The Nimrod Hunt
By
Charles Sheffield.

An attempt to create a set of beings, the Morgan
Constructs, to defend the Perimeter - the boundary
of the region of space explored by humans - has failed
disastrously. The Constructs have turned on their
creators and fled. Now they must be tracked down
and destroyed.

"Charles Sheffield has produced another outstanding
novel - vivid characterisation, realistic high-tech
background, and rapidly moving action. Opening a
Sheffield book is like switching on a mind link."
Robert L Forward, author of Dragon's Egg

Also by Charles Sheffield
Between the Strokes of Night
Sight of Proteus
The Web Between the Worlds
The Selkie (with David Bishchoff)
My Brother's Keeper
The Nimrod Hunt
Non-fiction
Earthwatch
Man on Earth
Space Careers (with Carol Rosin)

HEADLINE

Copyright© 1986 Charles Sheffield

First published in Great Britain in 1988
by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING PLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means without the prior written
permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 3078 1

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Collins, Glasgow
To John, Judy, and Jessica
HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING PLC
Headline House
79 Great Titchfield Street
London W1P7FN
Prolog
DEATH ON COBWEB STATION

The first warning was nothing more than a glimmer
of light. In the array of twenty-two thousand
monitors that showed the energy balance of the solar
system, one miniature bulb had flicked on to register
a demand overload.
To say that the signal was neglected by the crew at
Vulcan Nexus would be a gross overstatement. It was
never seen. The whole display array had been installed in the main control room of the Nexus mainly
for visiting dignitaries and media: "There!"--with a
wave of the hand--"The power equation for the whole
System at one glance. The left side shows energy
supply. Each light displays the energy collection from
a solar panel. And there on the right are the demands."
A moment or two to examine the array of gently
winking lamps, and the tour would go on. The most
impressive part was still to come: the powered swoop
past four hundred million square kilometers of collectors,
each sucking in its share of Sol's radiance.
With the arrays orbiting only two million kilometers
above the solar photosphere, Sol's flaming disk filled
thirty degrees of the sky. It was an unusual visitor
who gave the display room a second thought-- not
after the roller-coaster ride past the solar furnace,
skimming over vast hydrogen flares and the Earth
swallowing whirlpools of sunspots.
So the overload signal was not seen by the crew.
But human neglect of minor energy fluctuations was
no cause for concern. Supply ana demand had long
been monitored by an agent far more efficient and
conscientious than unreliable homo sapiens. The
distributed computing network of Dominus at once
noted the source of the energy drain: Cobweb Station,
twelve billion kilometers from the Sun. Station
demand had increased by a factor of a hundred over
normal use. Even as that information came back
through the computer network, a second light went
on in the display panel, then three more. Each light
indicated a demand growth by a factor of ten. Dominus switched power supply from the solar arrays
to the orbiting fusion plants out near Persephone.
Reserve supply was more than adequate. There was
still no fear of emergency, no thought of disaster.
And there was no reply from Cobweb Station. The
inquiry was elevated in priority, and Dominus brought
new data online. A communications silence from
Cobweb Station for the last seven hours was noted,
and correlated in turn with the pattern of energy use
and the signal showing that the Mattin Link system had been activated (though not yet used for either
matter or signal transmission).
Dominus flashed an alert to the control display at
Ceres headquarters and scanned all probes beyond
Neptune. The nearest high-acceleration needle was
thirty million kilometers from Cobweb Station: twenty
two hours at a steady hundred gee.
Dominus dispatched the probe seconds before the
problem first came to human attention. The technician
on duty at Ceres checked the status flags, noted
the time, and approved the probe use. But she did
not call for a report on energy use from Cobweb
Station; her mind was elsewhere, contemplating an
after-work date. She was looking forward to the skirmishings that went with a new partner--always exciting,
never quite predictable. Overtime to examine
power fluctuation in the Outer System formed no
part of her evening plans.
She knew the scope of her duties and responsibilities.
Her action was consistent with them. That she
would later become the first scapegoat was merely
evidence of the need for scapegoats.
Meanwhile, there had come a demand for more
energy. That surging rise by two orders of magnitude,
plus the simultaneous multiple use of the Mattin
Link transportation system, finally moved the problem
to high-priority levels. Dominus signalled for an
increase to maximum probe acceleration.
Probe T was less than two years old. It contained
the new pan inorganica logic circuits and a full
array of sensors. It had picked up Cobweb Station's
image on active microwave while two hundred thousand
kilometers out. The massive station showed as
a scintillating grainy globe, pocked by entry ports
and knobby with communications equipment. Although
Probe T's data regarding its target included
nothing as to station purpose or contents, it was
smart enough to try all-channel signalling as soon as
it was within range.
Cobweb Station held its silence. Probe T was puzzled
now to see that the station's entry ports were all
open to space. It shot a Mattin Link message back to Dominus, reporting the peculiarity, and approached
to thirty kilometers. The high-resolution sensors were
now able to pick up images of small, irregular objects
floating close to the station. Probe T launched two
bristle explorers, one to inspect the flotsam, the other
to examine the interior of the station.
The second bristle explorer's report was made, but
never sent. It did go inside Cobweb Station, as instructed,
but by that time every message circuit on
Probe T was occupied to capacity. A blast of emergency
signals deluged Dominus through the Link,
and rarely-used indicators sprang to life on every
control board from Vulcan Nexus to the Oort Harvester.
The first bristle had met the debris outside
Cobweb Station. Its imager revealed the bloated, frozen
bodies of station guards. Still in their uniforms,
weapons unsheathed, they floated gutted and stifflimbed
in the endless sarcophagus of open space.
Throughout the solar system, alarm bells were
sounding their requiem.

Chapter One
MORGAN CONSTRUCTS



"LINK NETWORK COMPLETE. STAND BY FOR
CONFERENCE CONNECT."
The ringing, disembodied voice sounded from
all sides. In the few seconds before final Link connections
were made, the Ambassador to the Stellar
Group turned to the two men standing by his
side in the domed hall.
"I want you to understand this situation very
clearly," he said. "Although the hearing is taking
place in the Star Chamber, there is currently no
criminal charge at issue. This is strictly a briefing
for the ambassadors. Your testimony must be as
accurate and complete as possible. Understood?"
Ambassador Dougal Macdougal was a tall, imposing
figure, on whom the traditional and ancient
robes of office, handed down from one ambassador
to the next, sat as if they had been made
for him alone. His brow was noble, his chin almost
too firm.
The other two men exchanged the briefest of
glances, then nodded.
"Don't just bob your heads!" said Dougal Macdougal.
"Say it. We need your explicit commitment,on record. We are in enough trouble already.
I do not want to add to it."
"I understand perfectly," said Luther Brachis.
He was a match for Macdougal in height, but massively
broader. Even in the low gravity of Ceres,
his booted tread shook the gold and white floor of
the Star Chamber. On the left breast of his combat
uniform sat a gaudy phalanx of military decorations,
and the swirling Starburst of Solar Security
was blazoned across his right sleeve. Eyes of
washed-out blue-grey looked steadily at Dougal
Macdougal. There was a momentary tightening of
lips on the wide mouth, a millimeter jut to the
jaw. For Luther Brachis it was equivalent to a
furious outburst. "I will describe everything, and
conceal nothing," he said at last.
The ambassador turned at once to the other man.
"And you, Mondrian? Come on, man--say it now.
The Link may be complete in a few more seconds."
Esro Mondrian looked up. He was slightly below
average height. The ambassador and Luther Brachis
towered over him by a full head, and in contrast to
the other two men Mondrian's build was frail and
angular. Unlike them, he wore the plainest of costumes.
The severe black uniform of Boundary Survey,
precisely tailored and meticulously clean, stood
unadorned by medals or insignia of office. A single
fire opal at his left collar served as identification
badge--and hid its multiple functions of communicator,
computer, and weapon.
Finally, Mondrian shrugged. "Steady on, Dougal.
You know I'm not in the habit of concealing data
from anyone who legitimately has access to them.
Once we have full identification for the parties
tapping into this Link I'll give them all the information
that I have."
His voice was pleasant and low in volume. But
Dougal Macdougal did not respond to the conciliatory
tone. He was about to reply when the lights
for full Mattin Link operation began to blink. He
shot one annoyed glance at Esro Mondrian and
turned to the sunken well of the room. In front of
them, in the hemisphere of the Star Chamber's
fifty-meter central atrium, three oval patterns of
light were flickering into existence. Within them
formed the three-dimensional images of the ambassadors.
At
the far left hung a shrouded, pulsating mass
of dark purple. As that image steadied, Brachis
and Mondrian recognized the swarming aggregate
of a Tinker Composite, imaged in from Mercantor
in the Fomalhaut system. The Tinker had clustered
to form a symmetrical ovoid with appendages
of roughly human proportions. Next to the
Tinker (but fifty-eight lightyears away from it in
real space, halfway across the Stellar Group)
loomed the dark green bulk of an Angel. And far to
the right, still showing a margin of rainbow fringes
as the signal transients were damped, hovered the
great tubular assembly of a Pipe-Rilla, linked in
from its home planet around Eta Cassiopeiae, eighteen
lightyears away.
"MATTIN LINK NETWORK COMPLETE," said
the ringing voice. "CONFERENCE MAY PROCEED."
It
was an historic moment. All four representatives
of the Stellar Group were in simultaneous
full audio and visual contact for the first time in
twenty-two Earth-years. Dougal Macdougal, conscious
that the event would be part of Stellar Group
history, turned his attention away from Luther
Brachis and Esro Mondrian.
"Greetings. I am Dougal Macdougal, Solar Ambassador
to the Stellar Group. Can you all see and
hear me, and each other?"
The question was a piece of diplomatic formality.
The Link computer would have confirmed full
audio and visual before permitting any of the 
participants to enter the link. "Yes," said the PipeRilla,
in a fair approximation to human speech.
"Yes," echoed the Tinker and the computer-generated
response of the Angel ambassador.
"We have called this special Congress to discuss
a ... difficult situation," continued Macdougal. "A
recent event here in the Sol system is a cause for
concern, and could be a major problem affecting
the whole Stellar Group. We may have to propose
unusual--perhaps unprecedented--control measures.
Naturally, any decision on such measures
will be made by the whole Stellar Group. To describe the background to the problem, I have
arranged for special briefings from two of the
principals who have been involved from the beginning
. . ."
Mondrian and Brachis exchanged bitter looks.
"He's waffling," said Mondrian, under his breath.
"Of course he is." Brachis glared at the Solar
ambassador. "He won't put the problem out on the table, he'll leave it to us to do that. The bastard!
And I'll bet he's already decided where he's going to put the blame."
"First, a statement from Commander Luther Brachis," said Macdougal, almost as though he had heard that last remark. "He is the Chief of Solar System Security, and is responsible for the monitoring of all anomalous events within one lightyear of Sol." He stepped forward and took up a position next to the Pipe-Rilla, so that all the ambassadors appeared to be in line facing the witnesses. Hidden lamps framed Brachis in an oval crossfire of illuminations. "You may begin," said Macdougal.
Brachis nodded to the four shapes in their cocoons
of light. His blunt lion's face was dour and angry. "The ambassador correctly stated my duties.
Security is my job; from Apollo Station and the Vulcan Nexus, all the way to the Dry Tortugas
past the edge of the Oort Cloud." There was a gruff
pride in his deep voice. "I have held my position
for five standard years. Two years ago, I received a
request for a security development project on Cobweb
Station. That is a research facility twelve billion
kilometers from the Sun--in the ecliptic,
roughly midway between the orbits of Neptune
and Persephone. It has served as a research center
for Security activities for more than seventy standard
years. The project that began there two years
ago was a secret one. It was given the code name
'Operation Morgan.' I approved the project request.
With your permission, I will defer description of
that project s objectives for Commander Mondrian's
later testimony."
Brachis smiled grimly. "Let me only say this:
Operation Morgan was conducted with tightest security.
Forty of my department's most experienced
and reliable guards were assigned to the project,
and they took up residence on Cobweb Station.
Power supply came from the Solar System's general
grid, controlled from the Vulcan Nexus and
from the main center here on Ceres. In two years,
no anomaly of any kind was ever noted. Progress
reports on Operation Morgan suggested excellent
results and no difficulties. Until twenty days ago.
Then an anomalous energy demand triggered a
flag in our monitoring system."
Luther Brachis paused. "That is the first part of
my testimony. Any questions?"
The four figures facing him were silent. There
was the usual faint hiss from the Mattin Link connection.
The Angel was restlessly moving its upper
lobes, while Dougal Macdougal looked from side
to side. No support for Brachis would come from
the Solar ambassador. "Continue," he said at last.
"Very well. The energy requirement I referred to
came from Cobweb Station. It came at a quiet
period, near a change of shift. I am afraid that the
increased load was not noticed at first by my staff."
He spoke the words as though his mouth were full
of grit. "Even when the Link system was prepared
for action, we did not react at once. I take full
responsibility for that. When we did respond and
an investigating probe finally reached Cobweb Station,
it was too late. The Station was deserted. The
Mattin Link had been operated--seventeen times.
All my staff were dead.' He turned to look accusingly
at Esro Mondrian. "And I learned something
I should have explored for myself long ago: the
true nature of Operation Morgan."
He halted. His attitude said clearly that his testimony
was finished, but now there was a stir
from the ranks of the ambassadors. "You ... said the Link was . .. activated." It was the Pipe-Rilla
ambassador, thorax plates gently vibrating. "To
what destinations?"
"We do not yet know. But the energy drain said
that it was many lightyears."
As Brachis had given his testimony, new individual
components had flown silently in to add to
the Tinker Composite. Now it bulked much larger
than a human. There was a fluttering of tiny purple
black wings, and a sibilant facsimile of human
speech came through the Link. "The records, if
you please. We would like to attempt our own
analysis of possible destinations. And to do that
we must know more about the nature of the
project."
Brachis bowed his head. "For that, I must refer
you to Commander Mondrian. My own records
will be sent to you at once. I will be available to
answer any further questions." He stepped backwards.
His look at Esro Mondrian was an odd
mixture of old antagonism and new shared problems.
Mondrian
had been performing his own close
inspection of the ambassadors. He knew he had no
hope of recognizing any particular assembly of a
Tinker Composite; but the Angels and Pipe-Rillas
both had stability of structure, and it was possible
that he had met one of them before on their home
worlds. In any case, he had to talk right past Dougal
Macdougal and try for some kind of sympathetic
response from the other ambassadors.
"I am Esro Mondrian," he began, "Chief of the
Boundary Survey security forces. I have worked in
the past with each of your local monitoring groups,
and visited your home systems. We are all fortunate,
in that we live in stable, civilized regions,
where there are few unknown dangers. But most
of my work lies out near the Perimeter, in the
Boundary Region, fifty lightyears and more from
Sol."
Mondrian heard a sound from the sunken atrium
in front of him--Dougal Macdougal clearing his
throat. The ambassador was already getting impatient.
Mondrian swore to himself. The fact that
Mondrian needed time to explain the reason for his
recent actions meant nothing to the ambassador.
He hurried on. "On the Perimeter, distances are
enormous, our resources are limited, and the operating
uncertainties are large. A few years ago I
decided that we needed a new type of security
instrument out there. One that could function with
minimal support from our home bases, and one
that was tougher and more flexible in operation
than the pan inorganica brains could provide. While
we were still looking at alternatives, I was approached
by a scientist, Livia Morgan. She had an
intriguing proposition. She claimed she could develop
symbiotic forms combining organic and inorganic
components, perfect for our needs." He
smiled grimly and nodded at the figures in front of
him. "I knew of at least one natural example to
prove to me that such a thing was possible.'
The Angel in the Mattin Link connection swayed
slowly back and forwards, blue-green fronds waving.
It was itself a symbiotic life-form, discovered
one and a half centuries earlier when the expanding
wave-front of the Perimeter had reached Capella.
The visible part of the Angel was the Chasselrose,
a slow-moving and mindless vegetable form.
Shielded in its bulbous central section lived the
sentient crystalline Singer, relying upon the Chasselrose
for habitat, transportation, and communication
with the external world. "Imitation is ... the
sincerest form of flattery," said the computerized
voice of the Angel.
"The Morgan Constructs would be designed to
patrol the Perimeter," went on Mondrian, after a
hard look at the Angel. (The Angels had that disconcerting
habit of employing human cliches and
proverbs. No one was ever sure whether it represented
the symbiotes' perverse form of racial politeness,
or some strange sense of humor.) "We had
the Construct specifications drawn quite precisely.
The individual units would be mobile, tough, and
highly intelligent. Li via Morgan had said they
would be 'indestructible.' We have reason now to
hope that she was exaggerating. They would cruise
the unexplored areas of the Perimeter and seek out
life forms inimical to intelligences of the Stellar
Group. However, no matter what they found they
would serve a reporting function only. They would not--under any circumstances--be able to harm
an intelligent life-form, or any life form possibly
having intelligence.
"I was present during the initial demonstrations
of Livia Morgan's Constructs. They were exposed
to each of our four species, to the seven other
possibly intelligent organisms known within the
Perimeter, and to a variety of simulacra of differing
degrees of apparent intelligence. The Morgan
Constructs recognized each known form and responded
to each in a friendly and harmless manner.
They treated the new simulacra with appropriate
caution and respect. I authorized the development
to proceed, raising the Constructs to the
next level of sophistication. Livia Morgan began
the work. But somewhere out on Cobweb Station,
a crucial design blunder must have been made."
He turned to face Dougal Macdougal. "May I show
the imagery obtained by our probe?"
"Carry on." The ambassador nodded. "And I hope
that it's short. We can't hold the Link all day."
Mondrian did not reply. Behind him a sphere of
darkness began to form. Within it glowed the rough
textured ovoid of Cobweb Station as it had appeared
to one of the bristle probes. At first the
whole station was visible. Then the field of view
narrowed steadily, increasing in resolution. Soon
the twisted and flattened objects outside the airlocks
were recognizable; they were the space-suited remains
of human beings. The cameras closed remorselessly.
If those suited bodies had been alive
when they were expelled from the locks, they would
not have survived long. The images showed missing
limbs, disembowelled trunks, and headless torsos.
The cameras closed in on one figure, a turning,
eyeless corpse lacking feet and hands.
"That is the mortal remains of Dr. Livia Morgan,"
said Mondrian expressionlessly. "Although
neither she nor the guards were able to send any
distress signals from Cobweb Station, the monitors
preserved a complete record of their last hours
of life. They had no warning. The Constructs suddenly
ran wild. They hounded the guards remorselessly
through the station interior. Livia Morgan
attempted to negotiate with two of them. She was
seized and systematically dismembered. Unless you
insist, I do not propose to show you details of
those scenes. Take my word for it: the Morgan
Constructs are cunning, and deadly, and seem 
utterly inimical to human life. We are obliged to
assume that they are no more friendly to any others
of the Stellar Group."
The images behind Mondrian faded. "But even
that is not the worst news," he continued. "The
Morgan Constructs have disappeared. After the
events that you have seen, they somehow managed
to operate the Mattin Link--something that they
should have found impossible to do. That is further
proof of their extraordinary intelligence. All
seventeen of them transmitted through the Link to
unknown destinations. We are doing our best to
trace them, but for the moment our working assumption
is a grim one. Somewhere within the
fifty-eight lightyear radius of the Known Sphere-- we hope it is out close to the Perimeter, and not
near one of our home worlds--we now have seventeen
formidable threats, of unknown magnitude. I
should say that I do not think we are, any of us, in immediate danger. Since the Constructs were designed
and trained to work near the Perimeter, it
is highly likely that they chose to flee there. But
we have no idea how long they will choose to stay
in that region. The purpose of today's meeting is
to inform you of the facts, and to consider ways of
dealing with the situation." He lifted his head, and
stared steadily at the four beings before him. They
looked back at him blankly. The Tinker, Angel,
and Pipe-Rilla were too alien for Mondrian to be
able to read their feelings, and Dougal Macdougal
merely seemed irritable and slightly bored.
Esro Mondrian took a deep breath. Whatever
was decided in the next few hours, it was unlikely
that he would like it. He stepped backward, to line
himself with Luther Brachis.
"Honored Ambassadors," he said, "that is the
end of my official statement." And, he thought, it
is probably the end of the easy part. Already there
was a premonitory buzz from the Pipe-Rilla's
circuit.
The fourteen-foot figure was standing on its pipe
stem legs, forelimbs clutching the tubular trunk
and long antennae waving. "Questions?" it said.
"Questions, if you please."
"Of course."
"Tell us more about the ... capability of the
Morgan Constructs. Seventeen creatures out of your
control certainly sounds unpleasant, but not a ...
cosmic issue. You designed these creatures without
major means of aggression. Correct?"
"I am afraid not." Esro Mondrian turned to offer
Luther Brachis the floor, but the other man seemed
more than ready to let him answer. "We designed
the Constructs to have considerable powers of self
defense. Remember, they had to operate alone, far
from any support, against unknown dangers. Unfortunately,
the same capabilities can also be used
offensively: their power plant can produce small
fusion weapons; and they contain power lasers
and shearing cones--enough to destroy any ship.
By design, they contain the latest detection equipment
we could produce, since we wanted them to
be able to detect other lifeforms at the longest
possible range. I could provide full details, but
perhaps a summary example is more informative:
any single Morgan Construct can destroy a city or
lay waste a fair-sized planetoid. In combination-- something that luckily we never expect to encounter--they
could put a whole security fleet out
of action."
Throughout Mondrian's reply there had been a
slow stirring within the Tinker Composite. As he
ended there came a burst of speech, almost too
fast to be deciphered.
"Why?" gabbled the Tinker. "Why, why why? In
the name of Security, you humans have produced
a danger to yourself and to all other species of the
Stellar Group. Why did anyone need a Morgan
Construct? Look at yourselves. You have been exploring
the region around your Sun for over six
hundred of your years. We have watched that exploration
for more than three centuries, ever since
numans discovered our world. Now the Perimeter
covers a sphere one hundred and sixteen lightyears
in diameter--more than two thousand star systems,
with a hundred and forty three planets that
can support life. And nowhere, at any place within
that sphere, has any species been found that is
dangerous or aggressive . . . except yours. You are
lifting a mirror to the Universe, and seeing only
your own faces. We Tinkers say two things: first,
that until you created this danger there was no
danger. And second, tell us why you continue this
insane rush to expand the Perimeter. It is now
fifty-eight lightyears from Sol. Will you humans
be satisfied when it has reached eighty lightyears?
Or one hundred lightyears? Or one thousand? When
will you stop?"
Mondrian looked at Macdougal. "Ambassador, I
can if you wish attempt an answer to that question.
But I should point out that I have long suggested
that the Perimeter be frozen, or the expansion
slowed. The human outward move should be
suspended until we know what is along the Perimeter--because
the region outside our known area
may contain any number of terrible dangers. To
us, and to all the Stellar Group. So with all respect,
I agree completely with the Tinker Ambassador
on that point. I also know such a decision is
made at levels far above mine. But so long as
expansion does proceed, something like the Constructs
is essential. We must take measures to protect
ourselves against whatever we find--"
"That's enough!" Dougal Macdougal had lifted
his hands in protest. "Commander, you are well
beyond your area of authority and competence.
You came here to present a statement of situation,
not to offer your own unsound views on human
development." He turned to face the other three
ambassadors. "I agree with you: both these men"
--he gestured sharply at Mondrian and Brachis--
"are at fault in permitting this problem to arise.
They have created a present danger to the Stellar
Group. And when this meeting is over, I will move
at once to have them removed from office and
stripped of all their powers. They will not be
permitted--"
"No-o-o." The single word came from the Angel,
delivered slowly and heavily through its computer
link. "We will not permit such an action."
Macdougal had been caught slightly off balance.
"You mean--you won't dismiss Mondrian and
Brachis?"
"Exactly." The topmost frond of the Angel went
into slow but wide-ranging oscillation. "It cannot
be. The punishment must fit the crime. We, the
Angels of Sellora, now request a move to Closed
Hearing--full closure, closed from everyone except
for the four ambassadors now present."
"But there should be a record--"

"With no record. It is necessary to discuss a
question so serious that it can only be permitted
in full Closed Hearing; a question of the highest
significance. For this, we invoke ambassadorial
privilege."
Even as the Angel spoke, an opaque canopy was
sliding into position around the atrium. The lighted
areas around the four ambassadors were visible
for a few moments longer; then there was nothing
in the center of the Star Chamber but a ball of scintillating darkness.
Luther Brachis looked at Esro Mondrian and
shook his head. The two men were standing alone
outside the dark sphere. It was the first audio and
visual meeting of the four ambassadors of the Stellar
Group in twenty-two years. And the first Closed
Hearing in more than a century.

Chapter Two

THE FORMATION OF
THE ANABASIS

"What do you think they're doing in there?"
said Brachis. His face was gloomy, and he was
biting his fingernails. The two men were standing
outside the darkened atrium. The ambassadors had
been in closed session for more than two hours.
Mondrian shook his head. "Who knows? Relax,
Luther. You're not behaving like yourself. Didn't
you come here all set to cut me to ribbons?"
"I sure as hell did." Brachis smoothed the row
of decorations on his left breast. "I'm no different
from you. You'd like to have my group working for
your department--don't give me any nonsense, now,
you know you would. And I'd like to control your
area. But hell, that has nothing to do with this deal. You and I have a lot more in common with
each other than we do with those three characters--I
realized it when I was talking to them.
They're all less human than a goddamned jellyfish."
Mondrian smiled, a little grin of inward satisfaction.
"Good thing your job responsibility stops a
lightyear out. Those happen to be our friends that
you're talking about. And why do you exclude Macdougal?
I happen to like the Pipe-Rillas--at least
they are amusing, which is more than you can say

for him. I'd rather spend time with a Pipe-Rilla, or
even with a Tinker, than I would with our friend
the ambassador."
"Don't even mention that bastard. Did you hear
what he said about stripping us of our positions?"
Brachis ran his fingers again across his beloved
decorations. "What about the Angels? How will
they react to this thing?"
"That's another matter. I don't feel too comfortable
with them. That's why I wonder what the
Angel is saying in that Closed Hearing." He was
toying unconsciously with the fire opal at his collar,
where his own decorations for service and
valor, an obligatory part of the uniform of Boundary
Survey, had been reduced to miniaturized
points of gold light, flashing and gleaming in the
depths of the gemstone. Brachis saw him doing it
and grinned. "You're a fraud, Esro. You're as proud
of those as I am of mine--but you're too proud to
admit it."
Mondrian sighed. "I certainly worked for them--
the same as you did for yours. Maybe I only value
what I am about to lose."
The two men fell silent. Their questions, spoken
and unspoken, would not be answered for another
hour. When the opaque screen finally shivered
away, Esro Mondrian and Luther Brachis found
that the atrium now had only two occupied places.
The Pipe-Rilla and Dougal Macdougal were still in
position, but the Angel and the Tinker had disappeared.
And Macdougal had the face of a man who
has seen ghosts.
The Pipe-Rilla gestured to Mondrian and Brachis
to come forward. "We have reached agreement."
The high-pitched voice still sounded cheerful, but
that was an accident of its voice-producing mechanism.
The Pipe-Rillas always sounded cheerful. The
nervous rubbing of the forelimbs told a different
story. "And since your own ambassador appears to
be ... indisposed, it becomes my duty to tell you the result of our discussions." Trie Pipe-Rilla gestured
around him at the two empty places, and then at the muttering, miserable figure of Dougal Macdougal.
"What happened?" said Brachis.
"A point of dispute arose between your ambassador
and the ambassador for the Angels. The Angel
has ... forceful means of persuasion, even from
a distance of many lightyears. Ambassador Macdougal
should recover ... in just a few of your
hours." The Pipe-Rilla waved a forelimb to dismiss
the subject. "Commander Brachis and Commander
Mondrian: attention. Please be silent while
I summarize our deliberations and conclusions.
First, on the subject of your own blame."
There was a long pause. Mondrian and Brachis
froze.
"We decided that you are both responsible in
this matter," went on the Pipe-Rilla. "Esro Mondrian
for initiating and approving a project with
enormous potential for danger; Luther Brachis for
failing to ensure that monitoring under his responsibility
was suitably carried out, and so permitting
the escape of the Morgan Constructs. You are
both culpable in high degree; but Mondrian much more than Brachis. Your ambassador urged that you should both be relieved of all your duties,
dismissed from security service, and stripped of
privileges."
Again Brachis put his hand to his left breast. "If
I could make one statement on our behalf--"
"Not yet." The Pipe-Rilla was finding it hard to
remain self-controlled. Its vocal modulator began
to stammer and shake. "Of course, as the Angel
ambassador . . . p-pointed out to us, we could not consider such a course of action. It would be preposterous.
In any civilized society, it is the individual
or group who creates a problem that should
naturally have .. . responsibility for s-solving the
problem. The cause must become, the cure. The
creation of the Morgan Constructs and their subsequent
escape came from your actions and inaction.
Livia Morgan is .. . d-dead. And therefore the
seeking out and disposal of the Morgan Constructs
must also be in your hands. We know that humans
have codes of behavior quite different from the
rest of the Stellar Group, but in this case there
was little to discuss. We were ... adamant." There
was another shift in the Pipe-Rilla's posture. When
it spoke again its voice was jerky and no longer
employed human speech. Dominus was forced to
cut in at once and provide computer translation.
"Beginning today," said the Pipe-Rilla, "there
will be created a new group within your department
of System Security. It will be of a form
peculiar to human history ... a 'military expedition'
. .. what your species knows as"--there was
an infinitesimal pause, while Dominus sought the
suitable word--"an Anabasis."
"A what?" grunted Brachis.
"Anabasis. Not a promising omen," said Mondrian
softly. "As I recall it, the original Anabasis
was all defeat and retreat. Better check our translation
box."
The Pipe-Rilla took no notice. It was in some
kind of trouble, with limbs moving spastically and
with fluttering thorax. "The Anabasis," it went on,
"will be headed by Esro Mondrian, who has principal
responsibility for the problem we now face.
He will be assisted by Luther Brachis. Your task
will be simple: you will train .. . Pursuit Teams to
find the location of the Morgan Constructs, and
. . . follow them to their ... hiding-places." Now
even the computer could not help. The speech pattern
of the Pipe-Rilla was becoming more and more
fragmented and disorganized. The voice rose in
pitch, and the giant figure began to shiver and
shake. "Each pursuit team of the Anabasis will
contain ... one trained member of each intelligent
species ... of the Stellar Group--Tinker ... Angel
... Human ... and--Pipe-Rilla. The pursuit teams
... will find the Morgan Constructs and--if necessary"--the
voice rose to a shriek--"destroy them. Destroy--"
And suddenly the Pipe-Rilla had gone. The Link
had been broken. Brachis turned to Mondrian in
perplexity. "What the hell's going on there?"
Mondrian was rubbing at his chin, fingering the
narrow line of beard. "The Pipe-Rilla couldn't stand
it. Of course not! I should have guessed it, none of
them can. No wonder they had to have a Closed
Session, and a secret vote.'
"But why?" Brachis was scowling. It had just
got through to him that he would now be reporting
to his rival Esro Mondrian.
Think, Luther! You know the rules of the Stellar
Group as well as I do. Prime Rule: Intelligent
life must be preserved, and never, for any reason,
destroyed. That is true at the individual level, and
even more true at the species level. And yet they
are directing us to find trie Morgan Constructs and destroy them!--the only creatures of their kind in
all the Universe. It must have been agony for the
alien ambassadors to make that ruling. Didn't you
see how upset they became when they saw the
images from the Cobweb Station probe? They told
us today, we're the most aggressive species they
know--but they must be afraid we're less bloodthirsty
than the Morgan Constructs."
"But if they can't stand violence, why did they
insist that there should be a member of each of the
Stellar Group on every Pursuit Team? What will
happen when a Pursuit Team tracks down a Morgan
Construct, and has to wipe it out? The other
species will just fall apart."
"They will. But that's consistent, too, with their
way of thinking. Remember the legend of the old firing squads, where one man would be given a
blank instead of a live bullet? It's the same principle.
Each species won't know for sure if it was the
one responsible for the death of a particular Morgan
Construct."
Luther Brachis shrugged. "They don't understand
us too well, either," he growled. "We care about
intelligent species, but I'd blow a hundred Morgan
Constructs to bits and not think twice about it, for
the sake of Solar System security. Now I don't
know if I'll get the chance. Damn it, Mondrian. Do
you realize what you've got out of this? What you've
been looking for all along--you screw up more than me--so you're put in charge of me! Did you
ever hear of a more ass-backwards logic in your
life? You ought to be sitting there in deep trouble,
instead of ready to grin all over your face. Though
I must say, you don t seem to be smiling much.
"You know me, Luther. I could be smiling inside,
and you would never know it."
And but for one factor, thought Mondrian, / might be laughing. The ambassadors are just too frightened
of the Morgan Constructs. They say, find them, and
destroy them! That's no good to me. I must have the
Morgan Constructs alive.

To: The Anabasis (Office of the Director). From: Office of the Solar Ambassador. Subject: Instructions for Pursuit Team selection
and assembly.
Item one: Pursuit Teams. As agreed in the ambassadorial
meeting of 6/7/38, a total of up to twenty
five Pursuit Teams will be established. The final
selection of each team will be determined by the
Anabasis in consultation with the ambassadors.
Item two: Composition of Pursuit Teams. As agreed
in the recent ambassadorial meeting, each Pursuit
Team will contain four members: one human, one
Tinker Composite, one Angel, and one Pipe-Rilla.
Team members from each species will be proposed by that species. The Anabasis will have the right
to reject candidate team members on the grounds
of incompatibility with other team members. Any
such rejections by the Anabasis must, however, be
confirmed and approved through the Solar Ambassador's
office.

Captain Kubo Flammarion frowned, scratched
his left ear with a grubby fingernail, grunted, and
laid down the written document. He underlined
the last sentence he had read. There was Dougal
Macdougal, trying to push himself into the middle
of things again. Why should rejections have to go
through the ambassador's office?
He sniffed, poked absently at his still-itching left
ear with the writing stylus, and read on.

Item three: Selection of Solar Pursuit Team candidates. Human candidates must be volunteers, less
than twenty-four standard years of age, in good
physical condition, and unbound by contract commitment
or marriage.
Item four: Species. Human candidates must be
unaltered homo sapiens, male or female. Synthetic
forms, pan sapiens, delphinus sapiens, and Capman
modulations are excluded.
Item five: Qualifications. Pursuit Team members
must have at least a Class Four education (which
may be achieved during training). Candidates will
be excluded if they have previous military training,
or fail standard psych profiles for interaction
with aliens.
Item six: Training--

Flammarion did a double-take, and his eyes
flashed back to the previous item. Impossible. What
the hell was Macdougal trying to do? He jammed
his cap onto his bald head and headed next door
to Esro Mondrian's office. He gave a flat-palmed
bang on the open door and went in without waiting
for a response.
'Did you see this?" He slapped the sheet on the
desk in front of his superior with the assurance of
long familiarity. "It came through less than an
hour ago. I'm supposed to recruit pursuit team
candidates, am I? Take a look at that. Macdougal
has slapped so many conditions on it, I don't think
we'll find one acceptable candidate in the whole
System."
His wizened face was scowling. A long stint of
security service out near the Perimeter had produced
three permanent results: premature aging,
total lack of interest in personal hygiene, and a
permanent rage against bureaucratic procedures.
For four years he had been Esro Mondrian's principal
assistant. Others wondered why Mondrian
tolerated the scruffy appearance, disrespectful attitude,
and periodic outbursts. Mondrian had two
good reasons: Kubo Flammarion was totally dedicated
to his work and, even better, knew where the
bodies were buried. He kept no written records,
but when Mondrian needed a lever to drag a special
permit from Transportation or a fast response
from Quarantine, Flammarion could deliver the
dirt. Some deputy administrator or under-secretary
would receive a quiet, damning call, and the permit
magically appeared. Mondrian sometimes wondered
what odd facts about him Kubo Flammarion
had tucked away inside that scurfy, straggle-haired
skull. He was too wise to ask.
"I saw this document," he said calmly. "And
Commander Brachis already ran a check. For a
change, it's not Macdougal s fault. Those conditions
came from the other Stellar Group members."
"Yeah--but how hard did Macdougal protest?"
Flammarion jabbed at the page. "There's the killer.
We're supposed to find pursuit team candidates
with no security training. That excludes everybody] Everybody in the Solar Federation, man or woman,
does the standard service."
"Everybody over sixteen years old, Captain," said
Mondrian.
"Yeah. But before they're sixteen, they're protected
by the parental statute." Flammarion was
bobbing up and down on his toes, angrier by the
minute. "We can't touch 'em before they're sixteen,
and that's when they go straight to security
reserve. These instructions make the whole damn
thing impossible."
"Not quite. We will find the candidates." Mondrian
was leaning back in his desk, staring thoughtfully
across the room at a three-dimensional model
of the Sphere. The scale model showed the location
and identification of every star within it, color
coded as to spectral type. Colonies were magenta,
and stations of the security network were highlighted
as bright points of blue.
The Sphere was now nearly fifty-eight lightyears
in radius, centered on Sol. It marked the domain
in which instantaneous transmission of messages
or materials could be accomplished. The main outbound
probes contained their own Mattin Links.
Through them more equipment--including other
Links--could be transferred. Every century the
probes extended the Perimeter by almost ten
lightyears. And somewhere out near that Perimeter,
in the three-lightyear spherical shell that comprised
the little-explored Boundary Layer, now
lurked the Morgan Constructs.
"Where, for Shannon's sake?" blurted Flammarion.
"You mean we'll find 'em out there?" He
had followed Mondrian's look and misinterpreted
it. "You think we can find candidates in the 
Colonies? I don't believe it. They need every hand they
can get for their own projects."
"Quite right, Captain. I don't look to the Colonies."
"No?"
Flammarion scratched at his stubbly chin.
"Then it sounds impossible!"
Mondrian had turned to face another wall of his
office, where a display screen showed the view
from Ceres, looking inwards towards Sol. "Not
impossible--just very difficult. Don't forget that
one planet of the solar system still refuses to be
part of the Federation. And the people there seem
more than ready to trade their offspring ... if the
price is right." He pressed a control on his desk,
and the display went into a high-speed search and
zoom.
"Earthl" In the low gravity, Kubo Flammarion
was almost floating away with quivering incredulity.
"You don't mean Earth? You can't be serious."
"Have you ever been there, Captain?"
"Sure, twice--but a long time ago, before I went
out with the service. And it's supposed to be even
worse now than it was then. You know what Luther
Brachis calls Earth? The world of madmen!"
Mondrian gave Flammarion a long, strange look.
"Does he, indeed?" He did not raise his voice, but
it took on a cold, bitter tone that brought a sudden
total attention from the other man. "The world of
madmen. Am I to assume that you agree with
him? I see that you do. Very well, Captain. Let me
put it to you in this way. You are now free to meet
with Commander Brachis to discuss the requirements
from the ambassador's office. If you can
bring me within twenty-four hours a proposal guaranteed
to provide the human pursuit team candidates
that we need, I will consider it. But unless that happens, you will make arrangements--immediate arrangements--for you, me, and Commander
Brachis to visit his 'mad world.' I will
accept no excuses or delays."
He turned away, in a dismissal so sharp and
unequivocal that Flammarion felt as though Mondrian's
presence had vanished from the room.
"Very good, sir." Kubo Flammarion rubbed his
sleeve across his nose, and almost tiptoed from the
room. At the door he took a long look at the glowing
display screen, now filled by the cloudy blue
white ball of Earth.
"Madworld!" he muttered unhappily. "We're
going to Madworld. Shannon help us all, has it
come to that?"
Chapter Three
ON THE BIG MARBLE

Earth was served by a single Link exit point.
Travellers stepped into the Link Chamber at the
center of Ceres, and were at once spat out by the
transfer system at a point close to Earth's equator.
Mondrian, Brachis, and Flammarion found themselves
at the foot of a gigantic dilapidated tower,
reaching up to the sullen overcast of a tropical
afternoon.
Brachis craned his head back, following the silver
gray column upwards. "What the devil is it?"
"Don't you recognize it?" Mondrian was for some
reason in excellent spirits. "We're at the foot of the
old Beanstalk. Everything to space and back went
up and down that for nearly two hundred years."
Luther Brachis stared at the beetle-backed cars,
nestling in their cradles along the hundred-meter
lower perimeter. "Up that? People rode those things
to geosynch? I guess they had guts in those days.
Why do they still leave it around here on Earth? It
must be a billion tons of dead weight."
"It is--but don't even suggest getting rid of it,
not to people down here. They think it's a historic
relic, one of their most valued ancient monuments."
Mondrian spoke casually. He was looking off to
the west, with an experienced eye and an air of
anticipation. There were woods there, and he was
watching the fronded crowns of individual trees. It
was coming ... it was coming ... Now!
The blustery equatorial breeze ruffled their hair.
Brachis and Flammarion gave a simultaneous and
uncontrollable gasp of horror. Flammarion glared
wildly around him. "Lock failure!" he shouted.
"Lock failure! Emergency. Where--where s--" He
slowly subsided.
Esro Mondrian watched with malicious satisfaction.
"Relax, both of you. Kubo, I'm ashamed of
you. I thought you told me you'd been on Earth
before? It's not a pressure failure, or a collapsed
lock. It's wind--natural air movements! They occur
all the time here on Earth, every day. So you'd
better get used to them before the natives die laughing
at you."
'Winds! Damn it, of course there are winds."
Luther Brachis's broad face turned rosy with anger.
The big man had recovered himself quicker
than Flammarion, who was still breathing hard
and staring all around him. "Damn you, Mondrian.
You planned that, didn't you? You could have
warned us both--but you wanted your fun!"
Mondrian affected to ignore him. He was stepping
forward, away from the Link platform towards
an odd-looking throng of a couple of hundred
people clustered by the exit. The other two hesitantly
followed him, towards a long covered ramp
that led below ground. As they approached the
crowd there was an immediate babble of voices.
"Hottest little nippers on Earth" ... "Need a
Freudhopper? The oest, for a good price" ... "Trade
crystals for you, high rate and no questions" ...
"Want to see a coronation?--genuine royal family,
forty-second generation" ... "Visit a Needier
lab factory tonight? Top line products." They spoke
standard solar, poorly pronounced.
Most of the crowd, men and women, were half a
head shorter even than Flammarion. Mondrian
strode through them confidently. They wore brightly
colored clothes, their purples, scarlets, and pinks
in striking contrast to the quiet black of Security
uniform. Mondrian brushed aside the grasping
hands. He paid no attention to anyone until a
skeleton-thin man in a patchwork jacket of green
and gold fell into step beside him.
"You a busker?" he said.
The skinny man grinned. "That's me, squire, at
your service. And welcome to The Big Marble. You
want it, we got it--and I know where. Tobacco,
roley-poley, lulu juice, you name it and I'll take
you to it.'
"Cut it, shut it. You know Tatty Snipes?" Mondrian's
question in low earth-tongue interrupted
the sales pitch.
"Certainly do." The busker faltered for a moment,
taken aback by Mondrian's use of his own
argot, then half-heartedly began again. "Paradox,
slither, velocil--you can get them all from me.
Like a guided tour of the Shambles? Never you
mind what the rule book says, I'll find you--"

"Slot the chops. You bring the Tatty to me--at
once. All right?" Mondrian reached out and touched
the busker s hand. There was the dull glow of a
crystal, then the dirty fingers closed on it firmly.
The man looked at Mondrian respectfully.
"Yessir. Right away, squire." The skinny figure
started to dive off into the crowd, then checked
himself and turned back. "Name's Bester, sir--King
Bester. I'll be back with Tatty in half an hour.
She's just a couple of Links from here."
Mondrian nodded, and sauntered across to sit
on a solid bench planted a hundred meters away
beneath a Sun-simulator. After a look at each other,
the other two men uneasily followed him.
"He's right at home here," whispered Flammarion. "Did you hear him chit-chat in their own
lingo? What is it, earth-gobble? I couldn't understand
half of it."
Brachis nodded. He had recovered his composure,
and was beginning to look around him with
real interest. "I should have anticipated this," he
said grimly. "It's my own fault. I had all the
information--just didn't use it."
"You knew he spoke earth-tongue? How could
you?"
"Not exactly that." Brachis brushed away the
admiring hand that was trying to touch his glittering
decorations. "But I should have guessed he
might. Use your common sense, Kubo. Don't you
know I've tracked Esro Mondrian's movements for
the past four years?--just the way you must have
traced mine. That's what a Security department is
for. And Mondrian's records show that he has been
coming here to Earth an average of five times a
year, ever since we started tracking. He knows the
place well."
"But what's he do down here?"
Brachis shook his massive head. "That's still a
mystery. We couldn't trail him when he was on
the surface. Maybe this time I'll find out."
When they came up to Mondrian he was sitting
quietly on the bench, staring thoughtfully at the
surrounding group of Madworlders. Once King
Bester had been picked out by Mondrian, the rest
of them had given up their importuning. Now they
stood a few yards away, watching the three visitors
with frank curiosity, grinning and nudging
each other and whispering comments in the old
Earth languages.
Flammarion sat down on the bench next to Mondrian.
He looked suspiciously at the wooden seat,
and at the flat surface beneath his feet. It was old,
weathered brick, closely laid. Tiny ants were hurrying
out of the open cracks to explore the side of
the men's boots. They showed most interest in
Kubo Flammarion, perhaps drawn by the interesting
smell of long-unwashed flesh. He shuffled his
feet from side to side, keeping a wary eye on the
energetic insects.
Luther Brachis remained standing, his attention
on the crowd. "This is all quite futile, Esro," he
said after a while. His voice was flatly contemptuous.
"Just look at them. Can you see any one of
those cretins being accepted into a Stellar pursuit
team? You're wasting all our time."
It was another skirmish. The two men had not
yet settled into a new relationship. So far as the
ambassadors were concerned, it was all decided:
Luther Brachis now reported to Mondrian for everything
connected with the Anabasis. But Brachis
was still responsible for Solar Security, and he
had retained that department intact. He found the
present situation intolerable. For years the two
had been equals and rivals, with a mutual understanding
that one day there would be a final piece
of infighting, and one or the other would gain
overall authority, Brachis had accepted that idea.
What he could not accept was Mondrian's victory
by arbitrary fiat--unrelated (or inversely related)
to performance. And he owed Mondrian something
for that episode with the surface wind.
"Would you take responsibility for training one
of those idiots?" he went on. "They're dirty. And
ignorant. And unhealthy."
He was deliberately needling Mondrian. The visit
to Earth had been forced on him at short notice,
shortcutting the usual quarantine of his own department.
Now there was a chance for revenge,
even if it meant overstating the situation.
Mondrian slowly turned his head to stare up at
Brachis. "You underestimate the potentials of Earth.
This was the stock of your own ancestors."
"Sure it was--half a millennium ago. But we're
seeing the dregs. That's what you have left when
the top tenth of each generation is skimmed off for
seven hundred years to go into space. It's a flawed
gene pool now. Look back over the past century,
and you won't find any worthwhile talent has come
from Earth."
"Have you attempted that exercise?"
Brachis laughed. "I don't need to. Just look at
them. I tell you, we're wasting our time. Let's get
out of here.'
Now his goading was more obvious--but harder
to ignore. Mondrian's mouth took on a tight, angry
look. "I disagree. You overestimate the demands
of the pursuit team, and you underestimate the
potential of the people of Earth; not to mention
the effectiveness of the training programs that I
have developed over the past decade. I could take
any one of those"-- he pointed out at the crowd-- "any one of them, and I could train them to be a
successful pursuit team candidate."
Brachis saw his opening. "Would you wager on
it?"
"Certainly I will. Name the amount."
"I would." Brachis snorted. "But you know you're
not risking anything. Not one of those people is
eligible for training--they're too old, or they're
probably bonded by some sort of contract, or they'd
never pass the physicals. Look at their teeth and
hair. Wait until we see somebody in the right age
group, and healthy, and then tell me if you're willing
to make a wager."
"I'll do it--damned if I won't."
The argument was interrupted by the sudden
return of King Bester. The thin man called out to
them from the edge of the crowd and began pushing
his way rapidly towards them, closely followed
by a tall woman. They arrived at the bench, and
Bester gave a grinning nod and held out his hand.
Mondrian ignored him. He stood up. "Hello,
Tatty," he said quietly. "How's business?"
"Good. Or it was, until you interrupted me. I
was in the middle of a deal, up in Delmarva. I told
the King to go to hell, but he wouldn't take no
from me for an answer."
Mondrian took the hint, and another packet of
crystals quietly went into King Bester's open hand.
Then he patted the bench, indicating that she should
sit down next to him.
She remained standing, examining the other two
Security men. After a moment she nodded to them.
"Hello,' she said, in excellent standard solar. "I
don't think we've met. I'm Tatty Snipes."
She was tall, slim, and spectacular. She towered
over Mondrian by at least twenty centimeters and
stood eye to eye with Luther Brachis, who openly
gawped at her. She stared back at him. Her look
was direct and bold, with glowing brown eyes. But
there were tired smudges of purple darkness underneath
them, and the grey tone of Paradox addiction
in her complexion. The skin of her face and
neck was clear and unblemished, but it was the
skin of someone who never saw sunlight. Her sleeveless
dress of dark green revealed an array of tiny
purple-black dots along her long, thin arms. In
contrast to King Bester and the rest of the crowd,
Tatty was spotlessly clean, with neat attire, carefully
groomed dark hair, and well-kept fingernails.
"First time here for some of you?" she said.
"What's the deal, Esro?"
He squinted up at her in the strong Sun-simulator
light. After a few moments he reached up to touch
her arm. "Sit down, Princess, and I'll tell you."
"I'll sit down all right, but not here. Too much
light--it would fry me. Let's link back north, to
my place, and I'll give you some genuine Earth
food." She smiled at the uncertain look on Kubo
Flammarion's face. "Don't worry, soldier, I'll make
sure it's not too rich for commoners."

R.H.I.P.--Rank Has Its Privileges. That had never
been more true than in the first days of space
development. One odd, predictable, but unexpected
consequence of automation and excess productive
capacity had been the re-emergence of a class system.
The old aristocracies, diminished (but never
quite destroyed) during the days of world-wide
poverty and experimental social programs, had
returned; with some curious additions to their
ranks.
It had been surprising, but inevitable. When all
of Earth's manufacturing moved to the computer
controlled assembly lines, efficiency went up and
employment needs went down. In the fuzzy area of
"management" and government, most business and
development decisions were also routinely (and
better) handled by computer. At the same time,
boredom with academic studies had squeezed the
education system to a few years of mandatory
schooling. Living accommodations were passed on
across the generations; old family possessions, the
older the better, defined one of the few forms of
property that could not easily and cheaply be duplicated
in the robot factories.
The unemployment rate was ninety percent. The
available jobs on Earth called for no special
skills--so who would get them?
Naturally, those with well-placed friends and
relatives. There had been a wonderful blossoming
of nepotism, on a scale not seen since the seventeenth
century. Education was most available to
those with titles and influence; so the best jobs specifically called for education.
Meanwhile, away from Earth there was a real
need for people. The solar system was waiting for
development. It offered an environment that was
demanding, dangerous, and filled with unbounded
opportunities. And it had a nasty habit of cancelling
any man-made advantage owed to birth, degrees,
or spurious qualifications--cancelling permanently. The rich and royal were not without
their own shrewdness. After a quick look at space,
they stayed home on Earth, where safety, superiority,
and status were assured. It was the lowborn,
seeing no upward mobility on Earth, who
took the other direction--outwards.
The result was too effective to have been designed
by human planners. The tough, desperate
commoners fought their way out, generation after
generation. The introduction of the Mattin Link
quadrupled the rate of exodus. The society that
was left on Earth became more and more titled
and title-conscious. It was well protected from material
want and free from external pressures. Naturally
it developed an ever-increasing disdain for
the emigrants--"vulgar commoners'--who were
spreading their low-born and classless fecundity
through the rest of the solar system and out to the
stars. Earth was the place to be for the aristocrats.
The Big Marble, the only place to be. And the only
place to live for anyone who despised crudity, esteemed
culture, and wanted a certain sophistication
in life.
King Bester was a king, a real king who traced
his line across thirty-two generations to the house
of Saxe-Coburg. He was one of seventeen thousand
reigning monarchs on and under Earth's surface.
He regarded Tatty Snipes, who was Princess Tatiana
Sinai-Peres of the Cabot-Khashoggis, as rather an
upstart. She had only six centuries and twenty
two generations in her lineage. He did not say it,
of course, in her presence--or Tatty would have
knocked the side of his royal head in with one
blow of her carefully-manicured and aristocratic
fist. But he certainly thought it.
And King Bester, like Tatty, was no fool. He
knew quite well that the real power had moved
away from Earth--the Quarantine operated by Solar
Security was only for people moving outwards from Earth. He could sense the brawling, raw
strength that ran through the off-planet culture.
But he was also afraid of it. It was easier to stay
with the familiar rituals of the Big Marble--and
take a little from the visitors like Mondrian and
his colleagues. They were more numerous than
System government liked to admit, and they came
down to Earth for reasons rarely shown on their
travel permits.
King had quietly tagged along with Tatty and
the visitors, hanging at the back of the little group
and studying the three men, while Mondrian explained
the reason for the trip to Earth.
Tatty had apparently heard of the Morgan Constructs
and the "accident" on Cobweb Station, but
the whole thing was news to King Bester until he
deduced it from Esro Mondrian's words. He was
not much interested. It was much more fascinating
to examine Mondrian, Brachis, and Flammarion,
and ask in which categories of pleasure-seeking
their interests would lie. Bester had his own ideas
of Earth visitors. No matter how the official agenda
read, there would always be a hidden one. And
that was where the profit lay.
He thought that Brachis would be easy. Big,
powerfully-built, lusty, still in early middle age,
he could be offered things unheard or through most
of the Solar System. Flammarion was easy, too.
He already had the poached-egg look to his eyes
that suggested the habitual use of alcohol. One
shot of Paradox, and Flammarion wouldn't look
elsewhere for entertainment while he was down
on Earth.
The problem was Mondrian. His eyes had frightened
King Bester on first look, with their cold
depths. But on the other hand, Mondrian wasn't
much of a prospect, anyway. He was no stranger
to Earth. He had probably developed his own needs
already, and from the way she looked at him, Tatty
Snipes had in the past helped to serve them.
Once they reached Tatty's underground apartment,
Bester stopped any pretense of listening to
Mondrian. He quietly helped himself to the free
food and drink--Princess Tatiana had decidedly
royal tastes--and moved a little closer to Kubo
Flammarion, ready to begin a more private conversation.
The scruffy man's pleasures could probably
be guessed, but that had to be confirmed
before his pockets could be emptied.
"How would you like to witness a public beheading?"
Bester said quietly. "Full staging--steel axe,
authentic block, and hooded executioner. It's an
absolutely top-quality simulacrum on the block,
and the spurt from the neck looks exactly like real
blood."
"Bleagh!" Flammarion looked at him in disgust,
and shook his head. He put down the slice of underdone
beef he was holding. "You trying to make
me throw up?"
"No? How about him, then." The King gestured
at Mondrian, deep in conversation with Tatty.
"Think he'd be interested?"
Kubo Flammarion scratched his head. "Nah. To
get him hooked, it would have to be a real victim
and real blood." He pointedly took a couple of
steps away from Bester, who turned to Luther
Brachis.
"How about you? How would you like to know
about some of our entertainments--I mean the Big
Marble specials, the ones not in the catalog."
Luther Brachis looked at him pleasantly. "And
how would you like a big fistful of knuckles," he
said, in poorly pronounced but quite passable
Earth-argot, "right up your royal nose?"
King Bester suddenly decided that his glass needed refilling at the sideboard across the room.
"I didn't know you spoke their lingo, too," said Kubo Flammarion admiringly, watching Bester's departure.
They looked at each other. Luther Brachis wondered
about the possibility of a switch in Flammarion's
loyalties. "It's good to have a few cards you don't show," he said quietly. "I'll bet there are a few other things about me you don't know--and
a few about your boss, too. Just keep watching."

Chapter Four
IN THE GALLIMAUFRIES






Tatty shook her head when she learned what
Esro Mondrian was looking for. "Not here, in the
areas where I have most clout," she said. "There's
a local ordinance forbidding the off-Earth sale of
anyone with more than four degrees of consanguinity
with my imperial clan--and that includes everybody. They all claim the relationship, even if
they don't really have it."
"So what can we do?" asked Mondrian.
"Try over in BigSyd, or old Tea-run?" she mused.
"Maybe. I don't know the dealers there, though.
And in Ree-o-dee you need to pay off so many
people. The other drawback is that they're all a
few Links away. Better if we had somebody locally."
"How 'bout Bozzie?" chipped in King Bester.
"Top bod for that line of business. And nearby."
"Could be. Worth a shot. I don't know what he
has, though." Tatty turned to Mondrian. "I'll have
to find him first--but he'll be in the Gallimaufries,
so it shouldn't be hard."
Kubo Flammarion had been struggling to make
an intelligible record of the conversation. That last
exchange was too much. "Bozzie?" he said. "In the
Garry-what's?"
"Bozzie. The Duke of Bosny," explained Tatty.
"He's also Viscount Roosevelt, Count Mellon, Baron
Rockwell, and the Earl of Potomac. Upstart nouses,
every one. But he prefers plain Bosny, or just Bozzie.
He hasn't lived in Bosny City for years, but he
claims to have been born there. He certainly shows
consanguinity with every major royal line in the
Northeast, and he's a big mover and shaker down
in the Gallimaufries"-- Flammarion raised his
eyebrows--"the basement warrens, two hundred
levels below us." She looked at Bester. "Think we
can do it today?"
"You'd have to hurry. We'd never find Bozzie
after dark--he'll be up topside with his Scavvies,
scouting the surface."
"But it must be dark already up on the surface,"
protested Mondrian. Then he paused and shook
his head. "I ought to keep quiet. I know it was late
afternoon when we landed--but I've no idea how
far west we came through the Links."
"You landed in Africa," said Tatty. "We picked
up six hours coming here. Local time is two in the
afternoon. But we're in the northern hemisphere,
and it's winter. So it will be dark early--something
else you're not used to out there." She paused for a
moment, calculating. "I think we can do it in time,"
she said at last, "provided we take the fastest routes.
Hold onto your hats, and let's go."
Tatty Snipes lived on the sixteenth level. It was
prime real estate, minutes from the surface and
within easy reach of a Link entrance. But it had no
direct drop connection to the poorer levels of the
Gallimaufries. They had to travel north, then double
back. Led by Tatty, the group travelled a hundred
kilometers horizontally to descend two hundred
levels and five thousand meters. They did it
in thirty minutes. It was a race along confused
networks of high-speed slideways, a plunge along
the vertiginous corkscrews of spiral staircases, and
finally a series of long dives through the black
depths of vertical drop-shafts.
'First time I've felt comfortable in days," said
Flammarion, savoring the long moments of zero-g.
The last drop was a long one, down a curving
chute that expelled them into a vaulted chamber,
hundreds of meters across. The rocky roof was
studded with powerful sun-simulators that lit the
whole enclosure. The space was crammed full. The
three Security men stared around them at a baffling
jumble of stalls, corridors, partitions, tents,
and guy-ropes. Slender support columns ran from
floor to roof at thirty meter intervals. Their steel
pylons held up shish-kebabs of ramshackle multilevel
platforms, many of them open-sided, with
rope ladders hanging to the ground beneath. The
floor of the chamber was not rock, but rich black
earth. Bright-blossomed flowers had been planted
everywhere, growing profusely along the zigzagging
walkways and festooning every wall and
column.
"Bozzie's Imperial Court," said Tatty. "He likes
flowers. Stick close to the King, now. If you get
lost here I don't know how you'd find your way
back."
The human population of the Gallimaufries was
as numerous as the plants and no less colorful.
Gaudy jackets and robes of saffron, purple, and
vermilion were favored, trimmed with sequin brilliants
and piped with blue, silver, and gold. The
clothes were all dirty, and the smell appalling.
King Bester's costume, garish and grubby when
they had first seen it, now appeared clean, modest
and conservative.
And then the first impression of the Gallimaufries
faded. A second element emerged, a quieter
counterpoint to the vivid brawl. It was the bright
clothes and bustling movement that caught the
eye and drew the visitor's attention. But mingled
with those, almost invisible among them, were
others. Like lilies among orchids, these people sat
in small groups on benches by the walkways, or
walked slowly along the alleys. Their stillness and
silence merged them with the background. Their
clothes were simple, monochrome tunics of grey
or white.
"Commoners," said Tatty, following Luther
Brachis's look at a group of three women, each
dressed in a plain ivory tunic. "There's the raw
material for your pursuit teams. Bozzie has contract
rights over almost anybody in grey or white.
They can't say no. Stay here and take a look--
maybe even make an offer if you see what you
need. Some of them might want to get out of here,
no matter how bad your deal sounds. I'll go find
Bozzie and bring him back to you."
She ducked under a guy rope, rounded a tent,
and headed for the edge of the chamber. Her height
allowed them to follow her progress for the first
thirty meters, then she was lost in the tangle of
people and buildings.
Brachis turned to Esro Mondrian.
"Ready to change your tune now?" he asked. "If
not, I'm prepared to go ahead with that bet. I tell
you again, nothing good has come out of Madworld
in three hundred years. Earthers are losers. They're
too decadent and spineless to do anything. They'd
never be acceptable as Pursuit Team members, no
matter how much you trained them."
His tone was mild, but some nuance in it turned
Esro Mondrian's lips white. "I'll make the bet," he
said. "Name your terms."
Brachis had an irritating smile on his face. "Certainly.
Let me make it easy for you, and keep it
simple. You select any pair of candidates that you like down here--today, if you can. Train them any
way you want to. And you will have a reasonable
time--shall we say two years?--to bring them to

the point of acceptability by the Stellar Group as
pursuit team members. Do that, and you win.'
Mondrian paused. "And the stakes?" he said at
last.
"How about my personnel monitoring system
against yours? Don't pretend that you haven't got
one. You've known for years where all my people
travel, just the same as we've tracked yours."
"Accepted," said Mondrian at once. He took a
deep breath. "I will select two people. Here, today.
And when their training is completed, I wager that
both will be accepted for the pursuit teams." He
turned to Bester and Flammarion. "You are witnesses.
There is my hand on it."
Brachis took Mondrian's hand for only a split
second, then dropped it. He turned to look at the
bustling court around him, and pretended to hold
his nose. "There they are. Take your pick. White or
grey uniforms, Princess Tatiana said. I'm glad you
will be doing the training, not me, because I'm not
sure I could stand the smell."
The brightly-clad courtiers were all grubby energy
and extravagance. By contrast, the commoners
were listless and subdued. A team of three was
passing as Brachis spoke, leading an odd-looking
beast on a chain. Its muzzle was blunt and the
forehead low, but the animal looked around with
sparkling brown eyes and showed more interest in
the scene than its keeper. It paused by Flammarion,
who looked horrified, and sniffed at him inquiringly.
"No danger," said King Bester, when Kubo Flammarion
seemed ready to dive off into the crowd.
"Quite harmless. Seen things like it a hundred
times."
"What is it?" said Flammarion, as the creature
turned its head up towards him, opened a mouth
full of needle teeth, and offered him a spiky smile.

Bester shrugged and snapped his fingers. "No
name, squire. Just an Artefact--something from a
Needier lab. Like to visit one?--arrange it easy."
Although Flammarion shook his head, Bester was
too experienced a salesman to miss the sudden
and strong interest shown by Luther Brachis. But
before he could follow up on it, he was interrupted.
Running along the path, dodging in and
out of the bustling courtiers, came a young man.
He was perhaps twenty years old, carrying a garland
of flowers. He was followed closely by a laughing
girl. "Not fair, Chan," she cried. "No fair. That
was cheating. Give it back."
The man paused close to Mondrian, shaking the
flower posy at her teasingly. She was slight, thin,
olive-skinned and moderately attractive; but he was an Adonis: golden blond hair, tall, with a
loose, agile build and sculptured good looks. If the

Ceople he ran among were aristocrats, his face and
earing pronounced him their emperor. Both man
and woman were dressed in the plain ivory tunics
of commoners.
Unperturbed by the appearance of the Security
men in their dark uniforms, he dodged behind
them to escape. Mondrian took one long, probing
look, then moved forward to grasp the man by the
arm. The youth stared back at him, mouth open.
The woman moved to their side, and put her hand
in turn on Mondrian's. Several courtiers stopped
their promenade to watch what was happening.
"You." Mondrian moved forward, tightening his
grip. "Both of you. Are you under contract?"
The man stared back impassively. But the woman
thrust herself between him and Mondrian. "What
business of yours? Let go."
"There might be a position for you. Let me talk
to Bozzie. I'll make you a good offer--"
She wrenched free, screamed at the man, "Chan!
Follow me! Now!" and threw herself into the crowd.
The youth gave one astonished look at Mondrian,
then went after her. In a couple of seconds they
were twenty yards away, heading for the safety of
a covered arcade.
"Those two," cried Mondrian. "Stop them."
The courtiers did not move. Flammarion began
a half-hearted pursuit, though they were moving
at a speed he had not even attempted in a quarter
of a century. The couple were making the last
turning into the arcade when Luther Brachis acted.
He pulled a palm-sized cylinder from a holder at
his waist and pointed it at them.
"Don't shoot!" screamed King Bester.
A green spiral of light flashed from the cylinder,
corkscrewing a tight helical path through the air.
It touched the escaping pair one after the other in
the middle of their backs and threw off a shower
of sparks there. They ran on, and were out of sight
in a second behind a long curtain of golden beads.
Brachis looked at Mondrian and smiled grimly.
"You're going to lose your bet anyway, Esro. So
I'll give you a look at the monitor system you
won t get." He pulled a flat disk from his belt.
"I've had this a month, but it's my first chance for
a real test. Look."
He held the disk horizontal. At its center, a double
arrow of light moved and turned. While they
watched, it lengthened perceptibly and changed
direction.
"A Tracker?" said Mondrian.
Brachis nodded. "Direction and distance. As soon
as they've been tagged with the beam we can follow
them for at least twenty-four hours. This is
designed to track up to five people at once. It gets
very confusing if they all go separate ways--five
arrows to deal with--but with two it's fairly easy.
See the arrows, they're keeping close together."
He handed it to Mondrian, who at once held it out
in turn to Flammarion.
"Go and follow them. Bring them back here."

Kubo Flammarion stared at him pop-eyed, then
at the Tracker.
"Not by yourself, man," went on Mondrian impatiently.
"You don't know the place. He'll help
you." He pointed at King Bester, who was pointedly
looking elsewhere. "And he'll be very well
rewarded," he added.
Bester nodded. "Now you're talking, squire." He
banged the palms of his hands together, and took
the Tracker from Flammarion. "Arrow not moving.
They must have stopped. Be back with 'em in
a jiffy-jo. Come on."
With Kubo Flammarion a distant second he set
out along the line defined by the arrow. Mondrian
looked mildly at Brachis, and shook his head. "I'm
going to win the bet. With those handsome two
you kindly tagged for me. Unless you want to
concede?"
"The bet stands. Nothing good comes out of
Earth." Brachis led the way to a seat, his face
thoughtful.
Nothing good, eh? said Mondrian softly to himself. But some things on Earth are enough to interest you
mightily. So you'd like to visit a Needier lab, would
you? I caught that look at King Bester.
He went to sit beside Brachis. Both men were
quiet for many minutes with their own thoughts.

Tatiana came back into the dimly-lit room and
sat down opposite Mondrian. "All done," she said.
"They've transferred title. The two of them are
yours."
Mondrian nodded, but he did not look up. In
front of him on the table was an open bottle of
ancient brandy, and next to it a balloon glass holding
a quarter of an inch of the amber liquid.
"Do you have any idea how I had to work to find
that for you?" went on Tatiana. "I started looking
right after the last visit. And you haven't even
sniffed it."
Mondrian roused himself to give her a grave
half-smile. "Not your fault, Princess. You know
me. Most of the time I'd kill for brandy like this."
"So what's wrong?"
"I wish I knew. Something's wrong with the
deal we made. For one thing, your friend Bozzie
didn't ask enough money for those two."
"But you told me yourself you had no idea how
much they should cost."
"True enough. I didn't. But King Bester knew,
and I was watching his face when Bozzie accepted
our offer. He positively gawped." He picked up the
glass, and breathed in the delicate centuries-old
bouquet. "Well, we're committed now, even if I'm
not comfortable with it. I told Flammarion to ship
them up the lift system and get them off Earth as
soon as he could, before Quarantine could change
their minds. Now I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd taken
a look at the two of them myself."
"You did see them."
"Only for a second or two, when we first met
them. Luther Brachis took charge of their exit
permits--and he seems much too pleased with himself.
I'm telling you, Tatty, something's not right."
"Where's Brachis now?"
"He slipped away with King Bester, and they
didn't say where they were going. But I think I know.
They've gone to a needier lab. I'm sure Brachis has
heard of them often enough, but I doubt if he's
ever been to one."
"What does he want there?"
Mondrian shook his head again, and at last took
a tiny sip of liquid. "He didn't tell me." He smiled,
but it was more like a rueful grimace. "Tatiana,
my dear, if anyone knows that people sneak down
here to Earth for their own secret reasons, you
surely do. Can you make an arrangement for me--
for tonight? I have to see Rattafee again."
"Rattafee! Didn't you know?" Tatty looked
shocked. "Rattafee's dead. I'm sorry, Esro, I assumed
you would have heard about it. She overdosed on
Paradox, nearly a month ago."
He closed his eyes. "That is ... not good news,"
he said at last. "She was the best I've ever had. I
thought I might even be making some progress
with her. Now ... I don't know where to turn.
Where can I go?" His voice was bleak.
"I heard talk just a few days ago about a new
Freudhopper, living somewhere down in the deep
basement levels. I can find out more about that if
you want me to. Maybe get an appointment for
you in a week or so. You know it takes time if the
Fr'opper's any good." She hesitated. "I can check
it for you tomorrow if you want. Tonight, I was
hoping you'd stay here with me. For just the one
night." She leaned across the table to put her
hands on his shoulders. "Esro, I'm not asking much.
You don't have to fake it for me any more--none
of the same old promises, how you'll find a place
for me up there, and take me with you away from
Earth. You don't need to tell me all that. Just stay
for tonight. That's all I'm asking."
He put his hands gently on hers. "Princess, you
don't understand. Or maybe you understand better
than I do. When I come down here to Earth, I always want to see you. But I have to be honest
with you. Most of all, I come to Earth to meet the
Fr'oppers, to see if they can help me. I'll stay here
tonight, of course I will. But can you make an
appointment now for the Fr'opper meeting, as soon
as I can be fitted into this new one's schedule?
That way I'll have some hope of a few hours' sleep
tonight."
Tatty leaned forward and kissed Mondrian quickly

on the lips. "Of course I will. My poor, poor Esro.
Is it still as bad as ever?"
"Worse. Every year, it tightens and tightens on
me." He sat up straight and drew in a long breath.
"One other thing, Tatty. I have to know what Luther
Brachis is doing while he's here on Earth. I'm
sure he's up to something. I'm trying to put King
Bester on my payroll, but I'm not sure he stays
bought and we need an honest thief. Could you
contact The Godiva Bird and put her onto Brachis?"
"That will cost you a fortune. Do you know how
much Godiva charges for her favors?"
"Budgets are not the problem. Go ahead and do
it. I don't think he'll be able to resist her; women
are one of his weaknesses."
"Pity they're not one of yours." She smiled bitterly
at him. "Poor Esro. You're so driven. I'll
make the arrangements. You sit and rest. If only
you could just relax sometime--for even one night.'
"We're all driven, Princess--every one of us." He
looked at the tiny glass spheres, each filled with
purple liquid, that sat within easy reach. There
was a row of them in every room in the apartment.
"Maybe I'll learn to relax--and maybe that's
when you'll stop being a Paradox addict."
She had been moving to the door, to the communicator
in the next room. Now she paused. "I
can't argue with that," she said slowly. "For God's
sake, I wish I could. Just try to rest, Esro. I'll be
back as soon as I can."
Chapter Five
NEEDLER

"Don't be crazy," said King Bester. "Nobody in
their right mind lives on the surface."
A "surface apartment" of Delmarva Town was
defined by convention as anything less than one
kilometer underground. The final outer layer, where
roof met open sky, was reserved for automated
agriculture and land management. Humans, keep
out! Anyone with a strange urge to taste the "natural"
life could gratify it easily enough by travelling
to central Africa or South America. There the surface
reservations, complete with protected wild species,
still stretched across thousands of square miles.
The surface of Delmarva Town was a fine place
for agriculture. And it was the perfect place for an
illegal Needier lab--for those who could stand the
idea. Luther Brachis and King Bester tried to hide
their discomfort from each other as they left the final ascent tube and walked up a ringing steel
staircase out onto the cultivated soil of the city.
Brachis hated those unpredictable breezes. They
still carried to him their message of air failure and
hard vacuum. And King Bester, comfortable in the
cramped warrens of the cities, trembled under the
star-filled night sky, with its cold brilliance.
Walking closer together than either realized, they
hurried across three fields of dark-green mutated
sedge. King Bester knew their destination exactly.
After only a few minutes under open sky he was
ducking thankfully into a roofed enclosure. They
descended a short flight of steps to an unlocked
door and a darkened room. Standing within was a
tall, stooped man with a domed bald head, jutting
red nose, and long straggling beard.
"The Margrave of Fujitsu,' said Bester formally.
"Commander Luther Brachis."
The Margrave stared at them gloomily, closed
the door, turned, and pressed a light switch. At the
other side of the room sat a bulbous plant, about
five feet high and two feet across. When the light
hit it the leaves of the swollen upper end began to
open. In less than thirty seconds a single vast flower
was revealed. The central portion resembled a human
face, with pink cheeks, curved red mouth,
and blind blue eyes. After a few moments, the
mouth opened and a thin, beautiful tone came
forth. It was a crystalline, pure soprano, singing a
wordless lament. There was steady development,
from a simple theme through to its complex coloratura
embroidery.
"One of my most successful creations," said the
Margrave, in excellent standard solar. "I call this Sorudan--the spirit of song. The melody never repeats
unless I so desire. I will be sorry if I am ever
obliged to sell." He turned the level of the light
down. The voice slowly faded, and the theme passed
through sublime downward ripples of semitones
to a final cadence. The sightless eyes closed. Moments
later the petals began to curve in around
the silent face.
The Margrave led the way into the next room.
Luther Brachis followed slowly. Even if the display
of Sorundan had been laid on just for his
benefit, it made no difference. The ugly artist had
created a work of astonishing beauty.
The walls of the next room were lined with cages,
drawings, photographs, and models. Brachis saw
to his satisfaction that the range of Needier output
was diverse and seemingly unlimited in form.
Aquaforms, peering out from their tanks of green
tinged water, sat next to the crouching raptor shape
of gryphons. In one holograph a skeletally thin
kangaroo stood next to--and loomed over--a giraffe.
In another, an inch-long bear-like creature
ambled along the flat pad of a water-lily. And
everywhere, mobile plants quivered and snaked
among the cages, following a moving source of
overhead light.
The Margrave of Fujitsu waved his arm across
the display. "The King tells me you're not interested
in a simple art product," he said gruffly.
"Why don't you outline your requirement to me?
Then I'll tell you if I think it can be done, and how
much it ought to cost."
Luther Brachis nodded. "I have a special need,
one I'm willing to pay for very well. But the King
will have to wait outside while I explain it. This
has to be for your ears only."
King Bester looked startled, began to object, and
then shrugged. "Fine idea," he said unconvincingly.
"Get paid either way, so I don't care."
He went sulkily to the outer room, and watched
while Luther Brachis carefully closed the door.
Bester put his ear close against it, but he could
hear nothing. He waited impatiently for fifteen
minutes, even standing on a stool in case he could
see anything over the top of the door. It was useless.
By the time the door opened again and the
other two men came out, he was hopping up and
down with inquisitive frustration.
"I'll send all the specifications as soon as I get
back to Ceres," said Brachis.
The Margrave nodded solemnly and opened the
outside door. "Give me two weeks after that before
you look for results. By that time I will be able to
tell you if I can make what you want. And you will
need a suitable intermediary. I dare not meet with
just anyone."
"I understand. I will make arrangements." The
heavy door closed. The light vanished, and Brachis
and Bester were in the darkness of a moonless
Earth-night.
"Why are they called 'Needlers'?" said Brachis,
as they went up the stairs to the open surface. "I
looked at the Margrave's whole lab, and I didn't
see one place where they prick anything."
"Don't prick," said King Bester, in awkward standard
solar. "Least, not any more. Did when technique
started, ages back. Early days, they were all
biologists. Playing around with female animals,
produced offspring, no poppa."
"You mean parthenogenesis? Lots of organisms
propagate like that."
"Yeah. Partho-that. Knew was fancy long word.
Biologists heat eggs, put eggs in acid, give electric
shock, poke with needles--and egg develops. Then
later started a new game: if use hollow needle, real
fine, can inject stuffinto cell middle. Can put new
DNA into nucleus."
"King, when they taught you standard solar,
didn't they ever mention pronouns? Why don't we
just talk earth-tongue?--you're making my head
ache."
King Bester wiggled his eyebrows, grinned, and
shrugged. "All right, squire. Not many foreigners
understand it, so I tend not to use it. I'll be glad to
switch. After they learned the DNA injection and
splicing techniques, the Needlers never looked back.
They learned how to put duck DNA in an eagle,
spider DNA in a mosquito--anything in anything.
Tricky technology, of course--you or me try it, and
the egg would die. But some of 'em got hot-shot
good at it--like old Fujitsu there. You want it,
he'll make it." The King stared at Luther Brachis
with vast curiosity. "Did he say what he'd do for
you?
Brachis did not answer at once. They were standing
at the top of the flight of stairs, waiting for
their eyes to adjust to the darkness. King Bester
took Brachis by the arm. "Don't rush it, squire.
There might be Seavvies around. They come up
out of the warrens at night, see what they can find.
If you ever meet Bozzie s Scavengers up here, run
for it. They're tough and they're mean, and they'll
cut you to pieces for your clothes--or just for the
fun of it."
They stood there for a couple of minutes. Both
men were reluctant to step up onto the surface
again. Finally Brachis took a few paces forward
and forced himself to stand and look around. If he
was going to be visiting Earth again, he had better
learn to be comfortable there.
He looked and listened. The steady breeze on his
face was already less disconcerting. The smell of
decay--it must be dead plants and animals, crumbling
to unplanned and uncontrolled dissolution-- made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. The sedge
around them rustled in the wind as leaf moved
over leaf. He looked up. There was a broken layer
of cloud overhead. In the open patches of sky he
could see stars, strangely sort-edged and subdued.
They seemed to move and flicker while he watched.
He began to walk to the entry point to the lower
levels. "The work the Margrave is doing for me is
none of your business," he said, finally answering
Bester's question. The hook had been set back in
the lab. Now it was time to strike. If King Bester
could be caught with anything, it would be his
enormous curiosity. "Mind you," he went on,
"things would be quite different if I were sure you
were on my side. I could tell you a lot of things
then about my plans--and you could be involved
in them, too. There could be jobs for you, down
here and off Earth."
Bester started to snap his fingers in excitement.
"Try me--just try me. They were moving across
the surface to return to the underground levels.
Luther Brachis shook his head.' Too risky. First,
I'd have to be sure you were working for me, not
for Esro Mondrian.'
"I don't work for him--swear I don't. Never met
him before."
"We'll see. But we have to work slowly, and
carefully. I may say a lot about Esro Mondrian,
but I'll never say he's not smart."
"He frightens me," said Bester. "I don't like to
look at his eyes."
"Stay that way. It's safest. You think you're ready
to do a job for me, then?"
"You name it, squire." King Bester was almost
too eager. "I'll do it."
"Very well. As a beginning, I'll want you to keep
a close eye on the product that the Margrave of
Fujitsu will be developing for me back there."
Brachis smiled. "You wanted to know what I ordered.
You'll have that. I'll send you the specification
to hand-deliver to the Margrave in the next
few days. Don't tell anybody about it. And I want
you to keep an eye on it as it's being developed."
"You think he can make it for you?"
"I feel sure he'll try. His pride won't give him
any way to refuse. You'll see the result and know
how well he did even before I do."
They were almost back to the level where Tatty
Snipes lived. She had arranged sleeping accommodation
for both of them in large, luxurious apartments.
King Bester rolled his eyes when he saw
them, and gave thanks aloud that he didn't have
to pay for them.
"But I still don't understand why a Needier is
not a legally permitted trade," went on Brachis,
when they were finally standing at his apartment
door. "The products are wonderful. You could export
them all over the Stellar Group."
King Bester fidgeted in his patchwork clothes,
and shook his head. "Uh-uh. They have a problem.
The Needler labs make all kinds of Artefacts--but
all the good ones have one thing in common: their
DNA is mostly human. It's not permitted, but they
all do it--or they can't compete with the others.
Remember Sorudan? That was more human than
the smart chimps in the transportation system.
Same's true for everything else you saw in Fujitsu's
laboratory."
Luther Brachis did not reply. But from the expression
on his face, Bester had the odd idea that
he could not have given the big Security Commander
better news.

An hour before dawn, Esro Mondrian was fully
awake. He had slept for perhaps three hours after
midnight, then awakened shivering and perspiring.
Tatiana lay by his side. When it came, the soft
buzz of his communicator did not waken her.
She was lying with one arm and leg across his
body. He moved slowly and carefully to free himself,
then tiptoed in the darkness to the next room.
Once the door was closed he turned on a low
powered light and switched to voice mode.
"Commander Mondrian?" As he had expected, it
was Kubo Flammarion. The wizened little man
drank too much, but he ate little and slept less.
The two men were both awake twenty hours out of
twenty-four.
"This is Mondrian. You're calling early, Kubo.
Where are you?"
"At the lift facility." Flammarion's voice was
nervous. "Getting ready to take the two we found
in the Gallimaufries away to Ceres. But we have a
real problem, and I thought I ought to call you
before I did anything else.'
"Report."
"The woman is fine. Her name is Leah Buckingham
Rainbow. Her title is free and clear, she s
twenty-two years old, and she's in first-rate physical
and mental condition. Prime training material.
It's the man." He paused. "He's ... mm ..."
"Report*"
"His name is Chancellor Vercingetorix Dalton,"
said Flammarion hurriedly. "He's a wonderful physical
specimen, twenty years old, and his title is
clear, too." He cleared his throat. "Only trouble is,
he's a --er--a moron."
"What!" Mondrian did not raise his voice, because
he did not want to waken Tatiana. But its
intensity seared along the communication link.
"A moron. Remember when we first saw them,
the woman seemed to lead the action? Well, when
we caught them she did all the talking. He seemed
to be listening, and he kept nodding. But he didn't
say anything much, just gave his name when we
asked for it. When you see the result of the psychological
tests you'll see why. That's just about the
only thing he can say, with any understanding. He
takes all his cues from her."
"That's why Bozzie was so happy to make the
deal." Mondrian sat hunched by the communicator,
his head in his hands. "Damn the man, he
knew it! The fat fraud. Kubo, how bad is Dalton?
Did you get a profile?"
"Pretty hopeless. Mental age of maybe a twoyear-old.
Him and the girl were raised together,
and she's always looked after him. That hasn't
helped him at all."
"Who knows about this?"
"Right now? No one. But the reports will go to
Security. I suppose that means that it will go . .."
Flammarion hesitated.
"To Luther Brachis? Of course it will. We can't
stop it." The fury had gone from Esro Mondrian's
voice. Now it sounded as though it was trickling
through cracked ice. "He'll think he's won the wager.
But I'm not ready to admit it. Kubo, look at
that profile carefully, and try to answer this question.
Do we have a situation where we could hook
Dalton into a Tolkov Stimulator?"
There was a silence at the other end.
"Kubo?"
"Yes ... uh, I'm sorry. I guess ..." There was
another silence. "I guess so. The profile looks right.
There ought to be a decent chance. But, Commander,
the Stimulator . .. it's top security use.
It's not--I mean it's supposed to be--"
"Don't gibber at me, Kubo. When I want a monkey
on the staff I can find one down here on Earth.
I know better than you do the restrictions on Stimulator
use. But I think I can handle them. The
training of the pursuit teams is a top security
issue. The Anabasis has special powers.
"I know. But Commander, it s not just approvals.
It's the Stimulator. It only works one time out
of ten."
"So we're playing a long shot. I'll accept that.
Don't forget, when the Tolkov Stimulator is successful,
there's a switch from subnormal to supernormal.
The subject becomes extremely intelligent."
"But Commander, if it doesn't work--then it kills
the subject."
"Right. And then the wager with Brachis would
be off. Kubo, don't waste time telling me how the
Stimulator works. Get on with the job."
"Yessir." Flammarion stood to attention. "As you
say, sir. Except that .. . Commander, we'd need to
find somebody who'll lock themselves away and
work with Chancellor Dalton for a long time--
months, maybe even a year. And from what I've
heard, it's absolute hell on both of 'em. It's like
torturing the person it's used on. After a few tries
applying the Stimulator to somebody, the person
doing it will usually up and quit. You'd never get
anybody willing to use it on Dalton. It would be
torture for them as well as him. Unless you mean
that I'll--"
Flammarion realized where his logic was taking
him, and his tongue froze in horror.
"Relax, Kubo. You're not a candidate. I know
the problems of using a Tolkov Stimulator as well
as you do. But I'll get somebody." Mondrian leaned
back, calculating. 'All right. Do this--immediately.
Take both of them, the man and the woman, along
to the confinement facility on Horus. Maximum
security environment. Set up there for education
and pursuit team training. And make sure a Stimulator
is available, too. Clear?"
"I'll do it, sir."
"Thanks, Kubo. I know I can trust you. Now,
one more thing. Have living quarters prepared on
Horus for somebody who will work with Dalton."

"Yes, sir. Who will it be, sir?"
"Don't worry about it. I'll find someone."
"Yes, sir. But, er, sir--"
Mondrian was poised to cut the connection.
"What else, Kubo?"
"The living quarters. Will they be for a man or a
woman?"
Mondrian paused for a few seconds. "Assume it
will be a woman," he said softly. He pressed the
disconnect and moved silently back into the bedroom.
Tatiana
had turned to lie flat on her back. She
was still sleeping soundly. Mondrian moved to her
side and set out to rouse her, caressing her infinitely
slowly and gently. She pulled him close
before she was more than half-awake, and muttered
with pleasure at what he was doing.
They made love for a long time, quietly and in
total darkness. Afterwards she held him locked
tight, rocked him up and down, and whispered in
his ear. "That was different. Usually you pull away
when it's over, but this time you stayed with me.
Esro, it was wonderful."
"It was fantastic," he said softly. "Tatiana, you're
very dear to me. I know you told me not to make
you the same old promises, and I won't do that.
But I'll make you a new one. Princess, I need your
help. I have an important job that needs doing. It's
away from Earth, and it may take a long time, but
I must have somebody I trust totally. If you'll
agree to help me, I promise you we'll leave Earth--
together."
She jerked beneath him, as though trying to sit
up under his weight. "Esro, are you serious? I
mean, after all this time, then you ask me to go
with you, just like that. I can hardly believe it."
"I'm quite serious. We'll go--if you want to."
She began to rock him again, and tightened her
arms about him as hard as she could. "Of course I
want to!"
"Think twice. I'm not sure you'll get Paradox
easily once you're away from Earth. That's one of
Quarantine's strongest prohibitions."
She paused, licking her lips. There was fear and
hunger in the brown eyes. "I still want to," she
said at last. She laughed nervously. "The stuff's
killing me anyway; I've known that for years. When
would we go?"
"Very soon. I'll need to get special permission
from Quarantine, and an exit permit, but Flammarion
can start working on that in the morning.
I'd expect to be leaving Earth in three or four
days. Can you be ready?"
Tatty was suddenly crying. "Ready? Ready? Esro,
if you want me there, I'm ready this minute. I'll go
right now."
Fortunately, she could not see his face.

Chapter Six

AT THE HORUS
CONFINEMENT CENTER

The asteroids of the Egyptian Cluster are a solar
system anomaly. The orbits of the cluster members
share a common inclination and a perihelion
distance of about three hundred million kilometers,
supporting the idea that they are a cluster,
although one now far dispersed spatially. They
also share the common material composition of
the smaller silicaceous bodies of the solar system.
And yet they are, every one, anomalous. Instead of
moving in the ecliptic like all well-behaved planetoids,
their common orbital plane is inclined at an
angle of nearly fifty-nine degrees to it.
The physical data for the Egyptian Cluster are
given in the Appendix to the General Ephemerides
of the solar system--a fair measure of their importance
in the big scheme of things. But even with a
minor group there is a natural pecking order. Horus,
twenty kilometers across, is an asteroid low on
that order, very much an undistinguished specimen.
No more than a bleak wedge of dark rock, it
lacks atmosphere, regular form, useful minerals,
easily accessible orbit, or any other interesting
property.
It is the perfect place for a maximum security
facility. Mindful of this, generations of excavators
have turned Horus into a worm-riddled cheese of
black silicate, hollow and tunneled and chambered.
The echoing inner cavities, with their entrance
corridors paradoxically reflex and convoluted, are
an ideal location for assured privacy and security.
Or for incarceration.
In one of the central chambers of Horus, comfortably
appointed as ample living quarters, sat
two men and two women: Kubo Flammarion, Chancellor
Dalton, Tatiana Snipes, and Leah Rainbow.
Flammarion had been talking steadily for a long
time, while the other three listened with varying
degrees of attention. Chancellor Dalton fidgeted
and played with the plate and fork sitting in front
of him. Tatty Snipes stared ahead with a dull,
lifeless face the color of dirty chalk, while her
hands trembled whenever she lifted them from the
table. Alone of the three, Leah was following every
word that Flammarion had said.
"But you can't," she said again. Her face was
frowning and furious, and she spoke standard solar
so badly and so angrily that Flammarion could
only just understand her. "You absolutely can't.
Don't you understand? I've looked after Chan ever
since he was four years old, when his mother sold
him down in the Gallimaufries. If I'm not with
him, he'll be lost. Totally lost."
"At first." Kubo Flammarion looked enormously
uncomfortable, and he was not enjoying his job at
all. "But he'll be all right. Princess Tatiana will
look after him."
"Chan like Tatty," said Dalton proudly. It was
the most complex statement Flammarion had heard
him make since they arrived on Horus.
"How can she look after him?" exploded Leah.
"Just look at her. She can hardly look after herself."
That finally roused Tatty to a response. She
straightened in her chair. "Do you think I want to
be out here? Do you think I'm happy about the
idea of baby-sitting that overgrown lump--that--
that moron? I don't want any of it. I want to go
home--back to Earth, away from this god-awful,
god-damned, god-gone place." She leaned forward
and buried her face in her trembling hands. After
a few moments she began to groan deep in her
throat.
"Moron!" shouted Leah. "What do you mean, moron--"
Flammarion waved his hand across her face and
interrupted her. "Don't hassle Tatty just now. She's
not herself. Can't you see she's in Paradox withdrawal?
Go easy on her. All she can think about is
that she needs a shot."
"Shot for Tatty," said Chan Dalton. "Tatty my
friend." And he went across to her, and hugged her
happily.
Flammarion offered him an uncertain look. The
tests that assigned Chan Dalton the intelligence of
a two-year-old were imprecise in many ways, and
their conclusion was just an average of many factors.
Sometimes Chan seemed to understand nothing
that was said to him. At other times he would
fix his gaze on the speaker and nod intelligently,
as though listening hard and following every word.
Leah had assured Flammarion that this was no
more than a protective coloration, something she
had painstakingly taught Chan to let him operate
in the tough environment of the Gallimaufries.
But it was difficult to believe that someone who seemed to listen intelligently was not doing so. Her
explanation had only halfway persuaded Flammarion.
"I
won't leave Chan, and you can't make me," said
Leah at last, standing up from the table. "You say
you want me to become a candidate for one of
your stupid pursuit teams? Just you try and force
me. If you make me leave here I won't cooperate
at all, on anything."
Flammarion wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably
in his tunic. He had been coached in the next
part very carefully by Esro Mondrian, but he was
not sure how well he could carry it off.
"How much do you care for Chan?" he began.
Leah went around to stand by the blond youth's
side. "More than anything or anyone," she said
fiercely. "He's all I care about. More than anyone
on Earth, or anyone in the Stellar Group. Can't
you tell that's a stupid question?" She put her
arms possessively around Chan's waist.
"I thought so,' said Flammarion. "In all those
years of caring for him and loving him, didn't it
ever make you sad to know that Chan would not
develop as a normal human? I'm not talking about
the physical side, I mean his mental maturity.
Didn't you grieve, to think that he'd always be like
this, and never know the world that we know?"
Flammarion had been very uncomfortable at first,
referring to Chancellor Dalton in his presence like
this, as though he were not even there. But after a
while he realized that his discomfort was inappropriate.
Chan was not aware of most of the references
to him. In some ways, Chan was quite
unconscious of his own self.
Flammarion's questions were having a visible
effect on Leah Rainbow. She was looking sad and
angry, and her eyes were blinking. "Of course I've
grieved, you silly old man. I've wept more for
Chan than for myself. I've often thought I would
give anything I have, sell my body to slavery, bond
to a Pipe-Rilla, anything, if it would give Chan
adult intelligence. I still feel that way--I would do anything. But now I know it's a hopeless wish."
Then listen to me now." Flammarion leaned
forward and lowered his voice confidentially, ignoring
the fact that there was no other person
within seventy million kilometers of the four of
them. "A few years ago, a gadget was invented on
Oberon Station. It was designed for use in working
with alien forms scattered around the Known
Sphere--forms who might be intelligent, but were
borderline cases. That invention is called a Tolkov
Stimulator. Only a few of them have been made,
and their use is prohibited on humans except in
cases of Stellar Group emergency. A Stimulator heightens the level of mental activity--and when it
works it produces a permanent change on the subject.
You understand me?"
"You mean it makes people smarter?"
"Sometimes. Some people. It makes others insane--that's
why it's prohibited for general use.
Anyway, Esro Mondrian, my boss, has access to a
Stimulator, one we can use for the Anabasis. Under
the right circumstances, he might make it available."
Flammarion leaned towards Leah. "Available
for Chan."
"For Chan," echoed Dalton happily. He was still
standing with his arms around Tatty Snipes. "For
Chan."
"See?" said Flammarion. "He knows. But I'm
quite sure that Commander Mondrian won't make
it available to Chan if you refuse to cooperate with
us and won't carry on with pursuit team training.
That's why I asked: how important is Chan to you? '
Flammarion paused. He had reached the end of
Mondrian's prepared speech. Now all he could do
was sit and wait for Leah's reaction. He advanced
to Chan's side, and stood there uncertainly.
When her response came it was a surprise to
Flammarion. Leah burst into tears, and hugged
Chan Dalton to her. "Chan, did you hear him? Oh,
Chan, you're going to grow up--read, and write,
and know the animals and flowers and days of the
week, and dress yourself, and know the names of
all your friends. Won't that be wonderful?"
"You mean you'll do it?" said Flammarion, standing
bolt upright and stretching the creases in his
wrinkled uniform.
She rounded on him, her tears giving way to
fury. "Of course I'll do it, you great fool. You know
your pressure points, don't you? You know just
where to probe and twist, to make me do what you
want. I'll do it--I'll go away, and train, and study,
and do my best to be a pursuit team member. But
it will be on these conditions: you have to promise
me that Chan will get a full treatment here, the
best that can be given; and you must let me know
as soon as he becomes normal."
"If he becomes normal," said Flammarion. "The
Stimulator isn't a sure thing. There's a good chance
it will fail. Even if it works we won't know for a
while. It's a funny process, slow at first, but then
at the end the understanding all comes at one
rush. What I'm saying is, there's no guarantee that
final understanding will ever come. Chan may stay
a moron for all his life." And that won't be very
long, but I can't tell them.
"But if he does, he'll be no worse off than he is
now." Leah said. "Will I be able to visit him while
you're giving the treatment?"
"Maybe just a couple of times." Flammarion
cleared his throat, as though the next fact was
sticking there. "The period when the Stimulator is
being applied is very ... intense. It's a tough time,
for the person being treated, and also for the one
giving the treatment. For Chan's own sake, he has
to interact with just one person until the course is
finished. And that person will be Tatty."
"For how long?"
"I don't know. Maybe a few months, maybe more.
By that time I expect your training will be over,
and you'll have pursuit team assignment. Look,
Leah, how much of all this do you think you can
get across to Chan? It would make Tatty's job a lot
easier if he knew what was going on."
"I don't know." Leah had recovered her self
control. "It's a bit abstract for him. But I can try."
She turned to Chan. "Channy, why don't we go
away and play, just us, in the swim-room? We can
leave Tatiana and the Captain here."
Chan nodded. "Captain smell bad," he said agreeably.
"We go."
"There," said Leah fiercely to Flammarion. "Chan
may not be smart, but he's telling you something
you should have been told a long time ago. I wish
I'd said that. You smell, Captain. To be more precise,
you stink. Come on, Chan, let's get out of
here.'
She headed for the door before Flammarion could
reply, dragging Chan along by the hand. Kubo
Flammarion gave a perplexed look at her, then
shrugged, scratched his head, rubbed his sleeve
across his nose, and went over to Tatty Snipes. He
took a purple globe from his pocket and pressed it
firmly against her arm. "Only half a dose, Tatty,
but better than nothing. Wait a minute or two,
and you'll start to feel better."
She groaned as she felt the injection, but after a
few seconds she raised her head, and color began
to seep back into the livid cheeks. "Thanks, Kudo.
I thought I'd die when Esro told me there'd be no
more shots--that I'd be on my own. Are you disobeying
his orders?"
"I suppose I am." Flammarion sat down next to
her at the table. "You see, Tatty, I know Esro
Mondrian. He doesn't behave like a normal human.
I sometimes think he's tough enough himself
to stand anything, and he assumes you must be
the same. But not me. I've got my own problems,
and I know what a hard time you're going through
now. But if we can just ease you off Paradox, little
by little, you have a chance of making it all the way."
Tatty held up her arm, showing the regular line
of blue-black dots from elbow to shoulder. "You're
an optimist, Kubo. Eight hundred shots say you're
wrong. / hate him," she said suddenly, "bringing
me away from Earth, sending me here like that,
not telling me when he'll be coming out himself
..." She bowed forward again, making little sounds
of misery in her private grief.
"He'll be here in a few days." Flammarion
reached out a hand, as though to touch Tatty's
hair, then withdrew it. "He's unbelievably busy,
trying to get the whole pursuit program training
going. And we're still having a terrible time with
the ambassador's office. Macdougal wants to be in
the middle of everything. And the only person who
can deal with that is Commander Mondrian."
"Don't make excuses for him; that's not part of
your job." Tatty looked up wearily. "Kubo, you
think you know Esro. Believe me, I know him a lot
better--probably better than anyone who just works
for him. If he had to do it for his own reasons, Esro
would sell to the devil you and me and everyone
he knows, and not think twice about it. But that's
not the thing that has me most upset. The shameful
thing is that I knew it--knew it years ago, and
still I'm here, out in the middle of nowhere, still
doing what he wants me to do. I shouldn't be
blaming him, I should be blaming myself." She
stood up slowly, leaning back to stretch her tired
muscles. "No more pity, Kubo. Give me the rest of
the bad news. You told Leah Rainbow that the
Stimulator is hard on the person being treated and on the person who does the treating. Esro never
mentioned that. What's the problem going to be
for me?"
Flammarion sighed and sat down. He felt an
increasing resentment. It was happening again--
Mondrian making the mess, and leaving the explanations
to Kubo Flammarion.
'Let me explain about the Tolkov Stimulator,"
he said. As he spoke he kept his gaze on the table
in front of him; that way he could pretend to
himself that he was unaware of Tatty Snipes, and
of her growing expression of horror at what she
was hearing.
Chapter Seven
THE FR'OPPER

Esro Mondrian had puzzled over the careful directions
long before he tried to follow them. They
meandered through an endless series of descent
shafts, to the deepest basement levels of the Gallimaufries;
far down into Earth's crust, where continuous
cooling was needed to make the levels
even marginally habitable, and only the power
maintenance crews visited on a regular basis. It
seemed inconceivable that a Fr'opper would have
an office down in those smoking warrens. But the
instructions had been quite specific.
The final hundred yards of his journey were in
near-total darkness, stepping carefully along a steadily
descending shallow ramp. At the foot, Mondrian
paused and took a miniature flashlight from his
belt.
"No light, please," said a soft voice a few yards
away from him. "Take hold, Commander Mondrian,
and follow me."
"You are Skrynol?"
"I am." A warm, fleshy flipper touched Mondrian's
fingers. He walked, step by slow step, led
by the Fr'opper in front of him. Finally he was
guided to a seat covered by warm velvety material,
and told to sit back and relax.
"You're an optimist," he said. "Could you relax,
when you don't know what the devil is going on?
I've been to Fr'oppers before, but I've never had to
put up with anything like this. Why do you want
to be in pitch darkness? I'd like a little light."
"That is understandable," said the soft voice,
"but it is not a good idea. With light here, you
might feel much less relaxed. Not every product of
the Needier labs is a work of art in esthetic terms."
Mondrian sat forward in his seat. "Are you telling
me you're an Artefact?"
'I do seem to be saying that, don't I? Does it
give you a problem?" There was a trill of laughter
from the blackness in front of Mondrian. "Does it
make you doubt my capabilities? If so, I can refer
you to others who will provide excellent testimonials.
And from my assessment of your mental
condition, the Fr'oppers you have visited in the
past have done little for you. Could an Artefact do
worse?"
Mondrian grunted and leaned back again on the
seat. "That's a logic I can't argue with. But how
can you say you've assessed my mental condition,
when I've been here only two minutes?"
"You're asking for trade secrets. I do not reveal
them. But if you want proof that I can do what I
say, you shall have an example. Sit there quietly,
relax, and let your thoughts wander where you
wish. I am about to attach a few electrodes." Cold
touches came on forehead, hands, and neck.
The temperature in the room was far too hot for
comfort. Mondrian sat in silence, sweating heavily,
and tried to follow the Fr'opper's order to relax.
He was wondering what form could be so
horrible that the sight of it would be worse than
the oppressive and stifling darkness. He leaned
forward, eyes wide, and tried to see something of
the being in front of him. It was useless. Was he
wasting his time here, on yet another unproductive
visit to a Fr'opper?
"I have enough,' said Skrynol suddenly. "Remember,
I cannot read your thoughts, and will
never claim to do so. But I can read your body,
and through that your emotions, and they tell me
more about your thoughts than you may be prepared
to believe. For example, let me read back to
you a few of the more obvious and familiar indicators.
Your pupils are somewhat dilated--yes, before
you ask, I can see you very well, even though
you cannot see me--and there is a slight eye flicker.
Your body temperature is elevated perhaps half a
degree over what I estimate to be its usual value.
Your muscles are tense, but in tight control--you
are now making a conscious effort to relax your
back and shoulders. Your pulse is elevated, ten or
so counts a minute above normal. Palms wet, perspiration
high in acids and low in potassium long.
Mouth tight, lips a little dry. Nasal mucus membranes
dry also, and probably a fraction of a degree
cooler than expected. Frequent swallowing,
and tight sphincters. In summary, you are hugely
excited, and tremendously controlled. Now, those
are mere physical variables. A med machine could
tell you as much. But I can integrate all the factors
and place them in context. And I can guess--nothing
more than a guess--at the mental state that produced
them. And I conclude this: at the conscious
level, Commander Mondrian, you are pondering
me, and my probable appearance. That is perfectly
natural. But below that, in the center of
your real attention, are two other worries. You
have lost something, and it is enormously important
that you find it. And that concern takes us
deeper yet, to the reason that you are here in the
first place. The thing that is lost is important to
you, only because it protects you from the thing
that you fear most. The hidden thing."
Mondrian was sitting bolt upright in the darkness.
He had been thinking about the Morgan Constructs,
and where they might be--but until the
Fr'opper mentioned the "lost something," that
thought had been no more than a nagging background
worry.
"The hidden thing," he said grimly. "Is it the
source of my nightmares--the reason why I wake
up terrified every night?"
"Of course it is.'" Skrynol's voice was calm. "You
did not need me to answer that question, did you?
--you could answer it for yourself. So now, shall
we begin the search for the hidden thing? We must
find it, before we can hope to get rid of it."
Mondrian leaned back. "I am in your hands."
He suddenly seemed more nervous, turning and
twisting the fire-opal at his collar. He had noticed
a faint smell in the air, a trace of odor like overripe
peaches. "What do you want me to do?"
"Sit completely still. I am about to attach a few
more electrodes.' Again the cold touches, this time
on Mondrian's chest and abdomen. "Very good.
Now we are going to explore below the conscious
levels. Today, just the first stratum. I will speak
certain key words, and you will answer however
you choose."
It was standard Fr'opper technique, outlawed
off Earth for centuries, and with an uncertain and
unsavory reputation even on the planet. Mondrian
nodded to signify his assent. The question-and
answer period began. And suddenly, it was no
longer the standard session. He had drifted into a
dazed semi-conscious state, aware that he was talking,
but not sure of the content. It went on for a
long time. Finally Mondrian realized that he was
again being addressed directly.
"Mondrian! Do you know what you have been
saying to me? If necessary, I can repeat the important
points for you."
He came back to full wakefulness, realizing that
he could remember all he had said--even though
it had been taken without his control, from levels
within that he did not know existed. He nodded. "I
know. I said ..."
The memory came spinning back in, with terrifying
detail. Skrynol had somehow coaxed him to
build a series of mental pictures, little by little.
They were still bright in his mind.
... He had taken on a form like a giant spider,
and was sitting quietly at the center of a great web.
The strands shone with their own light, each one
visible, running off in all directions. But there was a
point beyond which their luminescence faded. He
could see a well-defined region of web, with himself
in the middle. Beyond that all was darkness. While
he watched and waited, he felt a trembling in the
glowing strands of the web. He looked out along the
lines to see what prey was there, but the disturbing
object was too far away. It lay in the dark region. He
knew from the delicate vibrations along the gossamer
strands that the prey was approaching.
And suddenly it was no longer prey. It was a danger,
a force that he could not control, creeping in
towards him along the luminous threads. Ana he
was not waiting at the center of the web until the
moment arrived when he would set off to seek his
victim. He was bound at the web center, unable to
flee from whatever approached him out of the distant
darkness ...
"Excellent!" said Skrynol's voice. Mondrian found
that suddenly he was shivering and hot all over,
wanting to run away as fast as he could.
"We have penetrated much farther in one session
than I had dared to hope," went on Skrynol.
"Have you ever retrieved that set of images before?"
"Never." Mondrian was recovering self-control,
but he was still fiddling nervously with the fire
opal at his collar. "What are those thoughts? Are
they the 'hidden thing' that you talked about?"
Skrynol laughed again, with that high-pitched
trill of amusement. ' If it were that simple, then
you would not need the services of a good Fr'opper.
No, what we found today is the mind's first level
of defense. The images you built are a second-level
reference. They are no more than an analogy to
your real fears, and those fears stem from a much
deeper and earlier hidden experience. We have a
long way to go. Let us meet again in one week."
Mondrian felt the electrodes being removed from
his body. "What do I owe you?" he said huskily.
"For today, nothing." There was a pause. 'To
give a more honest answer, you have already provided
my payment for today. When the electrodes
were attached, two of them included small catheters.
While you were building your protective memories,
I drew blood from you. Just a little. Don't
worry, you have plenty left--I took less than a
quarter of a liter, only five percent of your total
body supply. It will be replenished in a very short
time."
Mondrian took a deep breath. "Nice of you to
tell me about it. Why did you want my blood?"
"For the best, simplest, and most honest of reasons:
to drink. My metabolism is not suited to the
digestion of most forms of food."
Mondrian stood up from the velvet seat. "I suppose
I ought to be thankful that your needs are so
modest," he said coldly. "Will that be your standard
charge for services--or do you increase the
price as the treatment continues?"
"You know I wouldn't do that." Skrynol was
laughing again as they wound their way back to
the exit. "I want you as a regular customer. If I
drained you, that would be the end of it." There
was a sly note of humor in Skrynol's voice as
Mondrian again set foot on the ramp. "You're safe
enough with me, Commander Mondrian ... as long
as you're still in treatment. The time to watch out
will be the day you feel you're cured. Because then
you will not expect to return here, and I will have
no incentive to hold back my appetite. For the
moment, do not worry ..."
Mondrian made the return journey to the upper
levels almost in a trance. He could not get the
spider-web images out of his mind. They made
him horribly uncomfortable, even though he was
absolutely convinced that Skrynol had made more
progress in one session than anyone else in dozens.
Back at the Link Entrance level, he transferred
to the appropriate exit point and wearily walked
the rest of the way to the apartment. Without
Tatiana's presence, the living quarters felt cold
and desolate. Mondrian went through to the inner
room, reached up to his collar, and carefully removed
the fire-opal. Then he went across to the
communicator and called for a private circuit up
from Earth. Within a few seconds he had been
connected with Border Security's principal laboratory
on Pallas.
"Hasselblad?" he said. "This is Esro Mondrian. I
have a special job for you. I just made a multiple
medium recording, all wavelengths, of something
down here on Earth." He looked at the fire-opal
for a few moments, weighing it in his hand. "I
didn't know what screening might be operating, so
I tried every setting. I want to know what images
you can get out of it. It will be on its way up to
you within an hour or two. Give it top priority,
will you? I need the answers within a week."
Chapter Eight

STIMULATOR AND
NEEDLER LAB

"No!" The scream resonated through the rocky
chambers, incredibly loud and violent. "No, no,
no, no, no."
"Chan! Chan! don't run away. Wait for me."
Tatiana was chasing hopelessly in pursuit. The
screams ahead of her were fading. Somehow he
had escaped again, running blindly and tearfully
off through the maze of interior tunnels. He could
not get away from her for long, not with the Tracker
to reveal his distance and direction, but the complexity
of the interior of Horus made the search a
long and tedious business. Ten generations of burrowing
and excavating had left a staggering legacy
of debris: old synthesizers, broken tools, obsolete
communications equipment, mounds of supply
containers--few things were worth hauling back
from the Egyptian Cluster to re-use elsewhere in
the system. Now the whole mess had to be climbed
over, moved aside, and burrowed through.
Tatiana continued the pursuit. She felt close to
tears herself, and the hardest part was still to
come. When she caught Chan Dalton, she would
have to give him medication and use the Tolkov
Stimulator. More and more, it all seemed a pointless
exercise.
She went on, grimy and tired. Even before Flammarion
had left Horus, Chan had been difficult to
handle. He was bigger, stronger, and much faster
than Tatty. She could often manage him only by
using the stun field, slowing and weakening him
enough for her to overpower him.
"Cha-an?" she cried, her voice breaking. "Chan,
come back to Tatty." Silence. Had he found a new
hiding-place? Maybe he was becoming more intelligent,
just a little; or maybe it was all her wishful
thinking. Every day she looked into the bright
blue eyes, willing him to show more understanding;
and every day she was disappointed. The innocence
of a two-year-old stared back at her, always
unable to comprehend why the woman who fed
him, dressed him, hugged him, and put him to bed
at night was also torturing him.
Most of the tunnels inside Horus terminated in
dead ends. After a while, no matter how Chan
tried to escape, he would finish in one of them.
Usually the same ones. He simply lacked the memory
and intelligence needed to learn the pattern of
the paths. Tatty peered at the Tracker and went
wearily forward. She was not more than twenty or
thirty yards away from him now. He had to be
hiding in the next chamber. She saw a rough pile
of plastic sheets draped over powdered rock. Chan
must be behind that, cowering brainlessly with his
face pressed to the dirt. Tatty lifted the stunner
and miserably went the last few yards. He was
there. Weeping.
It broke her heart to take him back to the training
center. She knew she would not need the stunner.
Once she had hold of him his resistance
disappeared. He let himself be led along by the
hand, passive and hopeless. But when he saw the
Stimulator he began to cry again, silently. She sat
him in the padded seat, grimly fitted the headset
and the arm attachments, and turned away as she
increased the power. The screams of pain when
full intensity was reached were bad, but she could
stand those. It was when the treatment was over,
and she released Chan and gave him food, that
Tatty always felt ready to faint. He would crouch
in the chair, sweaty and panting and looking up at
her pleadingly. His face was not that of a human.
It belonged to a tormented animal, dull, resigned,
uncomprehending. She was torturing a helpless
beast, punishing it again and again for a reason it
could not understand.
Kubo Flammarion had instructed her in the use
of the Stimulator before he left. He had told her
that Mondrian would give her more detailed advice
when he came to Horus; but Mondrian never
came. Not even a message. Day after day, she
patiently did her best to follow Flammarion s suggestions.
The three-fold way, of Machine, Medication,
Motivation. It had to be followed with scrupulous
care. "The Stimulator won't work unless
you back it with two other things," he had said.
'You have to follow the drug protocol that we've
set out for you, night and morning, without fail.
But even more important than that, you somehow
have to make Chan Dalton want to learn."
"How, for Shannon's sake? He doesn't seem to
understand even the idea of learning."
Flammarion shrugged and scratched his head.
"Damned if I know, Tatty. All I can tell you is
what they told me. If he doesn't have motivation,
he'll never develop. And where there is motivation,
nine times out of ten the Stimulator will
work a miracle. Here, how about using Leah's picture?"
Flammarion produced a grimy image from
his uniform, a copy of Leah's official identification
when she was inducted into training for the pursuit
team program. "Chan loves her more than

anything in the world. Show him this every time you use the Stimulator--tell him that when the treatments are over he'll be able to go and see Leah again."	.
Tatty took the picture. Every day, after the injections
and after the Stimulator sessions, she made
her speech. "Chan, see the nice picture. Come on, Chan. Get smarter! You've got to want to be more
intelligent, just a little bit more every day. Then
you'll be able to see Leah again--look, here she is. She'll come and see you."
Chan stared at the image. He smiled, and seemed
to know who it was, but that was the only level of response. The days wore on. Tatty was finally ready
to give up the effort. It was hopeless. Chan would
never learn.
She was also feeling more and more desperate about her own situation. No visit from Mondrian. No calls. No messages. He had tricked her into leaving Earth, duped her into doing what he wanted, as he always did--and then forgotten about her. She tried to call him. She could not reach him. Finally, after many attempts, she managed to send a signal from Horus that got past the shielding layers of guards and assistants, right through
to Mondrian's private office on Ceres.
"I'm sorry." One of Mondrian's personal assistants took the call. "Captain Flammarion is busy in a meeting, and Commander Mondrian himself is not here.'
"Then where the devil is he?" snapped Tatty. She had run out of patience.
There was a brief pause. "According to the itinerary
here at the office, Commander Mondrian is visiting Earth. He will be there for two days."
"He's what!"
Tatty disconnected the communicator in a cold, clean rage. To drag her to Horus to do his dirty work was bad enough. But to use her, then neglect
her and go back to Earth himself, without even
telling her . . . Tatty felt the bitterness filling her
body, burning in her stomach. She went on into
the other room, where Chan Dalton was connected
to the Stimulator. The session was almost over. He
was sweating prodigiously, rocking his head from
side to side in the neck brace and headset. Tatty
went to his side.
"Chan! Can you hear me?"
The eyes came open a slit. They were bloodshot
and bulging slightly. There was still meningeal
inflammation and some excess pressure inside the
skull case, but he was listening. She put her arms
around him.
"He's using us, Chan. Both of us." Tears were
running down Tatty's cheeks. "Oh, Channy, I'd
have done anything for him, anything in the world.
I thought he was wonderful. I could even stand it
when I found I'd be marooned out here, because I
thought I'd be helping him. Even do without Paradox,
if I had to. But it's no use. He doesn't care
about us--about anything except himself. Chan,
he's crazy and heartless. He's a devil. He'll destroy
you, if he has to, the way he destroyed me. Don t
let him do it, Chan."
Tatty fumbled in the small overall pocket above
her left breast. She took out a thin wallet, and
from it a miniature holograph. She held the image
out in front of Chan Dalton s face.
"Look, Chan. Look at this. This is the person
who brought us away from home. This is the person
who took Leah away from you. Look at him,
Chan. This is the person who makes you go into
the Stimulator. Do you see him, Chan? You must
get away from here, and find him. Look carefully,
Chan. If you finish here, I can let you go and find
him."
There was a long pause. The bloodshot eyes
opened a fraction farther. Chan Dalton took a deep,
I
shuddering breath. He stared at the hologram, and
at the smiling face of Esro Mondrian. And at last a
faint spark of understanding and feral cunning
seemed to glow for a moment behind those innocent
eyes.

The Margrave of Fujitsu paused for a moment,
lifting his ugly head from the tiny screen. "And
what did you expect to see?" he said. His voice
was puzzled.
Luther Brachis grunted, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, that's a hard question. But more than
this." A sweeping gesture of one arm took in the
whole room, from the grimy skylight window that
looked up and out onto Earth's surface, to the
monstrous computer entry and display system that
covered a whole wall. "Apart from the microscopes,
almost everything here could be part of a standard
computer lab. If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't
know this is a Needler lab at all."
"Ah. I see." The Margrave bent again to the
Casimir Effect microscope, and made a minute
adjustment to the settings. He laughed harshly
without looking up. "Of course. You expected to
see Needlers, did you?--men in white coats, perhaps,
sticking pins in cells? Sorry, but you are
seven hundred years too late." He finally straightened
up, and lifted a foot-high pile of computer
listings from the desk by his side. "In the earliest
days, yes. A strange set of methods was used at
one time to stimulate parthenogenetic egg development.
Ultraviolet radiation, acid and alkaline
solutions, heat, cold, needle puncture, radioactivity--almost
everything was tried, and a surprising
number of them worked. After a fashion. But
those methods produce only exact copies of a parent
organism, not interesting variations. And even
when mutations arise as a side effect of stimulation,
they are quite random. As a way of producing

an art form it would be hopeless--like dropping a
block of marble off a cliff, and hoping to find a
masterpiece of sculpture when you got to the bottom.
Today, everything is planned. Look at this
listing."
Brachis took the stack of sheets and stared blankly
at the top one. "They don't mean a thing to me,
Margrave--"
"Not Margrave. I am simply Fujitsu. Mine was
an imperial line when most of your under-level
braggarts were wearing animal skins and eating
their food raw."
"Sorry, Fujitsu. Anyway, I don't see much here.
Just page after page of repeated random letters."
"An, yes. Random." The Margrave stabbed at
the top page with a long index finger. "Quite so.
This is random in very much the same way as we are random, you and I. What you are holding there
is the complete DNA sequence for a living organism,
in its correct order. This output simply indicates
the nucleotides in each of the chromosomes,
letter-coded for convenience: T for thymine, G for
guanine, C for cytosine, and A for adenine. The
whole listing is built--as are we--from those four
letters. Taken together, they constitute the exact
blueprint for production of a ... an animal." He
looked at Luther Brachis. "I am sorry. You are no
innocent, and I will not insult you by treating you
as such. I will be more specific. The blueprint for
production of a human being."
"But DNA has a coiled spiral structure. There's
no spiral shown here. And anyway, we don't want to produce a human being."
' A coiled spiral is topologically equivalent to a
straight line--and a straight line presentation of
data is far easier to comprehend ana analyze. Don't
worry that this is currently a human encoding. It
is only my starting point. It is, if you will, the
theme from which we will construct our sublime
variations. Any one of these nucleotides can be
changed to any other of the four. We have full
chemical control of the sequence. The chain can be
split, lengthened, shortened, and modified in any
way that we wish." He tapped the stack, with its
endless jumble of letters. "You asked me earlier,
what is my job? Since I am merely evaluating the
possible effects of inserting different DNA fractional
chains into this coding, what can I do that
cannot be done better and faster by a computer? I
have been asked that many times. I can only give
you an answer by analogy. Do you play chess? '
"Somewhat. It is still required training for Level
Six education." Luther Brachis saw no reason to
mention that he was a Grand Master. It was hard
to see how withholding that information could
have future value, but the habit of concealment
was ingrained.
"Then you probably know that, despite many
centuries of work, the best computer chess-playing
programs still fail to beat the best human players.
Now, how can that be? The computer can store a
million times as many games in its memory. It can
evaluate all possible moves, far ahead, to see which
is the best. It is tireless, and does not make foolish
errors. And yet the humans win. How? Because
they can somehow grasp within the quirky, slow,
organic computer of the brain the overall board
position, in a holistic way that goes beyond individual
moves. The computers play better every
year--but so do the humans! The greatest chess
players feel the board, in its entirety, and can extrapolate
its potentials for more levels than any
computer." The Margrave turned to the screen,
where a long sequence of the coded letters was
displayed. "That same ability is possessed by the
best Needlers. In a string of a hundred billion
nucleotide bases, random substitution, exchange,
or deletions would prove totally disastrous. No
viable animal or plant can result. But it is my
special talent--and I assure you, Commander, that
in my field I admit no peers--to sense the final
and total impact of changes in the sequences. To
grasp the pattern, whole. More than that, I can
estimate how different changes will interact with
each other. For instance, suppose I were to invert
the order of the section on the middle of the screen,
and make no other change of any kind. What would
it do? I am not absolutely sure--which is why
what I do is an art and not a science--but I believe
that it would produce a perfectly formed individual,
just a little more hirsute than the norm. Really,
very little change. We are all of amazingly
robust genetic design. There is much redundancy
in the DNA chain, and it stabilizes us against minor
copying errors in the genetic codes.'
"Just who is that on the screen, Fujitsu?" said
Brachis abruptly. He was feeling more uncomfortable
than he expected with the Margrave, largely
because the other man treated his profession with
the cold, clear-eyed enthusiasm of a true fanatic.
To the Margrave of Fujitsu, Luther Brachis suspected
that he was just another section of interesting
genetic code.
The Margrave smiled directly at Brachis for the
first time, showing crooked teeth. "It is no one you
know, Commander. And don't worry, when I am
finished you will see only your Artefact, and nothing
of what lies behind it. The listing you have in
front of you already has within it part of my general
design for your project. King Bester delivered
your specifications to me a week ago. It is such an
intriguing challenge that since then I have worked
on nothing else."
"You mean that you are almost finished?"
"Not yet. As I said, it is a challenge. And also a
mystery, which makes me ask a question. If you do
not wish to answer, that is your business. But I
cannot help wondering about the form that you
provided to me. May I? ' He flashed onto the screen
a colored high-resolution image of a life form.
"There are elements of your specification, here,
and here"--he touched the lower part of the
screen--"that I found enormously difficult to mimic
using organic components. Is this perhaps some
kind of cyborg, inorganically enhanced?"
The screen showed a four-meter oblong shape,
with well-defined head, compound eyes, and a small
mouth. The body was silver-blue, terminating in a
tripod of stubby legs. Regular indentations ran
along the whole length of the shining sides, and
lattice-like wing structures were held close to the
body.
Brachis thought for a moment, before finally
nodding. "I see no reason you should not know. It
is partly inorganic."
"Then you know I cannot actually copy this with
organic components. The best I will be able to do
is make the exterior appearance very similar, and
match the psych profile you gave me. That will be
close enough to fool anyone except an absolute
expert."
"That will be excellent. Remember, it is the mental
performance that matters, more than the actual
physical appearance."
"That is the easier part."
"So when do you expect to have all the Artefacts
ready?" For the first time, Luther Brachis was
betraying impatience. He had stood up and was
looking at his chronometer.
"Another two weeks." Fujitsu stroked his straggly
beard, and turned his pale look on Luther
Brachis. "Is that satisfactory?"
"For all twenty-five copies?"
"Unless you tell me differently. After the first,
the rest are easy. I will require the remainder of
my payment, in trade crystals, hand-delivered as
soon as the Artefacts leave Earth."
"Delivery before payment? You are a trusting
person."
"Find someone on Earth who will agree with
that, Commander, and I will deliver your order
free." The Margrave smiled his snaggle-toothed
smile. "I would never threaten you, but as we say
in my family, I have a long arm. It reaches far out,
and it brings my full dues to me through time and
space. My clients all pay--in one way or another."
Fujitsu was walking with Brachis to the massive
door. "One final question. This project is the most
challenging that I have had for many years. No
one before has ever asked me to replicate an
organism--and such a strange one! Can you tell
me who made them? I would much like to meet
their creator."
"I can give you a name, if that is what you want."
Brachis paused, ready to close the outer door. "The
artefacts you are building for me are called Morgan
Constructs. They were created by a woman, Li via
Morgan. Unfortunately, she is now dead."

It was raining on the surface, a heavy downpour
under black clouds. Brachis strode rapidly back
towards the tunnel entry point. Would Fujitsu now
explore the nature of the Morgan Constructs? He
thought not. And it was worth the risk of giving
their name, to see if King Bester stayed bought.
The King would certainly pry the information out
of the Margrave. The real question was, would
anyone else then hear about it?
Brachis was hurrying, showing less than his usual
caution. He realized his mistake when his feet were
abruptly pulled away from under him, and he went
skidding flat on his back down a steep slope. At
the bottom he tried to stand up. He found a loop of
rope tight around his ankles.
"Got him," said a soft voice. A shielded lamp
shone in his eyes.
Brachis stood up slowly and carefully. There
were five of them. Four were dressed in dark, mottled
clothes that blended into the vegetation patterns
of the surface. The fifth man, obscenely fat,
wore a sequined robe and carried an ornate mace.
Knives and grinning teeth flashed in the lamplight.
They stood in a small circle around Luther
Brachis. (He recalled King Bester's words. "Never
forget: the surface is dangerous. There's the Scavvies.
as well as the local patrols.")
"Scavengers, is it?" growled Brachis, i*Jt low
earth-tongue. "What you want, then? Money, trade
crystals? I got."
"A bit more than that, squire." It was the fat
man, smiling in the circle oflight.
"Do a deal, then? I got friends."
"I know that." The fat man lifted a huge arm
and pointed the mace at Brachis. "See, I know
you. There's people topside who'd pay to have you
back--specially when I send 'em a few fingers or
toes, to prove I'm serious."
Brachis thought he recognized the shape, and
the gloating voice confirmed it. "Bozzie?" he said
rapidly. "Listen, squire, we can do a deal. I can get
you--'
"Not Bozzie to you," said the other man viciously.
"And not squire, either. Off-Earth trash
like you call me Your Majesty. All right, lads, do
him! '
The four came diving at him from sides and
back. Luther Brachis switched to Commando mode.
He smashed the larynx of the man on his left with
the outer edge of his hand, at the same time back
heeling another in the testicles. He pivoted right,
and stabbed a third in the eyes with the stiff outstretched
fingers of his right hand. He spun through
a three-hundred-sixty degree turn. His right arm
swept onwards like a flail. The sleeve of his combat
uniform, hardened by rapid acceleration, shattered
the jaw of the fourth man. Then all were
down, grovelling on the dark earth.
The Duke of Bosny had seen the instant demolition
of his Scavenger group. He dropped the lamp
and went waddling towards the dark fields. Brachis
caught him in a dozen strides, hurled him face
downwards to the ground, and knelt on his back.
He took a grip on Bozzie's neck, forearms locked.
"Now, Your Majesty. Time for some honest answers.
And if you lie, you'll think that your Scavvies
got off easy."
"Anything! Anything." The Duke of Bosny was
trembling, quivering on the ground like a monstrous
jelly. "Don't hurt me. Please! Take what
you want.'
"I want an answer. You were lying in wait for
me. Did you know it was me, or was it a set-up for
anyone who came along? Remember, now, I have
to have the truth."
Bozzie hesitated. Luther Brachis tightened his
grip, flattening the windpipe.
"No!" Bozzie gave a whistling scream. "I'll tell
you. We saw you when you first came up onto the
surface. I recognized you then. We all watched you
go into the Margrave's lab, and decided to wait for
you."
"That the truth?"
"It is, it is. For God's sake, don't hurt me. It's
the truth."
Brachis nodded. "I believe you. Sorry, Bozzie.
That was the wrong answer."
He shifted his grip, moved his hands to lock on
his own arms, and twisted hard. Bozzie's neck
cracked sharply. He jerked, shivered, and lay silent.
Luther Brachis did not give him a second
look. He went to each of the other four in turn,
breaking their necks cleanly and effortlessly. The
whole episode had taken only a couple of minutes.
He thought of rolling the bodies down towards
an irrigation ditch, then decided against it. Scavvie
fights on the surface were common enough, this
would look like just another one--perhaps a bit
more notable than usual, because the Duke of Bosny
had been one of the victims.
Brachis brushed himself down and hurried on
towards the tunnel entrance. Already he had begun
the self-discipline needed to put the incident
temporarily out of his mind. He did not want it to
interfere with what came next.
He could tell himself, with a kind of mocking
self-awareness, that he knew very well he was behaving
illogically. He should worry more about
the possibility that he had somehow left clues on
one of the bodies. But it seemed unimportant now.
He had to get to a certain apartment on the fifty
fifth level.
After only two meetings, he was rushing to his
tryst with Godiva Lomberd, just as though she
were an innocent virgin, as though this were his
first romance. There was no questionable outcome
for this rendezvous, no uncertainty, no doubt what
they were going to do, no danger of rejection. It
would be a wholly commercial transaction, a meeting
controlled by lust, the sordid temporary purchase
of a woman's body.
Brachis could tell himelf all that, and it made
no difference. He was going to meet Godiva Lomberd
again, and for the moment nothing else was
important.

Chapter Nine
CHAN; A DEAL WITH SKRYNOL

The rings were all of different sizes and colors;
the cylinder tapered from a blunt point at the top
down to a thick base. And the rings would all fit
onto it only if they were placed in the correct
sequence, largest to smallest.
Chan Dalton was sitting on the floor, hunched
over the toy. His handsome face was wrinkled with
effort. He picked up the rings one after another,
studying each, then putting it down between his
splayed legs. The whole chamber was cheerfully
decorated in pinks and blues, with paintings and
drawings around the wall and a thick soft carpet
on the floor.
Chan had carefully positioned himself in the exact
center of the room. After long deliberation he
picked up the red ring and placed it on the cylinder.
A few moments more, and he did the same
thing with the orange one. Then the yellow.
"He's getting it right!" Tatty was whispering,
although there was no chance that Chan could
hear her. They were watching him through the one-way glass set into the nursery wall. "Could he
ever do that when he was with you?"
Leah Rainbow shook her head. "Never--he
wouldn't have had the slightest idea!" Her voice
showed her excitement. When she first arrived at
Horus she and Tatty found it difficult to talk. They
had finally and simultaneously realized why. They
were like mothers to Chan--and born the old and the
new mother felt jealous of the other. Tatty resented
it when Chan ran to hug Leah as soon as he
saw her, with a great yell of pleasure and excitement;
Leah hated the proprietary way that Tatty organized
Chan's day, telling him what to do next, where
his clothes must go, and what he had to eat. Leah
thought of that as her prerogative.
The daily session with the Tolkov Stimulator
had been another cause of tension between them.
Leah took for heartlessness Tatty's firm insistence
that Chan had to have daily treatment, whether
there was a visitor or not. She would not help
Tatty to catch him or to strap him in. And the
presence of her own picture and Esro Mondrian's,
where Chan could see them both when he was in
the Stimulator, had perplexed her. What was Tatty
doing?
But when the treatment began, she could not
ignore Tatty's anguish and misery as Chan writhed
in the padded seat. The thing that had finally won
Leah over was the bedroom and nursery that Tatty
had made for Chan. They were so thoughtfully
done, and showed so much evidence of love and
caring.
She remembered Horus very well from her brief
stay before she went off for training. It had been
horrible; gloomy, dirty, depressing--more like a
barracks than any place to bring a child (and Chan was a child to Leah, in spite of his physical age
and appearance). Now it was transformed.
"How did you possibly manage all this?" she
said, after Tatty had shown her around room after
room, elegantly decorated and furnished, and each

one designed to take advantage of the natural and
manmade features of the interior of Horus.
Tatty laughed. It was wonderful to have somebody
appreciate her efforts. Chan took it all for
granted, and Kubo Flammarion seemed more comfortable
with the old dirt and mess.
"I got tired of living in a pit," she said. "Nobody
would tell me how long I might be here. But all
the old excavation and service robots are still
around, because nobody drought it worthwhile hauling
them away. I found out how to re-program
them--it took time, but I had plenty of that--and
set them in to clear out the trash and make this
place livable. One of them could even produce
pretty good carpets and wall hangings. So once I
started, I guess I became a bit compulsive. Poor
old Kubo Flammarion." She smiled at the memory.
"He came out here a couple of weeks ago, and
I wouldn't let him into Chan's quarters until he
took a bath and cleaned his uniform. He did it, but
he was devastated. And Chan made it worse. 'Kubo
change,' he said. 'Not stinky any more. Except
hat.' And he stole Kubo's cap and threw it into the
garbage disposal--Kubo hadn't bothered to clean
it, I suppose he thought we'd never notice. But
Chan noticed. He is improving, isn't he?" Her voice
was full of relief. "I wondered if I was imagining
the change, just because I was wishing it so hard.
But you see it, too. He's a bit smarter, I'm sure of
it."
"He certainly is," said Leah. "Look at him now."
Chan had carefully and slowly assembled the
complete stack of rings. Now he was just as painstakingly
taking them off again. They watched until
he had finished, then both applauded. Next he
picked up a set of red plastic blocks. They were of
complex individual shapes, but could fit together
to make a perfect cube. He fiddled with them 
aimlessly for a while, then threw them down in a heap
on the floor.
"That's still too hard for him," said Leah. "He's
progressing, but it's terribly slow. At this rate it
will take years."
"It's not linear," said Tatty. "According to Kubo,
if it works at all we can expect to see slow progress
at first. Then it will all come in one big rush,
maybe in one session on the Stimulator. We don't
know when it might happen, and we don't know
how far Chan will go, because we're not sure what
was wrong with his brain in the first place. He
could finish up slow, or average--or even super
smart, I suppose, though the chance of that is
pretty small. All we can do is wait and see." She
looked down at Chan. "Well, that's just theory.
We've got more practical things to worry about
first. I have to get his dinner ready. If you want to,
you can help feed him--though there's not so much
need for that now. He's still a bit messy. But he's
no worse than Kubo. You should have seen the
two of them--it was disgusting. Want to come
with me to the kitchen? You still haven't told me
just what you've been doing in your training
program."
"I'll get to it," said Leah. "You know, when
Bozzie sold us back on Earth I thought it was the
worst thing that could ever happen. I was terrified.
And now I'm in the middle of the training-- and I love it! We just finished the end of the first
phase, that's why I have a short break. But I'll
have to leave Horus again the day after tomorrow,
and go back to Cobweb Station. We'll be meeting
some of the alien partners, and starting to form a
real team. I already met a Tinker. They're not as
weird as people say. Ours even made jokes--in
standard solar! And none of us has been able to
make any headway at all with their language. It
doesn't have verbs or nouns or adjectives or
anything--just buzzing sounds. And the language
of the Angels is supposed to be far harder than
Tinker talk! We have to rely on computers for our
translation--though apparently they understand us. It's disturbing. I was told in training that humans
are the smartest species, but I'm beginning to have
lots of doubts ...
The performance with the rings had put both
women into a good mood. They were chatting happily
as they walked through into the dining area.
Chan was left playing on his own in the nursery.
For five minutes after they left he sat on the floor,
not moving. Then he stood up, ran rapidly across
to the door, and up the narrow ramp that led to
the one-way mirror. He made sure no one was
behind it, then hurried back to the nursery.
First he went across to the smiling photograph
of Esro Mondrian that Tatty had pinned on his
wall, in among all the colorful drawings of animals,
plants, people, and planets. He stared at it
hard. Then he went back to the middle of the
nursery floor and the pile of red plastic blocks. He
picked up four of them and quickly and economically
began to put them together. In less than
thirty seconds he had assembled the whole cube.
He stared at it for a few moments, then just as
quickly took it apart and placed the pieces on the
carpeted floor. Finally he lifted his eyes, and stared
again at Mondrian's picture.
He smiled. And it was a perfect copy of the smile
on the face of Esro Mondrian.

Four hundred million kilometers away, that face
was beaded with perspiration. Mondrian lay in
darkness on a hard couch, gritting his teeth and
breathing in short, fast gasps.
He could see nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing--even
the electrodes on his body no longer
produced sensation. After a while the total 
darkness drained all volition. He felt that he was alone,
that there was nothing else in the universe. The
endless series of questions did not help. They
seemed to come from within, from inside the deep
hiding places of his brain. He struggled to give
answers that would end the questioning. The effort
was agony, tearing at the lining of his skull.
He groaned aloud.
"You are resisting again," said the soft voice of
Skrynol. "Every time we approach this area, evasion
begins. I think we must stop for today."
There was a gentle touch on Mondrian s sweating
body. The electrodes were being removed.
"We're getting nowhere," he said hoarsely. "I'm
wasting your time and mine."
"On the contrary, we are progressing. As we
define the area that you will not allow me to enter,
I will be able to infer its nature more and more
accurately. Already we have certain facts. For example,
I know you are hiding the result of a very
early experience--something that happened before
you were three years old. You have spent all your
life since then building mental walls around it.
That is why they are hard to break down. Second,
your recurring dreams are all related to that same
experience. There is a pattern. They are always
either a re-creation of your trauma, or a flight
from it. The vision is always the same: you as a
central figure, surrounded by the warm, light, safe
region."
'That is not a new insight. Other Fr'oppers have
told me the same thing. They said the safe region
is symbolic of the womb."
"Of course they say that." Skyrnol's voice sharpened.
"It is a simple-minded conclusion. And it is
a wrong one. I can recognize womb symbolism,
and this is something quite different. Let me continue.
You feel that you control everything within
the safe region--but the region is shrinking. Every
day, the dark has approached a little closer. You
sense devils in that dark. But there is no place to
hide, for you are always at the center of the lighted
region. If you run away--in any direction--the danger
will be closer yet. So you cannot flee, and you
dare not stay. That is the source of your nightmares."
"Even
if you are right, how can it help me?"
"We must go back--farther, deeper. And you
must help me to do it."
Mondrian remained silent.
"You are afraid," went on Skrynol at last. "I
understand that. Our secret fears are always sacred.
You can be helped. But only if you really
want to. You must trust me more, tell me your
secrets, let me feel with you and for you." There
was a laugh in the darkness. "You are horrified at
that idea. I know. But our secrets are never as
well-kept as we would like to imagine. Let me tell
you one of your secrets, because until it is out of
the way we will never reach back far enough."
Mondrian became totally still. "You think I have
secrets?"
"You have at least one. According to your official
record, you were born on Oberon, the son of a
mining engineer who was pregnant when she went
out there. Correct?"
"That is right."
"So tell me about your mother. What sort of a
woman was she?"
"I have told you several times. I have no memory
of my mother. She was killed in an accident
soon after I was born."
"You have told me that. And you have been
lying." Skrynol's fleshy hand came out to grip
Mondrian by the shoulder. "Your mother is dead,
true enough. But you remember what she looked
like. And you were not born on Oberon. You were born on Earth. As a child, you were sold on Earth.
Do not try to deny it. / know. You lived on Earth
for the first eighteen years of your life, a commoner,
in poverty and misery until you made a
chance to escape. Today you are an educated, sophisticated
man. You have refined tastes. You appreciate
beauty, ideas, good literature, great music,
great art, fine food and drink. And yet you were shaped on Earth. Part of you is still locked into the
dirt, ignorance, and stupidity where you began.
Your nightmare begins here, on this planet."
Mondrian writhed in Skrynol's grip, reacting
more to the words than to the pressure on his
shoulder. "Damn you, Skrynol. You could search
the solar system, and never find that in any record.
Only one person knew. How for Shannon's
sake did you make Tatiana tell you?"
"She did not tell me, Mondrian. I deduced it.
Your self control is phenomenal, but it cannot be
perfect. Every time the subject of Earth, and of
people born on Earth, came up, half a dozen physical
variables in your system varied a point or
two. A small thing, but enough. I added other
questions, and integrated their answers. The conclusion
was clear."
"Damn you. Who will you tell?"
"I do not know. Perhaps nobody."
Mondrian was fumbling in the darkness at the
shirt pocket of his uniform. He pulled out a thin
packet, and thrust it blindly in front of him. "Then
let this give you an incentive for silence. Look
inside."
The packet was removed from his hands. There
was a long silence, then a soft clicking noise. Light
slowly brightened the chamber. "Darkness is essential
during questioning," said Skrynol. "But it
is no longer serving a useful purpose.'
Mondrian sat upright. Crouched before him was
a giant tubular shape. The pale lemon of the body
bifurcation showed that Skrynol was a female Pipe
Rilla.
She was not of the usual form. There were
changes to the long thorax, and one pair of forelimbs
had been augmented by fleshy appendages
resembling human hands and arms. Skrynol held
out the package that Mondrian had given her.
"To satisfy my curiosity," she said, "where and
how did you manage to obtain these pictures?"
"On my first visit." Mondrian touched the fire
opal at his collar. "This holds a multiple-wavelength
imaging device. I tried many spectral regions; thermal
infrared and microwave were both satisfactory."
"Ah."
Skrynol was crouched quietly on long,
orange-black hind legs, nodding her head. "A failure
on my part. I observed your apparent nervous
manipulation of that gemstone. I noticed it was
oddly at variance with your general control; but I
failed to draw a conclusion. Mondrian, your power
of deception is amazing. Will you tell me why you
thought it necessary to make images?"
"I wanted to learn the shape of someone who
claimed to be too hideous to be seen. Perhaps you
were not too strange to be seen, but too familiar. I
thought you might be hiding something--I had no
idea what.''
"And when you saw the result?" Skrynol stood
upright, towering towards the roof. Her dark compound
eyes peered down at Mondrian. "Surely it
would have been more in keeping with your job to
report your findings, rather than bring the pictures
here."
"Report to whom? Myself, as head of Security?"
Mondrian shook his head. "There were too many
unanswered questions. I could have made a fuss,
and then looked like a fool. You resembled a PipeRilla,
but there were differences. You had said you
were an Artefact, a clever product of a Needler
lab. That could have been true."





"Could have been?" Skrynol tilted her dark head.
"You reject that hypothesis?"
"Yes. I am now convinced that you are not an
Artefact. You are a Pipe-Rilla, surgically modified
for Earth environment and for efficient human
speech. And that eliminated my second possibility-- that you were some kind of renegade Pipe-Rilla,
hiding here from her fellows."
There was a hissing laugh eight feet above Mondrian's
head. "You mean a 'criminal,' as you call
it, taking refuge on this world? Come now, Mondrian.
What crime could I commit, with punishment
worse than banishment to this planet, and
endurance of these surgical disfigurements?" Skrynol
held out the fleshy forelimbs. "As your people
say, 'Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it.' You have
a third conjecture?"
"Yes. The one that must be correct. You were
modified and sent here with the knowledge and
approval of your government. Earth is the only planet
of the solar system where such concealment is
possible. You are a spy and observer for the
Pipe-Rillas."
Skrynol slowly lowered herself, with a cantilevering
of long, multi-jointed limbs, until once
more she was Face to face with Esro Mondrian.
"All the members of the Stellar Group feel a need
to observe humans. You are too violent, too unpredictable.
But if I admit that you are right, then are
you not now in danger? I must protect my secret."
Mondrian shook his head. "You have been physically
modified, but you are still mentally a PipeRilla.
You are not capable of violence. Whereas
I . . ."
"A shrewd observation, and one that I cannot
dispute. But I am not without other means of persuasion.
You have your own needs. You could announce
my presence here, true; but if you did,
your treatment here with me would cease. And we
are making progress, approaching the heart of your
problem. You admit it? '
"I am sure of it." Mondrian laughed without
humor. "Why else would I dread these sessions
with you?"
"So you must make your own evaluation: am I a
danger to humans so great that you must reveal
my existence now, or does your personal need dominate
the situation?" Skrynol leaned back on her
hind joints and chittered with amusement. "Your
human term for this is unique to your species, but
it is appropriate. You call it a 'conflict of interest'
--always, you see, you think in terms of conflict,
war, battle, fighting."
"What would a Pipe-Rilla call it?"
"It would not arise. To us, the good of the many
always takes priority over the need of the individual.
We do not claim credit for this. It is built into
us from first meiosis. It is the reason that I am
here, alone and deformed, many lightyears from
home and mates. But humans are often dominated
by individual needs. And so, Esro Mondrian, you
must make a decision. Exposure for me, or treatment
for you. Which will it be?"
Mondrian was silent for a moment. "What is
your name?" he said at last. "Your Pipe-Rilla
name?"
"I could tell it to you. It is not a secret. But you
will not be able to say it--unless you propose to
learn to stridulate." The Pipe-Rilla laughed. "You
must still call me Skrynol. That is similar to a
word in our speech which means 'the insane one.'
A mad Pipe-Rilla, living on Madworld--it is appropriate.
I say again, we have a stalemate. I know
your secret. You know mine. What will we do
now?"
Esro Mondrian gestured to Skrynol to come
closer. He carefully straightened the tunic of his
uniform. "What I already intended when I came here today. Why do you think that I brought the packet of pictures? We agree, we both have needs. And once we acknowledge that, we can negotiate."

Chapter Ten

LUTHER BRACHIS
MAKES HIS BID

The offices of Dougal Macdougal, Solar High
Ambassador to the Stellar Group, formed a huge
and perfect dodecahedron. Five hundred meters
on a side, it sat deep beneath the surface of Ceres.
Access to it was provided by a dozen entrances on
every one of its twelve faces.
The magnificent private office of Dougal Macdougal
was at the very center of the dodecahedron.
It had just one entrance, approached down a
long corridor. Halfway along the corridor and opening
onto it was a tiny office, barely big enough for
one person. In that office, seemingly for twenty
four hours a day, sat Lotos Sheldrake. A diminutive
doll-like woman with the unlined face of a
child, she guarded access to the spacious inner
sanctum like a soldier ant protecting the queen's
chamber. Macdougal saw no one until she had
approved the visit; nothing entered that office, not
even cleaning robots, unless she had inspected it.
Luther Brachis walked slowly down the approach
corridor. He entered Sheldrake's cramped office
and sat down uninvited on the single visitor's chair.
Lotos Sheldrake was reviewing a list of supplicant
names, crossing off about half of them. She
did not look up until her analysis was complete.
"A surprise visit, Commander," she said at last.
She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. "You want
an audience with the ambassador? We are honored--I
believe this is the first such request."
"Don't give me that, Lotos." Brachis smiled
grimly. "When you see me come in here and try to
meet with old numbnuts, you'll know it's time to
cart me off to the recycling yards."
"That is no way to refer to His Excellency, the
ambassador." Sheldrake did not look in the least
upset. She leaned back in her seat. "So what's
your business?"
"You know about the Morgan Constructs, and
the decision made by the Stellar Group ambassadors?"
An
imperceptible nod, and the hint of a smile on
the doll's face. "I know. Poor Luther. After all your
efforts, you were told to report to Esro Mondrian.
My heart bled for you."
"I'm sure of it," said Brachis drily. "Bled liquid
nitrogen, if I know you. But let me get right to
business. Do you know what actions it would take
to reverse that decision--to get me back to at least
an equality of rank with Mondrian?"
"Suppose I do know. Why should I tell you?"
"Still the same sweet Lotos." Luther Brachis
pulled an object about two inches long from his
pocket. "Take a look at this, then let's continue the
conversation."
Lotos Sheldrake warily pointed the viewer across
to the wall, and pressed the control on its side. A
three-dimensional color image appeared. At its center
moved a silver-blue cylinder with a tripod of
stubby legs and a lattice of shining wing-like panels.
Sheldrake hissed, and jerked back from the display.
"Luther Brachis, I hope for your sake this is
an old holograph. If you have located a Morgan
Construct and not revealed the fact to us, you will
have earned the death penalty. Remember, we do
not share the rest of the Stellar ambassadors' softness
of heart. It is an old holograph, is it not? Or a
simulation?"
Brachis shook his head. "It is less than one week
old. And it is not a simulation." He watched, as
her hand went out towards a button set into the
smooth top of her desk. "Listen a little longer
before you call the guards, Lotos. You don't want
to make a fool of yourself. What you are looking at
is not a Morgan Construct, I promise you that. It is
an Artefact. But examine it as closely as you want
to, and I feel sure you will be unable to detect the
difference."
Lotos Sheldrake hesitated, then pulled back her
hand from the button. "There was recent talk on
Vesta of Artefacts being made to resemble mixtures
of organic and inorganic systems, but I dismissed
it as wild rumor. What's your game, Luther?
I will give you two more minutes."
"I'm here to help you, Lotos." Brachis reached
for the display unit and put it back in his pocket.
"Mondrian and I have the responsibility for training
the pursuit teams. If we do poorly, and team
members are killed by the Morgan Constructs, then
we humans will be blamed by the others of the
Stellar Group. Now, you and I know that the training
responsibility will not be yours, or Ambassador
Macdougal's. You will have nothing to do with
it. But we also know that if things go wrong, it
will be considered your fault. He'll be the first
person to take the heat. And you'll be the second.
Do you want that?"
"You're as sneaky as Mondrian." There was
grudging respect in Sheldrake's voice. "Keep talking,
Luther.'
'The big problem is this: how do you train a
group to seek out and destroy a Morgan Construct, when they have never seen anything like one? Build
more, to use for training? That would be vetoed by
the ambassadors before you could even finish the
suggestion. Use some other creation, maybe, a safe
one that resembles a Morgan Construct? That
sounds good--but we know of nothing remotely
like the Constructs."
"Your point, Luther? Two minutes are up."
"Suppose that you, Lotos Sheldrake, were in
possession of something that looked like a Morgan
Construct, and acted like one--but was perfectly
safe? Suppose this being was an Artefact, created
unable to harm a human or other intelligent
life-form?"
Lotos Sheldrake smiled, showing an even array
of pearly teeth. "Sounds familiar. That's what Livia
Morgan said about her Constructs."
"And she was wrong. I know. But the rules governing
the manufacture of such Artefacts are well
established. And this time there would be every
opportunity for controlled checking--you could run
these creatures through their paces in every environment
you like, for as long as you like, until you
are convinced that they are perfectly safe. Now,
suppose there was a limited number of these Artefacts,
and they were all available to you alone. You
could go to Ambassador Macdougal, and tell him
that you--you alone--had the answer to all the
problems of practical training. In everything except
their ability to harm us, these creatures will
look and behave like Morgan Constructs--they were
designed and built that way." Luther Brachis leaned
back in his seat. "Interested? There are exactly
twenty-five of them, available now, packed away
in suspended storage."
"Where?"
"I didn't hear that, Lotos. But if you could arrange
for me to be reinstated at a level ecjual to
Mondrian, my hearing might improve fast.'
"Do you realize what you're asking? You want
Macdougal to persuade the other three species of
the Stellar Group to change their minds. How for
Shannon's sake is he supposed to do that?"
"It will be simple. All he has to do is tell them
that I had a bigger hand in the original fiasco.
According to their insane logic, if I'm as guilty as
Mondrian, we will share responsibility for clearing
up the mess we made."
Lotos Sheldrake raised her eyebrows. "That may
just be stupid enough to work. But how do I know
that I'll get credit for all this? What about Esro
Mondrian?"
"Are you afraid of him?"
"Of course I am. I'm not a fool, Luther. You and
Mondrian are both dangerous men." She smiled
beatifically. "But you're a comparatively simple
soul. When you don't like somebody, you'll do your
best to kill them on the spot. Now with Esro,
people who get in his way tend to die and never
feel the wound. He always has at least six different
agendas going, and I feel I can never guess more
than four or five of them. And when he wants to,
he can charm the pants off anybody he meets-- anybody at all. He manipulates me, he manipulates
you, he uses everybody." She looked admiringly
at Brachis's powerful body. "You, now, you're
dangerous like a bear. He's like a snake. You are
ambitious; he is driven. Yes, Luther, I am afraid of
Esro Mondrian. And so is any rational man or
woman. End of speech."
"You're afraid enough to kill the deal? So what
kind of animal are you?"
"Need you ask, Luther?" Lotos Sheldrake opened
her innocent eyes wide. "I'm a sweet little honeybee.
All I desire is a little nectar from each flower,
with harm to no one. And when did you hear me
say the deal was off? I am merely taking routine
precautions. What's to prevent Mondrian from arranging
a supply of these same Artefacts, once he
knows they exist? For that matter, what's to stop you doing the double-cross? You know their source,
and I do not."
"I have a way to reassure you fully on that
question." Luther Brachis sat scowling in his seat,
arms crossed on his broad chest. "We can talk
about this in detail--when every other issue is
resolved."
"Then with that understanding, you have my
cooperation. I will explore this with Ambassador
Macdougal as soon as possible." She was looking
at her watch. "And I will be back in touch with
you before the end of the day."
"One thing more." Luther Brachis remained
sitting. "As part of this deal, I want one additional
favor--a small one."
"Thirty seconds."
"I want Solar citizenship arranged for someone--fast."
"From
one of the colonies?" Lotos Sheldrake
began to shake her head. "I can't--"
"From Earth."
"Earth\ Who is he?"
"She. It is a woman, Godiva Lomberd."
"But why citizenship? Why not just a long-term
visitor's agreement?"
"I want to engage in a contract with her."
"Ah." Lotos Sheldrake stared curiously at Brachis.
She laughed. "A contract! Can this be? Luther
Brachis, the invincible, considering a contract with
an Earth-woman. You have told me fifty times
that nothing good ever comes from Earth. You had
me persuaded of it. My opinion of you goes down.
Maybe you are a blind mole, and not a Dear."
"But you will arrange for her citizenship?"
"If the Artefacts are as good as you claim." Lotos
Sheldrake looked briefly at a notebook on the desk
in front of her. "Let us assume that all is as you
say. Then I believe everything can be arranged
here within five days." She stood up and began to
shepherd Brachis towards the door. "And when all
is ready, and you transfer Godiva Lomberd up
from Earth, bring her here to see me. I am curious
to meet the woman who made Commander Luther
Brachis go soft in the head."

"You have it with you?" asked the Margrave.
King Bester nodded and patted the bag he was
carrying. "Every last crystal of it."
"Then come in." The heavy outer door closed
firmly, shutting out the sky of Earth, and the Margrave
led the way to his private study. It was a
room that had been decorated with immense care,
somehow blending to one harmonious whole the
Qin dynasty terracotta horsemen, Beardsley prints,
original Vermeers and van Meegerens, and the
computer-enhanced images of Earth from space.
In one corner, shielded from all direct light, stood
Sorudan. It was Fujitsu's masterpiece, the prize
creation that he would never consider selling.
The Margrave waved Bester to a comfortable
looking armchair. "I think that a small celebration
would not be out of order," he said. He scrutinized
Bester closely, assessing the level of sophistication
of the other man's palate, frowned, and disappeared
into a closet in the corner of the study. He
emerged carrying a bottle of pale amber liquid
and two small glasses.
"Despite all our progress," he said, "one cannot
improve on perfection." He carefully poured an
ounce or two of fluid into each glass, and handed
one to Bester.
The other man sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, leaned
his head back, and drained the glass in one long
swallow. He rolled his eyes. "Mm. Bit of all right,
Fujitsu. What is it?"
The Margrave glared at him. His opinion of Bester
had been confirmed. "It was one of the finest 
distilled liquors ever produced on Earth. Santory
scotch whiskey, cask-aged in the Hokkaido deep
vaults, single malt, two hundred and fifty years
old. When I hear of the ambrosia of the Gods, I
wonder how it differed from this." He shook his
massive bald head, and took a first delicate sip.
"Superb. Ah, well, I suppose we may as well get down to business. Did Brachis say anything regarding
the delivery?"
"Not a thing." King Bester lifted the bag and
prepared to stack its contents on the table that sat
between them. "I've counted these, and you might
want to do the same." He saw the Margrave's look.
"Not because of anything I've done," he said hastily.
"This is just the way they were given to me."
The bag was full of virgin trade crystals, their
unused surfaces gleaming a dull rust-red in the
subdued light of the study. King Bester lifted the
crystals out one at a time, carefully examining
each one and gloating over its quality before placing
it on the table in front of the Margrave.
"Best I've ever seen. Wait a minute, though,
what's this one doing in here?" Bester drew out a
flat, plate-like crystal, round in shape and a couple
of inches across. Unlike the others, it had a smooth
surface and no inner glow to it. "I don't remember
this one going in there."
As he spoke, the blue-grey surface came alive.
There was a swirl of colors, and then suddenly a
picture. The likeness of Luther Brachis had formed
in miniature on the face of the plate and was
peering out at them.
The tiny image spoke, in a metallic voice. "Remember
what you told me, King? That any information
you got from Fujitsu would come back to me alone. What happened to your promise, King?"
Bester stared down at the image, eyes bulging.
He was still holding half a dozen crystals in his
hand. The Margrave had jerked nervously to his feet.
"But you didn't keep your word, did you, King?"
went on the tinny voice. "You found out from the
Margrave about the deal for the Artefacts--and
you found another buyer for the information." The
light from the small plate was steadily increasing.
Now the face of Luther Brachis had almost disappeared,
swamped by the intensity of the glowing
crystal. "That was a very bad mistake, King," said
Brachis, in distorted tones.
"Bester! Look out!" As the Margrave shouted the
words, he started towards the door of the study.
"Don't touch the crystals."
His cry was too late. King Bester had tried to
drop the crystals he was holding, but they stuck to
his palm. He shook his hand wildly, trying unsuccessfully
to dislodge them. They had begun to glow
brighter, together with all the ones on the table.
"As for you, Fujitsu," went on Brachis, "I don't
know how much you were in the deal. If you are
innocent, you have my deepest apologies. But that
is all I can give you."
The Margrave was at the door. He paused for a
moment, and pointed back. His face was distorted
with fury. "I will receive my due, Brachis. My full
due. That I promise you."
He did not attempt to say more, because King
Bester began a hideous high-pitched screaming and
a mad capering dance around the study. The crystals
in his hand were now incandescent. Lines of
fire from each one were spreading up his arm,
running in blue-white sprays of sparks to his shoulder,
and then out onto his chest. The flames spread
further. At the Margrave's last sight of him, King
Bester had become a brilliant living torch, a faceless
apparition of fire that still screamed and leaped
in impossible agony.
The Margrave ran through the laboratory,
slammed the heavy door behind him, and dashed up
the stairs that led to the surface. At the top he
halted. A new voice, inhumanly high and pure,
had been added to Bester's screams.
"Sorudan#! The light!" The Margrave hesitated
and looked back towards the closed door. Then he
groaned, shook his head as though to banish the
sound from his ears, and fled away from the laboratory.
Blind to any danger from Scavengers, he
ran headlong through the cultivated fields. Behind
him the windows of his laboratory shone brighter
and brighter, and the unworldly melody rose ever
higher and more beautiful.
He was fifty yards away and just beginning to
feel safe when the explosion came.

In his compulsion to be sure of destroying the
laboratory, Luther Brachis had indulged in massive
overkill. Everything within a quarter of a mile
of the laboratory was vaporized. A vast crater
formed in the outer layers of Delmarva Town.
The Margrave's religion taught that the reward
for a life well lived was the separation of body and
soul. Upon his death, it was Fujitsu's desire to be
released from all corporeal bonds. His component
atoms would then be free to ride the swirling winds
of Earth, as they moved endlessly around the turning
globe.
In his miscalculation of the size of explosive
needed, Luther Brachis had granted the Margrave
his heart's desire.

Chapter Eleven
THE BREAKTHROUGH

On the good days, Tatty could not resist reaching
out to Chan and hugging him. He was a grown
man, big and agile and powerful, but he was also a little boy. And like a little boy, he was proud of
any new thing he could do, and eager to show off
to Tatty.
On the bad days, the simple and lovable child
just vanished. Chan would say nothing, cooperate
in nothing; was interested in nothing. She wanted to reach out and shake him until he took notice.
And this was a bad day. One of the worst. Tatty told herself to keep calm and not lose self-control.
With another Stimulator session due in an hour, she had to be available to comfort Chan and ease him through the agony and misery. But for the moment ...
"Chan! Come on now, look at the display. See, that's Earth. You were born on Earth, and so was I. These are pictures of parts of Earth. Chan! You-- you--look at the display!"
Chan stared vacantly at the three-dimensional
display for a second, then again began to study the fine hair along his forearm and wrist. Tatty swore,
and slammed down the button to advance the 
presentation. Useful or not, she had to run through
the whole program.
Not one word of it going into his head, she said to
herself. Too abstract for him--far too abstract. Whose
stupid idea was it to give astronomy lessons, when
he can't even pick out the letters of the alphabet?
He's supposed to absorb at an unconscious level, is
he? Sure. Some hopes. He never remembers the lessons
. . . and he doesn't seem one bit interested in
them. Waste of his time. Waste of my time, too . . .
but what else is there for me to do here? . .. I should
be on Earth ... if only I could get away from this
awful place. Earth. Oh God, look at those gorgeous
pictures. Seas and skies and rivers and forests and
cities. I wish I were there now, back in my apartment,
just me and ... if Esro Mondrian were here
now I would kill him . . . heartless, passionless, treacherous,
monstrous, ruthless . . .
While her thoughts consumed her, the lesson
continued. Chan toured the whole solar system,
bit by bit, in gorgeous, three-dimensional images.
The training center on Horus was an expensive
one. The trainees were moved into the display,
seeing, hearing, and sensing everything as though
they were present at each location. Chan and Tatty
floated together down to the surface of Venus, where
the atmosphere corroded and burned, and every
boulder and jutting rock shimmered in the eternal
heat. Somehow, the closed surface domes supported
four hundred million people. Then inward, inside
the orbit of Mercury, on all the way to the Vulcan
Nexus, where the solar photosphere flamed and
erupted in savage storms of light. The surface
seemed close enough to touch. Tatty shrank back
in real terror, even though she knew it was just a
display. Chan stared at it impassively, with no
trace of emotion.
They moved out, on past Earth to the thriving
Mars colonies. There was a sense of enormous excitement
here. Zero hour was only a few years
away--the magic moment when sufficient volatiles
would have been shipped in through the outsized
Mattin Link system, and a human could
survive on the surface with no breathing equipment.
Already the atmosphere was almost as dense
as on the top of Earth's highest mountains. Defying
basic biology, daredevil young people were
venturing out on the surface every day, without
oxygen masks. The lucky ones were found in time
and brought back suffering from extreme anoxia.
Chan and Tatty were carried farther from the
Sun, out to the hive of the Asteroid Belt where a
hundred busy minor planets made up the commercial
and political power center of the solar
system. From there it was outward again, to the
huge industrial bases on Europa, Titan, and Oberon.
Wearing Monitor headsets, Chan and Tatty were
plunged deep into the icy slush below the deep
atmosphere of Uranus, where the Ergatandromorph
Constructs tirelessly built their fusion plants and
the Uranian Link system. That work was still three
centuries from completion. Chan, interested in nothing,
stared woodenly at the Ergas.
When the survey of the old solar system was at
last complete, Tatty looked at Chan. Still no reaction.
Signing, she signalled for the lesson to continue.
Together they leaped four hundred billion
kilometers, into the outer darkness. They watched
the world-sized bulk of the Oort Harvester at work,
a gigantic cylinder lumbering along through the
hundred billion members of the cometary cloud.
Slow and tireless, a quarter of a lightyear from the
Sun, it hunted down bodies rich in simple organic
molecules, converted them by the billions of tons
to sugars, fats, and proteins, and sent the products
back through Links to the inner system.
Finally Chan and Tatty leaped again, and reached
the quiet outpost of the solar system. Over a
lightyear out, they drifted among the Dry Tortugas;
these arid, volatile-free shards of rock marked
the boundary of Sol's domain. Beyond this point,
any matter was gravitationally shared with other
stars. The Sun was a chilly pinprick of light, less
bright than Venus seen from Earth. Temperatures
hovered a few degrees above absolute zero. Together,
Chan and Tatty looked at billion-year-old
metal tetrahedra, enigmatic relics left by a race
that was old before Man was young.
So far the lesson had been a general one, designed
to show Chan the structure, economy, and
infrastructure of the solar system. Now it became
specific to pursuit-team training. The display
changed scale again. It moved out beyond the solar
system, to consider the geometry of the Stellar
Group. The region of accessible space was a vast
sphere, fifty-eight lightyears across and centered
on Sol. The Perimeter marked its outer boundary.
The probe ships, limited to a tenth of light speed,
expanded the sphere by at most ten lightyears a
century. Humans had encountered no other species
possessing the Mattin Link, so the Perimeter
remained centered on Sol. And communication with
anything or anyone outside the Perimeter was impracticable
... unless and until (people had talked
of it for centuries) the expanding spherical bubble
of the Perimeter met a second bubble ... blown
by another species, who had also learned the secret
of the Mattin Link.
(Humans had written thousands of papers and
millions of words, attempting to analyze the implications
of such a meeting. Just as, in an earlier
era, writers had endlessly discussed the first contact
with extraterrestrial intelligent beings. Like
those analyses, many of the new papers were well
argued and persuasive--and contradicted each
other.)
In the final segment of the lesson, the home
stars of the other three known intelligent species
were shown within the sphere. The Pipe-Rillas had
been found first, in the binary star system of Eta
Cassiopeiae, eighteen lightyears from Sol. Next the
Perimeter had reached the Tinkers, twenty-three
lightyears out. Their home world was Mercantor,
circling the star Fomalhaut. And finally there were
the newcomers to the Stellar Group, the Angels.
They lived on a planet that orbited Capella, forty
five lightyears from Earth. They had been discovered
by the probes only a century and a half ago.
The Angel language, civilization, and thought processes
still offered major mysteries for humans.
In the last half-minute of the lesson, images of
each species were added to the displays. They had
been provided by Kubo Flammarion, in an optimistic
attempt to make Chan feel comfortable in
advance with alien forms. The screen first showed
the quivering purple-black mass of a Tinker Composite,
then an enlarged view of the individual
components from which the Tinker was made. They
were fast-flying legless creatures of minimal intelligence,
each about the size of a hummingbird and
massing only fifty grams. The individuals possessed
just enough nerve tissue to permit independent
locomotion, sensation, feeding, breeding, and clustering.
Each had a ring of eyes on its blunt head,
and long antennae to allow coupling into the Composite.
The components were purple-black, with
shiny, sticky-looking bodies. Tatty stared at them
in fascination. She was sorry when the display
moved on to show the arthropod cylinder segments
of a Pipe-Rilla, and finally the dull green fronds of
an Angel. She looked at Chan to see how he had
reacted to the sight of the aliens. He was not looking
at the display at all. He was staring at her.
"Chan," she began in annoyance. Then she saw
his grimace of discomfort. He grunted, and reached
up to place his hands on the sides of his head.
"Chan, what's wrong?"
"Head bad." He mumbled. He was rubbing at
his temples, then his eyes. "Picture--make head
bad."
Was he at one of the critical points? Flammarion
had told her to be specially watchful for headaches.
They could lead to fever, nervous degeneration,
and rapid death. Tatty went across, knelt by
his side, and took his head between her hands.
"Let me look."
He sat there quietly, not protesting as she lifted
his eyelid and shone a light to look at the eyeball.
So far, so good. There was none of the reddening
of inflammation that she associated with Stimulator
after-effects. His temperature was normal, too.
So now came the step she was dreading--the daily
ritual of forcing Chan into that terrible machine.
It was a little early, but they might as well get it
over with.
Tatty sighed, and stood up. "Come on, Chan."
She took him by the hand and led him through to
the other chamber. Amazingly, today he was not
screaming in anticipation, or struggling to escape
and run away. Was he really sick?
"Chan, do you hurt?"
He looked at her, then slowly shook his head.
"Not hurt." At her urging, he sat down quietly in
the Stimulator chair and allowed himself to be
strapped in. She hesitated before she connected
the headset. Kubo Flammarion had provided no
instructions for a case like this. The protocol demanded
daily treatment. But if Chan had something
seriously wrong with him, what would
exposure to the Stimulator do?
Tatty finally turned on the power. Usually she
could not bear to watch, but now she felt compelled
to do so.
For a few minutes Chan sat quiet, eyes closed.
There were frown lines on his smooth forehead,
and he was gripping the armrests so hard that the
tendons in the backs of his hands stood up white
and prominent.
Suddenly he began to moan, a long, breathless
sound high in his throat. Tatty knew it well, the
sound that Chan made when the power build-up
was approaching its peak rate. At first there was
nothing to see, but inside Chan's skull a complex
series of fields was being generated through both
cerebral hemispheres. Natural patterns of electrical
activity within the brain were sensed by the
Stimulator, modulated, and fed back at vastly increased
intensity. At the same time, the body's
motor control was inhibited. That damping was
necessary to prevent Chan from .tearing himself to
pieces with uncontrolled muscular response. The
spasmodic jerks, writhing and twitching that the
body still went through were sometimes spectacular,
but Flammarion had made it clear to Tatty
that they were unrelated to what Chan was actually
feeling. The agonies that Chan felt were real
enough, though. They arose within the brain itself,
a pain far more intense than anything of physical
origin.
A crisis was approaching. Chan had begun to
throw himself about madly in the chair. His face
was blood-red, and the veins in his neck and forehead
stood out as purple cords. Suffused by blood,
the medication injection points on his bare arms
showed as bright patterns of stigmata. At this point
in each treatment, Tatty always feared that Chan
would die of heart failure or apoplexy. When the
Stimulator monitor chattered to a final burst of
activity, a despairing high-pitched scream filled
the chamber. It cut off abruptly. Chan suddenly
sagged forward against the restraining bonds, and
slumped motionless in the chair.
Terrified, Tatty ran to his side. This had never
happened before. She looked at the monitors, and
was relieved to see that Chan's pulse was still
strong. But it was very fast, and his blood pressure
was disturbingly high. She put her hand on his
shoulder and shook him. The Stimulator activity
registered as zero. The treatment should be over.
Usually at this point Chan was awake and weeping;
she would take him in her arms, help him
from the chair, hold him close to her, and comfort
him. According to Flammarion, that psychological
support was supremely important to prevent catatonic
withdrawal. But now ...
"Chan! Can you hear me?"
There was a flickering of eyelashes. The eyes
were opening. At first only the whites were visible,
then blue irises slowly rolled downward into view.
Chan sighed, and licked his lips. Suddenly he was
staring at Tatty, frowning as though he had never
seen her before.
"Tatty?" he said hesitatingly.
"Ohh-hh." Tatty let out her breath in a long,
heartfelt sigh. She placed the palms of her hands
on Chan's cheeks and drew his head forward to
rest on her shoulder. "There, my Chan, my baby."
Her voice was gentle and soothing. "Rest on, Tatty,
let it pass. You'll be all right in a few minutes."
"No!" Suddenly he wrenched away from her
and stared around him. Then with a wild cry of
anguish he was running from the chamber and
down the outside corridor, staggering in his step
and bouncing crazily off the smooth walls.
Tatty was filled with an awful sense of foreboding.
Something was different--and terribly wrong.
After a Stimulator treatment Chan always needed
soothing, and then he would sleep.
She snatched up the Tracker and her case of
anesthetic drugs, and started after him through
the tunnels of Horus.
In a few minutes she realized that he was not
following his usual paths. Chan was normally perfectly
predictable, fleeing again and again from
the Stimulator over the same familiar routes. This
time he was off in a new direction, doubling back,
changing course, avoiding blind alleys, and moving
always farther away from her.
She hurried on. There was no possibility that he
could actually escape--Horus was a maximum security
facility, and Tatty had hopelessly explored
all the possible ways of escape often enough herself.
There were none. All he could do was delay
his discovery and capture--and he was certainly
doing that.
Even with the help of the Tracker it took almost
half an hour to find him. He was at the farthest
end point of the tunnels. When she finally approached
him he was sitting quietly on an old
excavating machine, staring blankly at its molecular
decomposition nozzles. Tatty approached him
warily. If necessary, she could shoot the tranquilizer
into him from ten yards away.
"Chan," she said softly.
"Here, Tatty."
"Are you all right?" She saw that he had been
weeping, and the tears were still bright on his
cheeks.
"No. I mean ... don't know. If was all right
before, then not all right now."
Tatty felt her skin quiver into gooseflesh. The
articulation of the words was awkward, still with
the baby-talk overtone that Chan always used. But
their cadence and meaning had changed totally. It
was a stranger talking to her.
"Chan, you're talking differently. How do you
feel?"
He paused for a long moment. But it was not the
usual silence of indifference; he seemed to be pondering
her words, finding it difficult to speak. Twice
he began, and twice halted before a word was out.
"Feel ... strange," he said at last. "Just the
same, and not same. All things are ... mixed. I
don't know more, all same things there in my head.
But now ..." he frowned. "Same things, but things
not same. Now can see them; before, didn't notice."
He paused, and swayed where he stood. He
put one arm out blindly to the side, to support
himself against the wall. "I feel ... like ..."
He slipped slowly to the floor in a faint. Tatty
stepped forward to catch him. For a change, she
blessed the weak gravity maintained on Horus.
She would be able to carry Chan back to his bedroom
with fair ease, and lay him out on the bed
for the electronic doctor to perform an examination.
Holding Chan, she hurried to the living
quarters.
Back in his room, Chan remained unconscious.
But all his vital signs were strong, and all indicators
showed normal. Tatty sat down on the bed
next to him. She wanted to send a signal off to
Ceres, but at the same time she was reluctant to
leave her charge. He seemed stable enough; but
suppose he suffered some kind of fit while she was
away? She was the only person who might save
him. More than that, if this were the breakthrough
point for the Stimulator treatment she had to be
there when he awoke. Flammarion had emphasized
it to her often enough. Chan would need her
help for the next few hours.
Tatty finally ran through into the next room,
grabbed a container of drink and a couple of packs
of supplies, and rushed back in to sit beside Chan.
He remained unconscious while she ate a makeshift
meal; but he was beginning to mutter and
whimper in his sleep. Tatty looked at her watch.
Soon it would be time for his regular sleeping
hours. She went across and dimmed the chamber
lights, then quietly lay down at his side.
Her vigil was no novelty. She had often sat with
him after the Stimulator session, and told him
stories until he went to sleep. Soon after their
arrival on Horus she had changed his bed for a
much broader one, on which she could stretch out
in comfort beside him and tell him simple tales of
Earth and life in the Gallimaufries, until finally
the tears stopped and exhaustion took over.
Now Chan groaned and shook his head, then
sighed and snuggled up close to her. His forehead
was filmed with sweat, but he was not feverish.
Tatty closed her own eyes, and let her mind drift
away in speculation. The implications of the day's
events were just coming home to her. If Chan had
made the crucial breakthrough, he might be on
the road to normal intelligence. That was wonderful
news--she had grown as fond of Chan as she
had ever been of anyone. And she must call Leah.
But it had other implications--great implications
...
If his treatment is ready to end, I'll be free! Out of
prison. Free to leave Horus, free to return to my own
life on Earth. It's only two months--but I feel as
though I've been away forever. Can I go back there,
now?--and what will I do about Esro?
"Tatty!" said Chan suddenly. He jerked around
and gripped her hand so hard that she cried out in
pain.
"I'm here." Tatty put her arms around him.
"You're all right. Everything's all right, Chan."
"No." Chan put his head on her breast. "It's not
all right. Tatty, you knew me--you knew what I
was. And now, everything is .. . hard. Everything
is ... what is the word? ... compli-cated? And it
was all simple."
"That's the real world, Chan."
"But it's so ... so--Tatty, I don't like this. I'm frightened."
"It's all right. Hold on to me, Chan. You are
right, it is not easy. Not easy to be human. But you
have good friends. We will all help you."
He nodded, his head still on her chest. But he
began to cry again, dry deep-chested sobs that
went on for minute after minute. Tatty felt tears
welling from her own eyes. It had seemed so obvious
that Chan would be better if the Stimulator
worked. Now, she sorrowed for the loss of the
innocent child.
She cradled him to her, stroking his head and
patting his shoulders. After a few more minutes,
she became aware of another change in him. It
was one that filled her with foreboding, mingled
with a dreadful anticipation. Chan was becoming
physically aroused, groaning and moving his body
against hers.
Kubo Flammarion had told her in her first briefing
that this might happen if the Stimulator treatment
were a success. He had warned her that
rejection of Chan might make him regress, or do
permanent psychological damage. But at the time
it had seemed too improbable an event to worry
about.
"Tatty!" Chan's voice was terrified. Handsome
and beautifully formed, and long past puberty, he
had been blissfully unaware of his own sexuality.
Now uncontrollable urges were possessing him,
and he had no idea what was happening.
It was the puzzled fear in his voice that made
Tatty think less about her own worries. "It's all
right, Chan. It's not something bad. Let me help."
She leaned over him, helping his inexperienced
fingers with snaps and fasteners. Gently, she guided
him along another critical segment of his rite of
passage, from child to full manhood.
And while she did so, Tatty despised herself. She
hated her inability to remain aloof. Two months
was a long time--too long. Her own response was
something she could try to banish, but it would
not be denied. She shivered, hesitated, resisted,
and finally groaned and clutched Chan to her.
During their lovemaking he began to weep again,
and at his climax cried out Leah's name.
At the height of her own passion, Tatty wept
also. Her tears were silent. But she thought of Esro
Mondrian, and at last whispered his name beneath
her breath.
Chapter Twelve
WITH LOTOS SHELDRAKE

Twenty thousand years ago Man had hunted the
sabertooth tiger and woolly rhinoceros. Five thousand
years ago the quarry was wild boar and bears.
One thousand years ago, out on the great plains of
Africa and India, the prize kills had been lions,
tigers, and elephants.
Now on the great game preserves in Earth's equatorial
regions, hunting was strictly forbidden. Blood
lust had to find other outlets. Adestis was one of
the most recent, and perhaps the best ever.
Dougal Macdougal loved Adestis. Lotos Sheldrake
had never tried it until today, but she hated the
very idea of it. She had insisted on being included
in Macdougal's party only for her own unspoken
purposes. Now she clung to her bright-sided weapon,
and struggled across the spongy ground after
the ambassador's group. The air was thick and
humid, filled with large, drifting spores that floated
along easily in the seemingly Tight gravity. Their
destination was visible ahead now. No more than
a few minutes' walk away, it was an enormous
brown mound reaching far up towards the grey
sky. Already Lotos could see the first file of pale
bodied warriors moving nervously at the entrance

holes. They were tasting the air, feeling the approach
of danger with their sensitive antennae.
Dougal Macdougal strode confidently on in front,
heading directly for the giant round-topped tower.
The forty other members of the party followed
him, with Lotos Sheldrake bringing up the far
rear.
Lotos suspected she had too much imagination
for this sort of game. She could already imagine
the curved jaws of the defending soldiers tight
around her waist, or the sticky and madly irritant
spray enveloping her. The projectile weapon she
was carrying would kill a warrior outright--if she
aimed true, and hit in the head or the even more
vulnerable neck. A body shot would not do. The
soldier would die eventually, but before it did so
the creature's dying reflexes would make it fight
on, to kill anything that did not smell and taste
right. And the soldiers were only the first line of
defense. Beyond them lay the dark interior tunnels,
swarming with their own inhabitants.
For the attacking party to succeed, they would
have to penetrate to the central chamber of the
tower and kill its giant occupant. Dougal Macdougal
had led the way to the base of the structure. Avoiding
the main entrances, he fired a thread-thin grapnel
line high above ground level. Then he attached
a running pulley and hauled himself up, to many
times his own height. In a few seconds he was
braced against the side of the mound. The others
followed, helping each other. There was little risk
at this stage--even a direct fall would not be fatal.
Clinging to the pulley lines, the attacking group
lifted sharp picks. They steadily hacked their way
into the hard cement side of the mound until they
had an opening big enough to crawl through.
Below them, the defending soldiers were in total
confusion. They ran here and there, touching each
other with their antennae and criss-crossing the
approach routes to the tunnel entrances. None of
them thought to crawl up the side of the tower.
"Quick now," said Macdougal at last. "Everybody,
inside." He was panting and excited--far
more enthusiastic for this than for any of his official
duties.
Lotos scrambled through, nearly last of the group.
She found herself in a spiral tunnel that wound
steeply down toward the middle of the fortress.
There was an overpowering smell of animal secretions
and fungal growth, and the curving wall was
smooth and as hard as cement. The tunnel was
deserted. They ran along it at top speed, until after
a hundred paces the leaders skidded to a halt.
Scores of workers were emerging from side passages,
blocking their way.
"Shoot your way through them," said Macdougal.
He was waving his weapon around, as much of a
menace to his companions as to their enemies.
"They're no real danger--but keep your eyes open
for the soldiers. They'll have learned by now that
we're inside, and they'll be after us."
The projectile weapons were powerful enough to
blow asunder the soft body of the workers and
render them harmless. But there were hundreds of
the creatures. Progress became slower and slower,
through a carnage of dying tower-dwellers. Lotos
found that she was skidding her way over layers of
pallid flesh and greasy body fluids, losing her footing
every few seconds. In a couple of minutes she
was last of the group again, at least ten paces
behind the rest. But the big central chamber was
in sight ahead.
She paused to catch her breath. And from behind
her came a scrabble of hard claws on the
tunnel wall.
Lotos turned, filled with alarm. Less than ten
paces from her were seven soldiers, approaching
Fast. She screamed a warning, lifted her weapon,
and fired on automatic. A stream of projectiles cut
into the warriors. Four curled up into death spasms,
knotting their bodies on the hard floor of the tunnel.
But the other three were still coming. Lotos blew
the head off one of them, and cut another in half
with a hail of fire. The last one was too close.
Before she could change the position of her weapon,
mandibles as long as her arm had reached forward
to grip her around the chest. Their inner edges were sharp and as hard as steel.
Lotos had her arms pinned to her side. She could
not free the gun, or fire it at the soldier. The others
of the party were shouting, but they could not get a shot at her attacker without hitting Lotos. The
pressure on her chest increased steadily, from discomfort
to impossible pain. Lotos felt her arms break, her ribs cave in, her heart burst. She could
not breathe. She bit down hard on the switch between her rear molars. As everything turned dark around her, she felt a gush of blood into her throat, spouting from her open mouth ...
Lotos was sweating and shivering in the balcony seat, that is the end of adestis for you, said a harsh voice in her ear. remain seated if you wish, but further
PARTICIPATION IS NOW PROHIBITED.
She ripped off the Monitor headset, threw it aside, and leaned over to look at the sandy arena below. The attack on the termite mound was still going on. With the termination of sensory contact, her own five-millimeter simulacrum had automatically
"died" down there. And just in time! She was still in agony, still feeling the pressure of breaking ribs and cracking spine--Adestis did not let losers off easily. If she had failed to activate the Monitor switch, the chance of death from heart failure would have been better than thirty percent.
In any case, the pain was real enough! It would continue for hours. That realism was one perverse
reason for the popularity of Adestis.
Lotos drew in a long breath and looked around
her. Over half the forty participants had already
been returned. They were all alive, clutching eyes,
heads, or ribs--the soldier termites had their preferred
points of attack. The other twenty still wore
the headsets and crouched blindly in their places.
There was a sudden gasp from Dougal Macdougal's
cowled figure on her right. It was followed
by a boil of activity near the bottom of the
ten-foot mound just below. Either the intruders
had managed to kill the queen and were fighting
their way out, or the number of defenders had
been too much for them and the attack was abandoned.
Tiny human-shaped figures--less than a
dozen of them now--came racing out of one of the
tunnels at the base of the mound onto the sandy
plain. But they were still far from safe. Dozens of
maddened termite soldiers hurtled at them from
all sides. The projectile weapons fired continuously.
And uselessly. In less than thirty seconds,
all the figures had been buried by defenders. Every
player in the circle around Lotos shuddered
back to body consciousness.
the queen is still alive, said the harsh voice, you
HAVE BEEN DEFEATED. THAT IS THE END OF ADESTIS FOR YOUR
EXPEDITION. THE ADVENTURE IS OVER.
Dougal Macdougal was groaning in his seat and
clutching at his hips. A soldier must have gripped
him below the waist. But he was grinning madly.
He looked quickly around him.
"Everybody got back," he said. "Good--no casualties.
That was close! We were within twenty
seconds of the queen when the rest of those soldiers
arrived. Talk about damned bad luck!"
"Talk about what you like, Dougal," said a small
plump man in the uniform of a liner captain. He
was whey-faced, leaning far forward and nursing
his genitals. "I'll tell you one thing, you'll never
talk me into another of these. It hurts! Do you
realize where that soldier grabbed my simulacrum?"
"It's nothing, Danny." Macdougal was still grinning.
"You'll be back to normal in an hour--and
we'll be ready to tackle another one tomorrow."
"Without me, then."
"Without me, too," chimed in a tall, dark-haired
woman, who was rubbing tenderly at her neck.
"When they tell you it will be full sensories, they're
not joking. I couldn't move my iaw--couldn't work
the switch until the last possible second. I thought
I was dead."
As the argument spread, Lotos wiped the sweat
from her forehead, combed her hair carefully, and
quietly slipped away. She had seen all of Adestis
that she needed to; and more than she wanted to.

When Lotos got back to her tiny office, Esro
Mondrian was waiting. He was sitting in the visitor's
chair, staring impassively at her Appointments
calendar. He didn't look up as she came in.
"Is it the end of the universe, Lotos?" he said
quietly. "It must be. I think you have three hairs
out of place."
She shook her head. "Adestis."
That startled Mondrian, enough for him to drop
the pose of casual indifference. He stared at Lotos
Sheldrake. "You amaze me. You played Adestis? I
must revise my opinion of you."
"Cut it out, Esro." Lotos slid behind her desk,
and relaxed into her chair with a sigh of relief. "I
didn't do it for pleasure, you know that. And it wasn't pleasure. It was revolting. I did it for
information."
"About the game?"
"About the ambassador." She tapped a file on
her desk. "I got your coded report."
"But you didn't believe it? Then it serves you
right."
"I wasn't sure. So I decided to see for myself."
"And?"
"Your report is accurate. As you said, Dougal
Macdougal is a latent masochist. Maybe not so
latent, either. You should have seen him when
Adestis was complete--grinning all over his face,
even when he was hurting like hell. But it means
he could be dangerous when he's dealing with the Stellar Group. Sol doesn't need a masochist in
that position."
"I agree. But we can't change it."
"Not now. He has to be handled with even more
care than I thought."
"You know how to do that, if anyone does."
Mondrian studied her expression closely. The experience
Lotos Sheldrake had been through seemed
to have made her unusually open and indiscreet--or
was it a new pose that she was carefully cultivating?
"You can make Macdougal do what you want."
'Maybe." She nodded absently. "All right, Esro.
That's enough flattery. What's going on? According
to my schedules, you're supposed to be out on
Oberon. What are you doing here?"
"I want to give you some information."
"Give, Esro? You never gave anything away in
your whole life." Lotos smiled. What she had just
said was the truth, but it did not affect her feelings.
She had always liked Mondrian. She was the
daughter of a hard-rock miner, raised in the dust
tunnels of Iapetus, and every step out had been a
fight. By the time she was ten years old she was as
tough as a drill bit. She had evaluated her only
assets there, and when she was thirteen--the optimum
time--she carefully bargained away youth,
innocence and virginity for an escape from Iapetus.
She was never going back there. Never, never. Lotos
could read signs of the same struggle and determination
behind Esro Mondrian's refined tastes and
formal manners.
"Not give," she went on. "You mean trade information."
"All right, I mean trade." Mondrian paused for a
moment, wanting to choose his words exactly. "Let
me give you the context. This is something you'll
know anyway in another twenty-four hours. It will
be coming in over the Mattin Link communications
system. I am giving you--or trading--one
day. But you alone will have that day. No one else
in the solar system knows anything about this
yet."
"So how do you know?" Lotos did not expect an
answer, and Mondrian showed no sign of giving
one. After a moment she shrugged, dialled for two
cups of sugared tea, and nodded at Mondrian. "All
right, I'll bite. Tell me all."
There was a pause. (For effect? With Esro Mondrian,
she was never sure.)
"We've tracked down a Morgan Construct," said
Mondrian at last. "The first one."
"Ahhh-h." Lotos drew in a long breath. "Damn
it, Mondrian, you are quite right. I've had not even
a hint of this.'
"I know. You should fire your information chief-- she's not as good as she used to be. Are you
recording?"
She nodded. "Personal system."
"Keep it on. I'm only going to say this once. Out
near the Perimeter there is a star named Talitha-- Iota Ursae Majoris, when you check the catalogs.
It's a three-star system, a bit more than fifty
lightyears away from us. The main star is type A7
V, and it's about ten times as bright as Sol. The
others are a close binary pair of red dwarfs--very
dim, maybe a thousandth as bright as the primary.
We've known about all that for quite a while.
What we didn't know about, until the probes got
there seventy years ago, was the planetary system
around the primary. It's substantial--three gas


143
The Nimrod Hunt

giants, and six smaller metal-rich ones. The probes
reported evidence of life on the innermost planet.
It was named Travancore. It's small, less than half
of Earth's mass, and it has flourishing native life-forms--vegetation, at least, and probably animals. But the first probe didn't detect any signs of intelligent
life, so we didn't show great interest in exploration.
As a result, we don't know much about
the place. Now the Angels--don't waste my time
asking me how--have managed to trace one of the
Morgan Constructs to Travancore. It is still alive,
down there on the surface of Travancore, under
some sort of canopy of vegetation."
He stopped.
"What s it doing there?" asked Lotos.
"You tell me. You now know all that I know,
except for one other thing. The Angels sent one of
our smart probes down to the planet. It stopped
signalling when it reached the surface and that
was the last they heard of it. We have to assume
that the Construct destroyed it. So it knows it has
been discovered, and it will be ready for anything
that comes after it."
Lotos Sheldrake sat back in her chair, quietly
sipping tea from a porcelain cup that looked as
delicate and fragile as she did. "Are you asking for
any action from me?"
"Not on this. You'll need to decide what line
Dougal Macdougal ought to take when he discusses
it with the Stellar Group ambassadors. But I must
get ready for action. I already have the first pursuit
team assembled and waiting, out on Dembricot:
one human woman, a Tinker ten-thousand composite,
a sterile female Pipe-Rilla, and their preferred
form of Angel--an experienced Singer carried
by a new-grown Chassei-Rose. They are all in training
now, using the pseudo-Construct that you
provided."
"How is that working out?"
"It is perfect." Mondrian smiled. "If you will not
mention that it is an illegal Artefact, from Shannonknows-where
on Earth, then neither will I. It's the
perfect training tool. You did it for your own purposes,
I know, but I still owe you an action-favor."
"And now I owe you an information favor. Let
me try to pay that at once." She picked up a
slender blue cylinder from the front of her desk.
"You will hear about this officially in three days.
And you won't like it. But according to a new
ruling from the four Stellar ambassadors, you no
longer out-rank Luther Brachis in the Anabasis.
Henceforth you two will have equal powers."
"What!" Mondrian lost his calm manner and
jerked up rigid in his seat. "That's crazy--and
impossible. There's no way it could work with two
people running things. Why would the ambassadors
make a mad change like that?"
Lotos shrugged indifferently. "Do you understand
ambassador logic? When you do, explain it to me.
They make a rule, I just pass it on to you--sooner
than you would normally hear it. You will have
time to make your own plans."
"Plans be damned." Mondrian bit his lip, and
stared hard at nothing for a few seconds. 'When
will this new ruling be effective?"
"In three days. That's when you would normally
have heard about it--with no time to maneuver.'
"Three days." Mondrian took a deep breath. "All
right. I want you to do something else for me--and
if you do, you'll have a big piece of equity with
me, to trade in whenever you want to. I must
remain in absolute control of just two things: the
approach to Travancore, and the management of
the operation to destroy the first Morgan Construct.
After that, I don't mind what Brachis controls.
Can you arrange it?"
"Why not throw in the Galaxy, too?"
"Don't play around, Lotos. Can you do it?"
The Nimrod Hunt

"Maybe." The doll's face was still inscrutable,
but there was the hint of a new look creeping into
the eyes. "I can surely try. And I will try very
hard, if you will do me one other favor."
"Name it."
"It's not it--it's her. Do you know a woman called
Godiva Lomberd?"
Mondrian frowned. "No. Should I?"
"You should." Lotos smiled. "And according
to my information sources--who are not always wrong--you do. You're caught, Esro. Don't tell me
lies just for practice--you don't need practice."
"All right. So I know her. Or I did, back on
Earth. What about her?"
"Luther Brachis has entered into a contract with
her." For the first time, Lotos Sheldrake allowed
emotion to show on her face. "Esro, I want to meet
her. I want to know who she is, where she came
from, what she wants. I want to know her better
than she knows herself. I don't expect you to deliver
all that. Just arrange for me to meet her-- and leave the rest to me.'
Esro Mondrian stared at her. He wondered how
much Lotos knew--did she suspect that he had
been the one who first arranged for Brachis to
meet Godiva? It seemed impossible for Lotos to
have come by that knowledge--unless Tatiana had
told her.
Mondrian shook his head. "Luther Brachis has
had five hundred women since I've known him.
They come and go. Godiva Lomberd is just another
one. You don't dabble in my business, Lotos,
and I don't dabble in yours. Otherwise, I would
ask you why--what makes you think Godiva Lomberd
is different from all the others?"
"I don't know. But she is different--I've seen the
change in Luther. And damn it, and damn her, I'm
going to find out what's going on." Lotos Sheldrake
shook her head, then somehow forced a for' S'iiill1 mal smile onto her face. She had revealed too
much. She lifted her cup. "Would you care for
more tea, Esro? Otherwise, I think we must both
get on to other business."

The storage facilities on Earth were not the best
in the system. Far from it. For high-quality cold
storage of living organisms, the wise buyer went
to Phoebe, or possibly Hyperion, where the ambient
disturbances were less and the maintenance
personnel incorruptible.
But from the purchaser's point of view, Earth
storage offered one unarguable advantage: anonymity.
Provided that the rental was paid on time,
which meant one full year in advance, no one
questioned the contents of the pallet. According to
the rumors, more than three thousand rightful
Earth monarchs slept their dreamless storage sleep
in the Antarctic warehouses. No one could ever
accuse the usurpers of murder; but it would be a
long, long time before the real kings and queens
would be recalled from slumber.
The warehouses were kept only a few degrees
above freezing. The two people searching the long
files wore heavy clothing, thick gloves, and boots.
They cursed the layer of frost that made every
identification tag difficult to read.
" 'ere we are." The short, red-haired man bent
over the long box, scrubbed again at the tag to
take a second look, then nodded to his companion
to grab the other end. "Ready?"
The fat blond woman with him nodded. "Let's
do it. Just this one, and we're done for the day.
Up's-a-daisy."
The container slid easily onto the moving rollway.
The man and woman stood at each end, making
sure that the ride out was smooth. They finally
emerged into a long, white-walled room, filled with
medical equipment and banks of monitors. Working as a team, they efficiently dumped the container
onto one of the long tables, broke the seals,
and hooked in the pumps and catheters. The woman
checked the inner identification against the work
order she was carrying.
"Look at that." she said. "An A-label! That's
interesting. It's been a long time since I've seen an
Artefact come out of the cooler. Any idea what we
got here?"
The man sniffed, pulled off his thick white gloves,
and shook his head. "Nah. Last time we did an
A-label, it was one of them four-wing dragon-fliers.
Gor, we 'ad a good laugh with that one--all over
the lab, it was, an nearly 'ad a leg off Jesco Siemens
before we could tie it. We'd better keep a
good watch on this 'un."
The top and side of the long box had been removed,
and the pumps and wipers were slowly
removing the thick layers of semi-solid jelly, warming
it as they worked. A shape began to emerge.
The two stared at it.
"Uurgh. Don't care for the look of that," said the
man. "It's 'ideous."
They were staring at a pair of long, bony feet,
still with thick black gunk between the knobbly
toes. While they watched, the rest of the figure
slowly came into view. It was a male; naked, tall,
angular, hollow-chested and skinny.
' Gor. How'd you like to find one of them under
your bed?" said the fat woman. "Are you sure we
got the right one?"
"Think so." The man peered at the form he was
holding, and rubbed his nose with a stubby finger.
"Well, I don't see nobody in their right mind
making an Artefact what looks like that--never
mind waking 'im up." She took a step closer and
looked again at the naked body on the bench. "This
looks more like one of the bloody royals, somethin'
the family stuck down in the vaults and never
wanted to see again. Check it. An' check that the
payment was made, too--if not, it's gettin' a bit
late to stick it back in there. It'll be spoiled."
The man frowned and bent again over the label.
He scratched his head. "It's this one, all right. See
the chit? Paid in full, in advance. An automatic
bank draft, from somebody's final estate. What's it
say 'ere? Fu-jit-su--see, same as the I.D. mark on
the container, Fu-jit-su. We've done our bit, an' if
there's anythin' wrong it's nothin' to do with us."
The protective layer of jelly had almost gone.
The catheters were going in while the last layers
were being removed, and the deep-heat batteries
increased in intensity. There was finally a horrible
spluttering cough from the body, and a choking
grunt as lungs filled with thin oil labored to expel
it. With another cough, a spray of brown liquid
went out onto the floor. Suddenly the figure sneezed
and shook its head from side to side.
While the workers looked on it painfully levered
itself upright. Claw-like hands scooped at the thick
jelly that still filled the eye cavities. The head was
massive, with a bald, domed skull. A full beard
grew beneath a thin mouth, and was shadowed by
a prominent red beak of a nose.
The mouth spoke: "Hh-hmm. Thank you."
There was another violent cough. Then the tall
figure stood up straight, still naked and splotched
with the black coating. In spite of its bizarre appearance,
it was strangely dignified. It looked at
the two workers.
"Thank you," it said again. It took in a long,
lung-expanding breath. "I appreciate your services.
But now I must go. Time is short, and I have
important work to do."
The Artefact jerked into motion, and headed towards
the door of the chamber. The man and
woman looked at each other, then ran after it.
"You can't go yet," cried the man. "You've for
got your bath--an' your clothes. You 'ave to 'ave a
bath, it's the rules. Don't you worry about the
price, everythin's been paid for."
But the tall Artefact was not listening. It was
already out of the door, striding purposefully towards
the surface elevators.
Chapter Thirteen
CHAN AND LEAH



I
Chan Dalton had been on Ceres before; briefly,
in transit from Earth to Horus. Kubo Flammarion
had taken him to his office there, showed him the
big solar system displays, and let him play with
the buttons and switches that selected the realtime
displays from every planet and moon known
to the Stellar Group.
Now Chan was there again, sitting at the same
console. Tatty was on one side of him, Kubo on the
other. Tatty had become used to the change, but
Kubo Flammarion still found it hard to accept--
for instead of playing idly with the controls, Chan
was studying them, and asking endless questions.
"And this one?" he said, flicking through a series
of images and pausing at one of them. It was a
low-orbit satellite view of a dreary grey landscape.
Flammarion nodded. "That's one you'll need to
know--if you pass the entrance examination. It's
where your first training courses with the other
team members will be held. Barchan, it's called.
It's a desert world, Eta Cass system. Barchan is
two planets sunward from S'kat'lan, the home
world of the Pipe-Rillas. You'll be able to breathe
the air there--just--but it's so hot you'll probably
prefer to wear a suit on the surface. Want to take a
look from ground level?"
Chan shook his head. His eyes were already skipping
on to another image, while his fingers danced
their way across the board.
Flammarion caught Tatty's eye, and he frowned.
When Chan had possessed no more than an infant's
mentality, there had been nothing wrong with his coordination. Now he was operating the
control board far faster than Flammarion would
ever do it. But there was mainly affection in the
older man's scowl and rueful look. He could not
conceal his pride whenever Chan did something
unusually clever. Kubo Flammarion had no children,
and never expected to. But there was parental
approval in his expression when he looked from
Chan to Tatty.
"How about this one?" said Chan. The screen
showed a verdant world, where even the oceans
were covered with a thick carpet of vegetation.
"That's Dembricot," said Flammarion. "In the
Tinker system. Move out of the way for a minute,
and I'll show you something interesting on that
planet." He leaned over and linked in to a surface
camera, then zoomed across to take a close-up
view of a building that nestled in among tall spiky
ferns. "See that? You're looking at the main training
center for Team Alpha, before they headed
out."
"Team Alpha?" Chan's bright blue eyes were
fierce in their attention and concentration.
"That's the name we gave to the first Morgan
Construct pursuit team. Your friend Leah, she's in
it, along with the three aliens. She hates that name,
Team Alpha--says she's going to call it something she likes, as soon as she can.'
"You mean Leah is there? Can we talk to her-- use your, what is the word, comm-unic-ator, with
her?"

"We could have, through the Mattin communication
link. Trouble is, she's no longer on Dembricot."
Flammarion again leaned over the controls.
"You see, Chan, they're finished with their training.
Leah came through it in fine shape--just the
way you will when the time comes. But now they're
going on to the real thing: Travancore. Let me see
if I can link us there--maybe we can get at least
the one-way visuals."
He juggled the controls with black-nailed fingers,
sniffing occasionally and cursing noisily while
a mystifying succession of imperfect images fled
across the screen. "There," he said at last, "that's
probably as good as we'll get. It's a very limited
band-width for the signal--no problem with voice
grade, but we'll get nothing more than a rotten
picture."
They were looking again at the surface of a planet
from a low orbit, sweeping along only a couple of
hundred kilometers up. At first sight it was a repeat
of Dembricot, with a dense, wall-to-wall covering
of vegetation. A closer look showed major
differences in the grainy image. Instead of being
flat and uniform, the green of Travancore pushed
up into millions of small hillocks and hummocks,
each one only a few hundred meters across.
"Take a good look," said Kubo Flammarion. His
voice sounded very serious. "According to all our
reports, Travancore is a pretty odd place. Those
hills are solid plant life--surface gravity is low,
and the vegetation grows six kilometers deep. Vertical
jungle, says the radar analyses, layer after
layer of it." ,
"How can a ship land there?" asked Chan.
"It can't--not in the usual way. There's no solid
surface to put a ship down on, and no way it could
stay in one place. It would sink down and down, I
don't know how far. So a ship has to hover, and
drop off people and cargo, and then lift again.
That's one reason Travancore makes such a hell of
a hiding place--we can't do a space survey, and
we can t do a mechanized ground survey. But somewhere under all that mess, if you believe the
Angels, we've got one of the Morgan Constructs.
It's the job of Leah and the rest of Team Alpha to
go down there, find the Construct, and destroy it.
And if you pass the training, you'll be doing the
same tiling--destroying some other Construct,
somewhere else."
There was a series of clicks from the communicator,
and a small red pattern appeared in the
upper left corner of the display.
' Hey, we're in luck," said Flammarion. "I put in
the tracer signal, but I didn't really expect a
success. That's the signal I.D. for Team Alpha. They
are in orbit around Travancore. With any luck we'll be able to talk to Leah now."
He began to set up a new control key.
"Wait a minute," said Chan. He stood up, staring
at the screen. He was suddenly breathing
heavily.
"And here she is," said Flammarion happily,
ignoring Chan's comment. Then he spun around in
his seat, and found he was looking at a rapidly
retreating back. "Hey, where are you going? I've
got her here on the link for you!"
Leah's dark countenance was looking out of the
screen at them. "Chan?" they heard her voice say.
"Chan, is it really you? This is wonderful!" Then
she looked puzzled, and her eyes scanned across
the room. "Chan, where are you? I've been longing
to talk to you ever since I got the news."
Tatty Snipes came forward and stood in front of
the screen.' I'm sorry, Leah. I ought to have guessed
that this might happen. Chan's here, and he s doing
fine. But he s finding it hard to talk to you."
Leah looked bewildered. "Hard to talk to me? Tatty, I've! known Chan since he was four years
old--so don't give me that line. What have you
two done to him? For your sake, he'd better be all
right. If he's not, I'll come back from Travancore
and tear your heads off--both of you."
"Calm down." Tatty grinned. "Training hasn't
done much to make you all sweetness and light,
has it? I'm telling you, Chan is all right--better
than all right, he's so smart it frightens us. But I'll
tell you exactly what's wrong with him just now.
It's you--he finds it hard to talk to you. You see,
he's embarrassed."
"Space-fluff!" Leah shook her dark hair clear of
her eyes. "You're crazy. Get your head screwed on right, Tatty Snipes. Do you know how long Chan
and I have known each other? Since I was six and
he was four. We ate together, cried together, slept
together, bathed together--everything, from the first
day we met down in the Gallimaufries." She paused.
"He was my baby," she said at last. "He was like a
sweet little angel-boy."
"I'm sure he was,' said Tatty heavily. She was
having her own problems with this conversation.
"But now he's not your baby, and he's not an
angel-boy. He's a man."
It took Leah a couple of seconds to catch the
implication of Tatty's words. Then she looked horrified.
"Chan? Did somebody-- did you and he--"
"Yes." Tatty turned to Flammarion, who had
listened to the last exchange with total incomprehension.
"Hey, Kubo, would you go and bring Chan
back here? Leah really wants to talk to him."
As soon as Flammarion was out of the room,
Tatty looked again at the screen. "Yes. Somebody
did. It was right after the successful Stimulator
treatment, the one that made the big breakthrough.
And I was the somebody. And I won't lie to you,
I'm glad I was the one. But Leah, it honestly
wouldn't have mattered who it was. Chan spoke
your name all the time we were doing it. He wanted
you. God, maybe he even thought I was you."
The other woman stared stonily at the screen.
Finally, she sighed. "All right, I guess I understand."
"I know, Leah. I know how you must be feeling."
"No." Leah shook her head. "You sure as hell don't know how I'm feeling. You can't know. Tatty,
for all those years, ever since we were little children,
I looked after both of us. And I had my own secret
hope. I dreamed that Chan would somehow become
intelligent, and he'd grow up, and we'd become
lovers. Just a fantasy, and by the time I was
twelve I knew the truth. He was the little boy who
would never grow up. I would have to look somewhere
else for that kind of love." Her dark eyes
were wistful. "You know, there was no trouble
finding sex. There never is. But that wasn't what I
wanted. And now you tell me my dream came
true. But it was you and Chan--why am I telling
you all this?"
Kubo Flammarion came back into the room,
trailing Chan along behind him. As they arrived in
camera range, Leah was suddenly gone from the
screen.
"Here he is," said Flammarion. Then his eyes
widened and he stared at the display. "Well, blast
it. Now where did she go?"
Tatty swiveled quickly around in her seat. "Leah
had to go. Her pursuit team had a meeting. Let's
forget it, Kubo, it just won't work today." She
looked up at Chan. "I spoke to Leah. She sends
you all her love, and she can't wait until she has a
chance to see you."
Chan blushed with pleasure, a flood of pink across
his fair cheeks. "She did?" he said seriously. "Thank
you, Tatty. I wish I could have said the same thing
to her."
"I told her, on your behalf," said Tatty. "But she
had to go. They're on a strict training program out
there."
"You can say that again," agreed Flammarion.
"A few more days, and Team Alpha will be down
there on the surface of Travancore--if you can call
it a surface. We shouldn't bother with that place
now, Chan--better if you concentrate on Barchan;
that'll be your next stop."
He winked at Tatty. He didn't know quite what
had happened, but he sensed that somehow she
had carried them through an awkward situation.
Now they needed to change the subject and get
Chan thinking about something else. Flammarion
keyed in the sequence to take them back to the
first image. "Barchan," he began. "Take a good
look at it." Then as the scene changed he leaned
back in confusion. Instead of the heated dust-ball
that would be Chan's next training site, the screen
was displaying the face of Esro Mondrian.
He looked out at them and nodded casually.
"Sorry, Kubo. I just ran an override on your display
unit. I need to talk to Tatty." He smiled at
her pleasantly, with no trace of embarrassment.
"My congratulations, Princess. You did it. I knew
you would. And as for you, young man"---he inclined
his head to Chan--"welcome to Ceres. From
everything I hear, you're going to be an outstanding
addition to the next pursuit team."
'And you'll win your bet," said Tatty bitterly. "I
guess that's all you care about."
Mondrian looked at her with a hurt expression.
"You know that's not true, Tatty. Anyway, we can
talk about that later. I mainly called to say that
I've arranged for us to have dinner together tonight,
and you'll have a chance to meet an old
friend."
"I have no friends on Ceres." Tatty shook her
head. "Not one, unless it's Kubo here.'
"Yes, you do. More than you know." Mondrian
smiled at her. "I'll come over and pick you up at
seven. Dinner will be just the four of us: you, me,
Luther Brachis--and Godiva Lomberd."
"Godiva!" Before she could do more than say
the name, Mondrian had vanished from the screen.
In his place were the swirling sand-clouds of Barchan.
Tatty stared at them, her fists clenched.
"Damn you, Esro Mondrian. Damn you, damn
you! Ignore me for months, then think you can call
up and suggest dinner, as though nothing had happened.
No way!" She swivelled to face the others.
'I'll see him in hell before I'll see him at dinner."
She paused. She had just seen Chan's face. It
was white, with a glassy, staring look in his eyes.
"Chan! Are you all right?"
"Who--was--that? he whispered. "That..."
"Him?" Flammarion shrugged. He had not noticed
Chan's expression. "He's my boss, that's who.
Commander Mondrian, the head of the whole security
operation. You want to meet him? You will,
soon as your training program gets going."
Chan was nodding. 'Yes," he said softly, almost
too quietly to hear. His hands were clasped tightly
together, and he shivered as he spoke. 'I want to
meet Commander Mondrian--very much." He gave
a quick glance at Tatty's face. "He wants you to go
to dinner. Will you go?"
"Never!"
Chan's look became more intense, reading Tatty's
facial expressions with a total concentration.
He had regained his own self-control phenomenally
quickly. "I think you will," he said at last.
He nodded. Yes, I think you will."

Chapter Fourteen
ON CERES

These are the Seven Wonders of the Solar System:
	The Vulcan Nexus
	The Oort Harvester
	The Sea-farms of Europa
	The Uranian Lift System
	The Mattin Link
	The Venus Domes
	The Tortuga Tetrahedra
	The Persephone Fusion Network
	The Vault of Hyperion
	Oberon Station
	The Jupiter Bubble
	Marslake
There are a dozen items on the list. That is not
an error. For although everyone agrees on the first
four, all the rest are a source of violent argument.
Is the Hyperion Vault more impressive than Oberon
Station, merely because it is bigger? Is the Jupiter
bubble more deserving of inclusion than the Venus
Domes, because it is more difficult to maintain?
How does technical sophistication trade-off against
beauty and elegance--or, for that matter, against
importance to the human race? Why are visiting
aliens all so taken with the Harvester, and so bored
by the Sea-farms? And is it at all fair to include
the metal tetrahedra of the Dry Tortugas on such a
list, since they are not the result of human efforts?
For some reason, no one ever puts the reconstruction
of Ceres anywhere in their catalog of
marvels. A minor planet, less than one thousand
kilometers in diameter, has become the most populous
and influential body in the solar system.
Should not that be regarded as a major miracle?
Ah, but the work was done long ago, using the
same ages-old technology that built the Earth
warrens and the Gallimaufries; and whatever the
technology, the results are too familiar. Ceres is on
no one's list.
It should be. After centuries of steady work, modern
Ceres possesses less than half the mass of the
original. Instead of a body of solid rock with minor
intrusions of organic material, Ceres is now a
sculptured set of concentric spherical shells. One
within another, varying in roof height from less
than ten meters to nearly a kilometer, the internal
chambers extend from the center of the planetoid
all the way out to the surface. The original body
offered less than two million square kilometers of
available surface area; the honeycomb of modern
Ceres provides close to two billion--more than ten
times the original land area of Earth.
And if Ceres itself does not qualify as a major
wonder, then surely that term applies to its transportation
system. It was designed to move people
and goods efficiently through the three-dimensional
spherical labyrinth of tunnels and chambers. It is
a topological nightmare: a complex interlocking
set of high-speed railcars, walkways, drop-shafts,
escalators, elevators, and pressure chutes. The trip
from one point to any other can be made in less
than one hour--with the help of a computer route
guide. And no one would even attempt it without
that assistance; an unguided journey, if it could be
done at all, would take days.
After a few sessions of Kubo Flammarion's coaching,
Tatty had reached the point where she could
handle the route instructions provided by the transit
computer. She did it cautiously, checking each
interchange that she had to make on the way. On
her first visit, before their stay on Horus, she had
been obliged to lead Chan everywhere. But this
time he took one look at the overall plan, listened
impatiently to Flammarion's lecture on route selection,
and promptly disappeared. He was gone
for many hours. When he came back he seemed to
have been all over the planetoid, and he knew the
internal layout of Ceres in complete detail.
Lately Chan had seemed to be avoiding Tatty,
but before she went off for dinner with Esro
Mondrian he came wandering into her living quarters.
She looked at him warily. On Horus, before
Chan's change, her behavior had been quite casual.
She had allowed him to see her in random
stages of undress. Now she closed the bedroom
door firmly as she went in and locked it behind
her. Uncharacteristically, Chan stayed. He lounged
and fidgeted in her kitchen for two hours, while
she bathed and dressed in the bedroom; and he
was still there when she came out. He examined
her appearance closely, standing behind her as she
looked at herself in a full-length mirror. She was
wearing a white dress, sleeveless and off the shoulder,
with pale mauve accessories. The purple marks
of Paradox shots were slowly fading from her arms,
providing a curiously apt match to the clothes
that she wore.
Chan caught her eye as she studied her hairstyle.
"Very . .. el-e-gant?" he said. "Is that the
right word to use?"
"It is. Thank you."
"You look very beautiful. But I thought you would
rather go to hell than have dinner with Mondrian."
She turned and looked at him. Her face was
pale. "All right, Chan, that does it. What do you
want? I've got enough on my mind, without you
adding to my worries."
He shrugged, and said nothing in reply. But
shortly before the time that Mondrian was due to
arrive, Chan left the apartment.
Tatty continued her careful application of makeup.
At one minute to seven she went to the apartment
door and opened it. She smiled in satisfaction.
As she had expected, Mondrian was there. He
was precisely punctual, as always. And just as
though they had planned it together, he was dressed
in formal uniform, a plain black trimmed with
just the same pale mauve that she was wearing.
He looked full of suppressed energy and an odd
nervousness. He bowed formally, and kissed her
hand.
"You look magnificent," he said. "The Godiva
Bird will be envious."
Tatty shook her head. "Godiva Lomberd is never
envious of anyone. She never needs to be."
She stepped outside quickly and closed the door,
making it clear that she did not propose to invite
Mondrian into her living-quarters. He stood there
looking at her for another moment, then shrugged,
took her arm, and led her away along the walkway.
"You seem to be upset, Princess,' he said softly.
"I hope this evening will relax you."
Tatty did not reply for a moment. She thought
she noticed the figure of Chan, dodging away along
the walkway in front of them,
"What do you think I am?" she said at last.
"Some sort of Artefact, or slave? Something that
you can put into cold storage when you don't need
it, and pull out when you do?"
"You know I don't think that way."
"Do I? When you leave me to rot on Horus, and
never visit, or call, or send a message? This evening
is supposed to relax me--when I never know
what to expect from you? You treated me worse than putting me in storage. At least if that happened
I would be unconscious. I wouldn't be watching
my life tick away, wasting months and months
just waiting."
She tried to shake her arm free of his hold.
Mondrian would not release her. He sighed. "Wasted
months. I know, a month on Horus can seem
like a year. But were they wasted? Chan is a full
person now, instead of a baby. That isn't a waste
of anyone's time." He stopped walking, still holding
her arm tightly so that she had to swing to
face him. She was at least six inches taller, and
she stared angrily down at his calm eyes. After a
few silent moments he shook his head sadly. "Princess,
if you think that badly of me, then why did
you agree to come to dinner? I knew exactly what
you were going through, those past few months. I
told you at the beginning, I needed somebody I
trusted completely--because I wasn't sure if I would
be able to keep an eye on things. Do you know why
I didn't come to Horus? Because I couldn't. I wasn t
off having fun. I was busy--busier than I've ever
been in my life."
"You found time to go galloping off to Earth.
What were you doing there?"
She had expected almost any reply, but not the
one she got. Mondrian merely shook his head again.
"I can't say. You'll have to take my word for it,
Tatiana--it was business, not pleasure, but I can't
tell you what it was."
Tatty was starting to feel the guilt that only
Esro Mondrian could create within her. She began
to think that she was the unreasonable one, the
cruel one, the woman who carped and whined at a
desperately busy man. She knew how hard he
worked. How many times had she awakened in the
early morning, to find Mondrian gone from her
side? Too many to count. But he was not being
unfaithful to her. He would be in the next room,
pacing up and down, writing, dictating, making
calls, worrying. Her only rival was his work. And
she had known that for years.
Mondrian reached up, and lightly touched her
cheek. He looked very upset. "Don't be sad, Princess.
I thought tonight would be a happy occasion--the
chance to see Godiva again, just like old
times. Can't we try to enjoy ourselves?"
Tatty put her hand on his. They turned, and
began to walk again, side by side. "I'll try, Esro.
But everything is so strange to me here. It's not
like Earth. I could hardly believe it when I heard
that Godiva had left Earth, and come out here with
Luther Brachis."
Mondrian slipped his arm through hers. "I suppose
I must take responsibility for that--I put
Godiva onto Luther in the first place, so she could
bring me information." He laughed. "Not such a
good idea, was it? After the first few weeks she
said she wouldn't tell me any more, and the next thing I knew she was up here with him." He gave
Tatty a quick sideways look. "Did I misjudge the
Godiva Bird? You know her a lot better than I do.
I thought I understood what she wanted, what she
is really like. Now I'm not so sure."
"She s a private person--hard to know. I first
met her four years ago, at Winter Solstice. We
both attended the Gilravage, the big party down
on the lower levels. She gave a performance. She
danced as Aphrodite. She created a sensation. After
that we met fairly often."
"Where did she come from?"
"Nowhere special. Somewhere down in the Gallimaufries.
I suppose she must be a commoner. If
she's not, she never talks about her family. The
first few times we met I hated her--all woman do,
instinctively. We feel as though she'll take what
she wants, and we have no defenses. But after a
while I realized that she is a nice person."
"The whore with the heart of gold?"
"Close to that. You see, I don't think that Godiva
is bright, like me or you." Tatty spoke quite unselfconsciously.
"She just does what she can with what
she has. She happened to be born with certain
unique assets, and she uses them. Sex for money, I
can t see that as a big sin. People who went with
her had a wonderful time. Godiva never had a
man under false pretenses, and she never hurt
anyone."
"Not even when she was spying on them?" They
were now approaching the restaurant, and Mondrian
had slowed his steps. "Don't you think her
actions might have hurt Luther Brachis?"
"Sure they might. But that was your action, really,
not hers--and even when she was watching
Brachis for you, she certainly didn't mean to harm
him."
"What happened when a man fell in love with
her?"
"It's a funny thing, but no one ever did. She
handled everything on a commercial basis--she
must have made a fortune. But she would never
accept a permanent relationship. Until Luther
Bracnis." Tatty turned to look at Mondrian. They
had halted, and were standing outside the restaurant
door. Over his shoulder she caught another
disquieting glimpse of a tall figure, ducking back
into the shadow at the side of the corridor. Was
Chan still following?
She took another swift glance around them.
"Look," she said, "if you want to interrogate me
about Godiva, do it after dinner. I'm hungry,
you've done nothing but plague me with questions.
Let's go inside."

Mondrian smiled. "Sorry, You're quite right. I
was just being nosy." He moved forward, and the
frosted glass doors opened before them. "You know
me, I've got too much curiosity for my own good.
But I promise you, not another question about
Godiva."
"There's no need for any." Tatty inclined her
head off to the left as they entered the foyer. "Now
you've got the real thing."
They were exactly on time, but Luther Brachis
and Godiva Lomberd must have arrived early. 
Stepping out of a communication booth and heading
back to the table area was a full-figured blond
woman. She was in half-profile to Tatty and
Mondrian, and they could see that she had a dreamy
and absent-minded smile on her face.
"Look at that walk," said Tatty. "It shouldn't be
allowed. It's totally natural, and Godiva never
thinks twice about it--but ten billion other women
would kill to have it."
Godiva Lomberd was dressed in a gown of palest
lemon. It was high-necked, full-length, and rullsleeved.
When she walked, the material undulated
with its own rhythm. An observer could not ignore
the exotic body within, the warm and pliant flesh
that rippled beneath the decorous clothing.
Mondrian was nodding, a bemused look on his
face. "You may find this hard to believe, Tatty,
but I had honestly forgotten about that phenomenon.
She's in a quarter-g field, and yet she looks
and moves just the same."
"And she probably always will. She hasn't aged
a day since I first saw her. Remember what I told
you, before you ever met?"
"You said that nobody could watch the Godiva
Bird walk without realizing that she was naked
underneath her clothes. I laughed at you. But you
were right."
They did not call out to Godiva, but simply
followed her back to the table. It was located in a
dimly-lit area at the rear of the restaurant, a quiet
location intended for small, intimate parties who
wanted discreet service and no public attention.
No other tables were occupied, and Luther Brachis
was sitting alone, looking at a menu. When they
arrived at the table, he at once stood up and greeted
Tatty cordially.
She had not seen him since they were all on
Earth together. She was astonished by the change
in him. He was still in superb physical condition,
but now his face was more cheerful and animated.
He had lost five to ten kilos, and his eyes glowed
with health and well-being.
He nodded to Mondrian, then turned to stare
hard at Tatty. "I don't know if I ought to have
dinner with you, even though Commander Mondrian
particularly requested it. I understand that
it is mainly thanks to you that I will be losing a
surveillance system." He turned to Godiva. "What
should I do about that, dear? It was Tatiana's
success with Chancellor Dal ton that made me lose
the wager."
Godiva slowly smiled, a broad and dreamy smile.
"I could never be annoyed with Tatty, or with
Commander Mondrian. They are the people who
introduced me to you."
She looked up lovingly at Brachis. Her mouth
was wide and full-lipped in a face that was slightly
too plump, with full, red cheeks. The wide-set eyes,
pale blue in color, held their usual trusting and
contented expression. Her chin was a little too
long, her nose slightly bobbed and asymmetrical,
her forehead a shade too high. Any analysis of
individual features would always add up to something
of no exceptional beauty. But the whole was
much greater than the sum of the parts. The totality
of Godiva was stunning. She arrested the eye,
so that in a crowded room she was inevitably the
center of attention.
Brachis shrugged and turned to Mondrian. "You
see my problem. If I am annoyed with Princess
Tatiana, Godiva will interpret it as a lack of esteem
for her." He laughed, and gestured for everyone
to sit down. Mondrian ignored the wave of the
hand indicating that he should sit opposite Godiva,
and placed himself opposite Brachis. As he did so
he nodded apologetically to Tatty and Godiva. "Will
you give the two of us a few minutes for private
security business? Then I promise that will be the
last business talk of this evening."
Godiva merely smiled, and said nothing, but
Tatty at once stood up. "Come on, Goddy-Bird. We
don't want to hear their boring business. You can
show me around this place--I don't know where
we are."
She sounded cheerful enough, but Brachis was
frowning when Mondrian sat down. "What's the
game, Esro? You told me Tatiana just wanted to
have dinner with Godiva tonight--there was to be
no work. I agreed only on that basis."
"I know." Mondrian leaned forward, and spoke
softly and rapidly. "This is new, it's urgent, and
we can handle it in two minutes if you'll give me a
straight answer to one question: Have you been
getting a lot of interference from Dougal Macdougal?"
Brachis
scowled and suddenly looked murderous.
"Aye. Constant interference. I can't do one
damned thing without him sticking his big nose
in. And he's the Stellar ambassador, so I can't tell
him to go away. The man's a complete bonehead."
"He is. And we've not reached the hard part
yet--that comes when the Anabasis tangles with
the Morgan Constructs."
"True enough. We can't possibly handle that
Construct on Travancore unless we get Macdougal
out of the way."
Mondrian nodded. "So we have to get him out of
the way. We can't afford to have him second
guessing us."
Brachis was biting his lip and looking sceptically
at Mondrian. "Easy enough for you to say that.
But how do we do it? He's immune to hints. You'd
have to kill him to be rid of him, and I've not quite
come to that yet."
"I know a better way. Dougal Macdougal would
keep out of our way if the other ambassadors told
him to. You know he grovels to them."
"He does. But they'll not tell him to get out of
our hair."
"They might." Mondrian lowered his voice still
further. "I can get the Pipe-Rillas to suggest it to
the Angels and the Tinkers--to push for our complete
independence in operating the Anabasis. But
it wouldn't work unless the two of us make a
truce. A real truce. No more sabotage, no more
tricks, no more doing each other down." Mondrian
smiled grimly. "Until the Anabasis is over, I mean.
Naturally, after that it can be business as usual."
"Sabotage?" Brachis laughed. "From me? Ah,
you've just got a suspicious nature." He leaned
back, whistled softly to himself, and stared up at
the ceiling. "Interesting," he said at last. He gave
Mondrian a quick and calculating glance. "That's
quite a proposal you're making. I hope to hell
you're not expecting a decision from me without a
lot more information and discussion."
"We must have that--but not tonight. I just
wanted to start your thoughts going."
"You've done that. They're going. I'd give a lot
to get rid of Dougal Macdougal--he s been nothing
but a pain and a damned nuisance to me." Brachis
looked around him. There was still no sign of Tatty
and Godiva. "But you've given me only half the
story, haven't you? Now you have to tell me what
the Pipe-Rillas want in return. I don't believe in
something for nothing. Neither do they--or you."
Mondrian nodded. 'That's why a truce between
us is essential. The Pipe-Rillas want something from
us, all right. Something very explicit. They want
the secret plans for human expansion beyond the

Stellar Group."
"The what?" Brachis gave a hoot of incredulity.
"Secret expansion plans? There's no such thing-- everything we intend to do on the Perimeter is
spelled out, and they have it."
"I know. But the Pipe-Rillas don't believe it's
all. They are convinced that we have other intentions,
ones we have not told them about. You have
to remember the way they think of humans. In
their eyes we're madmen; aggressive, rash, and
dangerous."
"And they're not far off the truth, for some of
us." Brachis gave a bark of laughter. "We're dangerous
enouen. But how can we give them secret
expansion plans, when we don't have any?"
'We make them up--secretly, just you and me.
And then we drop word in a few places, saying
they exist. For a start, you could hint it to Macdougal's
office. Except for Lotos Sheldrake, that
whole place leaks information like a sieve. The
rumor will get back to the Pipe-Rillas, and confirm
their ideas. And then we finally give them the
plans themselves."
"How?"
"Leave that to me. I have a delivery system."
"You mean the Pipe-Rillas already think you're
a traitor?"
"That concept is not in their vocabulary. In their
view, you and I would be allowing the better side
of our natures to triumph over human wickedness.
They don't seem to understand cheating."
"Well, I sure as hell do." Brachis gripped the
edge of the table, and leaned forward. "And so do
you. How do I know this isn't all some game of yours, setting me up for something?"
Mondrian shrugged. "I realize that I'm going to
have to prove that to you. And I'm willing to do
so." He motioned slightly with his head. "But we'll
discuss that later. Here come Tatiana and Godiva."
The two women had appeared in the doorway, a
dozen tables away. A tall waiter was walking ahead
of them, carrying a broad covered dish. He came
forward, placed the silver tureen between Mondrian
and Bracnis, and straightened up.
"With the compliments of the management," he
said stiffly ."Enjoy this. I will be back shortly to
take your order.' He hurried away, bowing his
head deferentially to Tatty and Godiva as he passed
them.
"That's peculiar," said Brachis. "I've been here
a dozen times before, but I don't remember them
bringing free appetizers."
He reached out and took hold of the cover, lifting
it from the dish. As he did so the fire opal at
Mondrian's collar suddenly changed color. It began
to pulse with a vivid green light. A high-pitched
whine came from it.
"Drop that!" Mondrian leaped to his feet, took a
lightning glance around him, and grabbed the tureen
away from Brachis. In the same motion he
hurled it away towards the side of the room. "Get
down, all of you!"
He grabbed the end of the table and tilted it
upwards, so that it served as a shield. At the same moment Luther Brachis dived at Tatty and Godiva,
grabbing one in each arm and knocking them off
their feet. He dropped on top of them.
There was a hollow, deep whomp, and a bright
flash of white light. The table that Mondrian was
holding flew violently backwards, throwing him
on top of Brachis. A sound like violent hail rattled
on the other side of the table. Then there was a
sudden and total silence.
Tatty found herself lying on the floor, her ears
ringing. Sharp pains tingled and stung all the way
along her left arm. Brachis and Mondrian were
both lying on top of her, making it impossible for
her to move. As she tried to wriggle out from
under them, she heard a curse and a pained grunt
from above.
"Agghh. Esro, for God's sake get your head out
of my guts. Esro? Esro!"
The weight on top of her shifted. Tatty could
move to one side, and finally crawl free. She stood
up, aware of the dull, stunned feeling inside her
head. Their table, upside down, showed a cracked,
splintered surface. The plastic was pocked and cratered,
with metal splinters embedded in its surface.
Off to her right, the wall showed a similar
pattern of shrapnel impact. Godiva stood at the
other side of the table. She looked stunned, but
otherwise unharmed.
"Help me," said Tatty. She nodded at Godiva to
take hold of the overturned table, and between
them they lifted it off the two men. Mondrian was
clearly unconscious. Tatty dropped to her knees
and leaned down, looking first at his nice, then
feeling for his pulse. It was slow and steady. She
noticed, in an abstracted sort of way, that her own
left arm was punctured and bleeding, marked by
scores of metal fragments.
Luther Brachis was now on his feet, holding his
hands to his head and staring vacantly around
him. His right shoulder was riddled with metal
pellets. The restaurant staff had appeared and stood
helplessly looking on.
"Medical care, said Brachis gruffly. "Did any of
you send for it?"
One of the waiters nodded.
"All right, then." Brachis motioned to Esro 
Mondrian. "Take him outside. He'll live, but we have
to get him to a hospital--fast. And then"--he suddenly
shivered, and put his arms around Godiva.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "And then I'll
catch the bastard who did this."
He shook his head again, reached for his shoulder,
tilted, straightened, and started a slow crumpling.
Tatty and Godiva both reached out for him.
They lowered him gently to the floor. Their hands
came away from his uniform covered with bright
fresh blood.
Tatty wiped her palms absently on the front and
side or her clean white dress. As she did so, she
suddenly thought of Chan Dal ton. Where was he,
what had he been doing? That picture of Mondrian,
back on Horus--it had been the spur that drove
Chan towards intelligence. She had done it deliberately, with hatred. Was this the terrible result?
No. Please God, no!
But Tatty felt sure that she was right. She had caused this carnage. She dropped to her knees,
cradled Esro Mondrian in her arms, and hid her
face against his tunic.

There had been that sudden, terrible period when
the whole world rushed in on him. It had created
nausea, staggering pain, and total disorientation.
At the time, Chan would have said that nothing
could ever be worse than those final few minutes
in the Tolkov Stimulator; it was the moment when
his innocence ended.
But there are degrees of torture, refinements of
pain beyond the simple or the immediate. A more
complex animal admits more subtle agonies.
Those agonies came later, and more gradually.
Chan could not put his sufferings easily into
words. He felt as though the illumination level of
the world around him had been slowly increasing,
hour by hour and day by day. When the lighting
had been very dim, back in the happy days on
Earth, he had seen almost nothing of the world.
The Tolkov Stimulator had produced the first flood
of light. And ever after that the radiance level had
risen, little by little, so that detail was gradually
added--to the point of discomfort, and beyond.
Occasionally a single event would produce a flare,
a quantum change in the brightness around him.
The sight of Esro Mondrian, earlier in the day, had
done just that. It brought in a torrent of new sensation.
He knew Mondrian--but how, and from
where, did he know him?
Chan brooded on that question for a long time.
Mondrian's weary, aristocratic features were utterly
familiar, more familiar to Chan than his own
face. But he could not say why. The memory was
there in his brain--and he was denied access. Thinking
about it made his mind devolve along an endless
loop.
Finally Chan had wandered disconsolately over
to Tatty's apartment. He had no particular reason
for going there, no explicit goal in mind. But maybe
she could help him; or if not help him, comrort
him.
He had found her cold, remote and unsympathetic.
She was making her own mental journey,
and it was one that did not admit companions.
When she went into her bedroom, he had hung
around in the apartment. He should have left, but
he felt that he had nowhere to go. Finally she
came out again, dressed for her dinner appointment.
And it was then, looking over her shoulder
at their reflection in the full-length mirror that
hung on the living-room wall, that Chan had become
disoriented and faint. For the first time in
his life he experienced a complete sense of self
awareness. That tall, blond figure, staring back
from the mirror with bright blue eyes, was him-- Chancellor Vercingetorix Dalton, the unique composite
of thoughts, emotions and memories, housed
in the familiar frame. There he was. There was his
own identity.
Chan felt like screaming. Instead, he left the
apartment; quickly, so that the opportunity to explore
the flood of thoughts would not be lost or
diverted by conversation with others. In the corridor
he saw the approaching figure of Esro Mondrian.
That merely added to his internal storm of
feelings.
Chan did not want to speak. He hid until Mondrian
had passed by and gone on to Tatty's door.
Chan watched from the shadows, and followed the
pair along the walkway. He had no objective,
beyond an unarticulated urge to keep Mondrian
within his sight.
At the restaurant Chan was greeted by a waiter,
who politely barred his way. Did Chan have a
reservation? If not, what was the size of his party?
Chan shook his head without speaking, and retreated
in confusion. He wandered blindly away
along the corridor. His head was throbbing. At
each intersection he made a random choice of direction
and was carried up, down, east, west, north,
and south through the convoluted interior paths of
Ceres. At last he found he had travelled all the way
to the surface chambers. Great transparent view
{>orts
looked out on the jumble of ships, gantries,
anding towers and antennae that covered the periphery
of the planetoid. The surface was a bustle
of activity, twenty-four hours a day.
Beyond the surface stood the silent stars. Chan
settled down to look at them, and to worry.
What was he? A month ago, he had been a moron.
A misfit, with the brain of an infant and the
body of a grown man. Only a few days ago Chan
had asked Kubo Flammarion for more details: before
the Stimulator his brain had not developed.
He understood that--but why had it not 
developed? Was the cause chemical, physiological, psychological,
or what?
Flammarion had just shaken his head. They did
not know the answers. Chan had always possessed
what appeared to be a perfectly normal brain; and
now, after the treatment, Chan had a normal
brain--a better-than-normal one, according to all
the recent tests.
Kubo Flammarion seemed content with that answer.
He did not realize how totally unsatisfying it
was to Chan. If no one could explain the source of
abnormality, what assurance was there that Chan
would not regress? And in how many other ways,
less easy to measure, might he be abnormal? How
would he even know he was abnormal? Maybe he
was still a total misfit, but merely a smarter one.
Without realizing it, Chan was performing an
exploration of his own sanity and normality. The
process was natural for maturing humans. But
Chan was doing it on an accelerated time scale,
trying to make in weeks the adjustments that would
normally take years. He had no time to examine
the libraries, to cull from millions of pages and
five thousand years of common human experience
the reassurance he needed.
Chan stared at the stars, pondered, and could
find no acceptable answers. He felt confused, overwhelmed
by uncertainty and sorrow and pain.
The easiest way to avoid that pain was to retreat
from it, to hide in sleep and mindlessness. He
gazed far out, looking beyond the starscape for the
edge of the universe. He felt dreadfully tired. And
after a few more minutes his eyes closed.
Seven hours later he awoke on the bed of his
own apartment, exhausted and empty-headed. He
could not say where he had been, what he had
done. His last memory was of him and Tatty, examining
the reflection of her evening dress in the
mirror. Seven hours of his life had disappeared.

Chan did not have the energy and resolve to rise
from his bed. When Tatty came to him, wearing
that same white dress now stained with Luther
Brachis's dried blood, Chan was still there. He looked
at and listened to her with horror. He was quite
prepared to believe her worst worries and suspicions.
As
he had feared, he was a monster. Before she
had even finished talking, Chan had decided what
he must do.
Chapter Fifteen
ESCAPE TO BARCHAN


I
"And who dared to give such an instruction?"
Mondrian's voice was weak in volume, but crackling
with authority. "Were you insane enough to
do it yourself, without realizing the consequences?"
The technician recoiled from the front of the bed
and looked beseechingly at Tatty Snipes. She
stepped forward.
"I gave the instruction," she said. "These people were only following orders."
Mondrian looked staggered. "You? You have no
authority here. How could your word carry weight?"
"Very easily. I gave the instruction in writing,
and I used the seal of your own office." She sat on
the edge of the bed. "And if you expect me to say
I'm sorry, I won't do it. I'll send you back for more
X-rays of your head."
The medical technician looked at her in horror,
then up to the ceiling as though expecting a lightning
bolt.
"Don't fret and fume, and don't be a fool, Esro,"
went on Tatty calmly. "The medical opinions were
unanimous: you would increase your chances of
full recovery if you were under full sedation for a
week. That week is up. And you are doing well."
Mondrian shook his head, then gritted his teeth
at the pain it produced. "A week! You make me
unconscious for a whole week, and act as though it
is unimportant. My God, Tatty, in a week the whole
system could go to hell."
"It could. But it didn't. Luther Brachis has taken
care of everything in your absence."
"Brachis! Is that supposed to make me more at
ease?" Mondrian struggled to sit upright. "He had
a free hand to do what he liked with my operations
and staff, and you encouraged it?"
"He knew you would be worried. He told me to
give you a message. He accepts the arrangement
that you talked about before the attempt to kill
you, and he will try to gain the ear of Ambassador
Macdougal, as you suggested. His main worry was
whether you would remember anything about your
conversation. The doctors warned of amnesia."
"I remember everything." Mondrian put his left
hand to his forehead, which was still coated with
synthetic skin. "How did he escape injury? I know
he was shielding you and Godiva."
"He was injured, too, but his wounds could be
treated with local anesthetics. In fact, he refused
all sedatives--he must be made of iron."
"He is. Iron and ice. Except maybe when it comes
to Godiva. He's besotted with her. How is she
doing?"
"Calm as ever. I don't know how she escaped,
but she wasn't even touched." Tatty shook her
head. "You know Godiva Bird, she just floats over
everything and never seems to notice."
Mondrian leaned back on his pillow. "You didn't
detect any changes in her, then ... before the
bombing?"
"Before the bombing?" Tatty frowned at him in
perplexity.
"Yes." Mondrian waved his hand in a vague
circle. "You knew her well down on Earth. And
you said you were very surprised when she came
up here with Luther Brachis. So I wondered, when
you were with her before dinner and I was talking
to Brachis, if she seemed .. . well, different at all.'
Tatty sat thoughtful for a moment, while Mondrian
lay back and looked at her through half
open eyes. "I think I know what you mean," she
said at last. "She looks the same, and mostly she
acts the same. But now you mention it, there is a
difference. Whenever I met Godiva down on Earth,
she was always very conscious of money. I don't
mean she was stingy, exactly, but she talked a lot
about her need to earn more. I always had the
feeling she must be stashing away a fortune somewhere.
She was the highest-priced escort on the
planet, yet she always lived cheaply--simple food,
simple clothes. There was no way she could have
been spending anything near her income, but she
always wanted more. Now she never seems to think
of money for a moment. And that's a change. Is
that what you mean?"
"I'm not sure what I mean. But here's something
to think about. According to Luther Brachis,
Godiva didn't have a cent when he brought her up
from earth--no money, and no possessions other
than her clothes." Mondrian sat deep in thought
for a moment, then turned to the medical technician,
who had been listening with interest. "How
soon can I get out of this place?"

"Another two days. And visitors will be restricted
to one hour a day.'
"They will not." Mondrian pushed back the covers
and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
"That answer is unacceptable. I have work to do.
Bring me my uniform--at once."
The technician looked hopelessly at Tatty, found
no encouragement there, and shook his head feebly.
"I'm sorry, sir. I lack that authority."
"Then go and find someone who has it."
The technician scurried away, snatching one nervous
look behind him from the door of the room.
Mondrian turned back to Tatty. "I suppose I'm
going to have another fight with you, too.'
"Not at all." Tatty smiled coldly. "You're well
enough to make your own decisions now, Esro.
You can go to hell in your own fashion. I came
here to tell you that I'm leaving Ceres, and I already
have the exit approval."
"Where are you goine?"
"Home. Back to Earth. I've had my fill of Horus
and Ceres." She stood up. "I suppose I should
thank you for saving my life, but maybe it's not
appropriate. It was my fault in the first place.
That's the other reason I came here--to tell you
that I was responsible for the attempt to assassinate
you."
Mondrian laughed harshly. "If you go to Earth,
I'll come with you. I have to make a visit as
soon as they'll let me out of here. For the rest of it,
you're talking nonsense. You didn't cause the bombing,
and I don't know why you think you did. You
were injured, too--look at your arm.'
"I didn't do the bombing--but I caused it to be
done."
Mondrian reached out to take Tatty's hand, pulling
her back to sit on the bedside. His grip was
much firmer than she had expected. Maybe it would
be all right for him to leave at once.
"You can't make a wild statement like that and
say nothing more," he said. "Who tried to kill us?"
'Chan Dalton. He wasn't trying to kill us--he
was after you. The rest of us happened to be there."
"Tatty, you're gibbering. What are you getting
at?"
Tatty hesitated and dissimulated. Finally, under
prodding from Mondrian, she told the whole story:
of the long days on Horus, of her growing despair
of progress with Chan, of her loneliness; of her
rage at Mondrian--and of her final use of his picture
as an object for Chan to hate.
He listened carefully and sympathetically, and
at the conclusion leaned back again on the pillows
and shook his head.
"I can't prove you are wrong," he said. "But I'll
wager on it. Look at a few proven facts. First,
Chan must have bribed the waiter. What does that
waiter say?"
"He wasn't a real waiter. After the bombing he
disappeared."
"Well, maybe he wasn't a waiter but he certainly
wasn't Chan Dalton. Did Chan know beforehand
where we were to have dinner?"
"He says he didn't--he just followed us there."
"Very well. So how could he arrange for someone
to deliver a bomb, on the spur of the moment?
That bombing required careful preparation and
planning. Where would Chan find a bomb? He is a
recent arrival on Ceres, and he doesn't have contacts
anywhere else. Remember, Chan may look
like a twenty-year-old, and Kubo says that he's a
super-fast learner. But in terms of adult contact
with the world he's only a couple of months old.
And that's the most conclusive point: Chan is a newcomer here. No matter how intelligent he is
now, he couldn't obtain the materials and knowledge
he would need in such a short time. If he
doesn't remember what he was doing when the
bombing happened, I'll accept that. But amnesia
is not a crime, and I don't believe for a second that
he had anything to do with the explosion." Mondrian
sighed and touched his fingers gently to his
forehead. "Bring him to me. Give me ten minutes
to talk to him, and I guarantee that I'll prove he
had nothing to do with the attempt to kill us.
Prove it to your satisfaction, as well as mine. All
right?"
Tatty looked stricken. "I can't bring him to you."
Her voice was dry and husky. "He's not here any
more. Esro, do you know what I did? Chan trailed
us to the restaurant, then he says he had a blackout
and doesn't know what happened. I told him he had done the bombing--nearly killed us all. He
was horrified, but he believed me. He didn't know
what to do. So I helped him--helped him to escape."
"From Ceres? Nonsense. He couldn't possibly
escape from here--for one thing, he'd need a travel
permit."
"Esro, you don't understand. He already has a
travel permit."
"Then who was insane enough to issue one to
him? I'll have their carcass."
"You did it. Remember, you issued it in advance,
so it would be ready when he went off for
pursuit-team training? I asked Kubo Flammarion
to give Chan all the rest of his preliminary tests as
soon as possible. And Chan passed them, easily. So
he could go on to the next pnase, training with the
aliens. He's not on Ceres now--he's on Barchan. In
pursuit-team training."

Tatty's statement was almost correct. Chan was
certainly in pursuit-team training; but he was not
actually on Barchan. When Tatty spoke those words,
he was flying four thousand meters above the planet's
surface in a security aircar, receiving his final
lesson on its operation and handling.
"Remember now," the pilot said cheerfully. "After
you drop me off, you'll be on your own. No
pick-ups, no deliveries, do your own laundry. Don't
send us a message unless you've destroyed the
Simmie Construct ... or given up trying."
She laughed, as though her last suggestion was
out of the question. The woman was small and
tubby, with sleepy-looking brown eyes. When she
was the pilot the car seemed to glide effortlessly
through the buffeting winds of Barchan. Only when
Chan was given the chance to take the controls
himself did he find that Barchan's air currents
were strong and unpredictable. Level flight called
for constant attention, and landing and take-off on
the desert planet was always dangerous.
Chan dipped the car's nose and started to drop
off altitude. At a thousand meters he began to
circle, making his visual search for their landing
target. The updrafts were stronger here, and it
took all his efforts to maintain a constant altitude.
"Has anyone ever done that?" he said. "Just given
up trying to destroy the Simulacrum Construct,
and asked to be taken back?"
"Not exactly the way you might be thinking."
The pilot laughed easily, out her Took missed nothing.
Her hands were never more than an inch or
two away from the duplicate set of controls. Chan
was pleased that she had never actually touched
them while he was flying.
"You'll be the fifth training group we've had in
here," she went on. "And so far we've had one that
graduated."
"What happened to the others?"
"Well, first group in was dead smooth. I dropped
the four of 'em off at the training camp. One at a
time--Human, Tinker, Angel, and Pipe-Rilla. All
four of 'em found they could work well together.
They organized a search for the Simmie, found it
in three days, destroyed it. End of story. No problem.
We linked them off to Dembricot for their
final preparations; now they should be on Travancore,
tackling the real thing."
"That was Leah Rainbow's team?" asked Chan
eagerly. He had spotted the landing area, and was
lining up for final approach.
"Sure was. Know her, do you? Smart woman,
that. Anyway, the first one went so smooth we
thought the whole thing would slide by like Angel
sap. We were dead wrong. Second team came in, I

dropped 'em off. Week later, the Pipe-Rilla called
out, asked to be taken off the team. No explanation.
That team's still waiting for another PipeRilla
to take the first one's place. Team Three-- Your alignment's fine, but you'll land us smoother
if you drop speed a couple of percent. That's right.
Spot on. Hold it there. Where was I? Team Three.
Right. It arrived, they got on well with each other,
searched for their Simmie. Found it. But it got them."
"Killed them?"
"Hell, no." The pilot leaned back and closed her
eyes all the way as soon as the car had touched
down, light as a feather. "The Simmies won't actually kul a team--they're designed not to. But a
Simmie will give you a bad time. This Simmie
roughed 'em up so much, they'd had it with being
a pursuit team. They split up. I picked 'em up
from Barchan, and they all went home. So there
we were, one out of three." She looked out of the
window, and nodded approvingly. They had come
to rest at the exact center of the landing circle. "I
guess you'll do. Team Four, that was worst of all.
They got organized, searched for the Simmie, found
it, were all ready to blow it to hell. And then the
Pipe-Rilla wouldn't go through with it. Even though
it was only a Simmie Artefact. So then the human
on the team--a big fat blond feller, looked like
he'd not harm a fly--he got so mad with that
Pipe-Rilla, he wanted to blow her full of holes.
Might have done it, too, if the Tinker hadn't
swarmed him. But it convinced all the Stellar
Group--again--that us humans are crazy killers.
And if you think that didn't cause an interstellar
incident, and make life here hard ..."
She shrugged, and opened the door of the car. A
wave of dry heat like dragon's breath blew into
the cabin. "That's all from me. The car's yours
now--until you get your Simmie. Good luck.'
Chan leaned out after her. "You've seen all the
other teams. What do you think this one's chances
are?"
The pilot paused with the door half-closed. "Well,
if you believe it's a random process, past history
says your odds are one in four. But maybe it's not
so random. Let me ask you a question. I've looked
at you pretty hard this past week. You don't fit
this job. With your face and body, you're an entertainment
natural--public, or one-on-one. There's
five billion women would like a piece of you. So
how come you land on a pursuit team, out here at
the ass-end of the Universe?"
Chan hesitated. He wondered if Leah had told
her about him, and if she was just prodding for
more details. The waves of arid heat coming in
through the open door produced floods of sweat on
his face and neck that dried the moment they
appeared, but the pilot seemed oblivious to the
outside conditions. She waited, and her face gave
him no clues. "I was born on Earth," he said at
last. "A Commoner, with a contract. This just gave
me a way out. And when it's over I'll be free to do
what I like."
The pilot nodded sympathetically. "Ah. I've heard
about Earth. Maybe after that, old Barchan don't
seem to you like the ass-end of the Universe. I
know Leah Rainbow seemed glad enough to be
here. Did you get recruited the same way as she
did?"
"Yes. We were both picked out by Commander
Mondrian."
"Good enough. So I'll answer your question. I'll
up your odds from one in four to fifty-fifty. Mondrian
's as hard as tinker-shit and cold as Angel-heart--but he's one sharp son of a bitch. And he don't pick losers." She swung the door shut and
grinned at him through the window. "Usually,"
she shouted. "But there's exceptions to everything.
So good luck again."
She gave him a wave, and set off for the cluster
of service buildings. Chan sat quietly in the car,
inspecting the landscape around him. They were
in Barchan's high polar regions, where winter temperatures
would allow a human to survive without
a suit except near noon. The vegetation was deep
rooted, with waxy blue-green foliage. At the pole
itself it would grow in Barchan's half-gee surface
gravity to fifty meters or more; here it sat low to
the ground, tight-wrapped to conserve moisture.
The soil beneath the plants was dry, dark and
basaltic, rising in slow, brooding folds away from
the landing area. Gusty surface winds lifted the
top layer up and about the parked aircar in twisting
dust-devils of dark grey. Near the equator that
sand layer was hundreds of feet deep, and the
winds blew it into the miles-long crescent-shaped barchan dunes that gave the planet its name. Eta
Cassiopeiae's twin suns hung close to the horizon.
They lit the scene with orange dust-filtered light.
And this dour landscape, according to the briefings,
was the most attractive part of the planet.
Chan wondered where the Simmie might be hiding.
According to those same briefings, it could
survive anywhere on Barchan--even in the scorching
equatorial regions where only micro-organisms
thrived.
The three service buildings stood about a kilometer
away from the landed aircar. As Chan
watched, he saw a swirling veil of dark purple
emerge from one of the buildings. It blew like a
rolling cloud of dust towards the car. When it was
less than a hundred meters away, Chan opened the
door again. The individual components of the cloud
could now be resolved. They were purple-black
winged creatures, each the size of a hummingbird.
Within thirty seconds every one of them had entered
the aircar door and settled all over the rear
of the main cabin.
Chan closed the door and turned to watch. Although
he had seen it on briefing displays, this
was the first time he had ever watched the formation
of a Tinker Composite.
It began with one component--an apparently
arbitrary one--hovering in mid-air with its purple
black body vertical. The ring of pale green eyes at
the head end looked all around, as though assessing
the situation, while the wings fluttered too fast
to see. After a moment another component flew in
to attach at the head end, and a third one settled
into position beneath. Thin, whiplike antennae
reached out and made connection between them
all. A fourth and fifth element flew over to the
nucleus of the group.
After that the aggregation grew too fast for Chan
to see any individual actions. As new components
were added, the Composite extended outwards and
downwards, to make contact with the cabin floor.
In less than a minute the main body was complete.
To Chan's surprise--this was something that
had not been shown in his briefings--most of the
individual components still remained unattached.
Of the total who had entered the cabin, perhaps a
fifth were now connected to form a single compact
mass; the remainder stood tail-first on the cabin
floor, or hung singly from the walls using the small
claws on the front of their shiny leather-like wings.
The mass of the Tinker Composite had a funnellike
opening in its topmost extremity. From that
aperture came an experimental hollow wheeze.
"Ohhh-ahhh-gggghh. Hnarr-ehh-looo," it said. Then,
in an oddly accented variety of Solar: "Har-e-loo.
Hal-loo."
Kubo Fiammarion had warned Chan. "Imagine,"
he had said, "that somebody took you apart every
night and put you back together every morning.
Don't you think it would take you a little while to
get your act together? Well, make allowances for
the Tinkers."
Chan found it hard to imagine. But he suspected
that Kubo, a long-time alcoholic and a recent Paradox
addict, knew the morning-after feeling quite
well. "Hello," he said, in response to the Tinker's
greeting; and he waited.
"We-ee arre-eh"--there was a substantial pause-- "We are Shikari."
"Hello, Shikari," said Chan. "Call me Chan.
The Tinker paused again for a long moment.
"Shikari is an old Earth word," it said at last, "for
a Hunter. We think it would be appropriate. And
perhaps also amusing?"
"I am sorry. I did not know that."
There was another pause. "Ahhh. We also suggested
to us that we might be called Shakespeare-- that 'myriad-minded man', which we also thought
amusing--but we are not sure that you would be
comfortable with it." The funnel buzzed briefly.
"We are making a joke," it explained.
Chan wondered if the Tinker could see him--the
individual components had many thousands of eyes,
but could they be used by the Composite? He waved
his arm at the thousands of components scattered
around the cabin, still unattached to the main
body. "Are all of you Shikari? Or only the ones of
you who are now connected?"
There was again a brief pause. "We are not sure
we can answer your question. We all in future
time will be Shikari; and we all in now-time can be Shikari. But in now-time we are not all Shikari."
"Why not? Don't you think better when you are
all connected?"
The Tinker had taken on a roughly human outline,
with arms, legs, and head. But when it moved
forward in the cabin it did so as a whole, through
the movement of thousands of component wings.
"Chan, you ask many questions in one," said the
breathy voice from the funnel. "Listen carefully.
If we wish, we can all join together at one time.'
"Then why not do it? Wouldn't you have more
brainpower if you did that?"
"Yes--and no. If we do that, then we have more
thinking material--which you may call brainpower. But we are also less efficient. We are slower. We
have a much longer .. . integration time--the time
it takes for us to think, and to reach a decision.
That time grows . . . exponentially ... with the
number of components. When there is much, much
time available, we can consider more units in us.
More can join to make one body. But then the
integration time becomes long ... so long that
individual components begin to starve. We must
leave, to find food--or die. What you see now is
the most effective form, our preferred compromise
. . . between speed of thought and depth of thought.
The free components that you see here will eat,
rest, and mate. When the right time comes there
will be exchange: rested-of-us will take the place
of tired-of-us."
"But ..." began Chan. Then he realized that
they were already late for take-off. He had scores
more questions--now did a Composite decide when
and how to form? Was it adopting a roughly human
shape mainly for his convenience? How intelligent
were the individual components? (He had a
feeling that question had been answered in his
early days on Horus, but it had happened before
the Tolkov Stimulator had worked its miracle).
How did a component know when it was needed by
the Tinker Composite? Most important of all, if a
Tinker was varying its composition all the time,
how could there be a single self-awareness, and a
specific personality? Shikari certainly seemed to
have not only a personality, but a sense of humor.
Chan made a great effort and concentrated again
on the car's controls. All his questions must wait
until they were heading for their rendezvous with
the other team members. And if what he had heard
of the Pipe-Rillas and Angels were in any way
correct, when that meeting came he would have
even more questions!
He prepared to take off, then turned back to the
Tinker. "Shikari, we're ready to go. If you want to
take a look at the landscape, maybe you ought to
come and sit--do you sit?--in the seat next to me.
And we can start to know each other better."
"Yes," said the Tinker. "That will be very good.
We have innumerable questions that we wish to
ask you about you--as soon as there is opportunity."

Chapter Sixteen
SKRYNOL AND MONDRIAN

Mondrian awoke in a fetid, red-lit gloom, to the sound of a low and ominous humming. He gasped, tensed for a moment as a tall figure loomed high overhead, then slowly relaxed.
He knew where he was. He had been dreaming again--ghastly, terrifying, dreams, but only to be expected; the figure hovering over him was Skrynol. The nightmare visions had been carefully designed, under strict Fr'opper control. And even the noise now had an explanation: Skrynol was singing.
The Pipe-Rilla bent over Mondrian's sweat-coated body, peered at him with huge compound eyes, and hummed a three-toned phrase. The lights in the chamber increased.
"For your benefit," said Skrynol. She chittered strangely. "So that you can admire my beauty."
Mondrian took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead and bare chest. He had stripped to the waist at the beginning of the session. Skrynol was not fully comfortable at a temperature below human blood heat, and in the last few meetings the chamber had been hotter and hotter.
"You are in an exuberant mood," Mondrian said.
"May I assume that we have made progress?"
"That is indeed true." The Pipe-Rilla bobbed her
head back and forward in the gesture of assent she
had learned from Mondrian. 'Excellent progress.
Oh, yes, excellent-excellent progress."
"Enough to sing about?"
"Ahhh." Skrynol raised her forelimbs and placed
them on top of her head. "Yes. A word on my
singing. Because we were doing so well, I extended
the length of our session somewhat, to pinpoint a
result. And as a result I took more of your blood
than usual."
"How much more?"
"Some more. Rather a lot more. But I gave you
replacement fluids. Mm-mm ..." She bent over
him, like an enormous and deformed praying mantis
inspecting its victim. There was a flutter of
olfactory cilia, and a whistling sigh. "Mm-mm.
Esro Mondrian, it is fortunate that we Pipe-Rillas
can so well control our emotions and our actions. I
had been told before I came to Earth that human
blood was a powerful stimulant and intoxicant to
our metabolism--but no one could ever describe
this feeling of exhilaration."
She reached down with one soft flipper, and
drew it lovingly along Mondrian's neck and naked
chest. As she did so, long flexible needles peeped
involuntarily out of their sheaths on each side of
her third tarsal segment. They glistened orange in
the dim light. Fully extended, they would reach
their hollow length more than nine feet in any
direction. The official propaganda on the Pipe-Rillas
described the aliens as "peaceable sap-sucking
beings, unable to eat solid food despite their formidable
mandibles."
Esro Mondrian gazed uneasily at the needles. Sap-sucking? Perhaps--but only if the word could
apply to the body juices of plants and animals.
The urge to flinch away from her touch was
strong. He resisted it, and sat upright on the velvet
couch. "I know how you must feel. Some humans
also experience exhilaration from blood. I draw
my own excitement from other sources. Can we
discuss the session now? Do you feel controlled
enough to tell me what you have found?"
"Of course." Skrynol swayed back, rearing her
jointed body upwards another six feet. "We do not
yet have a solution for your difficulties. But I think
I can fairly say that at last we have defined the problem. I will begin with a question. You are
Chief of Boundary Survey Security. How did you
come to that position?"
"Through the usual route." Mondrian was puzzled.
"After I first left Earth I studied the other
civilizations in the Stellar Group, and then took a
job in commercial liaison with them. After that, it
was a simple matter of hard work and steady
promotion.'
"That is the way it may appear to you. But your
physical response when certain subjects are mentioned
makes one fact obvious: the rise to your
present position was less circumstantial than you
believe. You were driven to seek it. As I told you in
our first meeting, your nightmares are no more
than analogies. But for what?"
Skrynol turned to a screen that sat behind her,
and drew a circle in the middle with her left forelimb.
She placed a small dot in the center, and
drew a set of lines to connect it with the circumference.
"It is time for a little lecture from me.
This is you"--she tapped the central dot--"in the
middle of a safe region. Like most members of
your species, you are dominated by self-concern,
and you see yourself as the center of the universe."
She pointed to the radiating spokes. "You also dream
of a web. And indeed, you sit in the middle of such
a web--a web of information, provided to you
through the Mattin Link. In your dreams there is a
dark region beyond the web. And sure enough, in
your working world there is also a dark region. It
is this: everything that lies beyond the Perimeter. And it is terrifying to you. Maybe you can control
everything within the Known Sphere--but how
can you possibly control what is outside it? How
can you even know what is there?" Skrynol tapped
the screen. "In your dreams, the safe, lighted region
is shrinking; the dark and dangerous zone
always comes closer. In the real world, the Perimeter grows--and because of the Mattin Link, new
parts of space are steadily made accessible to you. And you to them. You do not know what may lie
beyond today's Perimeter--but you are terribly
afraid of it. The safe region seems to be shrinking,
but that is only because the unsafe region steadily
becomes more accessible. New space is being added
all the time. So. How can you minimize the danger?
Simple. You look for control. You seek the
position which permits you to have the maximum
possible knowledge and control of the Perimeter:
the position as Chief of Boundary Survey Security.
You cannot banish the dangers--they are caused
by the Solar Group's expansionist policy, and that
is beyond your control. But at least you will learn
of any danger as early as possible, and be in a
position to combat it. You were driven to become
Chief of Boundary Security. And you will do anything
to protect the Perimeter--anything at all.'
The Pipe-Rilla leaned forward until her broad,
heart-shaped face was only a foot from Mondrian's.
"Your nightmare is real, Esro Mondrian. You are
afraid of the rest of the Universe--everything that
lies beyond the Perimeter." She gazed into his
eyes, with a dark, unblinking stare. "Do you accept
my analysis?"
Mondrian gave an imperceptible nod. "I accept
it," he said softly. "But I do not know where it
leads. Are you telling me that the nightmares must
continue as long as I hold my present position?"
"Still you do not understand. I repeat, you sought
that position in an attempt to control the situation--to
banish your nightmares. Your dreams are
not the result of your position. They stem from a
much deeper cause."
"But what is it?"
Skrynol shook her head. "I do not know. Not
yet. I Know only that it is deep-buried, far back in
your childhood past. And still I cannot reach it. I
need help. That is why you must do something
more."
"Name it." Mondrian's face looked pale, lined
and weary.
"Stay here. Travel the earth. This planet was the
scene of your earliest and most hidden experiences.
You may not recognize the original source
of your fears, even when you encounter it; but /
will know it, through your unconscious responses.
And then, perhaps, we can at last help you.'
"I am too busy to spend more time here on
Earth."
"Until you do so, your problem will not be
solved." Skrynol again swayed away from Mondrian,
upward and backwards. "For today, that
must be the end of this session. I can read your
weariness and your distress. Put on your shirt, and
I will lead you back."
Mondrian sighed, and picked up his jacket from
the couch. In spite of the fatigue, his jaw was set.
"Not yet. We have one other item of business."
"You are exhausted. For your own sake, make it
a brief one."
"I cannot promise that." Mondrian reached into
his jacket pocket, and took out a black wafer the
size of his thumbnail. "This is a summary of human
expansion plans. It gives only a broad outline.
Before you receive more, I must hear through
official channels that full control of the Travancore operation will belong to the Anabasis--without interference
from our Stellar ambassador, or from
anyone else. I want it agreed that the Anabasis
will be allowed to quarantine that planet."
Skrynol reached out and took the wafer delicately
from his hand. She bobbed her head from
side to side, examining the small black square. "I
	am doing all that I can."
"Why is it taking so long?"
There was again the chittering that Mondrian
had come to recognize as the Pipe-Rilla's laughter.
"Mondrian, do not make the common error of your
species. Like Humans, Pipe-Rillas are all individuals, with their own preferences and agendas. There
is as much variety of thought and desire among us
as there is among your people. I must seek a consensus.
And my species does not trust yours. But
this"--she waved the black wafer--"will make my
task easier. Do not worry. The Anabasis will have
control of Travancore."
"Don't look for detail in those plans. What you
have there is no more than an outline--the rest
should be available in ten days or so."
"This is enough for the moment." The Fr'opper
placed the wafer carefully in a body pouch. "Even
if the plans you have given me are wrong in some
details--in every detail--they are important. Someone
of your species went through the mental process
that creates such plans. We want to understand
the mental process, the broad concepts, as much
as we want the plans themselves. To my species, it
is inconceivable that such ideas could ever be imagined, still less that the actions they describe might
be carried out. But we have read of human history.
When it comes to war and fighting, the human
species may not--I give you the benefit of the
doubt--be wholly aggressive. But you are certainly
aggressive. And you have a saying, that where all
are blind a creature with a single eye will prevail.
In matters of conquest and destruction, my species
is blind--and so are the Tinkers and the Angels."
"It sounds as though the rest of the Stellar Group
all think of humans in the same way."
"I am afraid we do. Why else would I be here on
Earth, alone? In the case of the Tinkers, their feelings
are partly because of your appearance. The
human form resembles a small carnivore on their
home world of Mercantor. It is not dangerous to
them, but it is mindless, ferocious, and annoying.
Such associations are irrelevant in a creature of
perfect intellect, but to most of us--I would say all
of us, but I am not sure about the Angels--those
factors carry large weight. Small points can be
very important. For example, I am told that to a
human a Pipe-Rilla's natural voice always sounds
cheerful--even when it lacks the surgical modification
that I underwent to ease the production of
human speech."
"That is true. You all sound happy."
Skrynol bowed her head, and again placed her
forelimbs high on top of it. "And this gesture,
which for us indicates shame and suffering, looks
amusing to you. I know. So to humans our worries
and sorrows must always sound and look comical."
Mondrian hesitated. "They do," he said. "But I
do not think of you as comical."
"I am relieved to hear it--and will be more
relieved if you will tell me how Humans do think
of us."
"As you have pointed out, neither Humans nor
Pipe-Rillas all share the same opinions. But the
popular view of Pipe-Rillas is that you are conscientious,
self-deprecating--and a little dull. In human
terms, you also lack initiative."
"For the warfare that you find so popular?"
"For more than that. There is an old story that
illustrates the general human view of the other
species of the Stellar Group."
"A true story?"
"I am sure it is not true. But it shows the human
perspective. According to the story, a ship carrying
a Human, a Pipe-Rilla, a Tinker, and an Angel
made an emergency landing on Dembricot. They
did not have time to send out a distress signal, and
no one had reason to search for them. The four of
them sat down and reviewed the situation. Their
food supplies were low. Their communication equipment
was damaged beyond repair. They could perhaps
expect a rescue eventually, but not for years.
So what should they do?
"The Human asked for suggestions. The PipeRilla
said that she was sorry about the situation,
but a mere Pipe-Rilla would not be able to solve
the problem where another species had already
failed. She left the group and went off into the
wilderness alone. The Human asked the Tinker for
ideas. The Tinker said there was no problem.
Dembricot had abundant winged insect life. All
one had to do was resolve into individual components,
fly off, and catch as much as one wanted.
The Human turned to the Angel. The Angel agreed
with the Tinker, there was no problem. The soil of
Dembricot was very fertile; all one had to do was
put down a root system."
"And the Human suggestion?"
"The Human made no suggestion. After hearing
the others, the Human repaired the ship. What
you others see as aggression, we see as human
initiative."
"You have a poor opinion of your fellow-members
of the Stellar Group.
"Not as bad as the story would suggest. Stories
like that always exaggerate to make their points.
Humans like Tinkers. They enjoy their sense of
humor, though they find them--if you will pardon
a human joke--'flighty' and 'scatter-brained.' Angels
are accurate, precise, and almost totally incomprehensible.
And Pipe-Rillas look terrifying,
take their responsibilities seriously, and all worry
too much."
Skrynol had settled far back on her hind limbs,
and was rocking gently from side to side. "It is
good to have these perspectives. Did you know
that we have a very similar story of shipwreck,
with the same actions for the Tinker and the Angel? But in our version the Human wants to hunt,
kill, and eat the native animals--and it is the PipeRilla
who repairs the ship and makes escape
possible."
Mondrian stood up and buttoned his jacket.
"Would you like to guess what story the Tinkers
and Angels tell? But we've talked too long. I must
go now."
Skrynol nodded, and moved in front of Mondrian.
The Pipe-Rilla insisted on changing the meeting
place every time, escorting Mondrian to and from
it through a maze of tunnels.
"Some day we ought to discuss just what we
mean by intelligence," she said thoughtfully, as
they went forward into total darkness. "I suspect
that we might find surprises there. I think we will
agree that, whatever our differences, Humans, Tinkers,
Angels, and Pipe-Rillas are all intelligent-- perhaps of comparable intelligence. But does this
mean that we are all somehow much the same? It
does not, for this important reason: We did not
follow the same road to intelligence. Humans evolved
from a rather small and weak animal, on a planet
with powerful predators. You had to be clever,
inventive, and aggressive, or you would have died
out. That is why you made tools, why you changed
the face of Earth, why you went to space. But
compare that with the rest of the Group, who
never thought of leaving their home worlds until
you Humans arrived. We Pipe-Rillas are twice the size of any other life form on our planet. We are
strong. We have no natural competition for living
space or food. We did not need intelligence to fight
enemies. But a few million years ago our planet
S'kat'lan went through major changes in climate.
Our intelligence developed in response to that
need--and only through drastic changes in our
life-style and habitat were we able to survive. But
the forces we faced were all impersonal ones, of
winds and weather. We learned early to control
our population. We never fought each other, nor
were we ever threatened by another species on the
planet."
Skrynol extended a tough, whiskery palp behind
her for Mondrian to hold on to, and headed up a
forty-five-degree sloping ramp. "As for the Tinkers,"
she continued, ' at the level of individual
components they know aggression, and they will
fight over food, space, and mates. But a Tinker
Composite has no such needs--it does not eat, drink,
or mate. It is in some sense immortal, and in
another sense it has no permanent existence at all.
It has no sense of danger at the Composite level,
because at the first threat it can simply disperse.
Resolved to separate elements, the Composite no
longer exists. Mercantor is a cold world, and to a
Tinker 'intelligence' means 'closeness and warmth.'
And as for the Angels, their form of intelligence
remains as much a mystery to us as it apparently
does to you. The Chassel-rose will live, die, and
yearn for light and fertile soil. But the Singers live
a long, long time, and no one knows how they
come to be intelligent, or what purpose their intelligence
may serve. Perhaps in another few hundred
years ..."
While Skrynol had been rambling on in the darkness,
Mondrian had listened with only half an ear.
He had a new problem to worry about. The PipeRilla
wanted him to roam Earth, looking for his
early childhood. Where was he supposed to begin
the search? In the Gallimaufries, up in the polar
resorts, on the open ocean, out in the great equatorial
nature preserves?--the experience Skrynol
was seeking could be anywhere. He had vague
childhood memories of all of those areas. But how
could he spare time for any of that, when the
pursuit team operation on Travancore was ready
to begin?
Before Mondrian reached a lighted part of the
deep basement warren, he had also arrived at a
conclusion: the Anabasis had first priority. No matter
how bad the nightmares, he would live with
them for a while longer.
As for exploring Earth, he could make a fairly
detailed list of the places that he wanted to see.
And then what he needed was someone to go there--
someone who would make full sound and vision
recordings and bring them back for his review.
They might provide the mental key that would
unlock his memory.
Mondrian thought hard. He had to have a lot of
help. By the time that he reached Tatty's apartment
he knew exactly what he must say and do.
Chapter Seventeen
DEATH AND ADESTIS

The room had been set up as a briefing facility
and battle station, complete with conference table,
projection equipment, terminals and interactive
map displays. The Adestis battlefield was at
the rear, overlooked by a spectators' gallery.
Twenty-five men and women sat at the desks spread
across the body of the room. In front of them,
dressed in a close-fitting black uniform that closely
resembled the formal attire of a Security Force
commander, stood Dougal Macdougal. His expression
was totally serious as he presented a sequence
of graphics. Luther Brachis had never seen the
ambassador so deeply involved with anything.
"This is the enemy," Macdougal said. "In case
any of you are inclined to underestimate it, let me
remind you that there has never so far been a
successful attack on this type of stronghold using
an attack force with fewer than forty members;
and even in those cases, there was substantial loss
of simulacra and several human deaths."
The three-dimensional image system showed a
dark, walled pit, descending to unknown depths in
fibrous black soil. Above the whole system, in large
glowing letters, stood a sign: adestis--you are here.
Luther Brachis was sitting in the audience, about
halfway back. He had had his private word with
Dougal Macdougal, hinting at the Pipe-Rilla concern
over human expansion plans. And now he
was stuck. He could not easily leave without going
through with the whole Adestis exercise. He was
watching Ambassador MacDougal closely, irritated
and skeptical. A morning of Adestis was not his
idea of time well spent, but Lotos Sheldrake had
been very explicit: 'If you want the chance for an
informal word in the ambassador's ear sometime
in the next week and a half, this isn't just your
best chance of it--it's your only chance. He'll be
part of the time on Titan, with a new industrial
plant, and the rest of the time he'll be away in the
Procyon colony. It's Adestis, and it's tomorrow, or
it's nothing. Take it or leave it."
Luther Brachis had taken it--grudgingly. When
the briefing began, he had been cynically amused
to see that Macdougal conducted affairs with complete
seriousness, just as though it were some major
military operation. After a few minutes Dougal
Macdougal gave them their first look at their adversary
for the day. And that was when Brachis
lost his bored look and became the most attentive
member of the audience.
"Remember the scale here," said Macdougal. He
moved the light pointer from one side of the display
to the other. "This distance is roughly three
and a half centimeters. Your simulacrum will be
half a centimeter in height. As you see, the quarry
is a little more than one and a half centimeters
across the body, and the extended legs are maybe
twice that. This is a full-grown specimen of the
family Ctenizidae; sub-order Mygalomorphae, order Araneae, class Arachnida--in short, a trapdoor spider.
A female. One of Earth's most deadly creatures.
She won't be afraid of you, but you'd better
be scared of her. Let me show you some of the
danger points."
The screen displayed a dark brown form crouched
ominously at the bottom of the smooth-sided pit.
The length of the body was divided into two main
sections, connected by a narrow bridge. Eight bristly
legs grew from the front body section, and near
the mouth were another two pairs of shorter appendages.
Eight pearly eyes were distributed along
the dark back of the upper body.
Dougal Macdougal shone his pointer at the head
section. "This is the place to hit her, in the cephalothorax.
Most of the nervous system is here, so
that's the best place to shoot. It's also the most dangerous place, because her jaws and poison glands
are here, too. Don't forget that your simulacrum
will be completely disabled if there is an injection
of poison, even a small one. So watch out for those
fangs, and stay well clear of them." He moved the
pointer further to the rear. "This is the pedicel,
where the cephalothorax joins the abdomen. If you
can get an accurate hit here, do it. The body is
very narrow at this point, and you may be able to
blow the two pieces apart. But you'll have to be
very accurate--and the exoskeleton is tough as
hell there. What else? Well, you can see for yourself
what the legs are like. Four pairs, each one
seven-jointed. A hit where a leg attaches to the
cephalothorax might do some damage; otherwise,
forget them. The breathing spiracles and lung slits
are all on the abdomen, on the second and third
segments. Two pairs of lungs, but you may as well
ignore them--even if you get a hit there the spider
can still breathe for a while through its tracheal
tubes. The heart is in the abdomen, here. See the
four spinnerets, on the fourth and fifth segments of
the aodomen? Keep your eye on those, too. You'll
never break free of the silk if once you've been
wrapped in it--and it dries instantly, as soon as
it's in contact with air. The spider can squirt the
silk at you, so you're not safe unless you stay at
least your body length away from her.
Macdougal turned to look at the audience. "That's
all I plan to say about the spider. Any questions
before we put on the headsets and go down there
to look at the trap? Better ask them now; we won't
have time for it once we've started."
"I've got one." A skinny man two seats in front
of Brachis nodded at the screen. "Those eyes look
as though they ought to be vulnerable. Should we
be shooting at them?"
"Good question." Macdougal shone the pointer
on one of the eyes. "See their locations? They're
all on the carapace--that's like a thick shield, protecting
the top of the cephalothorax. And that raises
another point: the carapace is tough. Don't try to
penetrate it; save your shots for the underside or
the maw and joints. The eyes are a weak point, but
it won't be easy to get a good shot at more than
one eye at a time. They all tend to have different
fields of view--apparently spiders don't have binocular
vision. So I don't particularly recommend
eyes as a target. This type of spider doesn't rely
much on eyesight--it goes largely by touch. Don t
assume it doesn't know where you are, simply
because the eyes aren't looking at you. The legs
are terrifically sensitive to vibration patterns. If
you get in trouble, but you've not actually been
seized, lie perfectly still. The spider usually ignores
anything that doesn't move. Anything else?"
A woman sitting near the front stood up abruptly.
"Yes. Count me out, Dougal. I'm leaving. I won't
fight that thing."
"The Adestis group won't refund your payment."
"Least of my worries." The woman turned to
stare at the others. "You're all crazy. That's nothing
but a god-damned bug in there. Anyone in
their right mind would be content to swat it."
She left rapidly. Dougal Macdougal watched her
leave, a fixed smile on his face. "Lost her nerve,"
he said, as soon as the door had closed. "Anyone
else? Or any more questions? If not, let's get on
with it."
The audience looked around uneasily. There was
a slow shaking of heads, but one man rose and
followed the woman from the room. He would not
meet anyone's eye as he went. Finally, at a signal
from Macdougal, those remaining picked up their
Monitor sets and placed the light structures over
their heads.
Luther Brachis waited for correlator field transients
to settle and the disturbing moments of double
sensation to fade. The briefings had told him
what was happening. Telemetry couplers in the
headset translated sensory inputs from the tiny
simulacrum to direct electrical current feeds in his
brain. At the same time, his brain's intention
signals--the ones that normally stimulated activity
in his body's motor control system--were intercepted
and translated into cyber-signals in the
body of an Adestis simulacrum. As Macdougal had
explained it, "Your brain can't see--it's blind. And
it can't hear, smell, taste or touch, either. All it
gets from your senses are streams of electrical
inputs, and it interprets them as sensations. Now
those electrical inputs will be coming from your
simulacrum."
The sensory hold tightened. Brachis grunted in
surprise. He had expected the simulations to be
plausible--the makers of Adestis admitted they had imitators, but denied that they had competition. Still he was staggered by the uncanny quality of the sensory inputs. They were like life itself. He
had lost all sense of his own body. The simulacrum was his body.
He looked down, and saw his own legs, standing
on a damp, pebble-strewn plain. Tiny wormlike
animals wriggled away from him as he moved his
feet. Fifty paces away a gigantic fly skimmed past
on iridescent wings. Brachis stared all around him.
Two dozen people stood in a rough circle, all experimentally
raising arms, moving feet, or watching
each other. The only exception was Dougal
Macdougal, recognizable by his ease of movement
and confident manner.
"As soon as you're ready," he said. "Get the feel
of the environment, get to know who you all are--
your suits here are color-coded just the way you
were told before we began, so you ought to recognize
each other. Then practice the feel of your
weapon. And we'll get on with it. Look over there."
He pointed away to the left, through air that seemed
dusty, thick, and smoke-filled. "It's hard to spot,
but there's the trap. The spider will be sitting at
the bottom of the pit. She already knows that we
are here--she will be feeling the vibrations through
the ground. So walk lightly. Remember now, you re
only half a centimeter tall, and you only weigh
about one five-hundredth of a gram. At this size,
gravity isn't too important--we can all tolerate a
fall of many times our height, with no injury. But
we're attacking something with a body twice our
height, legs six times as long as we are, and a mass
that outweighs the lot of us, easily. Don't get
over-confident."
There was a gasp from a green simulacrum next
to Brachis. "Is he joking?"
Brachis shook his head experimentally. It felt
perfectly natural, as though it were his own head.
'He's not joking. He's just giving what he thinks is
good advice. Maybe he's right--some people may
come here with the idea that the trapdoor spider
is just another bug."
Not me." Green tried a shake of his head, too.
"If that's just a bug, the Hyperion Vault is just a
hole in the ground. I'm telling you, if I didn't work
in his office, and if he hadn't put pressure on me to
come along on this ..."
The party was slowly becoming more organized.
Four of them had taken part in Adestis on other
occasions, and they naturally assumed the lead.
Everyone was permitted two practice shots from
the projectile weapons, aiming them at head-high
moss growths fifty paces off to their left. Brachis
unconsciously noted that even with recoil compensation
the gun he was holding delivered quite a
jolt to his arm. That was a good sign. He had been
wondering if the organizers of Adestis were expecting
them to knock off the spider with weapons
like peashooters. His gun pulled a little to the left.
He took careful aim and put his second shot exactly
through the fluffy pink ball of a head of
moss-flower.
Halfway to the trap door the group halted again.
Macdougal, who had been walking a pace or two
ahead, turned to them. "Last word. After this, each
of you is on your own. Don't go down into the trap. Not even if you think the spider is dead. This
species has been known to sham dead, and the
floor of that trap is her home territory. Let her
come to you--and don't be afraid to run for it if
things get too hot for you. The rest of us will try to
draw her away from anyone who seems to be in
real trouble. And another thing: Don't shoot at the
carapace. You won't penetrate it, the ricochet could
go anywhere, and you'll be a damned sight more
dangerous to us than you will to her."
His final words were interrupted by a shout from
the black-clad simulacrum who had been detailed
to keep a close watch on the trap. The thick hinged
lid was swinging open. The great body of the spider
heaved itself rapidly out onto the open ground.
It had apparently listened to the ground vibrations,
sized up the adversary, and decided to go on
the offensive.
"Scatter!" shouted Macdougal. His advice was
unnecessary. The simulacra were already spilling
panic-stricken in all directions.
Luther Brachis took a quick look around him.
He had already noted that their approach to the
trapdoor spider's lair had paid too little attention
to good ground cover. The only place to hide was
twenty paces off to the right, where a stand of
grey-green moss grew hip high. He ran that way,
dived for cover, and rolled up to a kneeling position
with his weapon at the ready.
The difference between the spider's image in the
briefing room and the arachnid herself was terrifying.
The beast towered three times as high as his
head, a gigantic armored tank that could move,
turn, and attack with unbelievable speed. Against
that mass, the weapon in his hands seemed useless.
He could pump a hundred projectiles into
that vast, glistening side, and they would have no
effect at all.
The spider turned. He had a perfect side view of
its broad abdomen and splayed legs as the cephalothorax
swooped down on a magenta simulacrum
and jerked it aloft. The simulacrum was helpless
in the grip of the chelicerae, the pointed crushing
appendages at the front of the spider's maw. A
projectile weapon dropped uselessly to the ground.
Two others had run for temporary shelter directly
beneath the spider's great body. Now they
were firing upwards, pumping shots into the soft
areas of the genitals and the exposed ovipositor.
The spider jerked and shuddered as the projectiles
penetrated its body, and the two attackers cheered
at each spasm and shouted encouragement to each
other. They moved to take more shots at pointblank
range. But they had forgotten Dougal Macdougal
's warning. A spout of gossamer suddenly
jetted from the spinnerets, enveloping both sim
ulacra
at once in an unbreakable net of fast-drying
silk.
Then the spider took a rapid shuffle backwards,
ducked its cephalothorax low to the ground, and
hoisted both attackers to grind them in its maw.
Brachis scanned the spider rapidly from chelicerae
to ovipositor. From where he was kneeling
he had a choice of three targets. He could aim at a
leg, or at the pedicel that connected the abdomen
and cephalothorax, or at one of the chelicerae. The
legs were the easiest target. They were also the least effective. The pedicel was a vital area, but it
looked heavily armored, and it would take an exceptionally
lucky shot to do any good. Brachis
made up his mind. He sighted briefly on the left
chelicera. The weapon bucked in his grip and the
organ, severed near its base, dropped to the ground
in front of the spider.
Brachis moved to sight on the second chelicera,
but there was no time for a shot. The spider had
swivelled rapidly to face its new attacker and was
now scuttling toward him across the pebbled
ground. The maw was open, gaping wide enough
to swallow him whole. Brachis recalled Macdougal's
dry comment, that no spider ate solid food--they
pre-digested their victims by injecting enzymes,
then sucked them dry. But there was little comfort
in that. The fangs looming up on him were more
than strong enough to crush him flat.
He dropped behind the low stand of moss and
huddled motionless to the ground. There was a
buzzing and a hissing overhead, and a monstrous
shape blocked out the light above him. Brachis
turned his head to look upwards. The vast abdomen
was directly over him. He could see every
detail--a dozen projectile wounds leaking blood
and body fluids, the oozing nozzles of four spinnerets,
and colonies of tiny mite and tick parasites
clinging to the coarse body bristles. Then the 
spider charged on. The air was filled with a sickly
sweet stench of decay.
He rolled over, sat up, and looked around. With
one part of his mind he wondered how the makers
of the Adestis simulacra were able to capture and
transmit olfactory stimuli. But that question could
wait for another occasion.
Brachis took a quick look to his immediate right
and left. There had been two others diving for
cover at the same moment, and the spider must
have passed right over them, too. He saw that they
were both still lying motionless. Still playing dead?
If so, they were taking Macdougal's advice a bit
too seriously.
He leaned over and tapped one of them on the
shoulder. "Come on. Let s get on with it, or we'll
be here all day."
There was no reply. The figure remained totally
immobile. Brachis leaned closer, looking for the
small green light between the shoulders that showed
the simulacrum was occupied and in working order.
The light was still on. He looked at the other
motionless figure; that light was on, too.
Brachis squatted back on his heels, oblivious to
the frantic battle still surging all around. The whole
thing was crazy. He was sure that the spider had
missed all three of them. He had actually seen a
blurred image of the huge legs scrambling by, a
good three paces away from all of them. So why
were the other two still lying here, just as though
they had somehow been put out of action . .. ?
He gave a startled growl of comprehension. With
his weapon set to automatic he fired a blind volley
of shots at the spider's belly, and at the same
moment bit down hard on his rear molar control.
There was a dizzying moment of disorientation;
then he again felt the Monitor headset covering his
face.
that is the end of adestis for you, said a metallic
voice in his ear. remain seated if you wish, but--
With one movement Brachis ripped the Monitor
set off his head and looked around him.
He was still sitting in the same place in the
Adestis battle chamber. Of the two dozen people
who had embarked on the exercise, a half were
now lolling in their seats, headsets off. Their
simulacra had already been killed by the spider,
and now they were experiencing the vicarious agony
of their own deaths. Another dozen still wore
the Monitor headsets--and three of those slumped
forward in their restraining harnesses, their clothes
drenched with blood. Brachis saw that their throats
had been cut so deeply that the heads were almost
severed.
He slapped at his harness release. Before he could
rise to his feet, a tall figure was looming over him.
It looked familiar. At the same time as his mind
rejected recognition of that tall, cadaverous figure,
a skinny arm was swinging in towards his unprotected
neck. A bright ceremonial sword whistled
through the air.
Brachis jerked his right arm upwards. There was
a clean, meaty crunch. His hand, severed below
the base of the thumb, flew out and fell on the
floor in front of him.
His combat uniform reacted before he had time
to feel shock or pain. The shirt sensors recorded
the sudden drop in blood pressure and activated a
web of fibers in the right sleeve. The knit material
on the right forearm at once tightened to form a
tourniquet.
The sword was swinging again at his neck and
head. Brachis swayed forward, in under the swing,
and reached out and around with his left arm. He
grasped the back of the narrow neck. The thin
body was against his face. He closed his eyes, made
a total, reflexive effort, and felt vertebrae snap
under his twisting fingers. The dropped sword
passed over his back and touched him lightly on
the legs. Still entwined, Brachis and his assailant
tumbled together to the hard floor of the chamber.
Brachis landed underneath, grunting at the impact.
He opened his eyes. His first, incredulous 
impression
had been correct. He was staring into the
lifeless features of the Margrave of Fujitsu.

Even though Luther Brachis had done his best
to persuade her, Godiva Lomberd refused to sit in
the room where the Adestis attack would take place.
She had listened to him quietly, smiled, and shaken
her gorgeous blond head. "Luther, Nature designed
some people for one thing, and some for others.
Your life is Security--weapons, sabotage, skirmishes
and violence. Mine has been Art--music, and dancing,
and poetry. I'm not saying my life has been
better than yours. But I am saying that I won't
come and watch while you and Dougal Macdougal
try to kill a poor harmless animal that is only
doing what its nature programmed it to do." She
placed the tips of her fingers gently on his lips.
"No argument, Luther. I'm not coming--not even
to the spectators' gallery."
Eventually she had relented far enough to accompany
Luther Brachis to the Adestis facility.
She allowed him to settle her in the neighboring
lounge and order refreshments for her; and she
seemed delighted to see Esro Mondrian when he
arrived at the lounge a few minutes later.
"What are you doing here, Esro? I thought you
didn't like Adestis."
"I don't." He nodded his head. He had with him
a tiny, dark-haired woman, who was staring curiously
at Godiva. "Adestis isn't for me. We came
here because we heard Luther is here, and we have
to see him."
"You can't do it now--he'll be right in the middle
of it."
"That's all right. We'll wait." He turned to the woman with him. "Lotos, this is Godiva Lomberd.
Godiva, Lotos Sheldrake. If you two don't mind,
I'm going to leave you here for a few minutes. If
Luther comes out, don't let him get away. Make
him wait until I get back."
"Where's Tatty?"
"Still down on Earth." Mondrian hesitated for a
moment. "She's ... helping me. I needed images
and recordings of some places. I guess she'll be
back in a week or two."
Godiva looked faintly puzzled, but said nothing
as Mondrian left and Lotos settled down to sit
opposite her. They stared at each other in silence
for a few seconds.
"You know Adestis?" said Lotos Sheldrake at
last.
The other woman smiled and shook her head slowly. "Not really. Just enough to convince me I
don't want anything to do with it. How about you?
"Once--and never again." Lotos related the details
of her own experience at the termite nest. She underplayed the danger, but emphasized her own terror and discomfort. She did her best to sound humorous and self-deprecating, and tried to create a good rapport with Godiva. While she spoke, she continued her own assessment. Since hearing of the contract with Luther Brachis, Lotos had put her own information services to work. The results were unsatisfying. Godiva Lomberd had first come
to attention on Earth a few years ago, as a stage
performer and courtesan--"The Godiva Bird: Model,
Consort, and Exotic Dancer." All the digging that
Lotos had been able to do since then had provided
a simple picture: Godiva was a woman whom men
found irresistible, and she had exploited that fact
for money.
Looking at her now, it was easy to see why she
had been so successful. She moved like a dancer,
with every gesture natural, easy and flowing. She
had the clear eyes and skin of perfect health; she
laughed easily; and she listened to Lotos with total
attention, as though what she was hearing was
the most interesting thing in the world.
Still, Lotos was very uneasy. According to reports,
Godiva had never formed more than a temporary
and strictly business relationship with any
man ... and now she had formed a permanent contract with Luther Brachis.
True love? Lotos Sheldrake didn't consider that
for more than a second. She had a deep intuition,
and it was consistent with what Esro Mondrian
had reported. There was something strange going
on between Godiva Lomberd and Luther Brachis.
Lotos lacked Mondrian's previous acquaintance
with Godiva, but she thoroughly trusted his instincts.
"She's changed," he had said, as they
whipped through the Ceres transportation system
on their way to the Adestis Headquarters. "She
wasn't like that when she was on Earth."
"Changed how?"
Mondrian looked angry--but only with himself.
Lotos knew how much he prided himself on his
accurate reading of others' motivations and secret
desires. "She's . .. focused," he said at last. "You
would have to know the old Godiva to see what I
mean. It used to be that Godiva paid attention to
the man of the moment, the one who was buying
her time . . . but she remained aware of other men,
and somehow she made them all aware of her. It
was like a field she gave out. You knew, without a
word being said, that she was busy now; but at
some time in the future she could be yours, too, if
you wanted her--and if you were willing to pay
royally for the pleasure. Now ..." He shrugged.
"Now she pays attention to Luther. The other men
around her are not even there. She's different."
"Maybe it's love?" suggested Lotos, giving Esro
Mondrian a quick and skeptical sideways look from
her dark eyes.
He did not even bother to reply. Mondrian's
opinion of love as an agent for profound change of
personality was perhaps even more cynical than
Lotos Sheldrake's.
Now Lotos watched as other men and women
wandered through the lounge. Mondrian had been
exactly right. Godiva would look up casually, as
though to check that each new arrival was not
Luther Brachis, and then at once she returned her
attention to Lotos. Even when Mondrian reappeared,
Godiva gave him no more than a smile
and a friendly nod. Earth's most famous and most
expensive courtesan should have been much more aware of men. Even if she no longer thought of
them as possible customers, the habit of speculative
evaluation should be built in.
Mondrian sat down next to Lotos Sheldrake and
looked at his watch. He had promised her half an
hour alone with Godiva. If Lotos wanted to cultivate
her beyond that point, she would have to take
the initiative herself.
On the way back to the lounge he had stopped in
for a few moments at the spectator's gallery and
looked down on the battle area. Luther Brachis
and Dougal Macdougal were both still there, hidden
by Monitor headsets and recognizable to
Mondrian only by their clothing. The actual field
of encounter was a small hemispherical chamber
about six feet across. A combination microscope
telescope set in the domed roof revealed all the
action to any interested observer. The usual audience
would be prospective players, following the
procedure with avid interest. When Mondrian 
entered, the assault on the trapdoor spider's lair was
still in preparation, and the gallery was almost
empty. There was one young woman, wearing the
blue workers' uniform of the Pentecost colony, and
a tall, thin man with a full beard. He seemed more
interested in the helmeted players in the battle
chamber than in the simulacra or the battle itself.
The close-up of the spider was daunting. It sat
motionless at the bottom of its trap, holding in its
front limbs the drained husk of a millipede. It was
easy to imagine that the rows of eyes along its
curved back were aware of the watchers above.
Mondrian looked at the spider thoughtfully. If
his arrangement with Skrynol for the Anabasis did
not work out, and Dougal Macdougal became an
impossible problem--could Adestis provide a convenient
solution? Had it been used in the past, to
dispose of a troublesome official?
That new thought intrigued Mondrian. He went
back to Lotos Sheldrake and Godiva Lomberd and
sat down to puzzle out its potential. He had been
there for only a few minutes when the uproar
began in the adjoining battle chamber.
Godiva jerked instantly to her feet. "In there,"
she screamed, and dashed to the chamber door. By
the time Mondrian and Sheldrake had followed
her inside, she was already at Luther Brachis' side.
She was supporting him and looking in horror at
the scene around her.
Brachis was standing, white-faced but erect. His
right forearm ended in a bloody stump.
Mondrian glanced at the bodies surrounding
Brachis, then went across to him. He lifted the
arm, checked the tourniquet, and nodded. "No
blood loss now. Take it easy. We'll get you over to
the hospital."
"Thanks. Sorry about the mess in here." Brachis
nodded at the wounded arm. "Injuries getting to
be a habit."
"We'll grow it back."
"Yeah. Stop me biting my nails." Brachis looked
at Godiva and gave her a death's-head smile. "Don't
worry, Goddy. I'll be fine. Just have to sign my
name left-handed for a while."

memorandum from: Luther Brachis, Commander Solar
System Security

to: All security posts

subject: Countermeasures for terrorist activities.

Effective immediately, the following special security
measures will go into effect throughout the
Inner System:
1)	All travellers leaving Earth will be required to travel via Link Exit facilities. All other transfers
will be temporarily prohibited.
2)	All travellers leaving Earth will be subject to chromosome ID checks. ID's will be compared with
reference ID (attached). In the event of a correlation
exceeding 0.95, the traveller must be detained
for questioning by Central Security.
3)	All awakenings from storage facilities will be subject to direct supervision. Wakers will be subject
to chromosome ID checks and checked against
reference ID. In the event of a correlation exceeding
0.95, the waker must be detained for questioning
by Central Security.
4)	Any traveller using Link facilities whose appearance
resembles the margrave of Fujitsu (image
attached) must be detained for questioning by Central
Security.
5)	Any off-Earth disposition of assets from the estate of the Margrave of Fujitsu must be reported
to Central Security.

Luther Brachis stared at the stump of his hand,
where the nubs of new fingers were already beginning
to bulge under synthetic skin. He wiggled
them experimentally. "Itches like blazes. He
tapped the sheet in front of him with his left hand.
"Think this will do it? Will we catch him?"
Esro Mondrian shook his head. "Not if he was as
smart as you think. He must have made plans for
this kind of checks when he first created his own
Artefact. The next one could look like anything."
"I know." Brachis looked up. "And I'm worried."
"You'll be all right. Stay well-armed, and we'll
give you plenty of protection."
"You don't understand." Brachis placed his hand
on the gun that sat on the table in front of him.
"I'm not worried about myself. I'm afraid that the
bastard might have a shot at Godiva."

Chapter Eighteen
TRAVANCORE AND BARCHAN

Dear Chan,
This is a letter I never expected to write, a message
I never dreamed I would send. But it's our
first night down on Travancore--and I'm flat-out scared. I wish I were with you in the Gallimaufries,
watching Bozzie preach self-denial and gobble
down cakes and honey. You and I can't be
together now, but maybe you'll let me babble at
you for a while.
We weren't allowed to bring a Mattin Link down
to Travancore. Whatever happens, Mondrian won't
risk the Morgan Construct having access to a Link
again. So I'm firing this off to our ship, and hoping
everything works out right so you'll get it before
you leave Barchan. Last word I had from there
said you had the hottest group they've seen since
the pursuit team training began. I hope so--and I
hope you won't have to visit Travancore. If you do,
it will mean that we have failed.
I said we are "down on Travancore" but that's
only a figure of speech. I don't know where the
true surface of the planet begins--no one does.
We're hanging now in a sort of half-balloon tent
with a flat, flexible base, about a hundred feet
down from the topmost growths of vegetation.
There's another five-kilometers-plus of plant life
underneath us. Animal life, too--we saw signs of
that when we did our low-altitude ship survey.
The whole planet is riddled with holes, circular
shafts about five meters across, that dive down
from the top layers. At first we thought they might
be natural rain channels--it rains every day over
most of Travancore. But now we're not so sure.
S'glya--she's the Pipe-Rilla on the team--saw something
big wriggling away down one of the tunnels
when we flew overhead. Scary. But I was mainly
happy that it wasn't the Morgan Construct--we
were a sitting target. I tried to hide my panicky
feeling, but it didn't work. S'glya has this absolutely
uncanny ability to read my emotions, and
she told the others.
It's an unpleasant thought, the idea that soon
we'll be heading down one of the tunnels, but the
Tinker has a different attitude. It argues that the
tunnels are a boon--without them it would be just
impossible to explore the vertical forest on Travancore.
Maybe it's impossible anyway. We'll know
in a day or two.
Even before we started the final descent here we
decided that the training program we'd been
through had missed the point. We were sent to
Dembricot for the final sessions, because it's a
vegetation world like Travancore so it ought to be
good experience for this place.
Nice idea, but totally wrong. You've seen the
training films of Dembricot. Flat, watery, plains of
plant growth--and no more like Travancore than
Barchan is. The planet is rolling, tangled hillocks
of jungle, boiling up like one of earth's oceans in a
bad storm.
One good thing: I can breathe the air with just a
compressor. I'll even be able to manage without
that when we get to a lower level. We're all doing
well. S'glya needs a heating unit, and Angel had to
do some mysterious interior modification before
the atmosphere was acceptable, but that's all. (I
wish I could understand Angel's mental processes
better. The others seem to have no problem--or at
least they don't admit it.)
The view from the top layer of vegetation is
spectacular at the moment. Talitha is close to setting.
It's low on the horizon, so it shines horizontally
through mile after mile of ferns and leaves
and vines. No flowers, I'm afraid--Travancore
wouldn't do for old Bozzie. Everything in sight is
greener than green, except for the Top Creepers.
They're purple, gigantic, lateral creepers that snake
away across the top of everything else as far as
you can see. And I mean gigantic. They're only
maybe two meters across, but many kilometers
long. In spite of their size they're not at all dense
and heavy. I tried to take a sample from one,
because I couldn't see how the rest of the vegetation
could possibly support their weight. When I
cut into it, there was a hissing sound and a horrible
smell, and the level of the vegetation around
the Top Creeper actually went down a fraction.
The whole thing must be nothing more than a
wafer-thin shell stretched out over a hollow center
full of light gases. Now I wonder if they are actually
holding the other plants up.
(I'm babbling, but I tell myself it's justifiable. If
by some chance you do have to come here, the
more you know about the place ahead of time, the
better. We were trained as well as we could be,
but it wasn't enough. No one ever looked closely at
Travancore before. With no defined surface and no
open water, no one thought it was worth it. So we
have more questions than answers.)
More about those holes--they keep preying on
my mind. The Angel imaging organs (can't call
them eyes) can be tuned to the thermal infra-red.
Our Angel had a heat-wavelength look down one
of the snafts, and claims that it isn't vertical. It
spirals down in a helix, which rules out the rain
channel idea. We'll have a better idea in the future,
because I suspect we'll be going down one. I
hope I'm around after that to send a description to
you. Whatever happens to us, our ship should have
a full record of it.
More about Travancore, too. Naturally, we've
thought about nothing else since we got here. There
are plenty of mysteries not covered in the briefing
documents. For example: gravity and air. The surface
gravity is only a little over a quarter of Earth's.
So how can it hold onto a substantial atmosphere,
and support this massive cover of vegetation? The
air should have escaped into space long ago. Well,
according to S'glya, Travancore has its atmosphere because it has its strange vegetative layer. The
canopy of plant life is so dense, continuous, and
ubiquitous that it can trap air molecules within it
and beneath it. There is something close to a pressure
discontinuity near the top here. And of course,
it's a chicken-and-egg situation, because the atmosphere
is absolutely necessary for the vegetation to
exist! The plant cover must have developed very
early in Travancore's history. And if S'glya is right,
the shafts we saw can't go down uninterrupted
towards the solid surface, otherwise they would
act as escape vents for the air. So we may have to
cut through barriers. And that adds one more element
of difficulty. Just to increase the confusion,
the Angel says that S'glya's idea about the relationship
of the atmosphere and the vegetation must
be wrong--for six reasons still to be specified!
Well, what's the good news? The team is the
good news. We're an odd group. We have a Tinker
who says its name in Kaliam, but who asks me to
call it Ishmael. Its big thrill in life seems to be to
snuggle up to the rest of us. Then there's an Angel
who won't stop using human proverbs and cliches,
and who says that Angels don't have names; and
S'glya, the Pipe-Rilla, who seems to know what
I'm thinking and feeling without being told, and
who insists that she be called S'glya, even though
that is not her real name. Weird. But it all worksl Once we started to know each other, we've been
achieving an absolutely unbelievable level of communication
and team-work. It seems as though
anything that one of us can't do, another one can.
We noticed it at first back on Barchan, and since
then it has just gone on getting better and better.
Better and better--but God knows if it will be
good enough!
Full night here now. Time to sleep.
Keep your fingers crossed for me, Chan, wherever
you are. I love you, and I've always loved you.
I can't forgive myself for running away and refusing
to speak to you when you were on Ceres with
Tatty and Kubo Flammarion. But it was such an
effort, admitting to myself that I don't control you
any more. I hope you will forgive me. And I hope
some day I can make up for what I did then. Yours, Leah.

Chan had read it through again and again. After
the third time he could have repeated it word for
word.
But he kept going back to the last few paragraphs.
Leah's words of love bowled him over--
and her remarks about the level of communication
being achieved by Team Alpha baffled him completely.
Over the past couple of days he had become
convinced that his own team would never work well together. They had too much trouble
understanding each other. Well, maybe Shikari,
the Tinker, was all right, and even the Pipe-Rilla
usually made some sense, though neither one of
those creatures seemed to have the equivalent of
facial expressions. They must presumably have
some sort of body language for their own kind,
though he had no idea how to read it. But as for
the Angel, it was mystery personified. The creature
had no face, no mouth, no method of communication
except through a computer. And even that output was often incomprehensible to him, though
the Tinker and the Pipe-Rilla understood (or pretended
to).
And this mismatched assembly was supposed to
track down and destroy the most dangerous being
in the Stellar System! They would be lucky if they
were able to handle the Simmie Artefact here on
Barchan.
They had established their camp down near the
planet's south pole. Until they knew the location
of the Morgan Construct's simulacrum, there was
no point in enduring the dreadful summer heat of
the equator and northern hemisphere. As evening
came on and the dark sands of Barchan gradually
cooled, the pursuit team settled down to its first
strategy session.
The Tinker Composite had increased noticeably
in size as the sun set and the air was less scorchingly
hot. It was now using almost twice as many
components as when Chan had first met it in the
car, and its response time was painfully slow. The
other three had to wait each time while the Tinker's
speech funnel made preparatory wheezes and
whistles, and speech finally emerged. They were
waiting now. The Pipe-Rilla, S'greela, was crouched
next to Chan, nervously stroking her multi-jointed
forelimbs along the side of her head. If her performance
so far was a guide, when she had to confront
the Simmie she would do nothing but chitter
in terror and horror, then run away with great
spring-legged leaps.
The Angel at least would not run away; it could
not. It was too slow-moving. No matter now intelligent
the crytalline Singer might be, it was bound
within the vegetable body of the Chassel-rose, and
suffered the plant's extreme slowness of movement.
When the Angel wanted to move, the bulbous green
body lifted the root-borers up close underneath it,
and crept along on the down-pointing adventitious
stems along the body base. Chan guessed that when
it was in a hurry it could manage maybe a hundred
paces an hour.
Which just left the Tinker, Shikari, as a potentially
useful ally. And its reaction to danger, according
to all accounts, was simple and immediate:
it dispersed to its individual components, and they
flew away. Chan looked around him at the three
others and sighed. Great allies for a tough fight!
"We think that we have a satisfactory proposal
to make," said Shikari at last. "The Simmie lacks
circadian rhythms, and is indifferent to night or
day. But we are not. We prefer to cluster, and
Chan needs to become dormant. S'greela is partly
nocturnal and can function well at night. And although
the Chassel-rose will be almost immobile,
the Angel has excellent night vision. So this is our
suggestion. Angel and S'greela should perform a
night survey, seeking the Simmie. Human and self
will remain here and rest. If there is no success in
the search, then in daylight we will reverse our
roles."
The long blue-green fronds at the top of the
Angel began to wave slowly in the air. Chan started
to speak, then paused. He had seen that motion
before--just before the Angel's computer communicator
began its translation. Maybe even an Angel
had some kind of body language!
"We agree," said the communicator's mechanical
voice. "But we suggest one difference. We believe
that we now know the location of the Morgan
Simulacrum. Thus the mission for Angel and PipeRilla
should be one of confirmation, not search."
"But how can--?" began Chan, then stopped.
The fernlike fronds were still waving.
"We have now completed the analysis of the
imaging radar records obtained during the orbital
survey,' went on the Angel. "There are only two
significant anomalies. One of them is almost certainly
the Simulacrum." There was another brief
pause. "We are now performing a confirming analysis.
We have stored a copy of the ship's data
record."
The Angel had answered Chan's half-uttered question--and
another one, about the ship's radar records,
that Chan had wondered about but not even
begun to ask. Telepathy? Even as the thought came
to him Chan rejected it. There were other more
likely explanations. He remembered one comment
from Kudo Flammarion during a briefing back on
Ceres: "An Angel doesn't think like a human--but
not because it can't. When an Angel wants to, it
can put part of its brain in what we've started to
call emulator mode.' That piece can think like a
human, or a Tinker, or a Pipe-Rilla--and probably
like anything else, or all three at once. And while
that's going on, the Angel can still perform logical
analyses in its own way. It doesn't lose the power
for its own thinking--and that thinking we just
don't understand at all." At that point Kubo
Flammarion had looked puzzled by his own words,
shook his head, and tugged at his uniform as though
it had suddenly become too small for him.
Ignoring Chan's moments of introspection, the
Pipe-Rilla had already unfolded its long, telescoping
limbs and was reaching down to pick up the
Angel. The Angel had objected the first time that
S'greela had done it, protesting that an Angel was
quite capable of independent locomotion. But a
couple of minutes of the Chassel-rose's laborious
movement had made the other three unanimous.
Chan watched the Pipe-Rilla now as she casually
picked up the Angel's solid bulk. He was more and
more aware of the power in that thin, tubular
body. S'greela was gentle, but if she chose she
could swat him like a fly.
The Tinker did not speak again until S'greela
and the Angel had left the camp in the aircar. It
occurred to Chan that he was observing another
data point. Unless they were speaking with him,
the others were very economical of words. It seemed
they added the human-style verbal padding just
for his benefit. They had all realized that redundant
words were part of human social interaction,
as important to man as stroking to a Pipe-Rilla or
clustering to a Tinker.
Chan forced himself to stand up and move across
to sit by Shikari. After a few moments he felt the
feathery touch of long, delicate antennae on his
arms and legs. The Tinker Composite was quietly
performing a partial rebuilding. Thumb-sized individual
components were leaving the far side of
the composite and re-attaching themselves close
to Chan s body. Within five minutes Shikari was
moulded solidly against Chan's left side, touching
him all the way from breast to ankles. He turned
his head and stared down at the purple-black vibrating
mass. The contact was not at all unpleasant.
In fact, that gentle thrumming touch against
his skin began to feel surprisingly warm and reassuring.
After a few more moments, free components
who had not been part of the Tinker Composite
when Chan sat down flew across and began
to make additional connections. Soon Chan's whole
body, feet to shoulders, was embedded in the purple
swarm. He felt very relaxed, but not sleepy.
The pressure surrounding him was just enough to
be noticed. But it occurred to Chan that if the
Tinker chose to swarm on something as a means of
restraint, it would be very difficult to resist. Shikari
had an effective way or neutralizing aggression.
He watched and waited as the final few components
flew in to attach themselves. "Do you feel
any different," he said, "when more units attach?"
There was an experimental whistle from the
speaking funnel. "Of course," said Shikari at last.
Chan realized that the Tinker had given its full
answer. "I don't mean more intelligence" he said.
"I know that's true. What I mean is, do you feel
that you are somehow a different individual when
your size is greatly increased?"
The Tinker was silent for a longer period. "That
is a difficult question," it said at last. "And we are
not sure that it is a meaningful one. We are what
we are, at this moment. We cannot feel what we
were or will be. Every second, according to information
that we have about humans, some of your
own brain cells die. Do you feel different, when
those units of intellect are removed from you?"
"It's not the same. In the case of a human, every
brain cell has been there since childhood. We do
not add units." (But Chan wondered at once if
Shikari knew his own history--and how recently
he had achieved full use of those same cells!) "We
lose cells. But to constantly change, to recombine,
and add or subtract units ... it is hard for me to
comprehend how you persist with the sense of a
single identity during a time of major change."
The Tinker rippled against Chan's body, and a
cascade of maybe five hundred units suddenly flew
away to settle separately on the ground.
"Like that?" said Shikari. There was a breathy
rattle from the voice-funnel--the Tinker was practicing
a human laugh. "There is more than enough
capacity for continous thought, even when no more
than a hundred components are combined. Remember,
each of the units that form a Tinker possesses
nearly two million neurons."
"That sounds like very few."
"Compared with a human, or a complete Tinker
Composite, you are right. A full Composite may
contain forty or fifty oillion combined neurons.
But compare one of our components with a honeybee
that lives on Earth. That has no more than
seven thousand neurons, and still it is capable of
complex individual actions."
There was another whirr of tiny wings, and the
units came flying back to rejoin the mass around
Chan's body. The voice-funnel gave another and
more successful attempt at a human laugh.
"We have a long distance to travel," said Shikari,
"before we can really comprehend each other.
When we first encountered humans we marvelled
at your strange structure. How could intelligence
be delegated, to reside in some special chosen group
of cells within your bodies? In us, each component
carries an equal amount of our intelligence. But
how much of your brain lies here "---Chan felt an
increased pressure on his midriff--"or here." The
pressure moved to the calf of his left leg. "What
intelligence lies in those parts? What are the
thoughts of an arm, or a lung? We learned that a
human could be reduced to less than half its
size--no arms, no legs--and yet the intelligence
would be unchanged! Who could believe such a
thing?"
"It is quite true."
"We know--but who would believe if humans
had not arrived on Mercantor to prove it to us?"
There was another rustle of veined wings, and
Shikari settled into a tighter mass. "Intelligence,"
said the whistling voice. "It is indeed a mystery.
But this--closeness and warmth--is the best part
of intelligence."
They both became silent. The pursuit team had
set up their camp in a clearing, surrounded by the
dusty blue-green vegetation of Barchan's pole. While
Chan and Shikari had been talking full night had
arrived, and the air temperature had rapidly
dropped thirty degrees. Shikari was like a warm,
soft blanket swaddling Chan to his chin. He lifted
his head and looked up at the sky. Eta Cassiopeiae's
brighter component had set, and the smaller sun
of the binary had not yet risen. Chan could pick
out S'kat'lan, the home planet of the Pipe-Rillas,
as a bright point close to the horizon. Barchan's
little moon, a shrunken irregular disk, sat above it
in the sky.
Chan shivered in the warm night air. It was a
tremor of apprehension. Three months ago he had
lived in the quiet cocoon world of the Gallimaufries,
happy, ignorant, and brainless, shielded by
Leah from every danger and unpleasantness. Now
he was wandering the surface of an alien planet,
eighteen light years from home, not sure if he
would see another sunset; and Leah was even farther
away from Earth, and in greater danger. By
now she might be landed on Travancore, pursuing
not a Simulacrum but a real Morgan Construct.
Given a choice, would he go back? Back to the
halcyon days of flowers and games? One man had
been the agent for all those changes, and for the
agony of the Tolkov Stimulator. If Chan closed his
eyes he could see the face in front of him now.
Esro Mondrian deserved the blame--or was it the
credit? --for everything that had happened to him.
Chan stared up at Barchan's solitary misshapen
moon, and wondered. About Shikari, about intelligence,
about Esro Mondrian; and about himself.
By the time that the silvery spark of S'kat'lan was sinking into Barchan s dusty horizon, Chan
had found a new truth. No matter what happened
here, he would not want to go back to the old life
in the Gallimaufries. Whatever it was, this mixed
gift of intelligence and self-awareness, he wanted
it.
With that knowledge the urge for revenge on
Esro Mondrian acquired a softer focus. If Mondrian
had earned Chan's hatred, perhaps he had also
earned gratitude; for his action had dragged Chan,
reluctant and screaming, into the world of responsibility
Chan
drifted away into a strange mental state,
remote and yet satisfying. His reverie was suddenly
interrupted when the dark bulk of the Tinker
stirred silently around him. He opened his
eyes, and discovered to his amazement that there
was already a hint of dawn in the sky.
"Listen/ said Shikari's soft, whistling voice. "Do
you hear? It is the sound of the aircar. The others
are returning. We are sad. Our time of peace and
closeness is ending."
Chapter Nineteen
THE VAULT OF HYPERION

Measured on any of the standard scales of human
intelligence, Luther Brachis would score high
in the top 0.1 percent. He always dismissed that
fact as of trivial importance. Success in his job, he
said, was not a function of intelligence; at least
three other qualities were far more critical.
He called them the three P's: in order, persistence,
paranoia, and persuasiveness. And when
Lotos Sheldrake pointed out that persistence was
no more than Luther's word for pigheadedness,
and that paranoia and persuasiveness were contradictory
impulses, he just laughed. According to
Luther Brachis, the fourth important quality--not
easily captured in one word--was the ability to
know which one of the other three to apply in a
given situation.
Brachis had taken the first moves to counter the
strange legacy of the Margrave even before he was
carried away from Adestis for medical treatment.
It was immediately clear to him that he had been
attacked by an Artefact, one that Fujitsu had chosen
to make in his own image. He had killed it, but
there could be dozens more. They might be stored
anywhere in the solar system, and they might not
look anything like the Margrave--it was not even
certain that they would share any of his DNA.
Which left a delicate and difficult problem: how
could Brachis defend himself from future attacks?
He now acknowledged the truth of Fujitsu's
claim; the other man's arm was indeed long, and
it was reaching for Luther Brachis beyond the
grave.
Earth was the easiest case to handle. Through
the Quarantine service, Brachis had information
on all individuals shipping up from Earth. It was
easy to set tracers on every one of them, and make
sure that none approached within a kilometer of
him without triggering an alarm system.
But suppose an Artefact were stored elsewhere?
The Margrave might have made other plans for
revenge of his own death. Two off-Earth storage
areas had to be checked: the Phoebe catacombs,
and the Hyperion Deep Vault.
As soon as Brachis was released from the medical
facility he set out to examine both possibilities.
It was a task that he proposed to carry out personally.
Godiva tried to get him to delegate it, arguing
that he was still weak from his injury. Brachis
shook his head.
"This one gets my personal attention. Fujitsu
deserves no less. Come along with me, if you want
to.
Godiva shivered and refused. "I'll travel with
you, but I won't go down into the vaults. All those
horrible frozen semi-corpses! They'd make me think
about what could have happened to you if you
hadn't come out of Adestis just in time. It's not for
me, Luther."
The catacombs on Phoebe were relatively small
and neatly organized. Luther Brachis was able to
inspect them from end to end in one marathon
session, and feel comfortable that there were no
future surprises lurking there. But he knew that
the Hyperion Vault would be another matter.

Early explorers of the middle system had more
or less ignored Hyperion. The sixth major satellite
of Saturn was a lumpy, uneven hunk of rock, whose
dark and cratered exterior suggested that it was
the oldest surface in the whole Saturnian system.
Little water, few volatiles of any kind, and probably
no interesting mineral deposits. It had been a
no-hope old explorer, Raxon Yang, on his last trip
out before his lungs rotted and caved, who first
explored the Hyperion meteorite craters. He had
discovered a peculiar structure at the bottom of
one of them, a ragged-edged tunnel that zigzagged
deep below the moon's battered surface.
Old Raxon Yang followed it, down and down,
past the point of sanity and useful metal deposits.
Seven kilometers below the surface, he found the
upper face of the Yang Diamond.
He didn't know at the time what he had found.
The tunnel at its end was only a meter and a half
across, hardly enough to wield his instruments. He
realized that it was diamond all right, as soon as
his tools found it hard to cut and he made a first
assay. Yang carved out a half-meter sample, as big
as he could handle, and dragged it slowly back to
the surface. On the way there he set up a claim
marker and the usual array of booby-traps. The
chance that anyone else would come along for
years and years was slim indeed, but habits died
hard.
Yang went back to Ceres. That was in the early
days, when the reconstruction of the planetoid was
a dream of the future. Ceres was still on the frontier,
a sprawling and violent trade center for the
system beyond the Belt.
Raxon Yang showed his sample to the assortment of crooks and villains who controlled the
investment capital supply. They tried the usual
techniques--stealing his samples, trying to trick
him into revealing the location of his find, telling
him that the diamond was inferior quality and
hardly worth mining. Old Yang had heard it all
before. He waited. And finally they came around,
and gave him what he needed in exchange for a
fifty percent interest in the claim. Yang performed
the formal filing, bought equipment, hired his specialists,
and set off on a secret trajectory to
Hyperion to dig out his find.
And Yang still didn't know what he had found.
The analysis had confirmed that it was diamond
of the finest and purest water, perfectly transparent
and free of all faults and discolorations. Yang
had made the natural sales arguments to his backers:
here was a carbonaceous body struck by a
high-velocity planetoid impact generating great heat
and tremendous pressure. The result: diamond.
But how much diamond? Yang had no idea. He
hadn't put much stock in his own sales pitch--that
was for the investors. He found out the truth on
his second descent below the crater. The Yang
Diamond had the overall shape of a fifty-legged
octopus. The head, seven kilometers below the surface,
proved to be almost spherical on top and a
little less than fourteen kilometers across. The legs
ran out and down, each major limb about half a
kilometer wide and thirty or forty kilometers long.
Raxon Yang collapsed in the tunnel when the
sonic probes revealed the extent of his find. He
was dragged back to the ship, tied down on a
bunk, and shipped back to Earth for the best medical
treatment that the system could offer. The best,
because he was now the solar system's richest
citizen.
Two years later Yang was dead. He was murdered
by the diamond cartel, for revenge rather
than gain. He had unintentionally ruined every
member. The Yang Diamond contained ten million
times as much crystallized carbon as every
other known source combined.
The mining began. Four centuries later it was at
last finished. The Yang Diamond was gone, divided
into a trillion separate fragments. And in its
place sat the baffling labyrinth of the Hyperion
Deep Vault.
Yang had never married--the old explorers never
did. There were no children, and after his death
the squabble over ownership and inheritance began.
The lawyers feasted for eight years, and finally
three hundred and eighty valid claimants
were recognized. Each was assigned ownership of
one region of the diamond, with separate responsibility
and rights for mining it. Their descendants
split the regions further. Over the generations and
the centuries, owners proliferated: thousands, tens
of thousands, millions of people. And once the diamond
had been mined from a volume, that space
was free for occupation.
Boundary planes were carefully drawn and ownership
rights observed. The Deep Vault became a
polyglot, polyfunctional melange of industries, the
Hong Kong of the twenty-sixth century.
It no longer exported diamond--there was none
to export. Instead it operated its own manufacturing
industries from imported raw materials, and
showed a degree of independence from central government
that matched any civilization in the system.
The storage vaults located in one of the major
tentacles had a superb reputation. But they followed
their own rules, and took little notice of any
edicts from Ceres.
In another fine display of idiosyncrasy, the colonists
of the Deep Vault had banned the use of the
Mattin Link anywhere in their domain. Luther
Brachis could link only as far as Titan, then was
obliged to travel the rest of the way on a laden
cargo vessel. It was transporting fish concentrates
to the Vault residents. Despite the denials of its
crew, it stank.
Brachis grumbled and cursed. Godiva took it all
in her stride, wearing formal gowns for every dinner
and dazzling the ship's crew with her ineffable
beauty. Luther Brachis could not take his eyes
away from her, and somehow he was not at all
jealous of other men's looks.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"
he asked, on the last leg of the journey before the
descent into the black depths of the Vault.
Godiva hesitated for a moment, then shook her
head. "I don't want to--I told you that before we
left Ceres. If you force me to, I will, but I don't want to--I'm afraid of what I might find there."
She took his right hand in hers, inspecting it closely.
The skin on the emerging fingers and thumb was
soft and delicate, and there was now the first dark
imprint of nails forming on the tips. "Please be
careful, Luther. I don't want to hear that you've
had another experience like the one that did this."
Brachis shrugged. He could tell Godiva Lomberd
anything she wanted to hear, but in his own mind
he could find no full reassurance. He had thought
about the Margrave a great deal during his recent
week in the hospital. That cunning and inventive
mind demanded every respect, but no one could
see in detail what lay beyond the grave. The Margrave
had not known when he would die, or in
what circumstances. It called for an unusual intellect
to make any plans for vengeance from the
tomb, but those plans could only operate in terms
of probabilities--how, who, when, where? So all
the advantage must lie with Luther Brachis. Unless
he became careless.
The Margrave was a chess master; so was Brachis.
They would both look many moves ahead. Luther
had concluded that the Margrave's preferred haven
for his other Artefacts had to be the Hyperion
Vault.
The descent took them through many levels.
Brachis looked around him carefully as they went
down, noting safety points and shelters. Three blowouts
in thirteen years had made the Vault inhabitants
super-cautious. Each level had its own system
of locks and deadman switches.
Below the seventeenth level the grey rock walls
of Hyperion's silicon interior were left behind. To
assure their own survival, the original miners had
employed non-commercial impure diamond as supporting
walls, buttresses, and columns. Now lit by
the cold light of closed ecology bioluminescent
spheres, the Deep Vault was a sinister grotto of
light and color. The greenish-white glow of marine
electrophores scattered from yellow and red diamond
crystals, and broke into whole spectra from
sharp columns and cornices.
Down forever, layer after layer, through the jumbled
settlements. Brachis's guide was an emaciated
woman with a bent back and drooping shoulders.
She finally paused at a branch point and gestured
to her feet. "Storage starts there. We'll be joined
by a coldtank supervisor. How much do you want
to see?"
"Everything."
;just to look?"
"Maybe not."
She nodded. Other men had followed her through
the coldtanks. She knew what they usually wanted.
"Come on. Don't talk price with the supervisor.
Wait until we're finished."
They began the slow drift through the stacks.
Brachis wanted to see every chamber and examine
each ID and each storage unit background.
It took two days. The tanks had not been laid
out in a logical or time-sequenced order. Brachis,
familiar with the wilderness of interior Ceres, felt
at times that the Deep Vault was even more anfractuous.
It was amazing that even the supervisors
could navigate the dim-lit corridors and
tunnels. At the end, Brachis handed his companion
a list of seven identifications. "These. What
will it take to put them into my full custody?"
She looked startled. "You mean--permanently?"
"Permanently, with no trace left in the Vault
records. Don't bother to tell me that it's impossible.
Just give me the price."
She rubbed at her left eye, where the reddened
lid drooped to match her wilting shoulders. "Stay
here."
She was back in less than an hour. "We don't
need trade crystals here."
Brachis did not reply.
"But we do need volatiles and pre-biotics," she
went on, "and we're having trouble getting permits
for them. If you could arrange a shipment in
from the Harvester--"
"How? You have no Link Exits here on Hyperion."
"Deliver
to Iapetus. We'll arrange transfer. Ship
ten thousand tons, charges paid to Kondoport on
Iapetus."
The price is high. I won't know if I have what I
want until they're out of cold storage."
"Makes no difference to us. Once they're warm
they're yours. But they'll rot unless you bring them
all the way to consciousness. You take them, and
you pay shipping charges."
Brachis paused for a moment, weighing his options.
Even if six out of seven were false alarms, he
could not risk missing one. As for shipping charges,
he did not intend that anything taken from the
storage tanks would leave Hyperion. He would tell
Godiva that his search for Margrave Artefacts had
drawn a blank. "And if I get you the volatiles?" he
said at last.
"The seven will be yours." She smiled, a radiant,
gap-toothed smile that made Brachis want to turn away from her. "All yours--to do just what you like with."
Chapter Twenty
DREAMSEA QUEST

The Team had come into official existence as
soon as every member reached Barchan. It would
be known as the Ruby Team--a name that Chan
disliked as much as Leah had hated to be called
Team Alpha. Like Leah, he had decided to change
the name as soon as he had the chance.
The Ruby Team was now four days old. There
had been three days of general survey and exploration
of the planet, while Chan and the others went
through their first attempts at cooperative effort-- the "honeymoon," as Shikari had jokingly named
it. But now, on the fourth morning, that easy period
was over. Every team member knew it, and
there was a reluctance to begin.
It was dawn on Barchan, a gorgeous sky-swirl of
pinks and dark greys as the morning rays of Eta
Cassiopeiae-A caught high-blown layers of dust and
sand. The pursuit team members had dispersed
during the night, to satisfy their individual needs
for food or rest. Now at first light they were convened
again within the aircar to hear the Angel's
report.
The Angel was silent for a long time. At last it
began a leisurely waving of upper fronds. "It is

confirmed," said the communications unit attached
to its central section. "At the 0.999 probability
level, we now know the location of the Morgan
Simulacrum."
"That is very good news" said Shikari, clumped
in a bulging purple mound near the aircar's cabin
wall. "Where is it, Angel? Not too near, we hope."
"Not near. The Simulacrum is far from here. It
has a cave hideout, on the shore of Dreamsea."
There was a moment's silence. "And that is very
bad news," said Shikari. "What do we do now?'
In its agitation, the Tinker composite disassembled,
so that the air in the car was filled with
flying components.
Chan shook his head and turned to S'greela. "I
can't do what Shikari just did, but I know how he
feels. Do you have any suggestions?"
The pursuit team had discussed many alternative
plans, for many situations; but this circumstance
had never been considered. The Simulacrum
could not have chosen a better hiding place.

The common impression of Barchan as a wholly
desert world was not quite correct. There was one
body of free water on its surface: Dreamsea. It was
a round lake, forty kilometers across, lying in a
depression about a thousand kilometers from the
planet's south pole. The water in the lake was
salty and bitter, and no Earth life-forms could
survive there. The largest native life form was an
amphibian, tolerating--and thriving on--Dreamsea
s harsh salinity and caustic alkalines. It was
one of those perplexing forms that had made the
Stellar Group so careful in its policies. The Shellbacks
looked like large, pale turtles, two meters
across their flat backs. They employed no tools,
knew no technology, had no recognizable language.
And yet ...
Most of the time the Shellbacks shared just two
obsessions: to be in water during Barchan's day,
diving for clumps of water-weed; and to crawl
ashore at night, so that they could crop the dull
colored, spiny vegetation close to Dreamsea's shores.
Dull, grey animals, apparently living a dull, grey
existence. The early human visitors to the Eta
Cassiopeiae system had naturally concentrated their
attention on S'kat'lan, the home of the intelligent
Pipe-Rillas. No one had taken much notice of the
Shellbacks of Barchan, until one day it was discovered
that their flesh was a true delicacy; pink,
fine-textured, of a unique and exquisite flavor. It
became a luxury export from the Eta Cass system.
The Shellback population dwindled. Without any
special protection, it may have been headed for
extinction.
It was a Martian xenologist, Elbert Tiggens, who
saved the Shellbacks. His friends admitted that
Tiggens had eccentric ideas. Other colleagues were
less kind, and regarded as lunacy his scheme for a
"universal taxonomy"--a general labeling system
into which the organisms of every world would
neatly fit by kingdom, phylum, class, order, family,
genus, and species. Tiggens could not be dissuaded.
For that purpose he was willing to endure
a long stint on Barchan, studying the Dreamsea
flora and fauna and patiently trying to force every
organism into his classification scheme.
They wouldn't fit. Elbert Tiggens might have
stayed there forever, putting square pegs into round
holes; but after a few months he noticed an odd
thing about the Shellbacks. He had been using
them for food, and was very familiar with their
habits and movements. Every morning they went
down to the Dreamsea margin, and every night
they came ashore. But they did not travel directly for food plants or for water. Instead, the animals
followed peculiar and well-defined curves, different
every morning and every evening. At certain
points they would stop, turn around in a full circle,
and leave a well-defined mark on the dusty
ground. Tiggens photographed the tracks, wondering
if they might be part of some kind of mating ritual,
and went on with his attempted taxonomy.
After six months he had run out of a few staple
supplies. He was also getting just a little tired of
boiled, baked, fried, steamed, smoked and grilled
Shellback meat. He hitched a ride with a Shellback
harvester to Barchan's only space facility,
intending to buy supplies and a meal there. Sitting
near him was a Pipe-Rilla astronomer, about to leave Barchan to examine the Eta Cass ring
system. Tiggens was starved for company, human
or otherwise. He explained his reasons for being
on Barchan, his notions on taxonomy, and his observations
of the Shellbacks. The Pipe-Rilla listened
in polite and bored silence, until finally
Tiggens produced some of his pictures of the Shellback
shoreline patterns of movement. The PipeRilla
looked, looked again. Finally she snatched
them from Elbert's hands.
"Mating rituals?" said Tiggens.
The Pipe-Rilla shivered, stretched, telescoped her
limbs, rose fourteen feet high, and shook her head.
"Planetary orbits and positions! For the Eta Cass
system!"
Suddenly the Shellbacks were no longer a food
crop. Dreamsea was declared a protected area,
and the Shellbacks a protected species. They had
enough understanding of astronomy, mathematics,
and celestial mechanics to know the position
of the major planets of the Eta Cass system, regardless
of their visibility or the time of year. They
worked cooperatively, no Shellback duplicating the
efforts of another. But--maddeningly--they refused
to show other indications of intelligence.
The rules of the Stellar Group were explicit and
rigorously enforced. The Shellbacks were a 
possibly intelligent species, even though the nature of
that intelligence was not yet understood. Therefore,
their protection was total. They could not be
hunted--and their environment, which included
the whole of Dreamsea and the land area around
it, was totally off limits to anyone, including the
Ruby Team. Which seemed to make the task of
Chan and the others quite impossible.

After Shikari's initial consternation and disassembly,
the Tinker slowly regrouped and re-formed
its speaking funnel. The funnel turned toward Chan,
gave a couple of preliminary whistles, and at last
spoke. "Well?" said Shikari.
Chan looked at the Tinker, then turned to S'greela
and the Angel. All three seemed to be looking at
him expectantly--even the Angel had moved the
arm-like branches on its lower section, to bring
the microphone closer to Chan, and the Pipe-Rilla
was leaning towards him.
"Well?" repeated S'greela.
"Well, what?"
"We are waiting?"
"Waiting for what?" Chan felt suddenly defensive.
"Waiting to hear your plan," said the dry tones
of the Angel's computer voice. "How do you propose
that we will capture and destroy the Morgan
Simulacrum, when it is clear that we may not
enter the protected area surrounding Dreamsea?
To the rest of us, that seems like a totally impossible
task."
Chan shook his head. "Don't look at me. I have
no plan. Look, you were the ones who did the
reconnaissance, who came up with the Simmie's
location. You know the Dreamsea area, and you
say you know just where it is hidden. Why look to me for a plan? '
Part of Shikari's lower grouping rippled out into
a long extension of components that fluttered their
way over to nestle around Chan's legs. He knew by
now that it was the Tinker's way of showing its
support and sympathy. "Because you are a human,"
said the whistling voice.
"Because you can do this, and we cannot," added
S'greela humbly. "We always knew that it would
I'll	come to mis, if the Simulacrum were discovered.
You alone have the gifts that will allow us to
proceed."
"We have discussed this among ourselves, without
you," went on Shikari. "Except in our largest
composite form, we know that Tinkers do not have
the intellectual power of Angels and Pipe-Rillas.
But we are certain that all three forms have mental
abilities that exceed those of humans--please,
do not argue this point now. And yet we also know
that logic, speed, creativity, memory, and accuracy
are not everything. There is some other dimension to human thought that we three all lack.
An unhappy dimension, for most purposes. But we
cannot plan a military activity, organize a war, or fight a battle. Those very words are unique to human
languages."
There was a long silence.
"Tell us your plan," said the metallic voice of
the Angel.
"You don't understand. I cannot. I have no experience
of war, no idea how it is conducted. Even
though some humans are aggressive, I have never
been involved in a battle--not even in an individual
combat."
"Before a Pipe-Rilla mates," said S-greela slowly,
"she cannot imagine how such a thing is possible.
The very idea' of joining bodies is grotesque,
disquieting, and disgusting. But when the time and
the need to mate arrives--she mates. Without
thought. The action comes not from experience, it
come from some somatic memory, stored within
her brain and body."
"Make us a plan to destroy the Morgan Simulacrum,"
said Angel. "You are human. You are large,
you contain multitudes. From within you, you can create that plan."
Chan felt anger rising fast within him. They were
refusing individual responsibility! He glared around
him at the others, at the impassive bulk of the
Angel, the nervous stoop of the Pipe-Rilla, and the
restless fluttering of the Tinker, with individual
components constantly disconnecting and re-connecting.
"When I was sent here to Barchan, I was
told I would be part of a team. Every member
would contribute, as an equal partner--not sit
around and expect one member to give them orders.
You command me to make a plan. What are
you here for? What do you think you will be doing?"
"We will help to carry out the plan," said Shikari,
"as much as we are able. Chan, human anger
is a terrifying thing. We see it growing within you
as we speak. But you are directing it at the wrong
target. We ask you only to do what we cannot do.
Sit. Think. Do not hurry. And then tell us where
your thoughts have led you."
"But you still don't understand," began Chan.
"I'm no more able to dream up what we need than you are. I've no experience, no way to--to--"
He stopped. It was pointless to go on talking. He
shook his head and stared down at the floor of the
aircar. He was just repeating himself, and it was
getting them nowhere. Surely the Angel could do a
Better job than anything that Chan could conceive
of? He had already seen astonishing proof of its
intellectual powers. Or the Tinker--Shikari could
add to its brain-power, just by adding more components,
and increase its intellect to the point where
Chan had trouble following the thought patterns.
But as long as they all sat fretting here, the Simulacrum
would sit safe in its hiding place.
Chan looked up. "You are not willing to invade
the Dreamsea protected area?"
Shikari gave a high-pitched whistle of horror,
and S'greeia chittered in disapproval. She shook
her broad head. "That is an unthinkable act. We
would not even consider it."
"Not even for an observer only, if there was a
guarantee that no Shellback would be touched?"
"Such a guarantee cannot be provided. If the
Simulacrum observed and attacked you, you would
insist on returning that attack."
Chan nodded. "You are probably right, if it were
necessary for self-defense. But I was not thinking
of me--of any one of us."
"Who, then?" The Pipe-Rilla waved her jointed
arms. "We are the only undeniably intelligent species
on this planet."
"I don't want intelligence. According to our briefings,
the Simmie will be wary of any sign of intelligence."
Chan turned to Shikari. 'You told me that your individual components have two million
neurons. They can eat, mate, drink, and cluster.
But what about a small assembly? Could as few as
six or ten components cluster?"
"Certainly. But why would we choose to do so?"
"I'm not sure. Could such a small group take
direction from you?"
"Some direction--simple commands."
"Could the small group serve to collect information?"
"Undoubtedly."
The surface of the Tinker bristled
with motion, like a shrug running across the
upper part. "But what good would that be? There
would be no way that such a small group could
integrate its information with anything else. We
could not combine it."
"We have a superb integrator, right here." Chan
jerked his thumb at the Angel. "Shikari, all you'd
need to do would be to form a number of very
small assemblies, and direct them to explore the
region near the Simmie's hideout. Could you do
that?"
"Certainly. But what then?"
"Once we know what it does, how it occupies its
time, we can look for a way to lure it out--away
from the protected area around Dreamsea where
the Shellbacks live."
"But we have no idea what would attract a Simulacrum,"
protested S'greela. "We know its appearance
and its structure, but we have no idea of
its mental attitudes."
"Not yet--but we will." Chan turned to the silent
Angel. "According to information I received
before we came to Barchan, an Angel can operate
its mind in an 'emulator mode' that mimics the
thought pattern of other species. Is that true?"
"Given enough time, and enough information,
what you suggest is partially true. We can often
duplicate the thought patterns of another being in
part of our own mental processes. But not always.
For example, we have been completely unsuccessful
in replicating any part of the human's aggressive
processes."
"Forget humans. Could you duplicate the thought
patterns of a Simmie?"
"No. That is impossible. We do not have enough
information, and there has been no opportunity
for interaction."
"Damn it, Angel, I'm not asking for perfection. All we need is a good working imitation--something
that we can use to guess how a Simmie might
react to a given specific situation."
There was a long silence. The Angel was considering
a new concept. "An imperfect thought simulation?"
it said at last. "Possibly. Necessity is the
mother of invention. I have already within me a
considerable factual data bank regarding the Simulacrum.
A gross model of its mental processes
may be achievable; perhaps enough to compare
the relative probabilities of different courses of action,
without assigning absolute values to any one.
But the process would take me a long time to
accomplish."
"How long?"
The Angel went into another brooding silence.
"If we can be left undisturbed," it said at last,
"perhaps three days? And during that same period of time I could develop within me the necessary
mechanism to accept direct inputs from Tinker
sub-assemblies. But to achieve that Shikari and I
would have to be closely connected."
Chan turned to the Tinker. "Can you? Can you
set up the close connection?"
"We will see. At the outset we predict no problems.
It will be a new experience, and a pleasant
and intriguing one." The Tinker began to drift
slowly toward the Angel. When it passed in front
of Chan it paused. "Should we begin now, Chan?
Or do you first prefer to tell us the details of the
rest of your plan?"

Chapter Twenty-One
DISASTER ON TRAVANCORE

The first experimenters with the Mattin Link
transfer system had learned three facts very quickly:
	Know your exit point. Careless travellers had
landed suitless in the airless interior of an extrasolar
probe, or on the open surface of Mercury and
Ganymede.
	Close is not good enough. Travellers who missed
the long, coded sequence of Link settings by a
single digit tended to arrive as thin pink pancakes,
or long, braided ribbons of protoplasm.
	Someone always pays. The instantaneous transfer
of messages and materials through the Mattin
Link had opened the road to the stars; but it would
never be cheap. A single interstellar trip between
points of differing field potential could eat up the
savings of a lifetime. Linkage of material from the
Oort Cloud to the Inner System consumed the full
energy of three kernels aboard the Oort Harvester.
To those three rules, Esro Mondrian had added
a fourth of his own: Access is power. Certain Link
coordinates and transfer sequences were held
strictly secret, and knowledge of them was not
permitted without lengthy checking of credentials
and need-to-know. The coordinates for the ship
orbiting Travancore were not even stored in the Dominus data bank. It was known to just three people in the system: Mondrian, Flammarion, and
Lutner Brachis. The latter two expected to use
their information only if Mondrian himself was
dead or unconscious.
The receiving point for information from Travancore
was just as closely guarded. The Link Exit
point was at Anabasis Headquarters, and nowhere
else. The Solar ambassador had agreed to that
grudgingly, after direct pressure on Dougal Macdougal
from the other members of the Stellar
Group.
What the Stellar Group had not approved--what
no one outside the Anabasis had been told about--
was Mondrian's other decision concerning Team
Alpha. The Human team member had been equip
Eed
with a personal link communicator, to send
back sound and vision through her headset for the
entire period that she was on Travancore. Mondrian
intended to monitor those signals personally, with
help only from Flammarion and Brachis. Together
they would provide round-the-clock coverage of
Travancore operations. Leah Rainbow knew that
the data were being sent to Team Alpha's orbiting
ship; but she had no idea that they would be received
in real-time at Anabasis Headquarters.

Dawn on Travancore; night on Ceres. Esro Mondrian
tapped Flammarion on the shoulder to indicate
his arrival, and sat down at the other side of
the desk. Flammarion nodded, disconnected, and
removed his Link generator. He placed it in his
lap, rubbed his temples, and yawned. "Quiet night
there. I heard a few peculiar noises outside the
tent, and there was half an hour of heavy rain, and
that was about all. The whole team is awake now."

Mondrian nodded and picked up his own Linkset.
"I'm going to spend the whole day with them.
Don't interrupt me unless we have an emergency."
He fitted the set carefully over his head and turned
it on. After the first unpleasant moment of double
sensory input, he was linked across fiftv-six light
years. The Link connection was excellent. Suddenly
he was seeing through Leah's eyes and hearing
with her ears. Whatever she saw and did,
Mondrian would also experience as long as he
wore the generator.
She was standing now on the reinforced side lip of
their balloon tent gazing out across the vivid emerald
of Travancore's endless jungle. The growths below
the tent formed a tight lattice of stems and vines,
with ample space between them to permit the
morning light to penetrate. The early dazzle of
Talitha was scattered and diffused by the irregular
array of trunks and creepers, so that Leah could
see down for a couple of hundred feet. At that
depth a continuous layer of broad leaves hid everything
beneath. She turned to squint up at the
sun. Even with Talitha's brilliance, the barrier of
leaves must be very effective. There could be
little photosynthesis deeper than the top few hundred
meters. Which left a mystery: how did the
lower levels obtain their energy supply?
The Tinker team member, ishmael, and S'glya,
the Pipe-Rilla, emerged from the tent to stand
next to her. After a few moments Ishmael flowed
and fluttered along the tent lip to form a living
blanket around Leah's legs.
"Cold," said S'glya as a greeting. She vibrated
her vestigial wing cases.
Leah turned to her and pointed over the edge.
"Is that a solid layer of leaves? I can't see a thing
below it."
"Correct. As I said last night, the vegetation of
this planet is structured in dense and continuous
layers. We are looking down at one of them."
'But that means the lower regions must be in
complete darkness."
"Certainly. Even our microwave signals were
heavily damped in the first couple of kilometers. It
will be dark."
"So where do you think that the lower layer of
Travancore gets its energy supply?"
S'glya raised a thin forelimb and gestured around
her. "From here. Where else?" She leaned far out
over the edge, apparently oblivious to the chasm
below her, and touched a half-meter shaft of bright
yellow growth. "I suspect that we could follow
this plant structure all the way down, another five
kilometers, and find that its roots are set in the
soil of Travancore. As for its width at the base ..."
The Pipe-Rilla wriggled her upper limb pairs. "Who
knows? Many, many meters.'
Behind them the Angel had come slowly creeping
out onto the side-lip of the tent. When it finally
stood in full sunlight, the Chassel-rose extended
all its fronds and turned them to face Talitha's
morning beams. "We have performed ... confirming
analysis," said the Angel's translation unit,
after a couple of minutes of silent sun-bathing.
"From the data of the orbital survey we now know
the location of the Morgan Construct."
Ishmael gave a shimmering flutter of the whole
composite, while the other two swung quickly to
face the Angel.
"Where is it?" asked Leah.
"Approximately three thousand kilometers from
here, roughly north-east. It is deep in the vegetation--perhaps
on the surface itself."
"Good. We ought to be safe enough here for the
moment."
"Safe," said Angel, "unless the Morgan Construct
has chosen to move since the survey was performed.
We judge that to be unlikely, at the 0.15 probability
level. What do you propose for our actions now?"
"Should we seek out the Construct?" asked
Ishmael.

Leah found that the other three were all looking
at her and waiting expectantly. On every question
of pursuit or capture, they deferred to her without
hesitation.
She thought for a moment and shook her head.
"No. Definitely not. We need to find out more
about this planet. The Construct has been here for
months. It has had nothing else to do but explore
Travancore, and it is very intelligent. We've been
here less than one day. There's no way I'll go
seeking that Construct until we know our way
around here."
"Better safe than sorry," said the Angel. "Look
before you leap."
Then the other three were silent, until S'glya,
rubbing at her sides with her midlimbs, finally
said: "But if we do not seek the Construct, what should we do?"
Leah turned again to the Angel. "Can you determine
from the orbital survey data how far we are
from the nearest spiral shaft into the vegetation?"
"Of course." There was a second's pause, followed
by a series of clicking sounds from the translation
unit. "We are less than two kilometers from
a downward shaft."
"Excellent. That's where we go next. We ought
to take a trip down that shaft, and find out what
conditions are like on the lower levels of Travancore.
We think of it as a vertical forest, but that's pure
speculation."
"We should all go?" asked S'glya uncertainly.
Leah hesitated. Would it be wiser to leave one
member of the team in the upper levels, for a
possible rescue? But if so, who? S'glya would have
to carry Angel, and Ishmael was easily the most
mobile for exploring ahead in difficult areas.
"There is safety in numbers," said the Angel slowly,
while she was still thinking about it.
"All right. We all go." Leah paused, still unhappy
with that decision.
"When?" asked Ishmael.
"I see no advantage in waiting. As soon as we
are all ready, let's get the exploration kit together
and head for the shaft. All right?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Never do tomorrow what can be done today,"
said the Angel.

The deep shafts noted during the first orbital
survey were far more than simple gaps in Travancore's
dense vegetative cover. On closer inspection
they proved to be true tunnels, with well-defined
and continuous walls of ribbed leaves, plaited into
a tight fabric.
"Artificial," said S'glya, running a touch antenna
lightly over the leaves. "The sign of intelligence?"
"Not necessarily. We have insects on Earth that
build more complex systems than this, and we do
not believe that they are intelligent."
Overflow tubes to carry off heavy rain were set
into the tunnel walls every twenty meters. They
were very necessary. Lean had expected near
vertical structures, plunging down towards Travancore's
true surface. But the shafts were more
like spiral tunnels, curving down at a constant and
moderate angle. It was easy to walk along the
shallow gradient without supporting lines--and
heavy rain would impose a substantial load on the
tunnel's curving lower floor.
Leah took a last look around at the surface layer
of vegetation. They would have ten hours more of
light in Travancore's thirty-seven hour day. She
led the way into the tunnel, closely followed by
the continuously re-forming shape of Ishmael. The
Tinker was very nervous. Leah had long ago given
up on the question of how Ishmael preserved any
continuity of thought when it was constantly changing.
(If it didn't worry Ishmael, she wasn't going to
let it worry her.)
The Pipe-Rilla came last. S'glya carried the Angel
tucked easily under her midlimbs. She sang
softly to herself until Leah asked her to keep quiet.
They did not want to attract attention--whether
or not there was anything on Travancore, other
than the Construct, to be attracted.
The light faded slowly. Two hundred meters down
they were moving in a green twilight, floating along
in the light gravity as though they were under
water. An upward kink in the tunnel followed by a
steeply plunging section took them below a thick
layer of leaves. The light level dropped abruptly,
and the temperature was noticeably higher. By the
time they had descended four hundred meters they
were shrouded in an intense emerald gloom.
Leah stopped and turned around to the others.
"I can't see much now, and I don't want to use a
light. S'glya, would you take over the lead? Angel
can use a thermal band to tell you what's going on
ahead of you."
They were still changing places when there was
a sudden whistle from Ishmael. "Something moving
ahead!" the Tinker said urgently. They all
turned, in time to see a pearl-white glow in the
tunnel below them. As they watched it moved
beyond the spiral wall. A dozen Tinker components
disconnected and flew away along the shaft.
A few minutes later they returned, one by one, and
rejoined the main body.
'Native life-form," said Ishmael after a few seconds.
"And big. About ten meters long, snakelike
form--no arms or legs. Bioluminescent. That glow
we saw came from a row of lights along each side
of it. And it seems afraid of us, because it went
wriggling away from us at a good speed. We followed
it as far as a branch point, about three
hundred meters farther down the shaft."
"Is it safe to go on?" asked S'glya. They all
looked again at Leah.
"I don't know." She stared into the gloom ahead.
"But I think we have to keep going. If we turn
back every time we find evidence of a native life
form we may never get anywhere. I say we keep
going. S'glya, would you lead the way again?"
They continued a cautious descent. Soon they were moving in total darkness. The last trace of
sunlight from Talitha had gone. At Leah's suggestion,
S'glya shone a faint pencil beam to let them
see the tunnel for a few paces ahead. The Angel's
thermal sensors could see beyond that, and reported
the curving tunnel clear ahead as far as
line-of-sight vision would permit.
The temperature had stabilized, at a level that
Leah found just bearable and that S'glya relished.
The pursuit team went on in silence for more than
two hours, winding steadily deeper and deeper.
The air was denser and more humid, and Leah
could smell a faint but pleasant aroma like new
cut Earth grass. The tunnel at these depths was
less well-maintained, with ragged gaps here and
there in the sides and roof. When they were close
to one of the bigger gaps they could hear a soft,
rustling sound, like wind-blown dry leaves.
S'glya reached up to her full height and pulsed a
more powerful beam of light through a roof opening.
It lit up the surroundings as brightly and
briefly as a lightning flash. Less than five meters
from the shaft they saw a small four-legged creature
clinging to a thick branch. When the light hit
it there was a brief, alarmed quacking noise. S'glya
pulsed the beam again. The creature had turned to
face them. They had a glimpse of a brown eyeless
head, split by a broad mouth. A second, narrower
slit ran all the way across from temple to temple.
There was another sound, a high-pitched nervous

squeak, then the animal was scurrying agilely away
from them around the side of the shaft.
"Intelligent?" said Leah.
The others did not reply. S'glya switched to a
steady light-level and moved the beam slowly
around the region outside the tunnel.
They saw the great boles of trees, each many
meters across. The trunks were dark tan in color
here, rather than the bright yellow of the upper
levels. From them grew thousands of wilting fingerlike
excrescences, Black and crimson and vivid orange.
Legless slug-like creatures on each extrusion
incited slowly away from S'glya's light. As they
moved they left a faintly glowing trail on the tree
fingers.
At this depth green had vanished completely
from Travancore's bioforms. Photosynthesis was
impossible. Everything depended for its existence
on the slow fall of materials from higher levels, or
on the transfer of nutrient juices pumping up and
down the massive trunks.
The group moved on, ever downwards. In another
hour the pleasant smell had been replaced
by a nauseating odor of fleshy decay. Everything
was coated with a misted layer of condensation,
and dark droplets hung from the ribbed roof of the
tunnel. Leah felt as though they had been descending
for days. Finally the Angel waved its topmost
fronds and gestured to S'glya. "Stop here. This
tunnel ends in thirty paces."
Leah increased the illumination level of the light
she was holding and came to stand by the PipeRilla.
"How does it end?"
"It simply terminates. We are less than forty
meters above the true surface of Travancore. There
is solid material beneath us, but descent past this
point will be difficult for all of us except the Tinker
components."
"Can you tell if we will be able to move over the
surface itself, once we get there?"
"It should present no difficulty, once we are
there." The Angel paused. "The descent would be
easy enough, with the aid of a simple rope. But
return might be complicated without more equipment."
"I'm
not suggesting we should go down today."
Leah turned to look back up the tunnel. "We have
a long way to climb, even in this low gravity. I
propose that we head back, and plan another trip
with other equipment tomorrow. Now that we know
what is here, the next descent ought to be much
easier. But we have to be ready--" She stopped
abruptly. Looking upwards, she had seen a movement
in the faint scattered light from S'glya's pencil
beam. It was far above them and indistinct, at
the very limit of her vision.
"Angel," she began, "can you see if--" Her question
became unnecessary. The object was approaching
rapidly along the shaft, and it had a shape that
was engraved deep in her memory.
Leah was looking at a rounded silver-blue diamond,
four meters high and two across at its widest
point. At the upper end was a blunt, neckless
head, with well-defined compound eyes and a small
speaking aperture. Latticed wing-panels shrouded
the mid-part of the body. In their folded position
they were compact and unobtrusive, no more than
pencils of bright fabric. Extended, they could be
shaped as needed to form solar panels, communication
antennae, or protective shields. The base of
the body ended in a tripod of supporting legs, each
one capable of being totally withdrawn into the
interior cavity. The mid-section contained a dozen
dark openings. They held the weapons--the fusion
devices, the lasers, the shearing cones.
Leah registered all those features in a split-second.
She gasped, and stepped back along the tunnel.
Around her there was a sudden blizzard of Tinker
components, as Ishmael dispersed instantly from
the composite form. There was a high-pitched
scream from S'glya.
Fifty-six lightyears away, Esro Mondrian was
still watching and listening through Leah's monitor
set. He had followed the group, all the way
through their long descent. Now he felt a thrilling
ripple of excitement and awe creeping along his
spine.
The Angel's careful statement of probabilities
when Team Alpha was still at their tent had been
completely appropriate. The Morgan Construct had
indeed moved its position since the time of the
orbital survey.

The call came in midway through the sleep period
on Ceres. A tiny communications unit implanted
behind Luther Brachis s right ear provided
a soft-voiced but insistent summons. He grunted
in protest, lifted his head, and looked at the time.
Then he swore, put his hands to his eyes, and slid
quietly sideways to the edge of the mattress.
Gocuva gave a sleepy questioning murmur. She
slept like a child, deeply, peacefully, securely, snuggled
against Brachis with one arm across his body.
She usually fell asleep at once and said that she
never had nightmares, or any unpleasant dreams
that she could remember. Luther's departure from
her side was one of the few things that would
produce any reaction once she was soundly asleep.
He looked down at her as he pulled on his uniform.
As always, Godiva slept unclothed. The skin
of her naked body was so fine and fair that it
seemed to glimmer like pink pearl in the faint
light from the ceiling panels. He swore again, and
hurried through to the living room. Once there he
placed his unit into general message mode.
"Luther?" said a voice at once. It was Mondrian.
"Here. Bloody hell, Esro, this is a devil of a time
to make a call." He was still straightening his
uniform and reaching for his boots.
"I need you--at once." The dry voice had a tone
in it that Brachis had never heard before. "Come
to Anabasis Communications. Alone."
The unit went dead. Brachis cursed again. Alone!
Of course he would come alone--what did Mondrian
expect, that he'd lead in a brigade of bagpipers?
(But Brachis headed for the door with his boots
still unstrapped and his uniform half-fastened.
Mondrian never gave instructions like that to someone
he knew well.)
The door to the Anabasis Communications was
locked when he arrived. That was significant, too.
Brachis lifted his one good fist and banged hard
on the door, taking some of his own irritation and
edginess out on the metal panels. After a long
delay there was a clicking of tumblers and the
door slid open.
Esro Mondrian stood in the doorway. Brachis
gave him a long, incredulous look. He had never
seen such a rigid, horror-filled expression on the
face of a living human. Mondrian stood as grey
and lifeless as a freeze-dried corpse. He was like
the things pulled out for identification after major
airlock failures. He gestured Brachis to enter with
one stiff movement, then locked the door behind
them.
"Travancore?" asked Brachis.
Mondrian nodded.
"We lost Team Alpha?"
"That, and worse.'
"Worsel For Shannon's sake, what happened?
Did the Construct get loose?"
"And worse than that." Mondrian took the other
man by the arm to lead him to the display unit.
His fingers bit deep into Brachis's thick biceps. "I
want you to see this, watch it through a couple of

times with me. Then we're going to erase it. This
is the only copy. And then we have to talk, just the
two of us."
"Esro, I told you that Team Alpha wouldn't cut
it when it came to blasting the Construct. They
chickened out, didn't they? You know the 'Rillas
and the Tinkers. I said that bunch of misfit aliens
wouldn't have the guts to do a job properly. Why
wouldn't you believe me?"
Mondrian paused in the middle of setting up the
display sequence. "Who says I didn't believe you,
Luther? But that's irrelevant now. We have to
blockade."
"Blockade Travancore?"
"Not just the planet--the whole Talitha stellar
system. Nothing can go in, nothing can get out." The
screen began to flicker with the preliminary rainbow
fringes of a Mattin Link recorded transmission.
"And that's only the beginning. We can discuss
what else we'll have to do.'
Brachis banged on the desk with the flat of his
hand. "Damnation! Esro, have you gone out of
your mind? Do you realize what it takes to blockade
a stellar system? How much it costs?"
"I know what it costs. And I know it won't be
easy." Mondrian gave a tight-lipped little smile
with no trace of humor in it. "Sit down, Luther. I
don't want to argue with you now. You'll agree
with me completely--as soon as you've had a look
at this transmission from Travancore."
Chapter Twenty-Two
BARCHAN ENCOUNTER

Nil
The Simulacra used in pursuit team training
were modeled on Livia Morgan's Constructs; but
they had been designed and built by the Margrave
of Fujitsu. Inevitably, he had woven into their mental
make-up some of his own esthetic tastes. And
certainly the habitat and lifestyle of the Simmie
on Barchan suggested some of the Margrave's sensibilities
and appreciation of beauty. The Simulacrum
had chosen a relatively exposed position on
the Dreamsea shore, one where it could obtain the
best view of Barchan's long winter sunsets. Every
evening Cassay shone golden-red through the dusty
atmosphere, and the later setting of Cassby threw
patterns of amber, garnet and jet across the dark
basaltic sands.
According to the Tinker sub-assemblies who had
flown sorties of the Dreamsea shore, the Simmie
moved little from its preferred hiding place. It
rested, half-hidden by a shallow ledge of rock that
jutted out over Dreamsea's bitter waters, and looked
out across the tideless shore.
The final attack plan would be Chan's. It had to
be. He was skeptical of his abilities, but the others
had given him no choice. They admitted the superior
capability of humans in just one area: fighting.
On every other issue, each one was more than
ready to give advice.
"Watchful, and suspicious, without question,"
said the Angel, while the others gathered round
and listened closely. The Angel had been experimenting
with trial runs of Simulacrum thought
processes, and was finally convinced that the
emulation was as good as it could be without actual
contact. "But its penchant for destruction is
undetermined. The Simulacrum does not destroy
every lifeform that it sees. It killed a few Shellbacks,
when it first arrived on Barchan and was
establishing itself here; but they seemed to be almost
accidents. It has shown little curiosity or fear
of small living things. Shikari's flights near its
hideout stirred no action or apparent interest. It
will not move from its safe position solely to make
an unprovoked attack."
"For food, then?" asked S'greela. The Pipe-Rilla
had folded and re-folded its flexible multi-jointed
body to a compact mass. Now it looked like an
isolated head, peering out from within a dark surrounding
mound of Shikari's components.
"It will not move for food. There is ample sustenance
close to where it is living."
"Are these things important?" said Shikari
dreamily. The Tinker was almost dormant, with
scarcely a movement of a component.
"We don't know," said Chan. "We don't know what's important yet. All I know is, we can't attack
the Simmie where it is. So we have to find some
method to lure it away from Dreamsea. Angel, so
far you've given us nothing but negatives. What does interest or alarm it?"
"I do not know. If you will suggest alternatives,
I can test them against the thought-process model.
But I have not been able to find anything that
provides a strong stimulus."
There was a slow stirring of the Tinker's mass,
and it slithered partly free of S'greela. The others
waited. Shikari was close to maximum size, and
by now they were becoming used to the Tinker's
long integration time in that condition. They hardly
noticed the sluggish response any more.
"We feel stupid to suggest this," said Shikari at
last. "But perhaps one stimulus is astronomy? The
Simulacrum watches the suns, the moon, and certain
stars. Would it be willing to move for a better
sight of those?"
Chan turned to the immobile figure of the Angel.
"Can you run that?"
"One moment." There was another silence. This
one lasted for almost twenty seconds, broken only
by clucking sounds from the Angel's communicator.
Chan had learned to associate those chirps
and clicks with massive computational processes
within the Singer's crystalline matrix.
"Shikari's suggestion is correct," said the Angel
at last. "At the 0.98 probability level, the Simulacrum
moves to respond to celestial events. No other
stimulus has better than 0.35 correlation with observed
movements." There was a shorter silence,
then a wiggle of the Angel's lowest fronds and a
very human-sounding sigh from the communicator.
"Unfortunately, this information appears to
be without value. I have checked the ephemeris for
Barchan, and no heavenly events of unusual import
are expected within thirty Barchan days."
"So what can we do?" said S'greela cheerfully.
"Pray for a supernova?"
"Not quite,' said Chan. "Heavenly events don't
occur when you need them--unless you make them
for yourself." He turned to S'greela. "You know
the mechanics of the aircar better than the rest of
us. Could it be made to hover with no one on
board, under automatic control at a pre-determined
height?"
"Certainly."
"And could it be made to move with the stars, so
that it would seem to be far beyond Barchan's
atmosphere?"
"Probably." There was a speculative buzz from
the Pipe-Rilla. "It would need some careful programming
of the onboard control to simulate a
sidereal reference frame, but I think it can be done."

"And could it be shielded, or illuminated from
within, in such a way that it would appear as a
natural stellar or planetary phenomenon to the
sensors of a Morgan Construct?"
"Possibly." The other three team members waited
in polite but baffled silence. "But to what avail?"
said S'greela at last.
"As a lure. We already know the terrain around
the Simmie habitat, in detail. We know the topography--what
would be visible over a particular
route. If we plan the movement of the aircar, over
several nights, so that a continued view of the car
calls for a particular path to be followed, away
from the shore of Dreamsea--"
"--a difficult inverse problem of computation,"
said the Angel. "Given the terrain, to define plausible
aircar movements that would cause a preferred
path to be followed on the ground to ensure
visibility--"
"--but exactly the sort of thing you know how to
do, Angel. We lure the Simmie away from its habitat,
out in the open away from all the Shellbacks.
And then we'll ..." Chan looked around at the
others. They were hanging on his words. "Then
we'll--then we'll subdue the Simmie."
Chan suddenly found that he could not bring
himself to say the word destroy to the other three.
The "plan" was so simple-minded and fallible
that Chan had hesitated to propose it. Its instant
acceptance by the others gave him a new understanding
of the whole Stellar Group. Even the Angel,
with its great intellect and supposed ability to
think like a human," found certain human thought
patterns quite beyond it. If Esro Mondrian's worst
fears ever came true and an aggressive race appeared
from the Perimeter, the defensive plans of
the Stellar Group would depend on humans alone.
Intelligent as they were, the others would be only
cannon fodder. They simply could not think in the
necessary terms.
But with suitable human direction, they could
function outstandingly. Shikari and S'greela had
done an astonishing job on the aircar. Hovering
under automatic control high above Barchan, it
now looked like a brilliant celestial visitor, streaming
a cometary tail (how had the two of them ever
managed that?) halfway across the night sky. Each
evening the apparition became brighter and more
colorful. Each evening, moving consistent with a
possible cometary orbit, it appeared to retreat farther
to the north. A good view of it from the
Dreamsea shore became impossible.
The Angel had calculated the Simmie's most
probable path away from the lakeside. Chan had
examined that path and the surrounding terrain,
and decided on the best ambush point and the
roles of each pursuit team member. The Angel, too
slow in physical response to be useful during the
final moments of confrontation, had been assigned
the job of observer. It would occupy an oversight
position, to warn the other three when the Simmie
left its hideout under the shelf of rock.
The form of that warning had been the subject
of heated argument. Worried by the Simmie's intelligence
and the sophistication of its sensing apparatus,
Chan had finally vetoed any signal that
might be intercepted and decoded. When the
Simmie moved from its hideout, the Ansel would
transmit a single, tightly-collimated flash of light
to the others, and nothing more. Chan had worried
then that such a short pulse might be missed, but
Shikari had reassured him. With the many thousands
of eyes available in the Tinker composite,
some would always be focused on the Angel's secluded
position.
And now, four days after the initiation of the
plan, the time for action had arrived. Shikari whistled
softly to the other two. Angel had given the
sign, and the Simmie was on the way. It would
soon be visible, skirting the underside of a broad
lip of rock. The positions of the pursuit team members
had been carefully chosen. If the Simmie followed
close to the path predicted for it by the
Angel, each of the pursuit team members would
have a clean shot at it without endangering each
other; and no matter what variation on the path
the Simmie might adopt, at least one of the team
would still have a clear target.
Chan, S'greela, and Shikari sat motionless and
completely silent. They were roughly ninety degrees
apart on the perimeter of a circle, with the
Simmie's most probable emergence point at the
center. When the Simulacrum came from cover
they would be less than thirty meters away from
it.
Twenty seconds more. Chan froze. The latticed
wing-panels of the Simmie were peeping into view
above the edge of the rock. In another ten seconds
the silver-blue body should be revealed. At this
range it should be impossible to miss. Chan already
had his weapon lined up in the correct firing
position.
He had a sudden worrying thought. Would
S'greela and Shikari have had the sense to prepare
their weapons ahead of time? Any warning noise
would be a disaster.
The Simmie moved forward into full view.
The pursuit team had agreed, there would be no
signal to fire. Each team member would shoot as
soon as a complete target was visible.
Chan sighted along his gun. As he did so, the
gigantic bounding figure of S'greela came flying
across the field of view from Chan's left. At the
same moment there was an intense whirring of
wings from the right, and a frenzied cloud of Tinker
components filled the scene. Before Chan could
press the trigger, S'greela had pounced on top of
the Simmie, and their struggling forms were ouried
at once beneath the swarming Tinker. Suddenly
all that was visible in the sights of Chan's
weapon was a blue-black, writhing mound.
Chan groaned aloud--no point in silence now--
and ran forward, weapon still at the ready. It was
no good. He could see no more than random
glimpses of the Simmie. Any shot was hist as likely
to kill Shikari and S'greela. He skidded to a halt
by the side of the wriggling mass. As he did so, the
violent movement began to subside. The Tinker
components were starting to separate, layer after
sticky layer. Finally S'greela was revealed, eight
jointed limbs locked tightly around the body of the
Simmie. When the final fluttering components of
the Tinker detached, S'greela stood up. She was
clutching the immobilized form of the Simmie.
The Pipe-Rilla looked at Chan apologetically. "I
am sorry. That was not a planned action. But as
soon as I realized that I would not be able to
discharge my weapon, I also realized that it was
my full responsibility to incapacitate the Simulacrum.
Fortunately, Angel and I had discussed a
procedure for such an eventuality--but I did not
expect to employ it."
'Nor did we,' said Shikari hoarsely. The Tinker
was still in the process of re-assembly, and not quite ready for speech. "But we also found ourselves
unable to fire. We thought that by swarming
we could overcome the Simulacrum. We were
probably wrong, but luckily S'greela had already
accomplished the task for us."
"Not so!" The Pipe-Rilla shook her head, in a human gesture that she had learned from Chan. "I
had not succeeded. Without the assistance of Shikari's
swarm I could not have gained full control.
But now"--to Chan's horror S'greela placed the
Simmie gently on the ground, where it lay looking
at them with luminous compound eyes--"now there is no danger. I have taken its weapons away."
She held out an array of armaments, each one capable of atomizing the whole pursuit team. "Here they are. The Simulacrum is disarmed. Chan, what should we do now?"
Chan raised his gun and pointed it at the Simmie.
A moment later he lowered it hopelessly. What he would have done readily to a dangerous enemy, he
could never do to the helpless and unarmed creature
on the ground in front of him. He felt ready to laugh hysterically. Shikari and S'greela had done just the opposite of what he had directed them to do--and now they calmly asked him what they
ought to do next!
What should we do now? The perfect question.
He turned to the Simmie, studying it more closely.
Without the formidable arsenal of weapons, it
looked delicate--almost fragile. One of the wing
panels had been injured in the scuffle, and was
trailing painfully along the ground. The glowing
eyes stared at him steadily, intelligently, waiting
docilely for Chan to decide its fate.
"Can you understand me?" Chan said abruptly.
The Simulacrum gave no answer. Chan turned
helplessly to S'greela and Shikari. "It's supposed
to have voice circuits, isn't it? Do you have any
idea how to communicate with a Simmie?"
S'greela shook her head. "That is a situation
that we never covered in any of the briefings."
"Well, you caught it. So you tell me, what are we
going to do with it?"
"Await our arrival." It was the voice of the Angel,
unexpectedly breaking radio silence. "I am on the
way now--and I am confident that I will be able
to achieve some kind of communication."
Without consulting Chan, S'greela went bounding
away across the rocky surface. Even at the
Angel's best speed, they would otherwise wait half
an hour for its appearance--for although the Angel
would accept transportation assistance now, it
would never ask for it. After a second, Shikari
quickly dispersed and flew off after S'greela.
Chan was suddenly very much alone. He stared
gloomily down at the Simulacrum. Without S'greela
and Shikari, the Simmie looked a lot less harmless.
If it suddenly decided the battle was not yet
over, Chan wasn't at all sure what he would do.
In fact, he wasn't sure what came next in any circumstances.
What in heaven's name were they going to do with this Simmie? If they took it back to Pursuit Team
Headquarters it might simply be re-cycled--put
out as bait for one team after another, until one
came along that was resolute or callous enough to
kill it. That was a disquieting and distasteful
thought. Studying the Simmie's quiet life on the
Dreamsea snore for the past few days had given
Chan a different perspective. The Simulacrum was
no more than an Artefact, but even an Artefact
might have its own joys and sorrows. Maybe it
had feelings, dreams and desires all its own. And if he, a "war-mad" human, could think such thoughts, 'how must Shikari, S'greela, and Angel feel?
No wonder that the others could not kill the
Simmie; and no wonder that they had discussed
ways to incapacitate it without harm.
Chan suddenly thought of Team Alpha. According
to the pursuit team trainers, they had destroyed their Simulacrum. Was that true--or had they somehow
found a way to let it continue its existence, in
a way that no one would ever know about?
While he was still preoccupied with those disturbing
thoughts, S'greela reappeared followed by
the mobile cloud of Shikari. She was carrying the
Angel lightly in her mid-limbs. The tall Pipe-Rilla
stooped and placed her burden gently on the
ground, right next to the Simulacrum. To Chan's
surprise, every frond on the Angel's bulky body
went at once into agitated motion. The communications
unit on the Angel turned to face him.
"Before we attempt to converse with the Simulacrum,"
said the Angel, "we wish to congratulate
you--and each other! S'greela, Shikari and I are in
complete agreement. This is a wonderful day! Chan,
we are a team."
"And what a team!" said S'greela. "Do you not
agree, Chan? We have performed together better
than any of us ever dared to hope."
"And we are still improving!" added Shikari.
"We may become better yet."
"Better!" said Chan. "Do you realize that we'll
have to explain all this? And do you realize--"
He stopped. The others were not listening to
him.
"Yes, better," said the Angel cheerfully. "Practice
makes perfect!"

Chapter Twenty-Three

ESRO MONDRIAN AND
CHAN DALTON

Esro Mondrian's private briefing room was simply
furnished. It contained one desk, one table,
and nine chairs. Each wall was painted a subtly
different color, the table was fixed in position, and
every chair was precisely placed.
Chan Dalton had been brought to the room and
left alone for five minutes. He was already seated
when Mondrian entered. The Security Commander
walked across to him and shook his hand briefly.
"Congratulations on a successful effort," he said. (And what a change in a few weeks! Dalton grew up.
He's in the boss seat, but he's tense, tight as a Linkline--better
be careful.)
The arrangement of seats and table was based
on tens of thousands of psychological profiles. Visitors
unsure of themselves usually took a seat near
the darkest wall, or remained standing. Not Chan.
He was sitting in what Mondrian thought of as the
"controlling" seat, the chair from which comments
and participation of others could best be emphasized
or discouraged, and remarks made by someone
at the desk most directly handled.
"Thank you." Chan shook hands firmly. "But
your congratulations should go to our whole team.
It was a combined effort. I thank you on behalf of all four members." (Mondrian can see right through
me! And I think he knows about Barchan. But how

can he?)
Mondrian's face was white and weary, and his
eyes unnaturally bright. His movements were careful
and controlled as he went to sit behind the
desk.
"Bad news," he said abruptly. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you." (Dalton doesn't respond. I tell
him I've got bad news, and a second later he seems
relaxed again. So what is worrying him? Damn it,
he's become unreadable. He's in full control of himself.
And who does he remind me of? Not the features,
the expression. Who?)
Chan had stiffened for a split-second at the words "bad news," and his own thoughts had run wild. (He knows! No, he wouldn't put it that way if he
knew. Keep control. Remember what Tatty said-work
with him, but never let him get an edge--or he'll own
you.)
Angel must be right, as usual. There was no way that anyone knew--could know--what they had done with the Simmie on Barchan. Certainly no member of the Ruby Team would talk; as Angel said, "Friendship binds, but shared guilt binds more
strongly." (But Angel had never met Mondrian 1)
"Bad news about our team?" asked Chan.
"No. Bad news from Travancore." (And why did
he jump to the conclusion that bad news must be
news about the Ruby Team? Why not some other
news completely?)
"Travancore. What's happening on Travancore?"
Chan's focus shifted at once, to a concern for Leah and her team. For the first time, Mondrian saw a chance to control the meeting.
"The planet is in total quarantine by the Anabasis. The Mattin Link access sequence for the ship
in orbit around Travancore is now held only in the
Anabasis data bank." Mondrian hesitated. "I'm
sorry, but there is no way of making this less
painful to you. The Morgan Construct on Travancore
is more dangerous than we realized. Team Alpha
has been destroyed."
Chan slowly straightened in his chair. "Leah?--"
Mondrian shook his head slowly. "Leah is dead. All the Team Alpha members are dead."
Chan shivered. He closed his eyes, leaned forward,
and put his hands to his face. Mondrian had
the control he needed.
"Tell me everything," Chan said softly.

Mondrian had batteries of recording equipment
monitoring Chan's every word and movement; but
their traces would not be available to him for
hours. (He had to review those records later--fatigue
must be decreasing his own concentration, and Chan
seemed to have other preoccupations. Meanwhile, he
had to maintain the edge. How should he present
recent events on Travancore?)
"I will tell you what I have," he said at last. "It
is not much. We obtained only limited information
after Team Alpha descended to the planet. We
know they decided to explore a set of shafts that
lead down through the vegetation to the true surface.
We also know that they encountered Nimrod--
the code name given by Team Alpha to the Morgan
Construct on Travancore. We suspect that the team
then disobeyed instructions and attempted to establish
communication with the Construct, rather
than at once destroying it." (Another reaction now.
A definite tightening of Chan's facial expression, after
the natural response of shock and horror. Look at
that more closely, too, when the recordings of the session were available for analysis.) "It was a fatal
mistake for Team Alpha. The monitoring equipment
in our orbital survey vessel obtained one
brief sequence involving the Construct, then 
nothing. No video, no audio, no vital signs telemetry
from any of the team members. And we are sure
that the equipment was working correctly."
While Mondrian was talking, Chan's mind suddenly
spun away on its own miserable journey. He
was finally reacting fully to the shocking news. Leah dead. Dead, dead, dead. Leah dead, Leah is
dead ... The words ran continuously through his
brain, while other fragments of memory and new
analysis flew past in a blizzard of disconnected
thoughts ... The happy time in the Gallimaufries,
an endless succession of carefree hours and days. (All the briefings had emphasized that each Tinker,
Pipe-Rilla, and Angel was different, as different
as individual human beings. So each pursuit
team would also be unique in composition and
behavior.) ... The visit she had made to Horus,
when he believed that she had come to take him
away and save him from the dreaded Stimulator
sessions ... he had cried for hours when she left. (But despite that individuality, Team Alpha and
the Ruby Team sounded closer in their response
patterns than anyone had dreamed. Chan's other
team members had found themselves unable to
destroy their Simulacrum. It was still living happily
by the Dreamsea, establishing its own complex
relationship with the Shellbacks. Angel had
even told the Simmie how to confuse survey sensors,
so that a re-discovery would not occur.) ... But the Morgan Construct was more dangerous than
the Artefact. It had killed poor Leah, destroyed her,
down some doomed tunnel below the vegetation surface
of Travancore. Did she have time to think of
Chan, to say any of her goodbyes? Had her end been
painless and quick, or was it filled with agony and
the knowledge of death? (If Team Alpha had failed
in the final moment of confrontation, surely his
team would do no better. But Leah's failure and
death would not relieve the Ruby Team of their
responsibility. They would still be obliged to pursue
a Morgan Construct and attempt to destroy it.
Was that even possible? Maybe the Constructs were
as Livia Morgan had imagined them, indestructible
.. )
Chan realized that Mondrian was staring at him
intensely. The other man was swaying slowly from
side to side as though he was about to topple over.
Was he as exhausted as he looked? How long since
Mondrian had received the news from Travancore,
and how long since he had slept? But the look in
his eyes was as fierce as ever.
"Did you hear me?" said Mondrian sharply.
"Livia Morgan had plans to build other capabilities
into some of her Constructs--including Nimrod.
The evidence from Travancore suggests that she
succeeded. Nimrod can generate an electrical field
that disturbs the perceptions of wholly organic
brains. The Construct itself is not affected by the field."
Mondrian paused. Before they went any farther,
he had to be sure that Chan Dalton believed what
he was being told. From his expression, Chan was
again reasserting his independence. It was proving to be a difficult meeting. (Maybe Luther Brachis had the right bull-headed approach. Forget the Morgan Construct, to hell with Travancore. Waste the whole planet, blame the Constructs for the act, and to hell with the Stellar Group's worries. But Brachis
didn't give a damn about the Constructs. He didn't
realize Mondrian's need....)
Mondrian forced his weary brain back into the
present.
"--future plans?" Chan was asking. "What could
the field do? Make us unable to move, or unable to
think?"
' "Not according to its original design." Mondrian
.switched to a less forceful tone, inviting Chan's
Understanding and cooperation. "The field was 
supposed to aid a Construct in escaping from danger.
It would induce delusions in organic brains--make
a creature see things that are not there, or imagine
situations with no reality, while the Construct
moved out of danger. But Nimrod could use it as
an offensive weapon."
"And the defense against it?" (The Ruby Team
must be next in line for Travancore! Why else would
Mondrian be talking this way. Go to Travancore,
then, destroy Nimrod, and avenge Leah! Vengeance
was purely a human concept--that's why Mondridn
was so low-key now. He needed Chan's help to lead
the others on the Ruby Team to destructive action.
Well, as far as Nimrod was concerned, Mondrian
didn't need to worry about that. Chan was ready.)
Mondrian was shaking his head firmly. "There
is no defense--except attack or flight. The field is a
short-range effect. If events begin to make no sense
to you, run. If you see things that could not possibly
be on Travancore, destroy them without hesitation.
And remember, all the Morgan Constructs
are highly intelligent. Nimrod is no exception." (And don't let me forget it, either.)
"Flee, or fight.' Chan nodded. "I hear you. What
about the other team members?" (He needs me.
And he's badly scared of something. But what can it
be? He has Nimrod already quarantined on Travancore;
it can't possibly get away unless we bring it to
space ourselves.)
"I am relying on you to make these points to
them." Mondrian rubbed his hand across his eyes.
"So now, let's talk logistics. You will have twenty
four hours to prepare and rest, then your Link to
the quarantine ship at Travancore will take place.
The Ruby Team members will descend at once to
the surface. There will be no return permitted until
the Q-ship receives suitable signals and arranges
for pick-up. Those signals will be very specific. We
cannot risk a Q-ship s exposure to Nimrod."
"Who decides when the signal is safe for a planetary
pick-up?"
Mondrian rose to his feet, came around the desk,
and stood directly in front of Chan. "I do. I will be
there personally, with a small selected group from
the Anabasis. There can be no more important use
of our time." He hesitated, then reached out and
took Chan by the shoulders. "Remember your mission.
If the destruction of Nimrod depends on your
actions alone, do not hesitate. Do not wait for the
approval of your companions. Shoot at once--and
shoot to kill."

It had been a meeting typical of Esro Mondrian's
conduct of business: short, and of few words. Less
than twenty minutes had elapsed since Chan's arrival
at Mondrian's office, and now he was outside
again, mentally battered and drained. The real
encounter had not been conducted verbally. It had
occurred several levels deeper, in the relentless
sparring and jockeying for psychological position.
Chan stood for a moment outside the door of
Mondrian's briefing room, then staggered away
along the corridor towards the Link Entrance. He
was wrecked. He felt as though he had suffered an
hour on the Tolkov Stimulator, then been kept
sleepless for a week.
It would have cheered him considerably to know
that Esro Mondrian was in no better shape.
Chapter Twenty-Four
TRAVANGORE

Travancore from five thousand kilometers: a dream
world; a soft-edged emerald ball, its colors muted by
the deep atmosphere, its outlines touched with a
misty impressionist palette. Peaceful. Beautiful.
Relaxing.
Too relaxing. Chan took a deep breath, stared
gloomily down at the endless jungle, and wondered
how he was going to shake the Utopian calm
of the rest of the team. With S'greela saying that
Travancore reminded her of Pipe-Rilla abstract
paintings, and Shikari babbling of misty mornings
on Mercantor, how would Chan ever get through
to ruffle their complacency? They sometimes referred
to him as the junior member of the team-- S'greela was ninety Earth-years old, and Angel
much more than that--but in some ways they were
the babies.
He turned to the other three. "How does it look
to you now?"
They were preparing to enter the landing capsule,
ready to leave the massive safety of the Q-ship
and begin their spiralling descent to Travancore s
surface.
"Magnificent!" S'greela spoke first, her voice 
bubbling enthusiasm. "A beautiful world. We are looking
forward to seeing it more closely."
Chan felt ready to reach out and shake her. "Look,
how many times do I have to say it? Don't judge
by what you see. Team Alpha was destroyed down
there. If we're not careful, the same thing could
happen to us."
The other three exchanged looks--smug looks,
Chan was sure of it. "Ah, but it won't happen to
us," said Shikari confidently. "We are sure that
Team Alpha was composed of beings of exceptional
talent and intelligence--the selection process
would assure it. But they could not have been
a complete team, as we are a team."
There it was in a nutshell. Nothing that Chan
said could make any difference to the others' opinions.
They had gone in a few days from a general
diffidence to an unshakable conviction that together
they could face any situation--and win!
It was hard to dispute some of their logic. After
the first awkward beginnings they had made steady
progress, to the point where Chan could now read
complicated messages from a single wave of Angel's
side fronds, a ripple in Shikari's base, or one
head movement from S'greela.
But that was only a small part of the story. The
other three had not seen Lea's message to Chan.
She too had spoken of the extraordinary level of
communication enjoyed by Team Alpha. And that
team had failed!
There were other problems, too, that Chan had
so far not mentioned to the others. He had blackout
periods, when he could not recall where he
had been, what he had been doing, or what had
been said. The attacks came without warning, and
lasted anything from a few minutes to several hours.
So far they had hit only in leisure spells, when he
was relaxing with the other team members. But
there was no guarantee they would not come at
other more critical times--even during their coming
clash with Nimrod. He had secretly asked Kubo
Flammarion over a Link connection from the
Q-ship, might there be after-effects of the Tolkov
Stimulator treatments? He had received only a
bemused shrug as answer. No one knew enough
about the Stimulator to predict side-effects of a
successful treatment.
Chan wondered if he ought to tell the others
what was happening to him--at the very least it
might knock a few holes in the solid wall of self
confidence they were displaying. Just look at them
now! They were staring down at the approaching
orb of Travancore with all the cheerful curiosity of
vacationing visitors.
One more try.
"Look here, we must get one thing into our brains
or we're all in real trouble. No matter what it
looks like, a Simmie is not a Morgan Construct. A
Simmie is less well armed and less murderous. I
know we handled the Simulacrum on Barchan-- but this job will be ten times harder."
"And we are far more of a unit than we were
then," replied S'greela. (She sounded cheerful, of
course--and she was cheerful; Chan could read her
mood very well.) "Chan, it is normally the role of a
Pipe-Rilla to be the principal worrier in a group.
But I feel quite at ease. We are a teaml"
And that was it. They would not budge.
They seemed to believe they were heading for
some clean, rational confrontation down on Travancore.
Even the destruction of Nimrod, if they
thought of it at all, was imagined as brief and
orderly. Maybe the actual video scene, where Team
Alpha was blasted or burned to extinction, would
have made them think differently. Chan hated the
idea of viewing that murderous encounter, but it
would drag the other team members to some 
understanding of what a meeting with Nimrod could
really do to them.
Unfortunately, there was no record of that event.
The final video in the Anabasis files showed Nimrod
drifting peacefully down along the shaft towards
the waiting Team Alpha. The Construct did not
look belligerent, or particularly powerful. But it
was. Suppose that the members of Team Alpha
had lingered on, horribly wounded, for hours or
days?
The Ruby Team had reviewed every transmission
from Team Alpha to the Anabasis. Those complete
sound and video records were now tucked
away in the Angel's capacious memory, available
for recall and analysis in a fraction of a second.
Shikari had also performed a planet-wide microwave
survey of Travancore from the Q-ship. The
Angel had used that survey, plus the records from
Team Alpha, to pinpoint a dozen areas on the
planet where Nimrod might be located.
Chan looked at them excitedly. He thought that
one site near Travancore's equator showed a slightly
brighter point of light on the radar ranee. Might it
be solid metal there? Nimrod ought to be the only
metallic component on the planet's surface. But
the signal was strongly damped by the planet's
dense vegetation.
"What do you think, Angel? Isn't that point where
we're most likely to find Nimrod?"
There was a slow and irritating wave of mid-fronds--the Angel's equivalent of skeptical laughter. "It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
has data," said Angel at last. And that was all the
answer that Chan could get.
While Chan brooded over the microwave records,
S'greela and Shikari had done their own analysis
of Team Alpha's descent into the surface shafts.
They had concluded that Travancore's light gravity
would make the tunnels independently 
navigable by the Angel, provided a lift pack was strapped
around its tubby mid-section. That would leave
S'greela with better mobility.
Their finding was the only positive result that
Chan could see from two whole days of analysis.
He drew a reluctant conclusion. They could
look at Travancore from high orbit forever, and
never know significantly more about it than they
knew now. Like it or not, they had to get on with it
and go down to the surface.
Before they entered the landing capsule, Chan
gave the others one more warning. "Make sure you
have everything that you'll need on Travancore before
we leave the quarantine ship. The Anabasis is
terrified of Nimrod, even if you're not. They know
the full powers of a Morgan Construct. We won't
be allowed back on board the quarantine ship unless
we can prove that we've destroyed Nimrod.
And the burden of that proof will be on us. They
won't even make drop-shipments to us from orbit,
unless it's clear that the shipments couldn't be
useful to Nimrod if things go wrong. Understand?"
The others gestured their assent. "We will return
carrying our shields, or on them," said Angel
cheerfully. Shikari gave his best human-style
belly-laugh.
Chan gave up. He went to the communicator
and initiated the Link sequence to Anabasis Headquarters
on Ceres. Esro Mondrian and Kubo Flammarion
were in the control room there.
"We're on our way," said Chan as soon as the
Link connection had stabilized. "Do you have anything
new to tell us?"
Mondrian nodded a greeting. "There's a slight
change at our end, but it won't make any difference
to what you'll be doing. The Stellar Group
are insisting that the Mattin Link to the Q-ship be
made one-way all the time that you're down on the
surface of Travancore. Messages and materials from
here can go to the Q-ship, but nothing can come
back this way. The Stellar Group won't tolerate
any chance at all that Nimrod might be able to
Link out. So you won't be able to send any more
messages back here--and of course no material
objects can come here, either."
'That's no good! If we can't send you messages,
how will you ever know we've done our job and
are ready to be picked up?"
"We'll be shipping in a monitoring team of our
own from here to the Q-ship. Youll be able to
communicate with them." Mondrian smiled grimly.
"I'll be on that team myself. So as long as Nimrod
is still active, we'll oe stuck in orbit around
Travancore. Until you dispose of Nimrod, it's a
one-way trip for all of us. We'll be with you and
watching you every step of the way. Good luck,
Chan."
Even across fifty-six lightyears, Chan could feel
the force of Mondrian's determination. The other
man was always careful to say that the policies
were set by the Stellar Group, but Chan nad no
doubt who was really calling the shots. What did
the rest of the Stellar Group understand about
battles, quarantines, and blockades? Not a thing.
Mondrian was manipulating them, defining all their
actions, just as Chan was defining procedures for
the Ruby Team. And Mondrian wanted to control
Chan and the other team members when they were
down on Travancore--why else would he come to
the Q-ship?
Well, it wasn't going to happen the way that
Mondrian wanted. Chan's annoyance with the other
man was growing rapidly. If necessary, the team
would break off every communication with-the
Q-ship once they were down on the surface. Mondrian
wanted to face a Morgan Construct, did he?
Fine. Let him do it for himself--the Ruby Team
wouldn't be a puppet for anybody.
Chan did his best to mask his irritation; otherwise
Mondrian would be certain to read it--and
use it to his advantage. "We'll be on our way down
within the hour," he said quietly. "Give us one
Earth-week, and I hope we'll have some results."
"Take your time. Festina lente. And good luck."
Mondrian turned away. The display began to exhibit
the rainbow fringes of a fading Link communication.
"Festina
lente?" said Shikari.
"A piece of advice in an old Earth language.
Mondrian adopted it as the motto for Boundary
Security. It means hasten slowly."
"I don't think that he needs to warn us," said
S'greela indignantly. "We will be in no hurry to
get into trouble."
"Fools rush in--" said Angel, "Hmm. I think we
are ready, Chan. Shall we begin the descent?"

Chan's analysis of the data transmitted by Team
Alpha had led him to three main conclusions.
First, and worst: Team Alpha had made one big
mistake: they had been careless in checking the
Morgan Construct's location. Nimrod could obviously
move about the planet at high speed. This
time Chan would set up a system for continuous
monitoring of the Construct's position.
Second, at least two life forms on Travancore
might be useful to the team. They should be investigated.
There was the long, legless form that lived
in the shafts, and the nimble, nervous one that
inhabited the deep jungle. If either one of them
possessed intelligence and could be communicated
with, the task of exploration might become much
easier. Nimrod knew Travancore; the team did
not. They desperately needed a quick guide to the
features of the planet.
Third, Team Alpha had stayed together too much.
No matter how well the four of them performed as
a team, there were certain functions that called for
individual actions.
That conclusion had produced strong protest from
the other three. Shikari was particularly outraged.
They were a team! They should work together!
Despite all its interactions with other species, and
despite the success of its own sub-assemblies on
Barchan, the Tinker still found it hard to accept
that any functions calling for intelligence might Be
better conducted by a group of individual units.
Chan had insisted. As long as he was in charge
of finding and disposing of Nimrod, caution would
predominate.
As a first part of that policy, the landing capsule
did not stay with the team. It hovered briefly at
one position on the planet's daylight side, while
the team unloaded and inflated their balloon tent
and fitted it into the upper layers of vegetation. As
soon as the rest of the equipment was unloaded,
the landing capsule took off again for low orbit. It
would circle the planet under automatic control,
monitoring the place finally picked out by the Angel
as the near-certain site for Nimrod.
Once they were established in Travancore's upper
jungle, S'greela was assigned a solo mission.
The Pipe-Rilla was by far the strongest of the team
members. She would descend the nearest shaft,
seek a specimen of the long, snaky life-form, and
try to bring it back to their base. According to the
Angel, there should be considerable diurnal movement
of Travancore's mobile life forms. Like ocean
life on Earth, many forms would take advantage of
daylight to feed and sun themselves in the upper
levels. S'greela ought to have a good chance of
finding one close to the surface.
S'greela set off, unarmed, on her mission. The
others settled down for a long and nervous wait.
She returned at sunset, empty-handed and exasperated.
The other three were sitting in the tent,
the Angel next to Chan and Shikari spread like a
thick cloak over both of them. S'greela joined them,
and waited for the Tinker components to envelop
her. She sighed.
"No luck?" asked Chan.
The Pipe-Rilla shook her head slowly. "It was a
frustrating experience. Many times I saw several
of the forms, but they crawled away through gaps
in the walls of the shaft. Then I finally caught
one--but I could not bring it here!"
"It was too strong for you?" asked Shikari. The
voice funnel had formed down on the floor, by
Chan's legs.
"Not exactly. I was stronger. But I was out
legged." S'greela held up three pairs of thin limbs.
"It is not often that I meet a creature with more
legs than I."
'But I thought that the animal you were after
was leglessl" said Chan.
"So did I," said S'greela. "Perhaps we need to
re-define a leg. Each segment of its body had two
gripping attachments--there were twenty-six in all.
And when I took hold of the body, each one clung
tight to the ribs on the tunnel wall. I could detach
any of them easily enough, using two of my limbs.
But I could not detach all of them--and I dared
not use too much force for fear of harming it."
"Did it show any sign of being intelligent?" asked
the Angel.
"That is what made it such a frustrating experience.
All the time that I was holding the creature,
it made sounds. They were very high-pitched, so
although I could hear most of them easily enough,
I had no way to reproduce them. I think they represent
some kind of language. Finally I decided that
I would release the creature and return here. It
wriggled away unharmed. I suggest that tomorrow
I return to the same place and Angel comes
with me. Angel has the best language ability, and
the computer communicator can synthesize anything
up to a hundred thousand cycles a second.
That ought to handle any signals we need." She
turned to Chan. "Do you agree? You are our leader
for these things."
Called on for a decision, Chan felt his mood
change. He had been following the conversation in
some perplexing way, understanding it almost without
listening. Now he was somehow separated from
the group. He stood up, and at his feet the Tinker
stirred restlessly. Shikari also sensed the sudden
change in the group's relationship.
"I don't like that idea too well,' said Chan after
a few seconds of thought. "If you want Angel to go
back down into the tunnel with you tomorrow, I
think I ought to go with you, too. I wanted you to
go on your own at first, because you are fast and
strong. But I don't want to split the team in two."
"Then you think that we should all go together?"
"I like that even less." Chan thought for another
moment. "Do you feel confident that there is no
trap--that the animals you found in the shafts are
nothing to do with Nimrod?"
"I'm sure they are not. But don't ask me to
prove it."
"Angel?"
"S'greela is almost certainly correct. I put the
probability of connection with the Morgan Construct
at less than one in a hundred thousand."
"And the animal seemed harmless?"
S'greela nodded. "Despite its size, it is harmless.
All it seemed interested in doing was eating. Even
when I was trying to dislodge it from the tunnel
wall, it kept on chewing at the vegetation. It has
substantial mandibles, but it never tried to bite
me."
"Right." Chan sat down. "Tomorrow we will all
go--except Shikari."
"We do not wish to be left here alone!" The
Tinker was outraged.
"I know. But listen to me for a moment. Shikari, half of you will go with us. Half remains here. We
must leave someone in communication with the
landing capsule, so that we can be warned if there
is any action by Nimrod. And you know we can't
send decent radio signals down through the vegetation--so
we need some method of direct warning
to the rest of the team. You're the only one who
can provide that. You could send components from
here, down through the shafts to join your other
half, and alert the rest of us within a few minutes.
I know you don't want to do it--but who else
could do the job?"
Shikari did not speak, but there was a tremble
through the whole mass of the composite and hundreds
of components flew away to the sides of the
tent. The voice funnel closed abruptly. The others
could all read the signs. The Tinker was very upset.
"Come on, Shikari," said S'greela. "Chan is right.
This is the only way we can explore and still be
safe. Cheer up. It will be for only a little while."
"Divide and conquer," said the Angel consolingly.
The voice funnel remained closed. But the components
slowly came back to the assembly, and
Shikari flattened to form a low and miserable heap
around the other team members.

The Angel had used its mobility pack before, but
only for a few minutes of limited practice. With
the pack strapped now around its blue-green midsection,
the Angel had made a few tentative backand-forth
movements. Then suddenly it was darting
off on a complex three-dimensional pattern of zigzags,
planing rapidly across the uneven uppermost
layer of the vegetation.
'Stop playing around, Angel," said Chan through
his communications pack.' We have to go."
More and more he felt like the disciplinarian of
the group, the one who always had to say no and
enforce the unpleasant rules. The others didn't seem
to worry at all! Was that perhaps the general relationship
of humans to the rest of the Stellar Group
species? If so, Chan had certainly never heard it
expressed that way before.
The Angel came skimming and diving back to
the side of the tent, executing a final mid-air roll
and loop before landing. The others were all ready
and waiting. As they set out for the shaft, one part
of Shikari bade a solemn farewell to the half who
would stay behind. The Tinker explained to Chan
that although there were seldom more than a quarter
of the total number of components in the body
of the composite at any one time, they were always there, available to attach whenever they were
needed. The physical separation into two major
pieces would oe a unique and unpleasant event.
"Imagine going off on a trip without your legs,"
Shikari protested. "Or Angel being without the
Chassel-rose! Well, it's like that for us, but it's
much worse."
But once they were on their way, the Tinker
soon seemed to be in excellent spirits. A steady
two-way stream of individual components followed
them as they descended the tunnel, providing a
continuous link between the two main halves of
the composite. Chan wondered how long a connected
chain of single Tinker components would
be. With, say, ten thousand components, each ten
centimeters long--it would stretch for a kilometer!
But the neuronal inter-connections would be minimal.
Chan doubted that a Tinker would be able to
actually think in such a mode.
The Angel had been leading the way, gliding
silently along the curved tunnel. After about twenty
minutes it halted and turned back to the others.
"There is something moving ahead," the Angel
said softly. "I think perhaps it is time for S'greela
to lead the way."
As the two quietly exchanged positions, a handful
of Tinker components flew off down the tunnel.
They returned just a few seconds later and reconnected
to the main body.
"It is the form S'greela described," said Shikari.
"A very long body with no real legs, feeding at the
tunnel wall.'
S'greela bounded forward. The creature saw the
light that she was holding, or sensed the rapid
movement. It ceased cropping the vegetation and
tried to wriggle away along the shaft. S'greela
pounced. When the others arrived, she had it
gripped around the middle, while it clung desperately
to the wall of the tunnel.
Chan walked along the full length of the body. It
was enormous, with a straw-colored, multi-segment
body over a meter across and better than ten meters
long. Despite its size, it made no effort to
attack or even to defend itself. The head was eyeless
and dark-red, and equipped with a mouth big
enough to bite Chan's head off. It went on eating
steadily, chomping on vegetation it clipped from
sprouting sections of the tunnel walls. When Chan
came close, the big head turned slowly from side
to side. It emitted a shrill series of squeaks and
whistles, almost completely off the human audible
range. The sounds came from a second broad slit
set a few inches above the mouth.
The Angel advanced to Chan's side and the communicator
on its mid-section gave out an experimental
series of squawks and squeaks.
"It is a language, I think," said Angel. "Perhaps
a primitive one. It would be logical to assume that
it modulates ultra-sonic navigation signals employed
in the tunnels--a natural development for
creatures living mostly in the dark. But before we
can be sure we must have more samples of the
sounds. Hold it tightly now, S'greela."
The Angel moved closer to the head, reached out
a lower frond, and poked the creature gently. The
monstrous caterpillar body struggled harder for a
moment, then the head turned to face the Angel.
There was another lengthy sequence of squeaks,
this time with a different emphasis and cadence.
Angel's communication box replied with a succession
of very similar sounds, gradually ascending in
pitch until they became inaudible to human ears.
The body ceased to squirm in S'greela's grasp. She
and Shikari leaned closer to follow the interaction.
Chan knew that both Tinkers and Pipe-Rillas
could hear frequencies well outside his range. He
would have to he briefed when the initial communication
attempt was over. He dropped back a
pace, and looked around him at the tunnel walls.
They were close to a branch point, where the
descending shaft divided to continue as a double
descent path. He had not seen that before, or heard
of it in any of the records left by Team Alpha. It
suggested a system of pathways through Travancore's
jungles more complicated than they had
realized. Chan looked again at S'greela and Shikari.
They were both still engrossed in the Angel's
efforts. He strolled slowly down along the sloping
tunnel and looked out along each branch in turn.
They were not identical. One continued steadily
down towards the surface of Travancore, five kilometers
below them. The other was narrower and
less steep. It curved off slowly to the left with
hardly any gradient at all. If it went on that like the
narrow corridor would provide a horizontal roadway
through the high forest. Chan took just three or
four paces along it. He did not intend to lose sight
or sound of the other team members.
After three steps he paused, very confused. There
seemed to be something like a dark mist obscuring
the more distant parts of the corridor. He shone
his light, and there was no answering reflection.
Chan hesitated for a moment, then started to
move back up the tunnel. Whatever it was in front
of him, he was not about to face it alone. He had
weapons with him--but more than those he wanted
S'greela's strength, Shikari's mobility, and Angel's
cool reasoning powers.
As he turned, he heard a whisper behind him.
"Chan!"
He looked back. Something had stepped forward
from the middle of the dark mist and stood squarely
in the middle of the pathway.
It looked like a human figure. Chan shone his
light again along the tunnel. He froze.
It was Leah.
Even as Chan was about to call out to her, he
remembered Mondrian's warning. Leah was dead. What he was seeing was an illusion, something
created in his mind by Nimrod.
As though to confirm his thought, the figure of
Leah drifted upwards like a pale ghost. It hung
unsupported, a couple of feet above the floor of the
tunnel. The shape raised one white arm. "Chan,"
it said again.
"Leah! Is it you--really you?" Chan fought back
the sudden urge to run forward and embrace the
hovering form in front of him.
It did not seem to have heard him. Chan saw the
dark-haired head move slowly from side to side.
"Not now, Chan," said Leah's voice. "It would be
too dangerous now. Say goodbye--but love me,
Chan. Love is the secret.'
Ignoring all commonsense, Chan found that he
had taken another step along the tunnel. He paused,
dizzy and irresolute.
The figure held up both arms urgently. "Not
now, Chan. Dangerous."
She waved. The slim form stepped sharply 
backwards, and was swallowed up at once in the dark
cloud. The apparition was gone.
Chan stood motionless, too stunned to move. At
last a sudden premonition of great danger conquered
his inertia. He turned and began to stagger
and stumble back towards the others.
A voice inside his head was screaming at him. "NIMROD. Nimrod is active here. A Morgan Construct
can produce delusions within an organic
brain--it can change what you see and hear. Get
back to the others--NOW!"
He was suddenly back in the part of the tunnel
where he had left the other team members. It was
totally deserted.
They were gone! To his horror and dismay, there
was no sign of the rest of them. Where was the
team? Surely they would not have left him behind
and gone back up the tunnel without him. Had
they fallen victim to Nimrod?
Dizzy with fear, emotion, and unanswerable questions,
Chan began to run back up the tunnel, back
to the sunlight, back to the doubtful safety of the
tent in the upper vegetation layers. As he did so,
the face and form of Leah hovered shimmering
before his eyes.
Chan burst back into the tent fearing every form
of disaster. At the very least, the others would be
buzzing with alarm at his absence. They would be
terrified, full of fearful concern and organizing
themselves to go off again and search for him in
the tunnels.
There was certainly a tense atmosphere in the
tent. But no one seemed to care what had happened
to Chan. In fact, no one even seemed to have
noticed his absence! He grabbed one of S'greela's
forelimbs. She turned and gave him a little nod.
"It is just as well that you have returned. We are
not sure what to do next. There has been a--a bad
misunderstanding with the Coromar." She motioned
towards the side of the tent, where the great caterpillar
was stretched out along the flexible wall.
That seems to be the group name that these beings
give to themselves."
The creature acted quite at home in the tent. It
was free to move, but making no attempt to escape.
Instead, the long mouth was chomping contentedly
on a great bale of vegetation.
Chan looked confusedly around him. Everything
seemed very peaceful. "A bad misunderstanding?
he said at last.
"I am afraid so. It is not very smart. As soon as
Angel was able to communicate well, it agreed to
come along with us, provided that we would feed
it when we got here." The Pipe-Rilla shook her
head testily. "Really, food seems to be the only
thing it cares about. Well, naturally we agreed. We
have ample provisions."
"So what's the problem?" said Chan. He looked
again at the peaceful and slow-moving Coromar,
happily browsing. "You gave it plenty of food,
didn't you?"
"Yes, now we have given it all it wants. But
when we first arrived here, the Coromar--its name
is Vayvay--did not want to wait for me to give it
food/'
"You mean it tried to leave?"
"Worse than that. It tried to eat Angel."
Chan looked across at the Angel, sitting motionless
at the other side of the tent. The side fronds
were all lying limp against the barrel-like body,
and the head fronds were tightly closed. He knew
:<the signs by now. Angel was sulking.
| "Well, didn't the rest of you try to stop--"
It"Of course we stopped it. All that happened was
the Coromar took a bite at Angel's mid-section--one little bite."
'And that was quite understandable," chimed in
Shikari. The Tinker, its parts now reunited, sounded
in excellent spirits. It came rustling across to Chan's
side. "After all, Angel cannot deny that the Chasselrose
is a vegetable. And the real confusion was
caused by the communicator that Angel wears.
Vayvay apparently assumed that the communicator was the intelligent being--since it was the part
that had done the talking. And so Vayvay thought
that all the rest of Angel was just a sort of mobile
food supply. Perfectly natural assumption. As Angel
might put it, one man's meat is another man's
mid-section."
There was an outraged crackle from the Angel's
communicator. "We are not amused!" it said loudly.
"This is no joking matter. If I had not moved
quickly, it would have been more than just one
bite--'
"All right, that's enough." Chan went across and
sat down wearily by the Angel's side. "Cut out the
bickering and the game-playing. We've got more
important problems." He ignored the Angel's protest.
"You three are supposed to be part of a pursuit
team. Remember? You're tackling the most
dangerous creature in the known Universe. Now,
when you looked around in the tunnels and found
I was gone, didn't it even occur to you that I might
be in trouble? Didn't one of you think, wait a
minute now, maybe we should take a look and see
what happened to Chan? --instead of just heading
along back here without me."
There was an embarrassed silence. "We were
preoccupied with the Coromar," said Shikari at
last. "The tunnel seemed quite safe, and the part
of me that had remained nere was reporting no
threatening movements up near the surface. There
seemed no cause for worry about you."
"And you did return unharmed," said S'greela.
"So why are you so upset? Were you afraid?"
Chan sighed. "Not as much as I should have
been. Believe it or not, but I think I encountered
Nimrod down there. I'm amazed that I'm still alive
to tell you about it."
He summarized his experiences in the tunnel,
carefully keeping his account as factual as possible.
When he was finished, there was a polite and
non-committal silence. Chan looked at each of the
others. He could tell they were all skeptical. The
silence ended when the Angel suddenly engaged in
a long exchange of shrill squeaks with the Coromar,
slowly waving its topknot fronds throughout.
"Vayvay has never heard of Nimrod, the Angel
said at last. "And the Coromars exist planet-wide.
But they are not very intelligent, and perhaps they
do not usually travel far from their usual haunts.'
There was another brief squeak from the Coromar,
and a grunt of satisfaction from the Angel. "Vayvay
also says it is very sorry that it tried to eat me."
"You can communicate that well, so quickly?"
asked Chan.
"It is not a complex language. About half the
words seem to concern themselves with eating or
looking for food."
"Can you ask what Vayvay knows about the
other species--the agile one, down in the deep
forest? If the Coromars won't be able to help us,
maybe the others can. And maybe they know about
Nimrod."
Chan waited impatiently through another long
exchange. The Angel seemed less sure this time,
and several strings of sounds had to be repeated
before the answer finally came: "According to
Vayvay, we will obtain no help from the other
creatures. They are named the Maricore. Vayvay
was very confused by our questions, because it
seems that both animals are the same species. The
Coromar are the feeding, intelligent--keep quiet,
S'greela!--stage of the life cycle. They live about
twelve earth years, then encyst and undergo a 
complete metamorphosis. Before the change, a Coromar
is apparently either asexual, or at least has no sex
drives. After metamorphosis, a Coromar becomes
a Maricore.
"In this stage they mate. They live only one
year, they eat very little, and during their lives
they actually shrink in size. According to Vayvay,
they exhibit no sign of intelligence. They also have
poor survival skills, so for safety they are denizens
of the deep forest and never come close to the
upper layers. It is one duty of the younger Coromars
to descend, guard the mature Maricores, and assure
their survival until they can give birth to a
litter of Coromars. Without that aid, most Maricores
would not even live long enough to breed." The
Angel paused. "An interesting inversion of a familiar
theme. 'The child is father to the man,'--but in
this case that concept is almost literally true."
"What about other life-forms on Travancore?"
Chan didn't want to hear Angel philosophizing. He
was feeling absolutely exhausted, with a return of
the dizzy feeling he had experienced in the tunnels.
With Shikari warm around him, what he
wanted now was sleep. "Does Vayvay know of
anything else that might help us?" he said at last.
"I already asked that question. The answer is
unfortunately a definite negative." The Angel had
slowly extended its adventitious base stems and
was beginning to creep towards the Chassel-rose's
preferred rooting spot near the exit to the tent.
Shikari and S'greela had already become silent,
and the only noise was Vayvay's steady chewing.
The fronds on top of the Angel were slowly
tightening in on themselves.
"The Coromars may help a little bit, Chan," said
Angel at last. "Vayvay is certainly willing to stay
with us and go anywhere in exchange for food. But
I am afraid that everything is really up to us. If we
fail, no one else can do our work." The roots of the
Chassel-rose began to settle into the patch of dark earth that had been brought all the way from the home planet of Sellora. The Angel sighed with pleasure. "Chan, I do not know if you met Nimrod or your own mental illusion in the tunnel. But I do know this: we are as good a team as the Stellar
Group will ever find. Together, we will defeat the Morgan Construct ... or no one will."

Chapter Twenty-Five
EARTH

At the moment when Chan was staring incredulously
at the apparition of Leah Rainbow in Travancore's
abyssal tunnel, Esro Mondrian stood in a
corridor in the Earth warrens. He was at the door
of Tatty Snipes' apartment. Twice he had lifted his
hand to insert his I.D. key, and twice he had hesitated
and pulled back.
Tatty was watching him through her own hidden
screen. She was puzzled. What was wrong
with Mondrian? He was often thoughtful and preoccupied,
but never indecisive.
At the third attempt he completed the sequence.
The door opened. Mondrian stepped inside and
looked thoughtfully around him. Less than a year
ago this had been his favorite haven. He knew he
could come here, shut out the whole solar system,
and do his deepest thinking and planning. Tatty
had respected his need for privacy. She knew when
he was really working, when he needed relaxation.
She never intruded. She had been taking Paradox
shots, but even there he never saw it happen. Tatty
was always infinitely discreet.
And now?
So much had changed in the past few months.
The apartment was no longer a place of peace and
sanctuary. Tatty had become more independent.
She had broken the Paradox habit (Shannon knows
how much agony that had cost her!) and the array
of little purple ampules no longer sat in each room
of the apartment. She had lived through Chan's
transformation in the Tolkov Stimulator. Although
she would not talk about it, that experience had
affected her deeply. Worst of all, Tatty had become unpredictable. Mondrian was no longer sure
how she would react to his words, what she would
say or do.
He knew the correct action; knew it instinctively. What cannot be controlled or destroyed must
be banished. He must make a complete break with
Tatty. And he could not do it.
"I have them," said Tatty, as the door closed
behind him. "Shall we begin?"
Mondrian nodded. "Let's get on with it, Princess." (That was the change in her. No words of
affection or greeting. No tenderness, or loving touch.
But this was not the time for his own self-indulgent
feelings of nostalgia or disappointment--what came
next was too important.)
She had sensed his depressed mood. "It won't be
all that bad, Esro. Think of it just as Earth
sight-seeing."
"Most of it will be. But if Skrynol is right, (one of
those scenes may jump up and murder me."
"How will it affect you?"
"The Fr'opper doesn't know, and I certainly
don't." Mondrian gestured to the phial of anesthetic
spray that Tatty had prepared. "Keep that
close to you, but don't let me get my hands on it. I
hope that I won't even try. But Skrynol says the
experience we are after is very deep--I may be
willing to kill, or to die myself, before I'll let it up
to the surface." He sat down on the reclining chair
and leaned back in it. He nodded. "Go ahead. Any
time."
Tatty taped his wrists to the chair's arm-rests.
She attached the electrodes and microphones to
wrists, palms, fingertips, throat, temples, and genitals.
Finally she sat down where she could see
both the displays and Mondrian's face.
The equipment and the recordings were all ready.
Since Mondrian had given her no preferred order
for the list of sites, she had made her own. She had
visited the scenes of his early childhood systematically,
linking around the planet in a zig-zag pattern
that spanned Earth from pole to pole. At each
location, as the fancy su ucl: her she had made her
own voice-over on the 3-D rea "'rings, and added
local sounds and smells.
She began with an area that sat firmly at the
center of her own high Linares--maybe Mondrian
shared her horror of it. The Virgin lay in what had
once been the American West. It was a dumb-bell
of total devastation a thousand miles long and
three hundred wide. The Virgin's Breasts were at
Two Strikes, in the north. Twin ten-mile craters of
ground zero defined each nipple. The broad hips
in the south were formed by the fused circular
plain of Malcolm's Mistake. Tatty had set them
down midway between the two. "The Virgin's Navel,"
said her quiet voice-over commentary. Then
everything was silence. The Navel was the most
scarred and desolate spot on Earth's surface.
In the first few years after the fusion glows began
to fade, experts had made their measurements
and predicted that Earth's life-forms would not
return to the Virgin in less than a millennium.
They had been wrong--outrageously wrong. The
first seeds had germinated and were fighting the
radiation in less than a generation.
And yet in some ways the experts had been vindicated.
Today the Virgin teemed with its own
plants and animals. But no birds sang, no bees
buzzed, no coyotes howled. Life at the Virgin's
Navel was abundant; but it was totally silent, and
somehow it was alien.
The display scanned steadily across the landscape.
Mondrian looked on silently while Tatty
shuddered again at the scene she had recorded, at
plants stunted or overblown, at misshapen animals
that parodied the rest of nature.
"Did you know you can still see the outline of
the Virgin from the Moon?" he said at last. "I
don't think it's the color of the ground. It must be
the vegetation."
His voice was calm. Tatty quietly cut short the
presentation. Otherwise Mondrian would be using
the anesthetic on her. They moved to another one
of her own private hates. Mondrian recalled being
taken to the Antarctic when he was a tiny child.
He had unpleasant memories of it. So had Tatty.
The travel guides spoke only of the bursting polar
summer, with the new hybrid grains running their
full course from germination to harvest in thirty
days of twenty-four-hour light. Tatty had come
away with different memories. Of savage winds,
age-old ice, and the cruel black water lapping at
the edge of the ice cap.
Her images caught the desperate haste of the
short summer to perfection. Nature was racing to
fill a complete cycle in a few short weeks of continuous
sun. The rate of plant growth created the
illusion of time-lapse photography.
Mondrian watched while the view scanned across
a great flock of emperor penguins standing at the
water's edge. He seemed relaxed. "If you don't like
it there now," he said--he had seen the expression
on Tatty's face--"you should have gone there in
winter. Imagine the life of one of those birds. They
mate when it's a hundred below. And they stand
there right through the blizzards, balancing their
eggs on their feet."
Tatty gave him an angry glare, and cut short the
scene. Mondrian seemed almost to be enjoying himself.
She moved on to Patagonia.
When Mondrian first told her what he needed, it
had sounded like an impossible job--hundreds of
millions of square kilometers to be surveyed. He
had--as usual--persuaded her that she was wrong.
She could do it easily. Although the centuries-long
exodus from Earth had provided a safety-valve on
population growth, it had never been quite enough.
And as most of the planet gradually became more
densely peopled, it became more homogeneous. It
was not necessary for Tatty to make recordings of
BigSyd or Ree-o-dee--in all essentials they were
identical to Bosny and Delmarva Town. Mondrian's
memories would not be hiding there.
The only real candidates left were the equatorial
and the Antarctic reservations, plus those few other
areas of Earth that were still almost uninhabited.
The Kingdom of the Winds in Patagonia, where
Tatty had gone next, was a good example. People could live there, in the bleak shadow of the Andes--
but few wanted to. The west winds that blew with
incessant gale force from the mountain peaks created
a psychological vacuum. Every generation the
area was settled, and a few years later abandoned.
It was not the source of Mondrian's trauma. He
looked at the bleak landscape without enjoyment,
but also without terror. Tatty studied his blank
face, and moved the display forward again.
She had little hope for the next location. She
had never visited the great African game preserve
before, but what she had seen on her recent trip
had captivated her completely.
This had been mankind's first home. Earth's reclaming
large herbivores and carnivores still lived
here in their natural conditions, grazing and 
prowling as they had for millions of years. Tatty had
wandered on foot for many hours, savoring and
recording the sights, sounds and smells of the open
plain. She loved to watch the herds break and
wheel across the dusty ground, responding to real
or imagined danger. This was lightyears away from
life in the Gallimaufries--farther from her experience
than even the confinement center on Horus.
Mondrian did not seem to share her pleasure.
He looked bored now, lolling back in his chair.
Tatty suspected that he was thinking as usual of
Travancore and the ongoing hunt for the Morgan
Constructs. He appeared half asleep as the images
roamed back and forth over the rolling ground.
Tatty was ready to move on to another region. But
she recalled that one of her own favorite memories
was captured in a shot that would come in just a
few seconds time.
"Look at this," she said. "Ngorongoro Crater-- isn't it spectacular!" The display moved to show a
majestic volcanic peak, with the evening sun behind
it. The broad, red face of Sol was already on
the horizon, sinking rapidly to an equatorial sunset.
The great plain of Serengeti and the reservation
lay beyond, purple and tan in the fading light.
"Beautiful!" said Tatty. She turned to Mondrian
for the first time. He was stretched rigid in the
chair, limbs trembling. She saw the protruding
eyes and the straining, purple-veined countenance,
and grabbed for the anesthetic.
It was not necessary. Before she could pick up
the phial, Esro Mondrian had uttered a low, hopeless
groan. While she watched, the spasm ended.
He gave a great sigh, and sank low into the chair's
supporting folds. His eyes slowly closed; he slept.

Tatty stood alone within the little circle of light,
wondering what she was getting herself into. Her
heart was racing. She was perspiring profusely. At
this depth in the basement warrens, the circulators
and coolers could do no more than make the
air marginally breathable.
She held the light higher and stared around her. This should be the correct place--had to be the
right place. But she was nowhere. She was standing
halfway down a long, deserted corridor, with
no side branches visible in front or behind her.
Tatty bent her head to check the Tracker reading
again. It was showing exactly zero, and the
little red trace arrow had disappeared. Useless! And
just a couple of hours ago she had imagined that
she was being so cunning!
Mondrian had taken a full half-hour to emerge
from his trance--half an hour during which his
pulse had slowed almost to zero and she had been
forced to inject adrenalin and heart-stimulants.
Then, as soon as he was fully conscious, he would
not wait to recuperate. He had grabbed the final
recording she had made and struggled to the apartment
door. He looked like a corpse. He would not
say where he was going--not even when she
unprecedentedly lost her temper and shouted and
stormed at him. He would say only that he had to
leave at once. And it was so obvious where he was
going! He was heading for another meeting with
Skrynol, to see if the Fr'opper could finally exorcise
Mondrian's hidden compulsion.
And then, in the middle of their argument, Tatty
had thought of the Tracker. It was still in Mondrian's
light travel bag, the only luggage he ever
carried down to Earth with him. She quietly removed
it while he was re-setting his I.D. key, and
stuck it away out of sight. If Mondrian wouldn't
ask her help with the Fr'opper, he might get it
anyway! Wherever he chose to go, she would be
able to track him down.
But now she felt like a complete fool. When he
left the apartment, she had followed, careful al
ways to keep a long, long way behind. As soon as
the Tracker s moving arrow stopped, she stopped
also and fixed its setting. The Tracker showed that ¦
Mondrian stayed in one place for over an hour,
then began to retrace his steps. Tatty hid well out
of the way until he had gone past her, then started
forward again towards his first destination. Forward--to nowhere!
Or was there some trick to using the Tracker,
some technique that she had failed to understand?
She peered around her again at the walls of the
corridor. It was high and narrow, no more than a
couple of meters across, and lined with tremendous
air-pipes. According to Luther Brachis, a
Tracker was accurate to better than twenty feet-- which was simply impossible. The tunnel extended
monotonously away in both directions for ten times
that.
She looked down again at the Tracker, bringing
the hand lamp that she was carrying closer to the
instrument. As she did so, that light was suddenly
plucked upwards from her hand, and instantly
extinguished.
Tatty screamed. She had been plunged into absolute
darkness. She moved backwards, until she
struck the hard wall of the tunnel. She grabbed at
the warm padded air-pipes, the only familiar thing
she could find. As she did so, something caught
her around her waist. She was lifted easily off her
feet, up and backwards over the pipes, and placed
down again gently on a soft surface. Thick bindings
snapped firmly into place around her wrists
and ankles.
"Don't bother to scream again or struggle," said a cheerful voice high above her. "Both those actions
would be quite pointless, and you are in no
danger."
Tatty drew in a deep breath, ready to scream
anyway. Uselessness was not the point! Before she
could begin a dim red glow filled the air and gave
her the first faint view of her surroundings. Instead
of screaming, she gasped, and gawked around
her. She was in a Thiefhole!
The secret rooms were almost a legend, mysterious
places scattered all through the deepest part
of the basement warrens. They were supposed to
be the Scavvies' sanctuary, the final hiding places
for hunted criminals and contract-breakers. Their
locations were passed on only by word of mouth,
from one generation to the next. The Earth authorities
denied their very existence.
Tatty had never been in one before, but she
recognized it from the descriptions. This one had
been tucked away behind the main airpipes. The
room was ten meters long and five meters high,
but less than two across. There was a crude tap to
the basement power lines in one corner, feeding
the glowing red fluorescents that threw their murky
light across the long room. Another tap to the
airpipes provided just enough circulation for breathable
air. On the far wall stood an ancient food
synthesizer, not apparently in current use. Next to
it was a long painted screen of dull silver, hiding
part of the room from her.
"You know where you are?" said the same gentle
voice.
"Yes. In a Thiefhole."
"Exactly. With your permission, now." The light
suddenly snapped off again, and a few seconds
later Tatty felt chilly metal electrodes attach to
her body. She shivered.
"This is for my convenience, not for your discomfort,"
said the voice cheerfully. "You will not
notice them after a few moments. And do not worry,
the lights will return shortly."
"Who are you?"
There was a high-pitched laugh. "Now, Tatty
Snipes, you know very well who I am--otherwise
you would not be here."
"You are Skrynol--the Fr'opper who has been
treating Esro Mondrian."
"Of course I am."
"Well, you may call it treatment if you want to."
The lights had come on again, and there was no
sign of Skrynol. Tatty's courage was returning,
and with it her anger. "But you've been making
him worse--far worse." Her voice was bitter. "God,
how I wish I had never even mentioned your name
to him."
"Even if you had not, someone else would have
brought him to me." Skrynol sounded calm behind
the silver screen, unmoved by Tatty's anger.
"It was absolutely necessary that I should meet
him, and treat him. Tatty Snipes, how well do you
know Esro Mondrian?"
"As well as anyone!" And then some tone in
Skrynol's voice made Tatty sit back, and think
about that question objectively, for the first time
in her life. "He is the most intelligent and hardworking
man I have ever met," she said at last.
"But often I wonder if I know him at all. Sometimes
he seems like a monster, somebody who
cares for no one and will use anyone and anything
for his own purposes."
"And yet you have been his lover--and you still
work for him."
"I know." Tatty laughed harshly. "You don't
need to tell me what a fool I am. I sometimes
think that Esro Mondrian can persuade anyone to
do anything if he tries hard enough."
"You know him very well," said Skrynol softly.
"But there is perhaps one thing that you do not
realize. Esro Mondrian is in some ways the most
valuable person in the solar system, yes. But he is
also the most dangerous human in the Stellar Group.
Mondrian is the reason--the single reason--that I
am here, on Earth."
Tatty saw a monstrous shadow cast from behind
the screen. Then the worse reality appeared, a
gigantic stooped body shuffling forward on multiple
jointed legs. She shrank back, as the Pipe-Rilla
came slowly toward her and squatted down at her
side.
"I have decided that I will gain nothing by concealing
the truth from you." Skrynol's voice was
gentle and comforting. "I know that you are afraid,
but there is no reason for that fear. I will not harm
you. Come, Tatty, you know that we are a peaceful
species. We need your help."
Tatty shuddered. "I can't possibly help you,"
she said faintly.
"I think you can." The tall body stretched upwards,
almost to the ceiling of the room. "Let me
at least tell you the problem. The Stellar Group
has been studying the human species for centuries--
just as intensively as humans have been studying
the other Group members. In each generation, we
identify humans whom we believe have unique
powers for good or evil. Those people are of course
closely monitored. Our record of behavior prediction
on this is excellent--but occasionally we find
an anomaly, a human being who is a total enigma.
Such an individual must be watched even more
closely, so that the potential for harm is not realized.
In the case of Esro Mondrian, we have the
extreme--a human of exceptional abilities, whose
own compulsions are so strong that they might
lead to the destruction of the whole Stellar Group."
"No." Tatty shook her head. "I don't understand
him fully, but I know this much about Esro: he likes aliens."
"That makes no difference. Mondrian is not a
simple man, like Luther Brachis, who hates all
aliens in a direct and predictable way. Mondrian
actually likes all the Stellar Group species. But in
some ways he cannot tolerate us, because at a deep
level he cannot stand the threat that the whole
Stellar Group represents to him. Brachis we can
handle; Mondrian is a mystery. In such a situation,
the human reaction might be to destroy both
those individuals. But that avenue is not open to
our kind. We realized that we must help Mondrian.
We must find the source of his destructive drive,
and banish it. And you can assist us."
"No." Tatty was shaking her head blindly. "You
don't understand. I've tried to help Esro--God
knows how I've tried. But I can't do it. I can never reach him, never really get through to him."
"If it makes you feel any better, nor can I--and
my whole life and training has been for just such a
purpose. But in my sessions with Mondrian I have
discovered at least one thing. He is torn apart by
conflicting drives. The capacity to love is drowned
by fear. He is obsessed with the Morgan Constructs.
Do you know why?"
"They must be destroyed. He has been working
night and day on plans for the Anabasis."
'True. But did you know that Mondrian himself originated the whole program for the Morgan Constructs?
It began at his initiative. When the project
went out of control, the Constructs became a
terrible danger to everything in the Stellar Group-- the worst danger since the Group came into existence.
The ambassadors reluctantly reached a
decision that the Constructs were too dangerous.
They had to be destroyed. I cannot argue with that
decision. But I know that the decision to leave
Esro Mondrian in charge of that operation was a
terrible mistake. He needs the Morgan Constructs."
"But he's trying to destroy them!"
"Are you sure? Suppose that he has been choosing
the pursuit teams so that they will try to control
the Constructs rather than killing them. I can
assure you, Mondrian will never allow the Constructs
to disappear if there is any way at all to
save them. He needs them in some terribly urgent
way, far below the rational levels of his brain. And that need stems from the early experience that we
have been probing. Thanks to you, we know now
that it happened in Africa. But it is so deep-rooted
that I despair of ever reaching it. The nature of his
torment is still hidden within him, and I am still
unable to pry it loose. So the compulsion continues-- unless you can help me to bring its cause to light."
"I already told you I can do nothing with Esro."
"Perhaps. But permit me one more question.
Mondrian has used you, over and over. You are a
logical person, with a considerable intellect. Why
do you continue to help him whenever he asks for
help, knowing that he will probably use you again?"
Tatty found that she was crying. Salt tears and
sweat were trickling down her cheeks and nose
onto her upper lip. "/ don't know. I suppose it's
because--because I have no one else. Without Esro,
I have nothing, no one. He is all that I have."
"Possibly." Skrynol's voice was still gentle and
rational. A soft forelimb came forward to gently
stroke her hair and dab delicately at the tears on
Tatty's cheeks. "But there is another explanation.
Suppose that you stay because you realize that you are all that he has? If not you, to whom would
he turn for comfort and aid? You know that in
some ways you still love him. Ask yourself, do you
want to see Mondrian destroyed?"
"I don't know." Tatty tried to sit up, but the
bindings still restrained her. "Many times I've
cursed him and wished he were dead."
"But you have always relented. If you really
want to help Mondrian--and it may be impossible,
or already too late--then you should do the
one thing that might make his treatment more
effective: Remove your support for him. Tell him
that it is all over, that he cannot come back to you and expect to be forgiven. Tell him that he has no
one!"
Skrynol reached forward and unclasped the soft bindings that were holding Tatty. She sat up, and leaned forward to put her face wearily to her open hands. "And suppose I did that? What good would
it do him?"
"Perhaps nothing. But perhaps it would give us that little window, the chink of vulnerability that I need to treat him successfully. I am looking for any sort of lever that might make him more open to me. Emotional dependency might be that lever." Skrynol helped Tatty to her feet, and she stood there leaning weakly against the giant figure. "Do you think that it will succeed?"
"No. I believe that it will almost certainly fail." The Pipe-Rilla gave a human shrug of her narrow body. "But I have no choice. It is the only course
left to me, and so--it must be attempted." Skrynol reached down with a soft and fleshy appendage,
and took Tatty's hand. "Come. Let me lead you away from here. If you are to have a confrontation with Mondrian, you must do it before he prepares to leave Earth again."
Tatty took a last look around the Thiefhole, before
she was led away into stygian darkness. "Suppose
I were to tell someone else of this meeting? Would it destroy your plans?"
"Tell anyone you like," said Skrynol cheerfully. She chuckled. "Tatty Snipes, who would ever believe
you?"

Chapter Twenty-Six
TROUBLE WITH MINISIMS

It was late when Luther Brachis and Godiva
Lomberd returned to their living quarters on the
ninety-fourth level of Ceres. They had been on a
much-postponed trip to the outer shell. Luther had
guided them on a sight-seeing tour there, pausing
at the high-mag viewing ports so that he could
point out to Godiva the many worlds of the system
and the scattered stars of the Stellar Group, far
beyond.
Brachis had known them all since early childhood.
It was a shock to find that Godiva, raised in
the dark runs of the Gallimaufries, had only the
vaguest idea of planets, moons, and stars. She had
never heard of Oberon Station. She seemed to think
that all the asteroids were as developed and as
cosmopolitan as Ceres. And she had absolutely no
idea of distances--to Godiva, the Oort Harvester
was as near (or as far) as the remote Angel's world
of Sellora.
She had laughed at Brachis's protests. "What does
it matter, Luther, how far away they are? You can
get to all of them in nothing flat using the Mattin

Link."
"Yes, you can. But the distance ..." Brachis
stopped. Godiva was uniquely Godiva. Time and space meant nothing to her. She had quietly taken
his hand and led him on, drifting and dreaming
through the endless outer corridors of the planetoid.
A one-hour tour had turned into a lazy day and
evening. The corridor was deserted when Brachis
paused at the apartment door and made a thorough
inspection of the settings. All the seals were
unbroken. There had been no callers. He carefully
slid back the door and they went through into the
hallway.
The advent of Godiva into Luther Brachis's life
had changed it completely. When she came up
from Earth, he had abandoned his barracks-style
one-room living area in favor of a luxury apartment.
The main living-room, dining area and
kitchen were off the hall to the left, the bedroom,
bathrooms and study to the right.
"Hungry?" asked Luther.
Godiva shook her head. She yawned, stretched,
and slipped off her light wrap. She gave Brachis a
smile of sleepy suggestion, dropped her bag on the
hall table, and went quietly through the bedroom
to the bathroom.
Luther Brachis slipped off his uniform, then sat
on the broad bed and pulled off his boots. Naked,
he walked thoughtfully through into the study,
and sat down at the communication terminal. He
switched the system on to make his usual evening
check for messages.
There was a sudden high-pitched hissing sound,
then a sting of intense pain like a hornet's sting on
his left cheek, Brachis saw a little puff of vaporized
blood blossom below his left eye. He shouted
at the pain and jerked upright. As he did so there
was a second sting by his right nostril, and another
puff of bright red.
He jumped to his feet. The hiss that went with
each blow seemed to come from the top of the
display unit. Brachis looked that way, at the same
time as three more jolts hit him, one on the chin
and the other two above his right eyebrow. He saw
four miniature figures crouched behind the front
lip of the display. Each mannikin was no more
than an inch and a half high--the maximum height
permitted for an Adestis simulacrum. Each carried
a long weapon trained on Brachis's face.
They were after his eyes! Brachis covered his
face with his left forearm, just in time to block
three more shots. He started to sweep his right
arm across the top of the display, but before he
could complete the action a hail of shots from the
rear made him shudder with pain and spin around.
On the desk at the far side of the room, hiding
behind a jumble of data cubes, he saw another
group of small figures. At the same time a new
rattle of shots sounded from his left, and explosive
projectiles riddled his left cheek, arm, and hip
with thumbnail-sized craters.
Brachis roared with pain, and ran across the
room. He used both arms to shield his eyes. If they
blinded him he was finished. Halfway to the door
he felt another hail of shots in his groin and belly.
They had switched their target to his genitals.
Brachis stopped and spun around again. The
attack was obviously well-organized and orchestrated.
They would have allowed for his natural
urge to run for the only door. While he hesitated
another half dozen hits stung his neck and face.
They were flaying him, systematically denuding
his body of flesh with a hail of tiny shells.
He had to find time to think. Brachis dived to
his left, rolled across the floor, and came to his
feet close to the wall. He smashed his hand at the
lighting panel. The door through to the hall was
closed, and the study plunged at once into total
darkness. The spatter of shots went on, but the
miniature simulacra no longer had a target. Brachis
had dropped to the floor again., He was shuffling
on hands and knees to the other side of the room.
He could track the minisims by the uvarovite- garnet glint of their crystalline green eyes, and he
saw them moving about in confusion. But he knew
it was a temporary respite. The attackers must
have allowed for darkness, too. It would be only a
few seconds before they used some other light
source.
He felt his way back to the display and slapped
the Emergency switch on the communications
panel. It would bring help--but far too late. Another
half minute of those explosions and he would
be a sightless, skinless eunuch. He was filled with
a new terror. Suppose that Godiva came out of the
bathroom and wandered into the study? A shout
to keep her out now might have exactly the opposite
effect.
A moment after he hit the Emergency switch
there was a bright point of orange light on the
other side of the room. It was a flare, ignited near
the door. That was where the maximum cross-fire
would have hit him if he had tried to escape that way. There was another crackle from the miniature
weapons, and another hail of blows across his
body. He dived, rolled again, and came up near
the desk. Before the attackers there could focus on
their new target, he hit a sunken wall panel with
the palm of his left hand.
The fire system activated in a fraction of a second.
Jets of high-pressure water and emulsifier
criss-crossed the room from walls and ceiling, and
the loud warning tones of a gong sounded through
the apartment. Emergency low-power wall lights
filled the study with a sickly green glow.
The spray filled the room. All the shots were
instantly silenced.
Luther Brachis hurtled across the study, a soaking,
bloodied figure. He ran first for the place
where the shots had been most dense. Water hit
him from all sides, stinging his wounds. He welcomed
it.
Brachis headed for the major emplacement of
minisims. They were struggling to stand amid the
bombardment of water droplets and foam. Ignoring
the pain in his hands, Brachis smashed them
flat and crushed them between finger and thumb,
one after another.
The study door slid open and Godiva suddenly
appeared. She was naked except for a pair of gauzy
briefs. "Luther!" she screamed.
He ignored her and ran back across the room, a
scarlet Nemesis that left bloody, puddled footprints
behind him. The first group to attack had been
swept by the deluge from the top of the display to
the study floor. They were there now, hurrying for
cover through a quarter-inch flood of water. Brachis
stamped them under his naked feet, wincing as the
hard figures cut into his soft soles.
He moved on, smashing and devastating with
bare hands and feet.
By the time that help arrived the battle was
over. The sprinkler system was off. The room was
cleared of simulacra. Godiva had taken Luther
through to the bedroom to apply antiseptics, healing
creams, and surrogate skin. He lay naked on
the bed, his face and belly an eroded mass of raw
wounds connected by shreds of loose hanging skin.
He swore continuously as Godiva began to smooth
on the yellow synthetic flesh. The emergency service
began to clean up the mess, suctioning the
apartment clean and dry. They were still in the
middle of it when Esro Mondrian arrived.
Godiva had finished the left side of Brachis and
was telling him to turn over. He was ignoring her,
talking furiously on a handset.
"They don't know one damned thing," he said to
Mondrian by way of greeting. "Adestis Headquar
330	Charles Sheffield

ters is closed for the night. Until tomorrow morning
they can't even tell me if any simulacra are
missing, never mind how many.' He winced as
Godiva began to patch skin onto the ball of his
thumb.
"Does it matter how many?" Mondrian held up
one of the flattened simulacra. "No one but Adestis
has anything like this. In fact, I didn't know they
had anything so big. What are they for?"
"The biggest game--scorpions, crustaceans. They'll
operate under water, but lucky for me they were
never designed to handle a rainstorm."
"What about the headsets? The real question
isn't the Adestis minisims--it's who was handling
them."
"They have no idea of that, either." Brachis
touched his fingers tenderly to his face, feeling a
one-centimeter crater on his cheek. "But I know
the answer. It's that bastard's Artefacts again--it
has to be."
Mondrian was studying Brachis's pitted and furrowed
skin closely. 'I'm sure you're right." He
smiled grimly. "Someday, Luther, you'll have to
tell me just what you did to earn such undying
enmity from Fujitsu that he'd try to give you more
craters than the surface of Callisto."
"I underestimated him," said Brachis gruffly.
"And for that, I deserve what I've been getting."
"I told you to get everything locked up tight.
What went wrong?"
"I did my best. But it proves a point. I tell every
Trainee for Survey Basic Training--it's the things
you don't expect that always get you. I'd set up the
apartment so that nothing at all could get in
through the door, or burrow through the walls,
floors, or ceilings. I'd checked that the sniffer systems
would automatically blow the whistle if anything
poisonous or radioactive was blown in as
gas or particles through the air ducts. What I didn't
expect was that something smart and dangerous
could actually march in through the air ducts. The
openings are only a couple of centimeters wide."
"Perfect size." Mondrian looked again at the simulacrum
he was holding, and then at Brachis's battered
body. "I'm surprised to see how much firepower
one of these things can carry. You don't
need to hit that hard even for scorpions."
"They were carrying the absolute top of the weapons
line--it took two minisims to handle a few of
the guns. It's the sort of thing that Adestis normally
gives only to a group that's inexperienced
and scared shitless. One shell might not actually stop a scorpion, but it would slow it down long
enough for everyone to get the hell out."
"Last time we met, you told me you thought you
had located every Artefact left by the Margrave.
It's obvious that you were too optimistic." Mondrian
nodded his head towards the door. "But if you
thought you were safe, why all that security
system?"
"At her insistence." Brachis jerked his thumb at
Godiva. "/ thought I'd caught every one, out on
Hyperion. Now I'll have to start over."
Godiva had been totally absorbed in her work
on Luther Brachis, too busy to worry about clothes
in the first few frantic minutes. She had carefully
patched skin onto every one of his wounds. Now,
directly introduced into the conversation for the
first time, she seemed to become aware of her own
near-nude condition. She gave Mondrian a worried
smile, kissed Brachis quickly on the lips, and
headed back to the bathroom. "Ten minutes," she
said. "To dry my hair and put on a robe. Please
don't let him get into any more trouble while I'm
gone, Esro."
Her departure created a sudden silence in their
conversation. Mention of the Margrave's Artefacts
carried Brachis's mind back to the silent surface of
Hyperion. After he had arranged for payment of
the volatiles, seven items had been delivered to
him from storage. The crew who brought them
had gone back at once to the Deep Vault. They had
no idea--or perhaps they suspected only too well--
what Brachis intended to do with his purchase.
They did not look back.
The logical thing to do was to flashfire the seven
containers at once and leave the airless surface of
Saturn's moon with minimal delay. Some dreadful
driving streak of curiosity had forced Brachis
to open and thaw them.
The first four varied in appearance, but they
were recognizably in the image of the Margrave.
Two more looked younger, clean-shaven, and fatter,
but the DNA match was far too good for coincidence.
They were Artefacts derived directly from
Fujitsu. When the eight-million-degree flame passed
over them, they were all gone in a eyeblink flash of
purple light.
It was the seventh and final box, where the identification
had been poorest, that lingered on in
Luther Brachis's memory. The box held a young
girl in her early teens. Naked, clear-skinned and
fair, she was barely past puberty. And she was
beautiful. When those young breasts and slender
hips matured into full womanhood, she would be
like a younger Godiva Lomberd.
The container gave her complete identification
and DNA sequence. It differed from the Fujitsu
line in every significant detail. She was the oldest
daughter of a bend sinister royal line on Earth,
now long extinct. Whoever had committed her to
the Deep Vault of Hyperion had purchased a perpetual
endowment. For four hundred years she
had lain there in frozen silence, dreaming of whatever
phantom shadows might flee through a brain
held at the temperature of liquid helium. Left to
herself now on the surface, she would waken and
die on the barren, airless wilderness of Hyperion.
Brachis had made no contingent plans for his
purchase from the Deep Vault. Even if he were
desperate to do so, it was impossible to save her.
He groaned, cursed, and looked hopelessly around
him at the black-shadowed plain. At last he shuddered
in his suit, breathed deeply, and raised the
torch. Subnuclear fire reached out to caress the
pale young body. As it consumed her bare breast,
Brachis fancied, that she opened dark-blue eyes
and stared up at his face....
"Luther!" Mondrian was snapping his fingers in
front of him. "Here, break out of it. I think we
have to let the medics take a good look at you. Just
how much blood did you lose tonight? The water
could have sluiced a couple of liters down the
drain."
Brachis shook his head slowly. "I'll be all right,
Esro. But I'm wondering where I go from here. Do
you realize what would have happened if Godiva
had come through with me to the study instead of
heading for the bathroom? She doesn't have our
training in survival. I don't know if I could have
saved her."
"Do you want to send her back to Earth for a
while, until we can handle the Fujitsu Artefacts?"
"She wouldn't go. And I don't think Earth would
be safe, either." Brachis rubbed at the thickened
synthetic skin on the back of his hands. It was
beginning to itch furiously as the chemical bonding
became complete. "Anyway, we made a lifetime
contract. I promised Godiva that we'd stay
together if she wanted it. But I can't protect her.
The next hit could come from anywhere. Poisoned
food, assassins, sabotaged transport equipment,
faulty airlocks--anything."
"You found yourself a genius, Luther. Fujitsu
has been two steps ahead of us all the time. But I
have a suggestion for you."
Mondrian's voice was casual. Luther Brachis had
known him far too long to be deceived by that.
"No hidden agendas today, Esro," he said wearily,
as Godiva appeared again from the bathroom. "I'm
too battered to argue."
She had dried her blond hair and re-styled it in
an ancient form, so that it hung over her forehead
and partly hid one eye. She drifted across to
Brachis, looked closely at his wounds, and finally
nodded. Without speaking she sat down at his side.
A short tunic left her legs and arms bare, and her skin glowed rosy from a vigorous toweling.
Mondrian was studying the two of them closely.
"We all have hidden agendas, Luther," he said at
last. "But in this case I think you and I share one."
"Persuade me."
Mondrian smiled. Luther Brachis was quoting
one of Mondrian's own favorite lines. "I'll try. Luther,
where's the safest place in the Universe for
you and Godiva? Not here, that's for sure. And
certainly not down on Earth. Fujitsu's Artefacts
could be anywhere. But there's one place that even
the Margrave won't be able to get to: the Q-ship.
The Mattin Link coordinates to the quarantine ship
orbiting Travancore are only known to three people
in the Universe: you, me, and Kubo."
"It's a safe place, I'll buy that." Brachis was
frowning. "But you already told me it's a one-way
trip until the pursuit team is finished. Suppose
they take years to do their job? Anybody who goes
to Travancore will be stuck on the Q-ship until
they die of boredom."
"There are worse things." Mondrian surveyed
the other man's battered body. "Stay here, and it's
certainly not boredom you'll die of. Anyway, if you
go to Travancore I don't think we have to worry
about being there too long. The crisis I told you
about is on the way--for good or bad, I can't tell.
Within a couple of days we must be out there,
ready for action. My original idea was to take
Kubo with me, and leave you in charge here. But
it makes sense to switch that--Kubo's a rock, but
you're a devil of a lot better in a crisis. He can stay
here, give information out to nobody, and send us
anything we need through the Link.'
"What about Godiva?
"She'd be safe here. Once you're out of the way
she's in no danger."
"No. Definitely not." Godiva looked up and stared
calmly at Mondrian. "If Luther goes, I go."
"All right." Mondrian shrugged. "That's not a
big issue. And if you both want to go, I can't stop
it.
"I won't go without her." Brachis tried to smile,
and produced only a pained grimace as the skin on his race stretched. ' And you're right, you can't
stop us. You don't outrank me on that."
' I know." Mondrian looked again at Brachis, noting the new pallor around the eyes. "Luther,
you look terrible. We have to get you to a doctor.
And then you can tell me what you promised Lotos
Sheldrake, to fix it so you'd have equal rank with
me in the Anabasis. No, don't try to talk now. You
look ready to fall over."
"I'll manage." Brachis stood up with difficulty.
He shook his head when Godiva tried to help him, and hobbled away to the bathroom. She signed.
"Stubborn!" She sat down opposite Mondrian, studying his face and the set of his body. "And so are you. What's happened to you, Esro? You look nearly as bad as Luther."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She stared into his eyes. "Are you
taking Tatty with you to Travancore?"
"No," he said shortly. Then his control tailed, and he had to ask the question. "Godiva, what for
Shannon's sake made you suddenly ask about Tatty? I didn't even mention her name.'
She gave him a satisfied smile. "I know. You
didn't need to. Esro, if I understand anything at all in this world, I understand men's emotions.
You're radiating your misery. Have you two been
fighting?"
He shook his head. "Nothing that dignified." He
smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. They remained
bleak and haunted. "There was no fight.
Tatty dumped me, that's all. We were down in her
apartment on Earth. I wanted her to come back
here to Ceres with me. She refused. She says she'll
never see me again."
Godiva took Mondrian's hands in both of hers.
He felt a subcutaneous tingle of electricity all along
his forearms--what Tatty had once dubbed "The
Godiva Effect."
"I'm sorry, Esro." She seemed ready to say more,
then checked herself. "Let me find out what s keeping
Luther. Maybe he needs help."
She stood up and went across to the bathroom.
She avoided looking again at Mondrian. Decency
demanded that such pain and desperation be permitted
privacy.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

SEEKING THE
MORGAN CONSTRUCT

Pulling useful information out of Vayvay was
almost impossible. The Coromar seemed to have
only two interests in life: finding food, and eating
it. Chan had sat through three weary hours of the
Angel's painstaking questioning and re-questioning,
then given up. He lacked the Angel's infinite patience.
He wandered out to the lip of the tent,
where S'greela and Shikari were basking in the
mid-morning sunlight.
"How can Angel stand it?" he said. "Every question
repeated ten times, and nothing to show at
the end."
"Talking to Vayvay?" The Pipe-Rilla nudged Shikari
with one hind-limb. As usual, the Tinker was
trying to creep up into a lumpy heap around their
legs. 'I admit, Vayvay is not easily mistaken for a
genius. In fact, I myself asked Angel that same
question: how was he able to be so patient with
such an idiot?"
"But he didn't answer you."
"Certainly he did. Angel indicated that communication
with human beings had provided a sufficient
base of prior experience."

Chan glared, and decided not to react. He had
noticed an odd phenomenon. S'greela, and even
the Angel, seemed to be picking up the Tinker's
sense of humor. In fact, they were all beginning to
sound like each other! It was harder all the time to
tell who made a remark simply from its content,
or the way in which it was phrased. Was he starting
to sound like the rest of them, too?
Chan thought not. In some ways, he now felt like
the outsider of the group. When he had rushed
back yesterday to tell what had happened to him
in the tunnels, the others had listened patiently
enough; but he knew they had rejected what he
said, almost without considering it.
That idea was full of disturbing possibilities.
The Angel insisted that the Morgan Construct had
not moved. It was still sitting in the same location,
far from them. And Mondrian had told him that
Nimrod's mental disturbance field was short-range. Close contact would be needed for it to have any
effect. So if his bewildering encounter had not been with Nimrod, there was one other clear possibility:
Chan was going crazy.
There was other evidence for that. After Chan
arrived back at the camp the previous night he
had almost no memory of the rest of the evening.
He recalled sitting in a close, compact group, listening
to Angel talk to the Coromar. And that was all he remembered ... until he had awakened today
under the outspread mantle of the Tinker
Composite.
Suppose that his fears and confusion were affecting
his judgment? He had to discover the source
of his delusions, before the others were put in
danger by them. And that urgency made him want
to proceed too fast with a continued exploration
and hunt for Nimrod. Festina lente--hasten slowly.
It was hard to do. When the others were in favor of
rapid action, it was more than he could manage to
slow them down.
And the rest were absolutely raring to go. The
Angel was sure he could simplify the task of stalking
Nimrod through Travancore's vertical forests.
"There is a grid of horizontal tunnels," Angel said,
"down close to the true surface of the planet. It is
not so well maintained as the tunnels higher up--
the Coromar look after those much better, because
they are their primary feeding grounds--but it is
adequate for our needs. We can move close to
Nimrod, and minimize the chance of our detection."
"Better than coming down from above?" asked
S'greela.
'Safer," said Chan. "Nimrod will sense our presence
easily if we try to move straight down through
the vegetation, but the surface of a planet helps to
confuse the signal return for a Construct's sensors.
We'll use the horizontal tunnels. Will Vayvay lead
us himself?"
"I don't know." The Angel turned again to the
Coromar. A few seconds of squeaks produced a shake of the Angel's top fronds and a sigh. "Why
did I ask? I could have predicted the answer. Vayvay
will take us to a sate distance from Nimrod--
provided that we guarantee plenty of food as payment.
Vayvay asks us, how close to Nimrod do we
wish to approach?"
Chan thought for a moment. The others patiently
waited, as they always did for anything to do witn
tactics. Finally he shook his head. "I we no idea.
For all I know--and my experience yesterday supports
it--Nimrod could be aware of us all the
time. How else do you explain what happened to
me down in the shaft?"
There was another noncommittal silence. Chan
began to feel annoyed all over again. The other
three were being diplomatic--but they still didn't
believe him! When he had filed his report on the
incident and sent it back to the Q-ship, the other
three had been annoyingly passive. They did not
comment on or add to what he had sent--and that was unusual for such an opinionated group.
"All right," he said at last. "Let's approach the
problem from the opposite end. How close is Vayvay willing to approach Nimrod?"
There was another sequence of bat-squeaks from
Angel's communicator, dipping and weaving in and
out of Chan's audible range. Then a reply from the
Coromar, and finally a longer exchange.
The Angel turned back to face Chan. "I am sorry.
The answer was quickly given, but it was not in
terms that are easily translated to human notation.
Truly, there is no fixed reply. There is only a
complicated balance of food offered against risks
taken. And the distance unit itself is not a constant--it
is measured in browsing-distance-days, and
it is location-dependent. But in oversimplified
terms, Vayvay will go as close as we want--provided we will guarantee sufficient amounts of food."
"Can you negotiate something specific?"
"It is already done. Primitive as he is, Vayvay
seems to understand the barter principle perfectly.
For three thousand kilos of synthesized high-protein
vegetable matter, he will take us to within two
kilometers of Nimrod's most likely current position--which
I now assign a probability of 0.98 of
being correct."
The Angel was still leaving the most difficult
decision to Chan. How close to Nimrod dare they
go, before they descended to the solid surface of
Travancore? Traveling above the vegetation could
be done in the aircar, but surface travel would be
on foot.
Chan decided they would go down a shaft that
was one full day's march from the location of the
Morgan Construct. Say, twenty kilometers. The Angel
at once read out an appropriate set of coordinates
for shaft entry. Chan confirmed them. And
having made his decision, he at once felt very
uncomfortable with it. He no longer had any faith
in his own judgment. Since the previous night he
had been feeling strange--light-headed and feverish.
Was he actually getting sick? His immune
system had been boosted at the beginning of pursuit
team training, supposedly enough to handle
any micro-organisms on Barchan or Travancore.
But that could be an optimistic assumption. Maybe
yesterday's hallucinations were the result of some
definite physical ailment, nothing to do with either
Nimrod or madness. It was a comforting
thought.
With a decision made on where to descend, every
member of the team wanted to go ahead without
more delay. The aircar was recalled from its
hovering orbit. It took all their efforts to lift Vayvay
aboard, then they set off around the great bulge of
Travancore. The car skimmed fast over the billowing
waves of vegetation rising and falling below
them like an endless turbulent sea. Before they
entered the chosen black tunnel, S'greela sent the
capsule again into orbit. If they returned safely it
would be easy enough to use it to take them back
to the Q-ship. If not ...
Still no problem, said S'greela. The capsule's
parking orbit was low. Atmospheric drag would
bring it to re-entry and burn-up within a couple of
weeks. Whatever happened, Nimrod would not gain
access to the Q-ship and the Mattin Link.
Everyone except Vayvay was subdued when they
entered the shaft. Chan felt particularly low. As
they gradually lost the sunlight, his mood sank to
match the shadowed green gloom of Travancore's
lower forests. The spiraling path went on forever,
down and down and down. It took much longer
than Chan expected, because Vayvay always wanted
to stop and browse. The Coromar could be persuaded
to keep going only by constant bribes from
the supplies they were carrying. The final ten meter drop from the end of the shaft to the surface took place in a close and dripping darkness. It felt like an irreversible step.
Chan was claustrophobic, filled with unnamed
dreads. The surface of Travancore would be a terrible
place to die; lightless, silent, stifling. He could
not get Leah out of his mind. Had her fatal encounter
with Nimrod taken place close to here--
perhaps only a few kilometers from where he stood?
He could not remember. Somehow he did not want to ask the Angel to check the official records.
The floor of the vertical jungle was flat, spongy, and damp. Nothing grew here except the immense boles of the megatrees, scores of meters across at
their base. Long trailers of creeper hung down
between the trunks. Faintly phosphorescent, their
intertwined filaments hindered the path of any
traveler moving on the natural surface. After a few
seconds of squeaking and searching, Vayvay set off
determinedly across the forest floor, burrowing his way through the resistant creepers. Within five
minutes they were walking into an arched structure
and shining their lights around them on the
yellow-brown walls of a primitive roofed chamber.
"Home of the Maricore," said the Angel. "Apparently
they do a poor job of maintenance. Vayvay says we should not expect to see any Maricore.
They'll keep well out of our way."
They set off along one of four tunnels that ran out from the chamber. It was only just wide enough for Vayvay, who led the way. The Coromar kept
stopping for some reason. S'greela had to prod
hard at his rear end to start him going again. Chan was last in the group. He was still in a black
mood. When they met Nimrod, they had to act at once to disable or destroy the Construct. There could be none of the do-as-I-choose behavior that had occurred on Barchan. It had worked then, but only by blind luck. But how could he be sure that
Shikari and the others would follow his instructions
this time, when the critical moment came?
It was a time for fears, memories, and introspection.
No one spoke. Chan, hot and sweating, observed
their surroundings with the floating, feverish
intensity of his worst nightmares. After another
interminable hour Vayvay halted again at a branch
point in the surface network. No amount of prodding
by S'greela would move him. Angel moved
forward, and determined that the Coromar would
now go no farther. They were within two kilometers
of Nimrod's presumed location. They would
meet the Morgan Construct if they continued along the broader branch ahead of them, ignoring any
side branches.
"Vayvay asks, do we want him to wait here with
the supplies?" said Angel. "He is willing to do so."
"Tell him to wait here for one day," said Chan.
"If we're not back by then, everything is his."
They paused for a final check of equipment. Each
team member carried weapons, but after their experience
on Barchan Chan was convinced that for the Angel and Shikari it was a waste of time. It
took forever for either of them to aim and fire.
Chan wondered again about the way the pursuit
teams were being used by the Anabasis. Now that he had met Brachis and Mondrian, it seemed more
in keeping with their mentality to lob a bomb in
from orbit. They might blow away a few cubic
miles of Travancore along with the Morgan Construct,
but there would be no risk to them. Maybe
they had already proposed it--and been vetoea at
once by the Stellar Group.
Chan had run out of time for speculation. Conscious
that this was the time of greatest danger, he
moved to lead the group. S'greela came next, holding
a pencil light high above Chan to cast a narrow,
bobbing beam along the roofed corridor.
Vayvay gave a squeak of farewell, returned by the
Angel, and then everything was silent. The loudest sound in the tunnel was the whispering flutter of
the Tinker's many wings.
Less than a kilometer to go. Chan found he was staring hard at the darkness, trying somehow to
see beyond the point illuminated by S'greela's
ghostly light-beam. There was nothing but the silent
yellow-brown tunnel, stretching out forever in
front of them.
And suddenly, that tunnel was ending. The walls
simply stopped, and the group was moving out to
an open area of the jungle floor. As Chan paused to
decide what to do next, three things happened.
There was an insane burst of metallic clicking
from Angel's communicator, rising to a supersonic
scream of activity. Shikari seemed to burst apart,
instantly filling the air around Chan with the whirling swarm of components. At the same moment,
the light held by S'greela jerked high into
the air, and then abruptly went out.
Chan froze. The darkness around him was absolute.
He turned to go back towards the others.
Before he could move he was gripped tightly around
the waist and whipped off his feet. Something immensely
strong spun him dizzily end-over-end, then
violently threw him, outwards and upwards.
He was flying. Chan curled into a ball and protected
his skull with his arms. At any moment he
expected to smash into one of the huge and solid
tree trunks. At the speed he was moving the impact
would be fatal.
The collision never came. Instead his wild flight
was ended by a soft material that stretched indefinitely
as it absorbed his momentum. Within a fraction of a second he was slowed to a halt, then dropped. He prepared for impact with the spongy
jungle surface, but that too never came. Instead he
found himself suspended in mid-air, wriggling
against the restraint of a rubbery, fine-meshed net.
Chan had never felt so helpless. He had lost his
weapon. The net offered no resistance, nothing to
struggle against. And even if he could get out of it,
he was still in total darkness. He would have no
idea where to go or what to do next. While he was
reaching that conclusion, the problem was solved.
The whole net was suddenly moving, carried along
at high speed in a horizontal direction. Something
big was moving in front of him. He could hear the
rustling sound of its rapid passage through the
soft, hanging creepers.
It was another short trip. Within half a minute
they stopped, and Chan was lowered gently to the
ground. The net loosened and rolled him out of it.
He came to rest face-down on the fibrous, damp
floor of the forest. He sat up, but he was still dizzy
and still in darkness. After a few moments he clambered
slowly to his feet and took a couple of hesitant
steps forward, holding his arms out in front of
him. His groping fingers met the furry bole of one
of the giant megatrees. He moved forward gratefully
to rest against it. Then he turned, sat down,
and leaned his back on the trunk, staring out into
the darkness.
There was another faint whisper of movement in
front of him. Something there, drifting towards
him, almost silent on the spongy surface. Chan felt
a new horror. A warm, dry grip closed on his
outstretched hands and secured his wrists. He struggled,
and tried to stand up. It was impossible.
More fastenings curled around his ankles and waist.
He was moved, firmly but irresistibly, until he
was lying flat on his back on the soft jungle floor.
Thick and velvety bonds pinioned him there, holding
him securely at wrist and ankles.
He waited. And finally came the event that told
him he was doomed. Either Nimrod had taken
him, or he had crossed the border between sanity
and total madness.
"Chan," said a musical voice, whispering no more than a couple of feet away from his face. "Ah, Chan."
It was a voice he had known forever, a voice he had always loved. It was the voice of Leah Rainbow.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

NIMROD

Night in the Gallimaufries had been dark, but
there were always at least a few lights. And there
had always been plenty of noise--usually too much.
Nothing in Chan's experience had prepared him
for the close, silent, and enveloping darkness of
Travancore's abyssal forest. One second after Leah's
voice had spoken, it had gone forever. Its reality
had drained away into anechoic blackness. Chan
longed desperately for another sound, for a single
spark of light.
Finally the gentle voice came again, near enough
to reach out and touch. "Chan?"
"Who are you--what are you?" Chan's own voice
sounded thin and remote, not generated within his
own body.
"Relax. Lie quiet. There is something that cannot
be explained. It can only be experienced. Do
not struggle."
There was a steady rustling, just inches away.
Something touched his arm, then moved along to
his chest. He tensed, and tried to writhe away
from it.
"Don't be afraid." The words were breathed close
to his face. He felt the warmth on his cheek and
his neck. Something--surely it was a human hand--
was placed on his stomach. His clothing was being
loosened, opened to expose his unprotected body.
Chan struggled against his bonds. He could cry
out--but what good would that do? If any of the
other team members had been able to help him,
they would already be calling to him, asking him
where he was. The forest around him was as still
as the grave.
His body was now totally bare and defenseless.
The same soft touch came again on his chest, then
moved lower. There was a curious little laugh in
the darkness above him.
"And how many times did I dream of doing
this? But never quite like this."
Chan's chest was being touched by soft lips. Fingers
drifted gently across his midriff, then wandered
slowly down his abdomen. He felt chilled
with fear, and feverish to the bone. The caresses
became more intimate. It seemed impossible to
Chan that in his present circumstances he could
become physically aroused, no matter what the
stimulus. But it was happening.
In total darkness the succubus above him slid its
body close. Chan felt naked flesh pressed close
against him. He could not move, either to resist or
encourage the embrace. There was a faint, pleasant
fragrance in the air, filling his nostrils. As he
became more aroused he felt an urgent breath
along his neck, and an increased warmth in the
body moving above him.
"Relax," said Leah's voice. "This is right, Chan.
Don't resist it."
Beyond any conscious control, his own body was
responding urgently. His silent partner was moving
more strongly above him, lifting him and drawing
him irresistibly towards a climax. The breathing was harsher and deeper. Chan shivered and shuddered,
straining upwards against the unseen pressure.
The
critical moment came. His partner groaned,
flexed powerfully against him, and cried out.
"NOW!
There was a roar in the darkness, and a whirr of
invisible wings. Chan, in the very moment of most
intense ecstasy, was inundated by a pressing clutch
of tiny bodies. They covered his eyes and ears.
They blocked his mouth completely. Chan, still
straining upwards in climax, could not breathe.
He was strangling.
He writhed and groaned, feeling the agony of
asphyxiation deep in his chest. He shuddered to
draw a last breath. Dying. Dying on Travancore.
And then, quite suddenly, he could breathe
again--even though his nose and mouth were still covered.
He could see. But not through his own eyes.
He could hear. But not with his ears.
Chan had left his body, sucked away into a noman's-land
of non-identity. With one set of ears he
listened to the ultrasonic song of jungle creatures,
sending their calls at frequencies far beyond human
senses. With one set of eyes he studied the thermal infra-red emissions from the forest floor, tracing the faint darker swaths that told of water
beneath the surface. He could see there also the bright thermal outline of two coupled humans, the smaller one kneeling astride the other. He was filled with multiple sensations .. . the soft forest
floor on his back, the exciting touch of a body (Chan's body) against him. Closeness. Warmth of touching.
"you are with us now." said a voice inside him.
"NOW YOU WILL UNDERSTAND. DO NOT LISTEN--FEEL FOR US."
For a few moments there was an intolerable
level of input. Chan was drowning in the torrent of
emotions and memories. Then the data stream
steadied, and the pattern cleared. He was swimming
in the middle of a single consciousness, but at the same time he could sense individual presences
within it. There was an Angel, coolly observing
and smiling at him with its mind (and it was
not the Angel that Chan had known). There was a
Tinker, the master-linkage, pressing all around and
urgently serving as central conduit for the whole
group. It was not Shikari. The great, gentle form
of a Pipe-Rilla crouched close to his head. He could
feel the love and kindness glowing out from it. But
it was not S'greela.
And there was Leah.
It was Leah. No matter what illusions a Morgan
Construct might be able to create within a human
mind, he was sure it could not do this. The mind
that he was touching was filled with memories
that only he and Leah shared. He could see her,
still sitting astride his body, smiling down at him.
She was naked--and he was seeing her through
the Angel's infra-red sensors.
Tinker components were fluttering at his bonds,
loosening them. Leah squatted back on her haunches,
then took Chan's hands and helped him to sit
up. She was smiling lovingly at him. As she moved
close and kissed him on the mouth he felt a new
stirring of multiple pleasures--from himself, from
her, from all the other members of the group.
She put her arm around him, and they hugged
each other close.
"I thought you were dead," he whispered. "They
said you met the Construct, and it destroyed you. I
thought Nimrod had killed all of you. I should
have had more faith in you."
"nimrod?" There was a feeling in Chan's body
like an intense electric shock, and then a burst of
incredulous laughter, directly in his mind, "chan,
don't you understand yet? nimrod could not kill us--we
are nimrod!"
No more words came to Chan, but there was an
intense and mind-stretching torrent of emotions,
images, and information. Everything rushed in at
once, an explosion of parallel input data.
Image.
... The Alpha Team, frozen in position. Above
them, floating down with all weapons ports open,
the Morgan Construct. Too late to flee. This was
the moment for Ishmael to fall apart into independent
components, for Angel to stand useless and
immobilized, for S'glya to seek futile escape in the
terrified bounding leaps of a Pipe-Rilla.
Instead, the group coalesced.
Fusion.
Every component of Ishmael flew to a new position,
embedding Leah, S'glya and the Angel within
the Tinker's extended body. There was a split
second of total chaos, and then everything fused.
Instead of a pursuit team of individual members,
there was a single mentality.
Image.
The Morgan Construct was set to obliterate everything.
Weapons ports were glowing with impending
energy release, and the air shimmered
with electromagnetic field defenses. Ionization surrounded
the broad head and latticed wings with a
violet-blue nimbus.
Evaluation.
The Mentality calmly formulated and reviewed
a score of options. It held within it the whole
logical structure of the Morgan Construct, together
with the separate and combined capabilities of the
pursuit team.
Selection and application.
The preferred option was chosen. A loud, pure
tone emerged from the communications box on
the Angel's midsection. At the same time a second
note, precisely placed in pitch, phase, and volume,
came as an octaves-higher scream from S'glya. In
a fraction of a second the wing panels on the Morgan
Construct began to vibrate. Commentary.
("RESONANCES IN INORGANIC CONTROL CIRCUITS. DESIGN
DEFICIENCY VULNERABILITY TO ACOUSTIOELECTROMAGNETIC
COUPLING EFFECTS. NO SAFETY LEVEL SHORT OF OVERLOAD
AND TEMPORARY SHUTDOWN.")
Image.
The whole Construct started to shake. A crackling
sound emerged from the body cavity, followed
by a violent series of random jerks. There was an
agonized twisting of the latticed wings, "temporary
overload," said the accompanying voice. With
a final shudder the Constructs frame locked into
one distorted position. It floated silently down to
the forest floor. A dozen Tinker components at
once flew across and entered the Construct body
cavity.
Commentary.
("NO PERMANENT DAMAGE. NOW IS THE TIME TO IMMOBILIZE
FOR MORE SYSTEMATIC ANALYSIS OF CONSTRUCT MENTAL
PROCESSES.")
Image.
The crisis was over. Beside the quiet form of the
Morgan Construct, the pursuit team members huddled
closer together. Every external sensory input
was damped to lowest levels. It was a time of
wonder, time for the Mentality to look inward and
learn more of its own nature and function. The
group lay motionless on the forest floor.
Commentary.
("WE BECAME NIMROD. IT WAS OUR CHOSEN NAME. WE ARE NIMROD. THAT IS ALL THAT CAN BE GIVEN SAFELY. TO ONE
WHO IS NOT A UNION. BREAKPOINT.")
It was over. Chan felt awareness of his surroundings
slowly bleed back into his mind. The information
transfer had been as intense as a bolt of
lightning, and as short-lived. He and Leah were
still holding each other close, her lips touching his
cheek. He took in a long, shivering breath, and
looked around him. Nothing. The forest was still
dark. A trace of remembered after-image seen
through the Angel's sensors told him where the
other members had been. There was a brief whirring
of tiny wings, then he was once more in the
darkness, holding Leah alone.
Chan sighed. He lay back on the damp floor,
Leah at his side. His brain felt jellied and contused,
with all the familiar agony of a bad session
on the Tolkov Stimulator. For a few minutes he
lay there in silence, content to feel but not to
think.
"Chan." It was Leah's voice again, whispering in
his ear. She had turned, so that they touched each
other from breast to thighs. "I know it was terrifying
for you. But you would not have merged willingly.
The only way we knew was to take you
when emotion ran strongest. I want you to know
that I am sorry it had to happen that way."
Chan sighed, and did not speak.
"I'm sorry, Chan," said Leah again, after another
few moments of silence. "If you feel betrayed,
I promise you that I will never again use lovemaking
in that way. Please don't feel that you were used--we only wanted to pull you quickly to partial
union."
"Who are you?" asked Chan huskily.
"Me?" The voice in the darkness sounded puzzled.
"I am Leah."
"Not any more. You are Nimrod. What happened
to the Leah that I knew?"
"Ah." There was an indrawn breath of comprehension.
"Nimrod, yes. But truly, Chan, I am Leah.
I am no less Leah than I ever was. I am more. Now
I am part of Nimrod, too."
"My Leah has gone."
"Rubbish!" Leah's voice lost a good part of her
patient concern. "What are you talking about, gone?

I'm me--the same Leah as always." She slapped
her hand down flat on his chest, and he jerked at
the unexpected blow.
"Gone, have I?" she went on, leaning over him.
"You think I'm some sort of illusion? Just part of
something else? Well, you're dead wrong. You seem
to imagine I'm just like a cell in your body, with
no separate existence of its own. I'm not. I still
think, I still breathe, I still laugh, and I still love.
Get that into your thick skull, Chan Dal ton. When
I first touched you today, that was me--not Nimrod."
She banged his chest again. "You've got rocks
in your head. Did you feel any less, when you were
merged?"
Chan shook his head slowly in the darkness. It
was Leah next to him, no doubt about that. Beating
him up just like the old days. "Not less.
Different."
"Different, and more." She left his side, and
moved to a standing position. "Remember this,
Chan. I love you, and I'm still all that I ever was.
You have to know one other thing. We humans are
the most difficult element. We're the pacing factor
for everything. So when it happens, relax. You're
halfway there now, thanks to what happened here."
"Halfway where?"
"You'll see. It was all necessary." There was a
final soft kiss on his cheek. "And it was fun, too. As
good as I'd dreamed it would be."
Chan heard the pad of footsteps moving away
across the soft forest carpet. Before he could do
more than sit up, a faint light came bobbing towards
him, weaving through the creepers. It was
S'greela. The Pipe-Rilla was moving rapidly, with
the tubby form of Angel tucked under two arms.
The dark nimbus of Shikari breezed along close
behind.
"You are safe?" said the Pipe-Rilla.
Chan was about to reply--apparently the fact
that he was scraped by creepers, wet, wild-eyed,
and nearly naked was a matter of indifference to
the others. But then he became aware of something
new; an instruction that Nimrod had slipped
into his mind, along with that high-pressure information
flow. The instruction was there now, a
time bomb ready to explode. And it was the needed
piece. He knew just what to do.
He lay back and waited, while Shikari swarmed
in to cover and connect them. Chan felt his way
inwards, seeking the first stir of interaction. There
it was. The others were all ready--had been ready
for a long time. Leah was right. Humans were the
most difficult element. At the right moment, Chan
closed his eyes. And opened his mind.
Contact--powerful and immediate. Chan felt the
surge like an electric current through every cell of
his body. He went drifting off on a tide of pleasure
and satisfaction. It was the feeling he had sometimes
experienced when the pursuit team sat together
at night, amplified a million times.
His mind re-oriented, meshed with the other
three, and settled into full group mentality mode.
First contact was complete.

Data transfer did not take long. The contents of
the primary, secondary, and tertiary files that had
passed from Nimrod to Chan occupied the new
mentality for less than twenty seconds. At the end
of that time the Mentality knew as much as Nimrod
did of its own origin and nature.
The quaternary data stream was the smallest in
volume. It had been flagged by Nimrod for special
attention. The mentality stored it in the Angel's
data banks and began review. The data stream
was a complete record of the first hours following
Nimrod's own formation. Complete with Nimrod's
situation analysis, it was perceived by the new
mentality as a multi-channel flow, a meld of facts,
conjectures, and conclusions.
SITUATION.
Team Alpha, full of excitement and awe at the
miracle of creation. There was first a naming of
names: Nimrod, the fusion of will, information, desire,
and understanding. Then the Morgan Construct
was prepared for long-term stasis, until the source
and cause of its insanity could be understood and
remedied. Finally Nimrod took the most difficult step:
dissolution back to the individual team members.
Leah, S'glya, Ishmael, and the Angel stood for a silent
moment, looking at each other. At last they made
their separate ways back to the upper levels of the
Travancore forest. Like the components of a Tinker
Composite, each part of the Mentality looked after its
own needs for food, rest, and movement.
ACTION.
Nimrod re-assembled back in the living tent, high
in the jungle. A complex and complete message was
generated for transmission through the Link to Anabasis
Headquarters. Its tone was perhaps a little self
congratulatory, and it assumed that news of Nimrod's
existence would be received with Nimrod s own enthusiasm
for that event. Nimrod requested shipment
up to the Q-ship for itself, and for the now-harmless
Morgan Construct.
RESPONSE.
A long delay. Mondrian's inscrutable face. Nimrod
made allowance for the inadequacy of single-species
thought. The mentality waited. The Anabasis reply
came at last: Leave the Morgan Construct in stasis
on Travancore, and move up at once to the quarantine
ship.
Nimrod possessed the empathy of a Pipe-Rilla, the
quirky logic of a Tinker, the analytical capability of
an Angel--and the irrational suspicions of a true
human. The message clashed with Nimrod's perception
of a plausible response. Nimrod flew the capsule
upwards, back to rendezvous with the high-orbiting
Q-ship. When the capsule was within forty kilometers,
it was vaporized by a maximum-intensity salvo.
But Nimrod was still in the tent in Travancore's
upper atmosphere, watching. The capsule had been
flying under remote control. Nimrod was stranded on
the surface of Travancore. And now there was plenty
to occupy the full powers of the Mentality's intellect.
QUERY. (The data stream transferred from
Nimrod to Chan added a modifier field, to indicate
the change from factual reporting to probabilistic
analysis.)
The Anabasis did not want to capture Nimrod, only
to destroy it. Why not achieve that effect by simply
removing the Q-ship from orbit around Travancore,
and abolishing all Link coordinates from the central?
CONJECTURE.
Travancore was still of interest to the Anabasis.
And since Nimrod and the.pursuit team were not the
source of that interest, it must derive from the Morgan
Construct. The Anabasis is interested in the continued
existence of the Morgan Construct.
CONTRADICTION.
The pursuit team had supposedly been sent to
Travancore to destroy the Morgan Construct.
FACT.
On Barchan, Team Alpha had not destroyed their
Simulacrum. Like Chan s team, they had subdued it
and tried to hide the evidence.
QUERY.
Had the attempt to hide the Simulacrum succeeded?
CONJECTURE.
The Anabasis knew that Team Alpha had not destroyed
the Simulacrum. It believed, at better than
0.83 probability level, that Team Alpha would also
prove incapable of destroying the Morgan Construct.
ALTERNATIVES PERCEIVED BY THE ANABASIS.
Team Alpha had been sent to Travancore by the
Anabasis in anticipation of only three possible
outcomes:
(1)	The Construct would destroy Team Alpha.
(2)	Team Alpha would destroy the Construct.
(3)	Team Alpha would subdue the Construct, but would not destroy it.
SITUATION ANALYSIS ASCRIBED TO THE ANABASIS.
In
case (1) a second pursuit team could be sent to
Travancore to try again. No danger to the Anabasis.
In case (2) Team Alpha would return to the Q-ship
unharmed. A different and less ferocious pursuit team
could be tried when the next Morgan Construct was
discovered. No danger to the Anabasis.
In case (3), Team Alpha and a now-controlled Morgan
Construct would return to the Q-ship. The prime
intent of the Anabasis would have been achieved.
NIMROD'S CONCLUSION.
The Anabasis had not been threatened by any predicted
outcome of operations on Travancore. But the
creation of Nimrod had introduced a new variable.
Nimrod was perceived by the Anabasis as a threat-- enough of a threat that Nimrod had to be destroyed.
Saving the disabled Morgan Construct was only of
secondary importance.
ANABASIS ANTICIPATED ACTIONS.
A second pursuit team would be employed on
Travancore, with explicit instructions to destroy
Nimrod on sight.
NIMROD'S ACTION.
Since Nimrod had no way of escaping from the
planetary surface, it must await the arrival of the
second team.
END OF DATA FILE.
The review occupied the mentality for a full
minute. It drew these corollary conclusions: If the
Anabasis learned that both pursuit teams had coalesced
to form group minds, it would make new
plans. The disabled Morgan Construct would be
abandoned, and the weapons of the Q-ship would
be unleashed against Travancore. Both Nimrod
and the new mentality would be equally vulnerable
to attack.
It was a time for change. The mentality clung
tighter for a moment, vibrating in a sympathy of
feeling. Then the union ended. Dissolution began.
Chan found himself sitting on the forest floor, half
naked and exhausted. He was surprised to be there.
The images from Nimrod had such clarity and
depth of detail that he felt he had been with them
in their tent, high in Travancore's jungle.
The other three waited in a dreamy silence while
Chan fastened his clothing and slowly stood up.
With S'greela leading the way they drifted slowly
back up the spiral tunnels. After their intense and
total bonding, speech seemed inadequate. Only Shikari
spoke as they ascended to the highest layers
of vegetation. The Tinker was unusually chatty,
talking enough trivia for everyone.
Naturally, thought Chan wearily. Merging units
is no big deal for a Tinker. Does it all day, every day.
Shikari probably wonders why we're making such a
fuss about it.
They finally reached their tent as the last rays of
sunlight were cutting across the billowing forest.
Amazingly, they had been gone for less than a
single day. They each settled into their preferred
resting places. Chan had no appetite, but he forced
himself to nibble at a block of curd--and suddenly
he was ravenous. He watched with detached surprise
as he wolfed down masses of protein-rich
synthetics and drank two liters of sweetened liquid.
The energy drain of the merged state must be
formidable.
"I finally sympathize with Vavvay," said S'greela
suddenly. The Pipe-Rilla had been eating with a
total and concentrated attention. "I think he feels
starvation like this all the time. We must go back
to him."
"Tomorrow," said the Angel. "He has plenty of
food. He will be happy to wait for us."
There was another long silence.
"And we must decide on our own name," said
Shikari finally, as Chan was drifting off towards
exhausted sleep.
"That is simple," said the Angel. "We were supposed
to hunt the Constructs. If they are Nimrod, we will be Bahram--another great hunter of Earth's
early days. Let me tell you his story ..."
Earth's history. Angel was the Universe's most
boring speaker about Earth history. Chan ought to
learn more of it ... but not today. The Angel was
still talking, but Chan did not hear him. He heard
nothing. He had fallen into the profoundest sleep
of his life, too deep for dreams. His last thought
was of the Q-ship, somewhere far overhead. Tomorrow
they also had to decide what they would
do about that ... or they would spend the rest of
their lives on Travancore ...
Chan was awakened a few hours before Travancore's
slow dawn. A warm body had slid under the
sheet that covered him, and snuggled close to his
side. He awoke in tingling terror to the gentle
pressure of fingers on his lips.
"Sshhh," breathed a voice in his ear. "It's only
me, Leah. I couldn't sleep. It was wonderful meeting
you when I was part of Nimrod, but I had to
reassure you. You won't lose enjoyment of your
own life when your team forms a union."
"I know. It has already happened." Chan was
still half-asleep. He looked at Leah, but the darkness
was near-total and he could see nothing but a
pale blur. He sighed, and put his arms around her.
"All this time I've waited to see your face--and
still you're invisible."
She laughed. "I haven't changed a bit. You'll see
me in daylight tomorrow. The two mentalities will
have their first full meeting. We have already moved
close to this tent." She settled in comfortably, fitting
her body to his. "That union will come soon
enough. But now, this union is just for us."
Their embrace was slow and gentle, lacking any urgency. It was the quiet culmination of twenty
years of love and affection. Afterwards Leah fell
asleep quickly, nestled close to Chan's chest. He
remained awake for a long time, convinced that he
would not sleep again before dawn.
A new worry began to push at his mind. Ever
since Horus he had puzzled over the question of
his identity. Who was he, what was he? Now, despite
Leah's reassurances, he wondered if Chan
Dalton, the individual, would vanish before he ever
discovered the answers.
Am I going to be nothing more than one piece of a
union--like one of Shikari's components? That's a
frightening idea. I want to be me, I don't want to
disappear. Maybe I should write my obituary tonight,
while I still exist. His thoughts were drifting
out in long, lazy lines. Obituary. What would it say?
Chan Dalton, dead at twenty years. Or did he really
only live three months? Mental life-span, or physical?
Hard questions.
His brain was running in circles. He would lie
awake forever.
And with that thought, Chan slept.

Twenty thousand kilometers above his head, the
brooding hulk of the quarantine ship maintained
its vigil. Power had been damped to a minimum
for best instrument response. Now the sensors were
trained on the nightside of Travancore and all
weapons systems were primed.
Within the Q-ship's central control room sat Esro
Mondrian and Luther Brachis. They were busy in
a curious late-night ritual. Each of them held a
recording block, and each was quietly entering a
sequence of digits into it. When they had finished,
they exchanged the blocks and inspected the other's
notation.
"Looks all right to me," said Brachis. "Anything
else? If not, I'm going to call it a day."
Mondrian nodded. "We agree on all digits." He
picked up both blocks and looked at them again.
'We're going to carry this sequence in our heads
for the rest of our lives, Luther. But we'll keep
doing it, just to be sure. I don't want to spend my
life here any more than you do."
"You still don't want to tell Godiva the sequence?
As a safety precaution?"
Mondrian shook his head. "You, me, and Kubo.
No one else. And nothing in any data bank. We
play it safe until we're absolutely sure that what's
down there"--he nodded towards Travancore's dark
disk--"is under full control."
"The reports from Chan Dalton's team look good."
"So far. I think the team will dispose of Nimrod
for us. But I'm not sure of it. And Nimrod is too
dangerous to take risks with. It's an alien lifeform
we've never had to worry about before."
"So why do it now?" Brachis followed Mondrian's
look at Travancore. "We think we know where
Nimrod is down there. Why not turn up the firepower
here, roast Nimrod to hell, and get it over
with?"
"No." Mondrian's tone was firm. "That won't
do. I will not risk the Morgan Construct. We've
never tracked down another one, and it's my bet
we never will. I will not chance destroying the
only one we've got. We will go slow, and assume
we can win."
Brachis started to protest; then he shrugged and
went out without speaking. Godiva was waiting
for him. He didn't want to waste time arguing.
Mondrian made a final check for incoming messages.
Nothing from Kubo Flammarion, except the
usual complaint by Dougal Macdougal about the
energy expenditure needed to keep the AnabasisTravancore
Link open. Mondrian ignored that.
Macdougal couldn't do anything but grumble. He
was more than fifty lightyears away, and he was
not about to ship one-way to Travancore.
After a moment's hesitation Mondrian erased
the recording block in his hand. The Link sequence
vanished.
In the folded, multiply-connected majpping provided
by the Mattin Link, space-time lacks affine connections
and metric. There is only a point-to-point Link
transformation, with its own discontinuous topology.
As long as the Link is maintained between two
locations, they will remain neighbors in Link-space.
The Q-ship around Travancore and the control room
at Anabasis Headquarters are close now, an infinitesimal
distance apart. The Link will provide just the
minute (but high-energy) nudge needed to move matter
across the gap.
The Mattin Link seems like magic, but it is an
unforgiving magic. Transfer locations must be specified
correct to within a Planck Length--ten to the
minus thirty-third centimeters. Fifty-three decimal
digits are needed to specify each spatial coordinate
within the hundred lightyear sphere of the Perimeter;
one hundred and fifty-nine decimal digits to store a
position in the data bank--or to be remembered, if
all stored forms but that of human memory are
rejected.
Night and morning, Luther Brachis and Esro Mondrian
repeat to each other the 159-digit Mattin Link
sequence. It is their life-line back to the rest of the
universe. Without it, they will be marooned for the
rest of their lives in orbit around Travancore.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

THE FUSION

Chan woke late, to find himself alone in the tent.
When he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and went
outside, he learned that during the night all the
other team members had arrived.
The group was unusually subdued. Everyone
seemed to be waiting for some signal. The two
Angels had night-rooted out on the tent side-lip
and sat there now in companionable silence, spread
fronds absorbing Talitha's morning light. S'glya
and S'greela had wandered away together on a
food hunt, climbing easily through the thin branches
at the very top of the forest until they were out of
sight. Ana Ishmael and Shikari had both disassembled.
The whole tent area was filled with their
motionless purple-black components, covering every
free surface.
Chan reached out and picked one from its roost
on the tent wall. The creature spread veined, leathery
wings and made a feeble attempt to fly away,
A ring of tiny green eyes peered at him with no
sign of understanding. He released the component,
and at once it flew up to the vegetation canopy.
Chan watched it hanging there and wondered. How
did the two Tinker Composites retain their 
separate identities? What rule told a single component
where to go?
Well, what told a human cell that it was part of
his liver, and not part of a lung? Chan dropped
that question at once. He and Leah had their own
preoccupations; breakfast, and conversation--apparently in that order, judging from Leah's behavior.
She
had tied her dark hair back with a scarlet
turban, providing the brightest splash of color on
Travancore. Now she was sitting cross-legged on
the tent floor, eating food as fast as Chan could get
it heated. He couldn't believe how much she was
packing away.
"No more," she said finally. She leaned back
against the flexible wall, patted her belly, and
sighed. "You've paid me back right there for half
the thousand meals I've cooked For you. Take my advice and stoke up now for yourself. You'll need
all the energy and calories you can get." She gave
a grunt of satisfaction and closed her eyes.
Too casual. They were all too casual. Chan seemed
to be the only one pessimistic about their chances
of getting away from Travancore.
He remembered Mondrian's face, knowing and
resolute. It was easy to feel omnipotent when the
mentality was in the merged state, but it would
not take Mondrian long to learn their limitations.
A few minutes of union had left Chan exhausted
for hours. And during union the group was immobilized.
A mentality could not move as a unit, and
if it dissolved in order to move, the union would
be destroyed. Leah believed that the mentalities
were the next evolutionary step for all the Stellar
Group members. Maybe. But unless they could gain
access to the Q-ship and defeat the Anabasis, it
was an evolutionary blind end.
The return of the two Pipe-Rillas put a sudden
end to his worrying. They dropped together through
a leaf layer and crouched down next to the Angels.
As though they had been waiting for that as a
signal, every Tinker component lifted from its roosting
position. They flew around the tent with dizzying
speed and precision and suddenly swarmed
over each team member. As the individuals coalesced,
the mentalities awoke. A thick cable of living
Tinker components provided direct mental
connection.
WELCOME. Q-SHIP BEHAVIOR UNPREDICTABLE ... TIME SHORT
... NEED FOR MENTALITY ACTION ... (The Split-SeCOnd of
greeting from Nimrod to Bahrain came across a
broad channel of communication that carried a
hundred parallel side-messages. Assessment began
at once. Parallel analyses provided the conditional
probabilities and options for mentality
action.)
OPTION 1. NO MOVEMENT OF CAPSULE TO Q-SHIP. NO TEAM COMMUNICATION WITH Q-SHIP.
PROBABLE OUTCOME: DESTRUCTION OF NIMROD AND BAH- RAM AT P - 0.58 LEVEL WITHIN TWO TRAVANCORE DAYS; AT
P = 0.71 LEVEL IN THREE DAYS; AT P = 0.93 LEVEL IN FOUR
DAYS.
(Chan was within the Bahram group mind; but
this time, for the first time, he retained some elements
of individual consciousness. Thought streams
between Nimrod and Bahram left echoes in his
mirid, weak eddy patterns from the strong main
current ... Ideas from other team members came
swirling in, alien yet accessible ... Sometimes
they translated to sounds, to images, to transient
illusions of physical touch. Chan felt the cross
fertilization of minds. Those came to him as pictures,
vivid patterns and designs. The transfers of
new ideas and speculation were like blazing fire
ships, moving to ignite convoys of logic in every
member of the group...
From the Angel component, a five-fold 
statistical conclusion blazed in on Chan as a crimson
starfish of analysis ...)

Personnel believed present on Q-ship. Esro Mondrian, 0.99 probability
Luther Brachis, 0.84 probability
Kubo Flammarion, 0.77 probability
Tatiana Snipes, 0.41 probability
Godiva Lomberd, 0.28 probability
All others, less than 0.20 probability

OPTION 2. CAPSULE APPROACH TO Q-SHIP WITHOUT ANY
PRIOR COMMUNICATION.
PROBABLE OUTCOME: DESTRUCTION OF CAPSULE AT P - 0.97
LEVEL.
(The Pipe-Rilla thoughts were sinuous and delicate,
full of feelings rather than logic. They rippled
across the mentality, drawing shimmering silver
ropes of inference. Chan grasped at the gossamer
strands. In his mind he felt them condense and
turn to solid numerical form. His attention seized
their conclusions ...)

Preferred human contacts for mentality on
Q-ship, if present: Tatiana Snipes, 0.32 probability
Godiva Lomberd, 0.26 probability
Kubo Flammarion, 0.21 probability
Esro Mondrian/Luther Brachis, less than
0.01 probability

OPTION 3: APPROACH OF CAPSULE TO Q-SHIP. COMMUNICATION
TO Q-SHIP INDICATING THAT RUBY TEAM SURVIVED. BUT DOES NOT HAVE MORGAN CONSTRUCT.
PROBABLE OUTCOME: DESTRUCTION OF CAPSULE AT P = 0.87
LEVEL.
(Angel thoughts were a passacaglia and fugue in
three dimensions, too complex for Chan to assimilate.
He sensed the rock-solid logic behind the patterns.
He saw that logic as coral monoliths, reaching
up from a crystal sea ...)

Q-ship specifications Three main entry ports; all monitored by
defense system
Sustained energy output level, 94 gigawatts
Burst output energy legel, 144 terawatts
Defensive systems: radiation, particle beam,
projectile
Back-up: jamming fields, shearing cones,
fission/fusion, E/M shield
Offensive systems: sterilizing, subnucleon
reaction, fusion

(Chan knew he was seeing the Angel data banks,
screened through the group minds. Too bright, said
an urgent internal voice. It switched to show a
dark-glass image of a naked star. Chan groped
inward for the message, finally found it. He could
not look into that data bank directly. The storage
complexity of the Angels was too great for a human
mind. He must settle for this pale reflection
...)
OPTION 4: APPROACH OF CAPSULE TO Q-SHIP, COMMUNICATION
TO INDICATE THAT RUBY TEAM HAS MORGAN CONSTRUCT,
NO MESSAGE REGARDING ALPHA TEAM.
PROBABLE OUTCOME:DESTRUCTION OF CAPSULE AT P - 0.62
LEVEL.
(Now there came a bewildering jumble of sensation,
a light that pulsed and flickered and was
never still. Chan struggled, resisted, struck back
against it. Finally he managed to relax and let it
dictate its own pattern of meaning. He was at once
in a world where steady states were banished.
There were only averages of continuous fluctuations,
as though classical theory had given way to
quantum mechanics. At last he understood. He
was seeing the thoughts of a Tinker Composite.
When individual components were added and subtracted,
all minor fluctuations must be ignored. It
was cerebration as a statistical process, the grand
canonical ensemble of mental function. He learned
to watch only the average state. And now he saw
gleeful kaleidoscopes of Tinker ideas burst with
firecracker exuberance through the web of the group
minds ...)

Assessment. Probability that location of Morgan Construct
on Travancore is accurately known to Q-ship
is estimated at 0.34 or less

OPTION 5: APPROACH OF CAPSULE TO Q-SHIP. PRECEDED
BY COMMUNICATION TO Q-SHIP INDICATING THAT RUBY TEAM
SURVIVED AND HAS MORGAN CONSTRUCT. AND THAT ALPHA
TEAM HAS BEEN DESTROYED.
PROBABLE OUTCOME: DESTRUCTION OF CAPSULE BEFORE
REACHING Q-SHIP IS UNLIKELY (LESS THAN 0.17 PROBABILITY
LEVEL).
(Underlying every function of the mentalities was
a cruel driving energy, propelling the groups toward
decision and action. Chan sensed its presence
as an imminent force-field. It was always
there, permanent and irresistible as gravity. He
groped for its origin. At last he found it. His mind
recoiled in surprise. The group driving force originated
in Chan and Leah ...)

Summary. Option 5 probability of capsule reaching Qship
is acceptable
Probability of defeating Q-ship still unacceptabfy
low
Additional information needed on Q-ship
personnel

ANALYSIS/CONCLUSIONS. Q-SHIP WILL INITIATE AGGRESSIVE
ACTION WITHIN TWO DAYS UNLESS CONTACTED ... BAHRAM
MUST THEREFORE FLY CAPSULE TO Q-SHIP ... PRESENCE OF
NIMROD ON CAPSULE MUST BE CONCEALED ... MORGAN CONSTRUCT
WILL BE LEFT BEHIND ON TRAVANCORE AS INSURANCE
FOR BAHRAMS SAFETY ... SURVIVAL PROBABILITY MAXIMIZED
BY PROMPT ACTION . ..
(The mental activity was reaching a great crescendo.
Chan was helpless, adrift on a tidal wave
of thought. He felt individual control weaken,
shiver, and vanish into total group mind absorption.
The climax was nearing ...)
DECISION: THERE MUST BE AN IMMEDIATE CAPSULE ASCENT
BY NIMROD AND BAHRAM TO THE Q-SHIP. ASSESSMENT: OVERALL
MISSION SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 0.16.

The two group minds slowly loosened their links.
The connecting chain of Tinker components broke,
and fluttered to rest on the jungle creepers and
branches. The orgasm of joint thought was dying.
It faded now to a waking dream ...
Chan, still dizzy from the surge of mental energy
that had flooded through him, stood up slowly and
went inside the tent. Leah was already there, entering
the control sequence that would bring the
hovering capsule down for their use. She looked at
him without speaking. Only a sixteen-percent chance
we'll make it, said her expression.
Chan nodded. Bad odds. We've got to find something
to change them.

Chapter Thirty
ABOARD THE Q-SHIP



The ascent to the Q-ship was anything but comforting.
Chan stared at the enormous ellipsoidal
mass rilling the sky in front of him, then looked
around at their capsule.
Disturbing contrast.
A Q-ship was designed to bottle up the inhabitants
of full-sized space colonies, even of whole
planets--populations with their own weapons, who
as often as not didn't want to cooperate. Each
quarantine ship was shielded, armored, and bristled
with defensive and offensive weapons. Even
ignoring the mass of their power kernels they were
million-ton behemoths. In the extreme case, a
Q-ship might be called upon to purge or permanently
blockade an entire planet. The extreme had
never yet been necessary--but there had been
scares. The discovery that it was an organism, a
native brain-burrowing gnathostome, that was affecting
all the inhabitants of Pentecost and causing
their planet-wide blood-lust, had been made
only at the eleventh hour. A Q-ship had already
been in position, ready to carry out planetary
sterilization.
And the capsule? Chan grimaced. It was nothing
more than a flimsy, thin-walled shell, vulnerable
even to a mild stellar flare. The Q-ship could vaporize
it with an accidental puff from its secondary
exhaust.
They crept closer, on an unpowered approach
trajectory. The Q-ship crew were taking no chances.
Their designated entry port was protected by a
gleaming array of projectile and radiation weapons.
After docking, the Ruby Team members had
been instructed to enter the Q-ship one by one.
Chan would go first. The others would not leave
the capsule until they had permission to do so.
And even within the docking area, Mondrian could
order the instant destruction of the capsule and its
contents--including Nimrod, who was hidden away
in the capsule's primitive cargo compartment.
(The journey to the Q-ship was a one-way trip,
for more than one reason. With Nimrod aboard, all spare supplies and fuel had been left behind on
Travancore to avoid a mass anomaly. The Q-ship
would detect any discrepancy when the capsule
was caught for docking--and it would take violent
action.)
As they neared the ship Chan heard a whisper in
his ear. Nimrod's analysis was passing from the
cargo hold through a single-link chain of Tinker
components, then converted by the Angel to a form that Chan could recognize.
"... twelve hundred meters to docking," said
the Angel. "Excellent. If the Q-ship intended to
destroy us before we docked, the best time to do so
has already passed. Current probability estimate
for success of mission is 0.255, up from the last
estimate of 0.23 ... Nimrod now believes that
Tatty Snipes is not on the Q-ship. If so, the probability
of finding a sympathetic contact who can be
worked with goes down, by 0.13. And in that case,
the overall probability estimate will unfortunately
be reduced by 0.04 . . ."
Chan groaned to himself. The Angel was perfectly
happy puttering around with the data and
passing on the odds; but Chan found no comfort at
all in endless statistics. He wished that he could
enjoy Bahram's comforting closeness and togetherness.
Unfortunately, the capsule cabin was certainly
under Q-ship surveillance. Merging now might be suicide.
' Ready for docking," he said to the blank communications
screen. So far they had received no
visual signals from the Q-ship. The port was less
than two hundred meters ahead.
"Proceed," said a metallic voice from the capsule
communications set.
"... still computer controlled," whispered the
Angel. The bulk of the Chassel-rose was hanging
upside-down over Chan's head, in the free fall or
their ballistic approach. "If they were to shoot at
us now, there would be some minor damage to the Q-ship. Onward and upward! Nimrod feels sure
that we will be permitted to complete the docking."
"Get down off the ceiling," said Chan. "They'll
be grabbing us in a second or two and we'll feel
acceleration. Go and lie next to Shikari. I don't
want you wrapped around my neck when we dock."
As he spoke there was a jolt on the hull. The Angel sailed backwards and bounced on the cabin
wall behind Chan. There were a few seconds of
vibration and then a clang from outside
"Docking complete," said the communicator.
Chan moved slowly towards the capsule door,
while the other team members remained in the cabin.
Careful now. This is one moment of maximum danger. Had he heard those words, or was he saying
them to himself? He paused at the door and waited.
The capsule had been tucked neatly into a berth in the contoured fourth deck. Chan heard the outer port seals clang into position, and the creak of the
car's hull as external air pressure increased from
vacuum levels. He watched until the meters showed
internal and external equality, then opened the
capsule.
A narrow pier alongside the hull led to an airlock
on the interior wall. Chan pulled himself across to
it, reflecting that even after this he would not be
in the ship's real interior. According to the Angel's
reconstruction of Q-ship geometry, there would be
another lock to pass through with its own checking
system for interlopers. If anyone failed a test,
the whole entry port could be blown free into
space. The Q-ship would still operate at close to its
full potential.
The lock slid open, and Chan stepped through.
Decontaminant sprays blew over him from head
to foot. The personnel handling system wafted him
gently along a white-walled corridor, to another
lock. Chan watched everything closely, and wished
there were some way he could send back information
to Nimrod. The mentality needed more data
to gain unobserved entry to the Q-ship.
The next door slid open to an area that was not
in free-fall. They must be within a few meters of
the shielded kernel that powered everything on
the Q-ship. Chan thought of the nearby singularity,
and imagined he could feel tidal gravitational
forces. He swayed for a moment to make sure of
his balance, then walked around the curved floor
to the chamber's other door. After a second's hesitation
he went through it.
He was in a primary quarantine area: a large,
hexagonal room, thirty meters across. It was divided
into seven parts. The central area where
Chan had entered was surrounded by six individual
vaults, each with its own triple-layer transparent
glassite walls and inert-metal door. The whole
room was visible from every chamber--but a kiloton
fusion explosion could take place in any one of
them and be totally confined there.
Two men were waiting for Chan at the far end of
the central area.
Mondrian and Brachis. Chan recalled the prediction
of the mentalities. These were the two individuals
he was most likely to meet on the Q-ship--
and the ones least likely to be controllable!
Esro Mondrian was unarmed. Luther Brachis
carried a Class-one beam weapon, aimed at Chan's midriff.
Mondrian alone nodded a greeting. He was pale
and haggard, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.
"Welcome back, Chan. According to our records,
you're the first human ever to return from the
surface of Travancore. The original surveys were
all done with inorganics. Sorry we don't have the
red carpet out for you." He managed a smile at
those last words, despite the obvious tension that
filled the room. "We are glad to see you, but we've
got a lot on our minds. Sit down."
Three straight-backed chairs formed the only furniture,
diagonally placed so that each provided a
view of the wall-sized display screen. Chan sat on
one, Mondrian on the other. Luther Brachis remained
standing, his weapon still unholstered.
Chan looked at it, then turned to Mondrian. "We
never asked for a red carpet. But I did expect
better treatment than this. You send us to do a job. We perform it for you. And then you point
guns at us."
By intention, Chan's tone was bitter and confused.
The mentalities had advised him how he
should begin the meeting on the Q-ship. But they
had warned that they could not predict beyond
the first few exchanges. Chan would have to use
his own judgment as the encounter proceeded.
"You did not complete your mission," said
Mondrian quietly. "You were to destroy a Morgan
Construct. According to your message, it is still
alive."
"We did more than we were asked. Thanks to the
Ruby Team, you will have available to you a live,
functioning Morgan Construct in a safe environment."
Live,
functioning, safe. Chan carefully stressed
those words. He thought he saw a positive reaction
from Mondrian. Brachis showed no emotion
at all. (Another problem? Brachis now seemed softer,
less dynamic. Had something happened to him since
Chan left Ceres?) Chan wished that S'glya or S'greela
were present. The Pipe-Rillas were far better than
humans at reading emotional states.
"You can study the reasons why the Construct
went insane," Chan continued. "Maybe you can
even cure it. And whatever happens you will have
advice to give the pursuit teams that hunt down
other Constructs."
"Perhaps." Mondrian's eyes were gleaming, but
still cautious and calculating. "However, you have
not explained why you failed to follow orders. Why
did you not destroy the Construct as directed?"
Chan had to gamble on his answer. He was at a
branch point in the group mind analysis of the
situation.
"It was not necessary," replied Chan. "We could-- and did--neutralize all its offensive powers. It is
now in stasis, safely immobilized on the jungle
floor of Travancore."
"Undamaged?" Mondrian's voice had a slight
tremor in it.
"Completely so. But the capsule isn't big enough
for us and the Construct. Do you want to go down
and collect it?"
A principal branch point. If Mondrian agreed,
Chan's chance of survival increased enormously.
Mondrian was shaking his head and fiddling with
the star opal at his collar. "Notyet. Tell me, Chan,
what do you see as the future of the Ruby Team?"
"I didn't think the team had a future. We came
together to do a job, and we did it. I suppose I
expected that we'd be rewarded, and all go home.
I'd like to go back to Earth, at least for a while. Is
that a problem?"
"I don't think so." Mondrian took his fingers
away from the star opal, and Luther Brachis lowered
his weapon. "Any need to have your whole
team there when we pick up the Morgan Construct?"
"I
don't see why. It's perfectly safe now, and I
could do it on my own."
"Good." Mondrian stood up. "We'll bring them
into the ship. I'd like to thank them--individually.
Then they can be Linked to their home planets.'

"Immediately?"
"Why not?"
He suspects, thought Chan. He can't know we
coalesced to a group mind, but he's not taking any
chances. "I thought we'd all get together here-- maybe even have a celebration. We expected to go
our separate ways, but not this suddenly."
"When we have the Construct, the work on
Travancore is over." Now there was undisguised
triumph in Mondrian's eyes. "And we must get
back to Ceres. But first, if you please, there are
other things to attend to here."
Brachis walked to the door leading to one of the
left-hand room compartments and opened it. He
gestured to Chan with his gun. "In here."
"Just for a few minutes," said Mondrian. Chan protested
and was ignored. Brachis guided him through,
and the heavy door closed.
Mondrian stepped to the communications panel
and pressed a sequence there. "And now for your
companions. It is time for them to leave the capsule."
The communications equipment still allowed
Chan to hear and see events in the central chamber.
A few seconds later a display screen there
revealed the bulky figure of the Angel, leaving the
capsule and slowly floating towards the lock. After
a tew minutes the Angel itself appeared in front of
Luther Brachis. This time there was no discussion.
The Angel was at once confined in a second chamber.
No
one spoke as S'greela and finally Shikari
were brought from the capsule. The Tinker was
handled with special care. Luther Brachis set his
weapon to a broad-beam setting, capable of throwing
a fan of destructive energy from floor to ceiling.
If necessary, he could kill a whole swarm of
components in mid-air.
It was not necessary. S'greela and Shikari quietly
allowed themselves to be shepherded into
separate sealed chambers. When all the pursuit
team members were present, Mondrian went again
to the control panel. He pressed a new command
sequence.
4 Destroying the capsule," he said casually. He
looked hard at Chan. "We don't want to risk a
dangerous life-form taking a free ride up from
Travancore, do we?"
Chan nodded, and kept his face impassive. He
watched, as the capsule flared into blue incandescence
on the screen. The possibility of such an
action had been considered by Nimrod and Bahram
when they were still on Travancore. But no counteraction
had been devised. Either Nimrod had now
found a way to move from the capsule to the safety
of the ship, or Leah and the others were dead.
Chan wished that he had an Angel's inborn ability
to assess the odds.
"There is one other important question to be
answered," went on Mondrian. "Then you can lead
us down to collect the Construct, and we can talk
of celebration." He paused. "I am curious to learn
one thing. In your later efforts on Travancore, were
you again troubled by illusions or a distorted perception
of reality?"
Chan hesitated. Mondrian probably knew of
Chan's first and incomplete encounter with Nimrod--Chan
had reported seeing Leah, and it must
still be in the data files. But what was the right
answer now? Was it better to report that there had
been a subsequent meeting--or should he say he
had fired immediately on the next contact, before
there could be any exchange?
While he tried to decide on an answer, Brachis
raised his gun again and took a step towards the
door of the chamber where Chan was standing.
"Damn it, Esro, he's taking far too long. Can't you
see he's stalling?"
Mondrian gestured him to silence. "Keep calm,
Luther. Chan, we're both nervous. I need that Morgan
Construct. But there are some risks that we--
and the human race--can't afford to take. I have to
know what happened on Travancore. Did you see
signs of Team Alpha?"
As Mondrian was speaking, the door to the central
chamber was silently opening. Chan held his
breath as a figure slowly stepped through into the
quarantine chamber. Then he gasped in disappointment.
It was Godiva Lomberd, dressed in a loose
fitting white dress. She had a bewildered expression
on her face.
"Luther," she said. "I have to talk to you. It's
tremendously important."
Brachis had swung round, weapon raised and
finger tight on the trigger as the voice came from
behind him. Now he exhaled hard, and lowered
his gun.
"Goddy, don't ever do that again." His voice
was soft and urgent. "Do you realize I almost fired
at you? We're busy here. Go back to our rooms, I
can't talk to you now."
"It has to be now." Godiva took a couple of steps
forward. She spoke with a strange and remote
intensity. "Now, Luther. Please. For your own sake."
"Go with her." Chan was surprised to hear his
own voice. In spite of the mentalities' probability
analysis, he had not really expected to find Godiva
on board the Q-ship. But she had been identified
as one of the people most likely to help. "Godiva is
right, Brachis. Go with her--now."
'What the hell is all this?" Brachis swung to
face Chan, but Mondrian was moving quickly to the
control board.
"It's on board," he said. "God knows how, and
God knows where. But it's here--and it's taken
over Godiva. Look at her face."
"Goddy!" Brachis gave a cry of horror.
"Esro's wrong, Luther." She moved to stand in
front of him. "I m all right. There is someone new
on board, and we did talk. But I can't be taken
over--ever." She smiled at him dreamily. "Luther,
Nimrod can help you. Nimrod can take away all
the violence, and all the hatred. Don't you understand
that I would never have come here if I thought
it might hurt you? Luther, please come with me."
She touched his arm, and looked up into his
face. He stared back at her, mesmerized. "Go with
you and be changed, you mean--make me into a thing, a part of some alien life form. Goddy, how
did they get you?"
She gripped his shoulders. "Nimrod didn't take
me and change me--Nimrod only talked to me. It
can't change me, ever. But it can help you--if
you'll just let it!"
As she spoke, the door behind her opened further.
Monarian and Brachis had a new view of the
corridor beyond. Both men took a sudden and involuntary
step backwards.
Nimrod was in the doorway. For the first time,
Chan had a view of a mentality without being a

part of it. It was a terrifying sight. The forms of
Leah, S'glya, and Angel stirred feebly within a
swarming, choking mass of Ishmael's components.
Long purple-black tentacles, chains of Tinker elements,
writhed away from the main body. They
extended now into the room, reaching out towards
the locks of the closed vaults. As Chan watched,
the whole mass gave a convulsive jerk and moved
sluggishly nearer. The door between him and the
central room slid open.
"Godiva is right, Luther." Leah's voice spoke
suddenly from the depths of the vibrating mass.
"You and Mondrian can be helped ... if you will
let us work with you and learn your minds. And
you both need help. We saw into Godiva's mind
... but we did not enter it. We could not. She gave
us permission to tell you why. Luther, you must
accept a new shock. Godiva Lomberd is not human."
"What the hell--" Brachis raised his weapon,
pointing it at the central mass of Nimrod.
Godiva moved in front of him, forcing him to
lower the gun. "They are right, Luther," she said
quietly. "I am not human. My coding did not permit
me to tell you, and I wondered if you would
ever know. But now I am glad. Luther, my love,
don't you see it yet--what I am, where I came
from?" She stretched up to kiss him. "Let them
help, and then we will really belong to each other."
"Luther, get back!" Mondrian was looking at
Godiva with sudden comprehension. "Don't touch
her any more. Godiva, what are you?"
"Why do you ask? You know the answer, Esro. I
am an Artefact."
Brachis had ignored Mondrian's warning. He
stood frozen, with Godiva's arms holding him in a
soft embrace around his neck. Now he gave her an
uncertain smile, denying her words. "Godiva, don't
say that. Don't ever say anything like that."
But it is true. I am an Artefact--and the Margrave of Fujitsu made me." Her incredible body
moved close to him.
"That can't be true. You were with me when
Fujitsu's Artefacts were trying to kill me." His face
was white, and the hand that held the gun was
shaking. "Goddy, you helped to save me, over and
over, when the Artefacts were attacking me. You
didn't try to kill me. You can't be--can't be one of his--"
She pulled him closer and kissed him passionately
on the mouth. "I love you, Luther. I would
never want to hurt you, you should know that.
Fujitsu made me, in the vats of his own Needier
lab. But I was made for love, not death."
Godiva's beautiful face showed her torment. Instead
of returning her kiss, Brachis was leaning
back, pulling hard away from her.
"Don't you understand yet, Luther Brachis?" It
was Leah s voice again, emerging from the middle
of the Tinker swarm. "You should feel pity for
Godiva, not anger or revulsion. She was Fujitsu's
weapon, but it was not from choice. When the
Margrave was alive, her only program was to love
you, watch you, and stay with you. When he died,
that program was not cancelled. It remained as strong
as ever. But she also became a tool for your destruction,
the master source of information for all
the Margrave's Artefacts. How do you think the
Artefacts were able to follow you and know your
actions? Feel her misery, Luther Brachis, as we
feel it. All her nature tells her to love you, but she
could not help providing information that would
harm you. When you came to Travancore, she
rejoiced--for she knew the other Artefacts could
not follow you here and try to kill you."
Tears were trickling down the flawless skin of
Godiva's cheeks. She was nodding slowly, still
clutching at Brachis. "Listen to them, Luther. I
love you, Luther."
Brachis leaned away as she rose up on tiptoe to
kiss him again. "Love? Making money for Fujitsu,
is that your idea of love?"
She rested her head on his chest. "Commercial
love, if you want to call it that. I was made for
it--but it is still love to me, all the love that I have
ever known. Even after he was dead, I could never harm anyone. My instructions were to stay with
you, and when he was gone there could be no
change to that part of my programming. And I did
not want a change--only to make you more happy.
I love you. I want to stay with you forever." Her
face mirrored mixed emotions; love, misery, contrition,
compulsion. She pulled him again towards
her. "Come, Luther. Let us help you to drive out
hatred."
He stood rigid, looking out across the top of her
blond head, out across time and lightyears. Then
he was straining back again in revulsion from
Godiva's touch. "Damn your soul, Fujitsu." His
voice rose to a shout. "Damn you, wherever you
are. You win. You demanded your dues, but you
never said they included this. You win, Fujitsu."

He looked down at Godiva. "Don't touch me. Get
away from me."
She shook her head, but she slowly released her
hold. Her hands went to her throat, and she ripped
open her loose-fitting dress from neck to thighs. "I
cannot use words, Luther. All I can give you is
myself. It is all I have. This belongs to you. It will
always belong to you."
Luther Brachis glared at the opulent body. Godiva
moved closer, looking up lovingly into his face.
"Stop him." S'greela spoke suddenly from within
her closed chamber. "Stop him, or he will--"

Before anyone could move, Brachis had raised
his gun to point it at Godiva's head. She looked at
the weapon and smiled, a dreamy and loving smile,
and put her hand up to touch his cheek. He fired.
There was the sickening, dull explosion of human
flesh superheated to twenty thousand degrees. Her
head vanished in a bloody vaporized mist. The
perfect body stood for a moment, arms still raised
in supplication. Then she fell backwards. Even in
death, there was a strange grace to her fall. Luther
Brachis drew in a long, sobbing breath.
Mondrian was the only one who foresaw the
next act.
"Luther! For God's sake, no!" He jumped forward
and grabbed at Brachis's arm. The other man
looked at him, then almost casually began to turn
his wrist. Mondrian pulled as hard as he could,
but Brachis's arm movement did not slow. He turned
the weapon steadily to face his own head, then
looked down for a long moment at Godiva's tumbled
body.
"I loved you, Godiva," he said softly. "I still love
you." He fired the gun into his own open mouth.
His headless corpse fell backwards, pulling Mondrian
with it.
The body was still twitching when Mondrian
scrambled to his feet and headed back towards the
control panel.
"Stop him!" said Leah's voice. "He is now the
only one who knows the Link sequence back to
Sol."
Chan ran through into the main room, S'greela
bounding to join him. They were too slow. Mondrian
was already at the panel, flipping switches.
Chan grabbed his arm, pulling it away.
"S'greela, help me! That's the Q-ship destruct
pattern."
As Chan spoke there was a sudden blizzard of
Tinker components around his head, moving in to
surround all three of them. Before S'greela could
reply, the group mind awakened. Chan flowed in
with Bahram towards the man he was holding,
and felt the shock of conflict run back to him.
"can you reach him?" That was Nimrod, connecting
in Uirough the Ishmael/Shikari link.
It was a new experience, to feel through into a
resisting mind. There was a long moment of introspection
from Bahram.
"no. we cannot." Surprise and alarm from Bahram.
Chan felt Mondrian's mind rising powerfully against
them. There was more strength there than he would
have believed possible. Bahram was recoiling from
the intensity of emotion it encountered.
"WE cannot bring him to contact, there is a block
THERE . .. IMMOVABLE ... PERMANENT ... DEEP-SEATED."
"can you bypass it?" Nimrod was adding all its
mental resources to the struggle.
"NO. IT WOULD DESTROY HIM TOTALLY. IT IS BURIED BELOW
ALL ACCESSIBLE LEVELS."
S'greela and Chan were holding Mondrian tightly.
He was not resisting physically, but his mind boiled
and burned, rejecting all contact with the group
minds. Bahram tried again, feeling along a new
path. Chan felt the repugnance, as it reached the
seething undercurrent of Mondrian's mind.
"SEEK THE ABORT PATTERN FOR Q-SHIP DESTRUCTION." That
was Nimrod.
"it cannot be reached," said Bahram. "THE q-ship
DESTRUCT IS CLOSE NOW."
"Should we destroy Mondrian?" Chan's mind
had partially disengaged and added that thought,
unbidden, as an individual input to both group
minds. "It may yield the abort pattern."

"no ... no ... no." Chan's suggestion produced a
mental gale of disapproval. He felt the shocked
reaction from the Pipe-Rillas at the same moment
as he pulled further back from the group mind.
Channeling the group mind strength, Chan used it
to reach deeper, burrowing his way into a matrix
of thoughts that struggled and fought furiously
against him. He seemed to make no progress at
all. Mondrian would not yield.
Chan forced himself on, and finally reached the
memory block. It was a dark, confined presence,
sealed off from everything around it. Using the full
power of Nimrod and Bahram, Chan pushed deeper,
turning an obsidian edge of hidden memory to
pierce the naked, delicate fiber of Mondrian's conscious
mind. The darkness resisted for another long
moment, then swung suddenly under massive
pressure.
The block was gone. As Bahram reached past
him to pick the abort command and Mattin Link
sequence from Mondrian's mind, Chan was caught
in the mental explosion when Mondrian faced the
horror from his own distant past. There was a
scream of pain and pure mental anguish, blowing
Chan out of the dying brain and far away into his
own sea of fading consciousness. Mondrian's intellect
flickered and faded, a quenched ember of mind
that sank rapidly too nothing.
The group minds caught Chan, cradled him.
"Safe? Are we safe?" he asked. But he did not hear
an answer.
"Death. Death," said the only echo. Then he was
swirling into bottomless terror, knowing it was
only a faint shadow of what he had found inside
Esro Mondrian.
At last he let go, and sank all the way into the
maelstrom.

Chapter Thirty-One

IN THE GALLIMAUFRIES

The transition came at the hundred-and-twentieth
level of the Gallimaufries. It was sudden. Above
this point were the signs of success: fashionable
apartments, bright lights, high rents, and easy access
to the surface. Below the hundred-and-twentieth
a traveller found dark hell-holes, fugitives,
and failures.
Chan approached the apartment cautiously, pushing
a trolley in front of him. In the trash-filled
corridor he stood thoughtful for a while, then left
his burden--the one thing that would not be stolen,
even here!--by the grimy wall and moved to the
apartment door. He put his hand on the ID unit
and pressed hard. The light glowed. He was allowed
through to the inner foyer. He stood there,
patiently waiting.
It took a long time. The woman who finally
opened the inner door was tall and stooped, with
long, unkempt hair. She peered out into the dim
lit foyer. After another pause she pushed a greasy
lock away from her forehead with a skeletally thin
hand. Tired, bleary eyes stared at him. There was
a sigh. "Chan?" she said uncertainly.
He nodded. "It's me, Tatty. May I come in?"
She did not speak, but turned and shuffled slowly
back into the apartment. Following her, Chan saw
the vivid purple of Paradox shots down both of her
upper arms. They went through into a small living
room. Uninvited, Chan sat down in an armchair
and looked around him. The place was a clutter of
papers, dishes, and clothes, the result of many
weeks of too-casual living with no attempt to clean.
She had sat down opposite him on a ragged
hassock and was staring hard at his face. At last
she nodded slowly. "It's you, Chan. It's really you.
You've changed, just like they said."
"We've all changed." He sat stiffly, hands on
knees. "What did you expect, Tatty?"
"I heard the rumors. The Gallimaufries are full of
stories. How you and Leah went out to the stars,
with Esro Mondrian and Luther Brachis, and the
aliens. How you were changed, and caught a super
being. They say it will make everything different,
out there and back here too. A super-being ..."
She rubbed at her eyes.
"Maybe it caueht us. Don't believe all the rumors,
Tatty. We didn't catch anything. But we did
have terrible casualties. Did you hear about... all
of those?"
"You mean about Esro." Her eyes had a glazed
look. She was coming off a Paradox high. '#Yes, I
heard. And about Luther, and poor Godiva."
"You heard ... the other thing about her?"
"Ah, yes." For the first time Tatty showed a sign
of real emotion. She leaned forward. "You know, if
I'd had my brain working--back in the days when
I had a brain--I'd have guessed it. She came from
nowhere, and she was too good to be true. The
perfect woman, the perfect partner. Poor, doomed
Godiva. Lord, what a genius Fujitsu was. How did
you ever find out she was an Artefact?"
"She couldn't be linked into the group mind.
Controlled, yes--but not merged with it. That was
one of the few good things to come out of the
whole damned business--it got rid of some of my
worries." He wriggled in the chair at an intolerable
memory. "You know, I thought for a long time
that I might be an Artefact myself. I was a twentyyear-old
moron with an undamaged brain. That
never made sense. I wondered if I was human."
She looked at him in surprise. "You mean--Esro
Mondrian never told you?'
"Told me what?"
"He wanted to know where you came from. When
I first came back to Earth, he asked me to find out
anything I could about your background. And I
thought he passed what I learned on to you." She
hesitated. "I guess he didn't. Do you really want to
know?"
"Of course I do. Even a moron wants to know
why he is one."
"You're not a moron, Chan, and you never will
be. But you were an experiment--a failed one. One
of the Needier labs-- not the Margrave, he would
never have tolerated such incompetence--was
trying to make a superman, a physically and mentally
perfect specimen. They failed. They didn't
realize you needed a final set of mental stimuli.
They dumped the result down in the basement
warrens." She smiled sadly. "Welcome to the outcasts'
club. But you're all human. Isn't it a rotten
group to belong to?"
She leaned back on the hassock and closed her
eyes. Her face was grey and bony. To Chan, she
seemed no more than the aging specter of the
woman he had known back on Horus.
"Do you want to know what happened to Mondrian?"
he asked at last.
The dark-shadowed eyes slowly opened. "Should
I want to know? Esro Mondrian, the man who
used me, and then threw me away when there was
nothing left for me to do for him? I don't think
there is anything to tell me."
"I was inside Esro Mondrian's mind, in the last
few moments. He didn't throw you away. He believed
you had rejected him. You left him alone, to
face what he couldn't face. He was never at peace.
He was a driven man."
"I know that better than you will ever know it."
Tatty had closed her eyes again, and tears rolled
out from under her dark lids. "He could never tell
me what it was--never tell anyone."
"He could not. But he didn't need to. I--"
Chan halted. He found that he could not speak
of what he had seen in Mondrian's mind. Even at
second hand, the terror was too all-encompassing.
He felt the impact of that hidden memory, taking
him again, as it had taken him every day since ...
The grass is three times as high as his head. It
grows all the way around, like the walls of a big
circular room. The blue sky above is a domed ceiling,
holding in the heat. It is much too hot, and he is
sweating. He bends down, staring curiously at the
little bugs running fast and squiggly among the stems
of the grey-green plants.
"Come on, keep up. We don't have time for you to
dawdle."
He straightens at the shouted words and hurries
along after the others. Mummy is still walking next
to Uncle Darren, holding his hand and not looking
back. He comes up behind them and impulsively
reaches out to clutch her around the knees. He can
smell her sweat, and see it glistening on her legs.
Is she still mad at him?
"Mummy, hold me." He looks up uncertainly, hoping
for a hug and fearing a blow. It is a long time
since she held him without being asked. "Cuddle
me.
She does not look down at him. "We've no time for
that now. Can't you see we're in a hurry." The angry
voice again.
The man laughs, but it is not like a real laugh.
"Too right, we're in a hurry. But this ought to do as
well as anywhere. Come on, let's get on with it."
Mummy looks down at him now, and it is her cold
face. "Uncle Darren and I are going to be very busy
for a little while. I want you to sit right down here,
and wait quietly until we come back.'
"I want to go with you, Mummy." He holds tighter
to her legs. "I don't want to stay here."
"We can't do it that way, Big-boy." Uncle Darren
crouches down until his face is on the same level. He
is smiling. "Look, you just wait here for me and your
Mummy, just for a minute. And if you're good I'll let
you have this to play with while we're gone. See?"
Uncle Darren is holding the little electric lamp, the
one they had played with in the camp last night. It
had been a fun time, with the three of them all safe
and cosy in the tent, and Mummy laughing a lot.
She wouldn't let him crawl in with them, but she
had sounded happy, and Uncle Darren had told him
a bedtime story.
He reaches out his hand, drawn by the little lamp.
"Look, watch me do it." Uncle Darren works the
control. "Switch on--switch off. Think you can do it
for yourself?"
He nods, takes the lamp, and sits down to put it
onto the hard earth.
"That's my Big-boy." Uncle Darren stands up and
begins to walk away. "Come on, Lucy, he's all right
now."
He looks after them, watching as they move into
the long grass. They have their heads together, and
they are talking quietly again, the way they did in the
tent last night. He bends down to the lamp, wanting
to please Mummy and do whatever she wants to make
her happy with him. He stoically begins to turn the
little lamp on and off. It seems brighter than it did
when Uncle Darren first worked it. The sky is a
darker blue, and when he looks up he can see stars
creeping out, one by one. They look like little lamps
themselves, but they do not give any light.
He feels a sudden urge to run after Mummy, but he
knows what that will do. Mummy will be very angry,
and he will get another beating from her or Uncle
Darren. He looks around him, wishing that the tent
were here to crawl inside. Last night in the tent it
was wonderful. The light had been turned very low,
but he could hear them whispering together in the
dark. It made him feel warm and comforted.
"Are you absolutely sure?" That was Mummy. Her
voice was funny, with the words all warm and slurry.
"We have to be sure."
"Of course I am. Look, I checked it with the game
park authorities--/ pretended to be scared. The animal
control beacons make us perfectly safe. Nothing
will come near us. But if we didn't have them, or if
we turned them off, we'd be in trouble. You know
what's out there, Lucy? Lions, leopards, rhinos"--he
listened harder; he has seen pictures of the animals-- "and jackals and hyenas and vultures. Make a loud
noise when it's dark, or go running around outside
at night, and there'd be nothing left in the morning to collect and take back. Why all the questions now?
/ thought we had it all agreed."
"I want to be sure it will work. If it doesn't, we'd
have done a lot better with a straight sale. There's
good money to be had for a healthy one, back in
Delmarva Town."
"Not a hundredth as much as we'll get here.
They'll pay, just to keep us quiet." He laughed,
and there was again a gurgling sound of drinking
from a bottle. "They'll pay. What sort of publicity
would it give the game reserve if we wanted to
play it for news? Left for a few moments--strayed
away on his own--little boy lost, frantic mother
ready for breakdown. That would be news."
"Shhh. Watch what you're saying. Could still be
awake."
"So what? For Christ's sake, he's hardly three."
"He's very smart. He could be listening, and he
remembers everything he hears."
"Naw, he's asleep. ' Another laugh. "Very smart, is
he? How'd he ever get you for a mother?"
"My mistake, that's now." Her voice changed from
slurred to bitter. "The biggest mistake of my life.
Never again. And don't you pretend to be so smart.
How did you get hooked into your idiot marriage
contract, you and the bitch? Answer that, if we're
asking questions."
- "Aw, come on, Lucy. That's all over, so don't let's
start it again. I don't even think about her any more.
Look, once we get some money it'll just be you and
me. We can forget the false starts. All right? It'll just
be us."
There was a rustling noise, and a different sound
from Mummy like a soft groan. Then the light from
the little lamp went out, and all the light disappeared.
Now the light is disappearing again. Over beyond
the grass he can see the big hill, still as far away as
ever. It always seems to be the same distance, and
when it gets dark he can see the smoke on top. It is
there now, with the red sun behind it. He steps a
little way in that direction, then comes back. The
grass is too tall there, too frightening.
The sun seems to be sinking down into the warm
ground, melting into it. All of a sudden he cannot see
the long grass. The sky is black, with stars scattered
bright across it.
'Mummy." He shouts as loud as he can into the
swallowing dark, and begins to run in the direction
where they went. Then he thinks of the lamp, left
behind on the ground. He hurries back for it and
turns it on. It throws a bright circle all around him,
except behind his back. When he turns his head to
look there, he sees a wedge of darkness, the shadow
cast by his body. He moves backward, and the darkness
follows.
The light circle has become the whole world. Out
beyond its edge he begins to hear night noises. There
are mutterings and growls in the darkness. He stares
out, trying to see detail at the shadowy perimeter.
("... lions, leopards, rhinos ... jackals and hyenas
and vultures." Uncle Darren's words echo back to
him, terrifying now. "Make a loud noise when it's
dark ... there'd be nothing left in the morning to
collect and take back ...")
He shouldn't have shouted out into the dark. He
mustn't shout. Where is Mummy?
He has begun to weep; slow, silent tears that trickle
down his cheeks. He wants to scream for Mummy,
but he knows he must not. Behind him he hears a
slithering noise, and the soft rustle of moving grass
(".. . lions, leopards, rhinos ... jackals and hyenas
and vultures"). He holds the lamp tightly and starts
forward across the clearing. The edge of darkness
follows. New noises begin in front.
He stops and crouches close to the ground. The
lamp in his hand is beginning to weaken, the boundary
of the safe circle to shrink. He bites hard on his
fingers, and stares out into the night. He thinks he
can see eyes appearing there, flashing glints of green
and yellow. The lamp is almost done. The eyes stare
in from all around. He pushes with his hands at the
dark boundary, willing it to go back.
The fear runs all through him. He cannot stand it
any longer. He drops to the ground, flattening his
body and scrabbling at the hardened dirt. Far away
on the horizon, the top of the big hill is glowing with
its own smoky red light. He fixes his eyes on it, too
afraid to look again at the narrowing circle.
"Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy." He says
the incantation over and over, beneath his breath.
"Mummy, Mummy, Mummy ..." She is the only
thing he has left to hold onto in the whole world. But
he dare not call out to her, dare not even whimper.
He lies on the ground and shivers. He must not
cry. He will not cry. Mummy will come back soon
... she will come back ... she will come back ...
Esro Mondrian does not know it, but dawn and
rescue are more than ten hours away. The sale in the
basement warrens of the Gallimaufries will take place
a few days later.
Chan was shivering, too. He knew that Tatty
was speaking to him, but he couldn't understand
her words. She came forward and gripped him by
the shoulders.
"Chan! What's wrong? You're crying."
"I can cry. I can." He took a deep breath and
shook his head. "I'll be all right."
"What happened to you?"
"Memories. Now I understand why Esro Mondrian
found it impossible to trust anything in the
Universe. I know why he needed the Constructs so
badly."
She released his shoulders and went back to the
hassock. "I've known that for a long time. They
were supposed to be his protection--from everything
that sat out on the Perimeter. That's why he
had them built."
"And instead, they led to his destruction."
"That's only fair. Tatty's voice was bitter. "He
was willing to destroy everybody else in the universe
to keep them. It's only right that he would
destroy himself as well. Damn him."
"You hate him that much? I'm sorry."
She rubbed at her eyes with a too-thin hand. "I
have a right to hate him--every right. If anyone has earned the right to hate Esro Mondrian, I
have."
Chan stood up. "I can't argue with you, Tatty.
And I guess that tells me all I need to know. I'll go
now."
he glared up at him, her brown eyes gleaming.
"You mean you don't want anything from me?"
She laughed harshly. "My God, that's a first. Nobody
comes all the way down here to see me unless
they want something. Nobody except poor old
Kubo. He's the only friend I've got left. He comes
and we take our Paradox shots, and we sit here
grinning at each other." Her voice broke. "I think
of us, and I think of what I was. I was a Princess. And then I think of what I've become--what Esro
Mondrian made me ..."
"I did want something from you. But I see I'm
not going to get it." Chan put out his hand, and
gently touched Tatty's untidy hair. "I'm sorry, Tatty.
I'll come here again, and it will be just to see you."
He stepped back. "I suppose Kubo already mentioned
to you that Mondrian's body is still alive?"
She jerked as though hot wires had been run
through her breast. "Alive? What are you talking
about--he's dead."
"Yes--but also no. Wait here, Tatty. I'm going to
show you something." Before she could protest, he
was out through the door and into the corridor. He
returned a few minutes later pushing the wheeled
trolley in front of him. He brought it to where
Tatty was still sitting wide-eyed on the hassock,
then went back and closed inner and outer doors.
Finally he returned to take Tatty by her thin shoulders
and lift her to her feet.
"Look," he said quietly.
She stared for a long time. "That is not Esro
Mondrian," she said at last.
The body on the trolley looked tiny and shrunken,
lying on its back with eyes closed. The face was
calm and unlined, a blank tablet. Every line of
concentration and resolve was gone, smoothed away
to nothing.
"Look again, Tatty," said Chan. "It is Mondrian.
He's sleeping now."
She stared, and shivered. Her teeth began to
chatter together, and she groaned. "Please." She
turned away from the trolley. "Please, take him
away, I can't stand--"
She ran for the bathroom and slammed the door.
Chan heard the sound of violent retching, then
running water. He sat down on the hassock, staring
at Mondrian's unmoving body. After a few
minutes Tatty came out and stood in the bathroom
doorway.
"What did they--what did you do to him? It was you, wasn't it?"
"I suppose it was. I had to do it. He would have
destroyed the ship, or kept everyone there until we
all died. We had to find the information to prevent
that. He wouldn't allow it. I had to reach in, way
down, and erase whatever was blocking the group
mind access. It went a long way back, all the way
to the time when he was a little child. Everything
from that time forward has gone. Wiped out." He
nodded down towards the body in front of them.
"I don't know if this is Esro Mondrian or not.
That's a three-year-old child, with a three-year
old's brain and memories. But maybe the intellect--"^
"No!"
She screamed at him, and reached out
her hands like claws. "I know why you came here.
I know what you're trying to do."
"I only wanted to--"

"Don't lie to me. You're a monster--worse than
Esro Mondrian. You think that I could endure that again. It was as bad for me as it was for you-- think about that, Chan Dalton. Think about it, and
get him out of here. Take him away!"
Chan sighed. "Wait a moment. Let me open the
doors again, and we'll go."
He went slowly to open both doors, and came
dejectedly back to the living-room. Tatty was still
standing, hunched over the sleeping body. She did
not look up.
"What are you going to do next?" she asked.
"Are you going back to Ceres?"
"Ceres, then farther out. Leah and I have to go
back to Travancore. We have a Morgan Construct
there, still held in stasis. We have to go in with
Nimrod and Bahram and try to make it sane."
"Nimrod and Bahram--they're the super-beings?"
"Don't call them that. They're surprisingly unsuper
when it comes to difficult actions."
She nodded her head down at the body on the
trolley. "And-- this?"
"I don't know. Take him back up, I suppose."
"Can you wait for a few minutes? I'm overdue
for a trip to the surface myself. I'll help you to
move him."
She retreated to the bathroom. Chan was left
alone, wondering what was happening to Leah
and the others. He was itching to be back up there
with them.
Tatty was gone for a long time. When she returned
her hair was washed and brushed until it
shone, she was wearing a clean white dress, and
carefully-applied makeup hid the Paradox stigmata
and the dark rings around her eyes. She was raddled
and pathetically emaciated; but her back was
straight.
Chan began to offer a compliment. The words
stuck in his throat. "Come on, Tatty," he said at
last. "You need to put on some weight. Let's go,
and I'll buy you dinner on the upper levels."
She shook her head. "I changed my mind. I'm
not going. When will you be leaving Earth?"
"The sooner, the better. But not for a couple of
days. I have to visit Skrynol. She promised to
show me Mondrian's 'humanity expansion plans,'
and I have to tell her exactly what happened to
him. They had a strong mental bond, and I know
she'll be very upset. It will take me quite a while."
"Could you do that today, before you go up to
the surface?" Tatty sat down again by the trolley.
"I'd like you to leave him here with me overnight,
and come back in the morning."
Chan started to speak, changed his mind, nodded,
and turned to go. At the inner door he paused.
"Tatty, I don't want to mislead you. It couldn't be
here, you know. It would have to be on Horus,
with the Stimulator. There would be no Paradox
supplies, and it would be--"
'I know." She was looking at him and through
him, with the glowing brown eyes that he remembered
from the time when he was a small and
tormented child-mind, dreading the daily horror
of the Stimulator.
"And it will be no easier than last time." He had
to say it all. "Kubo says it may be worse for the
person who works the Stimulator."
"Kubo doesn't know about torture. But we know
torture, don't we, Chan? You and I, we know it
well. We can count the ways." Tatty's face was
like a death mask. "No more talk. Come back tomorrow.
I'll tell you my decision."
Chan nodded. He gently pushed the door almost
closed, then looked back into the room. Tatty had
ignored his departure. She stood by the trolley,
where Mondrian was stirring in his sleep. Perhaps
he was dreaming, for there was the hint of a smile
on his face.
And perhaps Tatty was smiling, too. She hovered
over Esro Mondrian, waiting the re-awakening.


The End.