Afra came back at last, subdued. "Their table goes to a hundred and twenty. Those latter shapes get pretty intricate..."

           "You know better than that, Afra," Groton said. "Some of those artificial elements have half-lives of hours, even minutes. They can't sit on display."

            "Even seconds, half-life. They're still here. Look for yourself."

            "Facsimiles, maybe. Not -- "

            "Bet?"

            "No." Groton looked for himself. "Must be some kind of stasis field," he said dubiously. "If they can do what they can do with gravity -- "

            "Suddenly I feel very small," she said.

            But Ivo reminded himself that such tricks were nothing compared to the compression of an entire planet into its gravitational radius, and the protection of accompanying human flesh. This exhibit was impressive, but hardly alarming, viewed in perspective. He suspected that there was more to it than they had spotted so far.

           The hall continued beyond the element display, slanting down again. Ivo wondered about such things as the temperature. Sharp changes in it should affect some of the element-exhibits, changing them from solid to liquid, or liquid to gas. Yet the exhibit had been geared to a comfortable temperature for human beings, and was obviously a permanent arrangement. The layout, too -- convenient for human beings, even to the height of the alcove.

            Had this been the destroyer station closest to Earth, there could have been suspicion of a carefully tailored show. But this one was almost fifty thousand light-years distant. It could not have been designed for men -- unless there were men in the galaxy not of Earth. Or very similar creatures.

            The implications disturbed him, but no more than anything else about this strange museum. He knew it had been said that a planetary creature had to be somewhat like man in order to rise to civilization and technology, and that long chains of reasoning had been used to "prove" this thesis -- but man's reasoning in such respects was necessarily biased, and he had discounted it. Yet if it were true -- if it were true -- did it also hold for man's personality? The greed, the stupidity, the bloodthirst -- ?

            Was that Schön laughing again?

            The passage opened into a second room. This one was much larger than the first, and the alcoves began at floor-level.

            "Machinery!" Groton exclaimed with the same kind of excitement Afra had expressed before. He went to the first exhibit: a giant slab of metal, shaped like a wedge of cheese. As he approached, a ball fell on it and rolled off. Nothing else happened.

            "Machine?" Ivo inquired.

            "Inclined plane -- the elementary machine, yes."

            Well, if Groton were satisfied...

            The second item was a simple lever. Fulcrum and rod, the point of the latter wedged under a large block. As they came up to it, the rod moved, and the block slid over a small amount. Groton nodded, pleased, and Ivo followed him to the next. The two women walked ahead, giving only cursory attention to this display.

            The third resembled a vise. A long handle turned a heavy screw, so that the force applied was geared down twice. "Plane and lever," Groton remarked. "We're jumping ahead about fifty thousand years each time, as human technology goes."

            "So far."

            The fourth one had a furnace and a boiler, and resembled a primitive steam engine -- which it was. The fifth was an electric turbine.

            After that they became complicated. To Ivo's untrained eye, they resembled complex motors, heaters and radio equipment. Some he recognized as variants of devices he had blue printed via the macroscope; others were beyond his comprehension. Not all were intricate in detail; some were deceptively smooth. He suspected that an old automobile mechanic would find a printed-circuit board with embedded micro-transistors to be similarly smooth. One thing he was sure of: none of it was fakery.

            Groton stopped at the tenth machine. "I thought I'd seen real technology when we terraformed Triton," he said. "Now -- I am a believer. I've digested about as much as I care to try in one outing. Let's go on."

            The girls had already done so, and were in the next chamber. This contained what appeared to be objects of art. The display commenced with simple two- and three-dimensional representations of concretes and abstracts, and went on to astonishing permutations. This time it was Beatryx who was fascinated.

            "Oh, yes, I see it," she said, moving languidly from item to item. She was lovely in her absorption, as though the grandeur and artistry of what she perceived transfigured her own flesh. Now she outshone Afra. Ivo had not realized how fervent her interest in matters artistic was, though it followed naturally from her appreciation of music. He had assumed that what she did not talk about was of no concern to her, and now he chided himself for comprehending shallowly -- yet again.

            The display did not appeal to him as a whole, but individual selections did. He could appreciate the mathematical symbolism in some; it was of a sophisticated nature, and allied to the galactic language codes.

            A number were portraits of creatures. They were of planets remote from Earth, but were intelligent and civilized, though he could not tell how he could be sure of either fact. Probably the subtle clues manifested themselves to him subliminally, as when Brad had first shown him alien scapes on the macroscope. Description? Pointless; the creatures were manlike in certain respects and quite alien in certain others. What mattered more was their intangible symmetry of form and dignity of countenance. These were Greek idealizations; the perfect physique with the well-tutored mind and disciplined emotion. These were handsome male, females and neuters. They were represented here as art, and they were art, in the same sense that a rendition of a finely contoured athlete or nude woman was art by human terms.

            The rooms continued, each one at a lower level than the one preceding, until it seemed that the party had to be at the second lap of a spiral. One chamber contained books; printed scrolls, coiled tapes, metallic memory disks. Probably all the information the builders of the station might have broadcast to space was here, the reply to anyone who might suspect that the destroyer was merely sour grapes delivered by an ignorant culture. It was, in retrospect, obvious that that had never been the case.

            One room contained food. Many hours and many miles had passed in fascination; they were hungry. Macroscopic chemical identifiers labeled the entrees, which were in stasis ovens. The party made selections as though they were dining at an automat, "defrosting" items, and the menu was strange but good.

            Nowhere was there sign of animate habitation. It was as though the builders had stocked the station as a hostel and center of information, and left it for travelers who could come in the following eons. Yet it was also the source of the very signal that banished travel. What paradox was this?

            The hall opened at last to a small room -- and abruptly terminated. There were no alcoves, no exhibits; only a pedestal in the center supporting a small intricate object.

            They walked around it indecisively. "Does it seem to you that we are being led down the garden path?" Afra inquired. "The exhibits are impressive, and I am impressed -- but is this all? A museum tour and a dead end?"

            "It is all we are supposed to see," Groton said. "And somehow I do not think it would be wise to force the issue."

            "We came to force the issue!" Afra said.

            "What I meant to say was, let's not start hammering at the walls. We could discover ourselves in hard vacuum. Further exploration in an intellectual capacity should be all right."

            Ivo was looking at the device on the pedestal. It was about eighteen inches long, and reminded him vaguely of the S D P S: an object of greater significance than first appeared. It was in basic outline cylindrical, but within that general boundary was a mass of convoluted tubings, planes, wires and attachments. It seemed to be partly electronic in nature, but not entirely a machine; partly artistic, but not a piece of sculpture. Yet there was a certain familiarity about it; some quality, some purpose inherent in it that he felt he should recognize.

            He picked it up, finding the weight slight for so intricate an object: perhaps two pounds, and deviously balanced. The incipient recognition of its nature struck him more strongly. He ought to know what it was.

            Something happened.

            It was as though there were the noise of a great gong, but with vibrations not quite audible to human ears. Light flared, yet his eyes registered no image. There was a shock of heat and pressure and ponderosity that his body could not discern definitely, and some overwhelming odor that his nostrils missed.

            The others were looking at him and at each other, aware that something important had been manifested -- and not aware of more.

            Ivo still held the instrument.

            "Play it, Ivo," Beatryx said.

            And all were mute, realizing that in all the chambers there had been no musical devices.

            Ivo looked at it again, this time seeing conduits like those of a complex horn; fibers like those of stringed instruments; drumlike diaphragms; reeds. There was no place to blow, no spot to strike; but fingers could touch controls and eyes could trace connections.

            The object was vibrating gently, as though the lifting of it had activated its power source. It had come alive, awaiting the musician's imperative.

            He touched a stud at random -- and was rewarded by a roll of thunder.

            Beatryx, Afra, Groton: they stared up and out, trying instinctively to trace the source, to protect themselves if the walls caved in...before realizing what had happened. Multiphonal sound!

            "When you picked it up," Groton began --

            "You touched a control," Afra finished. Both were shaken. "The BONG button."

            "And now the thunder stud," Beatryx said.

            Ivo slid one finger across a panel. A siren wail came at them from all directions, deafening yet melodious.

            He explored the rest of it, producing a measured cacophony: every type of sound he could imagine was represented here, each imbued with visual, tactile and olfactory demesnes. If only he could bring this sensuous panorama under control --

            And he could. Already his hands were responding to the instrument's ratios, achieving the measure of it, growing into the necessary disciplines. This was his talent, this way with an organ of melody. He had confined himself to the flute -- Sidney Lanier's choice -- but the truth was that all of Schön's gift was his. Probably there was no human being with greater natural potential than his own -- should he choose to invoke it.

            Ivo could not call out the technical aspects or discuss the theory knowledgeably; that was not part of it. He could not even read musical notation, for he had never studied it, choosing instead to learn by ear. But with an instrument in his hands and the desire to play, he could produce a harmony, and he could do it precisely, however complicated the descriptive terms for what he performed.

            Now he developed that massive raw talent, bringing all his incipient skill to bear. He picked a suitable exercise, adapting for the flute at first, hearing the words as the song became animate. It was not from Lanier; that would come when he had command. One had to practice with lesser themes first. A trial run only...

 

                        Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine;

                        Or leave a kiss within the cup and I'll not ask for wine.

                        The thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine;

                        But could I of Jove's nectar sip, I would not change for thine.

 

            The others stood as the simple haunting melody surrounded them, marvelously clear, almost liquid, possessed increasingly of that éclat, that soul that was the true artist's way. The galactic instrument brought also the suggestion of a heady nectar...and the touch of magic lips.

            Afra was staring raptly at him, never having heard him play before. Had that been his worst blunder? Not to employ the real talent he had?

            Groton was staring at Afra...

            No, he was staring beyond her! The blank wall blocking the continuation of their tour was dissolving, revealing another passage. The way was open again!

            "The free ride is over," Groton murmured. "Now we have to participate."

            They moved down it then in silence, Ivo still carrying the instrument. This hall opened into a tremendous chamber whose ceiling was an opaque mist and whose floor was a translucency without visible termination. There were no walls; the sides merely faded into darkness, though there was light close at hand.

            They walked within it, looking in vain for something tangible. But now even the floor was gone. Physically gone: it too had dissolved and left them in free-fall, hanging weightless in an atmosphere. Their point of entry, too, had vanished; they tried to swim back through the pleasant air, but there was nothing to locate. They were isolated and lost.

            "So it was a trap," Afra said, seemingly more irritated than frightened.

            "Or -- a test," Groton said. "We had to demonstrate a certain type of competence to gain admittance, after the strictly sightseeing sections were finished. Perhaps we shall have to demonstrate more, before being permitted to leave."

            They looked at Ivo, who was floating a little apart from the others, and he looked at the thing in his hands.

            "Try the same tune you did before," Afra suggested. "Just to be sure."

            He played "Drink to Me Only" again. Nothing happened. He tried several other simple tunes, and the sound came at them from all over the unbounded chamber, not simple at all, but they remained as they were: four people drifting in nebulosity.

            "I persist in suspecting that the key is musical," Groton said. "Why else that instrument, obviously neither toy nor exhibit. So far we may only have touched on its capability."

            "Do you know," Ivo said thoughtfully, "Lanier believed that the rules for poetry and music were identical, and he tried to demonstrate this in his work. His flute-playing was said to be poetically inspired, and much of his poetry was musically harmonious. He even -- "

            "Very well," Afra said, unsurprised and still unworried, though the web of the spider seemed to be tightening. "Let's follow up on Lanier. He wrote a travelogue of Florida, one poor novel, and the poems 'Corn,' 'The Marshes of Glynn,' 'The Symphony' -- "

            "The Symphony!" Groton said it, but they all had reacted to the title. "Would that be -- ?"

            "Play it, Ivo!" Beatryx said.

            "The Symphony" was poetry, not music; there was no prescribed tune for it. But Ivo lifted the instrument and felt the power come into his being, for he had dreamed of setting this piece to music many times. He had never had the courage to make the attempt, on his own initiative. But here was his chance to make something of himself and his talent; to find out whether he could open, musically, the door to the riddle that was the destroyer.

            There was music in meaning, and meaning in music, and they were very close to one another in the work of Sidney Lanier and in this poem in particular. Each portion of it was spoken by a different instrument, personified, and the whole was the orchestral symphony...

            The macroscopic communications systems he had experienced shared this trait. Music, color, meaning -- all were interchangeable, and he was sure some species communicated melodically on their homeworlds. A translation was possible, if he borrowed from galactic coding -- and if he had the skill to do it accurately. He had learned to comprehend galactic languages, but he had never tried to translate into them. The music charged his hands and body -- but could he render the poetry?

            The others waited, knowing his problem, searching for some way to help. Harold Groton, whose astrological interpretations could do no good in this situation; Afra Summerfield, whose physical beauty and analytical mind were similarly useless; Beatryx Groton, whose empathy could not enchant his suddenly uncertain fingers.

            Analysis, empathy, astrology...

            Then he saw that they could help, all of them. Just by being available.

            Ivo began to play.

 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

            The mists receded; the shadowless darkness evaporated. In the grandeur of sound the vision came, vastly mechanized: the image of the galaxy, cosmic dish of brilliance turning about its nebulous axis, trailing its spiral arms, radiating into space a spherical chord of energy of which the visible spectrum was less than one percent.

            Then came the planets, recognizably Solarian, superimposed upon the nebular framework: Pluto, Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Mercury, Luna. And it was as though they rolled around within that bowl at differing velocities, Sol rolling too, and Earth at the center. Merged with that was a second bowl, that shifted against the first without friction: galactic and planetary roulette. The combined motions were diverse and complex; it seemed that no eye could trace where within that melee all the planets were at any given moment or how the bowls aligned. Only if the action stopped could such a survey be accomplished -- and such a cessation would destroy it all.

            It could not be halted -- but it could be photographed, in a manner, and such pictures revealed unique aspects. For the two concavities were marked off in quarters, and each quarter in thirds: twenty-four sections between them, twelve against twelve. Each of these was an open chamber wherein a planet might lodge forever, once caught by the flash of the camera. And the flashes came, four of them, making the planets freeze and the two bowls mesh together, binding themselves to the configurations of the instant; and in each case a form of existence was thereby set.

            The motions were such that only the instant fixed the ratios; had the action been halted a fraction sooner or later, an entirely different configuration would have resulted, and reality would have deviated by that amount.

            This, then, the symphony of motion and meaning, embracing all experience. The instant of its theoretic cessation, that fixation of all planets, was the horoscope.

 

            FIRE

 

 

            There was the swell of massed strings as Ivo descended to the circle of pie-shaped pens, searching out the fire symbols. He found a lion with flaming mane and passed it by; a centaur with drawn bow, the arrow a torch, and gave a nod to the archer that was not himself; and the ram. Here he tarried, approaching the animal with caution. The blades of its pasture were red spears of conflagration and the hairs of its body were coils of spreading smoke, but it was the head that predominated. Upon one mighty horn was written ASPIRATION and upon the other, TRADE.

            "O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead!" Ivo exclaimed, quoting the words of the poet in the language of music: themes of the violin.

            But Aries the Ram turned his molten head and snorted fire. "The beasts they hunger, and eat, and die; And so do we, and the world's a sty; Hush fellow swine; Why nuzzle and cry? Swinehood hath no remedy."

            And Ivo was afraid of this enormous beast, that spoke of other beasts and was so close to him that its very gaze seemed to burn his flesh, and he comprehended its power and determination. But still he tried: "Does business mean, Die, you -- live, I? Then 'Trade is trade' but sings a lie: 'Tis only war grown miserly."

            Aries pointed one horn at a scorched scroll illuminated in the massed-string surge, and Ivo read:

 

            Formal galactic history commences with the formation of the first interstellar communications network. Only scattered authentic prior evidences exist for the employment of artificial macronics, and these may be disregarded as transitory phenomena of insignificant galactic moment.

            The first two cultures to establish a dialogue were only two hundred light-years apart; but a thousand years elapsed from the onset of broadcasting to confirmation. The second culture received the signals of the first and comprehended them, but delayed some time before deciding to respond. It is conjectured that conservative elements within that culture feared the long-range effect of a dialogue with complete aliens: a caution that was justified if value was placed on the status quo.

            During the second millennium fifteen additional cultures joined the network, having observed the successful interchange of the first pair and having gained confidence thereby. This was the nucleus of primitive galactic civilization.

            Within a hundred thousand years the initial signal had traversed the galaxy and gone beyond, diffusing into the entropy of macronic debris; but its originator had ceased broadcasting within ten thousand, presumably because of species decline or natural catastrophe. It had not been, in retrospect, a particularly notable culture; it owes its distinction in galactic history solely to the fact that it was the first to precipitate the network. Others, however, stimulated by that sample period, remained active, and the total number of participants increased steadily for the first several million years. Eventually the number stabilized, ushering in the so-called main phase.

            Spheres of influence developed, the extent of each determined by the relative commencement time of broadcast the level of knowledge provided, the endurance of the originating culture and the compatibility of neighboring cultures. Certain stations, having nothing original to contribute, closed down and were lost to history. Some became intermittent, doing little more than announcing their presence every millennium or so. Some became "service" stations, relaying material gathered and correlated from others. Some merely acknowledged prevailing broadcasts and expressed identification with the more notable ones. A few broadcast without reference to incoming signals, in this manner avoiding direct competition for prestige.

            Thus fairly stable spheres developed amid the general chaos, centered on the most durable and knowledgeable stations. This stability extended beyond individual broadcasters, for when a major station desisted lesser ones would fill its place and continue disseminating its information. Quite a number of prominent spheres were based on long-defunct cultures, since the quality of knowledge developed transcended the details of species or culture. Overall civilization gradually expanded, as individual species profited by the knowledge of their neighbors. At times dominance within a sphere would shift, as a pupil became more vigorous than the instructor; but generally the leading cultures maintained their positions, owing perhaps to greater inherent species ability. This main phase endured for about a hundred million years, and almost all the early cultures were replaced by later ones who could lay claim to very little original knowledge. The time of pioneering was over, galactically, and it seemed that the ultimate in civilization had been attained.

            The onset of the First Siege altered this situation drastically. This came in the form of an extragalactic broadcast that intercepted the galaxy broadside and thus saturated it within a few thousand years. This was the first intergalactic communicatory contact made, apart from faint, blurred signals of relatively primitive culture. This one was advanced: more sophisticated in knowledge and application than any hitherto known. By its mere existence it proved that the local level of civilization and technology was fledgling rather than mature. It presented a technique until this point thought to be beyond animated physical capability: the key to what amounted to instantaneous travel between the stars of the galaxy.

            It was hailed as a miracle. No longer was commerce confined to the intellect. For the first time, divergent planetary species were able to make physical contact.

            But the wiser cultures saw it for what it was -- and could not cry the alarm before the consequences were upon them.

 

            The stellar constellation known on Earth as Aries was not a true association of stars at all, for some were relatively close to the planet and others were far removed, in that apparent region of space. Yet this could be construed as a segment of the galaxy, and within it were numerous cultures. In this time of interstellar travel, empires were forming; and it was to one of these that Schön journeyed.

            As Ivo had found himself at the Hegemony of Tyre, so Schön landed on an Earth-type but alien planet, feeling its gravity and breathing its atmosphere. There was vegetation, similar in function if not in detail to that of Earth, and there was what passed for civilization.

            The planet appeared to be at war.

            Schön assimilated the situation almost immediately. He proceeded to the nearest recruiting office. "I am a talented alien in need of employment," he said to the boothed official.

            The beetle-browed, facet-eyed creature contemplated him. "I grant you are alien -- sickeningly so," it honked. "If you are verbally talented, I suggest you make use of your ability to show cause why I should not vaporize you where you stand on your repulsive meaty digits, in three minutes or less."

            Schön could tell by the shade of its carapace that it was suspicious. "Obviously you suspect me of being a representative of a hostile power, since I perceive you are on a war, er, footing here." The hesitation reflected the creature's absence of feet. "Obviously, too, I could be a spy or saboteur, since the ability to penetrate your defenses without observation is a requisite for that trade. And my direct approach to you is no guarantee that my motives are innocent; I could be holding a radiation bomb triggered to go off the moment you blast me. That would be my employer's guarantee that my failure to insinuate myself into your military machine could not lead to awkward exposure of his vile designs. I would naturally prefer to preserve my life and quietly gather whatever useful information I could while maintaining scrupulous cover. I should for that reason be an excellent employee of yours, since suspicion would naturally center on my activities and only months or years of excellent and unimpeachable service could dissipate this doubt -- by which time the present crisis should long since be over and my employer could be allied to yours. But if I cannot accomplish this, at least my employer may have the satisfaction of knowing that a cubic mile of this planet's lithosphere -- perhaps a trifle less, if the shoddy workmanship of the past is any criterion -- has been rendered uninhabitable by my radioactive demise. Two of my three minutes are done; you may keep the third."

            The creature paused, almost as though in doubt. "Will you accede to fluoroscopic examination?"

            "Certainly. But that could be construed as an uncertainty on your part that your superiors would surely question. It would be wiser to blast me right now, before any such complications develop."

            "If you are armed as you describe, that would be disastrous."

            "Perhaps I am bluffing. A bluff is certainly cheaper than a bomb, particularly in these days of runaway inflation."

            "If you are bluffing, then you are probably not a spy and there is no need to blast you. In fact it could be an inadequacy on my record. If you are not bluffing -- "

            "There is something in what you say, and I commend your perspicacity. Still, I must point out that I could be a real spy who is bluffing merely about the bomb. That is more likely, don't you agree, than my being an innocent person with a bomb."

            "If you were innocent, you wouldn't have a bomb."

            Schön shrugged in eloquent defeat not untinged with a hint of well-concealed bad grace. "Have it your way."

            "Assuming that you are a spy, whether armed or unarmed, how could I best deal with you without risking my own life or record?"

            "That's an excellent question. You will no doubt think of much better alternatives, but all that occurs to me at the moment is the possibility of referring the case to your immediate superior, as a matter warranting his discretion."

            It was expeditiously done. After an essentially similar dialogue, Schön was bounced up another link in the chain of command. And another. Eventually he spoke to the chief of intelligence.

            "We are satisfied that you are what you claim to be," the Chief said. "Namely, a talented alien in need of employment. You are also of a physical stock not on record in the galactic speciology, but you are too clever to have been trained on a primitive planet. The probability is, then, that you are a spy for someone -- but we hesitate to interrogate you thoroughly until we can be sure you are not an observer from a quote friendly unquote or at least neutral power. Since we have at the moment only one potential enemy and several thousand potential allies, and since we are not adverse to assistance, it behooves us to deal cautiously with you. Probability suggests you are an asset -- but how can we minimize the risk?"

            "Just don't try to send me to any temple of Baal."

            "Pardon?"

            "It would be expeditious to offer me compensation that is somewhat greater than the amount my overt services warrant. That way, I would be inclined to transfer my allegiance to you, in the event it was not already with your planet. Spies are notoriously underpaid, you know."

            The Chief vibrated a follicle against his beak. "Surely you realize that this is a ridiculous proposition? We would not possibly -- "

            Schön sighed. "Of course you are right. A captaincy in your navy would be an unheard of reward for a suspected spy, however meritorious his service."

            "Who said anything about -- !" the Chief began, his shell crackling with righteous indignation. "A captaincy! I was thinking of Third Lieutenant, J. G., apprentice, probationary."

            ***

            Captain Schön docked his sleek destroyer and gave his crew thirty-hour planetary leave while the ship underwent preventive maintenance. He set the thermostat within his flame-red cloak of authority to an invigorating sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, making the mental conversion to local units effortlessly. The few civilians passing him on the street saluted with alacrity; he ignored them. Protocol did not require that an officer return courtesy to any person more than three grades below him, and of course civilians were beneath rank.

            He mounted the ramp of the capital and brushed past the rigid guards. The other officers were already assembled in the presidential suite: the five supreme individuals of the planet, gathered about the giant semicircular table. The Monarch, the Prime Minister, the Fleet Admiral, the Chief of Intelligence and the Chancellor of the Exchequer -- all waiting somberly for the meeting to begin.

            Schön took his place. Not one of the others was particularly pleased at his presence, but they did not dare to make a key decision without him. They knew he was clever enough to foil anything arranged without his consent.

            The Prime Minister elevated himself, lifting his venerable thorax above the table. "Gentlemen -- we have received an ultimatum from the Hegemony of Lion. We are met here to consider our response."

            The Monarch turned to him. "A précis, if you please."

            "Surrender of all military equipment together with attached personnel. Deportation of hostages to Lion, as itemized. Indemnities. Reconstruction."

            "Standard contract," the Chief observed.

            "All present of this council appear on the hostage list?" the Monarch inquired.

            The Minister rattled agreement. "All but the Captain. Together with households."

            The Chancellor coughed. "Households! That means our daughters get dinked."

            "Good for them, I'm sure," the Chief muttered.

            The Chancellor inflated angrily, but the Monarch cut him off by speaking again. "How strict are the indemnities?"

            "Standard. Ten percent of Gross Planetary Product for Ram and environs, fifteen percent for subsidiary worlds. Exploitation of subsequently developed offworld resources, fifty percent."

            "Too high," the Admiral said. "They should not get more than twenty percent of windfall acquisitions."

            "Academic, since we won't have our navy," the Chief pointed out. "No ships, no loot -- unless you plan to refit merchant vessels for your piracy."

            "Piracy!"

            "Gentlemen, let's not quibble over terminology in this time of crisis," the Monarch said. "The question is, do we acquiesce?"

            "No!" the Admiral exclaimed. "We have the space fold coordinates of their main system updated to the second. We have the missiles for an inundation strike. Act now, and we can wipe them out. Solve the problem once and for all."

            "Very neat," the Chief said dryly. "Except for their second-strike capability. What use mutual destruction?"

            "Better that than slavery!"

            "A standard contract is hardly slavery, even with fifty percent windfall appropriation. We have issued similar contracts to lesser species in the past."

            "What makes you think they'll honor those terms, once our fleet has been dismantled?"

            "Haven't you heard of the Gemini Convention?"

            "That's passé. We never bothered with it. Not for fifty thousand years -- "

            "Gentlemen," the Monarch repeated, and the argument subsided fretfully.

            "It seems our various opinions are fairly set," the Minister remarked. "Some are amenable to compromise, some feel we would be foolish to allow ourselves to be read out of power by such means."

            "Better read than dead," the Chief murmured.

            "Treason!" the Admiral exclaimed.

            "However," the Minister continued loudly, "we must agree on some recommendation before this session ends. The Monarch, of course, will make the decision."

            There was a silence.

            "I am, as you know, from a far system," Schön said after an interval. "Possibly my perspective differs from yours."

            They waited noncommittally, grudgingly allowing him to make his case.

            "As I understand it, Ram has historically had good relations with Lion. Both hegemonies rose to sapience about a million years before the Traveler appeared, and because of their proximity -- within a hundred light-years of each other -- an intense dialogue was feasible. The development of spacefold transport was hailed as the beginning of an era of splendor, now that these longtime and compatible correspondents could meet physically and without a time delay of centuries."

            "Ancient history," snorted the Admiral.

            "Yet instead of a mutually beneficial interchange -- trade -- you developed antipathy. You were at war within a thousand years, and have fought intermittently and inconclusively ever since, just as Tyre fought with Sidon."

            "Tyre? Sidon?" the Admiral inquired. "Where in the galaxy are they? What kind of fleets do they have?"

            "Mixed fleets: war galleys and merchanters," Schön replied straight-faced. "The point is, they depleted their resources and discommoded their navies by striving senselessly against each other, instead of mobilizing against their mutual enemies."

            "That's an oversimplification," the Minister said. "We have had numerous encounters with other systems -- "

            "Three wars with Centaur, two with Swan, altercations with Eagle, Horse, Dog, Hare -- " Schön put in.

            "Alliances with Bear, Beaver, Dragon -- " the Minister interposed in turn, retaining his equanimity.

            "All of which were violently sundered. Why? What happened to the mighty era of knowledge and prosperity heralded by the availability of interstellar travel?"

            "Our neighbors disappointed us."

            "They all were unworthy. Sure. And now Lion has issued an ultimatum demanding your conditional surrender. Surely they had provocation?"

            The Admiral and the Minister rustled their scales discordantly.

            "There was a border incident," the Chief admitted after a small delay.

            "Of what nature? Practically speaking, you don't have a border with Lion. You have to use spacefold -- and you can't just rub up against your neighbor by accident. Not when you have to compress an object of near-planetary mass into its gravitational radius in order to poke through. For that matter, spacefold transport and accurate coordinates make the entire galaxy your neighbor. Light velocity limitation means nothing anymore."

            "It was a reconnaissance mission," the Admiral said.

            "A two-thousand-mile diameter moon on reconnaissance? Equipped to service several thousand warships, each potentially armed with planet-busters? Your euphemism hardly becomes the situation. And I'll bet you planted it within five light-seconds of their homeworld."

            "Three light-seconds," the Admiral said almost inaudibly.

            "And you didn't bother with any ultimatum, did you? Just a nice, neat fait accompli. You thought. Sneak your battlemoon right within range of their capital-planet, while their own ships were elsewhere. So what happened?"

            "They were ready for us," the Minister said. "They had complete information."

            "Incredible bungling," the Chancellor of the Exchequer muttered. "Have you any idea what a battlemoon costs?"

            "Obviously there was a leak," Schön said. He was beginning to get bored.

            "Obviously." The Admiral glared at the Chief, who averted his facets.

            "So now Lion has your, er, expedition, and the balance of power has shifted in its favor. Thus the ultimatum."

            None of them replied.

            "I have," Schön continued after a pause, "been doing a little research. I find that this entire question is unimportant."

            Their eyes appraised him stonily.

            "Ram and Lion are two principalities amid a galaxy of kingdoms, federations and empires. The only reason neither has been gobbled up yet is that there is insufficient wealth between you to warrant the trouble. However, the flux of major powers is at the state where it has become economically feasible to absorb you both, rather than tolerate your petty raids on civilized installations any longer. You Phoenicians and Greeks are ripe for Egypt or Assyria -- or even Alexander."

            The Monarch contemplated him sadly through a golden facet. "Are you ready now to inform us whom you represent? This Alexander, perhaps?"

            "I represent no one but myself. I am merely stating facts that should be obvious to any objective party. Your shortsightedness is destroying you. You are wasting each other's resources while the wolves look on, and they are only waiting until you are at your weakest stage before snapping you up. You would be far better off to make an honest alliance with Lion -- even to the extent of accepting that so-called contract -- and thus perhaps postpone a more final loss of identity."

            Still they did not comment.

            At last the Monarch looked up. "What you say makes sense to us, Captain. We are in the wrong, but it is not too late. We shall accept the contract."

            There was no dissent, of course. The Monarch of Ram had spoken.

            ***

            Two weeks later Schön's ship berthed within the transport satellite: another moon of minimum effective mass. It had been stripped, the Chief informed him, and was nothing but a ball of rock, with the exception of the tube leading down into the compression mechanism compartment. The equipment, Schön knew, was far more sophisticated than that constructed by the human party on Triton; this could make use of a far smaller mass, and the location perceptors were precise. This, together with the up-to-date spacefold maps of this area of the galaxy, made a controlled jump routine. He had done his homework here, too, and was familiar with the equipment.

            He was alone. He had been selected to make the trip to Lion bearing the capitulation message. "They would not trust any sizable party," the Chief had explained. "But you, an alien, can negotiate the details, and return with their expeditionary party. We shall be ready, then."

            Yeah, sure, bugeye.

            Schön entered the control compartment and examined the telltales. The mechanism had been set and locked: transport was scheduled to occur within the hour, and this had been timed exactly. The express position of the object was important, as the human explorers had known; what the dull-witted humans had not suspected was that the precise time of transport was equally critical. For the universe was not stable; it had been expanding, and now was in a state of flux preparatory to contraction, and this affected every part of it. Some sections were still expanding, while others were already contracting, and special stresses acted even on the interiors of galaxies and stellar systems that appeared to the fleeting animate observer to maintain their original sizes and positions. And this flux caused a drift between adjacent surfaces of jumpspace; the loops were fairly constant, but their fabric continued to stretch, eventually forming new loops of similar size or abolishing old ones. As a result, the differential between adjacent surfaces could be a swift current. In some instances, as shift piled upon shift and jumpspace warped frantically to compensate, the passage of minutes meant a similar number of light-minutes deviation from the calculated location of emergence.

            So his journey had been carefully calculated in advance, and the equipment sealed to prevent potentially disastrous distortion. Emergence at the wrong point in space, even if only a few million miles off, could be taken as an indication of betrayal, and the waiting warships would open fire.

            Schön unlimbered the special equipment he had brought (smuggled) and powdered the locking devices with single applications of his limited-slip laser. The panel opened, exposing the intricate circuitry. He manipulated his tools with the dexterity and competence he naturally possessed and made certain minor adjustments.

            He was not traveling quite where the good Monarch of Ram had arranged.

            He returned to his ship, sealed himself in, and entered the melting chamber. The ten-second melt-radiation warner sounded; then --

            ***

            He came out of it whole, knowing that many hours had passed while his body melted, vaporized and finally compressed along with the ship and moon into a comparative speck -- and then reversed the process at the other end of the jump.

            He set himself before the ship's macroscope and looked out at the universe.

            There was no destroyer signal, as he had known. The ship's computer shifted through the configurations and matched his present location: approximately one light-hour away from his scheduled rendezvous in the home-system of Lion.

            He smiled. It had worked.

            He had set the contraction mechanism for a triple sequence with a delay of only minutes between each effort. Thus the moon had made the first jump to Lion, hesitated momentarily, and gone into the return cycle before protoplasmic reconstitution could start. The brief interim and the relative motion of the two surfaces of space had sent it back at an angle, and it had emerged several light-minutes from its origin. Before the home-crowd could respond, since it took minutes for them even to see it, it had gone into the third compression, to emerge at its present spot. Its route had been a kind of N figure, the displacement magnified by the stress exerted on the fabric of space by adjacent punchthroughs. Dangerous -- but what were heroes for, if not to brave danger?

            Only then had the reconstitution process commenced. This had taken hours -- but his displacement in space should have been sufficient for security. Just about now things should be popping.

            They were. The sweep showed the traces that indicated an armada encircling the inhabited world of this system: battleships traveling at speed. The Lions had anticipated treachery.

            And the anticipation had been well fulfilled. Two uncharted moons drifted within the system, light-hours apart, and he knew that at least one more was present on the far side, too far from his own location to register yet. Observation by optics or macronics was so slow! It was an all-out attack; the inundation strike the Ram Admiral had urged.

            What of the Lion second-strike capability the Chief had so carefully mentioned? Schön smiled again. The solution to that inhibitor was obvious. The Rams had underestimated the perspicacity of the stranger, thinking to set him up as a duped emissary. They had staged a mock meeting and made a mock decision, while the war preparations moved ahead full-scale. There had never been a true capitulation, and probably not even a genuine ultimatum. This thrust had been decades in the making.

            Lion ships still cruised in the vicinity of the supposed emergence, though the bulk of that fleet was already heading toward him. They had thought that his moon was merely another unit in the invasion -- as indeed it was. But it had not stayed long enough to allow their planet-busters to score, and now was in an unscheduled location. Doubly unscheduled: naturally the Ram schedule differed from that set up for the truce mission, and his own schedule differed from Ram's.

            He adjusted the macroscope to focus within his own moon and took a look on sweep. Sure enough, the buried warships were already coming to life, their crews having emerged from mass gasification. He had at least done them the favor of saving them from the planet-busters; Lion intelligence was better than Ram's. Not that it made any difference to him.

            Strange that they had trusted him with the spacefold mechanism. Perhaps they had feared that he would recognize a dummy-panel -- a correct assumption -- and had felt that the lock sufficed against incidental mischief. If they really thought he was an important Lion spy, verisimilitude required that he be allowed to observe the setting for himself.

            There were hundreds of simpler and surer ways of doing it, naturally. But the military mind had never been noted for its subtlety or efficiency, fortunately. Fortunately? It would not be the military mind if it were clever. Most likely, the Ram strategists had simply underestimated him by a factor of two or three.

            In due course his Ram escort would get around to dispatching him as superfluous. His ship was unarmed -- theoretically in accordance with the negotiations setup -- and lacked working fluid for any extended trip. They were sure they had him penned safely; their immediate concern was the approaching fleet of Lion.

            He refocused the scope on the farther reaches of the system. Sure enough: the third expedition had appeared. No moonlet, this; Ram had transported its entire home-world! That was their answer to Lion's second-strike capability, as he had suspected. Removal of the target from the target-system.

            A third time he smiled. Such naïveté!

            For now the Lion home-planet was gone, leaving only the massed offensive arm to attack the Ram planet before its inhabitants could be reconstituted. Two could play at this game of treachery and system-jumping!

            Oh, the fragments would be small, very small, when the first accredited empire came collecting!

            Now it was time to make contact with Lion, on the way to larger things. In three hours the jumpspace mechanism would initiate its fourth and final cycle, with disastrous consequences for any unprepared troops in the vicinity. Those outside the field of compression would be smashed by the moon's collapse and displacement; those still within it would be preserved -- but not in animate state. Only the resilient gas-form could sustain that terrible implosion alive.

            Schön paused before the chamber entrance. Exactly how grateful, he wondered, would the opposing monarch -- the Pride of Lion -- be for a complete undamaged military moon, together with a number of serviceable warships?

            Not grateful enough, he decided. Lion would attempt to string him along as had Ram, exercising the eternal governmental prerogative of amorality and fallibility. Meanwhile the internecine struggle would continue, each home-world in orbit about its neighbor's sun, its native life suffering from the unfamiliar radiation.

            No, the real rewards for the entrepreneur would not occur until an empire made its move.

            Perhaps such a move could be hastened by a little judicious manipulation...

            Still smiling, Schön stepped into the chamber. "Alexander, where are you?" he murmured as the warner sounded.

 

            WATER

 

 

            "A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly upon the bosom of that harmony..." And Ivo was that flute, or of it, and the chambers he descended into were liquid. First he encountered the scorpion resting on the beach, not a horror, huge as it was, but rather with an aspect of creativity and fairness. Then he passed the crab, who watched patiently from under the surface, housed beneath a shell. At last he stopped at the tank wherein the fishes were swimming, like twin animate feet wading under the wave. Upon the one was written SYMPATHY, and upon the other HEART.

            "From the warm concave of the fluted note Somewhat, half song, half odor, forth did float, As if a rose might somehow be a throat..." Ivo said to Pisces in the prescribed mode.

            And the first fish replied: "Yea, Nature, singing sweet and lone Breathes through life's strident polyphone..."

            And the second fish continued: "Yea, all fair forms, and sounds and lights, And warmths, and mysteries, and mights, Of Nature's utmost depths and heights..."

            And the first: "So Nature calls through all her system wide, Give me thy love, O man, so long denied..."

            And the second: "Trade! is thy heart all dead, all dead? And hast thou nothing but a head? I'm all for heart," the flute-voice said.

            And on the bottom of the tank was written in sand and shell:

            ***

            Physical contact between the stellar cultures of the galaxy in fact meant chaos. All species had needs and ambitions, and few were ethical in galactic sense when subject to meaningful temptation. Prejudices submerged during the long purely-intellectual contact reappeared now with renewed force. It developed that certain warm, liquid-blooded species had an inherent aversion to certain cold mucous-surfaced species, however equivalent their intellects, and many other combinations were similarly incompatible. Certain species turned pirate, preying on others and taking wealth, slaves and food without fair recompense; others inaugurated programs of colonization that led rapidly to friction. Not all encounters were violent; some were mutually beneficial. But the old, stable order had been completely overturned, and power shifted radically from the intellectual to the biological and physical. Highly civilized cultures were overrun and annihilated by barbarians.

            A new order arose, dominated by the most ruthless and cunning species. Greed and distrust acted to split and weaken the empires of these new leaders, forcing further change and breakup, in an ever more dissolute spiral. In the course of half a million years, galactic civilization as an entity disappeared entirely, submerged in the tide of violence; no macroscopic broadcasting stations remained except the extragalactic Traveler. Isolated by their own released savagery, all species declined. It was the Siege of Darkness.

            Approximately one million years after its inauguration the Traveler beam terminated. The siege was over -- but the progress of galactic civilization had been set back immeasurably. As time passed, macroscopic stations began again to broadcast, and a new network was established -- but the scars of the Siege were long in healing. Love, once denied, recovered slowly.

            ***

            "You are better now," the voice said hopefully.

            Beatryx opened her eyes, that were still stinging from the salt, and squinted into the warm sunlight. She was wearing a black bathing suit somewhat more scant than seemed appropriate. "Oh, yes!" she agreed, a little dizzy from her recent immersion. It had seemed she was drowning...

            The young man's face seemed to shine. "Lida! Persis! Durwin! A paean, for she who was lost is healed!"

            Three handsome young persons bounded across the sand. "Joy!" the leader cried, a muscular giant, sleek with the water dripping from his torso.

            In moments they stood before her: two bronzed young men, two lovely girls, each radiating vitality. All had lustrous black hair and classically sculptured features.

            The first man spoke again, more formally: "This is Persis, girl of peace." The girl performed a motion suggestive of a curtsy, smiling. Her teeth were bright and even. "This is Lida, beloved of us all." The second girl genuflected, smiling as politely as the first. "And my dear friend Durwin." The second man raised his hand in a formal wave rather like a salute, hoisting an eyebrow merrily.

            "And I," the speaker said diffidently, "am Hume -- lover of my home." His smile was the most winning of all.

            Beatryx tried to speak, but Hume squatted to touch her lips lightly with his slender finger. "Do not name yourself. Surely we know you already. Have you not brought joy to us?"

            "She who brings joy!" Durwin exclaimed. "Her name would be -- "

            "Beatrice!" the two girls cried.

            "No," Hume said solemnly. "That would be common joy, and hers is uncommon."

           Durwin studied her. "You are right. Look at her hair! She is as a diamond amidst quartz. Yet joy must be her designation. Not Beatrice, nor Beatrix -- "

            "But Beatryx!" Hume finished.

            "We shall call her Tryx," the girl Persis said.

            Beatryx listened to all of this with tolerance. "You knew my name already," she said.

            "We knew what it had to be," Hume said, and offered no further explanation.

            "Where is this?" She looked at the white sand and the strings of seaweed and the green-white surf.

            "Where," Hume inquired gently, "would you like it to be?"

            "Why, I don't really know. I suppose it doesn't matter. It must be like Ivo's dream, when he went to Tyre -- only it seems so real!"

            "Come," Durwin said. "Evening is hard upon us, and the village is not in sight."

            "Yes," Lida agreed. "We must show you to our companions."

            Then Beatryx was walking down the long beach, seeing the light of the setting sun refracted off the rolling water in splays of colored light. The men paced her on either side and the girls skipped next to them. Inland the palmlike vegetation rose, casting long and waving shadows in the distance. The air was warm and moist, rich with the briny odors of the sea. Underfoot -- all feet were bare, including hers, she suddenly realized -- the sand was hot but not uncomfortable, spiced with multihued pebbles and occasional conchlike shells. The word "murex" came to her, but she could not place either the source or the meaning; certainly she had never seen shells quite like these before.

            Half a mile down the curving shoreline rested the village, a cluster of conical tents on the beach. In the center she saw a bonfire, great fat sparks leaping into the darkening sky, occasional fluffy wood-ashes drifting in the air current coming in across the water. She could smell the burning cellulose, together with hot stones and charred seaweed, and the hungry aroma of roasting fish.

            Hume took her by the arm and guided her into the crowd. "This is Tryx," he proclaimed. "Come from the water, and great joy to us that she is sound and well."

            "Another rescued!" someone cried.

            They gathered about, dark-haired, slender, glowing with health and friendliness. There were about thirty in all, as comely a group as she had ever seen. "See how fair she is!" a girl exclaimed.

            Beatryx laughed, embarrassed. "I am not fair! I'm almost forty!" With that she wondered where Harold was. It was strange to be anywhere without him, and not entirely comfortable, though these were certainly nice people. Harold and Ivo and Afra -- were they still back in the floating chamber, watching her as the three had watched Ivo before? But she had no Schön-personality to direct the trip...it was all so complicated.

            The others smiled. "We must build a house for you," one said, and immediately there was a flurry of action. One of the tents was evidently a storehouse; from it the men and women, working in cheerful concert, brought poles and rolls of clothlike material and lengths of cord. Some quickly planted the poles deep in the sand and bound them together at the top, while others wrapped the cloth around the outside of the resultant structure. Beatryx noticed that there were snap fastenings at the edges, so that the material could be easily joined to itself and to the uprights.

            And it was complete: a many-colored teepee residence for her to stay in while she was here. They stood back and looked at her expectantly.

            "It's very nice," she said. "But -- "

            They waited, but she could not go on. It was very nice, and their society was very nice -- but how could she inquire the purpose of it all? She had entered some kind of -- diagram? -- something with little balls falling and wheels spinning, and she had seen strange animals as though one of Harold's charts had come to life, and finally she had fallen into a pond with talking fish -- or had she been the fish, somehow? -- and some kind of writing on the bottom. She understood vaguely that it all had to do with history and the reason she and Harold and Ivo and Afra had come to this place. That place. But now she was by herself, and there was no history and no explanation, and she did not know how to phrase her question.

            If only Harold were here to take charge! He was so practical about such things.

            "Thank you so much," she finally said.

            "A paean!" Hume cried, and suddenly the group was in song, a melody of sheer exuberance and youthful glee. The voices of the girls were like flutes, marvelously clear and high.

            Then they were all sitting around the fire, now a ring of dimming coals, and passing spicy, juicy fish around, each one wrapped in tough green leaves. For drink there was something very like coconut milk, but richer and more filling. She worried that it might be alcoholic, but was soon satisfied that it was not.

            No one seemed to have lamps, and when the last of the fire died they were sitting in the dark. The men were exchanging stories of the fish they had speared or almost speared that day, and the territory they had explored: some fabulous fish, some astonishing territory, if everything were to be believed. The girls spoke of the pretty flowers they had seen inland, and the colored stones they had collected. No one asked Beatryx where she had been, and she was glad of that because she did not see how she could explain.

            It was all very pleasant, and even the sea-breeze was not cold; but there was one problem. She had dined well and sipped well, and certain urgencies of nature were developing. But which tent...?

            On her left sat Hume; on her right, Durwin. She could not inquire.

            At last the gathering broke up and the merry voices faded into the night. It was time to retire.

            She stood up uncertainly. She was no longer sure where her tent was, or what she should do once she reached it. As for the other --

            A gentle hand took her arm. "Will you walk with me?" Persis' soft voice came.

            Thankfully she accepted the guidance. They walked out of the village and into the line of vegetation; she could tell only by the retreating sound of the waves and by the occlusion of a swath of stars by overhanging branches every so often. Now and then her foot came down on a twig or pebble, but there was nothing harsh enough to cause pain.

            "Here."

            "Here?" They were still in the forest; she was sure of that much. Night insects chirruped and fluttered nearby. Where was the building?

            Persis squatted down.

            Beatryx realized, with a despairing shock, that this was it. There were no lavatory facilities! Nothing but the bushes. And these people weren't even disturbed!

            Harold would have arranged to build a privy, at least...

            There was a fluffy mattress on the floor of her domicile, and no wind entered to disturb things. Persis showed her where to hang her bathing suit, and left. The advantage of the teepee format was that everything was within reach in the dark. It was comfortable enough.

            Comfortable enough physically, but not esthetically. To sleep without night clothing...and no sanitary facilities! She knew she was being foolish, but these were aspects of the primitive idyl that disturbed her profoundly.

            Now she wondered about the sleeping arrangements of her companions. It seemed to her that there had been fewer than twenty structures in the village. Not enough for each person to have one. Were a number of these young men and women married? She had seen no sign of this; no rings on any fingers, no marital designations.

            Perhaps Hume and Durwin shared a tent, and Lida and Persis. Young people often did not like to remain alone. Nor, for that matter, did people like Beatryx herself. Still --

            She knew what Harold would say: other peoples, other customs. Let them be.

            If only he were here!

            ***

            In the morning the young men gathered more dry branches for the fire, but did not light it. The girls brought fruit from the forest, harvesting it from somewhere, and more coconuts. The nectar, it turned out, was from these. Teams of men punched holes in the mighty-husked objects and skillfully poured the juice into gourds. The women added flavoring from crushed berries.

            Breakfast was as supper had been: a communal gathering around the fire -- still unlit -- and distribution of succulent sections of fruit and cups of drink. Instead of tales of the day's adventures, the dialogue was about forthcoming projects: where the best fishing might be had, whether it was time to move the camp to a new location, the prospects for rain.

            "I," Hume said, "shall scout to the south this morning. Maybe I can find a suitable campsite."

            "And who will go with you?" Persis demanded with a twinkle. "Do you think we can trust a man to make such an important survey?"

            "Tryx will go with me!" he replied jovially. "Was I not first to find her?"

            "Are you sure it was not her sunbeam hair you found first?" Persis concentrated with mock-brooding on a strand of her own black tresses.

            "I really don't know anything about campsites," Beatryx protested. It was foolish again, but she felt flattered by the frequent references to her hair. Once, of course, it had been quite fair, and some of the color lingered. Of course it would be subject to comment amid a black-haired group such as this, but it really was nothing remarkable.

            "Do you think he does?" Persis said. Beatryx took a moment to remember that this referred to knowledge of campsites. The matter seemed to be decided.

            She and Hume walked down the beach, not hurrying. Beatryx worried about sunburn, but clouds were growing in the sky and rain seemed to be a more likely problem.

            "Is it like this -- all the time?" she asked, still having trouble framing her question. She had not understood, before, why Ivo had not simply snapped out of his Tyre-dream. Now she appreciated his situation. This world included sleep! Waking up was merely waking up, not a return. There was nothing to take hold of, no way to -- she still couldn't formulate it.

            "All summer," he said. He carried a fishing spear that he used as a staff.

            So that was it! A summer holiday. "Where are your families?"

            "Oh, they're inland. It is too dangerous for them on the beaches."

            "Dangerous?" That didn't sound like vacation!

            "The blacks," he said, as though that explained it.

            "What are the blacks?"

            He looked uncomfortable. "They come up from the sea. I thought you knew all about -- that. We have to stop them from infesting the land. Every year some try. If they ever take hold and start breeding -- " He looked ahead. "There it is! I wanted you to see it."

            She followed his gaze and spied an abutment of rock -- a sheer cliff rising out of the sea, twenty feet high. It was an unusual formation, since the vertical side faced away from the ocean and toward the beach. Harold would have made some observation about reverse tidal undercutting, but she didn't really understand that kind of thing. It was very pretty.

            The clouds had overcast the sun, but as if stage-directed they parted to let a beam come down. It struck the sea-side of the rock, and there was a brilliant flash from the edge.

            "What is that?" she asked, concerned.

            "The sun-stone," he said, running toward it. She had to follow, bewildered.

            The overcast closed in again, but as she came up to the cliff she discovered why the rock had seemed to take fire. It was mirror-surfaced! The face toward the beach was a clean fracture that had been polished by nature or man until it shone. The beach was reflected in it, and the distant trees, making it appear almost like a window to another world.

            Could she step through? Would that convey her back to --

            Then she saw herself within it, and gasped.

            She had lost twenty years. Her hair was thick and blonde, as it had been before she settled in to married life. Her face was thin, narrow-chinned, like those of the girls here, and her figure appallingly trim.

            "And you said you were not fair!" Hume said, divining her thoughts. "You said you were forty."

            "But I was -- am," she said, confused. "I don't understand this."

            "Why try? Too much understanding only brings sorrow, as we well know." And he was off again down the beach, the mirror-rock a fancy only of the moment.

            She lingered, ostensibly to investigate the other facets of the structure, all as clear as the first but much smaller, but actually taking in the marvelous picture. The too-scant suit -- now it was voluptuous. She was young again, and...fair. Perhaps she had known it before, and not believed.

            "Tryx!"

            She jumped, surprised by his impatience, and ashamed to be caught indulging in schoolgirl vanity, and ran to him. Yes, she could recognize it now: she had the vitality of a girl of seventeen.

            But Hume's exclamation had not been impatient. He had found something.

            A line of footprints crossed the beach from the water to the trees. They were not human; the indentations were too large and shallow, even where the moist sand near the surf held them well. Webbed prints.

            "It must have crossed within the hour," Hume said tersely.

            A reaction ran up her bare back and tightened the nape of her neck. "A -- black?"

            He nodded. "We can't catch it now. Impossible to run it down in the brush, except with a full party."

            "What can we do?" The tension made her feel nauseated in exactly the way Ivo had described.

            "I'll stand guard here. You run back to the village and warn the others. And be careful -- they usually travel in pairs and cross in different places, so that if we get one -- hurry!"

            Fear gave her fleetness. She skipped over the sand, running at the line where the water gave it firmness, though the ocean horrified her now. Creatures from the deeps!

            She passed the mirror-stone and went on, panting already. How far had they come down the beach? At least a mile -- a long, long distance, now. What if the black came back before she fetched the others? Hume had only his spear. Those awful footprints...

            She had to slow down. She was young, but she could not keep up this headlong pace. Her side ached.

            She walked, recovering. She felt guilty, as though she were malingering, but this was the best she could do. She glanced over her shoulder, half afraid something would be coming after her, and saw that the mirror-stone was already out of sight. That made her more nervous than ever.

            Something caught her eye in the water, and she turned back. She jumped, though she knew it was only a wave, or perhaps a bit of driftwood coming into sight between the swells. She started to run again, but the pain in her side came back quickly, dragging at her strength.

            Again that shape in the ocean, attracting her unwilling eye. She forced herself to look carefully, trying to convince herself all the way down inside that it was nothing. Only a freak swell caused by adjoining currents in the tide; that was what Harold would say, comfortingly.

            A black, monstrous-eyed head rose out of the whitening froth, two glossy antennae quivering.

            Beatryx screamed.

            It was the wrong thing to do. Instantly the head swiveled to cover her. She saw its banded snout, the fixed round hole of a toothless mouth beneath. It was earless, but it had heard her -- and now it was swimming or slithering toward her with alarming speed.

            She bolted for the forest, but the loose dry sand caught at her feet while giving way beneath them, impeding her and throwing her off balance. She fell, sand flying up and into her face. She choked on it and tried to brush it out of her eyes, but her hands were covered with it.

            Somehow she could not get coordinated. She remained on hands and knees in the sand, watching the creature through streaming eyes.

            The thing rose out of the water and came at her, a towering ebony figure. The scales of its thick body gleamed metallically. She saw through her sandy tears that its extremities -- all four of them -- were webbed. This was a black!

            Then it loomed above her, hoisted upon two legs, the great square bulk of its forward segment swaying near. The antennae vibrated, casting off drops of moisture...

            A cry in the distance! The black's head rotated toward the sound and its dangling flipper-forefeet hoisted up. The others had heard her cries! They were coming!

            The brute shuffled around and away, driving for the ocean. But already a party of men were running along the fringe of surf, cutting off its retreat. The black was clumsy; it could not move rapidly on land, and she saw that the powdery sand inhibited its grossly webbed feet even more than her own. It was trapped.

            "Joy! You are all right!" Persis cried, running up to her and flinging herself to her knees.

            "Hume!" Beatryx gasped, remembering. "He -- he's watching for another one! Beyond the mirror-stone!"

            "The sun-stone!" Several men detached themselves and pounded on down the beach, holding their spears aloft. They understood.

            Meanwhile six men were closing in on the nearby creature. It spun about awkwardly, seeking some passage to the water, but there was none. At last it charged, a caged bull, raising its solid forelimbs threateningly.

            Durwin's spear thunked into its body. The black stumbled, clutching at the shaft but not mortally wounded, and the men were on it.

            "Kill it! Kill it!" Persis screamed, her eyes dilated, her fingers curved into claws.

            "Kill it!" Beatryx echoed, horrified by the narrowness of her escape.

            The spears rose and fell in a frenzy of attack. The sea-thing's gross body twisted and fell, bright red blood dripping down its scales. A kind of groan issued from it; then it collapsed face-down in the sand, the water lapping at the tip of one forelimb.

            "It's dead," Durwin said with grim satisfaction. "Now let's go after that other one. Spread out and watch for any more along the beach, too."

            The men moved on, leaving the vanquished hulk where it lay bleeding into the moist sand. It was the women who spread out, facing the ocean, each one scrutinizing the ocean for signs. Their grim expressions differed strikingly from the simple camaraderie of the evening before.

            "How fortunate we heard you in time!" Persis said, helping Beatryx to her feet. "In another moment it would have touched you."

            "I thought I was dead, when I fell," Beatryx said, still shaking with reaction. "I couldn't get up again, I was so frightened."

            "Dead?" A fine dark eyebrow arched inquisitively.

            "I mean, I couldn't get away from it."

            Persis nodded. "That's horrible, I know. One of them touched me once, on the arm, and I thought I'd never wash that spot clean. I was an outcast for weeks. Filthy thing!"

            Something was strange. "It didn't hurt you?"

            "Of course not. They wouldn't dare attack a human being."

            A sick feeling crept over Beatryx. "What do they do, then? I mean, if you hadn't come here in time -- "

            "Don't you know? It probably would have touched you, tried to talk to you. Disgusting."

            "They talk?"

            "They talk. But let's get off this depressing subject. You must be very tired, after what you went through."

            Beatryx looked toward the body. "What about it?"

            "The men will burn it and bury the suit. We don't need to look. They'll put on special gloves, and bury them too, afterward. That's the worst part of it -- having to handle them."

            Something else nagged her. "The suit?"

            "The diving suit. They use those rigs for swimming under the water. Didn't you see?"

            Beatryx walked to the body, appalled at what she knew she would find. "That's a man!"

            "That's a black!" Persis corrected her. Then, horrified: "What are you doing?"

            Beatryx ignored her. She kneeled beside the corpse, seeing now the machined parts she had taken for scales. The protective face-mask attached to the large goggles, almost the way the macroscope headgear did. The breathing apparatus -- what she had seen as the "snout" -- was fastened below the helmet to a ribbed diving outfit. She put her hands to the helmet and twisted, and the mask snapped loose. She worked it away from the face.

            The head inside was that of a young man, as handsome in his own way as Hume was in his. This man was dark, however: a Negro.

            A black.

            ***

            Beatryx stumbled along in the dusk. The stones and brush and sharp twigs hurt her feet but did not slow her. The cries of the men and women of the beach village were lost behind her; they would not find her tonight, and tomorrow did not matter.

            That such a lovely world could have such horror! It had been so appealing at first, with the delicious climate, attractive seascape, and friendly people. And her own gift-body, youthful and vigorous.

            But to kill fellow-men so brutally simply because they came from the sea -- she could not comprehend or accept this. Harold would never have abided it. He was a peaceful man but could be moved to severe measures when something really important came up. "The horoscope does not specify race," he would have said.

            So she had fled. Not bravely, not openly; she was not a courageous woman, and she did not know what was best. She had washed her hands again and again, as they demanded, though in truth she was not ashamed of the touch of the black; rather she was painfully remorseful that she had failed to touch the man when it had counted, in her fatal ignorance. She had waited until night, then gone into the forest as though to -- to employ the facilities. Then she had plunged into the darkness, though the branches struck cruelly at her bare flesh and the rocks turned under her bruising feet.

            No, she did not have physical courage, and the darkness terrified her, with its thousand lurking suggestions of spiders and snakes and centipedes. But there was something she had to do. It was the thing Harold would have done.

            She made her way to the beach and found the corpse. Then she moved down toward the mirror-cliff. Even in the night she was sure she could find that landmark, and of course it was not completely dark. The stars were out in vaguely unfamiliar constellations, and the ocean glowed gently. It was cool, now, but her motion kept her warm.

            She saw the somber hump of rock and knew that her bearings were good. Only a little way beyond this spot...

            Now, cautiously, she began to call. "Black -- black, I don't have any weapon...black, if you're there, I want to talk with you...black, where are you?..."

            For somewhere was the second black. The men had not found it -- found him. They had followed the traces, but the man from the sea had eluded them in the brush. Tomorrow they were going to burn the forest here, to drive him out.

            He had to be here somewhere, Hume had explained, for in the chase the man's face-plate had been knocked out. It had fallen to the ground, and Hume had it. He had hurled it into the fire with gloved hands so that it could never be used again. The black could not go under the sea again without it.

            Neither could he get far inland, for the second line of defense was canine. The big, vicious dogs would be released if they winded him, and the black surely knew that. They were cunning that way, Hume had explained. They knew enough to stay clear of the hounds. He would not venture out of the shoreline foliage.

            Tomorrow, the fire...

            "Black," she called again. "I have the other faceplate..."

            It had been a grisly task, in the dark, prying out the plate from the helmet of the corpse. But what else could she do? She could not let them kill another man.

           For an hour she tramped up and down the beach, not daring to call too loudly lest the others hear. There was no answer. Then she cut into the forest, hurting her feet again but keeping on, still calling. She could think of nothing else to do.

            And finally blind purpose prevailed. Somewhere in the night she had an answer.

            "I hear you, white."

            It was a woman's voice.

            And Beatryx found her, lying in the hollow between two fallen trunks. The woman had a tiny electric lantern she had kept hooded until now -- until she was sure that the calling voice was not a trap. By its abruptly unfettered light Beatryx saw that the woman had removed her useless helmet and much of the rest of the underwater outfit. She lay on her side, her rather attractive dark head propped against her elbow.

            "You have to move," Beatryx said urgently. "They're going to set fire to the forest. They're going to -- "

            "One place is as good as another," the woman replied philosophically.

            "You don't understand. Tomorrow morning -- "

            "Tomorrow morning you be gone from here, white. And don't tell them you saw me, or they'll kill you too. I can't move."

            "But I brought you the face-plate. From the dead man. So you can go back under the water. That's why I -- "

            "White."

            The tone stopped her. The woman angled the light of the lantern so that it illuminated the area around her feet.

            Then Beatryx understood. Both flippers were off, and one black ankle was swollen grotesquely. The woman could not walk.

            "I'll help you get to the water," Beatryx said quickly. "You can swim slowly, can't you? Using your hands and one foot?"

            "I could." But the tone was fatalistic. Obviously the woman did not intend to try. "Where would I go in the sea, what would I do, and my husband dead on land?"

            Her husband!

            What would Beatryx do if Harold were dead? If some stranger had casually mentioned the fact and offered his belongings for her use? There would not be much point in going on. Why should this woman feel any differently?

            "I am Dolora," the woman said. "The lady of sorrows."

            "I am Beatryx. But I don't bring any joy to you." How stupid her name seemed now! And how pitiful the delayed introduction, abreast of tragedy.

            Dolora carefully removed a capsule from a sealed pocket in her suit and swallowed it.

            "Your foot?" Beatryx inquired sympathetically. "For the pain?"

            "For the pain, yes."

            "How did this happen?" Beatryx asked after a pause. "Why do they hate you? Why do you come from the ocean?"

            And Dolora explained: In the time of the Traveler Siege the whites of this planet had embarked upon conquest and plunder, recognizing no law but force. The blacks of the neighboring less-technological world had been defeated and subjugated. Great numbers of them had been brought to this world as slaves.

            "But you are both human!" Beatryx protested. "How could -- "

            "We are of the same stock, yes," Dolora said, misunderstanding the nature of her objection. "There must have been a prior siege, before the dawn of history, and one world colonized the other. We could not have evolved independently. But this world is not so good for us as was our own; its sun is too dim."

            Beatryx had meant to protest the enslavement of one human race by another, rather than the genetic probabilities. Now she remembered how similar it had been on Earth, and did not bring the matter up again.

           When the siege ended (Dolora continued) and the Traveler signal was gone, the slaves were stranded on the alien world. But, deprived of foreign conquests, the whites returned to planetary matters, and gradually a liberalizing sentiment grew among them. In time they formally abolished the institution of slavery. But there followed a considerable minority reaction against this, as certain economic interests suffered; and trouble was continuous. The blacks had mastered the white technology but were refused admittance into white society.

            At last a compromise was achieved. The blacks were given a country of their own -- under the water. They built tremendous dome-cities there, with artificial sunlight approximating that of their homeworld, and they cultivated the flora and fauna of the sea-floor efficiently. They traded with the landborne whites, shipping up ocean produce and metals from undersea mines in exchange for grains and wood.

            The separation was not complete. A few blacks had elected to remain on land in spite of stringent discrimination there, and a few whites had joined the undersea kingdom. Both minorities had a difficult time of it, being under constant suspicion, though their motives had been high. Periodically some land-blacks would give up and seek the sea, and some sea-whites would return to land. These were welcomed by both groups as rescued personnel, and encouraged to publish lurid narratives of their hardships among the barbarians.

            Beatryx realized at this point what the whites had taken her for.

            But gradually this supposedly ideal compromise had soured. Too many on each side believed they somehow had the worst of the bargain. Politicians forwarded their careers by making a scapegoat of the other culture, and after a time polemics became policy. Trade became disrupted, and the blacks found their diet lacking in trace elements that only land-grown produce could provide, while the whites' industry suffered for lack of the sea metals. It seemed to each that the other was maliciously trying to destroy it.

            White militants made preparations for what they claimed would be an effective solution to the problem: not a kind one. But they acted subtly, because the great majority still believed in the double-culture compromise, and would protest if the truth were to become known. Meanwhile the black militants were also making their moves. They had almost achieved control of their government, and would take military action against the whites as soon as the proper power was theirs. They, too, believed in simple solutions.

            At best, somebody was going to be badly hurt. At worst...

            "We don't want this strife either," Dolora said. Her voice had become lower and sadder, as though she were very tired, and Beatryx had to strain to hear. "It will be the end. We have to establish lines of communication. To put the reasonable blacks in touch with the reasonable whites, acquaint them all with the leadership crisis, reintegrate the two societies. This two-culture compromise is sundering the planet..."

            "But why don't you just send a -- a message? Telling them? Or talk with -- "

            "Governments do not listen very well," Dolora said, her voice a whisper. "Particularly 'conservative' governments. And as for talking -- that is what the two of us set out to do. We were not the first. For many years people like us have been trying, but none has returned, and no one has come to us from the whites. But my husband and I -- we did not believe that the average white would actually refuse to listen, if approached without malevolence. So we came without weapons, spreading out in the hope of making individual contact sooner, thinking good intentions were enough -- "

            And had met savagery. And Beatryx herself, caught up in the fever, had cried "Kill it!" with the others.

            And thus this girl's well-meaning husband had been butchered, and she pursued through the forest by a killer mob -- all because the man had seen Beatryx and come to talk with her.

            "But I see now that we were wrong," Dolora whispered. "They do not want to listen. So there is nothing to be done."

            Beatryx herself had been so ignorant. She had screamed instead of listening. What could she say?

            "Dolora, I -- "

            But the girl was not paying attention. She lay still, her head resting in dry leaves. Asleep?

            Beatryx picked up the lantern and shone it on Dolora. Then she touched the flaccid hand.

            The girl appeared to be dead.

            Now, too late, Beatryx realized the significance of the capsule. Dolora had taken it after she was assured that her husband was dead...

            Beatryx looked for something to dig with. It seemed important that the girl be buried before the fire came. Then she realized that something more important remained. No whites had gone to the undersea city...

            Tediously she stripped the remainder of the suit from the dead girl's body. She experimented with the various attachments and controls, learning how the air supply operated. She fitted in the alternate face-plate. The suit was well designed and largely automatic; otherwise, she knew, she could never have succeeded in using it. Probably if the face-plate had not been designed to pop out without disturbing the goggles, it would not have come loose.

            "You were not wrong, Dolora," she said.

            She put on the suit and all its equipment, sealed herself in, and made her way to the water. It was almost morning.

            Beatryx was not a proficient swimmer, but her strong new body and the diving equipment made the endeavor possible. She was tired, she was clumsy, she was afraid, but she could do it because she had to. She entered the water, her feet stinging as the salt brine pried into the multiple scratches. She submerged, relieved to discover that she could breathe well enough, and followed the coastal shelf down. The suit was heavy, holding her down, so that she actually walked as much as she swam.

            She pushed forward for what seemed like many hours. Her arms and legs became tremendously weary, and the unfamiliar suit chafed, but she kept on. She fought down her mounting and unreasonable fear of sharks, stingrays, octopi, huge-clawed crabs, murky black crevices in the ocean floor...

            If she could only reach the dome-city, wherever it was --

            "Ahoy!" The voice startled her. It was coming from her helmet!

            Someone was addressing her over the suit's radio. She had made contact!

            A pair of shapes came out of the murk, bearing search beams. "Identify yourself, stranger! Don't you know this is restricted water?"

            "I -- I am Beatryx. I -- I borrowed this suit so that I could come and tell you -- "

            "That's a white!" the voice said, shocked.

            "Kill it!" another voice said, charged with loathing. "Don't let it contaminate our waters."

            "But you don't understand!" Beatryx cried. "You have to listen -- "

            Then the powered spear transfixed her, and she died.

 

            AIR

 

 

            Not the heat of the flame or the coolness of water, this time, but the ambience of atmosphere. First he encountered the twins, two handsome young men breathing the fresh air, exuding life and joy. Then the loyal water-carrier, walking in mist, whose burden was truth; and if the slowly marching man resembled a portrait of Sidney Lanier, this was not surprising. Ivo had tried all his life to assume the task of this man, to carry perhaps one of his heavy buckets, but had never quite succeeded. Finally he came to the balance: the great ornate scales of Libra, out in the open sky, paired dishes swinging gently in the breeze. Upon the one was written EQUIVALENCE, and upon the counterweight, JUSTICE.

            Ivo had watched the machinations of the ram with one part of his mind, and the tragedy of the fishes with another. They were only dreams, in one sense -- yet real information had been conveyed through them, and he knew that real resolutions were necessary. He could not act, himself, for the moment he stopped playing the symphony everything would stop, in whatever state it existed. Perhaps here, with the scales, was the assistance so desperately required concurrently for the flute; here amid the hornlike air of the symphony.

            "There thrust the bold straightforward horn," he began. "To battle for his lady lorn..."

            And the scales replied in that voice of the horn: "Is Honor gone into his grave? Hath Faith become a catiff knave, And Selfhood turned into a slave, To work in Mammon's cave, Fair Lady?"

            And Ivo read the print behind the scales, written in vapors in the atmosphere, certain that everything would be all right.

            ***

            But a hundred million years is a long time, and civilization developed again after the passing of the Traveler. Some cultures dwindled in importance, unable to adapt again to purely intellectual contact; some overcame their setback and achieved new elevation. The net long-range effect of the siege could be construed as a selection: those cultures unfit for galactic contact eliminated themselves by their own violence. Unfortunately, they took with them a similar number of those that were not suicidally violent. Nevertheless civilization, once it recovered, went on to a new height, for there was the spur of the potential demonstrated by the Traveler.

            But suppose the Traveler itself returned, to wreak devastation again? Certain evidences suggested that there had been prior sieges, possibly many of them; perhaps civilization had risen, flourished and perished many times, leaving not even a memory. Were the cultures of this period simply to disappear at such time as the Traveler laid siege again? Or could something be done to stop a recurrence?

            Plans were made. Theory was perfected, special stations were constructed. A select cadre was trained and maintained from generation to generation and millennium to millennium. If the Traveler came again, this galaxy was ready.

            And it did come, as projected -- one hundred million years after the earlier siege. Dissolution proceeded where it touched, as species just too young to remember or appreciate the devastation of the last siege embarked upon trade and its corollary, conquest. Some of these did not know about the Plan, however -- and sought in their naïveté to prevent it. A number of stations were disrupted...

            ***

            Harold Groton came out of it as he had before: not with nausea or alarm, but simply a feeling of stress, of internal acceleration. The sensation did not bother him; in a manner of speaking he had been rehatched and matured in minutes and hours, and in another sense he had retraced the entire evolutionary experience of the hive in the same period. It was the nature of the reconstitution.

            He leapfrogged out of the chamber and looked around. The room was unfamiliar, but elegant. A daylight-emulating ceiling of muted yellow, richly muraled walls depicting hive activities, resilient flooring, uniquely styled furniture -- a very plush accommodation.

            There was a triple-refraction mirror -- one of many, he noticed -- at hand, and he positioned himself before it to assess his condition before dressing. He did not recall undertaking a melting cycle this time, though; in fact, he had been --

            Small-thought ceased abruptly.

            The image in the mirror was man-sized, as far as he could tell. The creature was basically tripodal, so that two small feet offset one very large center foot. Perambulation was by leapfrog: the center leg provided most of the power, the side legs incidental support, somewhat like a one-legged man on crutches. He was able to stand on the center leg alone and spin about in a small circle, but the pair of legs were less stable. Walking human-fashion was impossible; the side legs acted in concert when supporting weight unless he concentrated directly on them, much as had the toes of his erstwhile human foot. Offsetting the third leg in front was a mound that tapered into the torso.

            The upper limbs were also triple, with the third arm rising from what he thought of as the chest area. Unlike the third leg, this limb was slender and delicate. Evidently this species had evolved from six-legged stock, modified for an upright posture. Three eyes decorated the head, and each saw in a different color and fashion, making an impressive composite picture. He closed one eye and found that the image differed substantially; much could be learned by using only one or two eyes at a time, and analyzing the result and filtered view. There were three ears on the back of the head, and these were also very good in concert, each responding to a different range. He was sure he could detect much more intricate and extended sound than ever as an Earthman.

            It was a good body, in good condition; he could sense its general health. He realized that this was to be his home for the duration: this alien body. The experience was novel but not alarming.

            "Drone!" an imperious inhuman voice called from the adjacent room, sonically assaulting all three ears.

            "Immediately, mistress," he replied on the center frequency, and perambulated hastily in that direction. He had supposed walking would be awkward, but for this creature it was not. Observing it in action, he suspected that if this body were to engage in a foot race on even terms with his human form, this one would win.

            The language employed, like the body, was alien to anything in his prior experience, yet he handled both with expertise. He had not intended to respond: his body had done that automatically. Was this the way of Ivo's gift of tongues at Tyre?

            The female he approached was similar in construction to himself, but larger and adapted for reproduction. He presumed that she laid eggs, perhaps thousands of them. Her swollen midsection was certainly geared for it. Yet her form was the essence of sex appeal by the definition of this species. He was of this species now, and he felt himself becoming interested, despite his human background. Well, other cultures, other ways.

            "Groom me for presentation," she snapped (her mandibles making it literal), not bothering to give a reason.

            Groton rebelled at the tone -- but his body was already active, rushing to a cabinet, unsealing the waxy fastening easily, taking out a brushlike device, and approaching the female with due deference.

            This time he was sure the process was involuntary. This body he occupied was strongly conditioned. Unless he exercised conscious control all the time, it went about its business as usual.

            He/it played the brush over the fur of her thorax, some electrical interaction making the pelt brighten and fluff out with each pass. Groton let the task continue while he explored his situation internally. There ought to be an explanation somewhere, a mind belonging to this body -- There was. As easily as his intention to search had come, the object was realized.

            He was the Drone: consort to the Queen. He was expected to do nothing other than cater to the whims of his mistress. In return, he received respect and the best of all physical things -- so long as he retained her favor.

            "Fetch a new brush," she said. She did not explain what objection she had to this one. Why should she? The Drone did not need to know. He needed only to obey.

            He was in the hall and swinging toward the supply depot before he could assert himself. Perhaps it was just as well; what could his human mind have done except aggravate an untenable situation?

            "One static brush for the Queen," he snapped at the clerk, his own mandibles clicking as he addressed the inferior. This was the first worker he had seen: an apparently neuter creature, similar in outline to himself but only two-thirds his size.

            The worker affected not to hear him, going about its ruminating without a pause. This was unprecedented contempt -- yet there was nothing he could do. He was a Drone going out of favor, and the workers knew it. Soon he would be cast off entirely, and the neuters would have the sadistic pleasure of ignoring him while he starved to death. He was unable to provide for himself, if the workers did not make food available; he and the Queen were royalty, requiring service for life. His body tensed in hopeless fury.

            Groton-human viewed the situation more dispassionately. He saw that it was conditioning, not physical capability, that made the Drone dependent. He did not appreciate the insult either, but realized that there was a more practical danger. If he delayed unduly in fulfilling this mission, the Queen's short temper would vent itself upon him immediately -- as this insolent worker hoped. The creature was maliciously hastening his demise.

            It had not been like this a year ago, he remembered with the Drone's mind. Then, flush with the Queen's favor, he had been an object of virtual worship. The neuters had gone out of their way to do him little favors. It had seemed that he had complete control of the situation.

            Fond illusion! He saw himself now as the vehicle he was, to be used by both Queen and workers, possessing no personal value to either apart from convenience. An ambulatory reservoir of egg-fertilizer. He had known it would inevitably come to this, for all Queens were fickle -- but, dronelike, he had refused to accept it for himself.

            Groton did not consider himself to be a man of violence, but the emotion of the despised being that was the Drone affected the more analytical human mind, and brought forth an atypical response. Atypical for both beings. The Drone was a creature of emotion, as befitted the royal consort; Groton was a man of action. The combination converted impotency to potency, perhaps in more than figurative terms.

            He swung the two side arms over the counter and caught the worker by the shoulders. He lifted, and the light creature dangled in the air.

            Groton held it there for a moment, letting it feel the great physical strength of the Drone -- a strength that could crush it easily. No words were necessary. The worker's cud drooled from its mouth in its astonishment and shock. The Drone had done the unthinkable: it had acted for itself. It would hardly be more astonishing for a neuter to impregnate the Queen.

            He set it down, and in a moment he had the brush and was returning to his mistress. It would be a long time before that worker allowed its courtesy to slip again -- and the message would spread.

            Expectations of this drone's downfall were premature.

            Unfortunately, setting back one predacious worker did not alter the fundamental situation. The Queen was tiring of him, and unless he acted to preserve himself in her esteem, his fate was assured. A simple demonstration of muscle was sufficient to faze a simple worker -- but not the Queen.

            The Drone body and mind quivered with reaction and fear. The act it had just participated in was plainly beyond its nature, and it did not yet realize what agency was responsible. Once possessed of a fine intellect, it had largely succumbed to apathy, protecting itself from injury by ignoring it. Even the momentary surges of emotion were generally well disciplined, externally.

            Groton calmed it, discovering that it reacted as subserviently to his control as to that of the Queen. But now it knew -- and he felt its mixed elation and alarm.

            If he had to occupy another creature's body, this one had been an obvious choice. The Drone had a good physique, a position of enormous potential influence -- and very little genuine will-power. Yet that did not explain why he, Harold Groton, had been selected to enter this picture. How had his quest for information about the nature of galactic civilization been diverted into such a channel?

            Probably some answers were in the Drone's mind -- but it would be a tedious chore digging them out and organizing the information for his own comprehension. There was a hundred times the store of facts he needed -- relevant only to the Drone's life, not his own.

            The Queen glanced at him with a single eye to hint at her displeasure at his slight tardiness, but did not make an issue of it. He had performed within tolerance -- this time.

            The communication screen came alive before he finished the grooming. "Mistress," the pictured neuter said respectfully, keeping its third eye lidded in respect for royalty.

            "Crisis already?" the Queen demanded.

            "A Felk battlemoon has materialized four twis distant."

           Groton felt the reaction of his host. A twi was a unit of spatial measurement equivalent to about eighty-five light-seconds. The Felks -- enemies -- were within six light-minutes.

            "So soon! So close!" the Queen exclaimed angrily. "How did they know?"

            But she did not wait for an answer. Obviously there had been a leak, and the Felks had followed this expedition in. They could not have traced it in space so rapidly, since this would require years by lightspeed observation.

            The Queen was already traveling down the hall at a pace that pressed even the trailing Drone hard. She was a magnificent specimen of life, large and sleek and strong, one who had been not merely born to command, but evolved for it.

            The supervisory workers were already assembled in the royal hall. "Show me your deployment," the Queen snapped, having no need of query or courtesy.

            A sphere of light appeared, bright dots within it. A map of space, Groton realized, that covered a volume half a light-hour in diameter. A sun, several planets, and two free moons showed within it: the Queen's battlemoon and the Felks'.

            A sun? No, the Drone memory corrected him: that was merely the identifier for their point of focus, the scheduled location of the station. There was no sun within two light-years.

            The magnification increased in response to an imperative gesture by the Queen, and the pattern of ships appeared. The Queen's moon was englobed by dreadnoughts -- but already similar armor was emerging from the enemy moon.

            "What kind of disposition is that?" the Queen demanded. "They will penetrate it in hours."

            "Our tactician was lost in the last engagement," the leading officer-worker reminded her carefully. "We did not pause to pick up a replacement."

            "Naturally not. I would not tolerate an alien in my hive. Where is the next tactician-egg? Hasn't it been hatched yet?"

            Almost, the Queen reminded Groton of someone. Would her next expostulation be against the need to take care of every detail herself?

            "I am it," the officer said, answering her question. "But the enemy has surprised us and I lack experience."

            The Queen brooded over the sphere. "My Drone could make a better deployment," she said.

            The officer very nearly dared to show its ire at the disparagement. "Perhaps your Drone should assume tactical command."

            The Drone-mind suffered a flare of rage at the well-turned sarcasm. The Drone would never have implemented it or even expressed it in the presence of the Queen; but Groton, caught off-guard by the ferocity of the emotion, did.

            "The Drone will assume command," he said, with the resonance of triple-range vocal chords.

            The Queen turned, about to rebuke him -- such rebuke possessing the force of exile -- but changed her mind. "Yes -- he will. You tactician -- attach yourself to him as apprentice. It should be an intriguing experience."

            Thus had a single incontinent outburst netted him stellar responsibility. The whim of the Queen was cruel.

            Desperately, Groton assessed his resources. The Drone-mind was cowering in horror, as a man might who had just broken wind vociferously while saluting his country's flag. He had to detach himself from its emotional state and suppress that mind almost entirely to prevent being overwhelmed by cowardice. This meant taking over most of its remaining functions and dispensing with its store of information. He became the Drone.

            Yet it seemed to him that the joke was not as farfetched as the Drone's diminished status had encouraged the neuters to believe. The Drone had spent several years in close attendance upon the Queen, and surely had overheard many of her directives. The Drone had a good mind and excellent information; it was its timidity and dependence on the Queen that made the notion of command ludicrous.

            Neither Queen nor workers knew that a determined human personality had taken control. The Drone had strong emotions and weak initiative; Groton had mild emotions and strong will. The combination could have meant weakness in both departments -- but fortunately that was not the case. This worm could turn, as the experience with the supply depot worker had shown.

            The Queen was gone, leaving him to his mess.

            The tactician-worker waited beside him as directed. Groton perceived the distress caused by this ultimate indignity -- but the Queen's word really was law. The officer, like himself, was captive to its own indiscretion. The Queen had her own ways of dealing with insolence -- and the remaining workers had had another lesson.

            "What is the immediate objective?" Groton asked the officer, determined to do his best, whatever became of it.

            "To drive off the enemy, so that the station can be installed and activated, and the mines placed," it replied.

            "And the mines will prevent subsequent attacks?"

            "Yes."

            "How does the Felk armament compare to ours?"

            "It is superior. In number, not in kind. We suffered losses in prior placements."

            "How much time do we have?"

            "Time for what?"

            Groton perceived another weakness of the worker-mind. "How much time do we have before the enemy breaks through and destroys the station?"

            "About six hours -- unless we can outmaneuver them or frighten them away." The time had been given in alien units, but Groton had no difficulty in comprehending.

            He studied the map-sphere. "You plan to wait for them to attack?"

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "How else can we observe the nature of their thrust?" Orders or no, the officer had little respect for the Drone. Groton was reminded of a somewhat similar experience many years ago. Then it had been high school students. Now, as then, he had no higher appeal, contrary to the theoretical situation; he had to handle the matter by himself or be washed out.

            "Yet," he said, "with their ships massed and traveling at high velocity, our scattered forces cannot hope to stop them all. And one ship should be sufficient to blast the station."

            The neuter did not bother to reply.

            "You have no manuals of strategy?"

            "Of course not. A tactician learns by experience."

            The military mind! "Provided he lives."

            "Yes," the officer agreed. "My predecessor -- "

            "And the Felks are similarly organized? No study of the lessons of history?"

            "I assume so. How else should it be?"

            How else indeed!

            It appeared that a noncombative but practical-minded Earthman was as well equipped to handle galactic battle tactics as the galactic commands were.

            "All right. Relay this directive: All ships, repeat all ships, to proceed immediately to the Felk battlemoon, there to attack without englobement."

            The officer, true to its nature, relayed the command. Groton heard the controller giving directions to individual ships. Then, thinking about it, the officer objected. "What?"

            "You wouldn't be familiar with the dictum 'The best defense is a good offense'?"

            "Certainly not."

           "Well, chalk it up to experience, once you see it happen. We know we can't stop their attack, if we wait for it to develop, nor can we hope to overcome the enemy in a normal encounter -- but our ships do have an advantage of several hours in deployment. We can hit the Felk before the Felk hits us."

            "But with no defense -- "

            "Wait and see." Inwardly, Groton prayed that his audacious gamble paid off. He was not, ordinarily a gambling man. He was exchanging almost certain defeat for a fifty-fifty chance at victory -- but had he been a real tactician, he might have known how to play for two- or three-to-one odds in his favor. "Now you and I will board the fleet flagship," he finished.

            That made another stir. It seemed that commanders of naval operations generally ensconced themselves safely within the base moon and jumped to another location in space when the battle went against them. No wonder losses could be heavy!

            He had no time to concern himself with the details of the ship he boarded. It was a standard cruiser, heavy on armament, slow on maneuver, but capable of high velocity under sustained acceleration.

            Three hours later they were closer to the enemy moon than to their own. The Felk fleet was still emerging, though about half of it was now positioned around its base.

            "Form our ships into three wedges," Groton said. "Send them in simultaneously from three directions." And it was done.

            The enemy fleet deployed to counter this move. "Why don't they mass and attack our station?" the officer asked, baffled.

            "Would you attack the enemy home-base -- if your ships were needed to save your own hide?"

            "Hide?"

            "Carapace. Chitin integument. Personal dignity."

            "Oh. Yes. Self-preservation."

            An underling-worker reported: "Felk commander has a message for Queen commander."

            "Is that safe to accept?"

            "Yes," the officer replied. "The Felks are reputed to be honorable in battle."

            "Let's see it then. Maybe he wants to negotiate."

            "Negotiate?"

            "Don't you ever bargain for some settlement short of total victory?"

            "Bargain?"

            Groton shrugged and watched the communications screen. A picture of a two-eyed creature with a caved-in face formed, manlike in its way. Do we look that ugly? he asked himself, already acclimatized to the shell-gloss outlines of the hive personnel.

            The Felk commander spoke in whistles, pursing its flaccid lips, but there was a running translation. "Commander, I am impressed by your technique." There was no opportunity for normal dialogue, since there was almost a minute's delay owing to lightspeed limitation of communications. By the time a rapid conversation was feasible, they would be virtually on top of the enemy moon. "I did not anticipate such initiative on the part of the Queen's forces. From the facility with which you are adjusting formation, I suspect that you, commander, are aboard one of the ships in the area. This demonstrates courage, and gives a tactical advantage over me, since my communications delay is much greater than yours. I am authorized to offer you a generous commission in our navy, if you will defect to our side."

            Groton stood before the silent screen, amazed at the audacity of it. "He's losing -- so he offers his enemy a commission!"

            "Felks are adroit," the officer agreed indifferently. "That's how we lost my predecessor."

            "He defected?"

            "He tried to. But the Queen overheard and cut off his head. The mission was successful."

            Groton gained respect for the Queen. She, at least, had unquestioned loyalty to her side. Of course, she was her side, largely...

            Still, the notion of blatantly buying off the opposition... "Well, beam back a picture of me," he said hotly. "Nothing else. We'll see if the Felks figure to bribe away the Queen's Drone."

            He had his answer in two minutes. "As it happens," the Felk commander whistled, "we hold captive a Queen of your species, obtained as the result of a singularly fortunate maneuver. Unfortunately her Drone died. She has been very lonely for a year, though we permit her a reasonable retinue of her neuters, hatched from the few remaining eggs she has in storage. I suspect she would not tire of a serviceable mate for a very long time, knowing she could not obtain another. As you know, the favor extended to individual Drones is normally of short duration -- two or three years. I can arrange to send you to her."

            Again Groton was astonished. Would this creature stop at nothing? The Drone's memory verified that the Felks had overrun an outpost some time ago -- one staffed by a Queen -- and that a Queen could not raise her own Drone from an egg. Incest did not exist, in this culture.

            The Drone-mind clamored for attention. The offer, it developed, was attractive, particularly to one who faced the prospect of early retirement by his present Queen. A Drone could live as long as a Queen could -- if permitted. That amounted to decades. Felks did not lie; the offer was valid.

            Sorry, Groton said to the Drone. Then, to the officer: "Tell the Felk to look to his defenses. This commander is not about to be bought off by the boudoir."

            In the interval between messages, the officer fidgeted, then spoke. "Request permission to voice an opinion." The third eye was now lidded.

            "Granted, provided it is brief."

            "I had thought it was an insult to serve under Drone command. I was mistaken."

            "We all make mistakes," Groton said, touched but not forgetting that it would be a mistake to betray any personal softness. The mission was not yet over. More and more he appreciated the lessons of that hectic school-teaching session of his earlier life. Then it had been merely his pride and self-confidence that took beatings; now the lives of thousands were at stake.

            The third message showed that the Felk had not given up. "You evince a handsome loyalty to your Queen. But have you properly considered the nature of your loyalty to your species, and to other technological species? Surely you are intelligent enough to perceive that this station and the others in your program will hurt all of us. All we ask is the right to travel -- yet only one species in a thousand is to be permitted this, if the stations function. Neither your species nor mine is among the select. Why cooperate as the tool of the destroyer?"

            The destroyer! Suddenly the meaning of all this settled into focus. He was participating in the origin of the destroyer station -- perhaps the very one that had blanked out Earth's finest minds. Would blank, for what he experienced now had to be history at least fifteen thousand years past. His mystic journey had finished on target; there could be no more significant event.

            And he was on the wrong side.

            Or was he? He had learned, in his human existence, to consider things carefully. Surely the Queen had not gone to the immense trouble and danger of setting up an interference that would prevent her own kind from using the spaceways, without very good reason. He should understand that reason, before making his own decision.

            Meanwhile there was the practical problem of the enemy fleet. If he did not destroy it, it would destroy him, making his personal decision less relevant than his indecision. Unless he defected...but that would doom the station, and might be a mistake.

            "Send this reply," he said. "MESSAGE RECEIVED. SUGGEST YOU WITHDRAW."

            The officer obeyed, then came back to question the directive. "Do you expect the Felk to retreat merely because you ask him to?"

            "We'll see."

            In due course they saw. The Felk ships decelerated, looped about, and drew in toward their base. As time passed they docked within their moon in orderly fashion.

            "A ruse!" the officer said.

            "Yet you told me the Felk were honorable."

            The officer looked confused.

            More time passed. The last enemy ship docked while Groton held his own fleet back, suspending fire. For three hours they globed the moon at a safe distance. Then it vanished.

            The release of its gravitational influence jolted the Queen's fleet, sending ships tumbling outward. Space had been drawn into a knot and rent, and had healed itself. There was no doubt the Felk force had withdrawn.

            "He will pop back on the opposite side, close to the destroyer station," the officer predicted. "He didn't say he wouldn't, anyway."

            But the Felk did not return. In the course of the following twelve hours the workships finished laying their mines and activating the mines' perceptors and trackers. The area was impregnable. A mine could not travel, but it was supreme in its area of space. Anything that approached, even an entire fleet, would be blasted, unless it carried the nullifying code-signal. The Queen's fleet possessed this, of course -- but its nature was a secure secret known only to the Queen.

            The Queen's moon detached the destroyer station and let the ships adjust its position. As it warmed up, its tremendous field of gravity took hold, hauling the moon into orbit around it, though it was two miles in diameter compared to the moon's two thousand. Child's-play, for this technology; gravity could be turned on and off as though it were a magnetic field. Probably the station had reclined in null-G aboard the moon, so as not to be crushed in storage. To think that the entire fabulous layout that was the destroyer-complex was no more than an installation problem to the Queen...!

            Then the destroyer signal was cut in, and Groton knew that it was spreading out in a sphere whose radius expanded at lightspeed. Any battlemoon that transferred in would not transfer out again -- and the six mines would finish whatever stayed.

            "Request permission to ask a question."

            Groton understood the hive signals now. This was something important to the officer. "Granted."

            "By what reasoning did you determine that the Felk would leave upon request? I saw nothing in your conversation to indicate such a response." It paused. "I wish to learn, for I note that you accomplished the mission without loss of ships, when I surely would have failed."

            This was not a question Groton particularly wanted to answer, but he felt an obligation to give a serious response to a serious query. "Put yourself in the place of the Felk commander," he said, seeing a discreet way to handle the matter.

            "Defect to the Felk?"

            Oops! "No -- I mean to imagine that your situation was his. You emerge from spacefold to set up your attack, and instead you find the enemy, whose force is inferior to yours, attacking you. What would you do?"

            The officer concentrated, adjusting to this unfamiliar mode of thinking. "I would wait for further developments," it said at last. "I would want to ascertain what advantage the enemy had that made him so bold."

            "Precisely. And if he maneuvers with such facility and confidence that you find yourself at a disadvantage in spite of your superior resources?"

            It thought some more. "I would attempt to subvert its commander." Then its center arm lifted in the gesture of sudden illumination, and its center eye blinked. "That is what the Felk did!"

            "Right. And if you could not buy off the enemy strategist?"

            "I would attempt to negotiate honorably." It paused again, now translating from actuality. "I would -- appeal to that officer's loyalty to its species, and attempt to convince it that our causes were one. But -- not too obviously, for its honor should not be impugned."

            "And if he agreed to consider the matter?"

            "If my position were already too bad to recover, I would have to leave the decision up to it. Perhaps that commander would -- change its mind -- once left to its own devices." It looked at him. "May I -- "

            "You may not inquire. Perhaps you can decide for yourself what my decision will be."

            The officer remained silent, accepting it. Groton hoped the mental effort would do it good and that it would be a better tactician in the future. It certainly had come a long way in the past hours.

            And what was his decision to be? Here was his chance to change history, perhaps even to give his species -- mankind -- freedom of space travel. In one sense this adventure might be a dream, a vision; but in another he was certain it was real. Now he understood why Ivo had been unwilling to dismiss his Tyre episode out of hand. It was likely that the body that remained at the starting point was the mockup; the better portion of reality was here.

            Should he act now, sabotage the destroyer station before it could blank out the thousand traveling species for every one it promoted? He could fire a volley from his flagship that would wreck the station mechanism. What right did the Queen have to repress a major section of the galaxy in such fashion?

            He refused to act without information. That was the way of prejudice, and could only stir up catastrophe. If he wanted to know the motivation of the Queen, he would have to ask her.

            She was waiting for him as the operation closed down. "Drone, that was a creditable byplay. I had expected to have to retreat to one of our alternate locales during the enemy's commitment, perhaps even to leave you behind, but you surprised me by prevailing. What came over you?"

            He tried to say "Sometimes the worm does turn," but it came out, in this situation, as "Upon occasion the annelid completes a circuit."

            "You seem to have demonstrated your point. It would not be expedient to adopt a new Drone at this stage," she said. "Here to me, my cherished."

            Realizing her intent, Groton tried to resist. He was human whatever his present body, and infidelity was not in his nature. How would he face Beatryx, if -- ?

            But the Drone-body was already advancing to its destiny. The Queen was mistress, the dual concept a single one in this society. She was wife and monarch, never to be denied in either capacity. The Drone motor response, in this instance, was involuntary. Groton could observe but not control.

            From the hump before his middle leg a member of specific purpose telescoped out. His legs and arms reached to embrace her in the fashion peculiar to this association, and the act of intimacy precipitated itself.

            It lasted a long time, this fertilizing of several score eggs, and afterward, exhausted, he slept. His body had been drained in a fashion far more literal than that of human intercourse.

            When he woke, Groton was tired but in control again -- and gifted with a unique appreciation of the meaning of rape.

            "Drone!" the Queen's voice came -- and once more he was on his feet at her behest. His control extended only to the extent she permitted it; he could not disobey a direct order.

            "Groom me," she said as he arrived. Nothing had changed.

            "What is the reason for the destroyer?" he inquired as he worked, relieved that he could communicate to this extent.

            "The Horven knows," she said. "Shall I send you to it in my stead?" Then, as was her wont, she made her decision immediately. "Yes. Groom yourself, feed yourself, and go. I have eggs to lay."

            Obediently he turned the brush on his own fur, less handsome than hers, and set about procuring a meal of the royal nectar.