You ever land a ship,
Hayward?" Headshake. "Well, I have. The first" time,
with no training by anybody at all—and I damn near put
it in the drink, but I didn't. On my second try it was bat-
ass sideways, and the drive knocked dead at the last of
it; hadn't been for the Shield, we'd've splattered halfway
around Sisshain.*' Realizing how be must be glaring,
Barton felt silly. "All I'm saying, Hayward: I've done
new stuff before."

"Of course you have. I knos? that. Barton. But—"

Fed up with the argument. Barton sighed. "Put it like
so. I don't see how any one pilot could land this crate.
But if it came up that way, sure's hell I'd have a try at it"

Hayward still worried, though; Barton wished he
wouldn't do it out loud so much. At lunch once, puzzled
frown on Hayward's face: "What happens if you make
rendezvous and they don't? I mean, there you are, prac-
tically out of fuel and no F.T.L. communications."

Well, no end to the kid's frettings, it seemed. Bar-
ton set his plate back—he was near enough done with
it as to make no difference—and said, "We miss con-
necting, the other ship'U be yelling a lot; wouldn't you
say? So Base sends out more troops, and I doubt they'll
forget us entirely." He couldn't help but shrug, then.
"Meanwhile, this is a supply ship. Three people area't
going to run short of anything.*'

• "Three?" said Arleta Fox. "Make that two. Barton."
He looked at her. The regrowing curly auburn hair didn't

459

make much bulk yet, around her head, but now there was
enough of it that no hint of scalp showed through. Nei-
ther did her thinking. Barton realized; maybe it was a
little too long since he'd last talked with her. '

He knew she was sharing quarters with Honds Hay-
ward—his, since those were the better accommodations—
after the first tea days or so aboard this ship. It was some-
thing he hadn't asked about, because it was none of his
business. Now he said, "Sure, Arlie. You want to leave
in the aux boat, for Sisshain, that's your right.. Care to
tell me why, though?"                          *

As her hand squeezed Honus Hayward's, then released
it, she gave the little bulldog smile. "Several reasons,
Barton. One's phobic. The idea of creatures that can
influence my own mind, directly—well, I might jump ship
without a suit."

Thinking back. Barton smiled. "Any connection, Arlie,
with why you let me off the book about hypnotic drugs,
back on Earth?"

She nodded. "Positive connection, yes. But even with-
out that. Barton—at this point, I wouldn't leave Honus.
What we have—"

Sure. Permanent or not, they had to give ft tfee chance,
if they could. And now, no reason why not. Barton's hand
signified agreement, but he said, "I don't think you're
done, Arieta."

The way she pushed Hayward to one side, and leaned
forward, looked a little brusque. "Barton, do you think
you're going to clear all the mess up, back oa Tilara, and
with Tarleton when he gets there, with one tape?" She
ignored his attempt to answer, and said, "I'm a witness
all around. I can fill in to Tarleton, and then testify some
more, back on Tilara. Do you see. Barton?"

"Or on Earth, if necessary." said Limila, and Arleta
nodded.

Barton did, too. "Yeh, I see it. And I guess it's just
as well, I won't be there. The screw-ups with the ap Fenns,
and all."                                   ' ^

A touch on his arm, and Fox said, "How do you feel
about what you plan to do?"              (

It took a little thinking, but not much. He turned and
kissed her forehead, which was easy since her irf" yrdly
grew down to cover it all yet, and said, "AH the^ ^years,
Arlie, since the Demu grabbed me. I must be y loose
from Earth as anyone ever has been. More thafts, those




460

poor bastards on the ship we're going out to meet. By a
long way. So I guess I'll just go do what I can." He saw
Limila looking at him, and took her silence for agreement.
After all, she'd been uprooted for a long time, too.

And over the next days, while the ship's course curved
to its nearest approach to Sisshain, nobody talked up any-
thing touchy. .Hayward and Limila checked out the
aux boat's supplies, to make sure everything was sufficient.
When the time came for the boat to launch, there was a
lot of talk and bugging, but as near as Barton could re-
member of it, the talk said little that they hadn't all
said before. Once the boat dropped away, and Barton
saw on the main screen that its vector was optimum to hit
Sisshain, he put Honus Hayward and Arleta Fox out of
his thinking.

Because now there wasnt room for them.

So he turned the big ship away from the vector that
gave the aux boat an easy ride to Sisshain, and upped
his accel so that rendezvous would be accomplished,

It was a long haul, and first Barton was moody and
then he would come alive and feel animated. He knew
the whole thing had to be as hard on Limila as it was on
him, but he couldn't help it.

And then, way out in the dead belt, his detectors found
signs of a drive wake. "It's a whopper, too," he said,
"Not that there's much chance anything else would be out
here, besides the ship we're after meeting." Also, the wake
appeared suddenly, at full strength, rather than building
from faintness, which fit with a ship slowing to "rest" and
reversing course.

When their own began to vibrate. Barton knew they'd
hit the part where the one ahead passed light-speed, and
he steered outside the wake's cone. Saying, "To jar us,
this far back, that thing had to start off with a lot of
power."

For it was two more days before their quarry showed
up on visual. It was the one they wanted, all right.

Eager to learn what had been happening on the ship
ahead, Barton was all for giving hail immediately. Limila
put her hand on his arm. "Barton, should we not first
decide how much we wish to appear to know? Some of
the knowledge from Bearpaw's tape may be more useful
if we are not known to have it."

Politicking wasn't Barton's forte; he hadn't thought of

461

soch aspects. Now he did. "Sure; you're right. Honey,
sometimes I am the dumbest man in the world. Look,
now—only Bearpaw and his little group of cronies, prob-
ably, know he got those tape segments out. This Szabo
character may know or may not. So, in general, we
can't seem to know anything that's not on the official
tapes. Which means we'd better give those another quick
scan, while we have the chance. But all the personal
stuff—" Yeh, he thought; there was more than a little,
that they'd have to play close to the vest,

An idea came. "We are of one advantage, though,
Limila. If need be, we can be of conference in their pres-
ence." Then she smiled, because he bad spoken in
Tilaran.

The man who answered Barton's call was Renton
Bearpaw; Barton recognized his voice in the first few
words, but didn't let on. He looked younger than Barton
had expected, dark-skinned with black hair,/from the
Amerind side. Barton had a touch of that heritage him-
self, or so his grandfather had told him, but it didn't
show. This man appeared to be a little taller and slimmer
than Barton, but in the same size range. H^ gave bis
name and rank, and said, "You're here a little early,
which is good. I imagine I don't have to tell you how
much we appreciate your volunteering. Joining our exile,
all by yourself—well, it takes dedication, and—"

Turning his head, Barton saw that Limila was off
camera, at that. He beckoned to her, and when Bearpaw
saw her, his eyebrows raised. "Not exactly by myself,"
Barton said. "There's two of us." The brows still hovered,
and suddenly Barton saw what the problem was. "I guess
you wouldn't have seen any Tilarans before."

Before Bearpaw could answer, another roan joined him
—< taller, blond man. The way he moved reminded Bar-
ton of a big cat, and his expression gave him an air of
confident power. So Barton wasn't surprised when the
man said, "Ferenc Szabo speaking; I'm acting captain.
And your name and rank, please?"

AU this crap about rank, again. Well, use what works.
Barton said, "Barton. Vice-admiral of the first flff^* ^Now
on detached service."                         \\




Szabo's forehead wrinkled, then cleared, "w,
Barton. Well, we're honored, I'm sure. But yo

462

didn't carry military rank. Or even quasi-military, such
as ours here. I—"

"We had to pick up on that," Barton said, "in order to
make sense with the second fleet.'* No point in divulging
that the "we" in his statement was the editorial kind.
"You want to hear how the Demu war came out?"

"It's over? That's wonderful news. That is, I assume
we won, or you wouldn't be here."

"Basically," said Barton, "we called it off without any
real shooting. On our terms, though, so you could say we
won, I guess."

He'd made a dent in this Szabo, but the man was re-
silient. Now the frown came again. "I'm certainly glad to
hear it. Barton. But, this vice-admiral business. Do you
mean that you intend to assume command of this ship?
Certainly you outrank—"

"Hell, nol What kind of sense would it make for an
outsider to move into the middle of a touchy situation
and try to take over?"

"But then—"

Barton had him going, now. "Look, Captain—Acting
Captain, whatever—you're in command and you'll get
all the cooperation I can give you. You started talking
rank, is all, so I thought I'd clear it, right now, that I'm
nobody's flunkey."

Jeez.!—less than two minittes, and in a hassle already.
But Szabo nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. Barton, once
we match vectors, it's essential that we transship sup-
plies as quickly as possible. That means every able-
bodied person who can handle a spacesuit, working long
hours. Including me. But once that's done, I want us to
take time, you and I, to sit down to a solid briefing.
There's a lot you need to know about this ship, that you
won't have found in the official tapes."

"I'm sure." And the briefing would help, because then
he and Limila would have less cover to keep. Tricky
keeping track, though, it was going to be. "And thanks,
Captain. Now, do you want to talk me in yourself, to
match up, or turn it over to the pilot on watch?"

"I'll do it," said Ferenc Szabo. He did a good job,
too.

When the ships neared closely, they had to cut their
Shields to get any closer. For moments. Barton was
tempted to sleep-gun the other ship and run the show his

463

own way, from scratch. But he put that thought aside;

Barton was given to doing things his own way, but this
would be a little too much like playing God, and that
had never been one of his inclinations. So he listened,
instead, and learned something new. Which was that two
ships at very close range—these new big ships, anyway
—could synchronize their Shields into one, holding the
two in a fixed configuration. "Theoretically," said Ferenc
Szabo, "it can be done with three or more. But as far as
I know, that's never been tried." For a moment he
looked surprised. "In .fact," he said, "I believe thiy is the
first time it's actually been done at all,"

Barton was glad Szabo hadn't told him that until they'd
done h.

The only times Barton had ever worked outship in a
suit had been in drills while the first fleet drove from
Earth to Tilara. He remembered well enough to'do a fair
share of work, but. expert wasn't the word for his per-
formance. Well, he didn't see too many others doing
much better. All available personnel, he gathered, or as
many as there were suits for, were sweating on this job.
Even with the power equipment on both ships, 'it took a
lot of muscle. Soon he was all over aches and pains and
blisters, and once a crate dropped on his foot but didn't
break anything. One man, he heard, had a heart attack,
but not fatal. And he saw Ferenc Szabo, during a galley
break, wearing a splint on a smashed thumb. He saw
Bearpaw, too, but had no chance to talk with the man.

Then, finally, it was over, and Barton and Limila
gathered their meager gear, to take to the other ship.
She hadn't tried to work in transshipment because she'd
never worn a suit: Barton helped her into one and
towed her across the gap between ships. And then Szabo,
controlling the other Shield over a wideband circuit, cut
both Shields for a moment and the derelict dropped
away. Barton saw him restore his own ship's Shield, and
felt acceleration resume.

Well, he'd bought this situation. Barton had. Now he
was stuck with it, for sure.

Whether somebody had been moved to give htf^ and
Limila quarters, Barton didn't know. But from m\ wwy
on the other ship, he knew they were in officers' wv> try.
He felt like sleeping for a week, but one day and &>,!ht

464

brought him around, a little stiff and sore, otherwise
feeling not too bad at all.

As soon as he was alert enough to think to do so. Bar-
ton began checking his own reactions to see if anything—
Others, or maybe Children—was messing with his mind
and feelings. If so, he couldn't spot it. Well, he'd keep
checking....

Limila was out prowling the ship, getting acquainted.
They'd decided she might as well, while Barton was rest-
ing up after ail that work, and that it might be interesting
if at first she pretended very little grasp of human lan-
guage. She hadn't detected any sign of fiddling with her
own mind, but maybe Tilarans were immune.

So when the door chime sounded, Barton was in his
nakeds, standing by the coffee-maker and wondering
why it didn't work right. He hesitated, then decided to
answer the door. And to take no chances that this out-
fit might be touchy about nudity, he grabbed his shut
and pants, and got them on and padded barefoot to the
door.

Renton Bearpaw stood there. Barton said, "C'mon
in," and went back to the coffee gadget. He heard the
door shut, and Bearpaw's steps following him. "I'd offer
coffee if I could make this thing cough it up. Or maybe
you'd rather have a drink. I think we got some."

"Coffee's fine." The man ntoved to touch a switch Bar-
ton had overlooked, and the machine operated just as it
had, earlier, for Limila. So Barton poured for both of
them, and they sat, and Barton waited. Until Bearpaw
said, "We have to talk. There's a lot, on this ship, that
you probably don't know about. That you need to know,
and it wasn't in the official reports."

Barton took a deep breath. This man's cooperation
had been one of the big question marks. Now Barton
said, "Some of it, I do know. I've heard your tapes,
Bearpaw."

Word-for-word recall wasn't one of Barton's strong
points, so it took a few minutes to clarify how much he
knew, and how much not. Finally the younger man
nodded. "You have most of it, I think. Maybe you'd
better ask the questions; it might be faster."

Barton thought back. "You never mentioned how your
Lisa came out. Or the little blonde, either." If you want
people to be on your side, he figured, you should show

465

a little interest. And as a matter of fact, Bearpaw's story
had got him concerned.

Looking surprised, the man said, "Yes, you'd know
about them, wouldn't you?" His expression relaxed.
"Well, Lisa did fine. Elys had a bad time, but she's ral-
lied pretty well. You'll have to meet them soon, and
Mark Gyril. Because you and the Tilaran woman need
some intensive coaching, in how to keep the Others off
your mental backs."

Barton nodded. But his next question was: What kind
of stuff had been coming in from Base, lately?     ' .

Not much, was the answer; Comm wasn't busy, these
days. During the transfer of supplies, the whole place had
been held down by a sixty-five-year-old woman and a
man with one leg, working alternate twelve-hour shifts
and sleeping a lot. What the ship received was routine
announcements that went to everybody. "Maybe some-
body just forgot to cut us off the distribution Ust. Lisa
says not; she thinks Base wants to keep us feeling part of
the team. A way of reinforcing our drive to follow orders
and get lost." Bearpaw shrugged. **I don't argue; she's
the psychologist."

The statement didn't seem to call for comment. While
Barton was trying to think what to ask next, the inter-
com came on. Announcement: officers and ratings to
meet in galley. Bearpaw stood. "That's Ferenc's idea.
Get us together and hammer on our group-purpose but-
ton a little, every so often. You're included, I'd imagine.
If you want to come."

"Sure," said Barton. "Let's go." He put shoes on first.

Sitting beside Renton Bearpaw, watching Szabo get up
front to start talking. Barton tried to settle his impres-
sions of the man. Somehow the deepset blue eyes, the
high cheekbones, and gaunt jaw gave Barton an odd feel-
ing. Like a picture he'd seen once, of an avenging saint
with a flaming sword. But that was silly.

One thing wasn't, though. Barton had never considered
himself a combative type, but on the other hapd there
had been damn few men he'd back down from. Looking
at this one, the way he moved and the implicit surett" 'f
him. Barton knew that against Ferenc Szabo he wi y
stand no chance at all. And the man was a crowfc^;




given his history, he'd have to be that. Well, Barton B^ 1

468

set up a good start. Maybe with luck he could keep it
that way.

Now Szabo began talking; belatedly. Barton tuned his
ears in. "... have to stay on our guard, against the
Others' influence, for a considerable time. Nearly a year,
we estimate, before our fuel supply is down to the no-
return point for re-crossing the dead belt and reaching
an inhabited world. Which we must not do,"

He hesitated, and from the way it looked on him. Bar-
ton decided he didn't do it very often. "I'm afraid Base
made an error," he said, "in ordering us to return exactly
the way we had come. For this puts us passing near Opal
again, while we still have fuel enough to undo all our
endeavors. I don't look forward to being within range, at
that point, of the Others' massed influence."

"Why not change course?" Barton didn't see who
asked it.

Smiling in no happy fashion at all, Szabo said, "Yes;

obviously, that would be the ideal solution. The only
difficulty is that I can't seem to manage to do it."

His further explanation was clear enough. Concentrat-
ing on following Base's "get lost" order exactly was hard
enough. Making changes on it was impossible, because
such a move laid minds open to the Others' manipula-
tion. Szabo bad tried, and barely stopped himself from
turning the ship back toward Earth. No smile, now.
" "If anyone here is capable of deviating from the letter
of our orders, changing course to avoid Opal, without los-
ing the purpose to carry out the spirit of those orders, I
will turn command over to that person."

A few hands went up, wavered, and were withdrawn.
Barton's wasn't one of them; he didn't want command,
and he had no idea whether he could resist a mental
pressure he'd never felt.

The meeting ended with the whole group reciting
Base's "get lost" directive. Barton gathered that this had
become a ritual, and looking at the faces of those around
him, it seemed to help.

Bearpaw, standing with another man and two women,
beckoned to Barton and Limila. Barton wasn't sur-
prised to be introduced to Lisa Teragni, Elys Rounds, and
Mark Gyril; they all fit the descriptions Bearpaw had
given in the tape, except that words didn't do justice to
the bold modeling of Teragni's features. And Bearpaw

467

hadn't mentioned the way her coarse black hair frizzed
out, as if electrostatically charged. She shook hands like
a lumberjack, and said, "We're heading for a confer-
ence. Consider yourselves invited."

They went to Gyril's office, and the slim man offered
brandy, and said, "Ren, you were filling them in, and
you know how far you got with it. Care to continue?"

So, starting from where the tapes had ended, Bearpaw
began bringing things up to date. Dabil and Tiriis, the
two Others, kept to themselves in the nursery» at the far
reach of the quarters space. With them, helping out,
were several non-pregnable women who had volunteered
for the work. Szabo had arranged a buffer zone of va-
cant, sealed compartments between the nursery and the
crew's living space. "The feeling of insulation may be
purely in our heads," said Bearpaw, "but ifs more com-
forting than you might think. Maybe not all that com-
forting to the volunteers, though."

Impatient, Barton said, "Okay, so that's the quo of
it. Any plans, though? And any results?"

Bearpaw shrugged. "Lots of ideas that haven't panned
out. I still like one of mine. To fake an order from Base,
up in Comm—with confirmation, if necessary—Ao change
course and miss Opal."

"It wouldn't work," said Lisa Teragni. "Ferenc would
see through it in two shakes. That man couldn't let bun-
self be fooled, even if he wanted to in the worst way."
She turned to GyriL "Mark, tell them how you're fighting
the Others' veto on your research.'*

Barton liked the man's smile. "They can't stop the
empirical approach, because they can't know where it's
going next And they've never managed to bollix every-
thing I try to do. I think they spot-check ua and stop
whatever might be close to working."

Current project was the chemical approach to mental
resistance. "You mean," Barton said, "get zonkedL-on the
right stuff and you can tell the Others to scoff off? Put
them out of commission?"

"Something like that," said Gyril. "Not to harm them,
though; none of us wants that. And I prefsr te think
those are our own feelings, not the result of mental
influence." Well, Barton could go with that. Eawially
since he had some ideas of bis own, as to what ^ -^ap-
pening.                                      \
To approach the matter as randomly as po:




468

Gyril said, "I used nearly a hundred different drugs,
labeled only with numbers assigned by chance." Any-
thing from aspirin and caffeine through hash to L.S.D.,
Barton gathered. Somebody picked a pill or whatever,
marked the number on Gyril's list, then started thinking
anti-Others thoughts. The game was to see how near the
person could get to the nursery before the Others
changed that thinking.

"I tried Number 32," Bearpaw said. "Turned out to
be coca extract. Twenty feet down the corridor, they
had me purring like a pussycat. On the same stuff, some-
body else stayed hostile all the way to the nursery door.
So the Others are playing the random game, too, right
back at us."

"Of course," said Gyril. "But if we find something they
can't block, no matter what, the game's over."

Maybe. But somehow. Barton wouldn't have bet on it.

The party broke up. Elys Rounds hadn't said much.
She looked older than Barton had expected, but he re-
membered she'd had a tough time carrying her alien
fetus. Bearpaw said, later, that she'd aged badly during
that time but was slowly coming back from it. "She
hates the scar, though—keeps her belly covered at all
times. Gyril's studying up on cosmetic surgery, for when
the scar tissue stabilizes." AnA Barton found himself wish-
ing for Raymond Parr, who had done sucb a superb job
on Limila, with worse to start from.

The trouble was, Barton thought, that these people
were in a rut. They were trying to make some headway,
sure, but after so many months they couldn't seem to find
much urgency about it.

Then suddenly there was some. Barton was at Gyril's
when the woman came bursting in with a full load of
hysterics. After listening. Barton didn't blame her a bit.

She'd delivered a routine consignment of supplies to
the nursery, but this time Dahil had pulled her inside
and gone into his cup routine. With the usual results, of
course.

"I won't go through that againi I'll kill myself" She
wouldn't. Barton knew; several had tried that on the
first round, but never succeeded. The Others simply
wouldn't allow it.

Gyril seemed to have an idea, though; maybe in his
trial-and-error way he'd learned a few things. He got the

469

woman up on the worktable and began mixing a solu-
tion, and filled a syringe. "Excuse us a minute. Barton."
As Barton, in the interests of modesty, went into the next
room, Gyril was repeating, "It's only a minor infection,
but we'd better take care of it."

When Gyril called him back, the woman was gone.
"What'd you do?"

The Medic-chief smiled. "The rigamarole was to
throw the Others off the track, in case they were moni-
toring. I filled her womb with a harmless colloid jpUy that
solidifies at body temperature, then breaks down after
about three days and drains out again. It has other uses;

I didn't invent it on the spur of the moment. But mean-
while the fertilized ovum is stuck; it can't implant itself
in the uterine wall in time to survive and multiply. She
wont be pregnant."

Quickly now, Gyril used the intercom. Without ask-
ing anyone for authority, he pulled all women off-nursery-
delivery detail. He needed Szabo's okay to post male
guards and keep women out of the nursery vicinity en-
tirely, but before he obtained it, two unlucky women got
the cup and the rest of it. Gyril had them come in im-
mediately, but apparently the Others weren't ^bout to
be fooled twice by the jelly thing, because he couldn't
make it work. He kept getting the clumsies and spilling
things. Modesty or no modesty, he got Barton in to help,
and they both tried. Now Barton saw what the Others'
influence was like; he couldn't feel anything from o.utside
himself, but he kept making mistakes. And he knew
something was suppressing his natural anger at such
frustration.

Finally Gyril faced the two frightened women and
shook his head. "I'm sorry. I've tried my best, but I
can't help you."

The younger one said, "You mean. we're stuck to bear
Children again?" When Gyril nodded. Barton saw tears
jarred loose. The other woman put an arm around the
one who had spoken; without further words, they both
left.

Gyril said, "It's the same as when we werrf trying to
get the X-rays. And experience, it seems, is no help at
all."                                          A

\\ s
The next reaction that hit the ship was sometnfe^ the

Others couldn't stop; Barton saw what Bearpaw had
470

meant about group concentration, because with everyone
savagely determined that no more women would be im-
pregnated to bear Children for the Others, things got a
little bloody. Mark Gyril wrote the instructions and Elys
Rounds checked them without advance knowledge of their
contents, and absolutely nobody said anything out loud to
help clue the Others as to intentions, while the men read
those instructions off the various screens.

Lucidly, contraceptive implants weren't stuck very
deeply into the muscle tissues. Most of the men cut them
out of the women's thighs without making too much of a
mess. Afterward, the Others didn't interfere with vari-
ous medics' work in cleaning up the damage; there
wouldn't have been much point in doing so.

Barton wasn't sure they all had the best answer, but it
was one they could depend on. You can't get pregnant if
you're already pregnant, they'd learned, the first time

around.

So for a time, with people hanging around in groups
for mutual support and the hell with privacy, getting
pregnant was the name of the game. Getting safely, hu-
manly, pregnant. And mostly, they did, what with
removal of the implants giving an immediate fertility back-
lash. Including three who. Barton gathered from what
Gyril said, had thought themselves past the capability but
, wanted to be on the safe side, just in. case.

The Others' second round, then, gained them only the
two victims that Barton and Gyril hadn't been able to
help. Plus Tiriis, the female Other—a young man
reported, much embarrassed, that when he delivered a
consignment to the nursery, what he thought was a cup of
coffee turned out not to be. Barton could take it from
there.

"When the rush started," Bearpaw told him, "I sup-
pose some of the younger studs thought it was the answer
to their prayers. Not for long, though." He frowned. "It
^•''-sSSZ^'ie much fun making'love with a frightened woman
who sees you only as a source of seed. And a lesser evil,
at that."

Still, near as Barton could tell, the feeling on the ship
was one of victory. At least the burden of fear was mostly
lifted, Elys Rounds said once that she wouldn't bet against
the Others being able to abort the whole lot and start

471

over. But whether they could have or not, nothing of the
sort happened.

Barton and Limila had talked it over and decided not
to enter the sweepstakes, because she was by no means
recovered from her injuries, so it could be dangerous for
her to conceive. If she would ever have ability to bear
child again; they didn't know.

They counted on two things. First, the normal Tilaran
control over ovulation: Could the Others override it, or
not? Second, if the Others could intuit Limila's difficulties,
would they risk her safety? Lacking any solid answers,
the two decided to stand pat. And didn't feel like hanging
around in groups that were taking the other option, be-
cause they didn't feel at home with them.

So one day Barton returned to quarters and found
Limila sitting up in bed, nude, and rubbing her belly.
She looked wide-eyed at him, and said, "Barton, it may
be we have made a mistake."

"What—?" The story came short enough. Knock on
the door, and she opened it to admit no human.
Bearpaw's description of the Others, she said, was quite
accurate. This one, male, had to be Dahil, andgthat was
what he had called himself. And he had the cup with him,
and its odor made her drink. "Before I realized ...."

"But how did he get here, past the guards?" Oh, sure;

if they could teleport up from a planet to a shipl Barton
shook his head. This is what they got for not going along
with the group thing. He didn't ask, "Then what?" But
she told him, anyway.

"There is one thing I know," she said then, "and one
that I do not. I think Dahil thought inside me and healed
me; the long, nagging pain is gone now. The thing I do
not know is, whether he and his cup overrode my own
control of ovulation, at crisis moment."

Not liking it at all. Barton had to settle for that. Then
he thought again, and decided that if she had it right
about the healing, everybody was still ahead of the game.
He didn't say so, because right now she might not see it
that way.                                 .

Barton had had several briefing sessions wi
Szabo, and by now he was beginning to feel m'
with the man. He realized that a lot of his
came from what Bearpaw had taped about




472

edition, and now he recognized that Szabo emanated ten-
sion because on this ship, it naturally centered on him.
Barton still played his cards close, though, sticking to what
he*d learned on the ship itself, near as he could keep
track. Because his own ideas differed a little, from every-
body else's.

He was in Szabo's quarters, the two of them talking
while Barton sampled a kind of wine from Blame's
Mistake, that bad a faint tinge of pepper to it, when
Ferenc Szabo said something about feeling sorry for the
two women he'd helped impregnate, recently, during the

rush.

And without meaning to, hearing his mouth work with-
out benefit of brain. Barton said, "Must have been a nice
change, though."

And saw Szabo, catlike, lean forward. Face taut, not
menacing, but certainly feral. "You know. Who told

you?"

Barton's nape prickled, but he shrugged, and said,
"Coming out here on this mission, wouldn't you expect
I'd get a scan on the records?" Always nice, he thought.
to avoid an outright lie.

"Oh." Even letting the air out of himself, Szabo looked
graceful. His smile looked forced, but Barton gave him
points for trying. "With people I know, I'm not seif-
conscious about it now. But you're largely a stranger, so
you gave me a jolt."

"Then let's quit being strangers." Barton had the initia-
tive, he knew. To hold it, he poured himself more wine,
and then some for Szabo. Taking a slice of the host role
couldn't hurt. And now Barton did the leaning-forward
bit, and waited.

Until Szabo said, "What it's like. That's what they all
wanted to know, the medics and psycho-techs and such.
The truth is that at the time I couldn't tell them; I didn't
know." He shook his head. "It's a subtle matter. Barton.
Something that isn't felt at all unless there's something to
compare with, and sensory memory fades so soon! But
change!—when the Others made me right, when they
%^ned me back off, then restored me—change can't be
mistaken." Pausing, Szabo seemed bewildered. "Have I
answered you?"

Barton nodded. "Yeh. Yeh, I think" you have. And,
hey—Ferenc, I'm damn glad for you. man."

Then, talking about nothing at all personal, they drank

473

the rest of the Blame wine before Barton left. He still
wasn't sure he'd cleared the air all the way, but for now it
was the best he could do.

As the ship neared Opal again—"that beautiful trap,**
as Bearpaw put it—Barton watched everybody begin to
tighten up around the edges. He saw Ferenc Szabo, push-
ing for group support of the directive from Base, leaning
on everybody at officers' meetings with the full force of
his personality. Which, Barton admitted to himself, was
plenty. The tight policy of need-to-know had long since
been junked; meeting proceedings were screened to ail the
ship except the Other-controlled nursery. Like it or not,
all the crew knew the score. Some, Barton gathered, didn't
like it too much.

But when there aren't any good answers, he thought,
you have to take the best you can get.

Nobody had to guess about the point when the ship
came close enough to Opal for the Others there to exert
influence; the pressure hit like a great wave. Barton,
walking into quarters, staggered and almost fell. When
he caught his balance he found that he had turned and
was heading for the control area, so that he could change
course and take the ship to Opal.

''No!" He grabbed a door handle, closed his eyes, and
forced himself to stand still while he fought his mind back
to purpose. When he had a stalemate—he couldn't get
rid of the pressure entirely, but he could withstand it—he
hurried up to Control, anyway. But now, to make sure
nobody else did what he'd wanted to do, only minutes

before.

Before he got there he could hear the nohie, and he
ran in to find maybe half a dozen people in a free-for-all
wrestling match. Two others were down already, and as
Barton tried to guess who was on which side, another fell.
Leaning over someone in the chief pilot's seat was "Ferenc
Szabo; he pulled the man up and out, and hit him once;

the man dropped. Szabo leaned over the controls and did
something Barton couldn't see.             ,  ^

A woman screamed, "Opal! Opal!," and came at
Barton; he gave her a jab of stiffened fingers in the solar
plexus and doubled her over. He ducked a man's hay-
maker swing and chopped the side of his hand a^ asf the
neck.                                       \r

neck.

474

Except for Szabo, the rest were thrashing around to-
gether on the deck; Barton ignored them and approached
the acting captain. "Stop right there, Bartoni"

"Sure." Barton stopped. "Just one thing, though."
Barton breathed deeply; if he bad to tackle this man, he
needed all the oxygen he could get. "I hope we're still on

course. Are we?'*

And Szabo relaxed. "We are now. Jessup had started
to turn us, but I set it right again." His sweating face
grinned. "In fact, I think I managed to overcontrol a little,
being a bit shaky, you understand, so we'll pass wider

from Opal now."

For those who had succumbed to the Others' sudden
onslaught, there was no talk of punishment; once their
directed actions were stopped, they came back to normal,
fighting the nagging pressures as well as anyone. Barton
was surprised at how quickly the group spirit was restored
—and at how much it seemed to help him personally.

The way Bearpaw put it was, "We built unity on the
determination that no woman would bear Children again
if we could help it. Add fear to unity, on top of the basic
sex urge, and it's an act that's hard to beat." The Others
were still trying, though. Barton could feel it all the way

through, and it hurt, .

Next time he saw Bearpaw, the man was heading from

»-Comm to captain's quarters, carrying a flimsy. He said,
"Base figured out that they forgot to tie the other shoe;

now they're trying to fix it, too late. This is the first non-
routine message we've had since the crucial directive. Top
Priority, which is why I have to deliver it in person."

The Comm-man sounded a little rattled; Barton got in
step with him and asked, "What's it say? Or am I sup-
posed to know?"

"Here; read it." Barton took the paper, skipped past

the usual gibberish that tells who's saying what to whonii
and read:

TOP PRIORITY. Change course immediately to
avoid vicinity of planet called Opal. This urgent; re-
peat, urgent. Change course, avoid planet Opal. If
this is impossible, destruct ship at once. Repeat, de-
struct ship at once. End, TOP PRIORITY.

He handed the message back, and said only, "Destruct,
475

huh? How did that silly word get into the jargon? Destroy
says the same thing; why not use it?"

"Let's hope we don't have to do either one.**

At his quarters, Ferenc Szabo invited them in. As he
read the message, Barton saw strain grow in his face,
ridging muscles. 'Too late. Why are they always too
late?" If he wasn't close to breaking point. Barton had
never seen anyone who was. He tried to think what to
say, that might help, but came up blank.

Bearpaw spoke. "We're making it, Ferenc. You're mak-
ing it. We're almost as near Opal as we're going to be,
and nobody's cracking. We're taking all they can .throw,
and still holding."

The man shook his head. "The Children, they're not in
it yet. Can we take that?"

"They're not developed enough, Gyril says, to influence
us, except for direct self-defense. I think he's right. Be-
cause, do you think the Others would be holding anything
back now?"

"No," said Ferenc, "they wouldn't. And they're not."
He nodded toward the door. It opened; two Others en-
tered, and be said, "I was expecting you."

Again, Barton thought, Bearpaw's descriptions had
been accurate. Even so, he wasn't prepared for the effect
the two aliens made, his inner confusion: were they peo-
ple, or weren't they?

The door closed. "Man Szabo," (hey said, together.

"That's man Ferenc, if you don't mind. What do you
want?"

The male—Dahil, that would be—said, "Turn ship and
land our planet, man Ferenc."

"Like hell I will!"

"Any way, so you do. You do. You do now." The
aliens moved forward, flanking him, ignoring the other
two men.

"In a pig's hat! This is my ship. Get out of here."

"Yes," said Dahil, "will get out."

**Yes," echoed the female, Tiriis. "Soon will go."

But they didn't, just then. They both looked at Fereuc
Szabo, and in about a minute he grabbed his crotch and
went pale.

"Yes, man Szabo," said Dahil. "Land our pl^ ^or be
not right, so ever."

476

"Land, you be right," Tiriis said, and nodded vig-
orously. "Land?"

On the man's face. Barton saw it happen. The
humanity went out of it; he saw the killer that Bearpaw
had feared. Barton shivered; he was seeing a monster
reborn. He looked away, but he couldn't stop hearing.

"You fools! You utter, ignorant foolsl Do you know
what you've done?"

Dahil smiled. "Yes, man Szabo. Now we land our
planet."

"No," said Szabo. "Not now, or ever. This isn't how
Fd have wanted it, but it's a way out." He turned to the
other two men; Barton wished he hadn't. "Get out of
here; I don't want you dead!"

Neither did Barton, but he figured to have to stay, any-
way. He shook his bead and backed away, hoping his
face looked more friendly than frozen. Bearpaw didn't
leave, either.

Szabo turned back to Dahil; the man was panting like
at the end of a long, hard run. "You had to pull the pin
out of the grenade, didn't you? You had to explode some-
thing you don't even understand."

Close to screaming, now, he said, "Don't you see?
When I was this way before, I killed one of you. Didn't
that tell you anything? Then you made me right, and for
the first time in fifteen years. I was human again. And
you can control humans, can't you?"

Not too many things scared Barton, usually, but
Szabo's smile did, then. Almost casually, he took Dahil
by one arm and threw him across the room. About half-
way up the wall, the Other hit; when he dropped to the
floor, he didn't look too well.

Szabo turned to Tiriis. "You made a mistake." Quietly,
he said it. "You thought this would make me obey you.
Instead, it will let me kill you. And," he added in a
thoughtful tone, "the Children, too."

He reached for Tiriis, gently, or so it looked, but she
wasn't having any. She tried for the door; be was there
ahead of her. Clearly, he could have caught her if he'd
wanted to. He said, "To end this, to allow the ship to go
home again, I will kill you two, and the Children. Not the
!p women who are bearing more Children, for they can still
be aborted. But the Children first."

And the two Others, the only ones who could make

477

him right again, last? Barton wondered if that was a con-
scious part of the man's thinking.

"And there's no way you can stop me now, is there?"
Szabo whispered. "No way at all." Going out, he slammed
the door so hard so that the door chime jingled.

Bearpaw gave a nervous laugh. "If that's a victory bell,
I'm not sure it's worth it." Barton didn't answer; he was
thinking that with the Others' powers, there must have
been a number of changes they could have thought into
Szabo, that might have sapped his will instead of unleash-
ing the tiger. But Szabo himself bad said, downside on
Opal, that logic wasn't their strong point. Well, the tiger
wouldn't give them another chance; that was for sure.

Tiriis tugged at the two men, urging them to help her
with Dahil. Barton couldn't see the point; he didn't es-
pecially want to see the aliens dead, but he wasn't calling
the shots. For now, though, the injured Other might as
well be as comfortable as possible, so feeling like a soft
touch. Barton helped move Dahil onto a couch. He wasn't
exactly unbroken around the outskirts, the way Szabo had
played billiards with him, but given the chance, i( looked
as if he could heal up all right. Except for the arm, may-
be, that Szabo had used for a throwing handle.

Tiriis waved the men off and bent over Dahil, chanting
something under her breath; Barton caught a sort of tune,
but no words. After a time the alien came awake, which
Barton wouldn't have bet on for a day or two, and they
put their heads together and chanted low-volume har-
mony. Then they sat back, Tiriis apparently trying to
comfort Dahil in ways that weren't clear to Barton.

The wait stretched out, but Barton didn't feel like leav-
ing. Then the door opened, and Ferenc came in. Not
Szabo the monster, but Ferenc the human; th? difference
was all over his face.

He looked at the two Others and shook his head. "I'm
not sure who won this round, or whether I^m glad or
sorry. You were in time; you caught me well short of the
nursery." He shrugged, "As I say, I don't know who won.
Obviously, I'm better off right and you're better off alive.
But what this means to my race, I don't know."'

His voice hardened. "We won't try this again; I assure
you of that. You will go to the nursery, and not leave it
again without my permission. I've increased tfer" iguard
throughout the ship, and given shoot-to-kill Uw\ fftions.




478

I think your abilities fall short of ensuring that no guard
will be able to follow my orders."

He wasn't done yet. "Don't think to tamper with my
sexuality again—not for blackmail, or revenge, or plain
spite. If you do, I will wipe your kind of life off this ship
and, to the best of my capabilities, off your home planet.
Is that fully clear?"

To Barton it was. This ship's giant laser could wipe
out villages like so many anthills, and the sleep-gun's
field, on wide spread, could turn escaping stragglers into
drooling zombies. Of course, no human, close enough to
Opal to use those weapons against the Others, could use
them. But Szabo could, the Szabo that Barton had seen
briefly. So the way to keep Opal safe was to keep Ferenc
Szabo "right." Barton figured they'd get the point.

The Others went back to their own area and stayed
there, and the ship passed Opal and receded from it until
the pressure from the Others on that planet diminished
and finally vanished entirely. The battle was over, arid
until Ren Bearpaw told him. Barton hadn't even thought
of the scariest part, the thing that hadnt happened after

alL

"If we'd come within their teleporting' range,'* the

Comm-man said, "and suddenly the ship had been full o£
Others, we'd've been cooked for sure."

•Thanks," Barton said. Then seeing puzzlement, he
clarified it. "I mean, thanks for not telling me any

sooner."

As Opal fell behind. Barton could feel the tensions ebb.

After the mass influence from that planet, the efforts of
Dahil and Tiriis were easy to resist, even for Barton. As
Gyril put it, "We bad mental muscles we hadn't known
about. Now that we've exercised them, they're in better

shape."

Now and then Barton felt a really heavy wave of pres-
sure, very general, not concentrated; for seconds it
practically knocked him on his head, but didn't make him
.want to do anything. Mark Gyril said it was the Children,
^rarming up under direction; The ship was still a time
t^ort of no-return when the surges became more than
Y^tty nuisance. So there was still a race on—the humans
and the fuel supply against the Others and the Children.

**But why don't we just dump some fuel?" Lisa Teragni
479

asked. They were in meeting at Cyril's and Elys's
quarters, and Ferenc Szabo had joined the informal cabal.
Ren Bearpaw shrugged; Barton, sitting alongside Limila,
waited to see who had an answer. He wasn't sure how he
could have Jettisoned fuel from Ship One, in space, but
he expected he could have managed it if he'd had to.
This ship, though, he knew very little about, reaHy.

When Ferenc started talking. Barton realized he knew
even less than he'd thought. To beat light, a space-drive
had to do two things. Get traction on space-time, and
hold your space and time vectors closely in line-to those
of the rest of the universe, so as to avoid mass-increase
and time-dilation. The Demu ships did those things, and
so did Earth's first and second fleets, and this big tub had
to do them, also. But this drive wasn't adapted from what
Barton had swiped from the Demu; it did its jobs in a
considerably different way. Not just the efficiency-
improving multiplex of components that he'd seen in the
great ship on Sisshain, but an all-out different approach.

The bottom line was that you couldn't mess with the
fuel supply, in any way, without cutting power to the
whole ship. So refueling was done only in dead orbit,
or downside.

"There's standby power," Ferenc said, "for essential
items such as keeping the computer's memory alive, and
minimum Comm-gear. But that doesn't even cover life-
support; in orbit the maintenance crews would work in
suits. Of course, in the drive areas they'd need those
against radiation, anyway." Which surprised Barton,
because with the ships he knew, radiation was only a
problem if you went too far up another ship's drive wake,
above light-speed. Well, he hadn't planned on doing any
drive maintenance, on here.

Another thing that surprised him was that ship's- per-
sonnel wouldn't know all this stuff already. But he'd
seen that with a crew this big, people specialized a lot
more. Not like Ship One, where everybody did .a little
of everything.

Lisa wasn't done, though. "Then why don'f we look
for the nearest planet we could settle on? And leave the
ship in orbit with the power off? Why couldn't we have
done that, weeks ago?"

"Same reason we couldn't change course to avoid
Opal," Bearpaw said. "Base didn't think of it, J^nd we
can't monkey with orders, or Dahil and Tiriis ta^ ^ver;




480

school's out for sure." She nodded, obviously she had to
buy it, but Barton saw she was looking for still another
answer. That she didn't quit easily ...

Teragni's pregnancy was well along, but any time Bar-
ton had seen Ren Bearpaw getting solicitous about it,
she'd laugh and put him off. "Compared to last time,
this is like having eaten a little too much for dinner."
And of course Barton realized another difference: this
child, the two of them had begun on purpose. And the.

woman didn't have to be afraid of it.

When he and Limila left the meeting and went back
to quarters. Barton had occasion to think more on such
matters. Because that was when Limila told him she was

pregnant.

By Dahil, of course.

He looked at her, realizing that he'd been so taken up
with the ship's problems, lately, that he hadn't been pay-
ing her more than perfunctory attentions. Her hair had
grown long enough to hang nearly to her brows, in front,
obscuring the high Tilaran hairline. But not yet long
enough to pull back. Her silver-irised eyes stood wide
now, and if she hadn't had her lower lip between her
teeth, he thought it might have trembled. Probably not,
though; she wasn't much given to that sort of thing.

Barton cleared his throat^"How do you feel about it?"
Even to him, it sounded dumb, but he couldn't think of
anything else to say. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Possibly. I want to see the Children. I want to know

what it is, that my body carries."

Well, that was certainly reasonable enough. He stood.

"I'll talk to Ferenc. We'll see what can be done."

Barton knew that the Others had let the Children be
seen earlier, because Bearpaw had said so on the tapes,
the censored parts that didn't tell much more than that
fact. But later, Perenc told him. they'd blocked attempts
to observe the nursery—covered the eye-pickups, for
Y. instance. "I don't know why," the man said. "Maybe it's

tttime we found out."

r\ Limila accompanied the two men to the nursery. One
^•f the human attendants met them there, and after a
certain amount of argument, agreed to fetch Tiriis. At
first the Other refused to let them in. Then Limila said,
"You and I will bear the same kind of young. You know

481

what it will be; I do not. I think I have the same right,
Tiriis." She stepped forward, and Tiriis gave a little
ground, but not much. "My name is Limila."

Surprising Barton, Tiriis stepped back and aside.
"Come, man Limila, and man Ferenc, and—"

"Man Barton," Barton said, and followed them. "You
remember me, I think."

"Remember, yes. To help Dahil, did. To help man
Limila, now?"

"Something like that." Tense, alert for mental pressure,
Barton felt none. A few doors along the corridor, they
entered a small room. The important thing in if was a
viewscreen with fairly sophisticated controls. Tiriis
turned it on.

Barton saw a number of smallish creatures climbing
around in a three-dimensional lattice. Reaching, he
zoomed in on one and froze the picture for a moment,
then let it run again in real time.

It took him some while to absorb all the derails, but
in that first moment, Barton knew what he was seeing.

He turned to Limila. "This is of our prior knowledge."

And in the same language, she said, "And I think it
will be of good. Barton, that of this time, at least, it re-
main so."

The head was almost pure Other, except that there
were two more eyes, one at each rear corner of the brain-
case. Yes, Bearpaw had said, in one fragment,-that any
adjacent pair could work together. The median fur strip
came to points above and below the rear pay of eyes,
leaving a bare space between.

The rest of it: on a blocky torso, four arms and four
legs, each with more digits than Barton was used to. He
concentrated on details. Upper arms set about human
style, lower—Other?—pair on movable shoulders with
fore-and-aft traverse. All four legs shaped like a blend of
human and Other; Barton saw that the Children walked
flatfooted like humans but ran on the toes of their long
feet The outer pair of legs swung from hip joints that
moved ahead and behind those of the inner pair. Same
as the arms; yeh. So this is what they're like.     '

"As infants," Ferenc said from behind Barton, "they're
clumsy. Remind you of a drunken spider- But they learn
coordination fast. You see how they streak through that
low-G jungle gym in there. Well, they can dp ttu^.




482

before they tackle prosaic things such as walking." He
paused. "If you haven't noticed, they're male between
the left pair of legs and female between the right. All
elimination, though, is centrally located." Barton zoomed
the picture; near as he could tell, it confirmed what
Ferenc said. "The adult, it appears, will have four
breasts, set approximately where humans and Others
have their different placements." He repeated Bearpaw's
quote of Gyril, on possible multiple births, but now it had
context.

A little longer, Barton watched. There was no ques-
tion about the Children's intelligence; watching the moves
in a sort of flying tag game, he guessed they were using
human-style logic and Other-style intuition about equally.
Then one of them, startling Barton, disappeared from
one side of the room and appeared at the other.
And in moments they were all doing it. Just fun? A
different stage of the game's rules? Barton didn't know,
but one thing was clear. The only reason the Children
weren't teleportmg all over the ship—if they weren't, and
just keeping out of sight—was because they didn't want
to.

Then Dahil, injured arm strapped to his chest, entered
the Children's room and made one slight gesture, and
Barton had an alternate hypothesis. Because the game
stopped; all the young creatures turned to face Dahil.
The Other's mouth moved, but Barton could get no sound
with the picture. Well, he couldn't know the language,
anyway. But the point was, the Children gave Dahil in-
stant obedience. So maybe the Children kept to the
nursery because Dahil and Tiriis told them to. Barton
had a quick thought that turning the Children over to the
Others at birth might not have been the best move he'd
ever heard of. But then be remembered that nobody had
had much choice, about that.

Not that it mattered, because Barton knew, now, that
sooner or later he was going to have to cross every
Earthani on this ship,
^\ He hoped he was up to it.

i He turned to Limila. "Seen enough?" She nodded; so
tlid Ferenc, and then Tiriis led them back to the nursery
entrance. There Barton paused, and looked at the female
Other, seeing things about her that nobody else on the
ship was likely to see. Except Limila, of course. He said,

483

**Tiriis, I thank you, for what you've shown us just now."
Then they left her, and went up the several levels to
of&cers' country. Ferenc accepted Barton's invitation to
come in for a drink or so. And once everybody was sit-
ting down with a full glass. Barton had some questions to
ask. For starters: "Ferenc, what's our timing?"

"Until our nominal no-return day? About a week. It*s
been some time since we could have reached Earth, or
Tilara. But if the charts are accurate, we could still make
it to one of the Demu planets. And refuel, and go again
from there."

Barton had been ready to laugh. The idea of the, Oth-
ers trying their cup routine on the exoskeletal Demu
struck him funny. Come to think of it, that business
would hardly work with the Larka-Te, or the FilJar,
either. But with the Tilari it sure as hell did. So he didn't
laugh. Instead, he asked, "For now, what's most impor-
tant?"

"Not to relax vigilance," Szabo said. The door chime
interrupted his next remark; Barton went to admit Ren
Bearpaw, got him sat down with a drink of his own, and
waved for Ferenc to go on. The man said, "I was point-
ing out, Ren, that we should be braced for a last-minute
mental push by the Others. We're so close to securing the
situation that it would be easy to let down and be caught
off guard."

"Not when you keep telling us," Barton said. "And it's
good, your doing that. Change of subject, though." He
looked at both men, and at Limila. "What do you think
of the Children? How do you feel about them?"

"Scared," said Bearpaw. "Oh, not of anything they'll
do, directly. I think they're no more given to violence than
the Others are, and maybe less." For a moment. Barton
took exception; then it struck him that the fighting- in
Control had been human reaction to the Others' in-
fluence. He shrugged, and listened. "What I'm a&aid of,
I guess, is what the Children are going to be."

Ferenc Szabo scowled. "I know," he said. "It's, a hard
thing to say, but the thing I wish most is that I could be
one of them. Since I can't, obviously, I wish they didn't
exist."

Before Barton could say anything, the man continued.
"It would be meaningless, as well as cruel, of course,
to eliminate the young creatures on this ship. E^"




484

such a terrible act were possible. For then- counterparts
exist on Opal, as well."

Barton chilled, a little. This man's coming close.

Bearpaw stood. "I'm due on watch. These days it's
about as busy as a chess match between two corpses, but
that's what I get paid for.** Suddenly be looked surprised.
"Except that there isn't any pay now, is there? We just
keep doing the job because it's there."

Barton bad to smile; since he first left Earth with
Tarleton's fleet, he hadn't thought much about pay. He
said, "There's a lot of it going around, Ren. Might's well
get your loyal butt on duty."

So Bearpaw left, and the other man not long afterward.
Then Barton said, "Limila. You haven't said. Seeing the
Children, how do you feel?"

Maybe without knowing she did it, Limila clasped her
hands across her swelling belly. "I am not certain. I think
—Barton, I am torn between two things. Fear is one; the
other may be honor."

For a long time then, until Limila calmed. Barton held
her.

When the sirens woke Barton, he didn't know a hoot
in hell, what was going on. He didn't find out in a hurry,
either. He grabbed clothes and shoes, told Limila it might
be a good idea if she stayed^put, for now, and went out
in the corridor, moving fast to go see what was happening
topside. When he stuck his head up past the next-level
deck, somebody came dose to blowing it off with a stan-
dard explosive bullet

Well, the hell with that. Faster than he thought he
could. Barton snaked back down to quarters and rousted
his luggage for what he wanted right now. The sleep-
gun's indicator showed a fair grade of charge; his port-
able Shield-harness, its charge lamp, gave an intermittent
blink. Maybe it would hold up for a while, and maybe
not. Hardly an optimum situation, but you go with what
you have, so Barton went.

This time, climbing. Barton wasn't Mr. Dumbjohn; he
^ept his head down and his gun up>. His infantry stretch,
ill Nam, was a long time ago, but the techniques came
(sack fast. Only the first person to shoot bullets at him got
off more than two. Nobody hit him. but that, of course,
needed him a lot of luck. Though it did strike him that
he'd never seen so many lousy shots in one fracas.

485

Going up, he met Ren Bearpaw coming down. Then
they got cornered on a landing; ho way to go, at all.
Barton was trying to figure whether he could jump and
catch the next-level railing, or maybe the next one down,
if it didn't tear his arm off, when somebody on a bullhorn
offered truce.

So while there was still enough confusion that be might
get away with it. Barton dropped his sleep-gun and Shield-
harness down the stairwell* If they didn't break, maybe
he could find them later.

Then he surrendered. He and Renton Bearpaw, both.

And once it turned out they were disarmed, nobody
wanted them for anything. Seemed stupid, but Barton
wasn't going to argue.

And after all the shooting there were only five casual-
ties, none fatal.

To find out what had happened, though, took Barton
a while. The answers, then, were simple enough. In the
best defense, there's always a hole. This one was, the
Others had got on a young medic who was running a fever
and not concentrating too well, and influenced him to
drug the man guarding Captain Soong's detention quar-
ters. Since the mental command was totally outside the
resistance pattern everyone was focusing on, it caught
the groggy man unaware,

Freed, the captain got on the intercom and rounded up
his personal guards. Working for him, they'd, bad priv-
ileges; under Ferenc Szabo, they didn't. The goons came
running. Armed, they took Comm and Control, and had
Ferenc Szabo bottled up in Soong's former quarters; their
orders were to blow his head off if he showed it. "Poor
old Nargilosa, in Control—she's working with a gun at
her head, too," said Bearpaw. "Not necessary, that;

she's always saying how Ferenc overstepped the bounds
by stashing dear Captain Sooug away." And probably,
he added, the only reason she hadn't freed him herself was
that she shared his profound horror of taking any initia-
tiva.

But when Soong was up against it personaUy. he could
act, all right. He had a message sent to Base, in the clear,
and read it aloud over intercom broadcast. Besides the
official gibberish fore and aft, he said, "I have taken
command. The mutinous Szabo is confined to quarters.
Since I was wrongfully deprived of command wp- ^your

486                \^'

latest order was received, and was unable to give you
the correct information, the order is invalid- I cannot
be bound by it. Accordingly, I am reversing course and
returning to Base as soon as possible. Soong, Command-
ing."

Looking at Barton. Bearpaw shook his bead. "I wonder
who wrote that for him; he never said anything that well

in his life."

"Doesn't matter," Barton said. "He's only the mouth-
piece for Dahil and Tiriis, anyway. And maybe the Chil-
dren, too, by now." He made a lopsided smile. "He
hasn't checked the fuel situation, though, if he still thinks
he can get back to Base."

But that didn't matter, either. Barton realized. Some-
body would tell Soong the facts of life, and if the ship
couldnt reach a Demu planet, it could still make Opal.
Which wouldn't give the Others the whole galactic Arm,
right away, but human women would bear more Children.
"For what good it might do," he said, "could we sneak a
message through to Base somehow?"

"Not a chance." Bearpaw shook his bead. "Once
Rigan had sent that message, Soong disabled the F.T.L.
transmitter. Wouldn't have expected him to know enough,
but he did. Pulled out a couple of key components, and
the spares are gone, too."

Damn it, there had to be something they could do! Bar-
ton said, "You been in touch with Ferenc yet?"          i

"Don't dare," said Bearpaw. "Anything on the inter-
com can be monitored, from Corom." Then, after a
moment, he grinned. "I'm due on watch in a few minutes.
Stay here. If it's safe to talk. 111 call here and let you
know."

When he had left, Limila said, **What strange garni
do you play. Barton? When the time comes, to which sid(
will you jump?"

Well, he hadn't expected to fool her, and come ti
that, he didn't want to. "I know. What must happen, will
But right now I'm on Elys Rounds' side—hers, and othe
women who aren't physically up to taking another c
those long pregnancies. You saw the holo of her, take
two years ago; you can see how she's changed. And
don't imagine she's the only one."

Nodding. Umila said, "Yes. But Usa Teragni, for i]

487

stance, does not seem to have been banned. And I—M
She patted her belly. "So far, I feel no ill effects."

"Sure, and that's great." Time for a hug, Barton fig-
ured, and Limila responded. "If the Others would settle
for volunteers, give full information instead of that sneaky
cup business—"

The intercom interrupted him. "Bearpaw, calling from
Comm. The coast's clear, and I've checked for taps;

negative. I guess Soong figured that with our Phasewave
out of business, Comm isn't important enough to waste
his muscle on."

Well, either the Comm-man knew his business or he
didnt Now he brought Ferenc Szabo on the circuit
Barton gathered that Bearpaw had filled the besieged man
in on any developments he hadn't known already. Now
Perenc said, "Hi, Barton. All right; things are about the
way I had them figured, but it's better to know than to
guess. I'm safe enough, for now; they can't get to me in
here. Not without a lot more men than I thinfc 'Soong
can muster. But I may have a little trouble getting out"
He'd made one try at it. he said, but no luck. They
had him boxed, all right.

"We have to get you free," said Bearpaw, "and start
thinking how to retake the ship. Any minute now, S^ong
could reverse course and lock it, under code. I cant
imagine why he hasn't, already."

Ferenc laughed. "Because I locked the damn course
myself, and changed codes when I did it. Soong couldn't
break that in ten months, let alone ten days, and that's
all he's got." Barton waited; the man would tell -it without
needing a question. "We're locked into match and orbit.
a planet I spotted on my last watch. Would have told you
today, but all this mess came up. It's definitely a no-return
stop, even for Opal. So stop worrying."

Stop worrying. Beautiful, Barton thought. Well, Ferenc
was all right—plenty of food, and all. And Soong, Barton
gathered, had his original quarters armored against any-
thing his guard-boys could find to use now. Maybe he'd
been more paranoid, all along, than anybody realized.

Fine. But Barton wished that he could stop worrying.

After a little more talk, Bearpaw signed off fast; Barton
guessed he had company of the wrong persuasion. Perenc
was sure he had enough data to guarantee that his no-
return planet was livable; Barton wished he could bqfr te

AfiR                                                V^'

488

.%»

that. He said so. "From this far out, how can you be

sure?"

"I sent a high-G drone on an expendable fly-by.

Launched it as soon as I made the sighting. What its

pickups show—"

Under his breath. Barton used strong language. How

many more gadgets had Group B kept to itself, that
nobody told him about? And when would one of them trip

him up?

Three quick buzzes came over the line; Barton guessed

they were Bearpaw's warning that the circuit was being
' monitored, so he signed off fast. At the end he heard a few
words in a woman's voice. Did Ferenc have a roommate

now? He asked Limila.

"Had you not heard? The tall, fair woman, named

Racelle." Yen, Barton knew who she was; hadn't met her
directly, though. The thing he remembered noticing was
the way she moved, like a lazy tiger. He had a hunch the
laziness was deceptive; in that case, the two would make

a good team.

And Bearpaw had mentioned that she was the only

woman who had managed to avoid carrying one of the
Children to term. "I don't know how she did it, and the
miscarriage nearly killed her. But that one. Barton, is
something special." Which, from one who obviously ad-
mired his own ship-wife as much as Bearpaw did, was real

praise.

Now Limila said, "I do not know if they have ship-
married, as is the custom here, or not." She smiled, "On
Snip One, things were not so formal, were they?"

"No." Barton thought about it "I think what it is,
maybe, is that with so many more people, like they have
here, they need some formalities. To keep things from
getting too scrambled." And with a few established cus-
' toms to curb him. Barton thought, maybe Terike ap
Penn wouldn't have got so badly out of hand.

But that was fuel down the pipe. Now Barton stood.
> "Going to take a little walk," he said. "See if I can find

\\ my sleep-gun."

\ He wore a loose jacket over his jumpsuit, to hide the
^-hing if be found it, and a belt inside to hang it on. With
no trouble he found the landing where he and Bearpaw
had been cornered, and began working his way down. He
had no idea where gun or Shield might have landed;-be'd

489

tossed them without looking, and other noise had cov-
ered any sound of impact below. Descending, level after
level, he felt less and less hope; either the items/had been
picked up or had fallen far enough to smash them.

On the gun. though, he lucked out. There it lay, in the
corner of a landing far down the ship, with only a couple
of chips out of the butt. He saw the marks where it had
struck and dented the railing, then skittered. He couldn't
test it to be sure, but the test-indicator lights said it would
work. So he clipped it to the belt, closed his jumpsuit, and
kept looking.

His Shield harness had taken the full drop; when be
picked it up, things rattled inside that never had before.
If only he'd thought to turn the thing on before he threw
it! Too late now, though. But in case somebody aboard
might be able to fix the device, he tucked it inside, also.
And began the long climb.

Something new had been added; twice, he was stopped
by armed guards who hadn't been there a half-hour ago.
When he told them where his quarters were, and that he
was going there, they let him pass. For a moment he
thought the second one was going to try to search him; as
Barton braced himself for action, he wished to hell he'd
stashed the gun a little more accessibly instead of quite so
well hidden from view. But the man waved him off, and
Barton saved his sigh of relief until he was out of earshot

Finally he reached quarters. As he entered, he heard
Ren Bearpaw's voice on the intercom. Calm, the man
wasn't.

** . . . make any difference; I'm not saying-anything a
listener wouldn't already know. Anyone who doesnt re-
alize the Others are behind Soong just hasn't been paying
attention. So Lisa and I wanted to go confer wi^h—with
someone who's studied them more than most. And- that
conference we didn't want tapped, so it had to be in per-
son. You see?"

"Yes," said Limila, at the same time looking over her
shoulder toward Barton. "Ren? Barton's here now." '

"Oh, good. Should I start over?"

Barton gave Limila a quick kiss, then said. "You
wanted to go talk with somebody about the Others; I
heard that much. Anything before that, I need to know?"

"I guess not Well, we started off to see, uh, our col-
league; we didn't get there. It was all of a sudden




490

ville—guards at all the bottlenecks. If you didn't have a
pass from Soong, the guard called in to somebody, and
unless you're headed for your duty station and on sched-
ule, you go no place but home to quarters."

"I noticed," said Barton. "They sure mounted this op-
eration in a hurry."                                      ;

"Yes, they did. And it's sure going to play bell with !

normal operations, if there are any such things by now."
A pause. "Well, we came back home. And one of the
dumbskulls wasn't even going to let us do that, until—"

Lisa's voice. "He was really stubborn about it. Until I
told him, quite sweetly, that unless he let us go home im-
mediately, I was going to commit an unsanitary nuisance
on th& floor right in front of him." She laughed. "Thank
heavens, there are limits to what even massive stupidity

can put up with."

Barton didn't laugh, but he came close to it. Then there

was some more talk, but by now Barton knew the gist of
it. Bearpaw needed to let off some steam, was all, so

Barton didn't mind listening.

When the call was done, Limila poured them a UttU
wine and they sat together, not saying much. Her hug
jammed the hidden equipment against his ribs, so ht
opened the jumpsuit and got the items off his person, tell-
ing her what worked and what didn't. When be went tc
close the jumpsuit, her hand was in the way, so hf
changed his thinking. Lovemaking had been less frequeni
as her pregnancy advanced, but if Limila was in thf
mood, so was Barton,

To Barton's mind, the next few days were what you
might call odd, if you couldn't spell ridiculous. He anri
Ren Bearpaw were probably as silly as the rest, he sup.
posed; they kept thinking up flawed plans to spring
Ferenc Szabo out of siege, and he kept telling them not t<
bother, just yet. Judging by cryptic remarks over thi
intercom, Mark Gyril was going all out on his chemica
warfare. Loading people up with drugs, to see how fa
they could get against the wishes .of the Others, didn
work now; Soong's guards turned them back before th
Others had a chance to. So Gyril, if Barton had this righ
tried doping the air in the corridor where Soong's gunme
guarded Ferenc's quarters. But maybe Gyril didn't kno
the air-supply system too well; that's what Barton di

491

duced when he heard about the sudden hay fever out-
break in an entirely different part of the ship.

Barton also deduced that if Soong ever figured out
what was happening, he'd have a few people shot. It was
quite a circus. Barton thought, but did it have to be all
clowns? Because it wasn't funny at all. Not when he
thought about the stakes, it wasn't.

Barton hadn't quite believed Bearpaw's tape on the
subject of Base back on Earth, the idiocy of its earlier
directives. Now, on the basis of flimsies that Ren smug-
gled down from Comm, Barton had to believe. Soong bad
killed only the transmit side of the Phasewave gear; mes-
sages still came in. In reaction to Soong's proclamation,
Base first demanded that Soong crawl back into pokey
and leave Ferenc Szabo in charge. Next, that he acknowl-
edge and comply with the original "get lost" order. And
finally came a confused-sounding plea that boiled down
to: "Just say something!"

So nothing happened, and Barton stewed. He didn't
have to stew all in one place, though, because he and
Limila had enough semi-official status, which Soong
hadn't got around to revoke, that they could visit various
working areas of the ship without challenge. And, of
course, the-gaUey. That's where Barton first saw Soong, in
person.

He and Limila were sharing a snack with Mark Cyril
and Elys Rounds when Cyril's elbow dug into. his ribs.
*There's Soong now." Barton looked. Flanked by two
armed guards, a fat man walked with tired step, and
took a seat at an empty table. One guard went to bring
him a tray; at distance. Barton couldn't see what was on
it. He was looking at the man, anyway. Looking, and
remembering. A long time ago, before the Demu had
taken Barton and changed his life. And, as it bad turned
out, their own, as well....

Picture on the front page, Arnold Soong, lean and se-
rious. The dedicated astronaut. The shuttle had malfunc-
tioned but Soong brought it down with minimum Uamage
and no casualties. That incident made him a minor hero;

the one that made him a major one had occurred while
Barton was in the Demu cage on Ashura, and he'd never
learned all the details. Merely that Soong had endured
more fatigue and deprivation than most people could sur-
vive, and by the doing bad saved some lives. Inclirf1'' i a

492

V.I.P., but Barton didn't count that in for points; what he
did count was the guts the job had needed.

Looking now, all he saw was a paunch, and a slack
face that showed no determination. What changed this
man? Well, he knew some of what could happen; he'd
seen it in Nam; there were people who could transcend
themselves once—twice, maybe—and then they collapsed
into less than they'd been to start with. Too bad, but when
the mainspring breaks, there's nothing left to wind up
again.

Gradually the galley had gone quiet; by tuning his ears
in the right direction. Barton could pick up most of what <
was said at Captain Soong's table. It came clear that the
captain thought he had everything under control; he re-
sented the idea that he was supposed to take any action.
The older woman—Command-Second Nargilosa, and
Barton had seen her before—tried in a gentle way to
persuade him, but Soong wasn't having any of it. What he
had in mind was griping at his strong-arm boys for not
breaking Ferenc Szabo out of the quarters into which
Soong had assembled so much comfort and luKury. At the
same time he made it clear that they were not to damage
so much as a thread of his precious carpets.

Barton shook his head. Some people didn't seem to
think, at alL Himself, he had an idea. He didn't figure his
companions would like it, so he didn't ask them. Instead
he got up, empty coffee cu'p in bis hand, and started over
for a refill. Two tables away he set the cup down and
changed course. When. he came to Captain Soong's table,'
he expected a guard to stop him, and that's what hap-
pened.

"What do you want?"

Walking over. Barton had prepared his lines. "Fd like
to pay my respects to the captain, since we haven't met.
And present the greetings of the first fleet, from Admiral
Tarleton."

He'd figured to make a splash, and it worked. Soong
said, "It's been so busy, you know—so hectic. But I've
\ heard rumors. You are ... ?"

| "Barton." He reached out a hand for shaking, and thf
l^uard moved back until the reach made it. "Vice-Admira
(Barton. In case nobody told you, we won the Demu wai
without a fight." And while he had the initiative, Bartoi
sat down without an invitation. The guard gave him i
hard look. Barton looked back, trying to look mnocen

493

but not feeling very confident about that. The guard
turned away, and came back with wine and coffee for
Barton. Well, you never know until you try....

Soong coughed; Nargilosa patted his back until he
gulped a time or two and could speak again. "But I don't
understand. What are you doing here?"

Good question—and Barton had no answer prepared,
so he faked it. "Ambassador plenipotentiary." He hoped
to hell he'd said it halfway right, and that he and Soong
had the same idea of its meaning. But the main thing was,
for now, that it sounded good.

It meant nothing. Barton knew, but the afternoon in
Soong's displaced quarters gave him a real kick. He
frowned at the text Nargilosa had written, and sipped at
Soong's good wine. "... to be respected by both panics
in perpetuity. Yes, good; I like that. Now, then," he con-
tinued. "Section two, clause three. In the event that ..."
He shot the whole afternoon that way. Barton did. -And
the only way he could have enjoyed it more would have
been if he believed it. Because the thing they were dis-
cussing so gravely was the draft of a treaty between the
human race and the Others on Opal. Which meant that
Soong still thought he could get the ship back there.   ' g

The funny part. Barton thought, was that Soong was
really a likable oldphart. He shouldn't have been in com-
mand of anything, was all. It wasn't his mind that had
gone flyblown; it was his perceptivity and initiative.
Within the limits of his understanding of a situation-, his
logic worked fairly well. The trouble was that those' limits
didn't stretch very far, so he came out looking more stupid
than he should have.

What Barton was after, in a vague sort of way, was to
probe the extent of the Others' influence over Captain
Soong. Hints weren't getting him anywhere, so when they
came to the end of the treaty draft, he asked straight out.
"When we get to this planet we're aimed for, what dp we
do then?"

Soong's heavy shoulders moved a little. "Go into orbit,
I suppose. To save fuel, and avoid adding any more dis-
tance between ourselves and Opal, while I convince my
mutinous Command-First that we have to get back to' that
planet."

"Why do we?" Soong looked blank. "Have to g& there,
I mean."                                         ,.
t

494

"Why, it's necessaryl How else can we negotiate the
treaty?" So the Others were learning. Now they didn't
merely use straight mental pressure; they'd given Soong
a reason he could accept. And of course he was a soft
touch for them because he'd never been any part of
Szabo's mental-resistance group effort. Along with his
rank, that vulnerability made him an ideal tool.

Idly, Barton asked, "Who's putting us in orbit, when

the time comes?'*

Soong blinked. "Why, I will, I suppose, since Szabo's
not available." Ferenc had programmed the course to end
in orbit, but the fine corrections couldn't be set up in ad-
vance; all his program could do was get the ship to ap-
proximately the right place, then leave some time for
maneuvering before automatic timing cut the drive. So
the final jiggling had to be done accurately.

And Soong's reflexes. Barton had noticed, were woe-
fully slow, he dropped things, for instance, and grabbed
too late. Well, Barton was done here, anyway; it was time

to go do something.

He thanked the captain for his hospitality and made a
point of being equally gracious to Geta Nargilosa. She
was older than Soong, but still slim and erect. And now
Barton remembered who she was, from the old days: one
of the first of the women astronauts, but for years she'd
been kept out of space, and when she did get upstairs it
JI was in subordinate roles. Maybe, he thought, that was
why she seemed to have no force to her, now. Too many
years spent trying to please, to get the assignments that
were her just due, by not offending anybody. It could

happen; too bad it sometimes did.

Finally he got back to quarters, and called Ron Bear-
paw. "Why don't a bunch of us eat together, for dinner?"
he said. The galley was one place they could meet, with-
out interference from the corridor guards. "Eighteen hun-
!'..   dred hours; right." Before they met, though, he told
Limila what was on his mind.

^     Barton and Limila, Ren and Lisa, Mark and Elys—
there were more in me cabal by now, but six were as
many as could meet in public without drawing attention.
They took a central table, because the guards got nosy
about groups that retired to the far corners. They had two
co^ersations going: Barton giving his pitch to Bearpaw




495

and Gyril, and Limila to the two women, all looking quite
natural for low-voiced talk.

At the end of it, Bearpaw nodded. You're right; we
have to break Ferenc loose now. If Soong blew the syn-
chronous orbit, we could spiral into the planet or drift
away with no place else to go."

"It's going to be tougher than it would have been at
first," said Gyril, "before we had the checkpoint guards."

"Yeh, and Ferenc admits he goofed, there," Barton
said. "But that's all down the spout; forget it. Now, is the
gear ready, Bearpaw? And your stuff. Mark?"

They talked, and Barton decided he was as satisfied
with the planning as he was going to be. He really
thought Lisa Teragni should be in on the action if she
wanted to, but all three women wanted in, and Elys
purely wasn't up to it. Limila would have been, if not for
the pregnancy, but she was slowed down, now. So with
Bearpaw strong that Lisa shouldn't risk herself, Barton
couldn't single her out from the three, as the one who was
suitable.

Finally, after drinking too much coffee as an excuse to
linger at table, the group adjourned. Bearpaw and Gyril
were to alert the rest of the conspirators. And everything
was set to move at noon of the next ship's-day, rigb.t at
watch-change.

With a standard projectile weapon stuck in his belt, in
case his sleep-gun ran out of charge. Barton walked a
little ahead of Bearpaw. He didn't know where everybody
else had got their armaments, but his had survived two
searches of quarters, by Soong's guard-people. He hadn't
been in the Army for nothing.

He was a little high on the antidote pul for the aerosol
sleep-gas Gyril had come up with, and he hoped he could
remember the beep-code their hand-talkies had been
Changed to use. Vaguely he recalled that the sets worked
by induction, along the power and signal conduits that
spider-webbed the ship. So they might hit blind spots, but
mostly they could communicate between themselves and
the opposition wouldn't catch on.

He wished to hell he had his Shield, because nobody
seemed to know whether the other side was using sleep-
guns.

Barton dropped his first goon before the man could get
a shot off. The second was female, and either she WP^,

4&6                   \.j

faster or the sleep-gun was losing charge, because she
spanged one slug off the bulkhead beside him, a lot closer
than Barton liked, before she fell.

Things seemed to move awfully fast; maybe it was
Cyril's pill. They passed two checkpoints where the guards
lay sprawled fiat, and Barton smelled the sleep-gas there.
Then someone shot at him, and he shot back and nothing
happened, and from behind him, Bearpaw's gun gave a
crashing report that made Barton's ears ring. The man
ahead, slumping back against the bulkhead, clutched his
right shoulder and let bis gun drop. Barton pulled out his
slug-gun.

That was at one end of the corridor where Ferenc
Szabo was trapped. Bearpaw worked his code-beeper. At
the far end of the corridor, two goons. As Barton upended
one of them with a deck ricochet to the lowet legs, a door
came open. Looking around it, using it for a shield,
Ferenc Szabo put the other foe down with a sleep-gun. To
Barton, it seemed that the man certainly took his time

about it.

From behind, now, some people came running, but
they were friendly troops who went past, to secure the
other end of the corridor before any more of Soong's

partisans showed up.

Who got there first, though, were DabU and Tiriis.
AWOL from the nursery.

Barton could have used a quick council of war, but
there didn't seem to be time for it. Ferenc waved thanks
to him and Bearpaw as they walked to greet him, then
turned, frowning a little, to watch the two Others ap-
proach. Aside, be said, "Let's wait and see what they
have to say, shall we?" Barton nodded.

Nearing the men, Tiriis raised an arm. "No more fight,"
she said. "No kill No need for fight."

"I'll decide that, I think," Ferenc said, "but go ahead,
anyway. What's your point?" Either the business in the
vicinity of Opal had built Barton's resistance to the
Others' mental hanky-panky, or they weren't trying, now.
He couldn't feel a hint of push.

"We tried Soong," said Tiriis. "Was mistake."

"Yes, he was." That was Bearpaw. "At all times."

Ferenc shushed him. "Go on. What is it you want
now?"

"^o want," Tiriis said. "No need. Just no fight more."




497

Ferenc shook his head. "It takes two to stop a fight.
What does Soong say? Or his storm-troopers? Do you
speak for them, too?"

For the first time, Dahil spoke. His bad arm still didn't
look too useful, but if he was holding a grudge, it didn't
show. "Soong mistake; Soong nothing. Say nothing. You
want, we stop Soong people. No need fight."

Well, it go along and it go along, Barton thought, but
the way it wound up was, no fight. It hadn't all been fun
and games, by any means. Three humans were dead, two
of Soong's and one of Ferenc's; Comm-Chief Rigan, that
one was. More had been wounded, and were hurting.

But now maybe all that stuff was over and done with.

The aftermath seemed like anticlimax—but. Barton re-
flected, that's the way it went sometimes, with wars. Soong
went back into seclusion in his surrogate-quarters, not
even guarded now, and Ferenc actually had his luxury
items transferred there, as much as was feasible. Barton
suspected that Ferenc would have let Soong have cap-
tain's digs back, except that the screen circuits there, no
longer disconnected at Comm, were awfully handy for
command purposes. The F.T.L. transmitter was working
again, too, but Ferenc wasn't ready to use it yet. ' »

The Others, near as Barton could tell, were sincerely
horrified at the carnage they'd wrought. The deaths were
final, but Dahil and Tiriis sat by the wounded and
"thought on them," and recoveries proceeded faster than
Barton would have believed. He found it impossible to
keep feeling hostile toward enemies who wouldn't act like
enemies. Well, if he had it figured right, the enmity part
was all a big circumstantial mistake, anyway.

If he didn't, of course, then it was a whole new ball
game.

Things had run a little close, there, but Ferenc Szabo at
the primary pilot's console warped the ship's path into
synchronous orbit around the planet ahead. The indica-
tors looked right to Barton, but Ferenc watched for a
time and made a couple more twiddling adjustments, be-
fore he took a deep breath and cut the drive. Thu ship's
hum dropped to a new level, barely audible.

Barton, sitting beside him and keeping his hands off
any controls, bad been watching the world that now,

498

somehow, was below them rather than "out there." He'd
watched Ferenc, too, and while Barton figured he could
have achieved orbit here if he'd had to do it, be was just
as glad it hadn't been his turn this time.

The planet looked good. Barton took Ferenc's word
that the axial tilt was small, meaning mild seasons, and
that there was a good wide belt of temperate climate in
each hemisphere. Cloud cover was considerably less than
Earth's, more than Tilara's or Sisshain's. Land-to-water
ratio was greater than Earth's, but the land was broken
up into smaller, isolated masses. From this high. Barton
couldn't tell about mountains or such.

Somebody, entering, broke Barton's train of thought.
The man was bringing coffee that Ferenc had asked for.
It was one of Soong's ex-goons; disarmed, those people
were back at the nothing-iobs they'd held before Soong
recruited them as bully-boys. Well, thought Barton, on a
ship this size, somebody has to do that stuff, and nobody
with any brains will sign on for it, so there we are. He
thanked the fellow for the coffee when he was handed a

cup,

Ferenc hadn't said anything for a while; Barton turned
his head to see the commander watching him, and said,
"Something?"

"Yes. I've punched up a draft of the message I intend
to send Base. Here's a readout. See what you think."

Barton took the flimsy, and read it, out loud:

"Ferenc Szabo commanding. We are past the no-return
limit, and preparing to settle on a planet that appears at-
tractive and promises comfort." Barton skipped the co-
ordinates. "At present there is no mental coercion from
the Others or from the Children. In a short while, such
coercion will be immaterial, for 1 shall have evacuated
(his ship and totally cut power on it, as ordered. As you
know, there are no facilities to restore it, this side of the
dead belt." That we know about, you mean. But Barton
didn't say it; after the brief pause, he read on.

"I suggest, strongly, that any human forces entering
mis immediate volume of space in future, do so with
utmost caution. Ferenc Szabo, commanding."

"The last words Base will ever receive from us," said
Ferenc.

Barton found them fitting enough; he nodded. Then
ano^r thought came. "You're leaving them hanging,




499

aren't you? The last they knew, Soong was in the saddle
and spurring hell-for-leather for the home corral."

Ferenc grinned. "You're right." So when he read the
message into the F.T.L. Pnasewave transmitter, he ad-
libbed a P.S. to the effect that while the latest transfer
of command, had entailed a certain amount of conflict,
Captain Soong was unharmed and would remain so. For
a moment. Barton thought the man was going to say some-
thing more. But after a brief hesitation, Perenc shut down
the Phasewave, both send and receive sides, and shook
his head. "There has to be an end."

Now, even without the side-effects of any weird pills,
Barton thought things moved pretty fast. After he met
Limila in the galley for lunch, and brought her up to
date on the things he'd forgotten to tell her during their
first meeting after all the shootout, he went back up to
Control. He didn't know why; he had no official status.
But that was where things were happening, so that's
where he went. And found Ferenc talking at a view-
screen that had Dahil oa the other end of it, in the
nursery.

The gist was that Dahil and Tiriis and their human
helpers were to get themselves, and the Children, ^md all
supplies of the Children's needs that were in the nursery
area, to the aux boats' docking facility within the next
six hours. Barton thought that was a little quick for the
Job, but he'd misguessed Ferenc Szabo before, too.

Dahil wasn't buying it, though. "No do. We stay here."

Perenc didn't argue. "Suit yourself. I'm evacuating the
rest of the ship—taking the crew and all supplies and
removable equipment outside your area, down to the
planet we're orbiting. If you get lonesome up here, or
hungry, you can give me a call."

Barton had to like the way Ferenc did it; it was much
the same thing he'd have done himself, probably. The
screen went blank, and Barton said, "You want every-
thing downside fast; is that it?"

Perenc nodded. "Yes. The sooner we're down on End-
atheline, irrevocably, the sooner I can relax. Whatever
happens, after that."                      ' '

Barton must have let bis puzzlement show, for Ferenc
said, "Bndatheline? What else? This world is the end of
the line. for us."

600

"Yeh. I guess you're right.*
be not.. *

Or, Barton thought, may-


After a little more noodling, Dahil did what he'd been
told in the first place. Not quite in time to meet Ferenc's
original deadline, but at least the nursery was evacuated.
Barton decided the deadline had been more of a psycho-
logical necessity than any other kind, because it was going
to take the two aux boats a lot of trips to get every-
thing downside.                                         ]

The Others and the Children were the crucial part, i
of course. At first Ferenc insisted that no one but himself
could ferry any of them down. "I'm the one man on this
ship they won't play games with, I think."

"Bullshit," said Barton, and saw the other man stiffen,
then relax. "I mean," Barton said, speaking quietly now,
"once they're in an aux boat going downside, they won't
screw around with their pilot."

Slowly, Ferenc smiled. "You're right, of course. Pos-
sibly I've been getting a bit paranoid. I don't suppose
you'd know about that."

"Sure not." Ferenc blinked, and Barton couldn't leave
it at that. "Sometime we'll get us drunk, Ferenc, and I'll
tell you."

There was no question iJabout Ferenc Szabo handling
one aux boat; the other was up for grabs, though. Ren
Bearpaw had toured half a continent with one, but all
in atmosphere, never coming down and plowing into air
from the outside. Whereas, Barton had never tried to
tun one of the things in his life but sure's hell he'd landed
bigger craft. Soong and Nargilosa weren't even in consid-
oration, though both had the training, and Command-Third
Kocco—well, Ferenc said, "I dont know what kind oi
done he's on, but I wouldn't trust him to carry me on s
piggy-back ride."

What governed, finally, was that somebody bad tc sta'
On ship and occupy the saddle, and Bearpaw had officia
Status and Barton didn't. So, after a quick instruction ses
sion with Ferenc Szabo, Barton got the nod to play Charo
With the second aux boat.

First trip, Ferenc took Dahil down, along with aboi
half the Children and their human helpers; supplies fille
'"e rest of the landing vehicle. Following instruction
A ton waited with his own load until Ferenc had lande




501

and passed up the okay for Barton to follow. Riding with
Barton were Tiriis and the rest of the Children—larger
now, and being very quiet. Some of the nursery supplies
were going to have to wait for a later drop; the boat was
about as full as Barton figured it could handle.

Coming down. Barton tried to get the feel of his con-
trols. He wasn't worried, really; he was riding good equip-
ment and had pretty fair confidence in it and in himself.
When he hit air, he found he was right; the boat handled
fine, and he homed in and landed alongside Ferenc's.

The other boat was open, and people standing outside
looking healthy enough, so Barton unbuttoned his, too,
and got out. He felt a slight decompression, a whoosh of
outrushing air, when he cracked the first seal; nothing
big, though. When he got outside, himself. Barton smelled
scents he hadn't known before. He was reminded of the
difference between the fragrances of Tilara and those of
Earth, but here the strangeness went a bit further.

Breeze and temperature were mild. As a child in
school. Barton had first learned temperature in Fahren-
heit; he still had to pause a moment to translate. All right;

in the low twenties Celsius, it felt like. Either scale, it was
pleasant enough.

Underfoot, the soft blue-green stuff that looked not much
like grass or moss, either one, smelled a little bit^like
mustard. The aroma was light, though, and after a few
minutes he didn't notice it any more.

Off a way he saw gnarly trees with long, pointed leaves,
and bushes clustered in a shallow ravine that probably
hid a stream. Looking up at the pale sky. Barton' took a
deep breath. If they were stuck here, he thought, they
could have picked a worse place!

As Barton had figured, downloading took a lot of trips.
When dusk came and they stopped work for the night,
he estimated they were roaybe a tenth of the way done
with the job. Of course, they'd been less than a full day
at it Planet's days at this longitude were several hours
out of synch with the ship's days he'd been observing;

he'd been up a long time, and went to bed as soon as he'd
eaten.

The funny part, next day, was that all of them 'nearly
forgot about Soong. When Ferenc remembered, and they
went to get the captain and begin loading his stuff, the
man simply wouldn't believe that someone couldn't w't,

502

kiss it and make it well. He wanted Humpty-Dumpty put
back together, and never mind that everybody was fresh
out of king's horses. Finally, Nargilosa put her arm
around the shoulders of the tired, fat old man, and led
him off to the aux boat where his comfort goodies were
being loaded. At least. Barton thought, Soong would
have an easy life downside, as long as he lasted.

The next things they took down were several loads of
miscellaneous metal and plastic, for building shelters.
Nobody downside had minded sleeping outdoors the
first night, but to the "west" a cloud front was approach-
ing, bringing rain. The odd-looking trees were big enough
to provide wood for framing, but none of the tools on
ship were well adapted for cutting wood. Barton wished
he'd brought a hand-laser, though, of course, he wouldn't
have dared use it in the fighting—too easy to slice through
essential circuitry in the bulkheads. But when he men-
tioned the idea, Ferenc set a couple of technicians to
work, and by evening they had cannibalized together a
unit that one now could carry. It looked pretty haywire to
Barton, but it worked, and speeded up construction quite

a lot.

The next day he and Limila moved downside, bring-
ing along all the stuff from their quarters whether it
seemed useful or not. As Barton said, "You never know."

They worked long hours now. Before dawn each morn-
ing the aux boats first lifted, and made their last landings
of the day in twilight. Barton lost count of the days; on
the eighth or maybe the tenth, the ship was gutted of
everything it was feasible to remove. A lot faster job
;, than transshipping cargo had been—proportionately, any-
i- way—because the aux boats had little fold-out loading
cranes, and the operation could use more machinery and
less muscle than in the earlier chore.

On lus own boat, or so. be thought of it now. Barton
downloaded a few items he didn't bother to tell Ferenc
Szabo about. The thing was, he wasn't sure, yet, about
Ferenc's plans for the ship. Since he might not agree with
them, he wanted to keep his options open. And for the
same reason, when Ferenc gathered a party to go up one
last time, inspect the ship and shut it down for keeps,
Barton unobtrusively joined the group. Making a full
pass^^er load on the aux boat, along with Ferenc, Ren




503

and Lisa, Mark Gyril, and a youngish, heavyset woman
whose name Barton couldn't remember.

They rode upstairs without talk; Ferenc docked the
aux boat, and the party gave the ship a final inspection,
taking longer about it than Barton thought was strictly
necessary. Well, maybe Ferenc bated what he had to
do now, and was delaying. No harm done.

They wound up in the power control center, and
Barton saw a great pile of tech manuals, and microfiches
of circuit drawings. Ferenc said, "Let's get those into the
Destruct box," and sure enough, that was the way the
bin was labeled. Barton didn't say anything; as requested,
he helped. Then Ferenc unlocked the main power switch,
and Barton moved forward.

"You haveat said, Ferenc. Just what you plan to do
now."

"AH of it," the man said. "I was going to push only
two buttons here, one to cut all ship's power so it couldn't
be restored without going through the refuel cycle, and
the other to operate the bin and destroy all written in-
formation that could possibly help restore it."

Barton nodded. "That sounds pretty thorough. Let's
do it." At the back of his mind, something pushed for a
moment, then ceased.

"Not enough," said Ferenc. "The information's 'a^o in
the minds of ship's personnel. And the Children will get
that knowledge from us, Barton; you have to realize that.
It won't be like our fighting off mental influence; when
they get around to it and are capable, I think they'" read
us like so many books."
"So?"

"So instead I'm going to turn the drive power back
on, and mistime the exciters to blow the whole ship, a
little after we leave it. Half an hour leeway, maybe, for
safety. In that way—"

Barton shook his head. "No need, Ferenc. All the books
in the world won't synthesize fuel without a lot of high-
grade equipment. Or get it upstairs, if we disable the
aux boats. Or ... "—he waggled a finger—" ... or, let
anybody stay alive on this ship even if they could get here.
What we do is, we let the air out."

It was working, but Ferenc still hesitated. Barton said,
"This is too much ship to blow up when we don't really
have to." Hoping he wasn't going to need it. Barton kept

S04                      ^. j

V

one hand on his concealed gun. And then the man }

nodded agreement.                                    '

"All right, you've convinced me. 111 stick with the
original plan." His fingers reached for the two buttons.

And )ust as Barton was beginning to let himself relax,
a wave of mental pressure hit the ship.

Barton staggered, and caught himself; for a moment
his vision blurred. This had to be the Children as well as
the Others, acting under adult direction. He saw Mark
Gyril fail to catch balance, and fall. Ferenc steadied
himself with one hand against the bulkhead, made a tight
grin, and pushed first one button and then the other.
Barton felt one last burst of pressure, like the final out-
raged howl of a child's temper tantrum, and then it was
all over. Through the ringing in his ears he heard the
sound of the air system's impellers beginning to wind
flown. Funny; he hadn't consciously heard their steady

hum in a long time.

And as the group, after waiting while Ferenc checked
through the power switch settings as if he hadn't already
done so twice, walked slowly back to the aux boat,
Barton felt the deck-gravs losing pull. That wasn't the way
it would have worked on Ship One, so he asked, "How

come it didn't cut off all at once?"

"This system works differently," Ferenc said. "The
field derives from a rotating magnetic torus. While the
superconductor fields hold, the rotation will take some
time to slow down, even without external power feed."

**l see." Barton didn't, except in a sort of way, but he
wanted to keep Ferenc's thinking busy. Then they entered
>the aux boat area and Ferenc gimmicked the entrance
.door so it couldn't close, and by-passed the safety inter-
lock ^o that the launching gates could still be opened.

.They got into the aux boat. "Strap m," said Ferenc.
"because' we're going to have a jet-assisted launching,
when the air blows. I hope we don't hit the gates too hard,

while they're opening."

They didn't; the aux boat shuddered but made it through.
Still, Barton thought, it was one helluva bang, there,

Once clear, Ferenc turned the aux boat to face the
ship for a moment, and looked at it. "That was a fine
shi&^he said. "It's too bad we have to leave it dead, for-
ever^s,

V.              505

Barton, in his mind, agreed with the sentiment. But
not with the prediction. What Ferenc Szabo didn't know
about was the crate of spacesuits that Barton had smuggled
downside. And Barton certainly wasn't going to tell him.
nght now.

506

IV,
Answers

All things considered. Barton thought the transition from
ship to colony status went pretty smoothly. Npbody had
told him that one of the original planned options had
been to plant an outpost base with a skeleton crew to
maintain it at first, so he was surprised when people be-
gan cultivating ground and breaking out seeds from the
, crated supplies. The stuff seemed to grow well.

Getting started was a lot of work, sure; nobody was
working the kind of hours Barton and other folks had
worked during the downloading, but it wasn't exactly like
a union Job, either. Still, now be and Limila had more
time together, and that was good for both of them.

The two'Earthani women who were carrying Children
came near their times, and Limila conferred with them
now and then. When Gyril did the Caesarians, Tiriis
came to take the Children as she'd done before, but this
time both mothers insisted on joining the nursery. Bartoa
had no idea whether it was their own motivation or some'
thing new in the Others' repertoire.

He asked Limila what she thought, and she said, "It
is different now. Barton. Or so I think. We shall have to
be a community, here. We, and the Others, and the Chil-
dren. The isolation must cease."

And^t was happening that way. Barton noticed, when
he stop^4 to think about it. Since the last-ditch try at




507

stopping Ferenc from disabling the ship. Barton knew of
no instance of mental pressure from Others or Children.
Certainly everyone mingled now, in daily routines, with-
out any tension or suspicion to speak of. Maybe there
was no pushing, he decided, because there wasn't any-
thing left to push for.

Dahil had promised, when Ferenc was making up his
mind whether the Others and Children would live among
humans or apart from them, that he wouldn't play any
more games with his trick cup. Privately, Barton won-
dered if maybe Dahil hadn't simply run out of joy juice.
But since he'd kept the promise, it didn't matter either
way.

The Children, growing fast now, fascinated Barton.
Considering their powers—extent unknown, as yet—he
figured it was lucky that these youngsters seemed to show
no trace of the "me-me-ME" stage that makes normal
human kids a little hard to take, sometimes. They kept
to themselves a lot, or worked with Dahil or Tiriis on a
plot of ground the Others were cultivating by themselves—
whose seeds?—Barton had no idea. And when they came
around humans, mostly they seemed to be observing. The
couple of times when one or another spoke to Ba^on, the
few words were in good English.

All in all, Barton decided they were pretty nice kids.
The only thing that worried him was what they were
going to be when they grew up. Assuming that he and
Limila were right about that.

On the human side, of course, it was really Kiddie
Corner. When practically every woman from the ship
began delivering human babies on schedule, from the
Great Pregnancy Race as Barton thought of it, things
had been truly hectic for "a time. He doubted that any-
one was planning on having any more kids for a while,
because it was all the community could do to handle
the current crop.

Bearpaw and Teragni had a boy; they named him
Ferenc. Gyril and Elys produced a girl, and Barton was
pleased to see that this time the pregnancy left her look-
ing better rather than worse. And a little later Ferenc
Szabo's mate, Racelle, gave birth to a male child. Bear-
paw said, in an aside to Barton, "In the old days, it any-
body'd ever told me I'd see Szabo as a doting lathe""—U*

\    /

508                     \-> r

•V

But the thing that puzzled both men was why Ferenc and
Racelle named the child Dahil.

Then Limila was the only woman left carrying child,
Barton had lost track of the timing; he didn't know when
she was due, for sure. Mark Gyril told Barton not to
worry, just yet. So Barton didn't. Except that one night
he got home from a stint of scouting for ores in the foot-
hills to the north, and came into his and Limila's hut,
and stormed out again and found Mark Gyril and grabbed
him by the front of his jacket. "Where the hell were you?"

"Where—I don't know what you mean!"

"Then come and see, goddamn you!"

But when Barton dragged Gyril into the hut by the
scruff of the neck and threw him halfway across, Limila
said, "Barton—there is no need to be rude to Mark. I did
not call for him. Why did you not, when you came and
saw me, give me time to explain?"

Barton looked. Well, Limila wasn't really dying, after
all, he guessed, even though it still looked like one hell
of a lot of blood splashed around. And her Child was
suckling peacefully enough. Barton shook bis head and
helped Gyril up. "Sorry, Mark. Limila—you mind telling
me what's been going on?"

**No, I do not mind. If you will prepare some herb tea
for all of us, then sit to listen." Feeling as ponfused as he
j,had for some time. Barton followed instructions. Then,
sitting, he waited while Limila sipped tea before she said,
"It was because I am not Earthani, Barton. Earthani
women, to be delivered of Children, must all be opened by
Mark's knife. I did not wish my body cut; I did not feel it
needful to do so." Limila shrugged. "But had I said as
much, there would have been argument. So I thought to
speed development slightly, and do this thing in my own
' way." Wide and silver-irised, her eyes sought bis gaze.
• "Do you understand?"

For moments. Barton couldn't talk at all. This woman!
Then he said, "You're all right?" and she nodded. But:

"You mind if Mark checks you over, though, just in
case?" Headshake. "Then I think I'll go unload my ore
samples. Be back in a little."      •

He did the routine work without thinking about it, his
mind chewing on what Limila had said. Deliberately
speeded .up growth of the fetus? From the beginning,
Barton^^d realized there was a lot he didn't know about




509

his Tilaran love. Now he wondered if he'd ever catch up
to all of it. But at least she was past the birth.

Gyril, when Barton returned, didn't seem offenued at
the way Barton had horsed him around, earlier. "I can't
blame you. Seeing the mess, I suppose it would have scared
me silly, too. Anyway, she's in absolutely fine shape, and
I certainly wish I knew how she did it, so that I could use
the knowledge to help other women in the same situa-
tion." Gyril sighted down a forefinger, at Limila. "If
Earthwomen could manage as easily with their own kind
of babies as you did with this hybrid birth, they'd have a
much tidier time of it." He shook his head. "I can't do any
more good here. And if nobody minds, I'd like to get home
and put some notes on paper before I forget the details."

"Sure." Barton was giad the Medic-chief would still
shake hands with him. When Gyril had left. Barton sat
down beside Limila. He stroked the head of the Child who
lay against Liroila's breast. One rear-corner eye opened,
blinked once, then slowly closed. In the iris. Barton had
seen silver specks.

Not sure what to say. Barton began with, "You lelting
this one go to the Others' nursery, or do we keep it our-
selves, or what?" Another thought came. "You got any
ideas what we should name it?"

"Each question in turn," Limila said. "I keep this
Child, but we spend some time each day with Tiriis and
the other Children, also. For there are needs, I think, that
you and I cannot fulfill." She shook forward-falling hair
away from her eyes.

"But here we have no 'it,* Barton; my offspring is fully
of both sexes, as you know. Use which gender label you
prefer, or either, at whim. But not the neuter, please."

"Sure; I see it. The language doesn't work right, but I'll
try. How about the naming part, though?"

The way Limila smiled, then, puzzled Barton. "The
name," she said, "is not ours to give. It is Conjuldephane,
and it was during birth that Conjuldephane told me.
Gently, in my mind."

To that. Barton didn't have much to say. So he hugged
them.

In a way. Barton thought, the next year (a little shorter
than Earth's, but not much) went by like back home on




510




the farm, and howdy, neighbor. All that; no real turmoil
in the settlement.

When Conjy, the Child that Limila had borne to Dahil's
tiring, was weaned from Limila's still-petite breasts,
Liroila wanted to begin another baby. "All of you and me,
^Barton. To replace the one we lost on Tilara."

Barton could sympathize, but too much else kept
bothering him. So he asked her if she'd mind holding off
for a while yet, and she agreed. "But not of indefinite
extent. Barton." And he agreed. But to keep his various
worries separate in time, would take luck.

Being no farmer, having the exact opposite of a "green
thumb," Barton stayed out of agriculture and did other
work. For one thing, he took his aux boat to have a look at
adjacent land masses. On the third one he scouted, he
saw evidence of intelligent life.

Such as villages. And when he got back, the villagers
were there ahead of him.

They looked mostly like the Others, but not quite.
Distribution of fur was different, and so were gen-
eral bodily proportions. But it was a cinch that the
Endatheliners were related to the Others in much the
same way that Tilari related to Earthani. And the natives
here picked up language as well as the Others had done.

Barton went to Ferenc Szabo^and said what he thought.
t Almost.

The way it worked was that the first-bom of the
Children had hung around Barton quite a bit, and Barton
liked the kid and felt that maybe here was the way Barton
might find out how to play this hand he'd never asked to
,^ be dealt

•"' ^ He addressed the Child by name. "Chiyonou," Barton
Raid, "I think we got a problem, here. Any good ideas, how
we cope?"

Barton couldn't interpret the movements of multiple
"..eyes and extra shoulders. But Chiyonou made a whis-
^tling tweetle-sound, and then said, "You know. Barton.
Time that all were told."

,. So that evening a full gathering was called. Tiriis told
f^art of the story, confirming Barton's hunch that the
pthers carried a certain ability for racial memory, and
'Chiyoni.&did the rest.




As BaASo listened, he couldn't be sure who said which

511

parts. None of it surprised him totally, though; he'd figured
some pieces out a long time ago. So Barton sat, and he
listened. And wondered if things had any chance of work-
ing out the way they must have been planned to work, so
long ago that he found difficulty in trying to imagine the
time gap.

A very long time ago, there was the Great Race. From
•wherever it came, it grew to inhabit nearly a third of this
galaxy. It could have expanded farther, but other races
were there, and the Great Race respected other people's
rights. Instead, it sent its excess to seed other galaxies.

The Great Race fought no wars. It didn't have to; its
powers were that mighty. Some of its achievements are
literally beyond our power to comprehend, let alone du-
plicate. Combining logic, intuition, and mental forces,
the Great Race not only controlled most physical aspects
of ifs universe, but also strongly influenced the structure
of probability, and time-flow itself to some extent.

If there were no gods, the Great Race made a fair
substitute.

That's why the next part was so hard to understand or
believe. TO such beings, what could possibly be a serious
menace? But some threat came, so dreadful that even the
Great Race could only seek to hide. To hide so thor-
oughly, so completely, that it could never be found. And
being the Great Race, it found a way.

How do you find what does not exist? It was that
simple.

The Great Race vanished. Where it had been, lesser
races appeared. Up-Arm, humans and Tilarans and the
like. Down-Arm, the Others and those like them. All
sprinkled among star systems holding existent species that
are superficially similar but not at all related—Blame's
Mistakes, the Larka-Te, the Filjari.

And between the two groups of seeded species, the
dead belt.

It was a master stroke. The knowledge and skills are
lost, but what they did can be roughly understood. By
microsurgery they divided their germinal cells into viable
complementary halves, such that similars, when mated,
produced simplified organisms. And complementary spe-
cies were separated by the dead belt.

A simple splitting wasn't enough; some parts were vital

512

and must be duplicated In both halves. So that each,
essentially, had to be more than half.

Deliberately, the results were made varied; the Great
Race may have used misdirection to confuse whatever
terrible search they -worked so desperately to evade. So
besides Earthani there were Tilari and the like; besides the
Others there were their analogues here, and no doubt
more variations elsewhere.

But with the aid of a catalyst, such as Dahirs cup, any
humanoid became interferfile with any Otheroid. And
always the resultant Children would be the same, the sum
of the parts rejoined.

Long ago, there was the Great Race. And now it was
come again.

Barton had thought he'd accepted the idea long since,
but now the full impact bit him. Makes a man feel lost, he
thought, to realize in his gut that his species has no destiny
of its own, and never had. That humans had never been
anything at all in their own right, but only the carriers and
conservators of half the heredity of a race he couldn't
even begin to understand. He found it hard, at gut level,'-
to believe something that made him feel so utterly god-
damn insignificant.

He had to believe it, though. When the gathering broke
up, a group of them talked it out—Barton and Limila,
Ferenc and Racelle, Ren and Lisa, Mark and Elys. What
it boiled down to was that once you looked at it, there was
simply too much evidence.

On Earth the advent of Cro-Magnon man had never
been satisfactorily explained. And too many myths
pointed to a time when a few of the Great Race shared
Earth with man and with some Other-type beings; after
they were gone, they survived in legend.

The Greek fauns and satyrs, for instance, have Other-
like aspects. The Great Race became the centaur, such
whimsies as many-armed Kali, and the two-backed beast
riven into man and woman eternally striving to reunite.

Oh, there was no doubt, if you looked at it right. They
were there. Stories got mixed up a little, over the millen"
rflia, but not too badly to recognize, once you saw the real
thing.

How long ago? Not even the Others had a guess, on
that. The dead belt was a safety factor, to make sure the
danger would be past before a comparatively half-smart

513

species could develop star travel enough to meet one of its
complements.

Another fail-safe device, it bad to be, was concentrat-
ing the intuitive and mental-force powers, and the touch
of race memory, into the Others and those like them. So
that they, at least, would have the instinctive drive for re-
combination, would have ready the cup and what it must
contain, and would know how to use it. No, the Great
Race hadn't missed a trick, that Barton could see.

"So now we know," said Ferenc Szabo, "We and the
Others and the rest—all through our long separate his-
tories we've been nothing more than self-perpetuating
strains of sperm and ova, waiting no one knows how long,
to combine and re-create the Great Race." Barton saw the
man's arm tighten around Racelle; her long, tawny eyes,
slanted a bit, widened and then relaxed.

"What bothers me," said Lisa Teragni, "is what were
they hiding from? And how do we know the danger's
really gone?" When nobody answered right away, she
said, "Oh, I'm just as shaken up as everybody else, at
finding out we're nothing but sperm banks. 1 refuse to
think about that, just now. But this other—"

Mark GyrU cleared his throat. "It's not my field," he
said, "so I may not explain it too well. But I have a guess
at what it was, that the Great Race couldn't withstand."

When the man paused, Barton said, "Give it a try; all
right?"

"Radiation," said Gyril. "There's some evidence of a
wave of stellar explosions, time not too well pinned down,
that occurred in the galaxy-proper and would have
flooded this Arm with more quanta than would have been
healthy to most organisms."

**But we're still here," said Elys Rounds.

"The more complex the organism," Gyril said, "the more
vulnerable it is to radiation damage. Genetically, I mean,
as well as with individuals. The Great Race, you know,
carries roughly double our chromosome count. At least,
the Children do—and of course that's what the colchicine-
surrogate is for, in Dahil's cup. To allow full addition of
our chromosomes with those of the Others."

Barton frowned, not angry, only thinking. "You mean,
the Great Race split itself into simpler organisms that
could weather the radiation?** He nodded. "Yen, I guess
I got it the first time. Seems like the hard way, is all."

Limila touched his arm. "Perhaps. But we cannot

514

understand their motivations." And Barton had to agree
with that conclusion.

Everybody was tired; the discussion had ground down
to repetition, "Let's let it rest until" morning," Barton said.
"I have some ideas, but they can wait that long."

In the morning, though, they were up against the
matter of the suicides. Nearly twenty percent of the
human adults, during that night.

"Damn it!" Barton said. "We should have thought
Some people just weren't going to be able to take it."

"What could we have done?'* said Renton Bearpaw.
"Hold a pep talk? We were too busy, getting our own
selves sorted out."

"Yeh," Barton shook his head. "Couldn't do every-
thing all at once. Well, let's round up some muscle and get

to work."

The work was burying the dead, and the mindlessness
of digging gave Barton time to think. Part of his thought
had no bearing on the immediate problem. If the Great
Race was so almighty, how come it couldn't handle the
radiation problem? Assuming Gyril had the right of it,
there. Then Barton shrugged. Maybe they overreached
themselves; maybe one of their own projects got out of
hand. No way, for sure, that he'd ever find out, one way

or the other.                 ^

Right now, though, he had to start putting some feelers
out, and the first place to start was with Chiyonou.

He found the Child off to one side of the settlement,
engaged in some sort of game with other Children. They
were—Barton blinked, and then knew what he'd .seen,
briefly, before the Children noticed his presence. They
were teleporting, vanishing and appearing, but now they
stopped doing that. With no word or gesture on Barton's
part, Chiyonou came to greet him.

Barton steadied his thinking, and held it, and said,
"You see what has to be done? Can you do it?"

The Child nodded. "We knew it yesterday; we have
begun. The ones coming and going, as you saw—they
help begin our work, at some distance from here. What
, we need to know, we read from many minds." The kid
couldn't frown, exactly; the equipment wasn't there for it.
But Barton thought Chiyonou looked puzzled, as the next
words came. "I see only so far. Barton, along the line of

515

action. Do you see farther? The difficulty, I think, is that
we are so very young."

"Don't knock it," said Barton. "It's all too curable." He
set an image in the front of his thoughts, and said, "Read
me now; it's quicker than talk." And after a silent pause:

"What you think?"

"For your people," Chiyonou said, "perhaps it is the
best solution."

Barton had been squatting beside the Child. Now, feel-
ing a little like a cat petting its master, he ruffled the fur
on Chiyonou's head, and then stood. "All right," he said.
"But let's keep this just between us for a while. I still have
to sell it to Ferenc Szabo."

Ferenc, after the evening meal, was in philosophic
mode. Maybe, thought Barton, the wine helped. As
Ferenc said, "Even from the human standpoint, I think
it's worth it. The way the Children are, I mean, even as
relative infants. They deserve the universe a lot more than
we ever did. They'll enrich it."

He shook his head. "I have to feel sorry for the human
race, though. Not for any tangible harm the Children will
do it; they don't hurt people. But the shock—the shock
I'm only now getting over. A lot won't be able to take it.
Like today's dead."

"Close to twenty percent, was it?" Barton said. Ferenc
nodded. "With the Demu, it's more like ninety, when they
find out. Of course, maybe having been pets is worse" than
being gametes."

He'd said it to jolt Ferenc loose from introspection, and
the ploy worked. Now Barton leaned forward. "Who
says the human race has to know? The rest of it, I mean?"

Bearpaw hadn't said much; now he spoke. "This isola-
tion won't last; you can't believe it will. Either human
ships will come close enough to be drawn here by mental
influence, or the Children will find a way to take over the
ship and make it work." He looked harassed. "Can you
deny those possibilities, Barton?"

Barton grinned. "Sure not. The only thing is, why wait
for them to happen?" And before anybody could take the
wrong reading from what he'd said. Barton added, "Why
don't we give them the ship now?"

For a while there, the party got a little noisy. Then
Ferenc got the floor, and said, "You're talking as if such a
thing were possible. But there is no fueL No air in the

516

ship, so no way anyone could'work in it if we had fuel.
You saw to that yourself. Barton." For a moment, Ferenc
looked almost reproachful.

That's when Barton told them about the Children's
fuel-refining project across the hills, and about the space-
suits he'd smuggled downside. "It won't take all that
long," he said.

"But I don't understand," said Bearpaw. "Turning the
Children loose, sooner than necessary—what good will
that do?"

Barton savored his punchline. "Who said we're turning
them loose in this galaxy?"

It was a good thing. Barton thought, that the fuel
wasn't ready any sooner. Because until little Conjy was
old enough to leave her and be with the Child's own kind,
Limila wasn't about to let her offspring go. And of course
there was no question of one of the Children, isolated,
staying with humans of any sort. But the timing worked
out, well enough.

Most people, now, tended to avoid the Children, but
Barton didn't. He knew they outclassed him, and that as
adults they'd be totally outside his comprehension, like as
not, but he didn't let it bother him. Some people were
bigger or stronger or faster or smarter—that was the way
things were—but Barton was Barton and he was satisfied
being himself. Ferenc, he noticed, was another who spent
time with the Children, and Racelle often joined him io
that pastime. Limila, of course, took Conjy for playtimes
and teachings, and seemed to feel no unease.

She hadn't said any more about starting a norma
humanoid pregnancy, so Barton didn't push it, either
Actually, he didn't feel he needed any new complication!
just yet. For one thing, he was thinking over a converse
tion they'd had recently, and wondering how he felt abou'
it. She'd been trimming bis hair for him, and said, "Thf
parts at each side, that were gray, now are not. Barton
I think the TUaran treatments are having effect on you.

Well, hell. Barton thought. If she had it right, if all the
misery he'd suffered on Tilara would really make him
live young for a long time, well and good. He didn't really
believe it, though.

Quite a lot of the colony, including Bearpaw and Lis
and Gyril and Elys, opted to stay on Endatheline; fo

517

sure, sooner or later there'd be more people coming from

Earth to .join them there.

Barton had a few jitters about passing so near the
glorious spectacle of Opal, but Dahil and Tiriis kept their
promises. No matter what the Others below might have
felt, they made no mental moves against the ship, and
Dahil and Tiriis did their teleport trick at the ship's
closest approach to OpaL First, though, the number of
Children aboard the ship was approximately doubled;

Barton took the Others' word that alt the Children from
Opal had transferred up. He hoped so, because that was
the way his plan was supposed to work. But from Opal
on, passing Blaine's Mistake and crossing the dead belt,
the ship held only Earthani and Limila and Children.

There was no point. Barton and Ferenc agreed, in call-
ing Earth Base; people there might not agree with what
the two men intended, and they were going to do it, any-
way. It worried Barton that the F.T.L. transmitter got
no response from Sisshain, but when they came within
range for light-speed talk, things cleared up a little.
Tarieton got the obelisk in shape," Barton said to
Ferenc, "before he left. Now all we have to do is get

hold of it."

Sholur, Keeper of the Heritage for the Dema, was

another matter. "It is," Barton said to that gold-robed
worthy, "that even those Derou who have become—even
yourself—may not have become sufficiently to with-
stand what will be seen when we arrive. It is, perhaps,
that all should leave the place of becoming."

But Sholur stayed, and withstood. Even when the great
ship, Mecca for the Demu race since its beginnings, lifted
to take the Children away beyond return. Pulled the
lower third of its two-kilometer length out of the moun-
tain, and lifted and was gone. "It is." said Sholur, "that

they are well removed from us."

Maybe, Barton thought. But for himself, he wasn't

entirely sure.

From her own ship. Thirty-one, Estelle Cummings was
running the Earthani embassy. She and her husband Max,
the surgeon, filled Barton in on the news. Tarieton was
back on Tilara, and a recent ship had brought word that
after some hot F.T.L. talks with Earth Base, he was in
charge of both the first and second fleets. Arieta Fox and

516

p* Bonus Rayward had gone to Tilara with Tarieton. Too
I-, bad. Barton thought; he'd have liked to see them again.
|'Well, last reports had them still together, anyway; that

was nice.

Barton's own status, Cummings said, was still a gray     [

area. So when he and Limila went back to Ferenc's ship,
Barton got help to put an F.T.L. call through to Tilara.
But Tarieton wasn't available; he was TO-planet and not
due back for a few days. Barton shrugged and thanked

his helper. "I'll try again, then."

The next contact he tried to make. Barton had better
luck, and about an hour later he welcomed two guests
aboard the ship. Eeshta bad grown; the young Demu
wasn't quite full-sized yet, but coming close. And while
Barton was fairly certain that the exoskeletal Demu
weren't given to hugging among themselves, Eeshta must
have picked the habit up from Barton, because now she
came to him and did so. "Barton^. It is good to see you."
"And to see you, Eeshta. You're well?" The young one
signed assent, and now Barton looked past her, to the
adult Demu. "Hishtoo?" No hugging here, nor did Barton
think Hishtoo would have picked up the custom of shak-
ing hands. "It is that I greet you, Hisbtoo. That I wish you
good health." And thinking, things do change—because,
unmistakably, Hishtoo lifted his stumpy tongue in the

Demu smile.

"It is. Barton," said Hishtoo, "that I would have died

before changing as I have changed. That in part I can
never forgive what you forced on me. But that I am more
now, than before that change." The chitinous, serrated
mouth flexed; a sound came that Barton had not heard
before. Then Hishtoo said, "It is. Barton, that although
you have not correct appearance, you are Demu. Not
animal." And while Barton was trying to find an answer,
Hishtoo turned abruptly and left the compartment.

Barton looked at Eeshta. "What in the—will he be 'all

right?"

"He will, Barton. I did not know if he could say to you

what he has said, but be did. Now he needs, for a time, to

be alone."

Barton relaxed. "Okay, I guess. Hey, you want somi

coffee? And I'll tell you what's been happening lately.'
So they sat, and be did. Eeshta was disappointed, fbougl

519

that she hadat had the chance to see the Great Race
personally.

Picnic on the mountainside, below the vast pit the great
ship had left. Barton and Limila and Ferenc and Racelle.
"Which do you think we were," Ferenc said, "and which
were the Others? In terms of sperm and ova, I mean."

The question took Barton a moment to figure; then he
knew. The humans had been like sperm, traveling blindly
in search of their own extinction as a species—an extinc-
tion they didn't foresee and bitterly resisted. The Others
waited like ova, knowing, and drew humans into a unity
the Others intuited and welcomed. Now, though, with a
little caution the gamete species wouid survive on their
own.

He must be a little drunk. Barton thought, to be specu-
lating on this kind of stuff. He said, "What does it matter,
actually, which was which?"

But he could see how it might matter to Ferenc Szabo.

The fourth day. Barton got through to Tarleton to
Phasewave. The picture was better than he expected, but
Tarleton looked pooped. First he talked about fleet
doings, and to Barton it sounded as if he had things pretty
well in hand. Then he said, "Have you heard what
Helaise did?" Barton shook his head. "Locked herself in
her room and kept zapping herself with a sleep-gun until
she couldn't remember how to use it." Barton wondered
if he looked as shocked as he felt. The other man said,
"Mentally she's about fourteen, I think, and a rather
cheerful youngster. Ap Fenn's taking care of her, and he's
quite patient about waiting for her to develop grown-up
attitudes. I don't think it's going to take too long."

A lot of things Barton wanted to ask, then, but he
couldn't think how. Finally he said, "Where do / stand,
Tarleton? I mean, last I knew on TUara, I was in tough.
I asked Cummings but she didn't know."

Tarleton frowned. "Well, there's a little problem. We
have your tape, explaining what happened, and the testi-
mony of Doctor Arleta Fox. But Hennessy, when he was
in charge here, set up a Board of Inquiry, and that Board
still wants to do some inquiring."

Barton grinned. "They may have quite a wait. Unlessi

520

they want to convene on the other side of the dead belt,
that is."

He saw Tarleton lean forward. "You mean you're not
coming back here?"

"Not hardly. I'd like to hoist drinks with you, but
Ferenc's heading down-Arm again, and—"

Tarleton cut in. "What happened there, anyway? I've
heard rumors, and now I'm told the great ship's lifted off
from Sisshain and gone God only knows where. I think
somebody owes me some answers."

Barton considered, decided Tarelton was right, and
told it—the bare bones, anyway. At the end, the big man
nodded. "You and Szabo did right; that bombshell must
not get out in public. Matter of fact, I don't expect to
sleep too well myself, tonight. Oh, there'll be leaks, but
without any solid proof . . ." He shrugged, then frowned.
"But if down-Arm's a trap for humans, what can you do
there?"

"Plenty." Barton explained some of it. First-off, take
auxiliary fuel pods and a prize crew out to the drifting
derelict supply ship, so as to return it to Tilara for re-
fitting. "Group B wants to look good in the budget,

"And two more of these big ships, full of colonists,
we're escorting to Endatheline. Plus a contact team for
Blaine's Mistake, to negotiate -colonization rights on the
uninhabited continent."

"The down-Arm mapping project's dead, though, isn't
it? I mean, we can't risk having this whole thing happen
again."

"We won't." Barton grinned. "The job needs a crew
trained in group resistance to mental force. Just hap-
pens, that's exactly what Ferenc has, aboard here."

"And you feel you have to go along?"

"Right, boss. Vice-Admiral Barton, on detached service.**

"Yes. Well, Alene and I would like to see you and
Uroila, and I did have the funny idea you were work-
ing for me—but I guess I can't argue." A pause. "Barton.
it's been good."




"That it has. And, Tarleton—we'll be back s^
He cut the circuit.

Lying with Barton, Limila again
discussion: should she ovutate D' '

had done before? Barton wasn't sure. "This place wasn't

so lucky for us, the last time."

"But now it may be. Barton, why do we not try?"
The thing was, they got so involved that they didtft

notice when the ship lifted. So whether conception took

place on Sisshain or in space, they'd never know.