RAY ALDRIDGE

THE SPINE DIVERS

So here I am, bound to this rock in a grotesquely melodramatic fashion, waiting for the tide. It's rising. Oh, it's rising all right. I can't see the water moving up the face of the cliff, but the waves below make a different sound as they break, and the sound is closer, more intimate. The sun is going down, the water is coming up.

Occasionally, overwhelmed by panic, I struggle violently against my bonds . . . to no effect. The knots are impeccable, as one would expect.

I have one minor consolation. My recorders are running, preserving my reactions to this experience. All of my fear, my regret, my anger. The feel of the stone beneath me, the bite of the monofilament at my wrists, my ankles, my throat. The fading flawless sky above, and at the very edge of vision a view of the already-shadowed horizon, the ocean tilting toward me . . . everything, into the recorders, even these pointless thoughts. The little remote camera floats in the air above me, making an external record of my death. Surely my friend and semi-fan Odorini will nutify my agent of my misfortune, and someone will come to remove the recorders from my corpse. The publisher will hire some hack to edit the materials I've gathered on this trip, and my creditors will be happy at last. Odorini will get a special edition, no doubt.

The hack will probably start with this scene, or perhaps a little later, when the waves are wetting my toes and I'm wetting my pants. Then, a flashback to the beginning of the whole sordid business. The story in sequence. A final external shot: my dead stare through the darkening water.

Fade out.

Actually, if my hands were free, I think I'd turn the recorders off.

The bearers carried my palanquin along the crag-top path, bare backs shining with sweat, stinking like genuine savages. Perhaps they were . . . the agency in Skull had assured me I was getting the Real Experience. But I suspected a degree of stage dressing. For one thing, few indigenes are left along the north Spine these days, and those lucky survivors have for the most pan found more profitable and less demanding ways to exhibit themselves, So the sturdy barbarians who bore me south along the Spine were in all likelihood just thin-frame mechs hung with vatted flesh. In times past the Spiners, to discourage this scab labor, would waylay the mech bearers, bash in their brain-boxes, carve the flesh from the frames, and have a big barbecue. A number of stranded tourists had to walk back to Skull and several failed to survive the trek. The tourist agencies retaliated by installing poisonous flesh on the next generation of mechs, which is one reason why so few real Spinets remain in the north.

I shut down my recorders and wiped the past half-hour from memory. This sour cynicism isn't what my subscribers want. Everyone gets enough of that unpleasantness in their ordinary lives. Most of my fans are urban wage-slaves, yearning for vivid experiences in faraway places. And what's wrong with that? Nothing whatever.

After a minute of deep breathing and mind-clearing exercises, I tapped at my forearm dataslate, until a chime signaled that the recorders were reset. I glanced at the remote camera's monitor, a square of light glowing on my wrist. The little camera flew high overhead, recording a long shot of my palanquin joggling down the path. I signaled it to move in closer, and began again.

Autumn on the Spine . . . certainly there is great beauty here, and of a fairly uncommon sort. We were passing through a maze of carnelian monoliths, fantastically carved by the eons. In places where the agate had worn thin, the long light of the westering sun shone through, rendered blood-red by its passage through the stone. To the right I caught an occasional glimpse of Azure Ocean, placid-seeming from this height. The path was bordered with creeping thyme, the scent of which made an agreeable counterpoint to the earthy odors arising from my bearers.

I turned a determined eye to them. They shouldered the padded poles of my palanquin without noticeable effort, trotting in careful unison, so that my seat swayed in a comfortable and predictable manner. They wore breech-cloths of goatfish leather, beaded with intricate designs: gray, blue, and dusty rose. Their sandals were laced to the knee, the thongs tasseled with thin gold chain, flashing as they moved. On waist straps they carried long slender daggers and short-barreled power guns of an antique design. Their heads were shaven,their skin a brown so dark it displayed a purplish tint.

We passed the last carnelian monolith and the trail rose to the right toward the Spine's crest. At the top of the granite knob, I could look out over both oceans.

"Stop here," I said. I looked east, to the steel-blue deeps of the Stormbringer Sea. A kilometer offshore, a monster was rolling in the trough of the big waves. Its copper-sealed body was larger than the starliner that had brought me to this ocean world. Its great fins glowed like green flames, I could see the amber glitter of its eye-cluster. I felt a bit of the awe that so rarely touches me these days -- only a little, but enough that clever editing and enhancement will transmit the feeling to my subscribers, when they relive this moment. There was a time when the awe came easily to me . . . whenever I visited a strange world, saw a new vista, or met a person from a culture unfamiliar to me. But no more. Now it's something of a straggle to feel anything but fatigue and weary calculation. Is my reaction strong enough, complex enough, sympathetic enough, different enough? And on this trip -- which may be the last one for me -- I worry that a little desperation will find its way into my work. This one must sell; it must. Another failure will almost certainly end my career, such as it is.

I realized that I had gone astray again and paused the recorders, saving the sea monster segment -- not much, but usable.

I was very tired; perhaps that was the difficulty. I decided not to waste any more of the Spine's marvels that day.

"Is this a good camp?" I asked the lead bearer, who called himself Teeg.

"No, offworlder," Teeg said, without turning his head. "Leatherwings hunt the heights after dark. We must go down into the Valley of Shards, or the beasts will carry you away to their nests . . . tent, foolish mechanisms, soft white person and all. There is shelter in the Valley, and a hot spring to comfort your weak bones." He spoke without turning his head, and I again suspected the agency had given me mechs instead of men. There was something about their insolence, carefully metered . . . unpleasant enough to make me suppose that I am among surly barbarians, but not vicious enough to deeply offend me. My historical sources describe the real north Spinets as masters of casual invective --inventive, industrious, and malicious. But perhaps these particular ones had simply adapted to the tourist trade and were angling for a tip. Or it could have been that my force-learned fluency in the Spiner language was insufficiently subtle, so that I was unable to appreciate the depth of Teeg's contempt.

I sighed and made another attempt to put my misgivings aside. Here was a fine place to make an opening narrative dump. "Once again," I said.

. . . while my vision pans across the wild craggy landscape and the two oceans, while my heart fills with the beauty of the scene, with anticipation of the wonders I will see during my journey down the Spine, a resonant thought-stream sets the scene: "The Spine is a tall narrow chain of mountains, formed during a cataclysmic fracture of the underlying planetary crust. Upwelling magma lifted a fantastic variety of ancient rock to the top of the Spine, so that every imaginable landform can be found there. Though less than a kilometer wide in many places, the Spine divides two oceans completely, curving south for 4500 kilometers. Its southern terminus is the icy waste of the polar cap, its northern terminus the small jungle continent of Skull and the city of the same name. But the chief marvel of the Spine is not its unusual geology. Far stranger are the several unique cultures which grew up along the Spine, isolated by the lack of roads, the expense of air freight, and the impossibility of ocean transport."

And here, I realized, would be an excellent place to use the sighting of the sea monster, so I made a note . . . and then I made a sincere attempt to feel all the things I ought to feel.

Teeg and his fellow mechs set up camp efficiently. I could not seem to think of them as human, despite my best efforts to believe in them.

The hot spring was in a grotto encrusted with white mineral deposits, very pleasant. Teeg had hung several small oil lamps from the ceiling so that the grotto glowed with soft yellow light, reflected and multiplied by the crystal efflorescence.

As I eased myself into the spring which indeed I expected to soothe my aches, Teeg spoke. "Soak to your heart's content, offworlder. We eat at dark, but we will save you the scrapings of our plates."

I nodded affably. This seemed to annoy Teeg or so I might have thought, had I believed him human. "Enjoy your wallow," he snapped. "At one time, this spring was sacred to the Goddess of Shallow Clams, and no one went shod over its holy ground. Now, flabby offworlders sport in its pure waters, happy as rotting blowfish." He went away.

In the morning we took the trail again. We made camp four more times before we reached the village of the Spine divers. We met no other travelers along the way; the agencies in Skull arranged matters so as to preserve the illusion that the Spine was an empty place -- parties on foot were carefully scheduled to avoid overlaps and all return traffic was by flyer. It worked for me. The magic of traveling among wonders had come upon me again, perhaps not so strongly as in the past, but enough that I could begin my work in earnest.

The village, which had no name, lay in the open mouth of a broken cliff, several hundred meters above Stormbringer Sea. My bearers paused at the top of the path that led down into the village, and my recorder lights twinkled.

The houses encrusted the cliffs like barnacles, white sprawls of masonry with black stone roofs. No one moved in the narrow alleys and stairways that separated the houses -- the divers are a principally nocturnal people. Also, much of the village's life goes on in the caverns below.

I felt a familiar surge of anticipation, a complex of emotions that even my harshest critics would admit I feel well. Curiosity was a large component, of course. I wondered about the folk of the village -- what were their special peculiarities . . . their dreams, their fears, their expectations? How would I seem to them? What would the local food be like; would I eat it with pleasure or resignation? Would I meet a special person, someone with whom I might form a bond of actual friendship, through whose eyes I might, to some extent, see the village as the inhabitants saw it? Would I find a lover during my stay? Such a happy circumstance would add to the value of my travelogue -- my fans are, like everyone else in the universe, curious about the sexual customs of faraway people.

I refuse, however, to visit brothels in search of merchantable memories -- I believe my fans appreciate this small integrity -- and besides, sexuality that arises from friendship is almost always more interesting than that which derives from commerce. Love, now . . . that's another matter entirely; it lies well outside my area of specialization and I have had no familiarity with it. I would hesitate to attempt it, even as an experiment.

All in all, I anticipated adventure of a not too dangerous or strenuous nature. I hoped for some degree of mystery, which the unusual circumstances of the villagers promised. Finally, I felt that small degree of fear that any realistic traveler carries along with the rest of the baggage. I journeyed in a strange land, where it was easy to believe anything might happen, and of course death was almost a cottage industry in the village.

"You will stay at the offwortder's inn, I suppose," said Teeg, with a perfunctory sneer.

"What other lodging is available?" I asked.

He shrugged.

But as we approached the village, after a tense half-hour of jolting down the steep path, a flyer from one of the Skull agencies landed on the inn's roof and belched forth a crowd of weekenders.

I was disappointed, of course. Somewhere along the way, while putting up with the discomforts of traveling the path in the old-fashioned style, I had convinced myself that I was approaching a difficult destination, off the well-beaten tourist routes, a place only the most intrepid might visit. To an extent that was true, of course; probably the weekenders thought themselves intrepid too.

The truth is the village has many visitors. There are the simple tourists, like me, but others come to the village with more complicated agendas.

In any case, by the time we reached the inn, all the rooms were taken, and Teeg smiled.

At first I believed that this was part of the Real Experience the agency had promised, a small difficulty leading to an intriguing resolution.

Teeg initially took the position that having delivered me to the nameless village, his obligation was at an end, but he was suspiciously quick to respond to my threats and entreaties. A real Spiner, so I thought then, would have drawn out his enjoyment of my predicament. Teeg instead offered to find me a room in the house of his demi-uncle, who, so Teeg told me, resided in the village but was neither a diver nor a user of the diverts drug- and so might be considered a reliable person.

I was not entirely reassured, but fortunately, my recorders were running and I got some fairly good material -- my initial feeling of annoyance, then the illogical anger of the traveler whose plans have gone astray, and eventually 'the satisfaction of having coped successfully with misfortune. I noticed an almost pleasurable anxiety associated with my changed circumstances. I now' expected discomfort, but also adventure of an unlooked-for variety.

The house was larger than some, also a bit more dilapidated. A crumbling terrace ran the length of the facade. A scattering of wicker chairs held several ancient persons -- wrapped in thick robes and gazing fixedly out over Stormbringer Sea -- who failed to acknowledge my arrival by so much as a blink.

"Burned-out cases," Teeg said, with his customary sneer. "Uncle collects them, as some might collect rare orchids or the ears of soft white persons."

"A curious hobby," I said cautiously.

Teeg laughed. "Not so curious as yours. I have watched you, straining to feel something, to revive your dead heart."

"It's no hobby." I was a little irritated. What did this unwashed savage know of my craft?

"More unbelievable yet. There exist people so shallow and crippled that they would pay money for your false memories?"

I shook my head; no profit in discussing aesthetic matters with Teeg the Spiner.

He laughed again and led me through a portico into the house.

The uncle seemed a paler, older version of Teeg but he was as obsequious as any other innkeeper. "Yes, I can suit you very well," he said. "A room in the south wing the second floor, with a fine view of the Sea and a comfortable bed. You'll like it, I promise, or my name's not Tsaldo Loomp."

I touched his outstretched hand in greeting. "And your name is . . .?"

He looked mystified for a moment, and then giggled. "Tsaldo Loomp. At your service. And your name, sir?"

"Michael Mastine."

"We are honored, Citizen Mastine," he said, with only a trace of irony.

Teeg and one of his henchmen carried my baggage up to the room. I trailed after, trying for a strong impression of the house, where perhaps interesting events would occur. The walls were white plaster, stained with age. At intervals hung little dark portraits of dead Spiners, and also a few trophies, the so-called "rainbow rippers" that the divers hunt. These were large, slim-bodied fish striped with once-glorious color, their long razor-edged fins stiffened forever in poses of contrived fury. Their eyes were huge, adapted to the darkness of deep water -- the reason why they only entered the tidal caverns at night. They were all at least two meters long, some much larger, and I could see that such a creature might be a formidable quarry for a solitary diver.

The house was quiet, a little musty, and cool . . . it gave an impression of interesting secrets, of an unseen inner life. I began to think that perhaps I had been fortunate.

Following Teeg down the hall toward my room, I saw the woman come toward us. The bearers pressed close to the wall, their eyes cast down in sudden deference. She glanced directly at me for a moment, as she brushed past, and I felt a touch of the same distant awe that the sea monster had aroused in me. She was dark, and brilliant with unconventional beauty . . . she was more than a little frightening. She wore the same beaded breechcloth that Teeg wore, her naked torso was smoothly muscled and where she was unscarred, her skin had a dense lustrous polish. One breast was perfect, the other's shape was marred slightly by an indented slash just above the magenta nipple. Her face was unmarked except for a pink seam along her jaw. Her mouth was thin and tense, her eyes huge and of a pale shocking gray. Her black hair was hacked short, without style.

I had to resist the urge to turn and look after her. I was suddenly glad that the offworlders' inn was full.

My room was adequate, if primitive: an iron bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, a high-backed chair, a rickety balcony overlooking one of the village's wider alleys and as promised, a fine view of the Sea.

I was sure Tees was a man only after he was gone. He piled my luggage in the center of the room, then turned to go. I felt a certain distress at his unceremonious attitude; had we not shared the rigors of the trail for five days? I took out a clip of valuta coupons, attempted to give him a small gratuity. He took the coupons and gave me a long chilly look. Then he spat juicily on them, dropped them with a flourish, and went away, knee chains flickering brightly.

I left my room as the sun settled to the Azure Ocean, looking for dinner and a sense of the place. Tsaldo Loomp wheeled one of his ancients in as I went out; the innkeeper nodded, the ancient stared intently at nothing.

The alleys were filling with shadow and occasional strollers, mostly off world folk from the tourist flyer. These were a varied lot, from a half-dozen worlds, mostly couples and triads, apparently out for a romantic weekend in exotic surroundings. Their loud voices rubbed uncomfortably at my nerves. I found myself unreasonably irritated. Tourists, I thought peevishly, forgetting that I was only a tourist myself. I suppose this bit of self-deception is an essential tool of the serious traveler.

I was hungry, after nearly five days of Teeg's spartan cuisine -- mostly freeze-dried stews and hard biscuits, edible but bland. I paused my recorders and cued my guidebook--by the obscure Hiepter Gant Jr., published almost a hundred years ago, but the only one available. I scanned the restaurant entries, which were few, and settled on a place Gant described thusly: "reeking with history and garlic, the Ripper Room has been under the same ownership for centuries, a rarity in a place where lives are generally short and full of distraction."

A map appeared on my wrist and I memorized it before reactivating my recorders.

The directions led me into the congested heart of the village, where the white masonry houses crowded together and the alleys were so narrow and dark that streetlights burned already. I passed several entrances to the caverns, black mouths exhaling a cold bitter breath. Rusty bars blocked the entrances and signs warned: TOURISTS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, Unless Accompanied by a Certified Guide.

Somewhat to my surprise I found the Ripper Room still in business, and pushed through the door into a cheerful scene. A large low-ceilinged room held several dozen tables, On the whitewashed walls were enough lamps to make the too his bright, and the floor was of clean polished flagstone, Though the hour was early for dinner, customers occupied most of the tables. Most were outsiders, but there were a fair number of Spiners present -- in fact I thought to recognize Teeg and his henchmen, freshly bathed and wearing pangalac unisuits, but when next I looked he was gone. Waiters trotted back and forth bearing trays of steaming food. I sniffed, detecting the waft of garlic and other savories, but if the odor of history was present it was too subtle for me. No stuffed fish decorated the walls, a point in the establishment's favor.

A small old man came up to me, hairy eyebrows raised. "Will you dine with us, Citizen?" His features were sharp, his black eyes glittering with energetic curiosity. His hair was a glossy white pelt, which gave him an animal quality.

"I hope to," I said.

"Come with me."

He led me to a table in the comer, well away from the kitchen door. "Is this satisfactory, Citizen?"

"Fine."

"The table has a touch screen, a menu from which you may choose. Today's special is a generous portion of fettuccine dressed with clams and sweet peppers, in a white sauce with cheese. I recommend it highly."

"Thank you," I said.

He bowed quite gracefully "I am Odorini, the proprietor. Call me, should you have any questions or difficulties." He glanced at my forearm dataslate, and then at the little remote camera, which had followed me inside and now hovered above us. These accessories are commonly used by tourists; in fact several other remotes hung beneath the Ripper's Room ceiling, storing up memories for their owners. But it was apparent to me that Odorini somehow recognized the quality of my devices, and understood that I was more than a casual traveler. "I leave you to enjoy your meal, then," he said, and went back to his desk beside the entrance.

The fettuccine was excellent, as was the pale green wine, the antipasto, the rumcake, the coffee, the brandy. Clearly the Ripper Room did not specialize in the cuisine of the region, but that might prove to be a mercy later in my visit. I drank a toast to Hiepter Gant Jr., wherever he was. I felt a good deal more cheerful than I had an hour before; I felt ready to explore the village.

When I stopped to pay my bill, Odonni accepted my valuta and spoke in his careful manner. "Was your meal acceptable?"

"Completely," I answered.

"I am pleased."

I had the notion that he wanted to say more, so I lingered a moment beside the desk.

He hesitated, as if weighing the propriety of the situation. "You are Michael Mastine, the traveloguist?"

I was astonished. "You know my work?"

"Yes, indeed. I own several of your chips. 'Life among the Treemen of the Brontoi Archipelago.' 'Nude Rafting on the Speite,' and, of course, your classic, 'Down the Gravity Beam to the Core.'"

The universe is sometimes a bizarrely small place. "I didn't choose the titles," I said.

"I thought as much," he said. "Well, should you require any assistance, or advice, or even a guide to the caverns -- I am certified by the diver's association -- don't hesitate to ask. I would be pleased to help."

"You're very kind," I said.

"Not at all." He walked me to the door. "Take care," he said, as I left the Ripper Room.

Outside night had come to the village, and lights burned in all the alleys. More people were out now, some of them divers, I supposed, or at least they seemed to have the look of Spiners -- dark, remote, dressed in barbaric simplicity. None gave me more than a passing glance. I wondered where they were going, what they planned.

Once, out of curiosity, I followed a scarred young man through several twists and turns, until he suddenly turned and hissed at me, knife in hand. I raised my empty hands peacefully, stepped back. He made a warning gesture with his knife, and sidled away into the darkness.

I wandered about, passing the doors of several bars and drug emporia, the occasional souvenir shop, a whorehouse, a self-service hospital. Most numerous were the various suicide parlors, though these seemed less than prosperous and I saw no customers waiting. Many houses were silent and empty, as if the village had at one time supported a larger population. But from behind some of the doors and courtyard gates came the sound of laughter and music and the clink of glasses. I began to feel a certain lonely melancholy. No one here knew me, except for Odorini the restaurateur. No one would invite me to their parties. As was my invariable custom, I carried no letters of introduction; as much as possible I tried to travel as an ordinary tourist

At the south edge of the village a broken stairway led up to a terrace. I climbed it in the light of the huge rising moon, which seemed to fill half of the eastern horizon, though it was a few days past full.

Several iron benches at the terrace's edge overlooked the village, and I sat, a little tired. After positioning the remote camera to record my silhouette against the moon, I considered my next move. The village was a closed society, not particularly interesting in itself. The architecture was no different from that of a million other stony places. Some of the people were picturesque -- good for a minute or two on the finished chip.

I tried to remember why I had thought the village such a sure thing.

Oh yes, I thought. The divers and their drug.

I learned about the divers and their drug from my agent, Dalrimple Cleame.

"You're broke," he told me one day.

"Really," I said weakly.

"Really. But I can get you one more shot, if you have the gonads to try again."

"Details?" I asked, with justifiable suspicion.

"Marginal publisher . . . an outfit called Remembrances Inc., chartered out of Firenza. Ever heard of it? Me neither. Chintzy expense account, small advance, limited distribution. But it'll keep you in the biz, and who knows? Might do well enough to bring you back from the dead. Stranger things have happened."

"Where?" I had been in a monosyllabic mood for months.

"A planet called Raarea. A village where they do something very dangerous; they swim alone through tidal caverns, hunting a big mean fish. They use a speargun."

"Why?"

"They extract a drug from the big mean fish. Now get this: it's a no-fear drug. When you're on it, you aren't afraid of anything. Just what you need, Michael."

"Thank you."

"Think nothing of it. And picture this: some of these divers, who swim through these black caverns, carried by vicious tides from one ocean to another, flying under mountains in the darkness, chasing a creature that would just love to cut them to small scraps . . . some of them, they don't even use the drug."

A synthetic version of the drug is available on Dilvermoon. It causes a sort of mentational leprosy in its addicts -- fear, after all, is a necessary thing. Without fear, we avoid much of the pain of the psychic injuries we receive, and parts of our hearts rot away unnoticed.

But it must be different, here in the village. Or perhaps not; many folk come here to buy the courage to leave their lives, or for other, less-understandable purposes.

I heard a footfall, close behind me. I turned quickly and jumped up, afraid that some criminal was stalking me, but it was the woman I had seen at the house, her identity plain in the moonlight. Her expression was less readable. Curiosity? Annoyance? I couldn't tell.

Against the evening chill, she wore a white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist.

"Hello," she said, in a low soft voice, an incongruously sweet voice.

"Hello," I answered.

"Don't be afraid," she said, as she came up to me.

"I'm not," I said, in somewhat hollow tones.

She smiled and stood too close to me. "You're not? Odorini said you were a man who was afraid of everything." She seemed to realize that this might not be a very friendly conversational gambit. "Of course, he doesn't mean that in a bad way."

My recorders were still running; I hardly thought of them. "You're a friend of his?"

She shrugged. "He told me to look for you here."

I became aware of her perfume, a light scent, reminiscent of fresh-cut hay and flowers -- an odd scent in this stony seascape.

"Do you generally do what Odorini tells you to do?"

"He's my father, or so I'm told. I give him respect. Besides, he said I might find you interesting. And that you would definitely find me interesting."

I'd run out of things to say. She came even closer, so that I could almost feel the warmth of her body. She was almost exactly my height; her eyes were inches from mine when she spoke again.

"Does this seem ugly to you?" She looked down and traced with her finger the scar across her breast.

"No," I said, a bit breathlessly. I was by now quite frightened. The encounter had taken on an erotic menace for which I was completely unprepared. What was going on? Who was this woman? Who was Odorini and what was he up to?

"Am I beautiful to you, then?"

Her eyes had a strange blind glitter. I wondered if she were under the influence of the drug.

"Yes," I answered. "Of course."

She smiled, for the first time, and it was an expression as soft and sweet and surprising as her voice. "I'm a diver," she said. "Odorini said you would be more interested in that than in my beauty."

"You're a diver? Really?"

The smile faded. "Yes, yes. So what? Here there are many divers, but only one Mirella."

"That is your name? Mirella?"

"My name, yes." Now she seemed impatient. "Come. We will go back to Loomp's house and talk, or luck. Whatever you want."

I drew back slightly, an involuntary gesture of fright, and she made a sound of exasperation. "You are far too slow for me," she said, and went away, walking fast.

When I returned, the house was silent and dark, and I found my way to my room with the aid of my remote's camera lights.

I took breakfast at the Ripper Room, of course; curiosity and paranoia demanded I immediately interview Odorini. Unfortunately, he wasn't there when I arrived.

When I came to pay my bill, Odorini had appeared, looking bright-eyed and respectful. I was disarmed, and unsure of how to proceed.

Finally I ventured a remark. "I think I met your daughter last night."

He raised his hairy eyebrows in mild inquiry. "Ah. Mirella, you mean?"

"You have other daughters?"

"Many," he said modestly. "Sons, too."

He seemed polite and receptive, but not particularly eager for conversation. I tried again. "She said you wanted her to seek me out. May I ask why?"

He shrugged, but not at all insolently. "I thought you might find her unusual. And of course I wanted her to have an opportunity to meet a well-known artist from the larger universe. The village is such a small world, you see."

"I suppose," I said. "She told me she was a diver."

"Yes. That is so." Odorini looked quite sad, suddenly.

"You don't approve?"

Another shrug a sorrowing gesture. "The divers . . . they all die young. What can I say? Hers is a glorious profession, of course, but . . . she is a sweet child; one's children should live forever, no?"

A silence passed, while I struggled to think of something to say. The recorders were running though today Odorini seemed to take no notice of my remote camera, which hovered slightly to the side, automatically recording shots of each speaker in turn. It occurred to me that an interesting story was rising from the anonymity of the village.

If only I could find the wit to draw it forth, my professional difficulties might be over.

"Well," I said. "You mentioned that you might be available. To guide me into the caverns?"

"Yes, of course." He brightened a bit. "You could watch the divers make their leap, or if you prefer, we could go to the Well of Rebirth, to see the survivors emerge with their trophies. The hunting tide runs tonight."

"I knew," I said; my arrival had been planned to coincide with a hunting tide, as there are only three suitable tides per week, on average. "Does Mirella hunt tonight?"

For an instant Odorini's direct gaze seemed tinged with dislike, but perhaps I was mistaken. "No, no. Not tonight. She is still recovering from injuries . . . on her last hunt, a fish cut her badly. But soon enough she will be ready."

"I see," I said.

Odorini waited, once again an avatar of self-possession, sharp old face pleasantly blank.

"Well, then, tonight. Perhaps the Well?" I said.

He bowed. "Meet me here an hour past sunset. If that is convenient."

The day passed without profit. I took a steep path down to the Azure Ocean, where I found a small stony beach, littered with sunbathing offworlders. A swimming area had been set up, protected from hungry sea monsters by a charged mesh, but the murky water tempted me not at all. At the far end of the strand were a cluster of so-called "suicide rocks," where for a small fee a customer might be clamped, there to await the inrushing tide. It seemed to me an eccentric approach to self-termination, but perhaps some folk saw a certain majesty in it -- death by inexorable natural forces.

I bought a sticky mm drink at a rock-slab cabana, rented a lounge chair, and joined the other tourists for a while.

I looked down the beach, trying to think of some useful work I might do in the village, before dark and the descent into the caverns -- but without success. My mind seemed heavy and dull, and I could only hope that my imagination was still functioning somewhere below the conscious level. I noticed again that many of the offworlders carried recording gear, some of it of professional quality. As I watched the tiny cameras hovering over their owners, an unpleasant image came to me: the cameras looked a little like flies attracted to some offal washed up on the sand. The odor of rotting seaweed contributed a degree of authenticity to this unfortunate perception.

No other colorful metaphors occurred to me and I quickly grew bored. I gulped down my drink and made to rise.

"Hello," said someone, in the Dilvermoon trade patois, my native tongue.

I turned, to see a smiling tourist approaching me. She wore a fashionable bathing sash about her narrow waist. She was tall and wore her long red hair in a knot of braids. All of her body hair had been replaced with stylized tattoos, so that from a distance red curls seemed to flow up her belly in languid chevrons. Though a trifle over-voluptuous for my taste, she possessed the physical perfection available to any Dilvermooner of means. Two external cameras orbited her and she had a forearm dataslate identical to mine, except that it was new. She wanted to compare equipment. We exchanged names. She was a beginner, but fairly knowledgeable and apparently wealthy enough to start with quality gear. We discussed her setup, and then I let it slip that I was a professional.

She became vivacious. "Tell me about your work, please."

"Well . . . . I travel about to unusual places . . . like this. Then I try to see with clear eyes. Then I spend a lot of time in the studio, trying to put together a true picture of what I've seen."

"Do you publish under your own name?"

I sighed. "Yes. But there's no particular reason for you to have heard of me. I'm obscure. Or, as I like to think of it, I have a small but select audience."

"Oh," she said. "That sounds nice. I'll have to look for your chips when I get home. But . . . well, do you think there's still a market for, you know, the plain old travelogue? One of my husbands is a factor for one of the Bo'eme clearing houses, and he says the vogue of the one-person production is over. Dead and gone. He says people want epics these days. Casts of thousands. Multi-track memories. Grand dramas, tight plotting, life-or-death situations."

"He may be right," I said, a little stiffly. She was articulating my worst fear. "But some still appreciate the subtleties of a simple, deep, personal experience. I hope so, anyway."

"I'm sure you know more about it than he does," she said consolingly, and wandered away.

When she was gone, I felt drowned in desperation and lethargy.

At length the siren sounded and we all got up to go. Offshore, the Azure Ocean began to boil as the tide poured from crevices below. I felt a subtle trembling in the stones beneath my feet -- the transmitted violence of the tide as it broke against the other side of the Spine. Metal doors slid up to seal off the rock-slab cabana. The man who rented the lounge chairs went around collecting them, and he started up the cliff trail with several dozen nested on his back.

The rest of us followed immediately, except for a group down by the suicide rocks. A woman was apparently awaiting the tide, surrounded by her family -- or perhaps just a gaggle of morbid tourists, all of whom had emotigogue recorders and free-flying cameras. The woman had a tired, rather pleasant face. She didn't seem at all anxious; probably she'd bought a sample of the drug in the village. The metal bands that held her wrists and ankles sparkled in the westering sun.

I knew I ought to go down and make a record of this defining event --suicide was a major industry in the village, as one might expect. But for some reason I couldn't bring myself to do so.

I left the other tourists to watch the tide climb the Heights and went in search of lunch. I found a clean-looking basement cafe down a narrow alley; it advertised "genuine Northern Spine cuisine." This consisted of a variety of fish and mollusks -- pickled, smoked, dried -- as well as several kinds of weedy vegetables, accompanied by a gray crumbly algae-based bread. I'd had much worse, and I tried to keep an open mind. My fans deserve that consideration. The strong greasy flavors that lay so heavily on my palate might well seem marvelous to some. Of course, these days most playback consoles allow their users to isolate a single sensory track -- taste, for instance -- and suppress any unwanted tracks. So my fans will not be entirely at the mercy of my unappreciative thoughts.

After lunch I went back to my room to do a little editing.

I carry a large folding flatscreen monitor on all my trips. It's not holographic. Human vision isn't holographic. . . that's my reasoning. Even though my little remote records a partially holographic image, via radar-ranging I don't use that capability in my finished chips. I don't want that jarring textural contrast between the images recorded from my optic nerve and images recorded by the camera, so I flatten the camera's input into an ordinary stereo image. Besides, there's nothing more annoying to an .artist than to see people walking around their holocubes, peering into the corners, looking for the little details the artist didn't want them to notice. People enjoy doing that, but so what? With my stuff, they have to be content to see what I see. I only use external images when necessary for clarity. A critic said of my last chip ". . .clings with tiny weak claws to his outmoded technique, attempts to conceal his limitations beneath a false and labored simplicity." I'm not fashionable, I know -- that's one reason for my declining popularity, so my agent Dalrimple Cleame tells me.

I shut down my recorders and unfolded the big monitor.

For a while I just flipped between tracks, getting a sense of the material trying to slip into that strange double-minded state that I must adopt in order to work with my own memories. Not everyone can relive an experience while simultaneously retaining a useful awareness of the here and now. It's like a disorienting drug, that mental state, a kind of purposeful delirium. It's like dreaming, except that one's recorded memories are far more vivid and concrete than any dream and they can easily overwhelm an unpracticed person. In fact, some must resort to filters which scale back the intensity of the recorded experience. But I've been doing this for a very long time now. My consciousness easily splits into the two streams that the work demands.

It struck me that so far the unifying emotional coloration in these segments seemed to be desperation. In a moment of whimsy, I said, "Begin at the beginning, from the outside in."

I set up an experimental track and I ran the call from my agent.

I've never given up, here was the evidence -- an external shot of me, wearing a dirty pair of shorts, gray-fleshed and unbarbered, hunched over the viewscreen of my phone. Except when I'm editing past experiences and don't want to risk a possibly fatal experiential heterodyne, I always keep the recorders running, that's why I can claim I've never given up. I watched my slightly younger self have his guarded conversation with Cleame, noticed for the millionth time what a small and unexceptional-looking man I am. My hair is black and straight, an d when I'm well-groomed it lies dose to my skull. My face is faintly predatory, with hooded blue eyes set deep below high-arched brows. My mouth sometimes has a malicious curve. My hands are long and bony, and despite Teeg's remarks about "soft white persons," my musculature is well-developed and I am strong for my size.

I dissolved the long shot, moved inside, let the desperation and reluctant hope emerge clearly from the emotional mix.

Then I made a clean jump-cut to the trail that first day . . . .

When I grew tired, I realized that with this tentative track I had made a major departure from my past work. Always before, I tried to be, as best I could, a blank tablet, an empty skin. Such neutrality in an emotigogue recording is, I've always believed, essential. And my agent and editors had always reminded me of one of the industry's primary taboos: don't make memories about remembering. "Until you get to be a mega-star," Cleame told me one day, "nobody's going to give a damn about your working methods or esthetic philosophies or artistic angst. Remember this."

Now I was allowing my personal concerns to seep into every sequence, so that the work had become a story about me, and not about the nameless village and its dwellers.

I was disturbed and frustrated, but for some reason, I preserved the track. Maybe change was necessary, maybe I was wrong about what my fans wanted, or perhaps the thing they wanted had changed.

I met Odorini at the appointed time. The restaurateur wore a dark cloak, the hood pulled close around his face. He looked a bit sinister in the dim lamplight.

He glanced at my feet. "You're wearing sensible shoes, I see. Very good. Shall we go?"

He took me to the nearest cave mouth and pressed his palm to the identiplate. A chime rang out and then the iron gate swung back, making a rusty screech. It was all very atmospheric. Odorini played to this effect shamelessly. He turned and beckoned me in, staring wide-eyed. "Come with me. . . down, down, down into the darkness," he said, and then cackled wildly.

As we went inside the cave, automatic lights came on, to reveal an artificially smooth walkway. Odorini nudged me with his elbow. "How was I?" he asked.

"Too much," I answered. "I'll have to cut you from this segment."

He took this with good humor. "I imagine you're right. I'm not made for melodrama. My face is too serious."

I began to think I'd made a mistake in hiring Odorini. His constant awareness of my purposes was distracting.

"Listen," I said. "Would you do me a favor, would you pretend you don't know me? Pretend I'm just another tourist."

He looked abruptly solemn. "Of course. I should have known better."

As we went deeper into the caverns, I realized that the primitive village above was only a consciously quaint facade. The cavern was thoroughly modernized -- well-lit, with cushioned walkways and steel railings. At some junctions were small automated kiosks, where directions could be obtained, as well as hot drinks and snacks.

"'You're surprised?" Odorini asked.

"Well, yes," I said. "My room has a washbasin. The bathroom's down the hall."

He laughed. "We're a tourist attraction. Didn't your agency in Skull promise you The Real Experience? Most visitors are content with that; we take them down to the Well of Rebirth by a different path. The stone sweats, torches flare, eerie music plays. You see?"

"Oh."

"But you should know the truth about us. Do you know why the village has rio name? Because the Tourist Development Council can't seem to come up with a name that pleases everyone. We'd have a name if we could; can you imagine how difficult it is to advertise a nameless place?"

I was very uncomfortable with this conversation; my prospects for making a successful travelogue, at least in the customary mode, seemed to be fading. To some extent, all tourist destinations are falsifications, but tourists don't like to be reminded of this fact. "You make it sound trivial."

"No, no. I don't mean to." His sharp old face grew dark and sad. "There's nothing trivial about the divers. And they are the heart of the matter; all our prosperity springs from them and the drug. Our industry is based on fear, and fear is never trivial."

As he spoke, he led me into a side corridor, where a residential level began. Here were large open areas carved from the limestone and occupied by a surprising crowd.

We walked slowly, as Odorini dispensed a running commentary.

Two naked men fought with iron gloves in a sunken arena. They circled cautiously, parried each other's blows in a shower of yellow sparks. "Gladiators from the Dilvermoon blood stadia. They come here to learn to control their fear," Odorini said. "They start with a trace of the drug and increase the dosage until the fear is manageable. Trainable. In the same vein, we minister to the devotees of other dangerous sports, to soldiers, to doctors, to artists."

"Artists?"

Odorini gave me a faintly malicious smile. "Artists, yes. They're the most numerous group among the dwellers below. Are not all good. artists familiar with fear and its destructive effects?"

And indeed the next open space was some sort of atelier, where men and women worked at various crafts. Potters sweated over wheels, painters stood at easels, glass-blowers squinted into the glare of the furnaces. A woman at a huge clattering loom threw her shuttle back and forth with manic intensity, and cursed in a low fierce voice.

"You deny this?" Odorini asked.

I shrugged.

His smile grew less amiable. "Consider. What would an artist not fear? So many things to fear: critics, poverty, drudgery, and boredom. And the greatest fear of all. . . that one is untalented and therefore wasting one's life in a futile pursuit. I would think that every artist, no matter how successful, suffers from this fear at times, except for those with truly monstrous and crippling egos."

"I guess so," I said in a hollow voice, feeling attacked.

He glanced at me with a suddenly compassionate expression. "I had supposed that you came here to deal with some fear of your own. Was I incorrect?"

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't think so, when I planned this trip."

"Ah," he said, with no trace of skepticism. "It's as well, Michael. You know, there are very few similarities between lack of fear, and courage."

We passed a room of hard-faced men and women, jerking and straining at the straps of emotigogue chairs, eyes rolled back into their heads.

"Soldiers," Odorini said. "They relive old battles, to learn what they might have done, with less fear."

Next was a room of dancers, then a room of singers in audio isolation booths, then a room of graveled jockeys in simulators. I stopped looking; the thought of all that fear was making me dizzy and a little ill.

Odorini seemed to sense my discomfort. "Come; we'll see something rarely seen by tourists." He led me through a steel pressure door, marked Essential Personnel Only.

We walked along an artificial corridor. At several junctures, gates closed off the corridor. At each we were asked for identification, by guards wearing the uniform of a Dilvermoon security agency.

At the last gate we were both searched, thoroughly and impersonally. At first the guards demanded that I remove my recorders, but Odorini produced a document granting me special permission.

"He's no spy," said Odorini jovially to the guards. "Believe me, he doesn't know what to look for." I felt vaguely insulted.

"We still have a few secrets," Odorini said. "The synthetic drag is, according to connoisseurs, inferior to our product, though some say this is sheer mysticism. Also our process is cheaper, once we have the fish. On Dilvermoon they must use sub-molecular assemblers of great sophistication, Very costly."

"What do you use?"

Odorini rolled his eyes wildly, falling back into his role as infernal guide. "The toenails of executed felons. Essence of black pearl. The milk of virgins."

"The milk of virgins?"

He shrugged. "Have you never heard of hormone therapy? Our alchemists are state-of-the-art."

I laughed; Odorini was an entertaining companion.

We passed through a portal into the laboratories, which exactly resembled every other industrial laboratory I had ever seen, except for the faint but pervasive stink of fish. White-coated technicians tended rows of gleaming machines, and in one corner was a dissection station.

"Look at this," he said, taking me to a trough on which a rainbow ripper lay, its colors subdued by death. "A fine specimen, eh?"

"I suppose." The fish gave off a chill; evidently it had just been removed from refrigeration. I reached out to touch one of its fins, and cut my finger deeply enough to bleed a little.

Odorini gave me a clean cloth to wrap around the finger. "Dangerous creature, even frozen," he said.

My annoyance surfaced again. Odorini was an intelligent man; why had he brought me here? "I don't believe my fans will be very interested in the mechanics of the process," I said, somewhat sourly.

Odorini assumed an expression of contrition, which might even have been genuine. "Sorry," he said. "But I'm striving for balance in my presentation. I just want you to always keep in mind that despite the splendor and bravery of the divers, the stirring ceremonies, the glorious deeds and noble stories. . .the final result is nothing but a big dead fish."

"You're making editorial suggestions?"

He smiled and said nothing.

A technician began to carve up the fish as we left.

When we joined the ordinary tourist route down to the Well, I saw that Odorini had described it accurately. The dank walls compressed my spirits. I felt the weight of the Spine poised above me, ready to crush. The torches gave off a dense smoke, so that visibility was limited to a few yards. The eerie music Odorini had mentioned was thoroughly eerie.

The whole thing reminded me of a particularly well-designed amusement park.

Eventually we came to a wide corridor, where the ceiling lifted away and a number of other tourists and their guides waited. A long window was set into one side of this gallery. Odorini led me to it.

Below was a great natural cavern, converted into a barbaric and sumptuous banquet hall. Gas flares shed a harsh brilliant light on hundreds of divers, who sat at tables and lolled on couches. Servants scurried back and forth, carrying platters of food and drink.

"The Hall of the Tides," said Odorini. "Where the divers who do not swim this night go to console themselves with various pleasures. Where new divers are made."

I saw what he meant; here and there men and women were copulating, some in shadowy alcoves at the back of the hall, a few on the tables, surrounded by approving spectators. It was a scene from a somewhat decadent medievalist romance, and I was amused.

My smile faded a bit when I saw Mirella at a table almost directly below the observation window. She leaned against a large slab-chested man, peeling a pale gold pear with a silver knife. She still wore the loose white shirt, but she was otherwise naked, her breechcloth tossed carelessly aside. The implications of this came slowly to me, and for some illogical reason I felt a sense of loss. Her legs were long, smooth, and powerful-looking -- very beautiful. Her expression seemed less intense now, her lips were glossy with pear juice.

I turned away, to see Odorini looking down at his child. His old face, full of wistful affection, was very sad.

"Was Mirella made here?" I asked.

"Oh no," he said. "Not in the way you mean. Only divers and their indentured servants are allowed within the Hall."

I looked about at the avid-faced tourists, who were making rude remarks and pointing. "They don't mind being watched?"

He shrugged. "Do you mind your spectators? Many more watch you as you go about your travels. And peer forth from your eyes, feel with your heart. . .a more intimate sort of voyeurism than this," he said, waving at the tourists above, the revellers below.

"It's not the same," I said. "My experiences are carefully edited. My purposes are different."

Odorini spoke with mild contempt, or so I imagined. "Because you're making art? The divers make art of their lives, or so they believe." His smile settled into an ironic crook. "We all must cling to our illusions, not so? Or sink."

I returned my attention to the Hall of Tides. Somehow I'd lost track of my purpose in coming here, of my work. Somehow I'd become involved with Odorini's agenda. . .whatever that might turn out to be. It was unacceptable. Unacceptable.

A man in a long black robe and a tall red hat came into the Hall and banged a staff against the floor. "The tide wizard," Odorini said. "He notifies the celebrants that divers are due in the Well."

Immediately there was an exodus from the Hall; even the most energetically engaged couples separated. The divers in general revealed no irritation at this interruption, but Mirella was an exception. She pouted at the large man, who was already halfway to the portal at the HaWs far end.

"She is so young," Odorini said, almost whispering. Then, in a stronger voice: "Hurry! It's time."

In a crowd of eager offworlders, we made our way along another crooked passage to the Well of Rebirth.

The Well was a natural amphitheater perhaps 150 meters wide, now flooded by the tide to a depth of fifty meters. A series of ledges ringed the Well, the lowest thronged with divers, who had by now assembled. We tourists were permitted to watch from the highest ledge, several stories above the Well's surface

In the torchlight, the water in the Well was a murky indigo, boiling with random currents. I tried to imagine swimming in the black depths below. . .but even the thought made me feel a degree of panic.

"Watch, now," Odorini said.

The first diver burst the surface in a cloud of spray. He sank back and began to swim for the ledge. His maneuvering lights, a dozen metallic ovoids glowing blue-white, followed him like a school of obedient fish.

He pulled himself halfway from the water and lay gasping. No one helped him.

"He failed to kill," Odorini said by way of explanation.

After a minute, the unlucky diver got to his feet. He unstrapped his breathing apparatus, gathered his lights into a net bag, and staggered away.

Two more unsuccessful divers emerged, to be greeted by the same silent contempt, This struck me as a harsh custom and I said as much to Odorini.

"Yes, I think so too," he said. "But here is the rationale: divers who suffer their fellows' scorn too often will be forced to pursue the fish more recklessly, in which case they either kill successfully or die gloriously. Do you see the logic?"

I didn't have a reply. Below, the first successful diver appeared, clinging weakly to a line. She triggered an inflatable buoy attached to her breather harness, and then seemed to lose consciousness. Several of the waiting divers dove into the Well, and brought her and her line to the ledge. Many hands lifted her from the water, and heaved in her prize, a ripper not quite dead, making feeble attempts to shake loose the harpoon which impaled its flank.

The large man I had seen with Mirella tapped the fish's head with a stun stick and it went rigid. A half-dozen divers dragged it from the water, fastened a block-and-tackle to its tail, and hauled it up to hang from a nearby gallows, where its quivering soon ceased.

Another fish was landed, another failure was scorned. Then a diver rose into the Well with the corpse of a casualty. He cradled the body gently, held it up and spun in a slow circle, as if displaying the victim to all the watchers. The dead diver had been a woman with a hard handsome face, and when her diving hood was pulled away, long bright hair spilled into the water. When the others lifted the body gently to the ledge, the extent of the damage became clear. The fish had taken one leg to the hip, both arms to the elbow, and had opened the abdomen almost to the spine.

Apparently this was what the other tourists had come to see. They whispered and giggled beside me, and I felt a shudder of disgust work through me.

"Let's go," I said to Odorini. He made no answer, and when i turned to him, I saw that he was crying silently.

The Ripper Room was closed when we regained the surface, but Odorini took me to a back room, and from a dusty bottle poured us each a glass of red wine. We sat at a small round table, in an uneasy silence. I surreptitiously examined the scene through my forearm monitor, and cheated a bit to my left, so as to paint my face with a flattering shadow.

Finally I asked him, "What are you doing, Odorini? It's more than common helpfulness, isn't it?"

He smiled a wounded smile. "Ah, you've found me out. You're too acute a student of humanity."

"Don't mock me," I said. "This may be a joke to you, but it's my life."

"I'm not mocking," he said with irresistible sincerity. "Well, it's nothing very sinister. My daughter, Mirella. . .did you know she was once my life's light? Such a sweet little girl there never was before, will never be again. It seems just yesterday that she sat on my knee, telling me that she would be a diver when she grew up."

His face slackened, and his eyes were dull with an inward gaze.

"And now she is a diver," I said, in an attempt to move the conversation along.

He shivered. "Yes. She realized her dream. But soon she will die, and what will I have left? Only those few poor memories of her that my ancient head can hold."

The truth dawned on me. "You want me to include her in my travelogue?"

"Yes, and why not? she is worthy of your regard, not so?"

"Yes, she is," I said quickly. "But why don't you make your own recordings? The equipment is available here; I've seen tourists with rented gear."

He shrugged. "I suppose I could. But I like your work; you're an artist with memory, as I am an artist with food. You could, so I presume, eat your own cooking without great harm. . .but wouldn't you rather eat mine? It is the same with memory. Your chips are small in scope, perhaps, but somehow complete, and they have. . .how shall I say this? Innocence is the right word, perhaps." He paused. "Mirella is an innocent."

"Really?"

He saw my skepticism. "She is. Oh, she has rough edges, I admit this, but she is young, you see." "I see."

"Not entirely," he said. "You are very young, for a Dilvermooner; what are you, seventy standard years? Eighty? I myself am old in every sense; I was old when I came to this terrible little place. Four hundred years ago. But Mirella is young in the most basic human sense; she was born barely twenty-three years ago. She won't see her twenty-fourth birthday."

I examined the emotions that swam through my head, which was aching a little with fatigue. I felt a natural compassion for Odorini, tinged with a slight degree of suspicion. Was he only a doting father, nothing more? That he knew of me was in itself an extravagant coincidence, given the size of the universe and the depth of my obscurity. On the other hand, I had chosen his restaurant from an old guide book -- a true coincidence, which probably could not have been pre-arranged.

What of my feelings regarding the village, the divers, the caverns, and the business that went on down there? My primary reaction was a son of shame. My own fears felt less important to me than before, in comparison to the terrors that boiled beneath our feet.

Still, the whole thing seemed slightly unreal to me. I accepted that for Odorini tragedy was imminent. . .his daughter was clearly a willing participant in the morbid business below. She showed the dark luster of the doomed. She was pursuing her pointless end without any sign of heal thy doubt. It was a very unhappy situation. But I found something terribly false in the theatrical setting, the contrived rituals, the vainglorious rhetoric -- it distracted me, it made me think that the onrushing tragedy was unnecessary, A futile meaningless twitch of fate. . .not at all the stuff of good drama.

"Well," I said finally. "I would do what I could, but she doesn't seem to like me."

He waved his hands, an airy gesture of dismissal. "She knows nothing of you. Also, she is impetuous. Volatile, But fair, very fair. She will surely give you another chance to know her, if you will ask."

"I'll ask, if the opportunity arises."

"I am content," he said, with an invincible sincerity. It occurred to me that he might be a magnificent liar, or else an actor of extraordinary gifts. No, I told. myself, Odorini was only the proprietor of a small restaurant. To imagine anything else was baseless paranoia.

We finished our wine, and I rose to go. "Perhaps," I said. "Perhaps she would allow me to fit a recorder to her. For her next hunt, for her next ride with the tide."

His eyes grew large with what seemed to be dismay. "Oh; no. You mustn't think of such a thing."

"It seems the central aspect of her life."

For the first time he showed a real and unmistakable anger. "That's a shallow thing to say, and false. She swims through a boiling night, pursuing monsters. . .this is the thing closest to the true heart of my Mirella? A little girl who danced in the sunlight, who brought treasures to her father every day. . .flowers, seashells, bits of driftwood? Whose eyes were full of life's brightest delight? Who had the sweetest laugh I've ever in my long life heard? No, no, it's nothing but the foolishness of youth, that's all. But it's a foolishness she has no time to outgrow. Why would I want to remember her in the darkness?" There were tears in his eyes again, tears of rage or perhaps helplessness. He sank back slowly, took a deep breath.

"Besides," he said, in an abruptly careless voice. "You'd be breaking guild law -- a capital offense. If you put a bug on her and she swims. . . ." He shook his head somberly. "When the divers catch you, they'll skin you and leave you for the crabs. Or if they happen to be in a merciful mood, they'll just lash you to a rock and let the tide kill you."

I slept in my room until noon, and thereafter passed two days in unprofitable musing. I wandered the village, rubbed elbows with the tourists, took my meals at the Ripper Room.

I saw nothing of Odorini. When I asked after him, the staff at the restaurant gave no explanation for his absence, beyond bemused shrugs and professional smiles. I wondered where he lived, and how he amused himself away from the kitchen and the cash register.

But I thought many more times of his beautiful daughter Mirella. I remembered her long smooth swimmer's legs, her glossy mouth, The first night, lonely in my room, I considered knocking on all the doors in the hall, until I found her. Then I thought of going out to find someone else. In the end I spent the night alone, dreaming fitfully of darkness and turbulent waters. . .sometimes Odorini's clever old face floated through my dreams.

The next night I came home a little drunk, to find Mirella lying asleep on my bed. She wore her barbarian costume. Beside the bed was a bowl of whelks, cooked in an aromatic broth.

I stood over her for a minute, wobbly from drink and surprise. She slept like a child, without any of the guarded quality most adults display even in their sleep. Her mouth was open a little, and she sighed as she breathed. Sooty eyelashes flickered against her cheek; did she dream? I could for just an instant see the daughter Odorini mourned.

I sat dow in the high-backed chair, making a small sound, and she woke. She didn't seem at all startled, she simply opened her eyes and looked at me. "So the carouser returns early," she said, in the tone of a resumed conversation.

I signaled the exterior camera to move back, so that it recorded a view over my shoulder, looking down at the half-clothed woman in my bed. I glanced at my monitor to verify the framing; it was excellent.

"Very odd," she said. "What is it like. . .to live always in the camera?"

"I'm used to it," I said.

"I suppose you can get used to anything."

I shrugged. I didn't know why I was so reluctant to be civil. Perhaps I was still angry; no one likes to be called a coward, especially when it's true.

She sighed and sat up. "Well, my father sends you some of his favorite food." She lifted the bowl. "Will you try one?"

"I guess so," I said, a little dubiously. "The true adventurer is rarely intimidated by strange food."

She smiled crookedly -- perhaps the result of the injury that scarred her jaw. "Perhaps you'll be disappointed; this is not so adventurous a dish."

The flavor was rich and savory, with a hint of smoke, a tingle of hot pepper. "It's very good," I said.

"The best ones come from the tidal caverns. I try to bring a few back for Odorini, whenever I don't kill."

She's still bringing gifts to her father, I thought, and somehow Odorini's forever-lost little girl came to life for me. Her tragedy seemed a bit more real, a bit more personal. We finished the dish in silence.

When we were done, she leaned back against the bed's iron headboard. Her naked legs seemed to reach most of the way to the foot of the bed. "You seem much less fearful tonight. Would you like to talk, now?"

No, I thought, I would like to do the other thing you suggested when first we met. But I nodded.

"Ask me what you like," she said. "I'll be more patient, this time."

"Why would that be?"

She smiled. "I'm calmer. Tomorrow night I swim the tide again. I've been a rockhopper for much too long. . .but I can wait a night and a day. And Odorini says you'll distract me."

"I'll do my best to be distracting," I said, attempting a gallantry. But she seemed not to notice.

"So, how may I satisfy your curiosity?" She spoke in a relaxed voice, without mockery.

I considered. What did I want to know? Ordinarily she'd be an excellent source of information -- beautiful, exotic, vivid. But the situation wasn't ideal. . . usually I liked to happen upon my characters in colorful bars or other public places, so as to stimulate the sort of chance encounter that any of my fans night expect to have while traveling. This meeting was somehow tainted by a sense of contrivance. Unless, of course, I was actually trying to make a different kind of recording, unless I was actually going to deal with Odorini and his daughter as central elements. This might then work to my advantage.

"Would you be willing to wear a recorder while we talk?" I asked.

She raised her eyebrows. "Aren't you afraid to see yourself as I see you?" She was clearly no fool, for all she'd chosen a foolhardy career.

"No, I'm used to that sort of thing," I said, not very truthfully. "And perhaps you'll be kind."

She laughed. "Don't count on it. Yes, all right, I'll do it. Odorini will be grateful."

She sat motionless in the high-backed chair while I worked the leads up under her soft black hair. She didn't wince when the tip patches bit into her scalp. The transmitter, a capsule no larger than a grain of rice, lay just above the nape of her neck, well-concealed.

When I was finished, I waited for her to return to the bed, but she pushed me away and pointed to it. "You rest there for a while. It annoys me to have you always arranging your camera so as to peek up my breechcloth."

I made a feeble protest; she waved it away. "Never mind. Ask your questions."

I glanced at my forearm monitor; the framing was less felicitous now. Sprawled on the bed, I seemed vulnerable and awkward, without any of the grace she had displayed in the same position. She sat in the chair, leaning forward. The overhead light cast harsh shadows over her face, made her body seem too knotty with muscle. She had an almost brutal quality, which from all I knew of her was a falseness. "Lean back a little," I said, and she did, softening the shadows.

I adjusted the camera so that my head and shoulder bounded the image on two sides. I drew a deep breath and switched over into her viewpoint.

I felt first a singing tension, almost sexual, and indeed lust was a component, but it was only coincidentally directed at me, and tempered by a vague expectation of disappointment. In that instant I saw that if I were to ask her to join me on the bed, she would do so. . .but without any special enthusiasm.

My pride stung, I switched out, and tried to control my expression. Apparently I was unsuccessful.

"Sorry," she said, and shrugged. "It's me, not you. My mind is on other matters."

"Doesn't matter," I muttered. "We'll talk of those other things."

"All right." She had remarkable poise for one so young.

"Why did you choose to become a diver?" I asked.

She smiled almost eagerly, and it came to me that she was happy to have an audience. "What could be better? No, I'm serious. Who bums as bright as the person who bums in the dark?"

I held back a laugh. "That has the sound of rhetoric, learned for occasions like this."

"You can think so. But there are far more dramatic divers than Mirella. You'd hear grander rhetoric from them."

"For example?"

"'We are white-hot forges, burning away life, while Death pumps the bellows.'" She made a sour face.

"Pretty purple stuff. Who said that?"

"Roont, my usual lover. Actually that's one of his better lines."

"You're fortunate," I said, somewhat stiffly.

"Do you think so?" Her mouth quirked into a somewhat sardonic shape. I hastened to change the subject. "How long have you been a diver?"

"For almost three years."

"And how long do you plan to continue?"

She shrugged. "Until I die." She seemed matter-of-fact, without any of the bravado that usually accompanies such statements.

"When do you expect that to be?"

She shook her head and looked away. "Odorini thinks I'll die tomorrow. Because of my recent injuries."

"Do you agree?"

"No. I still have reserves. I'll last a while longer. I may not kill so frequently as I did in times past." She looked a bit ashamed, but determined.

I wished I hadn't asked. Looking at her, separate from all the gaudy self-memorializing ritual of the caverns, I felt my detachment melting away, I felt some of the weight of Odorini's sorrow.

"Your father. . .I think he'll find it hard to live when you're gone."

"Now who's being dramatic?" she asked. "Odorini will survive. You have no idea what he's already lived through. He's very old."

"Has he always been a restaurateur?" I asked, thinking to find a less distressing subject.

"Oh, no," she said. She giggled, as if this were a completely ludicrous idea. "He was a great magnate on Firenza, before he moved here. He's still insanely wealthy; he could buy this whole planet on a whim."

Firenza? A strange thought came to me. My new publisher was chartered out of Firenza. Was there a connection?

She went on; apparently she hadn't noticed the sound of gears grinding in my head. "It's to his credit, really, that he doesn't just have me taken up and carried off to the nearest soul laundry for a new personality."

"Yes, I suppose so. . . ." I muttered, still bemused.

"He's sentimental," she said. "And not attached to physical objects; with a new personality the old Mirella would be as dead to him as if a ripper had cut her into fishbait. Even if she looked the same."

"Oh," I said. I tried to put aside my suspicions. Would Mirella know anything about her father's schemes? If she did, would she tell me? Pointless to wonder. "Well then, tell me about the drug."

"What's to tell? They make it from the fish and sell it for enough money to make life easy." She wore a look of mild distaste.

"Do you use the drug when you dive?"

She jumped up, her distaste flashing into anger. "What a dreadful idea," she said, walking back and forth, looking as if she might bolt out the door at any moment.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Maybe I was misinformed. I thought that many of the divers used the drug."

Her eyes flashed, her nostrils flared, and her lips drew back over strong white teeth. "Have you seen Loomp's collection of elderly divers? Those are the users. One day they grew too fearful to swim the tide, and took the drug. They never kill again. They never feel the glory again, only the shame. But since they don't fear the shame, they keep on diving and not killing, until at last the tide wizards take away their right to dive. Then they move offplanet, or become mercenaries or tour guides. Finally they sit on Loomp's porch, without fear."

"I really don't understand. . . ." I said.

"Clearly!" But she was calming a little; my bewilderment must have seemed genuine. "The fear is necessary; it drives out rational thought; without that freeing fear, who would try to kill a ripper? Only a mad person. . .and the mad divers rarely live long enough to acquire skill."

"I suppose I see what you mean, a little," I said.

She looked at me, her eyes still fierce. "My father was right; you're an innocent. I know you're afraid. Tell me: have you ever taken the drug?"

"No."

She smiled and pulled away her breechcloth. She knelt over me, beautiful and naked, frightening and strange. "Then I'll give you what I can, if you still want it."

In the hours that followed, I was always aware that the recorders were running, my greedy pleasure somehow increased by the thought that I would never forget the sensations of that night -- that I would always be able to recall it with all the intensity that the memory deserved. When finally a glowing exhaustion came over me, I fell asleep without a care, pressed against her.

I woke at dawn and reached for her, to discover that she was gone. Anxiety stabbed through me. I had not removed Mirella's recorder. My stomach clenched and sweat slicked my body, even in the early-morning coolness. But my near-panic passed quickly; I told myself that I would soon find her and set matters right.

I lay in bed for a while, thinking about the night, and I had the impulse to rerun Mirella's track, to see i f her passion had been as genuine as it seemed. No, don't be an idiot, I thought. At least not yet.

I breakfasted in a nearby cafe, so as to avoid the Ripper Room and the possibility of meeting Odorini. All indications were that he was an unconventional parent, one who might be tolerant of the night's events, or even pleased by them. . .but why risk unpleasantness?

When I returned to the house, Tsaldo Loomp was sweeping his terrace, and I went up to him eagerly. "Hello," I said.

"Hello, Citizen Mastine," he answered cautiously.

"Can you tell me, Citizen Loomp. . .which room is Mirella's? The diver?"

His face took on an opaque quality. "Mirella? What makes you think she lives here?"

I began to panic, a little. "I saw her in the hall the day I arrived. I assumed. . . ."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Perhaps she was visiting one of the old divers. She lives below, in the caverns, like most of her kind."

I turned and set out for the Ripper Room, almost running. Odorini was gone, and the staff was unwilling or unable to contact him, no matter how I pleaded. I went to the Tourist Bureau, looking for another guide to the caverns. The woman behind the counter asked what I expected to see during the daytime.

"The divers. Or rather, one particular diver."

She shook her head tolerantly. "Impossible, sir. They rest now for the night, and we're not permitted to disturb them for any reason. Tonight is a Hunting Tide, didn't you know?"

"What. . .what if it's an emergency?"

She became uneasy. "I suppose you could talk to Tide Wizard Danolt, if it's really desperate. I warn you, however, he's a harsh man."

I went back to my room, trying to regain a degree of calm. The transmitter was a sophisticated device. In all likelihood, the barbarians in the caverns lacked the technology to detect its frequencies, and surely no one would actually see it. For all I knew I'd already committed a capital crime by allowing Mirella to take the transmitter below. Perhaps it would be safest to wait.

Night came to the Spine. I watched it darken the village, sitting on my balcony with a warm jug of wine and a head full of cold misgivings. I never really intended to watch Mirella's dive -- though of course my recorders were picking up her signal. But finally I went in and set up the big monitor and put on the playback harness, thinking: why not?

She stood on the cliff face, looking down into the waves bursting against the stone. In one hand she held a swag of lights, the silvery globes hanging from cords. In the other she held her harpoon launcher. The Stormbringer Sea rolled in massively, great tumbling mountains of black water. The waves never broke into surf; the cliff was too vertical to trip them. They were hammers wielded by gods, and the cliff shuddered under the impacts.

She glanced to each side. Dozens of other divers, dimly visible in the moonless night, waited on the cliff.

I could feel her fear; it made her shake and filled her limbs with weakness. But rising over the fear was an exultation that made her weightless. She almost believed she could rise from the cliff and fly swooping out over the ocean, and so did I.

She turned on her breather and bit down on the mouthpiece. She pulled down her mask, she shut her eyes and swung her arm in a sweeping arc, releasing her lights. She looked down, judged her moment, and sprang out into space.

As she fell, she thought: so much light fills the night, here above the water. The impact came, a moment of stunned transition, then her jets drove her deep, down into the furious darkness.

I began to understand why the divers used such extravagant language. I could not turn away, even for an instant.

Her lights followed her down the cliff face, each able to penetrate the murk for only a few meters, so that she saw the stone racing past in flickering instants. The lights swirled around her in close formation, and I realized she was somehow directing their movements.

The tide swiftly carried her into a greater darkness, and now she began to move horizontally, her jets pushing her faster than the tide. There was a great deal of turbulence at the tidal cavern's opening; she was flung about like a doll, unable for the moment to resist the tide or direct her movement. Then the current stabilized and she regained a fragile control.

I lost myself in Mirella's moment, my world narrowed to hers, the maelstrom of water and stone and the glimpses of other creatures hurtling past. Words could never convey what it was like.

In some almost supernatural way she detected the presence of a ripper. She sent her lights questing after it, like hounds, keeping only a pair to illuminate her own way. In the pursuit she several times bounced off the stone, bruising lacerating impacts that would have incapacitated me, but she seemed not to notice the pain and shock. The fish fled the light's agony; she followed relentlessly, her jets whining loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the tide and the creak of the stone.

She cornered the fish in a side passage, out of the worst of the current, where it had the advantage in maneuverability. But the lights blinded and confused the fish, al ways distracting it just as it lunged at her, so that it missed her each time, until at last she fired her harpoon into it, a clean shot through the gills. She dragged it out into the tide, and soon passed into a large area of soft radiance, where the tide's velocity dropped.

She broke the surface of the Well to the cheers of her fellow divers, and there was room in her heart for nothing but joy.

I pulled the harness away, covered with sweat, gasping for air. Just for a moment, I believed that Odorini was wrong that he had terribly underestimated the quality of his daughter's life, however short it might be.

They came for me in the morning, and I wasn't even surprised.

Teeg was one of them; he wore the uniform of the cavern guards. He locked my wrists behind my back with a steel bracelet bar, but he was careful not to hurt me. "You, Michael Mastine, an offworlder, are charged with a forbidden act." He spoke without rancor, and I even thought to detect a bit of pity in his hard dark face.

 * "It was an accident," I said, but no one answered me.

 * They put me in a small modern cell, where I waited for a day.

 * Then they took me to the cliff and tied me to the rock.

The sun is gone now and the waves send spray high up the cliff. The stone streams with cold water. I'm soaked and shivering. Soon, I suppose, the waves will break over me. I will hold my breath between each wave, waiting for the feel of air on my face so that I can take one more gasp. What will I feel when the air no longer reaches me, when I understand I've taken my last breath? I am paralyzed with raging shrieking fear; there's no room for anything else in my head.

I heard a rattle beside me and twisted my head, shocked by incredulous hope.

"I can't let you go," Mirella whispered. "They're watching." She wore her diving gear.

"Please," I said, "please."

"Hush," she said, and touched her hand gently to my mouth. "It does no good. They're hard folk, the divers; they have their rules. . .at least for everyone else in the universe." But she took out a little knife and cut the filaments that held my upper body, so that at least I could sit up.

Spray choked me and I coughed, unable to say anything.

She held out a capsule. "The drug" she said. "You can save yourself from the fear."

I looked at her. "Show me another way. Can't you?"

Her pale eyes were the only thing I could see. "But you're so afraid," she said.

"I'm still alive," I told her, for some reason.

She regarded me silently, then began to unbuckle her breather harness. "Will you swim the tide?" she asked.

I thought of the terrible sea below, the black velocity of the trip through the tidal caves. For a moment, the climbing tide seemed an almost pleasant alternative a death just below the twilight sea's surface, still full of light. "I'm afraid to," I said.

"Yes, of course you are. . .but will you dive? If you live, they'll let you go. You'll be a diver of sorts, immune to all the laws. And you might live; it's not impossible. "I'll set the lights to globe you automatically; you won't have to control them. The tide rose too early tonight to bring the rippers into the Spine, so don't worry about them. There are other dangerous creatures, but stay away from the stone and they'll miss you." As she spoke she fitted the harness to me, loosening the straps here, tightening them there. "The jets react to your body language; keep your head up and your eyes open and you'll be able to see the stone in time to dodge."

She slashed my remaining bonds. She helped me to stand, she rubbed my muscles until feeling began to return. I steadied myself against her shoulder. She was warm.

"You must go soon," she said. "Once the tide reaches you, you'll be ground to bits against the cliff. You have to jump out as far as you can and then drive deep. Get into the first cavern you come to; don't tempt the sea monsters. Stay alive until you see the light of the Well."

She held up the capsule again. "Do you want it?"

"No," I said. "I want to live. I need the fear."

She laughed and threw it away. "Good," she said. She kissed me, a quick rough kiss that bruised. "Learn fast, then," she said, and led me to the brink.