

THE GAME OF EMPIRE
Poul Anderson

To James P. Baen—Writers aren't supposed to say anything
pleasant about editors or publishers, but the fact is that in both
capacities Jim has done very well by me, and been a good friend
into the bargain.
Chapter 1
   She sat on the tower of St. Barbara, kicking her heels from the
   parapet, and looked across immensity. Overhead, heaven was
   clear, deep blue save where the sun Patricius stood small and
   fierce at midmorning. Two moons were wanly aloft. The sky grew
   paler horizonward, until in the east it lost itself behind a white sea
   of cloud deck. A breeze blew cool. It would have been deadly
   cold before her people came to Imhotep; the peak of Mt. Horn
   lifts a full twelve kilometers above sea level.
   Westward Diana could see no horizon, for the city had grown tall
   at its center during the past few decades. There the Pyramid,
   which housed Imperial offices and machinery, gleamed above
   the campus of the Institute, most of whose buildings were new.
   Industries, stores, hotels, apartments sprawled raw around. She
   liked better the old quarter, where she now was. It too had grown,
   but more in population than size or modernity—a brawling,
   polyglot, multiracial population, much of it transient, drifting in and
   out of the tides of space.
   "Who holds St. Barbara's holds the planet."
   That saying was centuries obsolete, but the memory kept alive a
   certain respect. Though ice bull herds no longer threatened to
   stampede through the original exploration base; though the
   Troubles which left hostile bands marooned and desperate,
   turning marauder, had ended when the hand of the Terran
   Empire reached this far; though the early defensive works would
   be useless in such upheavals as threatened the present age, and
   had long since been demolished: still, one relic of them
   remained in Olga's Landing, at the middle of what had become a
   market square. Its guns had been taken away for scrap, its
   chambers echoed hollow, sunseeker vine clambered over the
   crumbling yellow stone of it, but St. Barbara's stood yet; and it
   was a little audacious for a hoyden to perch herself on top.
   Diana often did. The neighborhood had stopped minding—after
   all, she was everybody's friend—and to strangers it meant
   nothing, except that human males were apt to shout and wave at
   the pretty girl. She grinned and waved back when she felt in the
   mood, but had learned to decline the invitations. Her aim was not
   always simply to enjoy the ever-shifting scenes. Sometimes she
   spied a chance to earn a credit or two, as when a newcomer
   seemed in want of a guide to the sights and amusements.
   Nonhumans were safe. Or an acquaintance—who in that case
   could be a man—might ask her to run some errand or ferret out
   some information. If he lacked money to pay her, he could
   provide a meal or a doss or whatever. At present she had no
   home of her own, unless you counted a ruinous temple where
   she kept hidden her meager possessions and, when nothing
   better was available, spread her sleeping bag.
   Life spilled from narrow streets and surged between the walls
   enclosing the plaza. Pioneer buildings had run to brick, and never
   gone higher than three or four stories, under Imhotepan gravity.
   Faded, nearly featureless, they were nonetheless gaudy, for their
   doors stood open on shops, while booths huddled everywhere
   else against them. The wares were as multifarious as the sellers,
   anything from hinterland fruits and grains to ironware out of the
   smithies that made the air clangorous, from velvyl fabric and
   miniature computers of the inner Empire to jewels and skins and
   carvings off a hundred different worlds. A sleazy Terran vidplay
   demonstrated itself on a screen next to an exquisite dance
   recorded beneath the Seas of Yang and Yin, where the vaz-
   Siravo had been settled. A gundealer offered primitive home-
   produced chemical rifles, stunners of military type,
   and—illegally—several blasters, doubtless found in wrecked
   spacecraft after the Merseian onslaught was beaten back.
   Foodstalls wafted forth hot, savory odors. Music thuttered,
   laughter and dance resounded from a couple of taverns. Motor
   vehicles were rare and small, but pushcarts swarmed.
   Occasionally a wagon forced its way through the crowd, drawn by
   a tame clopperhoof.
   Folk were mainly human, but it was unlikely that many had seen
   Mother Terra. The planets where they were born and bred had
   marked them. Residents of Imhotep were necessarily muscular
   and never fat. Those whose families had lived here for
   generations, since Olga's Landing was a scientific base, and had
   thus melded into a type, tended to be dark-skinned and aquiline-
   featured. Men usually wore loose tunic and trousers, short hair,
   beards; women favored blouses, skirts, and braids; in this
   district, clothes might be threadbare but were raffishly bright.
   Members of the armed services on leave—a few from the local
   garrison, the majority from Daedalus—mingled with them,
   uniforms a stiff contrast no matter how bent on pleasure the
   person was. They were in good enough physical condition to
   walk fairly easily under a gravity thirty percent greater than
   Terra's, but crew-people from civilian freighters frequently
   showed weariness and an exaggerated fear of falling.
   A Navy man and a marine passed close by the tower. They were
   too intent on their talk to notice Diana, which was extraordinary.
   The harshness reached her: "—yeh, sure, they've grown it back
   for me." The spaceman waved his right arm. A short-sleeved
   undress shirt revealed it pallid and thin; regenerated tissue needs
   exercise to attain normal fitness. "But they said the budget
   doesn't allow repairing DNA throughout my body, after the
   radiation I took. I'll be dependent on biosupport the rest of my
   life, and I'll never dare father any kids."
   "Merseian bastards," growled the marine. "I could damn near
   wish they had broken through and landed. My unit had a warm
   welcome ready for 'em, I can tell you."
   "Be glad they didn't," said his companion. "Did you really want
   nukes tearing up our planets? Wounds and all, I'll thank Admiral
   Magnusson every day I've got left to me, for turning them back
   the way he did, with that skeleton force the pinchfists on Terra
   allowed us." Bitterly: "He wouldn't begrudge the cost of fixing up
   entire a man that fought under him."
   They disappeared into the throng. Diana shivered a bit and
   looked around for something cheerier than such a reminder of
   last year's events.
   Nonhumans were on hand in fair number. Most were Tigeries,
   come from the lowlands on various business, their orange-black-
   white pelts vivid around skimpy garments. Generally they wore air
   helmets, with pressure pumps strapped to their backs, but on
   some, oxygills rose out of the shoulders, behind the heads, like
   elegant ruffs. Diana cried greetings to those she recognized.
   Otherwise she spied a centauroid Donarrian; the shiny
   integuments of three Irumclagians; a couple of tailed, green-
   skinned Shalmuans; and—and—
   "What the flippin' fury!" She got to her feet—they were bare, and
   the stone felt warm beneath them—and stood precariously
   balanced, peering.
   Around the corner of a Winged Smoke house had come a giant.
   The Pyramid lay in that direction, but so did the spaceport, and
   he must have arrived there today, or word of him would have
   buzzed throughout the low-life parts of town. Thence he seemed
   to have walked all the kilometers, for no public conveyance on
   Imhotep could have accommodated him, and his manner was not
   that of officialdom. Although the babel racket dwindled at sight of
   him and people drew aside, he moved diffidently, almost
   apologetically. Tiredly, too, poor thing; his strength must be
   enormous, but it had been a long way to trudge in this gee-field.
   "Well, well," said Diana to herself; and loudly, in both Anglic and
   Toborko, to any possible competition: "I saw him first!"
   She didn't waste time on the interior stairs but, reckless,
   scrambled down the vines. Though the tower wasn't very tall, on
   Imhotep a drop from its battlements could be fatal. She reached
   the pavement running.
   "Ah, ho, small one," bawled Hassan from the doorway of his inn,
   "if he be thirsty, steer him to the Sign of the Golden Cockbeetle.
   A decicredit to you for every liter he drinks!"
   She laughed, reached a dense mass of bodies, began weaving
   and wriggling through. Inhabitants smiled and let her by. A drunk
   took her closeness wrong and tried to grab her. She gave his
   wrist a karate chop in passing. He yelled, but retreated when he
   saw how a Tigery glowered and dropped hand to knife. Kuzan
   had been a childhood playmate of Diana's. She was still her
   friend.
   The stranger grew aware of the girl nearing him, halted, and
   watched in mild surprise. He was of the planet which humans had
   dubbed Woden, well within the Imperial sphere. It had long been
   a familiar of Technic civilization and was, indeed, incorporated in
   Greater Terra, its dwellers full citizens. Just the same, none had
   hitherto betrod Imhotep, and Diana knew of them only from
   books and database.
   A centauroid himself, he stretched four and a half meters on his
   four cloven hoofs, including the mighty tail. The crown of his long-
   snouted, bony-eared head loomed two meters high. The brow
   ridges were massive, the mouth alarmingly fanged, but eyes
   were big, a soft brown. Two huge arms ended in four-fingered
   hands that seemed able to rip a steel plate in half. Dark-green
   scales armored his upper body from end to end, amber scutes
   his throat and belly. A serration of horny plates ran over his
   backward-bulging skull, down his spine to the tailtip. A pair of
   bags slung across his withers and a larger pair at his croup
   doubtless held traveling goods. Drawing close, Diana saw signs
   of a long life, scars, discolorations, wrinkles around the nostrils
   and rubbery lips, a pair of spectacles hung from his neck. They
   were for presbyopia, she guessed, and she had already noticed
   he was slightly lame in the off hind leg. Couldn't he afford
   corrective treatments?
   Why, she herself was going to start putting money aside, one of
   these years, to pay for anti-senescence. If she had to die at an
   age of less than a hundred, she wanted it to be violently.
   Halting before him, she beamed, spread arms wide, and said,
   "Good day and welcome! Never before has our world been
   graced by any of your illustrious race. Yet even we, on our
   remote and lately embattled frontier, have heard the fame of
   Wodenites, from the days of Adzel the Wayfarer to this very
   hour. In what way may we serve you, great sir?"
   His face was unreadable to her, but his body looked startled.
   "My, my," he murmured. "How elaborately you speak, child. Is
   that local custom? Please enlighten me. I do not wish to be
   discourteous through ignorance." He hesitated. "My intentions, I
   hope, shall always be of the best."
   His vocal organs made Anglic a thunderous rumble, weirdly
   accented, but it was fluent and she could follow it. She had had
   practice, especially with Tigeries, who didn't sound like humans
   either.
   For an instant, she bridled. "Sir, I'm no child. I'm nine—uh, that is,
   seventeen Terran years old. For the past three of those I've
   been on my own, highlands and lowlands both." Relaxing: "So I
   know my way around and I'd be happy to guide you, advise you,
   help you. I can show testimonials from persons of several
   species."
   "Hraa … I fear I am in no position to, m-m, offer much
   compensation. I have been making my way—hand-to-mouth, is
   that your expression?—odd jobs, barter—at which I am not
   gifted—anything morally allowable, planet to planet, far longer
   than you have been in the universe, chi—young lady."
   Diana shrugged. "We can talk about that. You're in luck. I'm not a
   professional tourist herder, chargin' a week's rent on the
   Emperor's favorite palace to take you around to every place
   where the prices are quasar-lofty and expectin' a fat tip at the
   end." She cocked her head. "You could've gone to the reception
   center near the Pyramid. It's got an office for xenosophonts. Why
   didn't you?"
   "Gruh, I, I—to be frank, I lost my way. The streets twist about so.
   If you could lead me to the proper functionaries—"
   Diana reached up to take him by the rugged elbow. "Wait a bit!
   Look, you're worn out, and you don't have a pokeful of money,
   and I can do better by you than the agency. All they really know is
   where to find you the least unsuitable lodgings. Why don't we go
   in where you can rest a while, and we'll talk, and if I only can steer
   you downtown, so be it." She paused before adding, slowly: "But
   you aren't here for any ordinary purpose, that's plain to see, and I
   do know most of what's not ordinary on Imhotep."
   He boomed a chuckle. "You are a sprightly soul, no? Very well."
   He turned serious. "It may even be that my patron saint has
   answered my prayers by causing me to blunder as I did. M-m-m
   … my name is Francis Xavier Axor."
   "Hm?" She was taken aback. "You're a Christian?"
   "Jerusalem Catholic. I chose the baptismal name became its first
   bearer was also an explorer in strange places, such as I hoped
   to become."
   And I. The heart jumped in Diana's breast.
   She had always sought out what visitors from the stars she could,
   because they were what they were—farers through the
   galaxy—O Tigery gods, grant that she too might someday range
   yonder! And, while she agilely survived in Old Town's dog-eat-
   dog economy, she had never driven a harder bargain with a
   nonhuman than she felt that being could afford, nor defrauded or
   defaulted.
   Orders of magnitude more than she wanted any money of his,
   she wanted Axor's good will. He seemed like a darling anyway.
   And possibly, just barely possibly, he might open a path for her
   …
   Business was business, and Hassan's booze no worse than
   most in the quarter. "Follow me," she said. "I'm Diana
   Crowfeather."
   He offered his hand, vast, hard, dry, warm. Wodenites were not
   theroids, but they weren't herpetoids either; they were
   endothermic, two-sexed, and viviparous. She had, however,
   learned that they bred only in season. It made celibate careers
   easier for them than for her species. Thus far she'd avoided
   entanglements, because that was what they could too readily
   become—entanglements—but it was getting more and more
   difficult.
   "An honor to meet you," Axor said. "Hraa, is it not unusual for
   such a youthful female to operate independently? Perhaps not
   on Terra or its older colony planets, but here—Not that I wish to
   pry. Heavens, no."
   "I'm kind of a special case," Diana replied.
   He regarded her with care. Neither of her parents having been
   born on Imhotep, and both being tall, she was likewise. The
   gravity had made robust a frame that remained basically gracile;
   muscles rounded the curves of slim hips and long legs. Weight
   had not yet caused the small, firm bosom to sag. Her head was
   round, the face broad, with high cheekbones, tapering down to
   the chin; a straight nose flared at the nostrils, and the lips were
   full. Her eyes were large, gold-flecked hazel, beneath arching
   brows. Black hair, confined by a beaded headband, fell straight
   to the shoulders. A thin blouse and exiguous shorts showed
   most of her tawny-brown skin to the sun. Belted at her right side
   was a little purse for oddments, at her left a murderous Tigery
   knife.
   "Well, but let's go," she laughed. Her voice was husky. "Aren't
   you thirsty? I am!"
   The crowd yielded slowly before them, turbulent again, less
   interested in the newcomer now that he had been claimed than in
   its own checkered affairs.
   Inside, the Sign of the Golden Cockbeetle amounted to a room
   broad and dim. Half a dozen men, outback miners to judge by
   their rough appearance, were drinking at a table with a couple of
   joygirls and a bemusedly watching Tigery. The latter sipped from
   a tube inserted through the chowlock of her air helmet. The whine
   of its pumps underlay voices. While oxygills were far better, not
   many could afford them or wanted the preliminary surgery, slight
   though that was. Diana didn't recognize the individual, but it was
   clear from her outfit that she belonged to another society than the
   one around Toborkozan. The group gave Axor a lengthy stare,
   then went back to their talk, dice, and booze.
   The Wodenite ordered beer in appropriate quantity. His
   biochemistry was compatible with the human, barring minor
   matters that ration supplements took care of. Diana gave a silent
   cheer; her commission was going to be noticeably higher,
   percentagewise, than on distilled liquor. She took a stein for
   herself and savored the catnip coolness.
   "Aaah!" breathed Axor in honest pleasure. "That quenches. God
   bless you for your guidance. Now if you can aid my quest—"
   "What is it?"
   "The story is long, my dear."
   Diana leaned back in her chair; her companion must needs lie on
   the floor. She had learned, the hard way, how to rein in her
   inquisitiveness. "We've got all day, or as much more as you
   want." Within her there hammered: Quest! What's he after,
   roamin' from star to star?
   "Perhaps I should begin by introducing myself as a person,
   however insignificant," Axor said. "Not that that part is
   interesting."
   "It is to me," Diana assured him.
   "Well—" The dragon countenance stared down into the outsize
   tankard. "To use Anglic names, I was born on the planet Woden,
   although my haizark—tribe? community? tuath?—my people are
   still comparatively primitive, nomads in the Morning Land, which
   is across the Sea of Truth from the Glimmering Realm to the
   west where the Terrans and the civilization that they brought are
   based. My country is mostly steppe, but in the Ascetic Hills
   erosion has laid bare certain Foredweller ruins. Those were long
   known to us, and often as a youngster did I regard them with
   awe. In the past generation, news of them has reached the cities.
   Watching and listening to the archaeologists who came, I grew
   utterly fascinated. A wish flowered in me to learn more, yes, to do
   such delving myself. I worked my way overseas to the
   Glimmering Realm in hopes of winning a merit scholarship. Such
   is common among the literate Wodenites. Mine happened to
   come from the university that the Galilean Order maintains in Port
   Campbell."
   "Galilean Order—hm—aren't they, um, priests in the Jerusalem
   church? I've never met any."
   Axor nodded in human wise. "They are the most scientifically
   minded organization within it. Very fitting that they should conduct
   studies of Foredweller remains. While under their tutelage, I was
   converted to the Faith. Indeed, I am ordained a Galilean." The
   slow voice quickened. "Father Jaspers introduced me to the
   great and holy thought that in those relics may lie an answer to
   the riddle of the Universal Incarnation."
   Diana raised a palm. "Hold on, please. Foredwellers? Who're
   they?"
   "They are variously known on the worlds as Ancients, Elders,
   Others—many names—The mysterious civilization that flourished
   in the galaxy—apparently through far more of it than this fraction
   of a single spiral arm which we have somewhat
   explored—vanishing millions of years ago, leaving scanty,
   glorious fragments of their works—" Dismay quavered in the
   deep tones. "You have not heard? Nothing like it exists anywhere
   in this planetary system? The indications seemed clear that here
   was a place to search."
   "Wait, wait." Diana frowned into the shadows. "My education's
   been catch-as-catch-can, you realize, but—M-m, yes. Remnant
   walls and such. Rumors that the Chereionites built them once,
   whoever the Chereionites are or were. But I thought—um,
   um—yes, a spaceman from Aeneas told me about a lot of such
   sites on his planet. Except Aeneas is small, dry, thin-aired. He
   figured the Old Shen—that was his name for them—they must
   have originated on a planet of that type, and favored the same
   kind for colonization."
   "Not necessarily. I venture to think that that is simply the kind
   where remnants are best preserved. The materials were as
   durable as the structures seem to have been beautiful. But
   everything in our cosmos is mortal. On airless globes,
   micrometeoroids would have worn them down. On planets with
   thick atmospheres, weather would do the same, while geological
   process wrought their own destructions. However, sometimes
   ruins have endured on terrestroid worlds, fossilized, so to speak.
   For example, a volcanic ashfall or a mudslide which later petrified
   has covered them. Something like this happened in the territory
   now covered by the Ascetic Hills of Woden. Since, the blanketing
   soil and rock have been gnawed away by the elements, revealing
   these wonders."
   Axor sagged out of his excitement. "But you know of nothing
   anywhere in the Patrician System?" he finished dully.
   Diana thought fast. "I didn't say that. Look, Imhotep is a
   superterrestrial planet, more than a third again the surface area of
   Daedalus—or Terra—not much less than that next to Woden, I'll
   bet. And even after centuries, it's not well mapped or anything.
   This was just a lonely scientific outpost till the Starkadian
   resettlement. Tigeries, explorin' their new lands—yes, they tell
   stories about things they've seen and can't account for—But I'd
   have to go and ask for details, and then we'd prob'ly have to
   engage a watership to ferry us, if some yarn sounded promisin'."
   Axor had recovered his spirits. "Moreover, this system contains
   other planets, plus their larger moons," he said. "I came here first
   merely because Imhotep was the destination of the tramp
   freighter on which I could get passage. The colonized planet
   sunward, Daedalus?"
   "Maybe. I haven't been on Daedalus since my mother died, when
   I was a sprat." Diana considered. Resolve thrilled along her
   nerves. She would not knowingly lead this sweet old seeker on a
   squiggle chase, but neither would she willingly let go of
   him—while hope remained that his search could carry her to the
   stars.
   "As long as you are on Imhotep," she said, "that's the place to
   start, and I do know my way around Imhotep as well as anybody.
   Now for openers, can you explain what you're after and why you
   think you might find a clue here?"
   She drained her stein and signalled for more, Hassan brought a
   bucket to recharge Axor's mug as well. Meanwhile the Wodenite,
   serene again, was telling her:
   "As for the Foredwellers, their traces are more than an
   archaeological puzzle. Incredibly ancient as they are, those
   artifacts may give us knowledge of the Incarnation.
   "For see you, young person, some three thousand standard
   years have passed since Our Lord Jesus Christ walked upon
   Terra and brought the offer of salvation to fallen man.
   Subsequently, upstart humankind has gone forth into the light-
   years; and with Technic civilization has traveled faith, to race after
   race after race.
   "About such independently spacefaring beings as the Ymirites,
   one dares say nothing. They are too alien. It may be that they are
   not fallen and thus have no need of the Word. But painfully plain it
   is that every oxygen-breathing species ever encountered is in no
   state of grace, but prone to sin, error, and death.
   "Now our Lord was born once upon Terra, and charged those
   who came after with carrying the gospel over the planet. But what
   of other planets? Were they to wait for human missionaries? Or
   have some of them, at least, been granted the glory of their own
   Incarnations? It is not a matter on which most churches have
   ventured to dogmatize. Not only are the lives, the souls, so
   different from world to world, but here and there one
   nevertheless does find religions which look strangely familiar.
   Coincidence? Parallel development? Or a deeper mystery?"
   He paused. Diana frowned, trying to understand. Questions like
   this were not the sort she was wont to ask. "Does it matter? I
   mean, can't you be as good a person regardless?"
   "Knowledge of God always matters," said Axor gravely. "This is
   not necessary to individual salvation, no. But think what a
   difference in the teaching of the Word it would make, to know the
   truth—whatever the truth may be. If science can show that the
   gospel account of Christ is not myth but biography; and if it then
   finds that his ministry was, in empirical fact, universal—would not
   you, for example, my dear, would not you decide it was only
   reasonable to accept him as your Saviour?"
   Uncomfortable, Diana tried to shift the subject. "So you think you
   may get a hint from the Foredweller works?"
   "I cherish hopes, as did those scholars who conceived the
   thought before me. Consider the immense timeline, millions of
   years. Consider that the Builders must have been too
   widespread and numerous, too learned and powerful—yes, too
   wise, after their long, long history—to be destroyed by anything
   material. No, surely they abandoned their achievements, as we,
   growing up, put away childish things, and went on to a higher
   plane of existence. Yet surely, too, they nourished a benign
   desire to ease the path for those who carne after. They would
   leave inscriptions, messages—time-blurred now, nearly gone;
   but perhaps the writers did not foresee how many ages would
   pass before travel began again between the stars. Still, what
   better could they bequeath us than their heritage of Ultimate
   Meaning?"
   Diana had her large doubts. Likewise, obviously, did others, or
   Axor wouldn't have had to bum his unpaid way across the
   Empire. She didn't have the heart to say that. "What have you
   actually found?" she asked.
   "Not I alone, by no means I alone. For the most part, I have
   merely studied archaeological reports, and gone to see for
   myself. In a few instances, however—" The Wodenite drew
   breath. "I must not boast. What I deal with are the enigmatic
   remains of occasional records. Diagrams etched into a wall or a
   slab, worn away until virtually blank. Codings imprinted in
   molecules and crystals, evocable electronically but equally
   blurred and broken. Some, nobody can comprehend at all. Some
   do seem to be astronomical symbols—such as signs for pulsars,
   with signs for hydrogen atoms and for numbers to give periods
   and spatial relationships. One can estimate how those pulsars
   have slowed down and moved elsewhere, and thus try to identify
   them, and thence the sun toward which a record conceivably
   points …
   "On a barren globe five parsecs from here, amidst the tailings of
   a former mining operation, I found clues of this kind. They
   appeared to me to whisper of the sun Patricius."
   Axor broke off, crossed himself, stared into remoteness.
   After a while Diana made bold to speak again. "Well, your … your
   reverence, you needn't despair yet. What say we establish
   ourselves in town for a few days? You can rest up while I arrange
   conferences and transportation and so forth. You see, nothin' has
   turned up in the mountains; but Tigeries do tell about islands with
   what may be natural formations but might also be ruined walls,
   except that Imhotep never had any native sophonts. If that
   doesn't work out, I can inquire among spacefolk, get us passage
   offplanet, whatever you want. And it shouldn't cost you very
   heavily."
   Axor smiled. The crocodilian expanse of his mouth drew a shriek
   from a joygirl. "A godsend indeed!" he roared.
   "Oh, I'm no saint," Diana answered. He couldn't be so naive as to
   suppose she had immediately fallen in love with his
   cause—though it looked like being fun. "Why do I offer to do
   this? It's among the ways I scratch out my livin'. We got to agree
   on my daily wage; and I'll be collectin' my cumshaws on the side,
   that you don't have to know about. Mainly, I expect to enjoy
   myself." To mention her further dreams would be premature.
   Axor put spectacles on nose to regard her the better. "You are a
   remarkable young being, donna Crowfeather," he said, a
   surprisingly courtly turn of phrase. "If I may ask, how does it
   happen you are this familiar with the planet?"
   "I grew up here." Impulsively, perhaps because she was excited
   or perhaps because the beer had started to buzz faintly in her
   head, she added: "And my father was responsible for most of
   what you'll see."
   "Really? I would be delighted to hear."
   It was generally easy to confide in a chance-met xeno, as it was
   not with a fellow human. Furthermore, Axor's manner was
   reassuring; and no secrets were involved. The whole quarter
   knew her story, as did Tigeries across reaches of several
   thousand kilometers.
   "Oh, my father's Dominic Flandry. You may have heard of him.
   He's become an Admiral of the Fleet, but forty-odd years ago he
   was a fresh-caught ensign assigned to the planet Starkad, in this
   same sector. Trouble with the Merseians was pilin' up
   and—Anyway, he discovered the planet was doomed. There
   were two sophont races on it, the land-dwellin' Tigeries and the
   underwater Seafolk; and there were five years to evacuate as
   many as possible before the sun went crazy. This was the only
   known planet that was enough like Starkad. It helped that
   Imhotep already had a scientific base and a few support
   industries, and that Daedalus was colonized and becomin' an
   important Naval outpost. Just the same, the resettlement's
   always been a wild scramble, always underfunded and
   undermanned, touch and go."
   "The Terran Empire has many demands on its resources,
   starting with defense," said Axor.
   "Although one must deplore violence, I cannot but admire the
   gallantry with which Admiral Magnusson cast back the Merseian
   attack last year."
   "The Imperial court and bureaucracy are pretty expensive too, I
   hear," Diana snapped. "Well, never mind. I don't pay taxes."
   "I have, yes, I have encountered tales of Admiral Flandry's
   exploits," said Axor in haste. "But he cannot have spent much
   time on Imhotep, surely."
   "Oh, no. He looked in once in a while, when he happened to be in
   the region. A natural curiosity. My mother and he—Well, I keep
   tellin' myself I shouldn't blame him. She never did."
   Once Maria Crowfeather had admitted to her daughter that she
   got Dominic Flandry's child in hopes that that would lead to
   something permanent. It had not. After he found out on his next
   visit, he bade a charming, rueful goodbye. Maria got on with her
   own life.
   "Your mother worked in the resettlement project?" Axor inquired
   tactfully.
   Diana nodded. "A xenologist. She died in an accident, a sudden
   tidal bore on a strange coast, three standard years ago."
   Maria Crowfeather had been born on the planet Atheia, in the
   autonomous community Dakotia. It had been among the many
   founded during the Breakup, when group after ethnic group left a
   Commonwealth that they felt was drowning them in sameness.
   The Dakota people had already been trying to revive a sense of
   identity in North America. Diana, though, kept only bits of
   memory, fugitive and wistful, about ancestral traditions. She had
   passed her life among Tigeries and Seafolk.
   "Leaving you essentially orphaned," said Axor. "Why did nobody
   take care of you?"
   "I ran away," Diana replied.
   The man who had been living with Maria at the time of her death
   did not afterward reveal himself to be a bad sort. He turned out to
   be officious, which was worse. He had wanted to marry the girl's
   mother legally, and now he wanted to put the girl in the Navy brat
   school ' on Daedalus, and eventually see to it that she wed some
   nice officer. Meanwhile Tigeries were hunting through hills where
   wind soughed in waves across forests, and surf burst under
   three moons upon virgin islands.
   "Did not the authorities object?" Axor wondered.
   "They couldn't find me at first. Later they forgot."
   Axor uttered a splintering noise that might f be his equivalent of a
   laugh. "Very well, little sprite of all the world, let us see how you
   guide a poor bumbler. Make the arrangements, and leave me to
   my data and breviary until we are ready for departure. But can
   you give me an idea of what to expect?"
   "I'll try, but I don't make any promises," Diana said. "Especially
   these days. You didn't arrive at the best time, sir."
   Scales stirred above the brow ridges. "What do you mean,
   pray?"
   Grimness laid grip on her. She had ignored the news as much as
   possible. What could she do about it? Well, she had mentally
   listed various refuges, according to where she would be when
   the trouble exploded, if it was going to. But here she was
   committing herself to an expedition which could take her
   anyplace, and—"That ruckus with the Merseians last year was
   just a thing off in space," she said. "Since, I've kept hearin'
   rumors—ask your God to make them only rumors, will you?—Sir,
   we may be on the edge of a real war."
Chapter 2
   On Daedalus, the world without a horizon, a Tigery was still an
   uncommon sight, apt to draw everybody's attention. Targovi had
   made an exception of himself. The capital Aurea, its hinterland,
   communities the length of the Highroad River as far as the
   Phosphoric Ocean, no few of the settlements scattered
   elsewhere, had grown used to him. He would put his battered
   Moonjumper down at the spaceport, exchange japes with guards
   and officials, try to sell them something, then load his wares into
   an equally disreputable-looking van and be off. His stock in trade
   was Imhotepan, a jackdaw museum of the infinite diversity that is
   every planet's. Artifacts of his people he had, cutlery, tapestries,
   perfumes; things strange and delicate, made underwater by the
   Seafolk; exotic products of nature, skins, mineral gems, land
   pearls, flavorful wild foods—for the irony was that huge Imhotep
   had begotten life which Terrans, like Starkadians, could safely
   take nourishment from, whereas Terra-sized Daedalus had not.
   For a number of years he had thus ranged, dickering, swapping,
   amusing himself and most whom he encountered, a generally
   amiable being whom—certain individuals discovered too late—it
   was exceedingly dangerous to affront. Even when tensions
   between Merseia and Terra snapped asunder, sporadic combats
   erupted throughout the marches, and at last Sector Admiral
   Magnusson took his forces to meet an oncoming armada of the
   Riodhunate, even then had Targovi plied his trade unhindered.
   Thus he registered shock when he landed in routine fashion a
   twelvemonth later, and the junior port officer who gave him his
   admission certificate warned: "You had better stay in touch with
   us. Interplanetary traffic may be suddenly curtailed. You could
   find yourself unable to get off Daedalus for an. indefinite time."
   "Eyada shkor!" ripped from Targovi. His tendrils grew stiff. A
   hand dropped to the knife at his side. "What is this?"
   "Possible emergency," said the human. "Understand, I am trying
   to be friendly. There ought to be a short grace period. If you then
   return here immediately, I can probably get you clearance to go
   home. Otherwise you could be stranded and unable to earn your
   keep, once your goods were sold and the proceeds spent."
   "I … think … I would survive," Targovi murmured.
   The officer peered across his desk. "You may be right," he said.
   "But we may not like the ways you would find. I would be sorry to
   see you jailed, or gunned down."
   The Tigery looked predatory enough to arouse qualms. His
   resemblance to a man was merely in the roughest outlines. He
   stood as tall as an average one, but on disproportionately long
   and powerful legs whose feet were broad and clawed. Behind, a
   stubby tail twitched. The torso was thick, the arms and their four-
   fingered hands cabled with muscle. The round head bore a
   countenance flat and narrow-chinned, a single breathing slit in the
   nose, carnivore teeth agleam in the wide mouth. Beneath the
   fronded chemosensor tendrils, eyes were slanted and scarlet-
   hued. The large, movable ears were scalloped around the edges
   as if to suggest bat wings. Fur clothed him in silkiness that had
   now begun to bristle, black-striped orange except for a white
   triangle at the throat. His voice purred, hissed, sometimes
   growled or screeched, making its fluent Anglic an outlandish
   dialect.
   He wore nothing at present but a breech-clout, pocketed belt,
   knife, and amulet hung from his neck—these, and an oxygill. Its
   pleated pearly ruff lifted from his shoulders at the back of the
   head, framing the latter. Strange it might seem, to observe such
   a molecularly-convoluted intricacy upon such a creature, and to
   recollect what chemical subtleties went on within, oxygen
   captured and led into the bloodstream through capillary-fine
   tubes surgically installed. Yet it gave him the freedom to be
   barbaric, where he would else have been encumbered with a
   helmet and pump, or have perished. His kind had evolved under
   an air pressure more than nine times the Terran.
   "I think your efforts might fail," he said low. Easing: "However,
   surely naught untoward will happen. You are kind to advise me,
   Dosabhai Patel. You wife may find some pleasant trinket in her
   mail. But what is this extremity you await?"
   "I did not say we are bound to have one," replied the officer
   quickly.
   "What could it be, does it come on us?"
   "Too many wild rumors are flying about. Both naval and civil
   personnel are under orders not to add to them."
   Targovi's chair had been designed for a human, but he was
   sufficiently supple to flow down into it. His eyelids drooped; he
   bridged his fingertips. "Ah, good friend, you realize I am bound to
   hear those rumors. Were it not best to arm me with truths
   whereby I may slay them? I am, of course, a simple, wandering
   trader, who knows no secrets. Yet I should have had some
   inkling if, say, a new Merseian attack seemed likely."
   "Not that! Admiral Magnusson gave them a lesson they will
   remember for a while." Patel cleared his throat. "Understand,
   what happened was not a war."
   Targovi did not overtly resent the patronizing lecture that
   followed, meant for a half-civilized xeno: "Bloody incidents are all
   too common. It is inevitable, when two great powers, bitter rivals,
   share an ill-defined and thinly peopled buffer zone which is,
   actually, an arena for them. This latest set of clashes began when
   negotiations over certain spheres of influence broke down and
   commanders in various locations grew, ah, trigger-happy. True,
   the Roidhunate did dispatch a task force to 'restore order.' Had it
   succeeded, the Merseians would undoubtedly have occupied the
   Patrician System, thereby making this entire sector almost
   indefensible and having a salient deep into the Empire. We
   would have had to settle with them on highly disadvantageous
   terms. As you know, Admiral Magnusson beat them back, and
   diplomats on both sides are trying to mend things … No, we are
   in no immediate danger from outside."
   "From inside, then?" Targovi drawled. "Even we poor, uprooted
   vaz-Toborko—aye, even the vaz-Siravo beneath their
   seas—have learned a little about your great Empire. Rebellions
   and attempted rebellions have grown, regrettably, not infrequent,
   during the past half century. The present dynasty itself, did it not
   come to power by—?—"
   "The glorious revolution was necessary," Patel declared.
   "Emperor Hans restored order and purged corruption."
   "Ah, but his sons—"
   Patel 's fist struck the desktop. "Very well, you insolent barbarian!
   Daedalus, this whole system, the Empire itself were in grave peril
   last year. Admiral Magnusson rectified the situation, but it should
   never have arisen. The Imperial forces in these parts should
   have been far stronger. As matters stood, under a less brilliant
   commander, they would almost certainly have been smashed."
   He moistened his lips. "No question of disloyalty. No lèse
   majesté. But there is a widespread feeling on Daedalus,
   especially among Navy personnel, that Emperor Gerhart and his
   Policy Board have … not been well advised … that some of the
   counsel they heeded may actually have been treasonable in
   intent … that drastic reform has again become overdue. The
   Admiral has sent carefully reasoned recommendations to Terra.
   Meanwhile, dissatisfaction leads to restlessness. He may have to
   impose martial law, or—Enough. These matters are not for
   subjects like you and me to decide." Nonetheless eagerness
   lighted his features and shrilled in his voice. "You have had your
   warning, Targovi. Be off, but stay in touch; attend to your
   business and nothing else; and you will probably be all right."
   The trader rose, spoke his courteous farewell, departed. In
   Terran-like gravity he rippled along, his padded feet silent across
   the floor.
   Well-nigh the whole of Aurea was new, built to accommodate the
   burgeoning sector defense command that had been established
   on the planet, together with the civil bureaucracy and private
   enterprises that it drew. Architecture soared boldly in towers,
   sprawled in ponderous industrial plants. Vehicles beswarmed
   streets, elways, skies. Around the clock, the throb of traffic never
   ceased.
   Hardly anything remained of the original town, demolished and
   engulfed. It had been small anyhow, for colonization was far-
   flung, enclaves in wilderness that could not be tamed but only,
   slowly, destroyed. Still, a bit from early days clung yet to a steep
   slope beneath the plateau. Targovi went there, to an inn he knew.
   He mingled readily with the crowds. He might be the sole
   member of his race on Daedalus, but plenty of other
   xenosophonts were present. The vague borders of the Terran
   Empire held an estimated four million suns, of which perhaps a
   hundred thousand had some degree of contact with it. Out of that
   many, no few were bound to have learned from Technic
   civilization—if they had learned nothing else—the requirements
   for traveling between the stars. They included spacehands, Naval
   personnel, Imperial officials, besides those engaged on affairs
   of their own. Then too, colonization of Daedalus had not been
   exclusively human by any means. It made for a variegated scene,
   which Targovi enjoyed. His inmost wish was to get beyond this
   single planetary system, out into the freedom of the galaxy.
   Descending, he followed a lane along a cliff. On his left were
   walls time-gnawed, unpretentious, reminiscent of those in the Old
   Town of Olga's Landing. On his right were a guard rail, empty air,
   and a tremendous view. The river glimmered silver, grandly
   curved, through hundreds of kilometers of its valley, sunset
   bound. That land lay in shades of dark, metallic green, save
   where softer tones showed that farmsteads or plantations had
   been wrested out of it. The northern mountains and the ice fields
   beyond them, the southward sweep of plains, faded out of sight,
   lost in sheer distance. Closer by, the headwaters of the river
   rushed downward in cataracts. The mountainside was covered
   with native growth. Although air was cool at this altitude, Targovi
   caught a harsh pungency. Raindrops that were cars flitted to and
   fro through heaven. A spaceship lifted, her gravs driving her in
   silence, but the hull carving out muted thunder.
   Ju Shao's inn perched ramshackle on the brink. Targovi entered
   the taproom. The owner bounded to greet him: a Cynthian by
   species, small, white-furred, bushy-tailed. "Welcome back!" she
   piped. "A sweet sight, you, after the klongs who've been infesting
   this place lately. What will you have?"
   "Dinner, and a room for the night," Targovi answered. "Also—"
   His eyes flickered about. Besides himself, the customers thus far
   were just four humans in Navy uniform, seated around a table,
   talking over their liquor. "What mean you by 'klongs'?" he asked.
   "I thought you got folk here as well-behaved as is reasonable.
   Those who're not, the rest always cast out."
   "Too many are akindle nowadays," Ju Shao grumbled. "Young,
   from Navy or Marine Corps. They yell about how the Imperium's
   abandoned us and how we need strong leadership—that sort of
   spew. They get drunk and noisy and start throwing things around.
   Then the patrol arrives, and I have to waste an hour recording a
   statement before I can clean up the mess." She reached high to
   pat his hand. "You're the right sort. You stay quiet till you need to
   kill, which you do without fuss. We can cook you a nice roast, real
   cowbeef. And I've gotten a packet of that stuff they grow on
   Imhotep—ryushka, is that the name?—if you'd like some."
   "I thank you, but the Winged Smoke is only for when I can take
   my ease, out of any danger," Targovi said. "Bring me a bowl of
   tea while I talk with my … friends yonder. Afterward, aye, rare
   cowbeef will be good to taste again, the more so if you add your
   crinkle tongue sauce, O mother of wonders."
   He strolled to the occupied table. "Health and strength to you,
   Janice Combarelles," he said, translating the Toborko formality
   into Anglic.
   The blond woman with the ringed planet of a lieutenant
   commander on her blue tunic looked up. "Why, Targovi!" she
   exclaimed. "Sit down! I didn't expect you back this soon, you
   scoundrel. You can't have escaped hearing how uneasy things
   have gotten, and that must be bad for a business like yours."
   He accepted the invitation. "Well, but a merchant must needs
   keep aware of what is in the wind. I had hopes of finding you
   here," he said, truthfully if incompletely.
   "Introductions first," Combarelles said to her companions. "This
   is Targovi. You may have noticed him before, roving about with ,
   his trade goods. We met when I was on a tour of duty in the
   Imhotep garrison. He helped vastly to relieve the dullness." Her
   corps was Intelligence, for which the big planet had slight
   demand. Starkadians of either species were not about to turn on
   the Empire that had saved them from extinction.
   She named the others, men of her age. "We're out on the town,
   relaxing while we can," she explained. "Leaves may soon be hard
   to get."
   Targovi lapped from the container that Ju Shao had brought him.
   "Forgive a foreigner," he requested. "The subtleties of politics lie
   far beyond his feeble grasp. What is it that you tauten yourselves
   against? Surely not the Merseians again."
   "Yes and no," Combarelles replied. "They'll pounce on any
   weakness they think they see in us—"
   "Same as we should do to them," muttered a man who had been
   drinking hard. "But the Empire's gone soft, bloated, ready to pay
   anything for one more lifetime's worth of peace, and to hell with
   the children and grandchildren. When are we going to get
   another Argolid dynasty?"
   "Sh!" Combarelles cautioned. To Targovi: "He's right, though,
   after a fashion. His Majesty's badly served. We, out on the
   frontier, we've been made sacrificial goats to incompetence. If it
   weren't for Admiral Magnusson, we'd be dead. He's trying to set
   matters right, but—No, I shouldn't say more." She ignited a
   cigarette and smoked raggedly. "At that, the Merseians aren't
   infallible. I've found a terrible bitterness among them too."
   "How could you do that?" Targovi asked innocently. "Merseia is
   far and far away."
   Combarelles laughed. "Not all the Merseians are. Well, you see,
   actually I've been talking to prisoners. We took a few in the battle,
   and exchange hasn't yet been negotiated. My section has
   responsibility for them, and—No. I'd better not say any more
   except that we had a lot of luck, though that wouldn't have helped
   much if the admiral hadn't taken advantage of it. Tell us how
   things are on Imhotep. At least there we humans have been
   accomplishing something decent."
   Targovi spun out anecdotes. They led in the direction of
   smuggling operations. "Oh, yes," Combarelles laughed, "we
   have the same problems."
   "How could you, milady?" Targovi wondered. "I know no way to
   land unbeknownst, as guarded as this globe is, and they always
   inspect my humble cargoes."
   "The trick is to set down openly, but in a port where inspectors
   don't go. Like Zacharia."
   "Za—It seems I have heard the name, but—" In point of fact, he
   was quite familiar with it. He also knew things about the running of
   contraband which the authorities would have been glad to learn.
   Feigned ignorance was a way of leading conversation onward.
   "A large island out in the Phosphoric Ocean. Autonomous since
   pioneer days. Secretive. If I were Admiral Magnusson, I'd set the
   treaty aside. He has the power to do it if he sees fit, ' and / would
   see fit." Combarelles shrugged. "Not that it matters if untaxed
   merchandise arrives once in a while and goes discreetly upriver.
   But … I've retrieved reports filed with Naval Traffic Control. I can't
   really believe that some of the vessels cleared to land on
   Zacharia were what they claimed to be, or else were simple
   smugglers. They looked too sleek for that."
   "The admiral knows what he's doing," asserted a man stoutly.
   "Y-yes. And what he's not doing. Those could be ships of
   his—No more! Say on, Targovi."
   Targovi did. He told tales of his tarings to the vaz-Siravo in their
   seas. On Starkad, his race and theirs had often been mortal
   enemies. Feelings lingered, not to mention abysses of
   difference. They tried to get along together these days, because
   they must, and usually they succeeded, more or less, but it could
   be difficult. This led to chat about the care and feeding of
   Merseians ...
   Prisoners were not maltreated, if only because the opposition
   could retaliate. In particular, officers were housed as well as
   feasible. Fodaich Eidhafor the Bold, Vach Dathyr, highest among
   those plucked from ruined ships of the Roidhunate, got an entire
   house and staff of servants to himself, lent by a prosperous
   businessman who anticipated governmental favor for his civic-
   mindedness. It was guarded by electronics and a couple of live
   sentries. Lesser captives were held almost as lightly. Where
   could they flee to, on a planet where they would starve in the
   wilds and every soul in every settlement would instantly know
   them for what they were? The house was in a fashionable
   residential district a hundred kilometers north of Aurea. It stood
   alone on a knoll amidst flowerbeds, hedges, and bowers.
   True night never fell on Daedalus. The city was distance-
   dwindled to a miniature mosaic of lights, sparse because it had
   no need to illuminate streets. Sunlight was a red-gold ring,
   broadest and most nearly bright to the west, where Patricius had
   lately set, fading and thinning toward the east, but at this hour
   complete. Otherwise the sky was a gray-blue in which nearly
   every star was lost.
   Eidhafor awoke when a hand gently shook him by the shoulder.
   He sat up in bed. Windows filled the room with dusk. Beside him
   stood a form shadowy but not human, not Merseian—"Hssh!" it
   hissed. "Stay quiet." Fingers increased their pressure, not
   painfully, but enough to suggest what strength lay behind them. "I
   mean you no harm. Rather, I wish you well. If you do not cry out,
   then we shall talk, only talk."
   "Who are you?" Eidhafor rasped, likewise in Anglic. "What are
   you? How did you get in?"
   The stranger chuckled. Teeth flashed briefly white below the
   ember gleam of eyes. "As to that last, fodaich, it was not difficult,
   the more so when unawaited. A car that landed well away from
   here, a hunter who used his tricks of stalking to get close, a pair
   of small devices—surely the fodaich can imagine."
   Eidhafor regained equilibrium. If murder had been intended, it
   would have happened while he slept. "Under my oath to the
   Roidhun and my honor within my Vach, I cannot talk freely to an
   unknown," he said.
   "Understood," the stranger purred. "I will ask no secrets of you:
   nothing but frankness, such as I suspect you have already
   indulged in, and doubtless will again when you return home. It
   could well prove in the interest of your cause."
   "And what is your own interest?" Eidhafor flung.
   "Softly, I beg you, softly. You will presently agree how unwise it
   would be to rouse the household." The stranger let go his grip
   and curled down to sit on the end of the bed. "No matter my
   name. We shall concern ourselves with you for a while. Afterward
   I will depart by the way I came, and you may go back to sleep."
   Eidhafor squinted through the gloom. He had felt fur. And those
   ears and tendrils—He had seen pictures in his briefings before
   the fleet took off. "You are a Starkadian from Imhotep," he
   declared flatly.
   "Mayhap." The eyes held steady. Could they see better in the
   dark than human or Merseian eyes?
   If so, they beheld a being roughly the size and shape of a big
   man. Standing, Eidhafor would lean forward on tyrannosaurian
   legs, counterbalanced by a heavy tail; but his hands and his
   visage were humanoid, if you ignored countless details. External
   ears were lacking. The skin was hairless, pale green, meshed by
   fine scales. He was warm-blooded, male, wedded to a female
   who had borne their young alive. His species and the human had
   biochemistries so closely similar that they desired the same
   kinds of worlds; and it might well be that the mindsets were not
   so different, either.
   "What could a Starkadian want of a Merseian?" he asked.
   "It is true, there is a grievance," whispered back. "Had the
   Roidhunate had its way, all life on Starkad would long since be
   ashes. The Terrans rescued some of us. But that was a
   generation or more ago. Times change; gratitude is mortal;
   likewise is enmity, though apt to be longer-lived. If I am a
   Starkadian, then imagine that certain among us are reconsidering
   where our own best interests lie. Furthermore, Merseia almost
   took control of this system, thus of Imhotep. The next round may
   have another outcome. It would be well for us to gain
   understanding of you. If I am a Starkadian, then I have taken this
   opportunity to try for a little insight."
   "A-a-ahhh," Eidhafor breathed.
   Captain Jerrold Ronan was in charge of Naval Intelligence for the
   Patrician System. That was a more important and demanding job
   than it appeared to be or than his rank suggested. Subordinates
   had reason to believe that he stood high in the confidence of his
   superiors, including Admiral Magnusson.
   Hence it would grossly have blown cover for Targovi, obscure
   itinerant chapman, to see him in person. Instead, the Tigery
   called from his van, away off in the outback. The message went
   through sealed circuits and an array of encoding programs.
   At contact, by appointment: "Well?" snapped Ronan. "Be quick.
   Matters are close to the breaking point. I can't spare time for
   every hint-collector who imagines he's come across a
   sensational piece of revelation." He sighed. "Why did I ever give
   you direct access to me?"
   The least of ripples went across Targovi's pelt, and underneath.
   His tone held smooth. "The noble captain is indeed
   overburdened, if he forgets the honor that his dignity requires he
   grant those who operate in his service. Let me remind him that he
   himself felt, years agone, an individual like this one could prove
   uniquely able to gather special kinds of clues."
   The man's thin, freckled countenance drew into a scowl. "You
   and your damned pride! Close to insubordination—" He calmed.
   "All right. I'm harassed, and it probably has made me rude. You
   did pick up some useful leads in the past."
   They had been leads to nothing enormous; nevertheless, they
   had been useful. Like humans, Merseians employed various
   agents not of their own species. A racial and cultural patchwork
   such as Daedalus, remote from the Imperial center, was
   vulnerable to subversion—and not just from Merseia; the Empire
   seethed with criminality, dissension, unbounded ambitions. To
   hold the sector, the Navy must be the police force of their main-
   base planet. Colonists tended to feel less constrained in the
   presence of an affable nonhuman trader than with somebody
   more readily imaginable as working undercover.
   "I think this time I have truly significant news," Targovi said.
   The screen image ran fingers through its red hair. "You've been
   on Daedalus a while?"
   "Yes, sir. Going to and fro on my usual rounds, and some not so
   usual. Looking, listening, talking, snooping. Scarce need I tell the
   captain how much discontent is afoot, sense of betrayal,
   demands for amendment—especially in the Navy—although it
   may be that many persons spoke more freely before me than
   they would have before others. Sir, I cannot but feel that this
   sentiment is very largely being fomented. To a natural
   aggravation, which should but cause grumbling, come unfounded
   allegations, repeated until everyone takes their truth for given;
   inflammatory slogans; hostile japes—"
   "That's merely your impression," Ronan interrupted. "And, no
   offense, you are not human. You are not even properly
   acquainted with Technic civilization. I hope you have something
   more definite to tell."
   "I do, sir. First, scant doubt remains that spacecraft have been
   calling at Zacharia island, suspiciously often, for more than a
   year. I have garnered accounts of sightings by dwellers on the
   mainland and sailors who were at sea. They thought little about it.
   Yet when I compared data from the main traffic control bank, a
   most curious pattern emerged. Activity has been going on
   yonder, sir, and I misdoubt it is not harmless smuggling. Could it
   be Merseian?"
   "No. Have a care. Remember, the Navy conducts secret
   operations. You will speak no more about this, not to anybody.
   Do you understand?"
   Targovi glided past the question. "Sir, there is another eldritch
   thing, directly concerning the Merseians. I have word from green
   lips."
   Ronan started. "What? How? Who with? How dared you?"
   Targovi imitated a human smile. It made his teeth sheen sharp.
   "The captain must permit me my own small secrets. Did we not
   agree that any value I might have lies in my ability to work
   irregularly? Rest assured, no harm was done. Again, I have
   simply wormed out confidences which would not otherwise be
   forthcoming—although bits of memory and feeling that the
   Merseians let drop before their guards should have been heeded
   more closely than they were."
   Ronan swallowed hard. "Say on."
   "Those officers who know what actually happened are
   bewildered. Several are embittered. It is like the impression here
   that Daedalus was left neglected to face danger alone; but this
   impression has more reason behind it. Sir, the Merseian fleet
   was led with unprecedented stupidity. Its advance squadrons
   flew straight into the trap that Admiral Magnusson had set at
   Black Hole 1571—although the hazard should have been plain to
   any commander who knew aught of astrophysics or naval history.
   Then, instead of reforming to mount a rescue operation, Cyntath
   Merwyn split his main strength north and south, creating two
   pincers which Terra's rear echelons broke one by one. It should
   never have happened."
   "Aren't you glad it did?" Ronan asked dryly. "I daresay harsh
   things have been done to high-ranking people, back in the
   Roidhunate. It doesn't publicize its failures."
   "Sir, this was a failure too grotesque. An experienced, senior
   officer admitted as much to me. His rage came nigh to making
   him vomit." Targovi paused. "And yet, captain, and yet … our
   fleet could have pursued the advantage gained further than it did.
   It could have inflicted far worse damage. Instead, it was content
   to let the bulk of the enemy armada retreat."
   Ronan flushed. "Who are you to talk strategy? What do you know
   that Admiral Magnusson did not? Has it occurred to you that his
   first duty was not to risk our forces, but to save them?"
   "Captain, I simply suggest—"
   "You have said quite enough," Ronan bit off. "Do you care to
   submit a detailed report? No, don't answer that. It would be
   worthless. Or worse than worthless, in the present explosive
   situation." His image stiffened. "Agent Targovi, you will drop this
   line of inquiry. That is an order. Return to Imhotep. Do not, repeat
   not attempt any additional amateurish investigation of matters
   which do not concern you. If we should have an assignment for
   you later, you will be informed."
   The Tigery was quiet for a space.
   "May I ask why the captain is displeased?" he ventured.
   "No. Official secrets."
   "Aye, sir. If I have transgressed, I am … sorry."
   Ronan relented a trifle. "I'll accept that you didn't know any
   better."
   "Very good, sir. But—Well, about my Moonjumper, sir. Of
   course, everybody thinks I bought her, and my piloting
   instruction, out of my gains from storming a pirate stronghold on
   Imhotep. I can return now, with half my cargo unsold, claiming a
   family crisis. But would it not arouse wonder, should I fail to come
   back soon to Daedalus?"
   "Are you that well known?" The man considered. "As you will.
   You do have a living to make." Part-time clandestines received a
   pittance for their efforts, though retirement benefits, when they
   could plausibly claim to be living off their savings, were fairly
   good. "But watch your actions. If you step over the bounds,
   you're dead."
   "Understood, sir. Aught else? No, sir? Out." Targovi switched off.
   By himself, he sank into thought. Rather, he went racing away on
   a dozen different trails of thought, the hunter's thrill along his
   nerves. Certain suspicions were strengthening.
   He needed help, and was unsure where to seek it. Well, since he
   must go home anyway, he could begin there. If he probed
   deeper, he might die. Quite possibly. But if not—if he did a deed
   that they would notice on Terra itself—
Chapter 3
   At the Olga's Landing spaceport, he took his van from the hold of
   his ship. It was equally plebeian in appearance, a long and lumpy
   metal box, scratched and dented, meant for hauling stuff, with a
   control cab and a couple of passenger benches forward.
   Retractable wheels and pontoons seemed to be as much in case
   the gravs failed as for surface use.
   Unlike the ship, the van had more capabilities than it showed.
   When Naval Intelligence had recruited and sketchily trained
   young Targovi, it provided him such equipment as he might
   conceivably need sometime. That was not usual for an agent
   whose anticipated job was simply to keep alert and report
   anything dubious he noticed in the course of his ordinary rounds.
   However, Targovi was a son of Dragoika, and she was chief
   among the Sisterhood that led the Tigeries of the Toborkozan
   region. Moreover, she was an old friend of Dominic Flandry.
   Though he had not visited the Patrician System for a decade and
   a half, he and she still exchanged occasional communications;
   and he had risen to Fleet Admiral, and gained the ear of the
   Emperor.
   One gave little extras to the restless son of Dragoika.
   Targovi took off in a soft whirr. The mountains reared grandly
   around. Most were white-capped; glaciers shimmered blue-green
   under the shrunken sun. Pioneers had melted the snow off Mt.
   Horn and emplaced thermonuclear fires underground to keep
   rock and air liveably warm. Now the ice bulls and the frost-loving
   plants they had grazed were gone. Woods fringed the city.
   Agriculture occupied lower reaches, as far down as sea level.
   But humans dared not breathe there, unless through a reduction
   helmet. At those pressures, the gases their lungs required
   became poisons.
   It was otherwise for Targovi. After he had left the range behind
   and was humming east above its foothills, he pulled his oxygill
   out of its tiny sockets. Already it had been forcing him to inhale
   shallowly. He stowed it in its case with care, although the fabric
   was hard to damage, and proceeded to a wholly comfortable
   altitude. That was no lengthy descent, as steep as the density
   gradient is under Imhotepan gravity.
   The continent rolled away beneath him, a single forest, infinite
   shadings of green and gold, silvered with rivers and lakes,
   mysterious as the Land of Trees Beyond where some aged
   people believed the spirits of the dead went. Overhead, the sky
   was deeply blue, fleeced with clouds, the great half-disc of the
   moon Zoser ghostly above the sea that presently hove in sight. A
   splendid world, he thought. Not Starkad, nothing could be, but
   why mourn for that which was forever lost? His generation had
   come to life here, not there. As yet they were few, often baffled
   or slain by a nature alien to them; but in time they would win to
   understanding, thence to mastery, and their descendants would
   dwell throughout the planet.
   It was not sufficient for Targovi. He located the Crystal River and
   followed its course till it emptied into Dawnside Bay. There,
   where a harbor could lie sheltered from tidal turbulence, the
   Kursovikians had built their new town. Other societies had settled
   elsewhere, seeking to carry on their particular ways, but the
   Kursoviki folk were largely seafarers.
   They were also those who had always been in closest contact
   with the Terrans, whose mission headquarters stood on a ridge
   to the west. Low and softly tinted, the building looked subordinate
   to the gray stone mass on a hilltop that was the Castle of the
   Sisterhood. Targovi knew how much of an illusion that was.
   Nonetheless, Toborkozan had struck roots and grown; it could
   survive without further help if need be. Houses—timber, often
   bearing carven totems on the roofs—were spread widely along
   cobbled streets. The waterships in port were nearly all wooden
   too, archaic windjammers because those had been what the
   wrights knew how to make; but most had gotten auxiliary engines,
   and some were hovercraft of fairly modern design. A ferrocrete
   field on the northern headland offered landing to aircars, as well
   as the gliders and propeller-driven wingboats which various
   Tigeries had constructed for themselves.
   Targovi, privileged, set his vehicle down in the courtyard of the
   Castle and got out. Guards raised traditional halberds in salute.
   They carried firearms as well, for emigration had not extinguished
   every feud or kept fresh ones from arising, not to mention
   lawlessness, and it was better to watch over your own, yourself,
   than depend on the Terrans. Targovi learned that his mother was
   in her apartment and hastened thither.
   Dragoika lived high in the Gaarnokh Tower. Gaarnokhs had not
   been among the species which could be introduced on Imhotep,
   but memory lingered of their horned mightiness. She was
   standing in a room floored with slate and walled with granite.
   Tapestries gentled it a trifle. Books and a single seashell goblet
   were from Starkad. The rest—bronze candelabrum, things of
   silver and glass, massive table, couches whose lines resembled
   a ship's—were crafted here. Carrying capacity between suns had
   been so limited; much worse decisions had had to be made than
   to abandon the works of an entire history. She was looking out an
   open ogive window, into the salt breeze and onward to surf on
   the reefs beyond the bay.
   "Greeting, mother and chieftain," said Targovi.
   Dragoika turned, purred, and came to take his hands in hers.
   Though the female mane that rippled down her back was
   grizzled, she moved lithely. The sumptuous female curves had
   become lean, but her breasts jutted proud. True, they weren't
   ornamental adipose tissue like human dugs, they were organs
   muscular and vascular, from which her infants had sucked not
   milk but blood. Targovi had seen Terran speculations that the
   need to maintain a high blood supply made her sex the more
   vigorous one, and that this accounted for its dominance in most
   Tigery cultures. His doubts about that did not in any important
   way diminish his respect for her.
   "Welcome home, youngest son," she said. "How fared you?"
   "Into a wind that stank of evil," he replied. "How fare the folk?"
   "Well enough … thus far. But you are back sooner than is wont. It
   would not be for aye, this time?"
   "It would not. It cannot. I tell you, death was in the wind I snuffed
   upon Daedalus. I must return."
   Her tendrils drooped. "Ever will you go forth—someday, if you
   live, beyond any ken of mine. Overbold are you, my son."
   "No more than you, mother, when you skippered a ship on the
   Zletovar Sea and the vaz-Siravo rose beweaponed from
   beneath."
   "But you are male." Dragoika sighed. "The Terran example? Are
   you driven to do everything a female can do, as I've heard their
   females were once driven to match the males? I hoped for
   grandchildren from you."
   "Why, you shall have them. Just find me a wife who's content if
   I'm often away."
   "Or always away, like him who begot your friend Diana?"
   Dragoika's mood lightened. She did send a parting shot: "Long
   will it be ere many vaz-Toborko besides yourself are found on
   Daedalus, let alone worlds among the stars. How like you your
   celibacy?"
   "Not much. It measures my feelings for you, mother, that I came
   here before seeking the waterfront minxes. However, if this is the
   price to pay—There is naught a fellow can get so far behind on,
   nor so quickly catch up on."
   She whistled in merriment. "Well, then, scapegrace, come have a
   smoke and we'll talk." She surveyed him closely. "It was not filial
   piety brought you first to me. You've somewhat to ask."
   "I do that," he admitted. Excitement pulsed within him. Dragoika
   got word from around this globe. If anyone could aid him onward,
   it was she.
   The wind blew slow but powerful. It filled the upper square sails,
   lower fore-and-aft canvas, and jibs that drove Firefish southeast.
   Seas rushed, boomed, flung bitter spindrift off their crests; they
   shimmered green on their backs, dark purple in their troughs.
   Following the wake soared a flock of flying snakes.
   Abruptly the lookout shouted. Sailors swarmed to the rail or into
   the rigging to see. Captain Latazhanda stayed more calm. She
   had received word on the ship's radio, and given directions.
   The van lumbered down, extended pontoons, sought to lay
   alongside. Though Targovi maneuvered cautiously, he nearly
   suffered a capsizing. Waves under this gravity moved with real
   speed and force. His second pass succeeded. Leaning out an
   opened door, he made fast a towline tossed him and let his
   vehicle drop aft. He flew across on a gravity impeller.
   Besides the crew, their passengers were on deck to meet him.
   He thrust aside awe at his first in-the-flesh sight of a Wodenite,
   and turned toward Diana Crowfeather. She sprang over the
   planks and into his arms.
   "Targovi, you rascal, how wonderful!" she warbled. "What're you
   doin' here?" Anxiety smote. She stepped back, her hands still on
   his shoulders, and stared at him through the vitryl that snugged
   around her head. Aside from it and its pump, she was briefly
   clad. No matter the broad orbit, Imhotep's atmosphere has a
   greenhouse effect felt even at sea. "Is somethin' wrong?"
   "Yea and nay," Targovi replied in his language, which she
   understood and the Wodenite presumably did not. "I would fain
   speak with you alone, little friend." He purred. "Fear not. I, the
   trader, have in mind to give you, in swap for this adventure of
   yours, a bigger and wilder one."
   "Oh, but I've promised Axor—"
   "He will be included. I count on you to persuade him. But let me
   be about my devoirs."
   Saluting Latazhanda, he explained that he carried an urgent
   message. She and her crew were a rough lot, but had the
   manners not to inquire what it was. "I daresay you know whither
   we're bound," she remarked. "The Starboard and Larboard
   Islands, where this mad pair want to look at what may be ruins left
   by fay-folk of old." She rumbled a chuckle. "They're paying
   aplenty for the charter."
   "Need is that I must take them from you. But I'll make your loss
   good, my lady. A fourth of the fare." Targovi winced as he spoke.
   The price would come out of his purse, and it was uncertain
   whether the Corps would ever honor that expense account.
   "A fourth!" yowled Latazhanda. "Are you madder than they? I
   declined a lucrative cargo to make this trip. Three-fourths at
   least."
   "Ah, but so enticing a puss as you cannot fail to attract the offers
   of ardent agents." Much consignment, brokerage, and other
   shore-side business was in male hands. "How I envy them. Your
   charms cause me to reward you with a third of the passage
   money you're forgoing."
   Latazhanda gave him a long look. "I've heard of you, the
   chapman who goes beyond the sky. If you've time to take
   hospitality, your stories should be worth my accepting a mere
   two-thirds."
   They haggled amicably and flirtatiously until they reached an
   agreement which included his spending the night in her cabin.
   She enjoyed variety, and he did not mind that part of the bargain
   at all.
   What with additional introductions, and leisured preliminaries of
   acquaintanceship with F. X. Axor, the hour was near sunset when
   Targovi and Diana could be by themselves. That was in the
   crow's nest on the mainmast. He balanced against the surging
   and swaying as easily as any of his race, and it delighted her so
   much that she took a while to calm down and pay heed.
   Wind swirled in shrouds, bore iodine odors. The ship creaked
   and whooshed. A low sun threw a bridge over the waters.
   Forsaking this quest for another would not be quite easy.
   "My mother Dragoika told me about you and your comrade, of
   course," Targovi began. "You had called on her and she helped
   you arrange this transportation. My thanks to the gods, for you
   two must be their very sending."
   "What do you want of us?" she asked.
   "How would you like to go to Daedalus and roam about?"
   "Oh, marvelous! I've only seen Aurea and its neighborhood—"
   Diana checked herself. "But I did promise Axor I'd be his guide,
   interpreter, assistant."
   "Axor will come along. In fact, that is the whole idea."
   "But don't you understand? He isn't travelin' for pleasure, nor for
   science, really. To him, this is a … a pilgrimage. We can't go 'til
   he's looked over the stones on those islands."
   "They've lasted thousands of years—millions, if he is right. They
   can wait a bit longer. Tell him, what's true, this is a chance he had
   better seize. Soon none but Navy ships may be going between
   Patrician planets."
   "What? Why?"
   "And Javak the Fireplayer alone knows when the spacelanes will
   be open again. If Axor must be stranded, better on Daedalus
   than Imhotep. That air helmet of his seems to pain him."
   "Yes, I think it does, though he never complains. It had to be
   made special for him. He's comfortable in Olga's Landin'."
   "But what would there be for him to do? Whereas Daedalus may
   well be the world that has what he's seeking. Likelier, I should
   think. Have any such things ever been found on globes the size
   of Imhotep? Chances are, he's wasting his efforts. You, small
   person, are not, because you are having a glorious time simply
   traveling. However, you can have the same on Daedalus, and
   more. No need for a helmet. Plenty of handsome young men."
   Diana sniffed and tossed her head as much as she could under
   these conditions. "I can take care of myself, thank you. Do you
   know of anything yonder that might be Foredweller remains?"
   "In my traffickings I have seen curious sights, and heard tell of
   others. Once we're there, I will ask more widely and more
   closely, until I have a goal or three for you."
   She gave him a hard stare. "Why do you want this?"
   "Well, as a trader who smells trouble uptime, I need better
   information—"
   She laughed. "Let's not play pretty games. Nobody can overhear
   us. You're no more a simple packman than I am. I've known for
   years. What you really are, it wouldn't've been polite to ask … 'til
   now."
   He joined an acrid mirth to hers. "Hai, little friend of the universe,
   you are your father's daughter! … I suspected that you
   suspected. Certain remarks you made, looks you pierced me
   with, already ere your limbs lengthened—not what a child shows
   the son of her mother's associate when he's come back from an
   adventure and put her on his lap to tell her about it … Aye,
   trusting you to keep silence, I admit to turning an honest credit
   now and then by keeping my senses open on behalf of your
   father's corps. Is that terrible?"
   "Contrariwise," she replied enthusiastically. "The Navy staked
   you, didn't it? I never really believed what you said about the
   pirates."
   "Well," he growled, miffed, "we can talk further another time.
   What matters this evening is that devils are loose. They know me
   too well on Daedalus. But who would be wary of an innocent old
   priest and his young girl companion, wandering about on a purely
   religious expedition?"
   Diana tensed. "What'd we really be doin'?"
   "Essentially, distracting attention from me. I have business I want
   to pursue, best not discussed here. You two will be conspicuous
   without posing a threat to anybody."
   She scowled. "I can't just use him."
   "You'll not." Targovi spread his hands. "Who dares say there are
   no Ancient relics along the Highroad River and—on islands
   beyond? Already millions of years ago, that must have been a
   good place to settle. I'll help you gather information about it."
   She bit her lip. "You tempt me. But it isn't right."
   "Think why I do this," he urged.
   "Why?"
   "Because everything I have seen, heard, discovered on
   Daedalus shouts a single thing. Admiral Magnusson plans to
   rebel. His forces will hail him Emperor, and he will lead them in an
   assault on Gerhart's."
   Silence fell, save for wind, sea, and ship. Diana clutched the rail
   of the crow's nest, which was pitching violently, and stared
   horizonward. Finally she said low: "No big surprise. Olga's
   Landin', too, has been abuzz with rumors. People are mainly
   afraid of an Imperial counterattack. I've lined up several hidey-
   holes for myself. But prob'ly that's foolish. Why should anybody
   strike Imhotep? We'll simply wait the whole thing out."
   "You care not about revolt and civil war?"
   Diana shrugged. "What can I do about it? 'Twouldn't be the first
   time it's ever happened. From what I've heard, Olaf Magnusson
   would make a fine Emperor. He's strong, he's smart, and he can
   deal better with the Merseians."
   "What makes you believe so?" Targovi asked slowly.
   "Well, he … he's had to, for years, in this borderspace, hasn't
   he? When things finally blew up, it wasn't his fault. He met them
   and gave them a drubbin'. They respect strength. I've heard him
   blamed for not followin' up the victory and annihilatin' their fleet,
   but I think he was right. The Roidhun might not have been free to
   forgive that. Didn't you often advise me, always leave an enemy a
   line of retreat unless you fully intend to kill him? As is, we're back
   at peace, and the diplomats are workin' on a treaty."
   "Ah, you are young. Myself, I have lost faith in the likelihood of
   water spontaneously running uphill, teakettles boiling if set on a
   cake of ice, and governments being wise or benevolent. Tell me,
   what do you know about Admiral Magnusson?"
   "Why, why, what everybody knows."
   "What is that? Spell it out for me. I am only a xeno."
   Diana flushed. "Don't get sarcastic." Calming: "Well, if you insist.
   He was born on Kraken … m-m … forty-some Terra-years ago.
   It's a hard, harsh planet for humans. They grow tough, or they
   die. An independent lot; their spacefolk trade outside the Empire
   as well as inside, clear to Betelgeuse or Merseia itself. But they
   give us more'n their share of military recruits. Magnusson
   enlisted young, in the Marines. He distinguished himself in
   several nasty situations. Durin' the dust-up with Merseia at Syrax,
   he took command of the crippled ship he was aboard, after the
   officers were killed, and got her to safety. That made his
   superiors transfer him to the Navy proper and send him to the
   Foundry—the officer school in Sector Aldebaran. It has a fierce
   reputation."
   "What did he do during the last succession crisis?"
   "Which one? You mean the three-cornered fight for the throne
   that Hans Molitor won? Why, he—m-m, his age then—he must've
   been at the academy yet. But the accounts I've seen tell how he
   did well when a couple of later rebellions needed squelchin', plus
   in negotiatin' with the Merseians, so you can't say he hasn't been
   loyal. In fact, he's seldom visited Terra and never played office
   politics, they say, but he's risen fast regardless."
   "It did no harm that he married a Nyanzan heiress."
   "Oh, foof! You've got to have money to go far in the service, civil
   or military. I know that much. It doesn't mean he doesn't love
   her."
   "That is the official biography. What have you learned about him
   as a person?"
   "Oh, just the usual sort of thing you see on the news. No, I've
   also talked with some of the boys who serve under him. What
   they tell sounds all right to me. He does seem pretty humorless
   and strict, but he's always fair. The lowliest ranker who deserves
   a hearin' will get it. And he may be curt in everyday life, but when
   he unrolls his tongue—" Diana shivered. "I caught his speech last
   year, of course, after he'd saved us from the Merseians. I still get
   cold prickles, rememberin'."
   "A hero, then," said Targovi down in his throat.
   Diana's gaze sharpened. "What's wrong?"
   "Best I say no more at this stage," he demurred. "I could be
   mistaken in my fears. But ask yourself what elements—criminal,
   mayhap—could be conspiring to take advantage of chaos. Ask
   yourself what harm I can work on any innocent party by helping
   uncover the truth, whatever the truth may prove to be."
   "Um-m-m." She stared out beyond the sunset. "Persuadin"
   Axor—because I will not fool him, Targovi, though I could maybe
   shade the facts a trifle—m-m-m … Yes, if I said Daedalus is a
   better huntin' ground for him, and we'd be wise to get there while
   we're sure we can, and you'll take us because you're sort of
   interested yourself—I think that would satisfy him. You see, he
   really does believe in goodness."
   "Which you and I are not certain of. But we are certain of evil,"
   said Targovi. His tone had gone steely. "You might also, Diana
   Crowfeather, consider the cost of a civil war launched by your
   hero. Destruction, death, maiming, pain, grief, billionfold. You are
   more compassionate than I am."
Chapter 4
   The home of Admiral Sir Olaf Magnusson lay in the desirable
   tract a hundred kilometers north of Aurea. It was small, and the
   interior austere, for a man of wealth and power. But such was his
   desire, and any decisions he made, he enforced. The only
   luxuries, if they could be called that, were a gymnasium where he
   worked out for at least forty minutes in every fifteen hours, and an
   observation deck where he meditated when he felt the need.
   Naturally, his use of these was restricted to times when he was
   there, which had not been many of late.
   He stood on the deck and let his gaze range afar—a tall man,
   thickly muscular, with wide, craggy features, heavy blond brows
   over sapphire-blue eyes, thinning sandy hair. The face was
   tanned and deeply lined; its left cheek bore the seam of a battle
   scar which he had never troubled to have removed and which
   had become a virtual trademark. What he saw was a vast sweep
   of land and sky. Close by, the land had been terraformed,
   planted in grass, roses, hollyhocks, Buddha's cup, livewell, oaks,
   maples, braidwoods, and more, the gardens of an empire
   brought together around human houses. Beyond was primeval
   Daedalus, trees and brush, leaves a somber, gleaming green,
   never a flower. Those were not birds that passed above, though
   their wings shone in the evening light as the wings of eagles
   would have. The sun, sinking west, had begun to lose its disc
   shape. Haze dimmed and reddened it enough for vision to
   perceive that, because the rays came through ever more air as it
   dropped below what should have been the horizon. Golden
   clouds floated above.
   Olaf Magnusson did not really see this, unless with a half-aware
   fraction of his mind. Nor was he rapt in the contemplation of the
   All that his Neosufic religion enjoined. He had striven to be, but
   his thoughts kept drifting elsewhere, until at last he accepted their
   object as the aspect of the Divine which was set before him
   tonight.
   Strength. Strength unafraid, unhesitant, serving a will which was
   neither cruel nor kind but which cleanly trod the road to its destiny
   … He could not hold the vision before him for very long at a time.
   It was too superb for mankind. Into his awareness there kept
   jabbing mere facts, practicalities, things he must do, questions of
   how to do them—yes, crusades have logistic requirements too—
   A footfall, a breath reached his hearing. He swung about, his big
   frame as sure-footed as a fencer's or a mountaineer's, both of
   which he was. His wife had come out. She halted, a meter away.
   "What's this?" he demanded. "Emergency?"
   "No." He could barely hear her voice through the cold, whittering
   breeze, as soft as it was. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have interrupted
   .you, except that it's getting late and the children are hungry. I
   wondered if you would be having dinner with us."
   His basso rasped. "For something like that, you break in on my
   devotions?"
   "I'm sorry," she repeated. Yet she did not cringe, she stood
   before him in her own pride. And her sadness. "Ordinarily I
   wouldn't. But since you are going away for a long while at best,
   and God knows if you will ever come back—"
   "What gives you that idea?"
   Vida Lonwe-Magnusson smiled a bit. "You'd never have married
   an idiot, Olaf, no matter how much money she brought with her.
   Allow that I've gotten to know you over the years, in part, and I
   follow the news closely, and have studied history. What date
   have you set for the troops to spontaneously proclaim you
   Emperor? Tomorrow?"
   Surprised despite himself, he gave her a long look. Unflinchingly,
   the brown eyes in the black face returned it. The slender body in
   the simple gown stood straight. They were excellent stock on
   Nyanza, their ancestors as ruthlessly selected by a hostile nature
   as his had been, although the oceanic planet had prospered
   afterward more than cold and heavy Kraken ever could. Among
   his thoughts when he was courting her had been that a
   crossbreeding should produce remarkable offspring. Warmth
   touched him from within. "I wanted to spare you anxiety, Vida.
   Maybe what I actually did was cause you needlessly much. I
   never doubted your loyalty. But the fewer who knew, the better
   the odds. Premature disclosure would have been disastrous, as
   you can surely understand. Now everything is ready." "And you
   are really going through with it?"
   "You will be Empress, dear, Empress of the stars we never see
   on Daedalus."
   She sighed. "I'd rather have you … No, self-pity is the most
   despicable of all emotions. Let me only ask you, Olaf, here at the
   last moment, why you are doing this."
   "To save the Empire."
   "Truly? You've always had the name of a man stern but
   honorable. You gave your oath."
   "It was the Imperium that broke faith, not we who fought and died
   while noblemen on Terra sipped their wine and profiteers
   practiced their corruptions."
   "Is war the single way to reform? What will it do to the Empire?
   What of us, your people—your family—if you draw away our
   defenses? You kept this sector for Terra. Now you'll invite the
   Merseians to come back and take it."
   Magnusson smiled, stepped forward, laid hands on her waist.
   "That you needn't worry about, Vida. You and the children will be
   perfectly safe. I'll explain in my proclamation, and details will go
   into the public data banks. But you need just think. This sector is
   my power base. Until we've occupied and organized significant
   real estate elsewhere, this is where our resources and reserves
   are. And the Patrician System is the keystone of it. Nearly every
   other set of planets in the vicinity is backward, impoverished, or
   totally useless to oxygen breathers. That's why the base is here,
   and the industries that support it. Gerhart's first thought will be to
   strike at Daedalus, cut me off from my wellspring. So of course I
   must leave enough strength behind to make that impossible, as
   well as to back my campaign. The Merseians will know better
   than to butt against it. I promise!"
   "Well—" She shivered, stiffened, and challenged: "What else do
   you promise? Why should anybody go over to your cause,
   besides your devoted squadrons? Oh, I'm not saying you would
   be a bad ruler. But who can possibly be good enough to justify
   the price?"
   "You have heard me talk, both at home and in public," he said. "I
   don't claim to be a superman or anything like that. Conceivably, a
   better candidate exists. But where? Who else will make the
   Imperium strong and virtuous again?"
   His voice dropped, became vibrant: "And Vida, I will make up for
   lives lost, by orders of magnitude. For I will hammer out an end
   to this senseless, centuries-old conflict with the Roidhunate. The
   Merseians aren't monsters. They're aggressive, yes, but so were
   we humans in our heyday. They'll listen to men who are strong,
   as I've shown them I am, and who are reasonable, as I will show
   them I am. It has already happened, on a smaller scale. The
   galaxy has ample room for both our races.
   "Will not a dream like that appeal to worlds gone weary?"
   There was a stillness that lengthened. The sun began to spread
   itself out in a red-golden arc.
   Vida laid her head against her man's breast. He closed his arms
   about her. "So be it," she whispered. "I'll hold the fort as best I
   can. You see, I often think it's foolish, but the fact won't go away
   that I love you, nor do I want it to."
   "Good girl," he said into the fragrance of her hair. "Sure, let's
   enjoy a family dinner."
   That would be a chance to re-inspire his sons.
Chapter 5
   Moonjumper toiled out of Imhotep's gravity well, but once in clear
   space her gravs had the force to boost her across to Daedalus in
   less than fifty hours, at the present configuration of the planets.
   Within the potbellied hull, Targovi considerately maintained both
   weight and pressure at Terran standard, and wore his oxygill.
   Having put the ship on full automatic, he joined his passengers in
   the saloon. That was an elegant word for a dingy cabin into which
   Axor must coil himself while Diana perched on the table.
   They had dimmed the lights and were looking in wonder at a
   viewscreen. It showed the receding globe, luminous white and
   blue-green; three ashy-silver moons; crystalline blackness
   aswarm with fire-gems that were stars; the radiant road of the
   Milky Way. "God will always be the supreme artist," rumbled the
   Wodenite, and crossed himself.
   Targovi, who was a pagan if he was anything, fingered the charm
   suspended at his throat. It was a small turquoise hexagon with a
   gold inlay of an interlinked circle and triangle. "Supreme at
   surprises, too," he said. The longing surged in him. If this
   miserable tub of his had a hyperdrive, if he could outpace light
   and seek the infinite marvels yonder!
   Yet a planet could keep presenting a person astonishments
   throughout his lifetime. The trick was to avoid any that were lethal.
   "It were wise to make sure you twain know what to expect when
   we arrive," he declared. "Daedalus has its uniquenesses. Diana, I
   would have to crawl over our friend to reach the cooler. Will you
   open it and serve us? You'll find meat, beer, cold tea, bread for
   yourself and for the Reverend if he wishes."
   "I wish you'd remembered to stow some fruit," she complained
   mildly. "I do love frostberries, and promised F. X. a taste."
   "There may be some in Aurea, imported." Targovi bounded to
   the table and curled up near the girl. He could do things like that
   in a low gee-field, and was so used to the gill that it was no
   nuisance. But he did need to keep active, lest his flesh go slack.
   He braced himself against what was going to hurt. "Let me not
   forget to supply you with money, unless Axor has more left him
   than I believe. You'll be buying all your food, as well as most
   other things. Food can get expensive on Daedalus, and you may
   be faring for many a day."
   "Ah … I have heard, yes, I have heard that the native life is
   inedible by us," Axor said.
   Diana, busy improvising a sandwich, nodded. "None is known
   that's poisonous, nor any disease we can catch," she told him,
   "but the flip side of this is that we get nothin' out of whatever we
   eat. Plant and animal kingdoms evolved there too, but not like
   yours or mine or Targovi's. Proteins with d-amino acids, for
   instance. Here." She handed him the sandwich. It was hefty, but
   vanished in his maw as a drop of water vanishes on a red-hot
   skillet. She whistled and set herself to carve him a piece of the
   roast—about half.
   "Thus it was necessary to introduce Terran and similar plants,
   later animals?" he inquired.
   "Aye," Targovi said, "the which wasn't easy. Plants need their
   microbes, their worms, a whole ecology ere they can flourish.
   And the native life wants not to be displaced. And it is adapted to
   the environment. Every patch of soil to be cultivated must first be
   sterilized down to bedrock—radiation or chemicals—and then the
   new organisms patiently nurtured. And meanwhile the old ones
   keep trying to reconquer it. Aquaculture is harder still."
   "Why did the settlers make the effort?"
   "It was cheaper than depending on synthetics. Also safer, in the
   long run. Industries can be shattered more readily than farms."
   "You misapprehend, my son. I meant that I cannot see why
   humans chose to invade a planet like that in the first place."
   "Oh, my, you are unworldly, aren't you, sweetheart?" Diana said
   while she fed him. "But you Wodenites never have been hell-bent
   to colonize like us. Is that because you don't breed so crazily?
   Anyhow, planets where humans can live without a lot of fancy
   gear aren't that common. Artificial miniworlds are fine … if you
   don't mind scanty elbow room, strict laws, dependency on
   outside resources, and vulnerability to attack. Else you take what
   you can get. By the time David Jones discovered Daedalus, the
   best places in known space were already claimed, and goin' into
   unknown space meant such a long haul that settlers would be cut
   off from their civilizations."
   " 'Civilizations,' plural," Targovi pointed out. "It wasn't only
   humans who arrived. Members of several races with more or less
   the same requirements came too. Some wanted simply to
   homestead, or to make a living by serving the homesteaders. But
   some had their special interests. Weird is the patchwork you'll
   find on Daedalus."
   "Fascinating," said Axor. "I daresay that, as a political necessity,
   these communities enjoy basic local autonomy."
   "Aye. Most won it in early days, negotiating with a weak planetary
   authority. Certain regions on Daedalus did have much potential.
   Islands especially; those were easiest to defend against the
   encroachments of native life. This happened in the
   Commonwealth era, you realize, when government was loose
   everywhere. After the Empire took over, the greatest of the
   baronies were rich enough to buy an Imperial pledge that they
   would be left alone as long as they paid their tribute and caused
   no trouble."
   Diana passed out beverages and slathered mustard on bread for
   herself. "The Empire's always been fairly tolerant, hasn't it?" she
   remarked.
   "It is becoming less so, I fear," the Tigery mumbled. "And as for
   what a 'new broom' might sweep away from us—" .
   "Then in spite of what you've said about Admiral Magnusson," the
   girl tossed back, "wouldn't he be off his orbit to try for the throne?
   I mean, he's got to operate out of Daedalus to start with, but if the
   dwellers don't like the idea and begin undercuttin' him—"
   "They will meekly do whatever they are told, aside from black
   marketing and the like," Targovi said. "Likewise the fighting men.
   I'm sure many will be less than glad at being taken from home,
   back to war, this soon. But what will they dare do save shout
   hurrah with everybody else? Yours is a magnificent species in its
   fashion, little friend, but like every species it bears its special
   weaknesses."
   He stroked his chin. His tendrils lay back flat, and a fang gleamed
   into view. "Furthermore," he murmured, "Magnusson, who is no
   simpleton, will have made his alliances with powerful factions on
   Daedalus. They will help keep order at his back, until he has
   overrun enough space elsewhere that Daedalus no longer
   matters. There are Paz de la Frontera … Lulach … Ghundrung …
   Zacharia—Zacharia—Aye, surely he has his understandings with
   persons in these and other places." Axor looked distressed.
   "This conversation is taking a horrid turn," he said. "What can we
   do about it but tend our private affairs and pray to God for mercy
   upon helpless beings throughout the galaxy?"
   "Well, we can get to Daedalus 'ere Javak looses his flames and
   we are forbidden to travel," Targovi said, not for the first time.
   "Yes, yes, I understand, and you are very kind, aiding me on my
   quest." Axor gusted a sigh that nearly knocked Diana's beer
   bottle over. "We were speaking of happier matters. You were, kh-
   h-h, briefing me on Daedalus—the planet itself, pure from the
   hand of the Creator, before sinful sophonts arrived. I seem to
   recall mention of its being extraordinary in numerous ways."
   "Well," said the human around a mouthful of sandwich, "it doesn't
   have a horizon."
   Axor elevated his snaky neck. "I beg your pardon?"
   "The parameters—pressure and temperature gradients,
   mainly—they're just right for light to get refracted around the
   curve of the globe. Theoretically, if you looked straight through a
   telescope, you'd see your own backside. Of course, in practice
   mountains and haze and so forth prevent. But the cycle of day
   and night—about a fifteen and a half hour rotation period, by the
   way, which is short for an inner planet anywhere—that's quite an
   experience."
   "Dear me. Amazing."
   "I have read of the same thing elsewhere," Targovi said, "but
   those worlds chance not to be habitable."
   "In fact," Diana added, "I've heard how Terra itself'd be like that,
   if it kept the same air but was a few kilometers less in radius.
   How much less? Thirteen, is that the figure? Nothin' to speak of
   as far as gravity and such are concerned. Daedalus happens to
   fit those specs."
   "Or else God made it thus, for some purpose that perhaps the
   Foredwellers came to know, and we ourselves may someday,"
   Axor crooned. "Oh, wonderful!"
   The word came as Moonjumper was in approach curve. The
   planet filled vision ahead. Its huge polar caps were blinding
   white. Between them the tropics, seventy degrees wide, and the
   subtropics shone azure on the seas, dun and deep green on
   land, beneath clouds which the rotation twisted into tight spirals.
   The single moon, Icarus, stood pockmarked behind.
   Suddenly the outercom picked up a message on the official band
   and blared it forth. Against his will, after his vital
   recommendations for military and political reform had been
   ignored, Admiral Sir Olaf Magnusson had bowed to the
   unanimous appeal of his valiant legionaries, that he take
   leadership of the Terran Empire before it crumbled in chaos and
   fell victim to every consequent evil. He had imposed martial law.
   Civil space traffic was suspended, unless by special permit.
   Sensible persons would instantly see why: an average-sized
   vessel moving at interplanetary speeds carried the energy of a
   small- to medium-yield nuclear warhead.
   As far as possible, citizens should carry on in their usual
   occupations, obedient to the authorities. Infractions would be
   severely punished. But there was nothing to fear, rather there
   was everything to await, a dawn of hope. In six hours the new
   Emperor would broadcast, explaining, reassuring, arousing his
   people. "Stand by. The Divine, in whatever form It manifests
   Itself to you, the Divine is with us."
   "Eyada shkor!" Targovi breathed. "Once I read of an ancient
   tombstone on Terra. Upon it stood, 'I expected this, but not so
   soon.' "
   "What'll we do?" Diana asked, webbed into a seat beside him in
   the cramped control cabin. "Turn back?"
   "No. We are locked into Ground Control's pattern. Doubtless I
   could arrange release, but—it is natural for me to continue as
   programmed. The whole object of this game has been to get our
   feet on yon ball." Targovi brooded. Abruptly:
   "See here. Were you not the child of Maria Crowfeather and
   Dominic Flandry, I might feel guilt at casting you adrift. As it is, I
   must work with what tools I have, and thank the gods that the
   steel is true. I meant to tell you more than I have done, as soon
   as we were at large, but now that must wait. Already have I told
   you too much for your safety, mayhap. However, it has been little
   more than my suspicions of what was about to strike, together
   with fears of what use certain folk might make of the uproar.
   Surely these thoughts have occurred to others. If you know
   naught further, you have naught further to conceal, and I do not
   think they will interrogate you too fiercely, the more so when Axor
   is clearly uninvolved in these matters. Stay calm, hold fast to your
   wits, make your own way, as you have ever done."
   She half reached for him, withdrew her hand, and said only a little
   unsteadily, "What do you mean?"
   "Why, I have reason to think it could be unhealthy for me to linger
   after we land," he replied. "Therefore I will not. Imagine that they
   suspect me of gunrunning, or allegiance to the Molitor dynasty, or
   intransigent mopery, or whatever. Aye, it's a shock that your
   companion has been in deep waters. You knew only that I
   offered you a ride to Daedalus in order that you and Axor might
   be my blind, for purposes you had no reason to suppose were
   fell. Do you hear me?"
   Then they did clasp hands.
   Daedalus had no weather control. A rainstorm was upon Aurea
   when Moonjumper descended. That would be helpful to Targovi,
   though he could surely have managed without.
   A squad of Imperial marines waited to arrest the persons aboard.
   At the last minute, Targovi cut Ground Control off and, manually,
   set down on a vacant spot across the field. He went straight out
   the airlock and disappeared in the downpour. Efforts at
   chemotracking were soon nullified by the manifold smells in the
   old quarter. Known associates of his, such as the innkeeper Ju
   Shao, denied knowledge of his whereabouts. Too much else
   was going on for Security to pursue the matter in detail. A Tigery
   outlaw would be practically helpless and hopelessly conspicuous
   on Daedalus anyway, would he not?
   Meanwhile the squad had surrounded his passengers and taken
   them off to detention. At first the marines were nervous, weapons
   ready. But they got no resistance. The pretty girl actually smiled
   at them, and the dragon gave them his blessing.
Chapter 6
   "The hour is upon us."
   Tachwyr the Dark, Hand of the Vach Dathyr, stood silent for thirty
   pulsebeats after he had spoken, as if to let his words alloy
   themselves with the minds of his listeners. They were the
   members of the Grand Council over which he presided—the
   captains, under the Roidhun, of Merseia and its far-flung
   dominions.
   Their faces filled the multiple screens of the communication set
   before him. He had had it brought out onto a towertop of his
   castle. At this tremendous moment he wanted to stand
   overlooking the lands of his Vach, while its ancient battle banners
   snapped above him in the wind. The sun Korych cast brilliance
   on forested mountainside, broad fields and clustered dwellings in
   the valley beneath, snow-peaks beyond. A fangryf winged on
   high, hunting. On a terrace below, his sons stood at attention, in
   ancestral armor, honoring their forebears and their posterity, the
   wholeness of the Race.
   "That which we have worked for in secret has come to pass
   amidst trumpet calls," Tachwyr said. "Our patience reaps its
   reward. The word has reached me. Magnusson has risen.
   Already his ships are on their way to combat."
   A hiss of joy went from every countenance. Gazes became full of
   an admiration that approached worship. He, Tachwyr the Dark,
   himself a commander of space squadrons until he succeeded to
   the Handship of the Dathyrs and ultimately got the lordship of
   Merseia—he, this gaunt and aging male in a plain black robe, had
   brought them to triumph.
   He knew what the thought was, and raised a cautionary arm. "Not
   yet dare we exult," he said. "We have scarcely begun. Victory
   could elude us, as it eluded generation after generation before
   us. The great Brechdan Ironrede fashioned a scheme that would
   have ruined the Terrans utterly, and saw it crumble in his grasp.
   In his name, after the name of the Roidhun, shall we go forward."
   "What precisely is the news?" asked Odhar the Curt.
   "Scarcely more than I have said," Tachwyr answered. "The
   dispatch will enter your private databases, of course, and you can
   study it at leisure; but do not expect much detail across a gulf that
   is many parsecs wide and deep."
   For an instant the wish twinged in him, for some interstellar
   equivalent of radio, instantaneous, rather than courier vessels
   and message torpedoes which might at the very best cover
   slightly over half a light-year per hour. If the pulsations of warped
   space that made them detectable across twice that distance
   could be modulated—And indeed they could, but only within
   detection range. The same quantum uncertainties that made it
   possible to evade the speed limitations of the relativistic state
   made it infeasible to establish relay stations … Well, everybody
   labored under the same handicap. Much of Tachwyr's plan
   depended on using it against the enemy.
   "Have instructions gone to our embassy on Terra?" inquired
   Alwis Longtail.
   "Not yet," Tachwyr said. "First I want this group to consider my
   draft of the letter. You may well have suggestions, and in any
   event you should know just what the contents are."
   "Is there any reason why those should be specific?"
   "No, nothing has changed in that respect. We must trust Chwioch
   to fit his actions to whatever the situation happens to be." That
   faith was not misplaced. Chwioch might bear the sobriquet "the
   Dandy" from his youth, but even then he had been bailiff of
   Dhangodhan, and at present he could better be called "the
   Shrewd"—except that he preferred the Terrans underestimate
   him. He would find—no, create—a pretext for breaking off the
   negotiations, toward a nonaggression pact which he had so
   skillfully been prolonging. That would send waves of dismay over
   nobles, rich commoners, and intellectuals throughout the Empire,
   which in turn would bring an outcry for a "new politics" pointed in
   a more comforting direction.
   Meanwhile Chwioch would explain, on every occasion he could
   find or make, that in the absence of such a pact, incidents
   leading to armed clashes were inevitable. When a single capital
   ship carried weapons sufficient to devastate an entire planet, and
   when the Empire could not keep its own house in order, Merseia
   was obliged to secure the debatable regions. This might
   sometimes require hot pursuit, into space claimed by the Empire.
   Obviously the Riodhunate regretted every occurrence, and stood
   ready to renew efforts to establish a lasting peace as soon as the
   Terran government was able to join in.
   But the Terran government was going to be preoccupied for a
   period that might run into years …
   "When shall we put the Navy on full alert?" asked Gwynafon of
   Brightwater.
   "Perhaps never," Tachwyr said. "Definitely not soon, barring the
   unforeseeable contingency. After all, the Terran embassy here
   will be reporting what it observes. The commanders of chosen
   units are already prepared for action. Best we not be too
   impulsive as regards them, either. Let events develop a while."
   The question had been ridiculous, especially since the entire
   strategy had been under repeated, intensive discussion.
   However, Gwynafon was new on the Council—and not very
   intelligent—and a nephew of the Roidhun—You used what
   materials the God put at your disposal.
   Brief pain slashed through Tachwyr. Had Aycharaych been
   alive—The original plan was his, and he had taken a direct part in
   the early preparations. But Aycharaych died when the Dennitzans
   bombarded his planet. At least, he vanished; you could never be
   altogether sure of anything about the Chereionite. With him had
   passed away the central machinery of Merseia's Intelligence
   Service. The Roidhunate had been half blinded, hideously
   vulnerable, impotent to take any initiative, for a decade or worse,
   while a new structure was being forged. If Terra had struck
   meanwhile—
   But that wasn't in the nature of an Empire old, sated, and corrupt.
   Instead, its politicians wondered aloud why their realm and the
   Roidhunate kept failing to reach agreement. Was there not an
   entire galaxy to share?
   As if any responsible Merseian leader could turn his attention
   elsewhere, when such a power lurked at his back! Once upon a
   time humankind had borne the same universe-spanning
   ambitions that the Race did now. It might well come to cherish
   them again—if not on Terra, then on the daughter worlds. Or a
   different but allied species might, the Cynthians or the Scothani
   for example. Even in its decadence, the Empire had the means
   to pose a mortal threat. It must be nullified before the Race could
   be fully free to seek that destiny the God had set.
   We shall, ghost of Aycharaych, we shall. During those selfsame
   years of our misery, your scheme was coming to fruition. This is
   the day when victory begins.
Chapter 7
   After the warships had glided from orbit, starward bound, the
   effective ruler of the Patrician System was Lieutenant General
   Cesare Gatto, Imperial Marine Corps. The civil governor and
   bureaucrats carried their routines on as best they were able, but
   this had never amounted to much. Since Daedalus became
   sector headquarters, the Navy had taken over most functions,
   from planetary police to mediator between communities. Gatto
   reigned as Magnusson's deputy, almost his viceroy.
   It was thus somewhat of a surprise, as overworked as Gatto was,
   when he had the prisoner Diana Crowfeather brought to his
   office. Or perhaps not. A husband and father, he had never lost
   his taste for femininity. Besides, this was an unusual case, more
   so than he let on to his subordinates.
   "Please be seated," he said as the door closed behind her. She
   took a chair and regarded him across the desk. He was a small,
   well-knit man with a high forehead above a furrowed, hooknosed
   face and pale blue eyes. His uniform tunic had the collar open
   and was devoid of the many decorations he had earned. A
   cigarette smoldered between his fingers.
   His look in return was appreciative, baggy though the coverall
   was that had been issued her. "I'm afraid this past pair of weeks
   has been wearisome for you," he went on. "I hope the physical
   conditions, at least, were acceptable."
   "It wasn't bad," she answered. "Except for the questionin' and,
   worse, the worry about my friends. Nobody would tell me a damn
   thing." Her tone defied more than it complained.
   "Separate interrogations are standard procedure, donna. Rest
   assured, the Wodenite has suffered no harm. I hear he's spent
   most of his time screening books from the public database.
   Scholarly works and slushy novels."
   "But what about Targovi?"
   "The Imhotepan—I wish I knew. He's dropped from sight. Have
   you anything to add to your claim, and the Wodenite's, that you
   two cannot tell why he fled? Has some new thought occurred to
   you?"
   "No, sir." Her chin jutted. "It might help if we had a better idea of
   why we were seized in the first place."
   Gatto stared at his cigarette, puffed, raised his glance to hers,
   and said: "Very well, I'll be frank. You see, you and your
   companion have received clean bills of health. You yourself are
   known on Imhotep, of course, and a check by Security agents
   there verified the Wodenite's story of being on a religious tour,
   eccentric but harmless. Nobody can imagine how either of you
   could be conspirators, nor did interrogation indicate it. At worst,
   you persist in trying to find excuses for the Tigery. You could
   both have been released earlier, if the urgencies of preparing for
   Emperor Olaf's departure hadn't caused everything else to be
   postponed."
   Diana bounced to her feet, radiant. "We can go? Terrific!"
   "Sit back down," he said. "We're not quite done yet. Listen. I
   would probably never have known of your existence—I do have
   things to keep me busy—if it weren't for the special
   circumstances. Captain Jerrold Ronan is our head of Naval
   Intelligence. He personally ordered that the datafile of this, ah,
   Targovi be flagged. Therefore, when Targovi came back to
   Daedalus, the order to hold him for investigation was automatic.
   Ordinarily Captain Ronan's office would have disposed of the
   case as he saw fit. However, he has left with the Emperor, to
   handle similar duties during the campaign. Since the 'hold' order
   originated on such a high level, it was among those referred to
   me for review when I took charge here. Otherwise you'd
   doubtless have been released much sooner. As it was, nobody
   knew just what to do about you, and word took time to percolate
   up through channels, as frantic as the situation has been. I was
   struck by the report and decided to inquire further, personally.
   Something odd has been going on."
   Diana's exuberance faded. "What? I'm as puzzled as you are.
   Oh, Targovi did drop hints about big game afoot, but nothin'
   definite."
   "I know."
   She flushed angrily. A narcoquiz was an undignified procedure,
   though they had had the decency to detail a couple of women
   officers to carry it out on her. "Be glad you turned out to know no
   more," Gatto said. "That would have called for a hypnoprobing, to
   extract everything. After all, we don't have the drugs or the
   equipment to process a Wodenite."
   Diana gulped, mastered rage and anguish, became able to say:
   "Then you realize I'm aware Targovi was—is an undercover
   agent for Intelligence. Axor hasn't heard that, by the way. He'd
   only be sad about the, uh, duplicity. But why the flamin' hell did
   Targovi's own chief, uh, Ronan, want him checked out?"
   "That is not in the database," Gatto replied. "Still, it seems
   obvious. Not everybody supports Emperor Olaf. Captain Ronan
   must have had reasons to suppose Targovi favored the Gerhart
   regime and was somehow in a position to make trouble. The fact
   that he eluded arrest and fled fairly well bears this idea out." He
   narrowed his eyes. "Your interrogation revealed that his action
   was not a complete surprise to you."
   "Well, no Tigery ever took kindly to bein' caged. And I
   sympathize!"
   "What is your attitude toward the succession crisis?"
   Diana picked her words with care. "The quizzin' must've brought
   that up. But prob'ly not very clearly, because it's not very clear to
   me. Maybe Magnusson would do better by the Empire. I'm just a
   woods colt; I don't savvy politics." Her head and her voice lifted.
   "I am horrified at the prospect of civil war, and I'll be damned if I'll
   stand in a crowd shoutin' hooraw for anybody!"
   Gatto smiled. "I like your outspokeness. Better curb it in public …
   Well, you and Axor will be free to go as soon as I've issued the
   order. I'll also give you two a requisition on the first available
   passage back to Imhotep, though you may have to wait a while
   for that. Keep in touch with the provost's office, and you'll be
   notified."
   She shook her head. "Thanks. But we came here to look for
   Foredweller remains, and I don't want to let Axor down."
   "Ha, I suspect mainly you want an adventure. Have a care. Air
   traffic is strictly limited and controlled. Ground transportation is
   apt to be slow and precarious." His tone harshened. "If you are
   hoping to make contact with the renegade, out of some mistaken
   sense of loyalty to him, forget it. If it should happen, call the
   patrol immediately. Anything else will be treason, and punished
   accordingly."
   Diana sighed. "I don't see how poor Targovi could manage that."
   "No, the chances are that he is already dead. Else he would have
   been seen by now. I'm sorry, donna Crowfeather. I realize you
   were fond of him. Bear in mind how he hoodwinked and used
   you."
   She made a faint noise and started to rise. "Well, I'll be on my
   way."
   "No, wait. I feel a certain responsibility. You're a young and
   attractive lady, unused to cosmopolitan environments. And much
   of Daedalus is becoming unruly. With most Navy personnel off to
   fight for his Majesty, the patrols are stretched thin. We have to
   concentrate on guarding vital areas. You propose to take off for
   the yonderlands. I think that would be most unwise."
   Diana settled back. "Why? Don't the folk support your glorious
   leader?"
   Gatto frowned. "I'm thinking about ordinary civil disorder and
   crime. Any counterrevolutionary activity will be smashed,
   promptly and totally."
   "You really have given him your heart, haven't you?" she asked
   low.
   He reddened and ignited a fresh cigarette. "Donna, I am an
   officer of the Imperial Navy. As such, I follow the orders of my
   superiors. But my allegiance is to the Empire itself, to the
   civilization that is ours. I do sincerely believe Sir Olaf will provide
   the kind of government we've been sorely in need of."
   "Whether it's worth the price, you aren't say in'."
   "It is not my business to express political opinions." Gatto made
   a chopping gesture. "Enough." He smiled. "What I want to talk
   about a few minutes longer is you. I am concerned. Targovi's
   ship and planetside vehicle are impounded. You and Axor will
   only be allowed to reclaim money and personal possessions
   from them. The inventory says that the cash isn't much. It can
   support the two of you for a while, but the Wodenite's food
   requirements are large, and any travel you undertake will soon
   exhaust the purse. Do give up your folly. I'll see to it that you both
   get safe, pleasant housing till you can return to Imhotep. And you
   might enjoy sightseeing with a, ah, a native guide, when I have
   some spare time."
   "Thank you, sir. I've promises to keep, though. Don't worry about
   my safety, when I'm with Axor. Actually, he wouldn't swat a
   buzzbug, but people needn't know that, hm?"
   Despite impatience to be off, she invested half an hour in being
   charming to the general.
Chapter 8
   The faces of war are two.
   First there is its face of technology, organization, strategy,
   tactics, and, yes, philosophy. This confronted Admiral Sir Olaf
   Magnusson, the man who would be Emperor, and the higher
   officers serving him.
   His fleet was not all gathered at Patricius. While he had
   summoned more of it there than was usual, more yet was
   perforce based throughout the sector—working out of much
   smaller stations than Daedalus and Icarus held—or on sentry-go
   through its spacelanes. Some commanders of these units, he
   knew, would rally to him when they got the news. Others, left to
   their own devices, would not. He must make sure of as many as
   possible.
   Hence his primary force moved ahead of any dispatches to
   them, in a complex path which took it within communication
   distance of most squadrons. Arriving, he would make his
   proclamation and issue his orders to join him. Since in each
   instance he had overwhelming firepower at his beck, and since
   he was the sector commandant, he met no resistance. A number
   of the captains he summarily replaced, for over the years he had
   taken care to gather dossiers; but these he merely sent to cool
   their heels, in no disgrace. After thinking matters over, quite likely
   a fair percentage of them would give him their pledges.
   Inevitably, couriers and message torps slipped by, bringing their
   accounts before he did. About half the units receiving these
   stayed where they were, waiting for him, if only because their
   leaders were unsure what else to do. The rest started off to join
   Gerhart. Not every ship got that far. Some underwent mutinies
   and turned back to Magnusson. Many men, women, and
   nonhumans adulated him.
   The second face of war is different for every individual. Consider
   Ensign Helen Kittredge. We pick her name at random out of
   personnel data. These say little more about her than that she was
   twenty Terran years of age, born and raised amidst the
   starknesses of the planet Vixen, winning appointment to the
   Foundry, doing well as a cadet, newly commissioned and
   assigned to energy weapons control aboard the light battleship
   Zeta Sagitarii. That ship was in the detachment of Captain Fatima
   bint Suleiman, operating out of an asteroid belt in the lifeless
   system of a nameless sun. Bint Suleiman was among those who
   voluntarily sought out Magnusson. We may assume that
   Kittredge was of high heart and cheered the move. Besides
   idealism, she must have remembered that promotions were
   bound to become rapid.
   Except for Patricius and a few other key stars, Magnusson made
   no effort to leave his sector defended. Instead he took the
   initiative, spearing straight on into the inner Empire. One might
   suppose that this invited the opposition to cut his lines of supply
   and communication. Actually, interstellar space is too
   incomprehensibly vast. Traffic need just move by slightly
   circuitous routes, varied from trip to trip, to be safe from
   detection and interception by any except the wildest unlikelihood.
   Nor did Magnusson keep his fleet together for long. Grown large,
   it was still smaller by a seemingly appalling factor than the might
   which the Imperium could have massed against him.
   Nevertheless he divided it in five. Four, under trusted admirals,
   swung north and south and clockwise and counterclockwise,
   essentially running interference for him. The main part, himself in
   charge, drove directly toward Sector Aldebaran. Zeta Sagittarii
   was along, trailing his flagship, the superdreadnaught N. Aquilae.
   This likewise represented sound thinking. The fact was that the
   Imperium could not bring more than a fraction of its forces to
   bear. The rest must keep stations whatever happened, lest
   barbarians, bandits, and separate insurrections wreak such havoc
   that nothing would remain to rule over. There was also dread of
   what the Merseians might do. Furthermore, it is virtually
   impossible to compel battle in space. He who does not want to
   fight can run away. Beyond a light-year's distance, his hyperdrive
   vibrations are undetectable.
   Hence Magnusson could apply great strength wherever he
   chose, at least in the outer sectors of the Empire. The regions
   around Sol, more populous and heavily guarded, he must avoid
   until he had organized sufficient power to invade them. He set
   about doing this.
   It might appear he was overextending himself, and that if nothing
   else, the Gerhart faction could destroy him by attrition. He had
   reasons to expect that his advance would be too swift and
   decisive for that. However, he did go through the initial stages of
   his campaign in a straightforward manner.
   Superficially, the procedure was simple. The five insurgent fleets
   went to planetary systems which were important because of
   location, population, industries, resources, or whatever the
   consideration might be. Each fleet swept aside any garrison
   vessels, which it always outnumbered and outgunned.
   Thereupon a world lay under threat of nuclear bombardment from
   on high. Even it it had ground defenses, the cost of using them
   looked prohibitive. Besides … well, did it matter that much who
   was Emperor? What had Gerhart done that beings, cities,
   continents should die for him? The martial law which
   Magnusson's people imposed scarcely touched civilians in their
   daily lives. They themselves promised glory and better times.
   Oftener than not, they were born on the planet in question, quietly
   recruited in advance.
   Discipline was strict among the Olafists. Incorrect behavior
   brought punishment quick, condign, and public. This helped
   ingratiate them with local inhabitants. Moreover, they were apt to
   be young, friendly, eager, with stories to tell that put sparkle into
   dull provincial existences.
   We can imagine Ensign Helen Kittredge on leave—let us say, on
   Ansa, which is like an idyll of Terra. Moonlight in a warm night
   shimmers across a lake; music sounds from a pavilion, but she
   and a young man of the planet have left its dance floor and
   wandered out along the water, under trees which breathe
   fragrance into the air. Earlier she lectured him earnestly on the
   new day that Emperor Olaf will bring, but now she has been
   swaying laughterful in his arms, and they sit down on soft turf, and
   perhaps she says yes, when the war is over she will take a long
   liberty here, but that time may be far off and meanwhile the night
   is theirs …
   Leaves were brief, because a fleet must go on to the next sun
   and the next. One may ask why the Gerhartists did not come in
   as soon as their foes had left and reclaim every conquest. The
   answer is multiplex. Such attempts would have been expensive,
   both to the Navy and to the worlds: for the Olafist detachments
   occupying them, though small, were busily enhancing defenses,
   and sure to fight while hope remained. Then too, the Imperium
   was in disarray, taken by surprise, its high command striving to
   make sense out of reports that came in late and garbled. Also,
   the idea was quite sensible that recapturing a few globes would
   be of scant use while Magnusson's wolf packs were on the prowl.
   Better to kill those first. Then the rebels left behind would have
   no choice but to surrender, especially if amnesty was offered
   their rank and file.
   Therefore, slowly, often chaotically, the regular Navy marshalled
   what forces it could spare and went in search of combat.
   The first major engagement occurred near a dim red dwarf star
   which had, then, merely a catalogue number, but which afterward
   was known to spacefarers as Battle Sun. Scout-craft on both
   sides had been casting about, probing, peering, feeding into
   computers whatever scraps of data they could glean, dashing
   back to report. Gradually the pictures emerged, and the masters
   came to their decisions. They would fight.
   Rear Admiral Richard Blenkiron, director of operations for Sector
   Aldebaran, personally led his armada. He was no coward. Terran-
   born, he was, besides, a man of considerable wit and charm.
   Unfortunately, he was not well suited to his position, being a
   political appointee serving out this assignment in preparation for
   something less martial and more lucrative. Nobody had foreseen
   war would reach these parts, as far inward as they lay.
   Magnusson had anticipated that, and bypassed several
   occasions of combat. In two-dimensional terms, it can be said
   that he made an end run. If he could scatter the Aldebaranian
   fleet, hostiles at his back would hardly matter. They could be
   taken care of piecemeal. Meanwhile terror on Terra would be his
   ally. Therefore he too went looking for battle.
   "Now hear this," intones the intercom system of Zeta Sagitarii. A
   recording of Sir Olaf's message to his crews follows. He expects
   that all will do their duty, and win a victory never to be forgotten.
   Surely Ensign Kittredge joins in the customary cheers.
   Thereafter, coolly above a hammering heart, she takes her
   station.
   Since both leaders wanted to meet, they advertised themselves
   on the way, traveling in dispersed formation to maximize the
   sphere of detectability. Upon making contact, they deployed
   according to their respective plans. The gap closed rapidly.
   Interstellar war bears no more resemblance to interplanetary than
   the latter does to planetside combat. Shuttling in and out of
   quantum multi-space at thousands or even millions of times a
   second, a ship under hyperdrive is essentially untouchable by an
   ordinary weapon. A concentrated energy beam or material
   barrage just might happen to intercept often enough to do
   significant damage, but the odds against that are huge, and in
   any event a warcraft has her protections, armor plate, absorbers,
   computer-controlled negafields to repel incoming matter. Only
   when the drives of two vessels are in phase do they become
   solid, vulnerable, to each other.
   It is not extraordinarily difficult to match phase. There is a limited
   range of jump frequencies that are feasible to use, for any given
   type of ship; and they are not infinitely divisible, but quantized. Of
   course, a standard evasive tactic is to keep shifting the
   frequency. This requires the enemy to predict the next one. In
   that, high-speed stochastic analysis is valuable though not
   infallible.
   Since the object is to harm the adversary, phase-change evasion
   is merely one maneuver among many. Indeed, not uncommonly,
   by eerie tacit consent, ships turn off their hyper-drives and slug it
   out in the relativistic mode, at speeds far below that of light.
   When near enough, Blenkiron used quasi-instantaneous
   modulated hyperwaves to call Magnusson and demand
   surrender. The reply he got was polite and cold. The exchange
   had been a formality thoughout.
   The fleets interpenetrated and began to fight. Rays and missiles
   flew. Nuclear detonations flowered in ghastly brief beauty. Where
   they connected, metal and flesh became incandescent gas. It
   whiffed away into space. Billions of years hence, some of it may
   minutely take part in the formation of new stars.
   The old stars enclose everything in radiance. The Milky Way
   glows phantom-bright. Nebulae and sister galaxies glimmer
   mysterious. Glimpses go by, ships hurtling, graceful as dancers.
   None of this does Ensign Kittredge see. Her universe has shrunk
   to steel, meters, readouts, manual controls, brief commands
   from unseen lips. A reek of ozone is in the air. Once or twice the
   hull shudders to a distant burst.
   N. Aquilae moved majestic at the center of Magnusson's
   command. Her planetoidal size, and the hundreds of live crewfolk
   as well as thousands of machines that this required, these were
   not basically for offensive purposes—although she did have the
   capability of laying waste a world. They were to provide such a
   host of defensive missiles, projectiles, rays, such a density of
   shielding fields, that the admiral and his staff would remain alive
   to make their assessments and give their orders.
   Zeta Sagitarii was much less protected. She existed for the
   purpose of directly killing enemies.
   The saying is ancient, that the first casualty of any battle is your
   own battle plan. Magnusson knew this and allowed for it. He had
   a general idea of what he hoped to do, but was flexible about it
   and permitted his captains broad discretion.
   Blenkiron, on the other hand, could think of nothing but to hold his
   armada in standard configuration, as nearly as possible. That did
   maximize the mutual defense of his ships. When they had
   reduced the foe sufficiently, the formation was to open up,
   englobe the survivors, and deal death on them from every
   quarter. Such was the theory.
   Magnusson had lured him to this exact place, and prepared it
   beforehand. Ships of his lay in orbit about Battle Sun, in normal
   state, dark, powerplants throttled down to life-support
   minimum—virtually undetectable. The fleet that flaunted itself
   looked inferior. Blenkiron's should have checked for hidden
   reserves, but found itself too busy; also, Battle Sun is
   surrounded by dust and gas, residue of a stillborn planetary
   system, which complicates surveyance. When Magnusson
   judged the moment ripe, he ordered the summons.
   Abruptly his extra force went into hyper-drive—risky, that close to
   a stellar mass, but their engines were especially well tuned, so
   losses were light—and entered the fray. They did so from all
   directions, admittedly sparse but nonetheless pouring fire inward
   while Magnusson's main body drove straight through the
   opposed formation, loosing every demonic energy in its
   weapons.
   Zeta Sagitarii has been part of this thrust. She takes a hit astern.
   It is, actually, a near miss, which does not vaporize her; but it
   wrecks the engine section and sends radiation and red-hot
   chunks of metal sleeting everywhere else. Or so we postulate.
   What we know is simply that she was lost.
   Blenkiron panicked. He did not fall into gibbering idiocy, but he
   saw his fleet shattered and knew not what to do. The captain of
   the flagship, one Tetsuo Ogawa, became a hero by calmly
   "advising" him. By fits and starts, the Terrans broke off the
   engagement. For the most part they withdrew in good order. The
   majority escaped.
   They were, however, in no condition to continue the fight.
   Magnusson had become free to lay his hand on all of Sector
   Aldebaran.
   Zeta Sagitarii drifts off, sublight, a cold and twisted lump. In
   some intact compartments, capacitors maintain temperature and
   air renewal. It is not enough. Rescue craft, searching through the
   flotsam of battle, will not come within detection range of this
   hulk—as enormous as the least of reaches is between the
   stars—before their squadrons must proceed onward. Surviving
   crew will die of thirst, those who do not go in blood and vomit, of
   acute radiation poisoning.
   We would like to imagine Ensign Kittredge is spared that.
   Suppose her turret split open under the blast. Exposed to the
   vacuum of space, she would lose consciousness within thirty
   seconds. A piece of metal shearing through her heart or her skull
   would be quicker still.
   Admiral Sir Olaf Magnusson's victory became classic in the
   annals of warfare.
Chapter 9
   Diana's visitor surprised her. She had met Cynthians before, as
   ubiquitous as their species was, but not often, and never this
   person. For a moment she and he exchanged appraising looks.
   It was a male, she saw. If he had been wearing much more than
   a pouch and his silky white fur, she could not have been sure; the
   secondary sexual characteristics were few. Bipedal, though with
   arms nearly as long as his legs, he stood about ninety
   centimeters tall. Toes and the six fingers on either hand were
   almost equally prehensile. A bushy tail lifted up behind the round
   head and its pointed ears. Blunt-muzzled and long-whiskered, the
   face sported a natural blue-gray mask around luminous emerald-
   hued eyes. His voice was high-pitched, its Anglic clear though
   apt to come trilling and hissing through the pointed teeth.
   "You are milady Crowfeather?" he said. "Permit self-introduction.
   I hight Shan U of Lulach. Is your Wodenite companion present?"
   "No," she replied. "I don't know when he'll be back. What can I do
   for you?"
   "Perhaps it is I who can do you a favor, milady. I have heard your
   partnership is in search of Ancient relics."
   Diana decided this was understandable. She was merely one
   more human, but Axor inevitably generated gossip. "Well, yes.
   So far we've drawn blank. The public database screened no thin'
   for us that looked the least bit promisin'. He went off today to talk
   with the local priest of his church, in case the padre had heard of
   anything. I gather the parish takes in a big territory." She smiled
   wryly. "No doubt the two of them'll go on to every sort of
   theological shop talk."
   "You cannot expect to find much information recorded about a
   planet when most of its land is wilderness that does not sustain
   colonists," declared Shan U. "Prospectors, timber cruisers, and
   other nonscientific explorers have scant incentive to go to the
   trouble of preparing scientific reports. The geographical
   separation of communities hinders the dissemination of locally
   available information." He arched his tail. "Ah, but it may be that I
   can put you in the way of some clues."
   The heart sprang in Diana's breast. "You can? What? How?"
   "Peace, I pray you. I am not, myself, qualified to be your guide. I
   am the captain of a riverboat. It will shortly be departing for
   Lulach. Now plying the great stream, year after year, one is
   bound to hear many a tale, and I recollect mentions, now and
   then, of impressive ruins glimpsed. Rumors about you and,
   especially, your companion having trickled as far as the
   waterfront, I thought I should come urge you to seek farther for
   informants."
   "Oh? Where?"
   "Why, along the river itself. Lulach alone holds many a merchant
   who has traveled widely over this planet, many a searcher for
   natural wealth who has adventured deep into the wildernesses.
   And beyond Lulach—Well, at any rate, I can convey you that far,
   and back again afterward if you discover zero there and decide
   not to range more widely. Would you like to inspect my vessel?"
   "Where is it?"
   "In the valley, at Paz de la Frontera, the head of navigation."
   Diana's consideration was brief. If nothing else, she was sick of
   the cheap hotel where she and Axor had taken lodgings. At first
   she had enjoyed wandering around Aurea, seeing what there was
   to see and, as opportunity offered, asking about inexplicable
   structures. Now she had used those activities up, and had been
   sitting boredly in her room watching a teleplay. The latter end of
   this past couple of weeks had become wearisome.
   In fact, she had begun regretting her refusal of Gatto's offer. Her
   immediate reason for that had been the fact that here she and
   Axor were on Daedalus; once they left it, they would probably not
   be able to return for a long time, if ever. Why not stay and
   investigate as originally planned? She was confident that the
   commandant would still be willing to arrange berths, if Daedalus
   turned out to be a blind alley—though while she waited for a ship,
   she might have trouble fending him off. The past several days
   had almost brought her to the point of thus swallowing her pride
   and making her appeal. What a waste of time, when there was
   that unfinished expedition on Imhotep to start all over again!
   Her second reason for staying had, as Gatto guessed, been the
   desire, against every reasonable hope, to learn what had
   become of Targovi. As the initial exuberance of freedom
   damped down, she had more and more felt anger and grief on
   his behalf gnaw at her. Here was a chance to forget them for a
   while, and maybe even accomplish something.
   "Sure," she caroled. "Just a minute."
   Having recorded a message for Axor, she skinned out of her
   clothes and into brief shorts and skimpy blouse. The lowlands
   were hot in summer. To her belt she attached purse and knife.
   She kicked her bare feet into sandals. "Let's go, Joe."
   Air traffic was under pettifogging emergency restrictions, but a
   train system, built in pioneer days, still ran, and a station lay near
   the hotel. As the car they had boarded whirred up off the ground
   and started downhill above the guide cable, Diana and Shan U
   settled into a seat. She took the window side and kept her gaze
   outward, upon the landscape. Unoffended, he stuffed a pipe with
   dried leaves that smelled like warm saddle leather when he lit
   them, and conversed.
   "The Highroad River has always been a main artery of travel," he
   said in answer to a remark of hers. "It should become still more
   so in the present situation. Roads between the settlements along
   it range from wretched to nonexistent, and as for flight, why, now
   the very omnibuses are subject to endless, arbitrary inspections,
   delays, and other such nuisances. Boats remain free of this.
   Should you find that you do wish to go to Lulach, my
   Waterblossom is no speedster, I grant you, but the fare is
   modest, accommodations are comfortable, food is good, and
   the leisured pace will enable you to learn much about our planet
   en route—which is highly advisable if you would strike into its
   outback. You will also find yourselves in entertaining company.
   This trip it includes a live, traveling show."
   "What?" asked Diana absently. She was watching the mountains
   fall away in ridges and steeps that became jungled hills. Clouds
   loomed ahead, brooding rain; lightning flickered in their depths.
   The wind of its speed shrilled faintly into the ancient car.
   "Another Cynthian, albeit from Catawrayannis rather than the
   mother world. She brought her tricks, together with a performing
   beast, to earn her keep while she toured Daedalus, as she had
   been doing elsewhere. Such restless individuals are frequent in
   my race."
   Wistfulness tugged at Diana. Maybe she could work up an act of
   her own and take it to the stars?
   "Then, abruptly, space traffic, which had been well-nigh
   unrestricted, was well-nigh banned in and out of Daedalus," Shan
   U continued. "Poor Wo Lia found herself marooned in Aurea,
   while events held folk cemented to the newscasts, who might
   otherwise have come to see her performance. For a while she
   tried, but was near despair when I chanced to enter Ju Shao's
   inn, where she was staying."
   Diana's attention revived. Ju Shao—hadn't she heard that name
   before? From Targovi? Memory was vague. "What's that?"
   "O-ai, a place in the slum quarter, with a miscellaneous clientele,
   since it is both cheap and tolerant. I suggested to Wo Lia that
   she invest what remained of her funds in passage with me.
   People at our ports of call will doubtless be glad to see her
   show, and in Lulach, amidst her own species, she can find work
   of some kind to tide her over."
   Diana hoped the skipper was not merely a glib salesbeing. Well,
   she'd inquire among his crew, and if the word was good—a
   riverboat trip should be all kinds of fun.
   The train terminated at Central Station in Paz de la Frontera. That
   was some distance from the river. Diana started walking, under
   the guidance of Shan U, who skipped along with the gait of an
   arboreal. Meanwhile she looked around in wonderment.
   The air was a steam bath, full of odors rank, smoky, sweet,
   indescribable. An overcast hung low, but as yet the rain was only
   an occasional heavy, spattering drop. For a space she threaded
   through a crowd between drab walls, but then suddenly she was
   out in the open. Bushes and thorny trees grew well apart across
   dusty ground. At a distance she spied farmland, food animals
   grazing on Terran grasses, grainfields a-ripple under a sullen
   wind. Closer at hand, on every side, were the clusters of
   habitation. Each group of houses, shops, public buildings had its
   distinctive style—here façades square and featureless,
   surrounding hidden courtyards; there domes and spires; yonder
   broad expanses of vitryl in metal frames; and on and on. None
   amounted to more than a few score units, most were less.
   Spaces between them varied from a roadway to some two
   hundred meters, but were always clearly that: boundaries,
   buffers. Traffic was sparse, mainly closed-up groundcars whose
   riders gave pedestrians wary glances. Children romped outside
   the settlements, always in distinct clutches. A band of men, in
   everyday subtropical garb but distinguished by scarlet brassards,
   tramped around a wooden stockade. Though they bore no
   firearms, simply knives and staves, they were plainly a kind of
   militia.
   "Events, the upheaval, the uncertainty of everything, have made
   Paz tense," Shan U observed. "Riots have happened. I will be
   glad to depart."
   Diana nodded. She knew the history of the area, in outline. It had
   been founded in early Imperial times as a colony of veterans who
   wished to stay on Daedalus with their families after discharge.
   Each household received help in establishing itself, especially in
   converting its grant of land to agricultural usefulness. The
   practice had continued to this day.
   The trouble was, and worsened decade by decade, that the
   Empire recruited its defenders from an ever more motley set of
   human societies on Terra's daughter and granddaughter planets.
   Like tended to settle down with like, and not to get along very well
   with unlike. The situation might have been happier, given more
   openings to the outside; but Daedalus, afar in a frontier region,
   was relatively isolated. Rivalries festered. Nonhumans had long
   since abandoned any thought of living in Paz.
   She remembered her mother quoting a quip of her father's: "The
   Terran Empire is a huge melting pot. However, what appears to
   be melting is the pot."
   After passing through a couple of hamlets where life seemed to
   go on about as usual, the road entered one whose walls were
   mortared stone underneath tile roofs. Nobody else was in sight.
   Doors stood barred, windows curtained or shuttered. Silence
   closed in, save for muttering thunder and the spat of raindrops on
   pavement. Shan U glanced around uneasily. "Best we make
   haste," he counselled. "This section has suffered an outbreak of
   lawlessness, and peaceable people have withdrawn till the Navy
   can send a patrol."
   Four men came out of a lane and deployed across the way. They
   were dirty, unkempt, sour-smelling; beard stubble showed that
   two had not used any inhibitor for some time. One kept a pistol
   tucked under his belt, one flourished a club, one carried a knife,
   while a bola danced in the hands of the fourth.
   "Well, well," said the first. "Well, well, well. Just stop where you
   are, if you please."
   Shan U crouched, mewed, bottled his tail.
   Chill crawled along Diana's spine. "What do you want?" she
   demanded.
   "Oh, nothing bad, nothing bad." They slouched and sidled
   forward. "Welcome to our fair com-mu-nity, little lady. How'd you
   like a good time?"
   "Kindly let us by."
   "Now, now, don't be in such a rush." The pistoleer stroked the
   butt of his weapon. His free thumb he jerked at the bola man,
   who grinned and sent a ball whistling through the air. "Easy, take
   it easy. Just a friendly warning. You make a rush to get away, and
   Chelo here, why, Chelo hasn't had any live target to practice on
   for days. That thing could break your ankle, lady. All we want to
   do is show you a real good time, and maybe have a little fun with
   the monkey-cat. Come along, now."
   Diana lunged. Her knife flew forth. It was Tigery steel, the back
   heavy and rasp-surfaced, the edge sharp enough to cut a floating
   hair. Suddenly the shirtfront of the pistoleer gushed red. He
   howled. She pushed him against the clubber. They fell together.
   She stepped on the Adam's apple of the clubber, and heard it
   crack, in the course of attacking the knifeman. He slashed at her
   not unskillfully, but she parried, gave him the rasp across his
   face, and opened his fighting arm on the inside from elbow to
   wrist, after which he lost interest in anything but trying to stanch
   the blood. At this range the bola artist could not exercise his craft
   well. She severed the cord of a ball that snapped toward her,
   swayed back out of the way of the rest, and chased him several
   meters before letting him escape.
   "C'mon," she said through the ululations at her feet, "let's get out
   of here 'fore the cops arrive."
   "Hee-yao!" gasped Shan U as they made off. "I thought I knew
   about handling trouble, but you—"
   "Oh, I don't go lookin' for fights," Diana said. "In fact, I hate them.
   I'd've tried to talk or bluff us past those klongs peacefully. But
   they weren't listenin'. Well, I grew up amongst Tigeries on
   Imhotep, and when they see danger clear before them, they
   don't shilly-shally."
   Targovi, I learned from you. Pain smote her. What has your fate
   been, dear brotherlin?
   "Do you think the, the casualties will live?"
   "I didn't try to do anything fatal, but there wasn't time for finickin',
   was there? Does it matter?"
   Beneath the coolness she felt a dull but strengthening shock.
   She hadn't done anything like this before—not really—though
   Targovi had put her through lots of practice; and she had been
   around when a couple of Tigery brawls got bloody; and she had,
   herself, perforce been physically pretty emphatic three or four
   times when human males got the wrong idea and couldn't be
   persuaded out of it otherwise. I'll prob'ly have the shakes for a
   while, once the adrenalin wears off. But not for long, I hope. I
   mustn't let what I've been through, what I've seen, prey on my
   mind. Nothin' was done here except justice. The war, now, the
   war is different, people killin people they've got no grudge
   against and have never even met. Though some wars in history
   have been the lesser evil, haven't they?
   I don't know, she thought in rising weariness. I simply don't know.
   How good it'll be, floatin quietly down the river with Axor, if that
   works out.
   She lost track of time and was a bit startled when they came to
   the waterfront. Warehouses bulked behind wharfs where a
   medley of craft lay tied and a hodgepodge of persons, human
   and nonhuman, bustled about. Machines scurried among them.
   Beyond, the stream flowed broad and brown. The opposite
   shore was dimmed by a thickening rain. Shan U registered a
   feline dislike of the wet, but Diana welcomed its warm sluicing.
   She felt cleansed.
   They reached Waterblossom. The riverboat was easily a
   hundred meters long, though so wide that that was not
   immediately evident. Four loading towers and a couple of three-
   tiered deckhouses did not much clutter her. The low freeboard
   was garishly painted in stripes of red and gold; the topworks
   were white, brass-trimmed. Her captain had said she was made
   of Terran and Cynthian woods, which Daedalan organisms did
   not attack, and driven by an electric engine. Should he be unable
   to recharge its capacitors otherwise, he carried a steam
   generator which could burn nearly anything.
   Half a dozen Cynthians and two humans were on deck, cheerily
   helping wheel a cage toward shelter from the rain. "Ay-ah, behold
   Wo Lia, the performer." Shan U pointed. "Come aboard and
   meet her. We can all have a nice cup of alefruit cider."
   Diana frowned. She hated the idea of confining any creature. Still,
   yon beast didn't seem mistreated. More or less mansize, it
   hunkered on four limbs, black-furred, its head obscured by a
   heavy mane. She spied a short tail, and the forepaws had an
   odd, doubled-up look about them. Well, who could possibly know
   all the life forms, all the wonders of every kind, that filled the
   Imperial planets, let alone the galaxy and the universe? To fare
   forth—!
   Shan U led her over the gangplank. She passed near the cage.
   "Hs-s-s, little friend," went a whisper. Coming from low in the
   lungs, it sounded like an animal noise to anybody who did not
   know the Toborko language. "Stay calm. We will talk later. Make
   sure you and your camarado take passage on this boat."
   Barely, Diana reined herself in. The humans doubtless noticed
   how she tensed before relaxing, but could put that down to the
   exotic surroundings. The Cynthians doubtless paid no heed to
   her shifts in stance or expression.
   She forced herself to look afar, out again across the river.
   Underneath tangled strands of mane, the face in the cage was
   Targovi's.
Chapter 10
   Waterblossom set forth after the thunderstorm that had been
   brewing reached explosion point and then spent itself. Sweeping
   the length of the valley with that swiftness and violence which the
   rapid rotation of the planet engendered, it turned the air
   altogether clear. From her place in the bows, Diana looked
   westward across a thousand kilometers or more.
   This was the first tranquil moment she had had in hours. The time
   had been frantic during which she made her way back to Aurea,
   located Axor, persuaded him—not easily, because her
   arguments were thin at best, and her excitement didn't reinforce
   them—to come along, got their baggage packed, returned
   through lightning-vivid cataracts of rain, settled into her tiny
   stateroom and improvised accommodations for the Wodenite
   down in the hold with the freight. Dinner had been served while
   the weather slacked off. Now the crew had cast loose and the
   boat was on her way.
   Diana couldn't hear the engine, but its purr went as a subliminal
   quiver through her bare feet, and she did catch a faint gurgle
   from aft, the turbo drive at work. Speed was low, as ponderous
   and heavily laden as the hull was. At first traffic teemed,
   everything from row-boats to hydrofoils, but as Paz fell behind,
   the river rolled open, a brown stretch two kilometers wide from
   bank to forested bank, rippling around snags and sandbars, only
   a couple of barges and a timber raft under tow in the distance
   ahead. Quiet descended, and a measure of coolness. Flying
   creatures darted and skimmed, light amber on their wings.
   Never before had Diana seen so far over the horizonless world.
   Ahead of her, the river and its valley went on. As that view grew
   ever more remote, they dwindled, shrank together, became at
   last a shining thread between burnished green darknesses; yet
   still she could see them. Whenever an opening appeared in the
   woods brooding on either side of her, she likewise looked across
   immensity. Left, the green lightened as forest gave way to prairie
   that eventually blurred off in haziness. Right, beyond foothills,
   she glimpsed toylike snow-peaks, the mountain range that
   warded off the glaciers of the Daedalan ice age.
   The sinking sun kindled a sudden gleam far and far ahead. Why,
   that must be the ocean! Diana's pulse quickened. Vapors made
   the disc golden-red, softened its glare till she could gaze directly.
   It spread itself out until it was a great step pyramid—and out and
   out, stretching to become arcs of luminance curving north and
   south around what would have been worldedge on another
   planet.
   There was no real night. Day slowly turned into a glimmering
   dusk, shadowless, starless apart from brilliant Imhotep and a few
   scattered points high overhead. She could easily have read by
   the light, though the range of vision contracted until everything
   beyond three or four kilometers—except Paz and Aurea behind
   her, a couple of villages before her, aglow—faded vaguely into
   dimness. Gradually sunshine became a complete ring. It was
   broadest and brightest in the direction of Patricius, a little wider
   than the disc by day. There it shone orange in hue, with a muted
   fierceness of white underneath. It narrowed and reddened as it
   swept away, until when it had closed itself opposite—some while
   after it had begun to form—it was a fiery streak. The sky near the
   ring went from pale blue sunside to purple darkside, shading
   toward violet at the zenith; below, the ring enclosed a darkness
   which was the planetary bulk.
   Presently the moon Icarus rose in a confusion of silver which
   coalesced to a half shield as it climbed.
   The forests ashore were full of shadow, but the river sheened
   like mercury on its murmurous course.
   Diana did not reckon up how long she stood rapt, watching the
   hours unfold. When the deck shivered beneath hoofs, and a
   bone-deep basso rumbled forth, she came back to herself with a
   shock like falling off a cliff.
   "Ah, a beautiful, incredible sight indeed," said Axor. "What an
   artist the Creator is. This experience might almost justify our
   making the journey we are on."
   Misgiving pierced Diana. "Almost?"
   "Why, I fear ours is a bootless expedition. I have been in the
   saloon, speaking with person after person, crew and
   passengers, including the two humans. None can attest to any
   objects that might be Foredweller remains. One did bespeak
   large ruins under the northern mountains, but another, who had
   actually been there, said they are remnants of a Terran mining
   operation, abandoned centuries ago when the ore gave out." A
   sigh boomed. "We should have stayed on Imhotep and
   completed our investigation as planned. Now we are confined on
   Daedalus for an indefinite time and … I am no longer young."
   Guilt took her, however lightly, by the throat. "I'm sorry."
   Axor lifted a hand. "Oh, no, no, dear friend. I do not blame you in
   the least. You urged upon me what seemed best to you in
   your—your impetuosity. Nor do I pity myself. That is the most
   despicable of emotions. I should not have let you rush me into
   taking this passage. My mistake, not yours. And we are seeing
   wonders along the way."
   Diana braced herself. "We may even find what you're after," she
   said, as stoutly as possible. "These are just regular river travelers
   aboard with us, and, uh, one outworlder. In Lulach we'll find
   people who get around more on this planet." She hesitated. "A
   Zacharian, maybe. That island is mysterious. You've talked to me
   about how the Ancient relics on Aeneas have influenced the
   whole culture of the settlers. Could something like that be on
   Zacharia?"
   "Well, we may hope." A bit of cheer lifted in Axor's tones. " 'And
   now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest
   of these is charity,' " he quoted. "Yet hope is no mean member
   of the triad."
   Again she hated what she was doing to him, and wondered
   whether the need could ever justify it. She knew so little thus far.
   She had in fact, she realized, acted on faith—faith in
   Targovi—with hope for adventure and accomplishment, but damn
   small charity.
   She squared her shoulders. Maybe some Daedalan place really
   did hold something for her old pilgrim.
   Axor stretched luxuriously, an alarming sight if you didn't know
   him. "I thinking, before going to bed, I would like a swim," he
   said. "Do you care to come along? I can easily catch up with the
   boat when we are finished, and carry you with me."
   For a moment Diana was tempted. To frolic in yonder mightily
   sliding current—But she had no bathing suit, and didn't want to
   risk the men aboard seeing her nude. They appeared decent
   enough, in a rough-hewn fashion. However, after the incident in
   Paz, she'd rather not give anybody the wrong impression.
   More important, she suddenly and sharply realized, here was her
   chance to talk to Targovi. "No, thanks," she said in a haste that
   drew a quizzical glance. "I'm tired and, uh, I want to watch this
   spectacle more. Go ahead. Have fun."
   The Wodenite undulated over the rail. It was astonishing how
   gracefully he could move when he chose. He entered the water
   with scarcely a splash. Suffused light shimmered off his scales
   and spinal sierra. His tail drove him cleanly away.
   Diana glanced aft. A Cynthian lookout perched atop the bridge,
   within which the pilot was occupied. Neither was paying her any
   attention, nor would they overhear low-voiced conversation.
   Everybody else had gone below; most of them were used to the
   magical ring, as she was not. She pattered over the planks.
   Behind the after deckhouse, an awning had been stretched to
   shelter the cage which held Wo Lia's performing beast. It cast a
   degree of darkness over Targovi. She saw him as a shadowy
   figure rhythmically astir—exercises, to keep in condition while
   imprisoned. She hunkered down.
   His catlike eyes knew her instantly. "Aaah, s-s-s, at last," he
   breathed, and crouched to face her. "How goes it, sprite?"
   "Oh, I'm all right, but awful puzzled, and poor Axor's terribly
   discouraged," she blurted. "What's goin' on, anyway?"
   He changed his language to Toborko, in a monotone which lost
   many nuances of that most musical tongue, but which would
   seem to a casual passerby as if the animal were crooning some
   weird song while the human, curious, listened.
   "Well deserve you what explanation I can give, O valiant child, the
   more so when I shall belike call upon you to render services and
   take hazards such as neither of us can foresee. Vast are the
   stakes in this game, but the rules poorly known and capriciously
   changeable.
   "You understand I have not been entirely a huckster but also an
   agent covert of Imperial Intelligence. My part was mainly to pass
   on to my superiors whatever I came across that seemed of
   possible interest, on this world near the Merseian marches and
   visited by beings of countless kinds. Yet did I help uncover one
   espionage undertaking, and found leads to others.
   "Nevertheless, when I scented something truly enormous upon
   the wind, not only did my warnings go unheeded, I was forbidden
   to utter them or to continue in my search. More of that later, when
   we can talk freely and at length. Enough tonight that I have cause
   to believe Magnusson's revolt is not simply another uprising of
   angry men against bad masters. And from Zacharia the forbidden
   come breaths of still more strangeness than erstwhile.
   "Aye, in Axor I saw a movable blind for myself. Attention will be
   upon him, but unlikely ever a suspicion. He can go in his
   harmlessness where most folk are banned, and I, I can
   perchance skulk behind. You, Diana Crow-feather, walk betwixt
   and between. What part you may play is, as yet, hidden in dawn-
   mists. I think you will play it well. You know my Tigery
   nature—sorry would I be to lose you, but sorry am I not for
   putting you at risk. Nor do I suppose you are ireful. You stand to
   win glory, with all that that may bring in its train. However this may
   be, clear was that only through you could I recruit unwitting Axor.
   "Ill was our luck, that the rebellion erupted just as we were
   approaching Daedalus. Else we could have landed and gone our
   ways, disappearing into the hinterlands by virtue of nobody
   thinking to keep watch over us. As was, knowing what standard
   procedures are, I foresaw that my reappearance at the time of
   crisis would automatically provoke precautionary detention if
   naught else. Whereupon the gigantic plot I have smelled would
   roll unhindered onward.
   "Accordingly, I escaped. It seemed likely that you and Axor
   would be released after interrogation, for you did in fact know
   nothing. The question was how to keep myself free when the hue
   and cry was out for me, and how to rejoin you afterward.
   "Therefore did I hide until after I felt sure the patrol would have
   visited Ju Shao's inn in Lowtown, and then sought it. She and I
   are friends of old, and I have in the past done her some favors
   when, hm, the Imperial authorities grew overly officious. You
   understand that an Intelligence agent has need of such
   connections. She tucked me away, kept me fed, and meanwhile
   conducted discreet inquiries.
   "These soon turned up Wo Lia. She is actually an adventurer
   among the stars—aye, from Catawrayannis, albeit a return to her
   birth-world would be inadvisable—mainly a gambler, but not
   above occasional racketeering.
   The ship whereon she arrived had departed again; the interdict
   on civilian space travel left her stranded; uproar, and
   preoccupation with public events, gave her scant opportunity in
   Aurea. Hence she proved quite willing to take the role of
   intinerant showperson. In Lulach she can establish herself, one
   way or another, until the Empire calms down, one way or another.
   Ju Shao helped me disguise myself, and Wo Lia persuaded our
   good captain that, if he sought you out, he could belike sell a
   couple of tickets.
   "Thus are we bound off. Needs must I remain in confinement till
   we reach Lulach. There will I slip free, and folk will feel sympathy
   for Wo Lia, whose performer escaped and may well starve to
   death in an inedible jungle. As for me, I have … business in
   Lulach."
   "Can you trust her?" Diana whispered. "She might turn you in for
   the reward. I s'pose there is one."
   "She, like Ju Shao, expects reward far more substantial, should
   our cause triumph. Why not? Funds ought to be abundantly
   available then, together with openings to the stars."
   "But what is our cause? If you're on the side of Emperor
   Gerhart—why? To head off a civil war? But you can't; it's already
   begun. Mightn't Olaf Magnusson be the better man anyway? And
   what can we possibly do, stuck here on Daedalus, that'd make
   the slightest difference?"
   She had, unthinkingly, used Anglic. "S-s-s-s!" Targovi warned.
   "Abide your time. Later we will talk." He settled back into a beast
   posture, as if falling asleep.
   Diana sensed another presence. Turning her head, she saw that
   a human male had come on deck and was approaching. "Ah, hi,"
   he called. "I thought I'd find you enjoying the view and the fresh
   air. But what's so interesting about the livestock?"
   She rose and walked out from beneath the awning. "Oh, it's a
   kind new to me," she answered. "I don't know what planet it's
   from. Do you?"
   "No. Wo Lia was evasive when I asked. Maybe export of that kind
   is illegal." The man beamed. He was young and rather good-
   looking. "Uh, care for a stroll around the deck? Such a lovely
   night. I'm still wide awake."
   "Well, I am too, sort of." Diana joined him.
   They paced. "We should get better acquainted," he said. "We'll
   be on this boat for a fairish while. I can show you around our
   ports of call, if you want, and Lulach when we get there. My
   pleasure."
   She smiled. "Why, thank you." A flirtation should be fun, if she
   took care to keep it within limits. Besides, she might learn
   something useful.
Chapter 11
   A dozen light-years off, the twin blue giant suns that were Alpha
   Crucis dominated heaven. Even as images in a viewscreen they
   left burning after-images, and it would have been dangerous to
   let an unprotected eye dwell upon them.
   The immediate danger, though, was closer at hand, where the
   Merseian task force clashed with a Terran flotilla that had been
   unfortunate enough to intercept it. Cyntath Gadrol of the Vach
   Ynvory, called Cannonshield, commanding from the dreadnaught
   Ardwyr, had sprung his trap and set to work inflicting maximum
   destruction before the outnumbered Imperials should break off
   and flee. Where missiles burst, new stars bloomed in dreadful
   brief beauty. Where a rosy cloud swelled from one of them,
   rapidly fading away into blackness, a ship and her crew had died.
   The battle raged through a volume trillions of kilometers across.
   Yet it was principally a holding action, cover for the squadron that
   slipped free and made for the real destination at utmost
   pseudovelocity. Qanryf Bryadan Arrowswift, Vach Hallen,
   watched a yellow light-point swell hour by hour, until at the end of
   five it outshone Alpha Crucis and magnification revealed its disc.
   Despite his nickname, well-earned at home, Bryadan could stay
   quiet like that for a span like that: for he was on a hunt. Faint but
   marrow-thrilling, the energies driving the cruiser Tryntaf pulsed
   through him. Air from the ventilators, cold because his home was
   on an arctic shore of the Wilwidh Ocean, bore a likewise half-
   sensed exhilaration in reeks of ozone and oil. Telltales flashed,
   meters quivered, displays danced through his cave of control
   machines. Their operators poised alert, speaking only when
   needful but then softly singing the words, as if in dreams of the
   triumph to come.
   When his ship and her companions pierced the comet cloud,
   Bryadan tapped an intercom button. The face that sprang into the
   small screen was youthful, handsome, the green of the
   complexion slightly yellow because of partial Lafdiguan ancestry.
   It was also startled. "Foreseer!" exclaimed Afal Uroch of the
   Vach Rueth. He slapped hand to breast and tail to boots in
   salute. "At the captain's orders."
   "In the name of his Supremacy the Roidhun," Bryadan
   responded with equal formality. "Are you prepared?"
   "Yes, foreseer. The crew are ready and eager. Does the qanryf
   have some new word for us?"
   "Yea and nay." Bryadan leaned forward. "I want to lay stress upon
   certain details in your orders. Yours will be the most precarious
   part of this entire operation. If you carry it off well, it will be the
   very heartspring."
   Uroch dared grin. "Khraich, they don't call me 'the Lucky' for
   nothing."
   "With due heed to your honor," said Bryadan carefully, "I remind
   you that young, ambitious officers are apt to confuse courage
   and rashness. Your record of exploits has caused you to be
   chosen for your present assignment. Yet those same deeds
   required more dash than wisdom. Not that your judgment was
   ever unsound—in the particular circumstances you encountered.
   These will be different. We are to wield the surgeon's knife rather
   than the sword. In your case, it is especially important to uphold
   the distinction. Exactly what will happen, only the God knows. You
   may find yourself taken by surprise, in desperate straits, and
   tempted to unleash your entire firepower—since you are
   responsible for your crews, and thus for their wives and children.
   Or else you may see the enemy wide open to total destruction. In
   either instance, afal, you will resist the lure. Die if you must,
   together with those who have trusted you; or retreat unsuccessful
   if you must, taking years to live down the scorn of brother officers
   to whom you are forbidden to explain; but confine yourself to the
   precise goal given you."
   A slight change of color and posture, a barely visible twitch of lips
   away from teeth, were all that Uroch revealed. "Yes, foreseer."
   Bryadan made the gesture of affection, rare from a senior to a
   junior, and softened his tone. "I repeat, afal, my regard for your
   honor is of the highest. And so is my regard for your intelligence.
   Would I otherwise have approved you for this task? The God
   willing, and I believe He is, you will return with glory upon you.
   True, we cannot proclaim it in the universe—not yet—but your
   peers will know, and perhaps even your Roidhun."
   Hurt in the face turned to stiffly controlled joy.
   "I have this to add, and it is my real reason for addressing you
   now," Bryadan went on. "Before we lost contact with the main
   force, Cyntath Gadrol issued an announcement. Scout-ships
   have reported Terran reinforcements approaching, but at such
   low strength that he can hold them, too, in play. We will have
   days, if necessary, to complete our task here, before the
   opposition can bring up sufficient power that we must withdraw.
   Therefore, afal, take your time. Explore the options before you
   choose. Remember that, useful though it be, our undertaking is
   only a fractional part of the great unrevealed plan by which our
   superiors direct us. The destiny of the Race reaches ahead
   through millionfold years. Good hunting, afal."
   "And to you, foreseer," Uroch answered. As the screen blanked,
   exultation blazed from him.
   The Merseians ran on hyperdrive as deeply into the gravity well
   of the Gorrazani sun as they dared. When they reverted to
   relativistic state, they assumed intrinsic velocities carefully
   arranged beforehand, aimed at the habitable planet of the
   system. They crossed the gap in less than three hours, under
   decelerations that would have made molecular films of living
   tissue if interior forcefields had not compensated.
   The Gorrazanian home fleet got no chance to muster. Such units
   as were in orbit near the planet deployed and put up a gallant
   defense. Bryadan's command smashed it. Squadrons began to
   arrive from farther away. He broke them in detail. Meanwhile his
   broadcasters trampled local transmissions underfoot as they
   blared in the principal languages of the region:
   "All folk heed, we wish you no harm. We are here expressly at
   the request of your rightful chieftains, the Liberation Council
   which wills an end to centuries of oppression. His Supremacy the
   Roidhun recognizes the Liberation Council as the legitimate
   government of the Gorrazanian Realm. Even so, we of Merseia
   have no desire to intervene in your affairs. Consider simply how
   remote our dominions are. It is the sheerest altruism for us to
   cross such stretches of space, under peril of attack by the
   aggressors of Imperial Terra, in answer to an appeal—not to give
   military aid, no, not for any warlike purpose, but to convey
   hospital supplies to the valiant armies of your Liberation Council.
   If we come armed, it is for self-defense. If we fight, it is because
   we were set upon, without the least provocation on our part. Note
   that we do not pursue the fleeing units of the lawless and
   discredited Folkmoot regime—"
   Uroch wasn't listening. It was enough for him that the leaders of
   the Race had, in their wisdom, decreed certain actions be carried
   out here, and that a certain amount of blat must accompany the
   doing. Besides, he was busy.
   As Tryntaf whipped in hyperbola close by the globe, his
   escadrille shot from her launch ports. It numbered a score,
   Fangryf-type gunboats, about midway between the Terran Comet
   and Conqueror classes—six-male craft, lean and deadly, equally
   at home in atmosphere and interplanetary space. They hit air at
   speeds that sent shudders through their hulls, made red flames
   around them, and left thunders trailing behind that rolled from
   horizon to horizon.
   Braking, at the pilot console of his own vessel, Uroch saw land
   and sea sweep away beneath him: wrinkled mountains,
   multitudinously verdant plains, shining waters. Such buildings as
   he spied in magnifying screens were mostly low, rounded,
   widespread; few towers speared aloft, as they pridefully did on
   Merseia or Terra. It was in the nature of this species to expand
   underground—"in the bosom of the Mother," they often said.
   Despite scanty landmarks, he knew where he was going. He had
   been through exhaustive briefings.
   What he did not know was what he would encounter along the
   way—Haa, yes, he did now! Warcraft flocked over the curve of
   the world to meet him.
   "Evasive action," he said coolly into the outercom. "Close
   formation. Do not fire on them until ordered. Concentrate on
   defending yourselves." Underneath, his heart thuttered.
   The Merseian group screamed about and headed northwest, at a
   mere kilometer of altitude. The Gorrazanians took a while to
   straighten out their formations and give chase. Bullets, missiles,
   energy beams raked ahead of them. The Merseian gunners,
   superbly computer-guided, shot down most of the material
   projectiles. Those that got through, and the rays, generally
   missed; those that struck, forcefields and armor generally
   absorbed. A member of the escadrille, flying rear guard, did
   fall—flash of light, tail of smoke, shatter-ping burst on the ground.
   Uroch raised hand in homage. They would be remembered, yon
   brave males, if their comrades lived.
   The sun dropped behind him. He flew through night, under stars
   and a small, hurtling moon. Occasional flickers aloft told of the
   battle in space. Metal throbbed around him. He heard the shrilling
   of cloven air. Information from orbit registered on his data
   displays: another opposition force was bound his way from the
   east.
   But ahead, sheer, its heights coldly agleam with snow and
   glaciers, loomed a mountain range. Its contours were engraved
   on Uroch's brain well-nigh as fully as they were in his computer
   programs. This was why he had studied the planet unmercifully
   hard, the long way from Merseia: so that he could develop his
   contingency plans. The move that he found himself making was
   altogether in his style; and he had hand-picked his follower pilots
   and made them learn nearly as much as he knew.
   In a wild swoop, he lifted. Crags clawed after the belly of his
   craft. Ahead was a pass between two peaks, and on the far side
   an immense, many-branched canyon. Flesh could never have
   steered through, at the speeds wherewith he and his traveled.
   Robots could, barely. His living brain told them to do it.
   Cliffs reared out of abyssal darknesses. Sonic shocks broke
   snowfields apart and sent them away in avalanches; clouds and
   plumes rose off them to glisten beneath the moon. Their
   rumbling drummed through the howl of outraged air.
   No few of the Gorrazanian flyers were taken by such surprise that
   they crashed before they could pull clear. Shards and skulls went
   skittering down the heights. The rest of the defenders buzzed
   about in dismay. They had lost contact with the enemy.
   As he emerged above a wintry lowland, Uroch fought temptation.
   He could bring his escadrille quickly around and take the pursuit
   from behind, catch them in their bewilderment, shatter and
   scatter a force that outnumbered his three or four to one. What a
   deed! They'd sing about it in ships and halls throughout the
   Roidhunate, for centuries to come.
   He remembered his captain's words, set his jaw, and flew
   straight onward. The directive had been clear from the beginning.
   "Except for the objective, you will inflict minimal damage.
   Wherever consonant with that objective and with maximum
   survival in your force, you will choose evasion over confrontation.
   If it appears that a major action is necessary to accomplishment
   of the purpose, you will withdraw as expeditiously as possible to
   your mother vessel, or to whatever other transport is most
   suitable."
   Never had he been under orders more difficult to follow. He
   began to realize what it meant to be in the high command.
   Perhaps, flickered through him, that was another reason he had
   been chosen for this undertaking. Could they have him in mind
   for greater things? … Dismiss that. Carry on your hunt.
   Inevitably, he had broad discretion. After a quick review of the
   data, he made his next decision and issued his instructions. The
   Merseians lifted spaceward.
   He saw the planet in sapphire and silver splendor, the sun rising
   in dawn-hues over its brow; but his attention was aimed along a
   radius vector ahead, where two warships maneuvered about and
   lobbed lightnings at each other. However tenuous, the ionized
   gas that lingered for seconds after a nuclear detonation sufficed
   to hide his group from detection, when they orbited free-fall as he
   told them to. Thus he shook off the second ground-based flotilla
   that had been trying to intercept him.
   The orbit soon bent his flyers back into atmosphere. With
   judicious nudges of thrust, they sought a hurricane which was
   traversing a southern ocean, and hid themselves in its violence.
   That required daring as well as skill; but people had reason to call
   Uroch Lucky."
   As that luck would have it, the storm lumbered to the very shore
   he wanted. Otherwise he would have tried something else,
   maybe for several days. In the event, he could shout, "Haa-aa
   and away!" His warriors burst from the clouds and winds. They
   went like shooting stars above sere hills and a broad, green,
   canal-veined valley.
   It was not well defended. The Gorrazanians had relied mainly on
   their space fleet. What planetary units they had were dispersed
   around the globe; a substantial portion was still at the antipodes,
   trying to find Uroch's raiders. Missiles and aircraft lifted in low
   numbers. The Merseians swatted them and came to rest, a-hover
   on their grav drives, above the target.
   Aside from communication and detector masts, and a tower for
   local weather control, it revealed nothing special to the eye.
   Some domes snuggled into a landscape ruddy with ripening
   grain. Three sleepy villages clustered within a few kilometers:
   archaic earthen buildings, for the Gorrazanians are a
   conservative breed, no matter how many mercenary soldiers they
   export. A large modern structure, squarish and garish as their
   tastes called for, might have been a school or a museum or
   something of that kind.
   Uroch didn't know. He had not even heard, officially, what it was
   that he was supposed to destroy. In the course of his studies en
   route he had deduced that it was probably a key command
   center—police, military, however you wanted to designate a
   corps trying to suppress revolutionary guerrillas. Without it, the
   Folkmoot would not be disastrously handicapped against the
   Liberation Council, but counterinsurgency operations would be
   set back.
   It seemed a trivial reason for dispatching warships across
   hundreds of light-years and getting into a fight with the Terrans
   themselves. Uroch had schooled himself to refrain from
   wondering. The great lords of state had their plan. His duty was
   to execute his part thereof.
   And … by the God, by all the pagan gods of the forefathers—he
   was about to!
   "Goal attained," he said flatly into the outercom, while joy sang in
   his blood. "Fire by the numbers."
   His flyer threw the first missile. It flashed in the sun, it smote, it
   blossomed as blue-white as Alpha Crucis. Dust, smoke, vapor
   rose in a column that swelled as it grew, reached the bottom of
   the stratosphere, smeared itself across heaven. Megaton after
   megaton followed. In the end there lay a monstrous crater,
   incandescent until its sides cooled to glass. The canals ran dark
   and poisoned. Everywhere around, the crops were afire.
   "Arrach, let's go!" Uroch shouted.
   How he and his males fought their way through vengeful metal
   swarms; how they won back to Tryntaf; how Tryntaf and her
   sisters returned to Gadrol's victorious fleet; how the Merseians,
   who had taken few losses, eluded Terran search and returned
   home without further combat—this is the stuff of epic. Yet behind
   it lay always a cool intelligence, whose painfully garnered
   knowledge and carefully crafted schemes made the heroism
   possible.
   For Uroch, sufficient was that he came back to his wife, his sole
   wife thus far, and to the first son she had hitherto borne him, with
   a tale that would ring the lad on to achievements of his own, in
   those unbounded years that reached before the Race.
   After the raid, night fell. A full moon rose above that which had
   been the villages. Light rippled bleak, shadows moved, under the
   hastening white shield. Wind rustled. It was cold, harsh with ash;
   the lethalness was not perceptible.
   Big and shaggy, a Gorrazanian female sat beneath the remnant
   of a wall. In her four arms she rocked her dead child. In her rough
   voice she sang it a lullaby that it had always liked.
Chapter 12
   Miriam Abrams Flandry started home barely in time. Although
   news of civil war was recent, and nothing untoward had yet
   happened in the lanes between Sol and Niku, already
   apprehension pervaded the entire Empire. Word came in that,
   here and there, malcontents of many different sorts were
   proclaiming themselves adherents of would-be Emperor Olaf
   and making trouble or outright disaster for local authorities.
   Insurance rates had begun to skyrocket, which caused shipping
   firms to abandon route after route. It was natural to cancel
   service to the planet Ramnu, Niku IV, early on. There was no
   economic incentive to continue, after the quick announcement
   that the climate modification project was suspended for the
   duration of the emergency.
   The woman had been on the surface, in the field, isolated among
   primitive autochthons. She just managed to catch the last liftoff
   for Maia. Of course, had she been stranded, Fleet Admiral Sir
   Dominic Flandry would have taken steps to get his wife back. He
   might well have unlimbered his speedster Hooligan and gone
   after her himself. But her survival meanwhile, on the grim world
   she loved, would have been doubtful.
   As was, Maia III—Hermes—continued important enough that she
   could book passage from there directly to Terra. The vessel
   being a luxury liner which numbered noblefolk among her
   passengers, she had armed escort all the way, never mind how
   useful those ships might have been on the battlefront.
   The xenologist kept to herself during the voyage, taking no part in
   its entertainments and intrigues. At meals she was minimally civil
   to her tablemates. It wasn't only that they and their games bored
   her. (Attractive and alone, she could have had a succession of
   bed partners; and after weeks among nonhu-mans, the physical
   sensation would have been welcome; but she would have had to
   talk with them> even listen to them. She'd rather wait for Dominic.
   The fact that he had probably not been waiting for her, in that
   sense, made no difference.) It was that she was full of grief and
   fear.
   Grief for her dear Ramnuans, who had given her the name
   "Banner" that she still bore. She had come to see how the project
   was progressing, that would put an end to the planet's repeated
   civilizations-destroying glaciations, and how it was affecting the
   cultures she had studied for so long before her retirement.
   Shortly after she arrived, the order to shut down came in.
   Considering how bureaucracy operated, if Magnusson's
   insurrection were crushed immediately, which it obviously could
   not be, months must pass until work resumed. Ramnuans would
   perish by the additional thousands, or worse.
   Fear for the Empire, Technic society and, yes, those other
   societies the Empire enclosed. Old and rotten it might be, its
   outworks crumbling less because strength had failed than
   because the will to be strong had. Nevertheless it was all that
   guarded the heritage of humanity and humanity's allies.
   Sometimes Flandry let his personal defenses drop in her
   presence and spoke of the Long Night that lay beyond the fall of
   the Empire.
   And she had her kinfolk on Dayan to think about, and her natives
   on Ramnu, and friends strewn about among the stars, and—she
   and Dominic were not yet too old for a child or two. Not quite, he
   approaching seventy and she approaching fifty, given anti-
   senescence plus the kind of DNA repair they could pay for.
   Besides, she had years ago deposited some ova in a biobank.
   They had always been too busy, though, she and he; and now
   this wretched affair had begun.
   He met her at debarkation, attired in a uniform that got them
   waved straight through inspection, and hurried her to the
   apartment they kept in Archopolis. There the champagne and
   caviar and such had to wait a while longer.
   When they had feasted, the darkness would no longer be
   denied. She asked what the truth was—not the news, but the
   truth. Reluctantly, he told her.
   "The latest dispatches we've received make unpleasant reading.
   In just these weeks, Magnusson's driven a salient in nearly as far
   as Aldebaran. Of course, he isn't sitting on everything from there
   back to his Patrician base. And his blitzkrieg is bound to slow
   down while he consolidates those gains. But he needn't do much
   toward that end, you realize. He dominates the whole volume of
   space already. He can snap up any significant traffic that doesn't
   flow the way he wants, and lay waste any planet that won't give
   him whatever support he demands. None will refuse. Who can
   blame them?
   "His forces have won every battle to date, except for a couple of
   draws. Most engagements have been fairly small; but seeing
   what harm a single capital ship can do, each victory has been a
   lopsidedly big addition to his score. He is a brilliant tactician, and
   his overall strategy is basically the same as what carried Hans
   Molitor to the throne." Flandry narrowed his gray eyes and
   stroked his mustache. "Or is it, entirely?" he murmured.
   Banner regarded him across the table and spread her hands in
   an immemorial gesture. She was a lean, strong-featured woman,
   her own eyes luminous green, silver-streaked brown hair falling to
   her shoulders. "Do you suppose he can win?" she asked.
   "He might." Flandry ignited a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "In
   view of the latest developments, his chances are starting to look
   pretty good. When I saw our darling Emperor Gerhart a week
   ago, he was in an absolute hissy fit."
   One reason the apartment was costly to rent was that it included
   state-of-the-art antibugging devices. Technicians personally loyal
   to Flandry made periodic inspections to be sure the system was
   still working.
   Banner sighed. "Rhetorical question—or is it? Would it really be
   so awful if Magnusson took over? How did the present dynasty
   come to power, anyway, and how much is Gerhart really worth?"
   "I keep telling you, darling scientist, you should take more
   interest in human history and politics," Flandry said. "Not but what
   it's understandable you don't. A filthy subject. I often wish I'd
   been born into some era like the Second Sugimoto, when
   everybody could cultivate his vine and fig tree, or his private arts
   or vices, without having to worry who'd come climbing over the
   wall next." He reached above the glasses and plates to stroke
   her cheek. "To be sure, then I'd never have met you."
   Abruptly he got to his feet. The bathrobe flapped around his
   ankles as he strode to the transparency and stood raggedly
   smoking. Through a light rain and an early dusk, the city flashed
   hectic, as far as vision could fare. Within this room, the odor of
   roses and the lilt of a Mozart concerto receded toward infinity.
   "I'm against revolutions," he said low. "No matter the alleged
   justification, it's never worth the short-range cost—lives and
   treasure beyond counting—or the long-range—ripping the fragile
   fabric of society. You know how in my younger days I did what I
   could to help put down a couple such attempts. If afterward I
   signed up with old Hans, why, the Wang dynasty had collapsed
   utterly, and he was the least bad of the contending war lords. At
   that, he turned out to be a tolerable Emperor, didn't he? Neither a
   figurehead nor a monster. What more dare we expect? And we
   may owe something to the memory of Edwin Cairncross,
   inasmuch as his try at usurpation was what got us reacquainted
   with each other, but surely you'll agree he was an undesirable
   sort."
   She secured the sash of her kimono and went to join him. He laid
   an arm around her waist. His straight-lined countenance writhed
   into a smile. "Sorry about the oratory," he murmured. "I'll try to
   keep it properly caged henceforward."
   She leaned close. "I never mind. It's nice to see you relax from
   your perpetual clowning." Her innate seriousness rose afresh.
   "But you haven't answered me. All right, the Empire was
   bumbling along fairly peacefully, and Magnusson's revolt is a
   disaster. Don't I know it myself? However—my parents always
   told me to look at every side of a question—would his success
   be a catastrophe? I mean, I've heard you say often enough that
   we no longer have any such thing as legitimate government.
   Maybe Magnusson would be better than Gerhart, who is rather a
   swine, isn't he?"
   "Well, yes, he is," Flandry admitted, "although a shrewd swine.
   For a moderately important instance, you know he doesn't like
   me, but he's given to taking my advice, because he sees it's
   practical. And … Crown Prince Karl does have a high opinion of
   me, and is a thoroughly decent boy." He snickered. "If I'm still
   alive when he inherits the throne, I'll have to set about curing him
   of the latter."
   She stared outward and upward. Stars were lost in the haze of
   light from the towers everywhere around, but—"Does it make that
   much difference who is Emperor? What can he, what can any
   person, any planet, do to change things?"
   "Usually very little," Flandry agreed. This was by no means the
   first time they had been over the same ground. They were both
   aware and concerned, she less cynically than he. But some open
   wounds do not allow themselves to be left alone; and tonight they
   were feeling a freshly inflicted one. "The Policy Board, the
   provincial nobles, the bureaucrats and officers, the inertia of
   sheer size—Still, even a slight shift in course will touch billions of
   lives, and perhaps grind them out. And occasionally a pivotal
   event does happen. More and more, I wonder whether we may
   not be about to have that experience again."
   "What do you mean?"
   Flandry ran fingers through his sleek gray hair. "I'm not sure.
   Possibly nothing. Yet every intuition, every twitchy nerve I've
   developed in decades I misspent as an Intelligence agent when I
   might have gone fishing—my hunch screams to me that
   something peculiar is afoot." He pitched his cigarette expertly
   away, into an ashtaker, and swung about to face her, hands on
   her shoulders. "Listen, Banner. You've been in the yonderlands,
   you haven't followed the input as you would've with me if you'd
   stayed home. The Merseians have now hit us."
   She gave him a stark smile. "Is that a surprise? Haven't they
   always taken what advantage they could, when the Empire's been
   in disarray? Nibbles here and there, no casus belli that might
   unite us against them—obviously, not in this case either, if the
   story hasn't been released."
   "This case is oddly different," Flandry said. "There've been the
   predictable skirmishes in the marches, yes. No major thrust. But
   … they sent a task force, which passed straight through Imperial
   space—they sent a strike force to Gorrazan, on the far side of
   us."
   "What?" She stiffened. "Why? It doesn't make sense."
   "Oh, it does, it does, when you contemplate it from the proper,
   skewed angle." He spoke softly, as was his wont when
   discussing terrible things. "Yes, the Realm of Gorrazan is the
   pathetic souvenir of a botched attempt at empire, a few colonies
   and clients on a few second-rate worlds near the home sun. Yes,
   its government has been plagued by insurrectionists who
   proclaim a bright new ideology—God, how long has the universe
   endured the same old bright new ideologies?—and the rebels
   are known, to everybody except our journalists and academics,
   to nave Merseian inspiration and help. Trouble at our backs.
   Certainly I'd instigate the identical thing behind Merseia if I could.
   "But now—" He drew breath. "Word came in the other day. The
   Merseians sent a 'mercy mission'. They declare the need was so
   urgent they had to traverse our space, hoping we wouldn't notice,
   and we were wicked to pounce on them as they were in Sector
   Alpha Crucis approaching their destination. It was a shame that
   we compelled them to trounce what forces we could bring to
   bear. The diplomats will be discussing who's to blame, and who's
   to pay what reparations to whom, and the rest of that garbage, for
   years to come. Oh, yes, business as usual.
   "But the fact is, the Merseians could have passed through
   unknown to us, if they'd wanted. They made their presence
   blatant when they neared our Alpha Crucis frontier. Our units had
   no choice but to attack and take losses. Meanwhile a Merseian
   detachment punched through to Gorrazan itself. It made rags of
   the home defense fleet. It could have blown up every
   governmental installation. The rebels could have taken over
   entirely. We'd either have intervened to prevent, and found
   ourselves bogged down in a nasty, lasting little war; or, likelier,
   we'd have done nothing, and in due course had a pro-Merseian
   power at our backs, small and weak but an almighty nuisance.
   "Instead, the raiders contented themselves with taking out the
   Folkmoot's main command center. The government's badly hurt,
   but it can still fight. The Gorrazanian civil strife proceeds."
   "What does that imply?" She guessed his answer.
   "Why, when the news breaks, as it inevitably will, the powers that
   be in the Empire will fall into a rupturing controversy. Some will
   want to tie down strength in watchfulness, diametrically opposite
   to Magnusson's campaign, lest the situation explode in our rear
   end. Others will claim there's no danger in those parts, whether
   because the Liberation Council hasn't yet won or because the
   Liberation Council represents progress and this past incident
   proves how wrong we are to keep provoking the Roidhunate. The
   waste of energy, the confusion of purpose among us would be
   unbelievable if it didn't have so many precedents." Flandry
   shrugged. "Oh, the Merseians have studied us. They understand
   us better than we understand them. And … Magnusson has the
   kudos of having beaten them in battle, but he also promises that
   when he becomes Emperor, he'll negotiate a permanent peace
   with them."
   "How do you read the sign?" she whispered.
   "The entrails, do you mean?" His laugh turned into a groan. "I
   don't try. I know better. I only see that a most useful piece of
   psychological warfare has just been waged on Magnusson's
   account. Coincidence? Or an attempt to further the cause of
   sincerely desired peace? I can only nurse my suspicions. What
   can I, here on Terra, find out for sure? How can I?"
   Again he laughed, but cheerfully, and hauled her to him. "So
   never mind, sweetheart! Let's enjoy ourselves while we may."
Chapter 13
   Being a mostly Cynthian town, Lulach looked smaller than it was.
   Buildings snuggled under trees, their roofs often decked with
   planted sod and their walls with flowering vines. Many houses
   were in the branches above—vegetation introduced from the
   mother world frequently grew enormous—where foliage hid them
   behind the play of sun and shadow. Streets were turf-covered,
   narrow and twisting, not many vehicles upon them and those
   compact. Wherever they could, dwellers went arboreally rather
   than on the ground.
   A few large structures rose along the waterfront, among them a
   rambling timber inn. Diana and Axor established themselves
   there and set about exploring the area. Wo Lia took a room in the
   same place and got her performing animal put in its stable; local
   folk made considerable use of beasts for riding and hauling,
   though the farms to the north were mechanized.
   Toward dawn, when fog off the river dusked the light night of
   Daedalus, she went out there, explaining to a sleepy kitchen
   helper whom she passed that she must see to the creature's
   well-being. The helper paid no particular attention to the cloth-
   wrapped bundle Wo Lia carried—for cleaning the cage, no
   doubt.
   The stable was warm, murky, its air sweetened by a smell of
   horses and sharpened by a smell of changtus. Wo Lia groped
   her way to the cage and undid the catch on its door. Targovi
   bounded forth. "Harrugh!" he growled. "You took your time."
   "I had to wait till you could get away unseen, didn't I?" she
   replied. "That cursed sun-ring makes life hard for entrepreneurs."
   Targovi stretched and yawned mightily. "Ah, but this feels
   wonderful! Pray to your little gods that you never have to be
   locked up."
   By his count, a pair of Terran weeks had passed since
   Waterblossom left Paz. He could scarcely have endured this
   confinement, had Wo Lia not let him out on a chain at every stop
   along the way, to dance and do tricks while she played a flute and
   collected coins. "What news have you heard?" he asked.
   "Fresh word has lately come from the war front, borne by a
   courier boat to Aurea. Great excitement. Admiral Magnusson has
   offered to negotiate with Emperor Gerhart. He has his nerve,
   no?"
   "Ai, he needn't fear immediate peace. It sounds good and helps
   smooth the way for his next onslaught. If ever the Imperium is
   ready to bargain in earnest, it will be too late for the Imperium,
   save that Magnusson might let Gerhart and his councillors retire
   to some obscure set of palaces and carouse themselves to
   death." Targovi crouched to unfold the bundle and examine its
   contents. "Any tale of the Merseians?"
   "Of course. How could anybody on Daedalus not want the latest
   gossip about the neighbors? It's vague, though, except that a
   Navy spokesman insisted we have nothing to fear from them. A
   later commentary by several learned academics pointed out that,
   since the Merseians want a lasting peace as badly as all right-
   thinking Terrans do, they would probably rather see Magnusson
   on our throne, even though he did defeat them more than once in
   the past. So they will refrain from any actions that would look as if
   they were taking advantage of an opportunity he had created for
   them."
   "Assuredly that is what learned academics would say." Targovi
   opened his purse and counted the money within. "This sum isn't
   quite what I remember."
   "I had expenses," said Wo Lia blandly.
   "Well, you weren't too generous to yourself, I see. The funds
   were bound to be lean regardless—and likewise, I fear, are
   those of my companions, by now." Much more important,
   anyway, was his combat knife. Targovi rose. "Best I be off. Fail
   not in the part that remains for you to play, for if you do, you will
   come to harm that may well prove fatal. On the other hand,
   success should bring excellent baksheesh."
   "I know. If you fail, I will kindle a light for your ghost. Wan jin rao."
   Targovi slipped forth and vanished into the fog. Wo Lia waited a
   while before scurrying back and screaming for the landlady. Her
   priceless trained animal, the mainstay of her livelihood, was
   gone! She had cast about unavailingly, finding no trace. Had it
   escaped because the stablehands were careless? Had it been
   stolen? She demanded help in searching, the entire staff, the
   patrol, a posse of citizens. If the magnificent, irreplaceable
   creature was not found, she would have compensation. She
   would demand justice, she would file suit, she would not cease
   until she had her rightful due!
   On the riverbank beyond the docks, screened by brush as well
   as murk, Targovi thankfully removed the mane from his head.
   Besides being messy and itchy, it had interfered with the oxygill it
   covered, making him chronically short of breath. A quick
   chemical rinse out of a bottle Wo Lia had provided, followed by a
   dip in the stream, got the black dye off his fur. He toweled
   himself fairly dry and put on the clothes his accomplice had
   brought him. Besides his breechcloth and belt, this included a
   loose robe with cowl that she had purchased in Aurea according
   to his specifications. While he was making no further attempt at
   disguise for the nonce, a full garment might come in handy at
   some later time.
   The sun was again a disc, low above the river. Mist was breaking
   into thin white streamers, as warmth seeped into the valley.
   Though hunger gnawed in Targovi's guts, he decided he had
   better establish himself before seeking a foodstall. He padded
   back into town and through twilight still blue under the trees.
   Passersby gave him looks but sounded no alarm.
   He had counted on that—bet his life on it, in fact. The public cry
   for him had not most likely been confined to the Aurea vicinity.
   Nobody would have imagined he'd be able to get this far
   undetected through habitation; and had he tried to make his way
   through the backwoods, he would have perished. Planet-wide
   bulletins would merely add to an already enormous perturbation.
   Here in Lulach he continued just the trader from Imhotep whom
   folk had long known. He could have arrived on any of the
   numerous boats that came and went, day and night. Cynthians
   are inquisitive by nature, perhaps even more than humans;
   however, this was essentially a community of small businesses,
   therefore one which did not intrude on privacy. Targovi knew he
   was yet on the "Wanted" list at patrol stations everywhere. Such
   interchange of information was automatic. Anybody who thought
   to inquire of the data bank at local headquarters would get a full
   description of him and his misdeeds, including the reward
   offered. He had spent a considerable while in his cage figuring
   out what to do about that.
   The station house was a frame building in a grove of ocherous-
   glowing fruit trees. (A shame that no colonist could enjoy more
   than the sight. The flesh was not poisonous, but its flavor was
   almost nil and, eaten, it would make an inert mass in the
   stomach.) Since the founding of a major base on Daedalus, the
   Navy had taken over most police functions, except in areas such
   as Zacharia that retained autonomy. Few places required much in
   the way of law enforcement. A detail was apt to consist largely of
   personnel recruited in the district, who had served elsewhere but
   were now approaching retirement age. At need, they could
   summon swift help from outside.
   Entering, Targovi found a Cynthian who sported a lieutenant's
   comets on a collar that was her principal outfit, chatting with a
   couple of elderly enlisted ratings. "Why, hail," she said in
   surprise. "What brings you here?"
   "Something that calls for a confidential meeting, Rihu An," he
   replied.
   She chirred her kind of laugh. "Do you have smuggled goods for
   sale, you rogue? The market has gotten brisk, too much so for
   my poor monies."
   "No, this is more interesting."
   She led him to the outer office, closed its door, and crouched
   expectant. "I lay on you a secret you must keep," he said. "Only
   in seeming am I a footloose peddler. The truth is that for long I
   have been a secret agent for Intelligence."
   Her tail bottled. "What say you?"
   He made a deprecating gesture. "Oh, I am no Flandry. I am
   among many who go about, alert, reporting whatever they learn,
   and sometimes helping in some or other petty operation. You
   know of us. You did not know I am of the fellowship. Urgency
   requires I reveal it to you."
   Albeit relatively unsophisticated, Rihu An was capable. "Prove it."
   "Certainly." He glided to the computer terminal. "Ng-ng-r-r, to
   avoid possible sleight-of-hand, would you care to take this
   yourself?" She sprang to the desktop. "Key for Central
   Database, please. Now key for Restricted—I'll turn my back while
   you put in your identification and certify you have a need to know
   … Are you done? Very well, next comes this." He recited a string
   of numbers and letters.
   Inwardly, his battle readiness heightened. He did not tense; that
   would have been dangerously self-limiting. Rather, he relaxed his
   body utterly, opening every sense to the fullest, until he caught
   the least whiffs of dust and smoke in the air, the least early-
   morning traffic murmurs from the town. This was his crucial
   moment.
   The entire code for agents could have been changed. He was
   guessing that nobody had gone through that cumbersome
   process at an unscheduled time in the midst of crisis.
   The announcement that he was a fugitive from arrest identified
   him simply as Targovi the merchant. One never blew a cover
   needlessly; in this case, it would have started people wondering
   whether other lowly individuals were agents too. Targovi was
   guessing that the warrant for him had only been entered in patrol
   databases, not in those of his service. The latter would be an
   inconvenient reminder to the corps of how divided against itself
   the Navy was; and it would probably not be of any help in laying
   him by the heels.
   A wiser decision might well have been to go ahead and make the
   cross-correlation. Targovi was guessing that wisdom was in short
   supply these days. Magnusson's uprising must inevitably have
   generated limitless confusion. Moreover, it surely appalled many
   persons in the armed forces. On Daedalus they dared not
   protest; but they would drag their feet in carrying out orders,
   especially if those orders were less specific than might have
   been the case under normal circumstances.
   If his assumptions proved wrong, Targovi would break out. If
   possible, he would avoid doing serious harm to Rihu An or her
   underlings, whom he knew and liked. He had friends hereabouts
   who would give him shelter while he hatched a new scheme.
   As was, she turned wide eyes on him and breathed, "You, scruffy
   wanderer and tavern brawler, are in the guardians too? … Well,
   what do you require?"
   Relief flooded through him. "I may say but little, other than that I
   keep my pelt as clean and well-groomed as yours. These are evil
   days."
   "True," she said unhappily.
   "We, you and I and all our kind, we cannot take sides against
   either of the rival Emperors, can we? What we serve is the
   Empire itself. What we obey is the orders we get from our
   superior officers."
   "True," she said again. Her reluctance was plain to hear. Knowing
   her as he did, he had counted on it. She would not rebel against
   the rebellion—that would have been pointlessly self-
   destructive—but she would not be zealous either. Had the station
   commandant, Lieutenant Commander Miguel Gomez, been on
   duty, Targovi would have waited till he went off. Gomez was an
   honorable sort, but rather lavish in his admiration for Sir Olaf
   Magnus-son. Luckily, commandants don't generally take night
   watches.
   "Well, then," Targovi said, "my assistant concerns possible
   subversives and spies. Never mind whether they may be working
   for his Majesty Gerhart, or the Merseians, or whomever. I have
   my suspicions, of one Wo Lia, who arrived lately on Shan U's
   Waterblossom from Paz. She is a scoundrelly character.
   Tracking her, I have gotten reason to think she may be more than
   that. Ere she can carry out whatever purpose has brought her—if
   it be something other than turning a few dishonest credits—I
   must follow her back trail, insofar as that is on record."
   Rihu An waved at the terminal. "Serve yourself."
   "M-m-m, this involves more than straightforward data retrieval.
   Consider how complex and unstable matters were at the time of
   Sir Olaf's proclamation, which seems to be about when she
   landed on Daedalus. May I use your prime machines?"
   Once more he prepared himself for trouble. The request was
   irregular. Rihu An might well insist on referring it to Gomez, who
   might well ask embarrassing questions. However, Targovi's
   confidence in chaos paid off afresh.
   She readily assented, took him to the inner office, and left him
   alone.
   Ho-ho, ho-ho, he thought in Terran fashion, as he settled down at
   the keyboard. His life had fairly well convinced him that every
   strength has its inherent weakness. Arrangements here were
   illustrative. If important data are available to anyone who has
   obtained the retrieval code, they are available from practically any
   terminal. The resolution of that difficulty is to make them
   accessible only through particular units, which can then be
   physically guarded—an extra layer of defense. Now he had
   wormed his way through. He could not only read out, he could
   write in.
   Part of his clandestine training had, naturally, been in computer
   technics. He had studied further on his own. And, piloting a
   poorly automated spacecraft between planets, for years, he had
   gotten a great deal of practice at improvisation.
   His short, powerful fingers danced across the board. Caution
   was necessary. An attempt to do too much would set off alarms,
   and he couldn't be sure what "too much" was. The information he
   fed into the database was strictly local and only slightly false. It
   admitted that he, Targovi, had been detained when he last landed
   at Aurea from Imhotep. That was understandable, with everything
   in uproar and most loyalties a matter of conjecture. Investigation
   had cleared him and his passengers. They were all harmless, if
   eccentric.
   In his capacity of secret agent, he fed in his "finding" that Wo Lia
   was not up to any mischief that mattered politically—just in case
   somebody, as it might be Rihu An herself, took a peek. The fact
   of his being such an agent was to remain restricted information.
   None of this cookery went to Central Database in Aurea.
   Programs there could too readily detect an intrusion. Targovi was
   satisfied to modify the records at Lulach and add a "Correction:
   Override" command. Why should a minor outpost like this
   maintain elaborate precautions in its system?
   Whoever happened to inquire directly of Aurea would get quite a
   different story. If he thereupon compared what the terminals here
   had to tell, the well-known fat would be in the proverbial fire.
   Targovi didn't expect that. In Aurea, if officialdom gave him any
   further thought whatsoever, he was presumed dead. In Lulach he
   had roused no dubiety. A civilian wanting to check up on him
   would almost certainly do so by retrieving the public record in this
   town. That would declare him to be just a merchant from
   Imhotep. If the civilian had access to patrol records—which, in
   the case against which Targovi was making provision, he might
   well have—they too would show nothing significantly different …
   in Lulach. It was most unlikely that such a person would call
   Aurea instead, or in addition. Why should he? Public hullabaloo
   about a Tigery outlaw would have died out and been to all intents
   and purposes forgotten. It was nearly impossible that the inquirer
   would go through the rigmarole involved in getting access to
   Intelligence data.
   Granted, the possibility did exist that the person would prove to
   be that ultra-cautious. The probability of it was small but finite. If it
   came to pass, the remainder of Targovi's existence would
   doubtless be short and unpleasant. That didn't worry him. The
   risk gave an extra tang to his faring.
   On his way out, he stooped low to whisper in Rihu An's ear: "I
   was wrong. We needn't concern ourselves with Wo Lia. She'll
   belike steal several of your citizens blind, but not in ways that will
   make them complain to you. I do, though, have others to trace.
   Remember, I am nobody but the trader whom everybody knows.
   It would be as well if you gave the station personnel the idea that
   all I wanted to do was make you a business proposition, which
   you very properly declined."
   "That shall be," she answered as quietly. While he was engaged
   in the inner office, she had stayed alone in the outer, as if still
   conferring with him. In Intelligence work, the less you let people
   observe, the better.
   "Abide in peace and repletion." Targovi departed. He had a
   second call to pay, but first he wanted breakfast.
Chapter 14
   From their island the Zacharians exported a variety of foods and
   high-quality manufactured goods to the rest of Daedalus.
   Keeping the business entirely in their own hands, they maintained
   dealership in every important community. The local one occupied
   a building near the waterfront. Its artificial material, curved
   contours, and metallic hues marked it arrogantly out. Targovi
   must stand at a scanner and request admission before the door
   opened.
   The woman who appeared was handsome in his sight, comely in
   that of most humans. Medium tall, full-hipped but slender and
   somewhat small-bosomed, she moved as lithely as he did. A
   brief white gown set off glowingly olive, flawless skin. The hair on
   her round head was light-brown, lustrous, falling springily to the
   wide shoulders. Her face was high of cheekbones, straight of
   nose, firm of chin, lips delicately sculptured, brows arched above
   gold-brown eyes whose largeness was not diminished by the
   epicanthic folds.
   "Greeting, Minerva Zachary," he said.
   She smiled. "Minerva has served her turn here and gone home."
   The voice was a musical contralto. "I am Pele. Who are you that
   knows her?"
   "I beg your pardon, donna."
   "Well, when members of our species often fail to tell us apart, I
   can hardly blame you." Zacharians were always as polite as
   occasion demanded—in their judgment.
   Looking closer, Targovi began to see the differences. Fine lines
   in the countenance showed that Pele was distinctly older than
   Minerva; their kind aged slowly but were not immortal. She spoke
   with a faint accent suggesting that Anglic had not been the
   principal language in her home when she was a child; the
   islanders purposely kept several tongues in daily use. She didn't
   walk precisely like her predecessor; the islanders also made a
   point of practicing a variety of sports.
   "Your name, please," she demanded rather than asked.
   "Targovi—of Imhotep, as is obvious. I am a trader who has
   shuttled between my planet and this for years. On Daedalus I
   often proceed along the Highroad. They know me right well
   here."
   Pele studied him. He could not have come to order any of her
   expensive wares. "I have no desire for trinkets."
   "Could we speak in private? I am sure milady will be interested."
   "Well—" She shrugged and led the way inside. The front of the
   building was the office; the rear, shut off, was the residence.
   Persons whom factors had entertained said those rooms—such
   of them as guests saw—were rather severely outfitted and
   decorated, though everything was of the best and, in its fashion,
   beautiful. The chamber which Targovi entered held conventional
   furniture, adjustable for comfort. Its commercial equipment was
   unobtrusive but first class allowing a single individual to handle
   everything. The few pictures had been changed; Pele evidently
   preferred landscapes from alien planets to the more familiar
   scenes that Minerva chose. The musical background was now
   complex, atonal, impossible for the Tigery to appreciate. Did the
   esthetic tastes of a Zacharian alter as he or she passed through
   life?
   "Be seated," Pele said. They took facing chairs on a richly
   textured blue carpet. "What is your errand?"
   He knew little of her breed. His acquaintance with Minerva had
   been slight, instigated by her because she grew curious about
   him and not pursued for long. Otherwise he had only glimpsed
   Zacharians by chance, mostly in Aurea. They never seemed to
   leave their island in substantial numbers, unless they made
   interstellar trips out of their spaceport. Theirs was a society
   closed to outsiders. It made no production of secretiveness,
   exercised no censorship or anything like that. It simply didn't
   communicate much, nor admit any but a few selected visitors.
   None of those were journalists. People who returned talked
   freely enough of the uniqueness they had encountered; two or
   three of them had written books about the place. But nothing of
   its inwardness ever came through. It was as if each Zacharian
   face were a smiling mask.
   Nevertheless Targovi could see that Pele wanted him to come to
   the point. "I approach you, donna, more on behalf of two friends
   than myself," he began. "Now I shall not insult you by claiming I
   have no personal concern in the matter. My situation is
   precarious. I landed at Aurea just as Sir Olaf Magnusson made
   his … declaration. Civilian space traffic is banned saved by
   special permission, which has not been forthcoming for me thus
   far. Conveying passengers—the two I bespoke—rather than
   trade goods, I have naught to barter for the necessities of life,
   and scant money lingers in my purse."
   The woman frowned. "This is no charitable organization, and it
   has no job openings."
   Targovi imitated a human smile, keeping his lips closed because
   his carnivore's teeth could give the wrong signal. "I ask no favors,
   donna," he said ingratiatingly. "Already I am in your debt." He
   touched the oxygill that rose out of his robe. "Was not this, that
   keeps me breathing, produced on Zacharia?"
   The flattery was wasted. "You paid for it, or somebody did. I have
   heard your species is physically strong. Try for a position as a
   dockhand, day laborer, or the like. Most backwoods communities
   lack adequate machinery."
   "No, hear me out, I pray you. Those whom I carried from Imhotep
   are unusual. I think they have something to offer which your
   people will find worthwhile. At least, the Wodenite does."
   That caught her attention. "The Wodenite who arrived yesterday?
   I have seen him wandering about, and considered inviting him to
   come for a talk. And dinner, perhaps," Pele added in a flick of
   humor, "abundant though the servings must be."
   "I can introduce him to you, milady. May I tell you the story?"
   He gave her an account of Axor's quest, succinct because that
   should whet her appetite for details. "—In Olga's Landing he
   acquired a guide, a vagabond by the name of Diana
   Crowfeather—"
   Pele raised his hand. "Wait. Is that the dark-haired ragamuffin girl
   who was strolling at his side?"
   "Who else?" Targovi observed her grow thoughtful, and at the
   same time seem a bit amused. He continued: "Diana and I are
   old acquaintances. I decided to do her a kindness and provide
   passage to Daedalus, where I thought it likelier they would find
   relics such as they sought than on Imhotep. If naught else, here
   they would have access to records of whatever may have been
   discovered but never really publicized. Furthermore, Diana
   should enjoy this planet, more congenial and almost new to her.
   And, to be sure, Axor would pay me." Slipping fast by that bit of
   mendacity: "Unfortunately, as I said, the outbreak of hostilities left
   us stranded. In fact, we were arrested and interrogated.
   "Upon release, Axor and Diana spent a while in Aurea searching
   for information about Ancient relics. What they learned made
   them decide to fare downstream. They might as well. I stayed
   behind, striving to wheedle a clearance for return to Imhotep.
   Nothing availed. Finally I took a boat to Lulach myself. It was an
   express, therefore it arrived nearly as soon." Considering the
   number of such craft and their short turnaround times, Targovi
   didn't anticipate anyone would attempt verification of his narrative.
   "An intriguing story," Pele said, "but what significance has it to
   me?"
   "Much, I trust, milady," he replied. "May I ask a question? Are
   there mysterious remnants on Zacharia?"
   She gave him a close look. "No."
   "Truly not?"
   "We have occupied the island for centuries and modified every
   square centimeter of it. We would know."
   Targovi sighed. "Then the clues that my comrades came upon
   are false. Ah, I hate the prospect of disappointing them. Their
   hopes were so high."
   "It was always inevitable that all sorts of unfounded rumors would
   go about, concerning us. Why should I lie to you?" Pele stroked
   her jaw. "I have, myself, heard of huge, inexplicable walls and the
   like—but afar in the mainland jungles or glaciers. It may be
   nothing more than travelers' tales. Your associates should inquire
   further."
   "That may be less than easy, donna; for their purses have grown
   lank too. What has occured to me is this. You yourself know
   naught certain about Ancient relics, aside from their existence on
   some other planets. The subject has not interested you.
   However, during the centuries that Zacharians have dwelt on
   Daedalus, their explorers and factors must have ranged over the
   whole globe, as well as distant worlds. There must be ample
   records, and mayhap even individuals, to tell what is or is not real.
   It would save us—Axor—an effort that could prove hopelessly
   great."
   "Do you wish me, then, to make a search of our database?" The
   woman pondered before continuing genially, "Well, I can. You
   have roused my curiosity."
   "Ng-ng, milady is most generous," Targovi said, "but that is not
   truly what I had in mind. Could we come to Zacharia in person
   and pursue our inquiries? You know that printed words and
   pictures, valuable though they be, are not everything. There is no
   substitute for discourse, for the interplay of brains."
   Pele sat straight. Her gaze sharpened. "Are you in search of free
   food and lodging?"
   Targovi chuckled. "Plainly, yes, that is my chief motivation. Give
   me several standard days without pressure, perchance a week or
   two, and I can devise some means of keeping myself alive on
   Daedalus. I might even make trade arrangements with you
   Zacharians, or at any rate get your kind of help in persuading the
   Navy to let me flit home. You have influence."
   "I told you we are not a charitable organization."
   "Nor am I a beggar, donna. My humble goods may prove
   worthless to you, but at the moment my stock in trade includes
   Axor himself. Think. He is likely the first Wodenite ever to
   betread Daedalus. Certainly none else have come here in living
   memory. Not only can he tell your savants much about his world
   and his folk—the sort of facts that do not get into dry
   dispatches—but he has roamed throughout the Empire. Not only
   is he a leading authority on the fascinating Ancients, he has
   experience of many and many contemporary societies. Let us
   admit that this entire sector is provincial, marginally touched by
   the currents of civilization. Axor will come like a breath of fresh
   air. I assure you, as a person he is delightful." Targovi interposed
   a few seconds of strategic silence. "And … the total situation in
   the galaxy has become totally fluid. Aught can happen, whether
   mortal danger or radiant opportunity. Axor is no political scientist
   or seeker of wealth and advantage. But he is widely traveled and
   he has thought deeply about the things he has witnessed—from
   his nonhuman, non-Cynthian, non-Merseian perspective. Who
   knows what clues toward action or precaution lie in what he has to
   tell? Dare you refuse yourselves the input he can give you?"
   The quietness that fell again grew lengthy. At last Pele asked,
   "What does the girl want of us?"
   "Why, simply the thrill of newness. Whatever you care to show
   her. She is young and adventurous … We three travel together,
   you understand."
   Pele looked beyond him. "She is attractive," she murmured.
   Targovi knew the reputation of Zacharian men. They practically
   never married outside their society; that meant exile. They did,
   though, spread their superior genes through the lesser breeds of
   humanity whenever they got the chance; and they had a way of
   creating frequent chances for themselves. Pele must be thinking
   she could put her brethren on the track of some fun.
   To a degree, Targovi had taken this into his calculations. He
   didn't feel he was betraying Diana. She should be capable of
   reaching her own decisions and enforcing them. If not—well,
   she'd likely enjoy herself anyway, and bear no permanent scars.
   Zacharian women were different, he recalled. They took
   occasional outsider lovers, whose later accounts of what had
   happened were awestruck and wistful. But they never became
   pregnant by such men. At most, if they thought someone was
   worthy, they would donate an ovum for in vitro fertilization. Their
   womb time they kept for their own kind.
   Pele emerged from her reverie. "I'll call home and inquire," she
   said crisply. "I may well recommend a positive answer. You do
   make a plausible case for yourself. They'll send someone to
   investigate closer before they decide. He will want to talk with
   each of you. Where are you staying?"
   "At the Inn of Tranquil Slumber. That is where my friends are, and
   I will take a room there too."
   "You should find this house more hospitable when we summon
   you," Pele said. Conviviality provides openings for the probing of
   character. "At present I have my work to do. Good day."
   Diana sped to meet him, over the cobblestones of the hostel
   courtyard. "Oh, Targovi, old dear!" She hugged him till his firmly
   muscled ribs creaked. The fragrance of her hair and flesh filled
   his tendrils. "Welcome, welcome!"
   "How have you two fared?" he asked.
   She let him go and danced in the sunlight. "Wonderful," she
   caroled. "Listen. We went parleyin' around, and right away we
   heard about what's got to be Ancient ruins, with inscriptions, in
   the jungle south of Ghundrung."
   "The Donarrian settlement? But that's far downstream, and then
   you'd have to outfit an expedition overland. Where's the money
   coming from?"
   "Oh, we'll earn it. Axor already has an offer from a lumberin'
   company. He can snake a log through the woods cheaper'n any
   gravtrac can airlift it. And me, I've lived off odd jobs all my grown-
   up life. I won't have any trouble gettin' by. This is a live town."
   Diana sobered. "I'm sure we can find somethin' for you as well, if
   you want."
   "But you'd take months, a year or more, to save what you will
   need!" Targovi exclaimed. "Meanwhile the war goes on."
   She cocked her head and stared at him. "What's that got to do
   with us? I mean, sure, it's terrible, but we can't do anything about
   it. Can we?"
Chapter 15
   He drew a long breath. "Come aside with me and let us talk," he
   said.
   Her jubilation died away as she sensed his uneasiness. "Of
   course." She tucked an arm beneath his and led him off. "I've
   found a trail out of town, through the woods, where nobody'll
   overhear us." Her smile was a trifle forlorn. "I want to learn what
   you've been up to anyway, and how you figure to stay out of jail,
   and, oh, everything."
   "You shall, as much as is safe for you to know."
   She bridled. "Now wait a minute! Either you trust me or you don't.
   I've let you rush me along this far, and conned Axor for you,
   because you didn't have a chance to explain. Or so you claimed.
   Not any more, fellow."
   He raised his ears. "Ah, you are your father's child—and your
   mother's—eh, little friend? … Well, you leave me no choice. Not
   that I had much left me, after today. My thought was that you,
   being an honest young person, could best play the part I need
   played if you believed it was genuine."
   "Hmf! You don't know me as well as you think." Diana frowned.
   "We might have to shade the truth for Axor. I'll hate that, but we
   might have to."
   "Did I indeed underestimate your potential, all these years?"
   Targovi purred.
   They said no more until they were well into the forest east of
   town. The trail ran along the river, a short way in from the high
   bank, so that water could be seen agleam beyond tree boles and
   canebrakes. Underneath canopies of darkling leaves, sun-
   flecked shadow was somewhat cooler than air out in the open,
   though still subtropical. It was full of unfamiliar odors, sweet, rank,
   spicy, or indescribable in Anglic or Toborko. Tiny, pale wings
   fluttered about. No songs resounded, but now and then curious
   whistles and glissandos went among the boughs above. The
   sense of ruthless fecundity was overwhelming. You understood
   what a war it had been, and was yet, to keep terrestroid life going
   on this—unusually Terra-like—world.
   Diana remarked as much. "Makes you wonder how firm a grip
   we've got on any place, doesn't it?" she added. Her tone was
   hushed. "On our whole Empire, or civilization itself."
   "The Merseians have long been trying to pry us loose from
   existence," Targovi snarled.
   She gave him a troubled glance. "They can't be that bad. Can
   they? It's natural for a Tigery to think of them as purely evil.
   They'd've let your whole race, and the Seafolk's, die with Starkad.
   That plan of theirs depended on it. Only, well, it wasn't 'they/ not
   their tens of billions plottin' together, it was their government—a
   few key people in it, nobody else havin' any inklin'."
   "Granted. I overspoke myself. Humans are too many, too
   widespread for extermination. But they can be diminished,
   scattered, conquered, rendered powerless. That is the Mer-seian
   aim."
   "Why?" she wondered in hurt. "A whole galaxy, a whole universe,
   a technology that could make every last livin' bein' rich—why are
   we and they locked in this senseless feud?"
   "Because both our sides have governments," Targovi said,
   calming down.
   Presently: "Yet Terra's did rescue enough of my people that we
   have a chance to survive. I am not ungrateful, nor unaware of
   where Imhotep's best interest lies. I actually dream of serving
   Terra in a wider field than any one planet. What a grand game of
   play!"
   "I'd sure like to get out there too." Diana shook herself. "S'pose
   we stop talkin' like world-weary eighteen-year-olds—"
   "Sound counsel, coming from a seventeen-year-old."
   She laughed before she went on: "All right, down to business.
   You're a secret agent of the Navy, no matter how low in grade.
   You're onto somethin' havin' to do with the fight for the throne.
   You need some kind of help from Axor and me. That's about the
   whole of what I know."
   "I know not a great deal more myself," Targovi confessed. "What
   I have is a ghosting of hints, clues, incongruities. They whisper to
   me that naught which has been happening is what it pretends to
   be—that we are the victims of a gigantic hoax, like an ice bull
   which a hunter stampedes toward a cliff edge. But I have no
   proof. Who would listen to me, an outlaw?"
   Diana squeezed his hand. The fur was velvety under her fingers.
   "I will."
   "Thank you, small person who is no longer so small. Now, you
   too will find it hard to think ill of Admiral Sir Olaf Magnusson."
   "What?" For an instant she was startled, until she remembered
   the Tigery touching on this matter before. "Oh, maybe he has let
   his ambition, his ego run away with him. But we did get a rotten
   deal out in this sector. He alone kept the Merseians from
   overrunin' us—"
   "The crews of his ships had somewhat to do with it. Many died,
   many live crippled."
   "Sure, sure. That doesn't change the fact that Sir Olaf provided
   the leadership that saved us. 'Twasn't the first time he'd done that
   sort of thing, either. And still he wants peace. A strong and
   honest man on the throne, a man who's dickered with the
   Merseians in the past and made them respect him—maybe he
   really can give us what nobody else can, a lastin' peace. Maybe
   that really is worth all the blood and sorrow that Gerhart's
   resistance is costin'."
   "And mayhap not."
   "Who can tell? I can't. The Empire's had succession crises
   before. It'll prob'ly have them again in the future. What can we
   ordinary people do except try to ride them out?"
   "This crises may be unique." Targovi marshalled his words
   before he proceeded:
   "Let me give you the broad outlines first, details afterward. Terran
   personnel are not the only ones whom last year's clash left
   embittered. The Merseian captains were wholly inept. It wasn't
   like them in the least. Nor were the issues worth fighting over,
   save as a pretext for launching a total war against Terra, and
   everybody who has studied the matter knows Merseia isn't ready
   for that. Seemingly the eruption happened because their
   diplomats blundered, their lines of communication became
   tangled, and some hotheaded officers took more initiative than
   proper.
   "But once conflict was rolling, the Merseians should have won.
   They did have superior strength in these parts. Altogether like
   them would have been to break our defense, take this sector
   over, then call for a cease-fire; and at the conference table, they
   would have held higher cards than Terra. They would have come
   out greatly advantaged.
   "But they lost in space. Magnusson's outnumbered fleet cast
   them back with heavy casualties. We hear this was due his
   brilliance. It was not. It was due stupidity in the Merseian
   command.
   "Or was it?"
   They walked on mute for a spell, in the shadowy, steamy,
   twittering jungle.
   "Later will I explain how I collected this information from the
   Merseians themselves," Targovi said at length. "Some was
   readily available, if anybody had directed that statements made
   by war prisoners should be recorded and collated. Nobody did.
   Strange, ng-ng? The gathering of more exact, higher-level data
   put me to a fair amount of trouble. You may find the story
   entertaining.
   "Now I had also, in my rovings, picked up tales of things
   seen—spacecraft, especially, coming and going oftener than
   erstwhile—around Zacharia. This struck me as worthy of further
   investigation. No doubt the Zacharians have ever used their
   treaty-given privileges to carry on a bit of smuggling. Their
   industries need various raw materials and parts from elsewhere.
   In return, they have customers beyond the Patrician System.
   Why pay more taxes on the traffic than is unavoidable? The
   Zacharians never, m-m, overindulged in contraband. Rather, the
   slight measure of free trade benefited Daedalus in general. But
   of recent months, folk on the mainland or out at sea—on this
   horizonless planet—have marked added landings and takeoffs,
   offtimes of ships that belong to no class they recognized. They
   thought little of it. I, who put their accounts together, thought
   much."
   "You're worried about the Zacharians? Those cloned people?
   Why, how many of them ever set foot off their island?"
   "Not cloned, precisely," he reminded. Having rarely been on this
   globe before, and then as a child, she had the ignorance which
   follows from lack of interaction. She had better get rid of it. "They
   reproduce in the common fashion. But they are genetically near-
   identical, apart from sex. A hermit society, theirs, despite its far-
   flung enterprises. Nobody really knows what goes on inside it,
   unless they be other Zacharians dwelling elsewhere in the
   Empire."
   "Well, but, Targovi," Diana protested, "an individualist like you
   should be the last to think somebody's up to no good, just
   because they're different and value their privacy."
   "In times of danger—and the winds were foul with danger,
   already then—you cannot afford to assume that anyone is
   trustworthy. Certainly not ere you've investigated them. A shame,
   from the moral viewpoint; but secret agents cannot afford morals,
   either."
   "What'd you do?"
   "What doctrine called for, my dear. Having found all this spoor, I
   reported to my superior. As it happens, he was at top of
   Intelligence operations on Daedalus, Captain Jerrold Ronan.
   That was logical, when the Patrician System had never hitherto
   required surveillance of the truly intensive kind. What was not
   logical was Ronan's reaction. He forbade me to follow the trail
   any farther or bespeak it to anybody whatsoever, and ordered me
   straight back to Imhotep, despite the fact that this was an
   implausible move for a trader whose cargo was half unsold."
   "And you didn't give up!" Diana cried. "You took it on yourself to
   keep on trackin'. Oh, you are a Tigery!"
   "Well, it was irresistible," he said. "I had not flatly been barred
   from Daedalus, simply warned that I might be marooned—which
   was, itself, queer, for why should the sector command await any
   new emergency? In you and Axor, I found what seemed the
   perfect—stalking horses, is that your human phrase? Gently
   nudged this way or that on your innocent quest, you would draw
   attention off me. Never meant I to endanger you—"
   "Though you didn't hesitate to take a chance with us." Diana
   caught his hand again. "Don't you mind. I don't. And who'd want
   to shoot at gentle old Axor? Killin' him would be a contract job
   anyway."
   Fangs flashed as Targovi grinned. "What a waste, him a pacifist!"
   Soberly: "Well, the rebellion began—not a complete surprise to
   us—as we were approaching Daedalus. Needs must I pounce on
   my decision. We could return to Imhotep and abide there, safe
   and impotent, while events played themselves out. Or we could
   plunge forward and land. Did we do so, then belike a computer
   program had my meddlesome self listed for indefinite detention.
   I chose to risk that. If I decamped, you and Axor should not
   suffer worse than inconvenience.
   "The rest of the story you know, until this day."
   They walked on. The trail bent out of the woods, toward the verge
   of the riverbank. Long green blades rustled under a slow breeze.
   They resembled grass, but were not. A few boats traversed the
   water. The absence of aircraft overhead had begun to seem
   eerie. Patricius was declining toward mists that it turned
   sulfurous, that veiled the distant sea. Although this was summer,
   and Daedalus has an axis more tilted then Terra's, daylight is
   always brief; or else, if you reckon the sun-ring, it is never absent.
   "Tell me about today," Diana said softly.
   Targovi did. She clapped hands together in glee. "Hey, what a
   stunt, what a stunt!"
   "Let us hope nobody looks too closely at the mise-en-scène."
   Targovi had acquired a good many-tag-ends of human
   languages other than Anglic. "I think your main part in the act will
   be to divert thoughts away from it."
   She squinted westward. "You aim to get us to Zacharia, then?"
   "Yes, and snoop about."
   "What do you think you might find?"
   Targovi shrugged with his tendrils. "It is a capital mistake to
   theorize in advance of the data. I have my suspicions, naturally.
   Clear does it seem, the Zacharians have close connection to
   Magnusson. For example, the lady Pele casually mentioned
   bringing in another person soon—which means by air, at a time
   when air traffic is restricted. Mayhap they've decided Magnusson
   will be the best Emperor, from their viewpoint. In any case, what
   support have they been giving him? Unmistakably, it's of
   importance. What hope they to gain? I doubt they nourish any
   mystique of the Terran Empire as an end in itself."
   "Who does, any more?" Diana mumbled.
   "Some of us deem its survival the lesser evil. But no matter that."
   Targovi paused. "Here is where I fall silent. Did I tell you my
   guess, you could well become tense, nervous, wary—and the
   Zacharians would see. They are not stupid. Ai, they are not
   stupid! For that matter, I seldom voice my thoughts to myself.
   They could be mistaken. I hope to arrive open-minded, no
   blinkers upon my senses."
   "How about me?" Diana asked slowly.
   "Relax and enjoy," he answered. "That will be your best service."
   "And keep ready." She touched the haft of her Tigery knife.
   "And, aye, prevent Axor from blurting out awkward information,"
   Targovi said. "Can you?"
   She deliberated. "M-m-m … well, he scarcely knows any more
   than you want him to. The main inconsistency, I think, is that you
   say you sold him passage to Daedalus—you bein' a huckster
   with an eye for any credits you could make—while he thinks you
   carried us out of benevolence. I'll slip him a hint that I paid you,
   from a bigger money stash than I'd admitted havin', for the sake
   of the trip. Not that anybody's likely to quiz him, but if they do, that
   should satisfy them. Otherwise … m-m-m … he did see you run
   from arrest in Aurea—Yes. Got it. You panicked because
   Tigeries can't stand long imprisonment. You were embarrassed
   to tell Pele Zachary that, because in fact the patrol soon caught
   you. Havin' been cleared anyhow and released, you followed us
   on an express boat the way you said." Laughter. "Yay, that should
   make you out to be the kind of half-civilized bumbler you want to
   seem!"
   His gaze drew downright respectful. "You have it, I believe." Just
   the same, he felt compelled to add: "Remember, do not let
   yourself get caught up in this. Play calm, play safe. The last thing
   we want is an uproar."
   "I understand," she said, "though I'll bet we get one regardless."
Chapter 16
   The aircar came from the east.
   That meant, almost surely, from Aurea; and that in turn could
   mean trouble—fight, flight, outlawry proclaimed across the entire
   planet. Ordinarily Targovi would have felt no such forebodings. A
   number of vehicles still flew, some of them touching at Lulach,
   and they weren't all military. Not even a majority were. Civilian
   needs must still be served, if Daedalus was to continue providing
   Magnusson with the stuff of war.
   But Pele went to meet this arrival.
   At first Targovi knew no cause for apprehension. Rather, his
   blood flowed quick when she emerged from her building and
   strode off toward the airfield. He had grown weary of waiting. His
   stakeout had degenerated into routine, which never took long to
   bore him.
   For a large part of each fair-weather rotation period he settled
   down under a shading kura tree beside a main street. There he
   eked out his dwindled exchequer by telling Toborko folk tales to
   whomever would stop, listen, and eventually toss him a coin or
   two. It was quite plausible that he would do this, and the fact that
   his position gave him a view of Zacharia House signified nothing,
   did it? At other times he wandered idly about; when nobody was
   looking, he might scramble onto untenanted boughs from whose
   leafage he could invisibly observe; he seldom left the place out
   of his sight, and then it was by prearrangement with Diana.
   The girl passed her time in "a lot of pokin' around and people-
   watchin'," so it was no surprise that she occasionally lounged
   beneath the kura and followed the passing scene. Cynthians
   often paused to exchange banter with her. Several male human
   residents did likewise, and tried to get her to accompany them
   elsewhere. She accepted a few of their invitations, but just for
   times when Targovi would be on watch and—as they
   discovered—just to go sightseeing or canoeing or to a tavern for
   a little drinking and dancing.
   She had persuaded Axor to postpone acceptance of the job he
   was offered, in hopes of something better. He took rambles or
   swims that covered a great many kilometers, and else usually
   sprawled in front of a terminal screening books from the public
   database. When Diana asked him if he wasn't lonely, he replied,
   "Why, no. You are kind to think of me. However, I always have
   God, and am making some splendid new friends. All of
   yesterday I visited with Montaigne." She didn't inquire who that
   was, not having hours in which to sit and hear him.
   Since Targovi kept most of the vigils, it was only probable that
   Pele should set forth under his gaze. That was on an overcast
   afternoon, when odors of wilderness lay rank and dank in
   windless heat. Yet a tingle went through him. She had frequently
   emerged on errands that proved to be commonplace, or else to
   saddle a horse she kept at the inn and ride it away in the night,
   down game trails through the forest. He had been unable to track
   her then, and didn't believe it mattered. Today she walked fast,
   an eagerness in her gait that he thought he also glimpsed on her
   face; and the path she took among the trees wound toward the
   airfield.
   Targovi had been yarning to half a dozen adult Cynthians and the
   young they had brought. He was becoming popular in that regard.
   "—And so," he said hastily, "the warrior Elgha and her
   companions heard from the wise female Dzhannit that they must
   make their way to the Door of the Evil Root. Ominous though that
   sounded, Dzhannit assured them that beyond it lay wisdom—not
   money, as Terrans might suppose, but knowledge of many new
   things. Long and hard would the road be, with more adventures
   upon it than can now be told." To a chorus of protests: "No, no. I
   must not keep you past your sleep-times. Besides, it looks like
   rain, and better to stop here than in the middle of, say, a thrilling
   combat with the horrible, ravenous Irs monster. Tomorrow, my
   dears, I will resume."
   As he bounded off at the speed which high-gravity muscles
   made possible, he wondered whether he would in fact ever finish
   the story. Well, if not, maybe someday one of those cubs, grown
   up, would hear it on Imhotep and remember him; or, a fonder
   hope, another Tigery would come to Lulach and get a request for
   it.
   Pele had disappeared from view. That was desirable. She
   mustn't know she was being trailed. Targovi's tendrils picked the
   faint traces of her individual scent-complex out of the air. Yes,
   she was definitely bound for the field. He turned his pace into a
   soundless, casual-looking saunter that kept him in every shadow
   or behind every bole he could find. The intermingling of town and
   woods was a blessing to detectives.
   It was also the reason why cars did not lower themselves at their
   destinations, but required a landing field like larger vehicles. That
   was a paved hectare on the outskirts, with a couple of hangars
   and a repair shop for whoever had need. A wire mesh fence
   surrounded it against stray wild animals. Periodic charges of
   poison kept the Daedalan jungle at bay. Everywhere yonder
   mass crowded murky beneath the low gray sky.
   Pele Zachary waited at the gate. Hardly anyone else was in sight.
   The last part of the way here had been deserted. Nobody had
   reason to come nowadays, except to meet a specific flight. She
   must have gotten a call about this one. Targovi sidled into a
   thicket.
   The teardrop shape of a car glinted downward. He bared his
   teeth. It was coming not from the west but the east!
   It braked in racer style and dropped into a parking stall. A man
   got out, carrying a suitcase. He proceeded to the gate, where he
   and the woman kissed briefly before trading words. Side by side,
   they started toward the settlement.
   When they had gone by Targovi, he stole after them through the
   brush that walled the street. The turf that made a tough surface
   for traffic was genetically engineered to kill any invading growth.
   He required all his hunter's skill to move without rustle or crackle.
   It would have been easier at home. The dense Imhotepan
   atmosphere carried sound more loudly, but also let him hear
   better, providing added feedback. In Terran-like air he had often
   slipped small amplifiers into his ears. Those were in the secret
   compartments of Moonjumper, along with the rest of his
   specialized gear. He must make do with what nature had
   provided him.
   That was not a gross handicap. He heard almost as well as a
   normal human; and his tendrils picked up vibrations too, which
   gave him useful cues. They whom he stalked were speaking
   Anglic. The accent was unique, but Targovi was accustomed to a
   variety of dialects. He caught most of what reached him and
   could deduce the rest. It was not the sort of conversation that
   called for whispers. Whoever accidentally overheard a part would
   make nothing special of it.
   "I expected someone like Ares or Cernunnos," Pele was saying,
   "and sooner."
   The man shrugged. He was her male counterpart, aside from
   being apparently younger. His height was greater by some ten
   centimeters, shoulders more broad, hips narrow, build generally
   muscular and masculine; but as athletic as she likewise was, the
   difference became less striking than it might have been. The
   same smooth olive complexion contrasted with brief white
   garments, the same brown hair clustered on a similarly
   brachycephalic head. His visage was distinctive, but almost
   entirely because of being a version of hers—larger, bonier, yet
   just as regular. When he spoke, his baritone had a
   harmoniousness of its own.
   "They didn't delay consideration of your word on Zacharia," he
   said, "but inasmuch as I was in Aurea, they decided to have me
   stop on my way home and do the further investigating. If nothing
   else, I might have picked up some relevant information."
   Targovi's pelt stood on end. The information could include those
   data he had been at such pains to suppress locally.
   Well, if so, he'd be forewarned, and would hurry off to make what
   escape arrangements he was able for himself and his comrades.
   That was what justified the risk he took in this shadowing.
   "Did you?" Pele asked.
   Straining to hear, Targovi blundered. A withe whipped past him
   and smote a stand of cane. Leaves swished, stalks clacked. The
   man halted, as instantly alert as any Tigery. "What was that?" he
   barked.
   Targovi was bound up the nearest tree. No human could have
   done it that fast. Besides his strength, he had agility, reaction
   time, and claws on his feet. Bark and vines alike he seized. A
   leathery-winged creature croaked alarm and fluttered out of the
   foliage.
   "It was only—" The woman went unheard. The man left the path
   and thrust into the brush, peering about, a hand on the grip of the
   pistol belted at his waist. Zacharians had various legal privileges
   … Targovi flattened himself on a branch.
   "You are too nervous, Kukulkan," Pele said. "We always hear
   animals blundering around. They aren't edible, you see, and they
   don't devour crops, so they're hardly ever hunted."
   The man satisfied himself. "No doubt you're right," he said. "I
   admit I am rather on edge."
   "Why?"
   He and she resumed walking. In a minute they would be beyond
   earshot. Targovi gauged his chances. He was no Cynthian, to try
   arboreal feats, but—He crouched and sprang. Soaring above the
   humans, he caught a limb ahead of them and did his best to
   blend with it.
   This time they paid no heed to whatever they heard. "—may have
   to start Phase Two earlier than planned," Kukulkan Zachary said.
   "If only interstellar communications were faster! All they had to
   show me was a single message, though it came directly from
   Magnusson. In any event, we could find ourselves suddenly very
   busy."
   "Hm." Pele tugged her chin. "Then you don't think we should
   invite those three outsiders?"
   "That doesn't follow. I didn't mean we'll inevitably come under
   high pressure in the near future. If it does happen, we can dump
   them back on the mainland fast enough. They do sound
   interesting, and—who knows?—they might provide us with some
   extra cover."
   Pele snickered. "I know what you'd like to cover."
   Kukulkan grinned. "Those recordings you took of the girl are
   attractive. I was busy my entire time in Aurea."
   "I've been busy but solitary too," Pele murmured.
   He laughed in his turn and laid an arm about her waist. "Let's do
   something about that." They went on close together.
   Targovi stayed behind. It was manifest that they would utter
   nothing more of any importance until well after they were safely
   inside their building. Also, they were entering habitation, and
   soon a Cynthian was bound to notice him aloft. That might cause
   gossip.
   He returned to the ground and ambled lazily. Within him flickered
   fires. He had learned as much as he dared hope for. The
   Zacharians had no suspicions of him … thus far. They actually
   liked the idea of bringing his party to their island. What would
   come of that, only the gods knew, and maybe not they either.
   Javak the Fireplayer might once again take a hand in what would
   otherwise have been the working out of fate.
Chapter 17
   Three hundred kilometers west of the mainland lifted Cliffness,
   the prow of Zacharia. Thence the island reached another two
   hundred, and from north to south eighty at its widest. Diana first
   saw it as the vehicle bearing her came into clear air. It still lay well
   ahead and below, but spread in its entirety by the strange
   perspectives of Daedalus. "O-o-oh-h," she breathed.
   "A beautiful sight, true?" Kukulkan Zachary said. She barely
   noticed at first how his arm slipped around her waist, and later
   she didn't mind. "How glad I am that the seeing conditions were
   right for you."
   Together with Axor and Targovi, they stood in an observation
   lounge. Since a good-sized craft was needed to carry the
   Wodenite in comfort, Kukulkan had gone all-out and summoned
   a first class passenger cruiser. It wasn't plying the global lanes
   anyway in wartime. Only ribs of metal crossed this section of the
   hull; the rest was vitryl, thick and strong but totally transparent.
   Apart from bulkheads fore and aft, you stood above the world in
   the middle of heaven.
   Given the swift spin of Daedalus, Patricius did not much affect
   the doings of humans. This was a night flight because the hour
   chanced to be convenient. The sky ranged from deep violet-blue
   overhead, where a few stars glimmered, to berylline near the
   waters. Eastward towered clouds, their peaks and ridges frosted
   by the moon they hid, their lower steeps and canyons amethyst,
   their rains gleaming bronze and silver from the sun-ring. That lay
   around the rest of the Phosphoric Ocean, not as a boundary but
   as a shiningness unimaginably remote, within which the curve of
   the planet lost itself in its own vastness. There the sea gleamed
   like damascened steel; inwardly it shaded through turquoise to
   jet. Upon those darknesses swirled and sparked green fire, the
   light of tiny life that rode the surges.
   Amidst all else, Zacharia was splendor and enigma. Most of it
   showed dimly verdant, the contours making intricate patterns,
   argent-threaded with rivers, lakes, and mists. Not far from the
   north coast a mountain range ran east to west, its snowpeaks
   now roseate, its flanks falling down into valleys which were
   mazes of blue-black. Light from dwellings sprinkled diamond
   dust across the island and several outlying cays. Movable motes
   betokened travelers in the air or down on the water.
   The transport throbbed and the deck tilted subtly underfoot as it
   began descent toward the wonder.
   Kukulkan slightly tightened his embrace while he steered Diana
   toward a sideboard.
   "Lacking a spaceship's acceleration compensators, we shall
   soon have to take seats for our landing," he said, his voice livelier
   than the words. "Let us enjoy a glass of champagne first—and
   many afterward."
   "You're so, so, uh, kind," she stammered.
   His exotic features lofted a smile. "Elementary courtesy, donna,"
   he said, lips close to her ear; his breath stirred her hair. "Although
   in your case—" He let her go in a hand-gliding fashion and
   poured into both their goblets, with a glance toward Axor and
   Targovi. That was pro forma, when neither of them cared for the
   wine. But it was typical of him, Diana thought.
   He could not have been more gracious back in Lulach. Nor,
   granted, could Pele Zachary have been, his—sibling?—but she
   was reserved and formal while Kukulkan had laid himself out.
   Oh, yes, Diana knew full well when a man was undertaking to be
   charming. The question was whether he could manage it or not,
   and the answer depended on him, on how much thoughtfulness
   was behind the fine manners. For instance, no matter the skill
   with which he flattered her, she would have understood him
   entirely and scornfully if he had neglected her friends. Instead he
   gave them, if anything, more attention, and not just time but
   obvious concentration, real listening. Especially to Axor—Sure,
   he did have the responsibility of deciding whether to import such
   an odd pilgrim. However, he could have gone about it like some
   kind of personnel officer, brisk and overbearing. After all, it was
   the wanderers who were asking to be taken there, not the other
   way around.
   Kukulkan had not. He'd arranged a lovely lunch at Pele's house
   and been marvelous to everybody. Diana had not yet sorted out
   her memories of the conversation. They were too dazzling.
   Kukulkan had been out, across the Empire, to world after world
   … At the same time she was haunted by one remark. "Oh, yes,
   we need newness, we Zacharians, more than ever in this year of
   enclosure; we need it as we need food and air and light. I begin
   to believe that you can provide some, and so put us in your
   debt."
   That was all. Talk had slipped elsewhere. She found herself
   yearning to know what he meant. Had she the right to abet spying
   on him, to violate his hospitality and trust? But she had given
   Targovi her promise, Targovi her brotherling, the son of Dragoika
   who had been like a mother to her after Maria her blood-mother
   died—and if he found no evidence of wrongdoing, what harm
   would she have done?
   How could she say? How dared she say?
   Kukulkan's glass clinked against hers. "Happy morrows," he
   toasted. She smiled back and tossed off a longer draught than
   was sophisticated. Tartness danced down her throat, bubbles
   tickled her nostrils. Presently she felt almost at ease—aware,
   without any belligerence, of the muscles beneath her skin and the
   Tigery knife at her belt. She hoped that whatever happened
   would indeed be happy; but whatever it turned out to be, surely
   an adventure awaited her.
   Nacre Bay was a broad half-circle cut into the north coast. The
   Mencius Hills formed an inner arc, with a narrow flatland between
   them and the water. Through them flowed the Averroes River,
   glacier-fed by the Hellas Mountains farther south. Janua
   occupied the shore and the slopes behind.
   It was not a town. Kukulkan had explained that Zacharia bore
   none. Most buildings stood by themselves, usually rather far
   apart. Aircars and telecommunications linked them as well as if
   they formed a village. However, it was most practical to have
   certain things close together—the small spaceport, a large
   airfield, a harbor for surface vessels, associated facilities—and in
   the course of time various industries and institutions had naturally
   located in the same area—which meant more homes and service
   enterprises—The region of relatively concentrated population got
   the name Janua. By ordinary standards it was dispersed enough,
   sprawling without official boundaries across more than two
   hundred square kilometers. As their pilot brought the cruiser
   down, Diana saw the same blend of forest and housing as at
   Lulach.
   No, she realized, not the same at all. The hills were landscaped
   into terraces, ridgeways, contoured hollows, graceful sweeps of
   greensward. Gardens abounded. Trees grew orderly along roads
   or in bowers or groves. Some of the latter were quite large, but
   had clearly been planted and tended. They, like vegetation
   everywhere, were Terran, as near as she could judge. That was
   not very near, when she knew the life of the mother planet mostly
   from pictures, but Kukulkan had told her that the original settlers
   eradicated everything native and reshaped their new home
   according to their will.
   Such houses as she glimpsed were unique in her experience.
   They seemed to be of stone or a stonelike synthetic, rectangular
   in plan, peak-roofed, fronted or surrounded by porticos, their
   colors subdued when not plain white. Even the large utilitarian
   structures down close to the shore followed that general style.
   She thought it was pretty—doubtless gorgeous when you got a
   close look—but already wondered if it might not prove
   monotonous. A frowning, rough-walled compound on the heights
   was well-nigh a relief to her eyes.
   The spaceport was probably a standard model. She couldn't be
   certain, because she got only the most fleeting sight of it during
   approach. It was on the untenanted southern slope of the range,
   opposite the fortress-like place, as if to keep such inelegance
   from intruding on vision. The airfield, on the eastern rim of the
   bay, was screened by tall hedges below which ran flowerbeds.
   They landed. Passengers unsnapped their harnesses and rose
   from their seats. "Welcome to Zacharia," said Kukulkan gravely,
   and offered Diana his arm. She didn't recognize the gesture. He
   chuckled and, his free hand taking hers, demonstrated what he
   had in mind. A delicious shiver went through her.
   "Tomorrow we'll start showing you about," he said.
   Axor cleared his throat, somewhat like a volcano. "We should not
   unduly impose on your generosity," he boomed. "If I may meet
   the appropriate persons and make use of the appropriate
   materials—"
   "You shall, you shall," Kukulkan promised. "But first we must get
   you settled into your quarters, and let you rest after your journey."
   The flight had been neither long nor taxing. Nevertheless Diana
   confessed a degree of weariness to herself. So incredibly much
   excitement!
   Kukulkan escorted her into the terminal. A wall displayed a mural
   which puzzled her. It depicted a male and female human, nude,
   of the variant she had heard called "Mongoloid," emerging from
   clouds wherein drifted hints of stars, like a galaxy a-borning. "An
   ancestral creation myth," the man told her. "To us it
   symbolizes—Ah, but here is the greeting committee."
   Almost the only folk present at this hour, they were four and, like
   the pilot, not as precisely similar in appearance as Kukulkan and
   Pele were, to that pair or to one another. While the gene pool in
   the population was fixed, homozygosity for every desired
   trait—including some that were not sex-linked—had proven to be
   a biological impossibility. Discrete combinations appeared in
   each generation; if you counted the slightest of the changes that
   were rung, they were manyfold. Yet the "family" resemblance
   overrode any minor variations in height, coloring, cast of features.
   Sex and age and the marks left by life were the principal
   differences between Zacharians. These were all older than the
   new arrivals, and, over and above the basic pridefulness of their
   breed, bore an air of distinction.
   Their garb was what Diana would learn was formal: sandals on
   the feet, wreaths on the brows, the two men in tunics and the two
   women in flowing but constraining wraparound gowns, white with
   colored borders. Their names were foreign to her, Vishnu and
   Heimdal male, Kwan Yin and Isis female. The latter woman took
   the word, her gaze on Axor: "Welcome. It is an honor and will be
   a pleasure to receive an outstanding scholar. I shall be your
   introducer to the Apollonium, since I am the one among us most
   familiar with the subject in which we hear you are interested. But
   my colleagues in general anticipate learning much from you."
   "Ochla, I came to, to beg knowledge of you," the Wodenite
   faltered. "Although—no, I will not discuss religion more than is
   necessary, unless you desire, but the exchange of … ideas,
   information;—" An earthquake quiver of avidity went through him
   from snout to tailtip. His dorsal plates moved like a saw, the light
   rippled off his scales.
   Heimdal said to Targovi, on a note of polite skepticism: "Being in
   offplanet trade, I am willing to discuss possibilities with you. I
   cannot encourage optimism. The local market for Imhotepan
   curiosities was saturated long ago."
   "We can at least talk," the Tigery replied, "and then mayhap I can,
   by your leave, look about this neighborhood. Something may
   occur to me, whereby we can both profit." Diana could sense the
   watchfulness beneath his affability.
   "Come," Kukulkan murmured in her ear. "If you have no set
   purpose of your own among us, I'll be delighted to be your
   dragoman—provided I can fend off my envious brethren."
   "Don't you have work to do?" she asked, anxious not to
   overreach her self.
   He shrugged and smiled. "My work is somewhat special, and at
   present I am, shall we say, on standby."
   They went from the terminal. After the heat and damp of the
   valley, sea breezes were a benediction. A flatbed vehicle waited
   for Axor, in which Isis joined him; the rest got into a ground limo.
   Diana was aware of a boulevard flanked by trees and abstract
   sculpture, of windows aglow, of other cars but not many, of
   pedestrians and occasional horseback riders—handsome,
   physically perfect, eerily alike—The ride ended at a house which
   stood on what appeared to be a campus, to gauge by lawns,
   trees, and larger neighbor buildings.
   The muted sunlight of night showed that the portico columns
   were fluted, their capitals running out in pleasing geometrical
   shapes. A frieze overhead depicted individuals of assorted
   sophont species, coming from right and left to a Zacharian who
   sat enthroned at the center. Diana couldn't make out whether the
   Zacharian was man or woman. Within, a mosaic anteroom gave
   on a spacious chamber with comfortable furniture, luxurious
   drapes, well-chosen pictures, laden bookshelves, archaic
   fireplace, everything meant for conversation.
   "This is a hospice for visiting scholars," Kwan Yin explained.
   "Ordinarily they come from elsewhere on the island or the cays,
   to confer in person or to use specialized equipment. But we have
   lodged outsiders." Her courtesy remained intact as she added,
   "You will understand that it is beneath our dignity to be servants.
   Besides, we assume you will prefer some privacy. Therefore,
   this house is yours for the duration of your stay. We will conduct
   you through it and demonstrate the appliances. They are
   completely robotic, no menial work required. A selection of
   meals that we hope you will enjoy, when you are not dining with
   colleagues, is ready for heating. Supplements needed for
   Wodenite and Starkadian health are included. Should anything be
   lacking, you have only to call the service department of the
   Apollonium. Additional communicator codes are in the directory
   program. Please feel free to ask any questions and make any
   requests at any time."
   A saying of her mother's, that Maria had said she got from
   Dominic Flandry, who had gotten it from somebody else, came
   back to Diana. "This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and
   call the cat a bastard." She felt guilty, ungrateful, about the
   irreverence.
   "We have modified two rooms as best we could for our
   xenosophont guests," Vishnu added. "I trust they will prove
   satisfactory."
   The four finally left Diana alone in the boudoir assigned her. It
   was pleasant. The pictures on the walls were conventional
   scenes and historic portraits, but a hospice should stay neutral
   and the sight of the Hellas peaks from her south window was
   breathtaking. A bath adjoined. Closet and drawers held a variety
   of garments closer to her exact size than she could reasonably
   have expected. Also set forth were tobacco cigarettes, which
   she would not use; marijuana smokes, which she might; and a
   bottle of excellent whisky, which she immediately did.
   Wallowing in a tubful of hot water, prior to a small supper and a
   long sleep, she found it unbelievable that Targovi should imagine
   evil of these people. Or at least, she forced herself to admit, she
   did not want to find it believable.
   Heimdal would call on the Tigery and Isis on the Wodenite, for
   preliminary sightseeing and getting acquainted. Diana's guide
   would be Kukulkan. She gulped her brunch, marginally noticing
   that it was tasty, and had nothing but mumbles for her
   tablemates, before she returned to her room to dress for the
   occasion.
   How? It was a problem new to her. While her mother lived, boys
   had begun shyly inviting her to picnics or dances or toboggan
   parties, that kind of thing; but they were her sort, from families
   stationed in an outpost where finery was rare. Since then she'd
   been encountering grown men and learning considerable
   wariness of them. Some were decent, of course, and she could
   have been safely married by now if she had wanted. The stars
   beckoned too brilliantly, though.
   And for Kukulkan Zachary, the stars were reachable.
   "Easy, lass, easy," she warned herself. Nevertheless her hand
   shook a bit while she combed luster back into her hair and
   secured it with a silver headband. After agonizing, she had
   chosen a white frock, knee-length, suitable for a broad leather
   belt; sturdy sandals, good to walk distances in; and a hooded
   blue cloak with a bronze-and-ruby snake brooch. Given such an
   outfit she could wear her knife as a very natural accessory. Not
   that she expected trouble. What she did need to do, in the
   middle of this overwhelmingness, was proclaim—to herself as
   much as anybody else—that she remained her own woman.
   Kukulkan waited in the living room. He rose and bowed in
   Imperial court style. He himself wore everyday Terran-type shirt
   (saffron, open halfway down the chest), slacks (dark blue, form-
   hugging), and shoes (sturdy, scuffed, lots of hiking behind them).
   "Good day, milady," he greeted. "We're lucky. Magnificent
   weather, and nothing to hurry for."
   "Good day," she replied, annoyed that her voice fluttered like her
   pulse. "You're so kind."
   He took her hand. "My pleasure, I assure you. My joy." How white
   his teeth were, how luminous his slanty eyes.
   "Well, I—I'm at your call, I reckon. Uh, what were you thinkin' of
   for today?"
   "M-m, the afternoon is wearing on. We might start with a stroll up
   to Falconer's Park on the western headland. The name comes
   from a tremendous view. Later—well, the night will be clear again,
   and things stay open around the clock. Things like museums and
   art galleries, I mean. We don't have the ordinary sort of public
   entertainments or restaurants or anything like that. But automated
   food and drink services aren't bad, and eventually—well, if we
   happen to end at my home, I scramble a mean egg, and all we
   Zacharians keep choice wine cellars."
   She laughed, more consciously than was her wont. "Thanks very
   much. Let's see what I can do before I collapse."
   They left. A fresh breeze blew over the campus, smelling of
   grass lately mown. It soughed through silvery trembling of
   poplars, dark stoutness of chestnuts. A few persons were afoot
   among the ivied buildings. They wore ordinary clothes, and for
   the most part were getting along in years. But … scholars,
   scientists, lords and ladies of the arts, whose minds ranged
   beyond this heaven—?
   "You've built yourselves a real paradise, haven't you?" Diana
   ventured.
   The response surprised her. "There are those who would
   consider it a hell. This is ours, as water is for the fish and air for
   the bird. Each is forever denied the environment of the other."
   "Humans can go into both," she said, mostly to show that she too
   had a brain. "You Zacharians get around on Daedalus, yes,
   throughout the Empire, don't you?" Smitten by realization, she
   hesitated before adding: "But we, the rest of us, we couldn't live
   here, could we? Even if you allowed us."
   "We have special needs," he answered soberly. "We have never
   claimed to be … common humans. Foremost among our needs
   is the conserving of our heritage. Only here is it secure.
   Elsewhere our kind exists as individuals or nuclear families, all
   too susceptible to going wild."
   "Uh, goin wild ?
   "Outbreeding. Outmarrying, if you will. Losing themselves and
   their descendants in the ruck."
   She stiffened. He saw and went on quickly. "Forgive me. That
   sounded more snobbish than I intended. It's a mere phrase in
   the local dialect. If you reflect upon our history you'll understand
   why we are determined to maintain our identity."
   Interest quelled umbrage. Besides, he was intelligent and good-
   looking and they were bound along a stately street, downhill
   toward a bay whose minute planet life made the water shine
   iridescent. Persons they passed gave her glances—marvelling
   from children, knowing from adults, admiring and desiring from
   young men. Often the latter hailed Kukulkan and moved close in
   unmistakable hopes of an introduction. He gave them a signal
   which she guessed meant, "Scram. I saw her first." The
   compliment was as refreshing as the wind off the sea."
   "Frankly, I'm ignorant of your past," she acknowledged. "I'm a
   waif, remember, who'd heard little more than the name of, your
   people."
   "Well, that can be remedied," said Kukulkan cordially, "though not
   in an hour, when our origins lie almost a thousand years back in
   time, on Terra itself."
   "I know that, but hardly any more, not how or why it happened or
   anything. Tell me, please."
   Pride throbbed through the solemnity of his tone. He was a
   superb speaker.
   "As you wish. Travel beyond the Solar System was just
   beginning. Matthew Zachary saw what an unimaginably great
   challenge it cast at humankind, peril as well as promise,
   hardihood required for hope, adaptability essential but not at the
   cost of integrity. A geneticist, he set himself the goal of creating
   a race that could cope with the infinite strangeness it would find.
   Yes, machines were necessary; but they were not sufficient.
   People must go into the deeps too, if the whole human adventure
   were not to end in whimpering pointlessness. And go they would.
   It was in the nature of the species. Matthew Zachary wanted to
   provide them the best possible leaders."
   Kukulkan waved his left hand, since Diana had his right arm. "No,
   not 'supermen', not any such nonsense," he continued. "Why
   lose humanness in the course of giving biological organisms
   attributes which would always be superior in machines? He
   sought the optimum specimen—the all-purpose human, to use a
   colloquialism. What would be the marks of such a person? Some
   were obvious. A high, quick, wide-ranging intelligence;
   psychological stability; physical strength, coordination, organs
   and functions normal or better, resistance to disease, swift
   recuperation from any sickness or injury that did occur and was
   not irreversible—you can write the list yourself."
   "I thought a lot of that had already been done," Diana said.
   "Of course," Kukulkan agreed. "Genetic treatment was in
   process of eliminating heritable defects. To this day, they
   seldom recur, in spite of ongoing mutation and in spite of the fact
   that comparatively few prospective parents avail themselves of
   genetic services. Many can't, where they are. I daresay your
   conception was entirely random, 'natural.' But thanks to ancestors
   who did have the care, you are unlikely to come down with cancer
   or schizophrenia or countless other horrors that you may never
   even have heard named.
   "Still, this does not mean that any zygote is as good as any other.
   The variations and combinations of the genes we accept as
   normal make such an enormous number that the universe won't
   last long enough to see every possibility realized. So we get the
   strong and the feeble, the wise and the foolish, ad infinitum.
   Besides, Zachary understood that that optimum human is
   unspecialized, is excellent at doing most things but not apt to be
   the absolute champion at any one of them.
   "What is the optimum, except the type which can flourish under
   the widest possible range of conditions? Zachary acquired a
   female associate, Yukiko Nomura, who influenced his thinking.
   She may be responsible for the considerable proportion of
   Mongoloid traits in us. For example, the eyefold is useful in dry,
   cold, windy climes, and does no harm in others. By way of
   contrast, a black skin is ideal in the tropics of Terra under
   primitive conditions, or today on a planet like Nyanza; and it does
   not prevent its owner from settling in a different environment; but
   it does require more dietary iodine than a lighter complexion, and
   iodine shortages are not uncommon in nature. I could go on, but
   no matter now. And I admit that a number of the choices were
   arbitrary, perhaps on the basis of personal preference, when
   some choice had to be made.
   "In the end, after years of labor and frequent failure, Zachary and
   Nomura put together the cell that became ancestral to us. It is not
   true what a derogatory legend says, that they supplied all the
   DNA. Their purpose was too grand for vanity. What they gave of
   their own was that small fraction they knew to be suitable. The
   rest they got elsewhere, and nearly everything underwent
   improvement before going into the ultimate cell.
   "That cell they then caused to divide into two. For one X
   chromosome they substituted a Y, thus making the second cell
   male. They put both in an exogenetic apparatus and nurtured
   them to term. The infants they adopted, and raised to maturity
   and their destiny. Those were Izanami and Izanagi, mother and
   father of the new race.
   "Ever afterward, we have guarded our heritage."
   There was a long silence. Man and girl left the street for a road
   that swung out between trees and estates, toward the western
   promontory. Patricius declined, its light going tawny. The wind
   blew cooler, with a tang of salt.
   "And you marry only amongst yourselves?" Diana asked finally.
   "Yes. We must, or soon cease to be what we are. Permanent
   union with an outsider means excommunication. M-m—this is not
   boastfulness, it is realism—we do consider our genes a leaven,
   which we are glad to provide to deserving members of the
   general species. You are a rather extraordinary young lady,
   yourself."
   Her face heated. "And not yet ready for motherhood, thanks!"
   "Oh, I would never dream of distressing you."
   She switched the subject back in a hurry. "Doesn't inbreedin'
   make for defective offspring?"
   "Not when there are no defects in the parents. As for the
   inevitable mutations, tests for those are routine, early in
   pregnancy. You may find our noninvasive DNA-scanning
   technique interesting. The equipment for it is an export of ours,
   but protective restrictions on trade have kept it out of the inner
   Empire. No clinic on Imhotep has felt it could afford the cost."
   Diana grimaced. "And any embryo that isn't 'perfect'
   you—terminate, is that the nice word?"
   "As a matter of fact, seldom; only if the prospects for a satisfying
   life are nil. True, the mother usually elects to have the zygote
   removed. But it's brought to term externally … or in the womb of
   an ordinary Daedalan volunteer. We always find couples eager to
   adopt such a baby. Remember, it's not born with any serious
   handicap; as a rule, nothing undesirable is evident at all. It's still a
   superior human being. It is simply not a Zacharian."
   "Well, that's better." Diana shook her head and sighed. "You're
   right, this is an almighty peculiar place. How'd it get started,
   anyway?"
   Kukulkan scowled. "What the Founders did not foresee was the
   effect of an unpleasant characteristic of the species; and before
   you point this out yourself, I concede that Zacharians aren't free
   of it either. Perhaps, if we had had the upper hand, we would
   have developed into an oppressive master caste. As it was, we
   were a tiny minority, inevitably but annoyingly exclusive. Astarte
   Zachary, let us say, might be a loyal shipmate of Pierre Smith;
   she might take him for a lover; but never would she consider
   marrying him, or his brother, or anybody except a fellow
   Zacharian. The reasons were plain, and they were … humiliating.
   The ordinaries retaliated, more and more, with exclusionism of
   their own. Here and there, discrimination turned into outright
   persecution. 'Incest' was almost the least ugly of the words
   thrown at us. The collapse of the Polesotechnic League
   removed the last barrier against intolerance—not individual
   intolerance, which we could deal with, but institutionalized
   intolerance, discriminatory laws in society after society. Many
   among us found it easier to give up the struggle and merge into
   the commonality. The need for a homeland became ever more
   clear.
   "Zacharia Island was the choice. At the time, settlement on
   Daedalus was young, small, embattled against nature. Our
   pioneers found this real estate unclaimed and saw the potential.
   They were workers and fighters. They took a leading role in
   defending against bandits, barbarians, eventually Merseians,
   during the Troubles. The price they demanded was a treaty of
   autonomy. When at last the Terran Empire extended its sway this
   far, the treaty was only slightly modified. Why should we not
   continue to govern ourselves as we wished? We caused no
   dissension, we paid our tribute, we made a substantial
   contribution to the regional economy. As you've seen, the rest of
   the Daedalans accept us on our traditional terms; and by now,
   elsewhere in the Empire, we are merely people who carry on
   some enterprises of business, exploration, or science. In short,
   having forsaken old dreams of leadership, we are just one more
   ethnic group within a , domain of thousands."
   "What sort of government do you have?" Diana asked.
   Kukulkan's intensity yielded to a smile. "Hardly recognizable as
   such. Adults generally handle their private affairs and earn their
   livelihoods however they see fit. In case of difficulties, they have
   plenty of helpful friends. In case of serious disputes, those same
   friends act as arbitrators. What public business we have is in
   charge of a committee of respected elders. When it becomes
   more than routine, telecommunications bring all adults into the
   decision-making process. We are not too numerous for that.
   More important, consensus comes naturally to us."
   Again, silence. The road climbed heights above the bay. There
   water shimmered quiet, but from up ahead Diana began to hear
   the crash of surf on rocks.
   "What are you thinking, rare lady?" Kukulkan prompted.
   "Oh, I—I don't know how to say it. You're bein' generous to me.
   I'd hate to sound, oh, ungracious."
   "But?"
   She let it out: "But isn't this life of yours awfully lonely? Everybody
   a copy of yourself, even your wife, even your kids—How do you
   stand it? It's not as if you were dullards. No! I think if I had to be
   by myself, for always, I'd want it to be on an empty planet, me
   and nobody else—no second and third me to keep feedin' back
   my thoughts, my feelin's, and, and everything."
   "Fear not," he said quietly. "I expected your question and take no
   offense. A full answer is impossible. You must be a Zacharian
   before you can understand. But use that fine mind of yours and
   do a little logical imagining. We are not identical. Similar, yes, but
   not identical. Besides the genotypal variations, we have our
   different lives behind us, around us. That happens to multiple-
   birth children of ordinaries, too. They never tread out the same
   measure. Often they go widely separate ways. Recall that Pele is
   currently taking her turn as a factor, while her principal career is in
   industrial administration. Isis is a planetary archaeologist,
   Heimdal a merchant, Vishnu a xenologist, Kwan Yin a
   semantician … and thus it goes, as diverse as the cosmos itself.
   "And we have our constant newness, our ever-changing inputs,
   here on our island. We are in touch with the outside universe.
   News comes in, books, dramas, music, arts, science, yes,
   fashions, amusements. Each individual perceives, evaluates,
   experiences this in his or her particular way, and then we
   compare, argue, try for a synthesis—Oh, we do not stagnate,
   Diana, we do not!"
   In a corner of her consciousness she was unsure whether to be
   pleased or warned by so early a first-name familiarity from him.
   Mainly she struggled to define her response. "Just the
   same—somethin' you mentioned before, and your whole attitude
   toward us, your takin' in three raggedy castaways, when for
   centuries it's been a scarce privilege for any outsider to set foot
   here—Believe me, we appreciate your help and everything. But I
   can't keep from wonderin' if—what with the war cuttin' off that flow
   of information from the stars—if you aren't desperate already for
   anything fresh."
   "You are wise beyond your years," he answered slowly. "
   'Desperate' is too strong a word. Father Axor is in fact very
   interesting, and his comrades come in the package. Deeper
   motivations—but only a Zacharian would understand. In your own
   right, Diana, you are more than welcome."
   Still she saw around her a Luciferean isolation, and puzzled over
   how it had worked on the community, lifetime by lifetime. Targovi
   seemed abruptly less alien than this man at her side.
   But then they reached land's end and stopped. He swept an arm
   across the sight. She gasped. Cliffs dropped down to skerries
   where breakers roared, white against blue, violet, green. The
   ocean went on beyond, without limit, finally dimming away in
   weather; at that distance, stormclouds were not rearing monsters
   but exquisitely sculptured miniatures. The bay sheened
   opalescent, the terrain rose in changeable play of golden light
   and blue-black shadow over its emerald richness. Westward,
   Patricius was beginning to reach out wings. Southward, vision
   was bounded by the Hellene snowpeaks, softly aflame.
   When Kukulkan took her hand, it was natural to clutch his tightly.
   He smiled anew and pursued his thought: "Humankind needs
   your genes. They are valuable. It is your duty to pass them on."
Chapter 18
   Admiral and self-proclaimed Emperor Sir Olaf Magnusson gave
   safe conduct to the ship from Terra, on condition that her crew
   surrender their arms and let his men take over. It was not that she
   posed any serious threat in herself, being an unescorted light
   cruiser stripped down and fine-tuned for speed. It was, perhaps,
   because the chief of the delegation she bore was Fleet Admiral
   Sir Dominic Flandry.
   The trip was short from the rendezvous star to the sun of Sphinx,
   the planet on which Magnusson currently maintained his
   headquarters. That was a shrewd selection. Besides its location,
   strategic under present conditions, it was humanly habitable and
   the center of formidable industries occupying that entire system.
   It was not humanly inhabited; the name had been bestowed in a
   mood of despair at ever comprehending the natives. They simply
   paid the Empire its tribute and went about their inexplicable
   business. When Magnusson arrived, they were equally
   unemotional, offering him no resistance, providing him what he
   demanded, accepting his promises of eventual compensation,
   but volunteering nothing. This suited him well. He neither needed
   nor wanted another set of societies to fit into a governance still
   thinly spread and precariously established.
   Those were relative terms. Throughout the space he
   controlled—by now a wedge driven into more than ten percent of
   the volume claimed by the Empire—life went on in most places
   with little change, except where curtailment of interstellar trade
   had repercussions. The same authorities carried out essentially
   the same tasks as before. The difference was that they reported,
   when they did, to his Naval commissioners rather than Gerhart's
   satraps. They saw to the filling of any requisitions. They gave no
   trouble; had they done so, they would soon have been
   overthrown by their subordinates, with the heartfelt cheers of
   populaces that might otherwise have suffered nuclear
   bombardment.
   As yet, few had openly embraced the Olafist cause. The basic
   requirement laid on everybody was to refrain from resisting it.
   Should Gerhart's side prevail, you could explain that there had
   been no choice. Should Magnusson's, there would be ample
   time to switch loyalty.
   Thus fared, in broad and oversimplified outline, the civilians.
   Some Navy officers took their oaths with antique seriousness,
   and led such personnel as would follow them into space or into
   the hills, to wage guerilla warfare on behalf of the Molitor dynasty.
   They were more than counterbalanced by those who swore
   allegiance to the new claimant. Seldom were the latter mere
   opportunists. Many bore old anger against a regime that they saw
   as having starved their service and squandered lives to no
   purpose. Others saw the revolution as a chance for public
   honesty, fairness, firmness—and even, by whatever means the
   leader selected, an end to the grindstone half-war with Merseia.
   Thus Magnusson's grip on his conquests was secure enough as
   long as he suffered no major reversal. The moment it slackened,
   they would fall apart in his fingers. More closely knit, the inner
   Empire that Gerhart's faction held was less vulnerable. Yet once
   pierced, it could soon tear asunder: as interdependent nations,
   worlds, races hastened to yield before civil war destroyed their
   sacrosanct prosperity.
   Hence Magnusson did not risk overextending himself. Instead,
   he directed his vanguard forces to make fast what they had
   captured and seek no further battle. Meanwhile he consolidated
   the guardianship of his rearward domains. This released
   squadron after squadron for front-line duty in his next great
   onslaught.
   For their part, Gerhart's commanders were not anxious to fight
   again soon. They had taken a bad beating. Repairs and
   replacements were necessary, not least where morale was
   concerned. The total strength on their side remained hugely
   superior, but only a fraction was available for reinforcements, if
   the rest of the Empire was to be kept safe—especially against a
   surprise flank attack. Collecting the data, making the decisions,
   issuing the calls, obtaining the means, reorganizing the fleets and
   support corps, all this would take time.
   So the conflict dwindled for the nonce into random skirmishes.
   Magnusson sent a message proposing negotiations. Rather to
   his surprise, an acceptance came back. Emperor Gerhart would
   dispatch several high-ranking officers and their aides to conduct
   exploratory talks. Almost on the heels of this word, Flandry
   followed.
   "Why are you here?" Magnusson asked.
   Flandry grinned. "Why, because his Majesty cherishes a
   statesmanlike wish for peace, reconciliation, and the return of his
   erring children to righteous ways and his forgiveness."
   Magnusson glared. "Are you trying to make fun of me?"
   They sat alone in what had been a room of the Imperial
   resident's house. It was small and plainly furnished, as befitted a
   person who had had little to do. A full-wall one-way transparency
   gave a view of surrounding native structures. They were like
   gigantic three-dimensional spiderwebs. Now that the orange sun
   was down, lights twinkled throughout them, changing color at
   every blink. Magnusson had dimmed interior illumination so his
   visitor might better see the spectacle. Unfiltered, the air was a bit
   cold, with a faint ferrous odor. Sometimes a deep hum
   penetrated the walls. And sometimes a cluster of sparks drifted
   across the sky, an atmospheric patrol or a space unit in high
   orbit, sign of power over foreignness.
   Flandry reached in his tunic for a cigarette case. "No, I am
   quoting news commentaries I heard as I was preparing for
   departure. Unless the government buried all reports of your offer,
   which would have been hard to do, it must needs explain its
   response, whether positive or negative. I daresay your flacks use
   similar language."
   Magnusson's big frame eased back into his chair. "Ah, yes. I was
   forgetting how sardonically superior you like to make yourself out
   to be. It's been years since we last met, and that was just in
   passing."
   Flandry drew a cigarette from the silver box, tapped it on his
   thumbnail, ignited it and trickled smoke across his lean features.
   "You ask why I am here. I might ask you the same."
   "Don't play your games with me," Magnusson snapped, "or I'll
   send you packing tomorrow. I invited you to talk privately
   because I had hopes the conversation would be meaningful."
   "You don't expect that of the official discussions between my
   group and whatever staff members you appoint?"
   "Certainly not. This was a charade from the beginning."
   Flandry raised the glass of neat whisky at his elbow and sipped.
   "You initiated it," he said mildly.
   "Yes. As a token of good will. You'd call it propaganda. But you
   must know I have to demonstrate the truth over and over—that I
   have no other aim than the safety and wellbeing of the Empire,
   which the corruption and incompetence of its rulers have been
   undermining for dangerously long." Magnusson, who had had no
   refreshment set out for himself, growled forth a laugh. "You're
   thinking I've started believing my own speeches. Well, I do. I
   always did. But I'll grant you, maybe I've been giving so many that
   I've gotten in the habit of orating."
   He leaned forward. "I did expect that, at this stage, my proposal
   would be rebuffed," he said. "Apparently Gerhart decided to try
   sounding me out. Or, rather, his chief councillors did; he hasn't
   that much wit. Now it's hardly a secret that he—or, at any rate, the
   Policy Board—listens closely to whatever Dominic Flandry has to
   say. I suspect this mission was your idea. And you are leading it
   in person." His forefinger stabbed toward the man opposite.
   "Therefore my question really was, 'Why are you here?' Answer
   it!"
   "That is," Flandry drawled, "on the basis of my presence you
   assume I have more in mind than a jejune debate?"
   "You wouldn't waste your time on any such thing, you fox."
   "Ah, you've found me out. Yes, I did urge that we accept your
   invitation, and believe me, I had to argue hard before I got
   agreement to such an exercise in futility. Not that the people with
   me unanimously know it is. Apart from a couple of leathery old
   combat commanders and one tough-minded old scholar, to keep
   the rest from going completely off into Cloud Cuckoo Land,
   they're career civil officials with excellent academic backgrounds.
   They believe in the power of sweet reason and moral suasion. I
   suggest that to meet with them you assign whatever officers of
   yours are in need of amusement."
   "If I bother. You admit this has been an excuse to get you into
   play—which I'd already guessed. What do you intend?" "Exactly
   what is happening." Magnusson's heavy countenance stiffened.
   He clenched a fist on the arm of his chair. Behind him, the star-
   points in the spiderwebs blinked, changed, blinked, changed.
   Flandry sat back, crossed shank over knee, inhaled and sipped.
   "Relax ," he said. "You've nothing to fear from a solitary man,
   aging and unarmed, when a squad of guards must stand beyond
   that door. You spoke of us trying to sound you out. That means
   nothing around the conference table. What is anyone going to
   do—what can anyone do?—but bandy clichés? However, I've a
   notion that it may be possible for me to sound you out, as man to
   individual man." He made an appeasing gesture. "In return, I can
   tell you things, give you a sense of what the situation is on Terra
   and inside the Imperium, such as would be unwise to utter in the
   open."
   "Why should I believe you?" Magnusson demanded hoarsely.
   Again Flandry grinned. "Belief isn't compulsory. Still, my remarks
   are input, if you'll listen, and I think you'll find they accord with
   facts known to you. What is to keep you from lying to me?
   Nothing. Indeed, I take it for given that you will, or you'll refuse to
   respond, when words veer in inconvenient directions. Usually,
   though, you should have no .reason not to be frank." His gray
   gaze caught Magnusson's and held on. "It's lonely where you are,
   isn't it, Sir Olaf?" he murmured. "Wouldn't you like to slack off for
   this little while and talk ordinary human talk? You see, that's all I'm
   after: getting to know you as a man."
   "This is fantastic!"
   "No, it's perfectly logical, if one uses a dash of imagination. You
   realize I'm not equipped to draw a psychomathematical profile of
   you, which could help us predict what you'll do next, on the basis
   of an evening's gab. I am not Aycharaych."
   Magnusson started. "Him?"
   "Ah," said Flandry genially, "you've heard of the late Aycharaych,
   perhaps had to do with him, since you've spent most of your time
   on the Merseia-ward frontier. A remarkable being, wasn't he?
   Shall we trade recollections of him?"
   "Get to the point before I throw you out," Magnusson rasped.
   "Well, you see, Sir Olaf, to us on Terra you're a rather mysterious
   figure. The output of your puffery artists we discount. We've
   retrieved all the hard data available on you, of course, and run
   them through every evaluation program in the catalogue, but
   scarcely anything has come out except your service record and a
   few incidentals. Understandable. No matter how much you
   distinguished yourself, it was in a Navy whose officers alone
   number in the tens of millions, operating among whole worlds
   numbering in the tens of thousands. Whatever additional
   information has appeared about you, in journalistic stories and
   such over the years, that's banked on planets to which you deny
   us access. As for your personality, your inner self, we grope in
   the dark."
   Magnusson bridled. "And why should I bare my soul to you?"
   "I'm not asking you to," Flandry said. "Tell me as much or as little,
   as truthful or false, as you like. What I am requesting is simply
   talk between us—that you and I set hostility aside tonight, relax,
   be only a couple of careerists yarning together. Why? Because
   then we on Terra will have a slightly better idea of what to prepare
   ourselves for. Not militarily but psychologically. You won't be a
   faceless monster, you'll be a human individual, however
   imperfectly we still see you. Fear clouds judgment, and worst
   when it's fear of the unknown.
   "Wouldn't you like to make yourself clear to us? Then maybe a
   second round of negotiations could mean something. Suppose
   you're being defeated, the Imperium might well settle for less
   than the extermination of you and your honchos. Suppose you're
   winning, you might find us more ready to give you what you want,
   without further struggle." Flandry dropped his voice. "After all, Sir
   Olaf, you may be our next Emperor. It would be nice to know
   beforehand that you'll be a good one."
   Magnusson raised his brows. "Do you seriously think an
   evening's natter can make that kind of difference?"
   "Oh, no," Flandry said. "Especially when it's off the record. If I
   reach any conclusions, they'll be my own, and I wouldn't look for
   many folk at home to take my naked word. But I am not without
   influence. And every so often, a small change does make a big
   difference. And, mainly, what harm to either of us?"
   Magnusson pondered. After a time: "Yes, what harm?"
   Dinner was Spartan, as suited the master's taste. He took a
   single glass of wine with it, and afterward coffee. Flandry had two
   glasses, plus a liqueur from the resident's stock, sufficient to
   influence his palate and naught else. Nevertheless, that dining
   room witnessed speech more animated than ever before. In the
   main it was noncontroversial, reminiscent, verging on the friendly.
   Both men had had many odd experiences in their lives.
   Flandry was practiced at keeping vigilance behind a mask of
   bonhomie. Magnusson was not; when he felt such a need, he
   clamped down a poker face. It appeared toward the end of
   things, after the orderly had cleared the table of everything
   except a coffeepot and associated ware. The hour was late. A
   window showed the spiderweb constellations thinning out as their
   lights died. Warm air rustled from a grille, for the nights here
   were cold. It wafted the smoke of Flandry's cigarettes in blue
   pennons. His brand of tobacco had an odor suggesting leaves
   on fire in a northern Terran autumn.
   He finished his account of a contest on a neutral planet between
   him and a Merseian secret agent: "Before you object, I agree that
   poisoning him wasn't very nice. However, I trust I've made it clear
   that I could not let Gwanthyr go home alive if there was any way
   of preventing it. He was too able."
   Magnusson scowled, then blanked his visage and said flatly,
   "You have the wrong attitude. You regard the Merseians as
   soulless."
   "Well, yes. As I do everybody else, myself included."
   Magnusson showed irritation. "Belay that infernal japing of yours!
   You know what I mean. You look on them as inevitable foes,
   natural enemies of humans, like a—a strain of disease bacteria."
   He paused. "If it weren't for your prejudice, I might seriously
   consider inviting you to join me. We could make a pretext for
   your wife to come out before you declared yourself. You claim
   your purpose is to hold off the Long Night—"
   "As a prerequisite for continuing to enjoy life. Barbarism is
   dismal. The rule of self-righteous aliens is worse."
   "I'm not sure but what that's another of your gibes, or your lies.
   No matter. Why can't you see that I'd bring an end to the
   decadence, give the Empire back strength and hope? I think
   what's blinkering you is your sick hatred of Merseians."
   "You're wrong there," Flandry said low. "I don't hate them as a
   class. Far more humans have earned my malevolence, and the
   one being whose destruction became an end in itself for me
   didn't belong to either race." He could not totally suppress a
   wince, and hastened on: "In fact, I've been quite fond of a
   number of individual Merseians, mostly those I encountered in
   noncritical situations but sometimes those who crossed blades
   with me. They were honorable by their own standards, which in
   many respects are more admirable than those of most modern
   humans. I sincerely regretted having to do Gwanthyr in."
   "But you can't see, you're constitutionally unable to see or even
   imagine, that a real and lasting peace is possible between us and
   them."
   Flandry shook his head. "It isn't, unless and until the civilization
   that dominates them goes under or changes its character
   completely. The Roidhun could make a personal appearance
   singing 'Jesus Loves Me' and I'd still want us to keep our
   warheads armed. You haven't had the chance to study them,
   interact with them, get to know them from the inside out, that I've
   had."
   Magnusson lifted a fist. "I've fought them—done them in, as you
   so elegantly put it, by the tens of thousands to your measly
   dozen or two—since I enlisted in the Marines thirty years ago.
   And you have the gall to say I don't know them."
   "That's different, Sir Olaf," Flandry replied placatingly, "You've
   met them as brave enemies, or as fellow officers, colleagues,
   when truces were being negotiated and in the intervals of so-
   called peace that followed. It's like being a player on one of two
   meteor ball teams. I am acquainted with the owners of the clubs."
   "I don't deny hostility and aggressiveness on their part. Who
   does? I do say it's not been unprovoked—from the time of first
   contact, centuries ago, when the Terran rescue mission upset
   their whole order of things and found ways to get rich off their
   tragedy—and I do say they have their share of good will and
   common sense, also in high office—which are utterly lacking in
   today's Terran Imperium. It won't be quick or easy, no. But the
   two powers can hammer out an accommodation, a peace—an
   alliance, later on, for going out together through the galaxy."
   Flandry patted a hand over the beginnings of a yawn. "Excuse
   me. I've been many hours awake now, and I must confess to
   having heard that speech before. We play the recordings you
   send our way, you know."
   Magnusson smiled grimly. "Sorry. I did get carried away, but
   that's because of the supreme importance of this." He squared
   his blocky shoulders. "Don't think I'm naive. I do know Merseia
   from the inside. I've been there."
   Flandry lounged back. "As a youngster? The data we have on
   you suggested you might have paid a couple of visits in the
   past."
   Magnusson nodded. "Nothing treasonable about that. No
   conflicts were going on at the time. My birthworld, Kraken, has
   always traded freely, beyond the Terran sphere as well as within
   it."
   "Yes, your people are an independent lot, aren't they? Do go on,
   please. This is precisely the sort of personal insight I've been
   trying for."
   Magnusson went expressionless. "My father was a space captain
   who often took cargoes to and from the Roidhunate, sometimes
   to Merseia itself. That was before the Starkad incident caused
   relations to deteriorate entirely. Even afterward, he made a few
   trips, and took me along on a couple of them. I was in my early
   teens then—impressionable, you're thinking, and you're right, but
   I was also open to everything observation might show me. I got
   chummy with several young Merseians. No, this didn't convince
   me they're a race of angels. I enlisted, didn't I? And you know I
   did my duty. But when that duty involved getting together with
   Merseians in person, my senses and mind stayed open."
   "It seems a pretty fragile foundation for a consequential political
   judgment."
   "I studied too, investigated, collected opinions, thought and
   thought about everything."
   "The Roidhunate is as complex as the Empire, as full of
   contradictions and paradoxes, if not more so," Flandry said in a
   level tone. "The Merseians aren't the sole species in it, and
   members of some others have been influential from time to
   time."
   "True. Same as with us. What of it?"
   "Why, we know still less about their xenos than we do about our
   own. That's caused us rude surprises in the past. For example,
   my long-time antagonist Aycharaych. I got the impression you
   also encountered him."
   Magnusson shook his head. "No. Never."
   "Really? You seem to recognize the name."
   "Oh, yes, rumors get around. I'd be interested to hear whatever
   you can tell."
   Flandry bit his lip. "The subject's painful to me." He dropped his
   cigarette down an ash-taker and straightened in his chair. "Sir
   Olaf, this has been a fascinating conversation and I thank you for
   it, but I am genuinely tired. Could I bid you goodnight? We can
   take matters up again at your convenience."
   "A moment. Stay," Magnusson reflected. Decision came. He
   touched the call unit on his belt. A door slid aside and four
   marines trod through. They were Irumclagians, tall, slim, hard-
   skinned, their insectlike faces impassive. "You are under arrest,"
   Magnusson said crisply.
   "I beg your pardon?" Flandry scarcely stirred, and his words
   came very soft. "This is a parley under truce."
   "It was supposed to be," Magnusson said. "You've violated the
   terms by attempting espionage. I'm afraid you and your party
   must be interned."
   "Would you care to explain?"
   Magnusson snapped an order to the nonhumans. It was clear that
   they knew only the rudiments of Anglic. Three took positions
   beside and behind Flandry's chair. The fourth stayed at the door,
   blaster unholstered.
   Magnusson rose to stand above the prisoner, legs widespread,
   fists on hips. He glowered downward. Wrath roughened his
   voice: "You know full well. I was more than half expecting it, but
   let you go ahead in hopes you'd prove to be honest. You didn't.
   "For your information, I learned three days ago that the Terran
   spies specially sent to Merseia were detected and captured. I
   suspect they went at your instigation, but never mind; you
   certainly know what they were up to. The leading questions you
   fed me were part and parcel of the same operation. No wonder
   you came yourself. Nobody else would've had your devil's skill. If
   I hadn't been warned, I'd never have known—till the spies and
   you had returned home and compared notes. As it is, I now have
   one more proof that the God looks after His warriors."
   Flandry met the fire-blue stare coolly and asked, "Won't our
   captivity be a giveaway?"
   "No, I think not," Magnusson said, calming. "Nobody will expect
   those agents of yours to report back soon. Besides, the
   Merseians will start slipping the Terrans disinformation that
   seems to come from them. You can imagine the details better
   than I can. As for your mini-diplomatic corps here, won't the
   Imperium be happy when it does not return at once? When,
   instead, courier torps bring word that things look surprisingly
   hopeful?"
   "The Navy isn't going to sit idle because of that," Flandry
   cautioned.
   "Of course not. Preparations for the next phase of the war will go
   on. All my side has done is stop an attempt by your side that
   could have been disastrous if it had succeeded. Yes, I'm sure
   there are people back there whom you've confided your
   suspicions to; but what value have they without proof? After
   fighting recommences in earnest, who'll pay them any further
   attention?"
   Magnusson sighed. "In a way, I'm sorry, Flandry," he said.
   "You're a genius, in your perverse fashion. This failure is no fault
   of yours. What a man you would have been in the right cause! I
   bear you no ill will and have no wish to mistreat you. But I dare
   not let you continue. You and your entourage will get comfortable
   quarters. When the throne is mine, I will … decide whether it may
   eventually be safe to release you."
   He gave orders. Unresisting, Flandry rose to be led away. "My
   compliments, Sir Olaf," he murmured. "You are cleverer than I
   realized. Goodnight."
   "Goodnight, Sir Dominic," replied the other.
Chapter 19
   The climax was violent.
   It began with delusive smoothness. "How I shall regret leaving
   this place," Axor mused at supper. "Though I will always thank
   God for the privilege of having encountered wonder here."
   Targovi pricked up his ears. "Leaving?"
   "Well, we cannot expect our hosts to maintain us
   forever—especially me, bearing in mind what my food must cost
   them. Working together with the lady Isis Zachary and her
   colleagues at the Apollonium in these past days, I have learned
   things of supreme value, and perhaps contributed some humble
   moiety in return, but now we seem to have exhausted our
   respective funds of information and the conclusions which
   discussion has led us to draw therefrom."
   "Apollonium?" Targovi's question was absent-minded, practically
   a reflex. His thoughts were racing away.
   Axor waved a tree-trunk arm around the room where he sprawled
   and the Tigery sat at table. He was really indicating the nighted
   campus beyond the hospice walls. "This center of learning,
   research, philosophy, arts. They do not call it a university
   because it has no teaching function. Being what they are,
   Zacharians require no schools except input to their homes, no
   teachers except their parents or, when they are mature,
   knowledgeable persons whom they can call when explanation is
   necessary."
   "Oh, yes, yes. You've finished, you say?"
   "Virtually. Dear friend," Axor trumpeted, "I cannot express my
   gratitude for your part in bringing me to this haven. While they
   have never undertaken serious investigation of the Foredwellers,
   the Zacharians are insatiably curious about the entire cosmos.
   Their database contains every item ever reported or collected by
   such of their people as have gone to space. I retrieved scores of
   descriptions, pictures, studies of sites unknown to me.
   Comparison with the facts I already possessed began to open
   portals. Isis, Vishnu, and Kwan Yin were those who especially
   took fire and produced brilliant ideas. I would not venture to claim
   that we are on the way to deciphering the symbols, but we have
   identified regularities, recurrences, that look highly significant.
   Who knows where that may lead future scholarship? To the very
   revelation of Christ's universality, that will in time bring all sentient
   beings into his church?" The crocodilian head lifted. "I should not
   lament my departure," the Wodenite finished. "Ahead of me,
   while this mortal frame lasts, lie pilgrimages to those planets
   about which I have learned, to the greater glory of God."
   "Well, good," mumbled Targovi. "Know you when we must
   leave?"
   "No, not yet. I daresay they will tell me at the next session. You
   might be thinking where we should ask them to deposit us on the
   mainland. They have promised to take us anyplace we like."
   "Diana will be sad, I suppose. She's had a fine time. Where is
   she this eventide?"
   Though Axor's visage was not particularly mobile, somehow
   trouble seemed to dim his brown eyes, and assuredly it
   registered in his basso profundo: "I cannot say. I have seldom
   seen her throughout our stay. She goes about in company with
   that man—what is his name?"
   "Kukulkan, if she hasn't swapped escorts."
   "Ah." Fingers that could have snapped steel bars twiddled with
   the spectacles hanging from the armored neck. "Targovi, I—this
   is most embarrassing, but I must speak—Well, I am not human,
   nor versed in human ways, but lately I … I have begun to fear for
   that maiden's virtue."
   The Tigery choked back a yowl of laughter.
   "You know her well," Axor continued. "Do you think, before it is
   too late—I pray it be not too late—you could advise her, as an, an
   elder brother?"
   Opportunity! Targovi pounced. "I can try," he said. "Truth to tell, I
   too have fretted about her. I know humans well enough to
   understand what Kukulkan's intentions are. If we are bound away
   soon—what one Zacharian knows, they all seem to know—he'll
   press his suit."
   "Oh, dear. And she so young, innocent, helpless." Axor crossed
   himself.
   "I'll see if I can find them," Targovi proposed. "She may not thank
   me tonight, but afterward—" Despite an urgency which had
   become desperate, he must still hold down his merriment. Oh,
   aye, wouldn't Diana Crowfeather be overjoyed at having her
   business minded for her? His tail dithered. "Wish me luck."
   Axor bowed his head and silently invoked a saint or two. Targovi
   shoved the rest of his meal aside and left.
   The whole farce might have been unnecessary. He didn't know
   whether the hospice was bugged; lacking equipment hidden
   aboard Moonjumper, he had no way of finding out. Therefore he
   assumed it was, and furthermore that there was a stakeout—not
   a flesh-and-blood watcher, nothing that crude, but sensors in
   strategic locations. His going forth should, now, arouse no more
   misdoubts than his feckless wanderings about in the area
   appeared to have done.
   At most, whoever sat monitoring might flash Kukulkan word that
   Targovi meant to deboost any seduction, and Kukulkan might
   thus do best to take the girl for a romantic ride over the
   mountains … if he had not already done so … The Zacharians
   did indeed stick together. No, more than that. They were almost a
   communal organism, like those Terran insectoids they had
   introduced to the island ecology—ants—though ants with
   individual intelligence far too high for Targovi's liking upon this
   night.
   He went out the door. A breeze lulled cool, smelling of leaves
   and sea, ruffling his fur; he wore nothing but his breechcloth, belt,
   and knife. Lawns dreamed empty beneath a sky where clouds
   drifted, tinged argent by Icarus and bronze by the sun-ring. That
   band was blocked off in the south by the peaks, in places
   elsewhere by distant weather, but it and the moon gave ample
   light for humans to see by. He had been waiting for fog or rain to
   lend comparative darkness in which his vision would have the
   advantage.
   Well, he could wait no longer.
   Leaving the campus behind, he followed a street at a trot which
   should look reasonable under the circumstances, until it passed
   by a park. There he cut across. Trees roofed grass. He vanished
   into the gloom. At its farther edge he went on his belly and
   became a ripple of motion that could easily have been a trick of
   wind-blown cloud shadows.
   From there on he was a Tigery hunter a-stalk, using every scrap
   of cover and every trick in the open, senses tuned to each least
   flicker, shuffling, whiff, quivering, clues and hints for which human
   languages lacked words. Often he froze for minutes while a man
   or a woman walked by, sometimes close enough to touch. Had
   dogs been about, he would perforce have left a number of the
   abominable creatures dead, but fortunately the Zacharians had
   better taste than to keep any. As was, he took more than an hour
   to approach his goal.
   It stood high in the hills, on the fringe of settlement. A five-meter
   wall, thirty meters on a side, surrounded an area forbidden to
   visitors. When Heimdal was showing him about, Targovi had
   inquired what was within. "Defense," his guide answered. "You
   may not know it, but under the treaty we take responsibility for the
   defense of this island—not out into space, of course; that's the
   job of the Navy; but against whatever hostile force might break
   through or might come over the surface. We maintain our own
   installations. This one guards Janua."
   Guards, aye. Flattened on the ground, Targovi felt a faint
   shudder. Something had passed beneath. Well, he had already
   eye-gauged that the spaceport—from which outsiders were also
   banned—lay just opposite, on the far side of the range. A
   connecting tunnel was logical.
   His glance roved. Above the stony bulk of the wall, the Mencius
   ridge made a grayness beyond which glimmered the Hellene
   peaks. Sculptured slopes fell downward, multiply shadowed,
   frostily highlighted. The Averroes River was brokenly visible,
   agleam. It plunged into the sheening of the bay.
   Phosphorescence traced runes over the ocean. Beneath him
   were soil, pebbles, prickly weeds, dew.
   Attention went back to the fortress. No, he realized, it wasn't any
   such thing as St. Barbara's had been part of. It must be a
   command post for missiles, energy projectors, aircraft, and
   whatever else laired in the vicinity. He doubted there was much.
   Daedalus had long been under Imperial protection. Now it was
   under Magnusson's, but that should make no immediate
   difference. Likewise, Targovi conjectured, security was lax. The
   Zacharians would have had no cause to be strict, not for
   centuries, and if requirements had changed overnight,
   organization and training could hardly have done the same.
   Still, all it took was a single alarm, or afterward a single bullet or
   ray or flying torpedo …
   Hence he never considered the gate from which a road wound
   off. Instead, he slithered to a point well away, where he could
   stand in shadow and examine the wall. It sloped upward, as was
   desirable for solidity. The material was unfinished stone, perhaps
   originally to keep anyone from climbing on vacsoles—or was that
   notion too ridiculous? Erosion had blurred the roughness of the
   blocks but also pitted the mortar. A human could never have
   gone up, but a Tigery might, given strength and claws and
   eyesight adaptable to dim light. He found no indications of built-in
   warning systems. Why should they exist? Who, or what, would be
   so crazy as to attempt entry?
   Being of the species he was, Targovi did not stop to wonder
   about his saneness. He had little more to go on than a hunter's
   hunch. What lay behind the wall, he could barely guess. What he
   could do after he found it was unknowable beforehand. He sorely
   missed the weapons and gear stowed in his ship. Yet he did not
   consider himself reckless. He went ahead with that which he had
   decided to do.
   After long and close study, he had a way picked out. He crawled
   backward until he judged the distance sufficient for a running
   start. Lifting eyes, ears, and tendrils above the shrubs, he
   searched for possible watchers. None showed. Then better be
   quick, before any did! He sprang to his feet and charged.
   Well-conditioned Tigeries under a single standard gravity can
   reach a sprint speed which outdoes their Terran namesake.
   Sheer momentum carried Targovi far up the barrier. Fingers and
   claws did the rest; he needed only an instant's purchase to thrust
   himself onward, too fast to lose his grip and fall. Over the top he
   went, fell, landed on pads that absorbed much of the shock, took
   the rest in rubbery muscles, and promptly dived for cover. That
   was behind a hedge. It would do him scant good if someone had
   noticed. After a minute, having heard and smelled nothing, he
   hazarded a look. The grounds were deserted. His readiness
   flowed from fight-or-flight back to stealth.
   A garden surrounded a fair-sized building. While not neglected, it
   showed signs of perfunctory care. That bore out Targovi's
   estimate, that this post had seen little use until quite recently, and
   was still weakly and slackly manned. Why not? What need had
   the Zacharians had for military skills since Daedalus came under
   the Pax Terrana? What reason had they, even now, to worry
   about intruders? Nonetheless Targovi continued cautious. His
   venture was wild at best.
   First establish lines of retreat. A couple of big oaks offered
   those. A human could not leap from their upper boughs to the top
   of the wall, but a Tigery could. Avoiding paths, he eeled from
   hedge to bush. The building loomed ahead, darkling in the half-
   light of heaven. It too was old, weather-worn; it had the same
   peaked roof as those downhill but lacked their gracefulness,
   being an unrelieved block, though with ample windows and
   doors. Toward the rear, two of those windows glowed.
   They were plain vitryl. Targovi slipped alongside and peered
   around an edge. Breath hissed between his fangs. The hair
   erected over his body. This was the total and stunning
   confirmation of his—fears?—expectations?—guesses?—The
   quarry he had been tracing stood terrible before him.
   The windows gave on a room bare-walled and sparsely
   furnished, with a bath cubicle adjoining. Most of its space went to
   a computer. While engineering imposes basic similarity on all
   such machines, Targovi could see that this one had not been
   manufactured in the Terran Empire. Black-uniformed, blaster at
   belt and rifle grounded, on guard through the night watch, was a
   Merseian.
   For a long spell, the Tigery stood moveless. Ring-gleam and
   cloud shadows, wind-sough in leaves, odors of green life,
   grittiness of masonry under his palms, seemed abruptly remote,
   things of dream, against the reality which confronted him. What to
   do?
   The sensible thing was to withdraw unobserved, keep silence, let
   the Zacharians return him to the mainland, contact Naval
   Intelligence …
   Which would be the absolute in lunacy, he thought. What had
   happened when he just hinted that certain matters might rate
   investigation? And that was before Magnusson openly rebelled.
   How far today would a nonhuman outlaw get on his raw word?
   The overwhelming majority of Daedalans and, yes, members of
   the armed forces desired the survival of the Empire. What else
   was there for them? But they'd need proof, evidence that nobody
   could hide or explain away.
   "When we hunted the gaarnokh on Home-world," Dragoika often
   said, "and he stood at bay, to spear him in the heart we must
   needs go in between his horns."
   Targovi slipped along the wall to the next-nearest door. It was
   unlocked. Nobody came through the gate or up from the
   spaceport tunnel unless the leaders had complete confidence in
   him. Targovi entered a short hall which led to a corridor running
   the length of the building. Unlighted at this hour of rest, it reached
   dusky along rows of closed chambers—offices mainly, he
   assumed, long disused. Some must lately have been seeing
   activity, as must the weapon emplacements, wherever they were:
   but not much, because the Zacharians did not await any
   emergency. They knew Merseia wasn't going to attack the
   Patrician System.
   Chiefly, Targovi decided, this strongpoint housed a few officers
   and their aides from the Roidhunate, observers, liaison agents,
   conveyors of whatever orders their superiors issued. Ships
   traveled to and fro, bringing replacements for those who went
   back to report. That traffic wouldn't be hard to keep secret. It was
   infrequent; its captains knew the right recognition codes;
   Planetary Defense Command would assign sentry vessels to
   orbits that never gave them a good look at such arrivals; and
   private landing facilities waited on the island.
   The gatortails must have quarters under this roof. A smell of
   them reached Targovi as he neared. It was warm, like their blood,
   but neither Tigery-sweet nor human-sour—bitter. He bristled.
   Partly by scent, partly by keeping track of direction and distance,
   he identified the door to his goal. It was closed. Unfortunate, that.
   He'd have to proceed without plan. But if he stood here hesitating
   his chances would rapidly worsen. Dawn drew nigh. Though most
   people's sleeptime might last later, many would soon be astir
   throughout Janua—must already be—and full sunlight upon
   wayfarers.
   He thumbed the "open" plate and stepped aside. As the door
   slid back, the Merseian would look this way and wonder why
   nobody trod through. He'd likely come closer to see—Now
   Targovi heard click of boots on the floor, now the sound stopped
   but he caught a noise of breathing—not quickened, the guard
   didn't imagine an enemy at hand, he was probably puzzled,
   maybe thinking a collywobble had developed in these ancient
   circuits—
   Targovi came around the jamb and sprang.
   As he appeared, he saw what was needful, pivoted on his claws,
   and launched himself, in a single storm-swift movement. Driven
   by the muscles of his race, he struck faster than the Merseian
   could lift weapon. They tumbled down together. The rifle
   clattered aside. Targovi jammed his right forearm into a mouth
   that had barely started to gape in the green-skinned face. Only a
   stifled gurgle got around it.
   He could have killed a human with a karate chop, but had not
   studied Merseian anatomy and dared not suppose it was that
   similar. His left hand darted to catch the opponent's right arm
   before the bolstered blaster could be drawn. Strength strained
   against strength.
   Meanwhile he hooked claws into the thick tail, which would else
   be a club smashing upon him or thumping a distress signal. The
   boots, which might have done likewise, he pinned between his
   calves.
   The Merseian was powerful, less so than him but surging against
   his pressure, sure to break free somewhere. Targovi released
   the gun wrist. His own arm whipped around behind the neck of
   the foe. Low and blunt, unlike Axor's, the spinal ridge
   nevertheless bruised him—as his right arm shoved the head
   back over that fulcrum.
   The Merseian clutched his blaster. Targovi heard a crack. The
   head flopped. The body shuddered, once, and lay still.
   Whatever their variations, Merseian, Tigery, and human are
   vertebrates.
   Targovi jumped off the corpse, snatched the rifle, crouched to
   cover the doorway. If the noise had roused someone, he'd have
   to try shooting his way free.
   Minutes crawled by. Silence deepened. Light grew stronger in
   the windowpanes.
   Targovi lowered the weapon. Nobody had heard. Or, if anybody
   did, it had been so briefly that the being sank back into sleep.
   After all, he had taken just seconds to kill the guard.
   How much time remained before reveille, or whatever would
   reveal him? It was surely meager. Targovi got to work.
   Having closed the door, he examined the computer. Aye,
   Merseian made, and he was ignorant of the Eriau language. Not
   entirely, though. Like most mentally alive persons in this frontier
   space, he had picked up assorted words and catchphrases. His
   daydream of operating among the stars had also led him to learn
   the alphabet. Moreover, Merseia had originally acquired modern
   technology from Terra; and logic and natural law are the same
   everywhere.
   When they first arrived here, the gatortails must have brought this
   as their own mainframe computer. Not only would they be most
   familiar with it, they need not fear its being tampered with,
   whether directly or from afar. Besides making active use of it,
   they'd keep their database within … Yes. Targovi believed he
   had figured out the elementary instruction he wanted.
   He touched keys. "Microcopy everything."
   The machine had rearranged molecules by the millions and
   deposited three discus-shaped containers on the drop shelf
   before Targovi finished the rest of his job. Yet what he did went
   swiftly. He stripped the tunic from the Merseian, who now
   resisted him with mere weight, and slashed it in places until he
   could tie it together as a package. The weapons would go in, as
   well as the data slabs and—He set things out of the way while his
   knife made the next cuts, and afterward fetched a towel from the
   bathroom. It wouldn't do to have his bundle drip blood.
   Ready for travel, he opened the door a crack, peered, opened it
   wide, stepped through, closed it again. Quite possibly no one
   would be astir for another hour or two. Merseians tended to be
   early risers, but had no good reason to reset their circadian
   rhythms according to the short Daedalan period. In fact, they had
   good reason to refrain. The effort was lengthy and demanding;
   meanwhile they'd be at less than peak efficiency.
   It was likewise possible that, whenever the rest of his mission got
   up, the sentry would not be immediately due for relief, and no
   other occasion would arise for them to pass this door.
   Targovi couldn't count on any of that. Thus far his luck had been
   neither especially fair nor especially foul. Most of it he had made
   for himself. Had he come upon a different situation, he would
   have acted according to it as best he was able. Throughout, he
   had exploited surprise.
   How much longer could he continue to do so? Not very!
   He stole down corridor and hall. At the exit, he dropped to a
   belly-scraping all fours and crept, dragging his burden in his
   teeth. Up a tree—a flying leap to the outer wall and a bounce to
   the ground beyond—snake's way through brush till a dip of terrain
   concealed him—He rose and ran.
   Zacharians stared at the carnivore form that sped unhumanly fast
   down their streets, a bundle under an arm. With his spare hand,
   he waved at them. They had gotten used to seeing the poor
   itinerant huckster around, his hopes of business gone, aimlessly
   adrift. If today he bounded along, why, he must be stretching his
   legs. He looked cheerful enough.
   The sun-ring had contracted to a broad, incandescent arc in the
   east. The sky above was nearly white; a few clouds hung gilded.
   Westward the blue deepened. Dew sparkled on grass.
   Songbirds twittered. A red squirrel flamed along a bough. Here
   and there, savants passed from hall to ivy-covered hall. It would
   have been hard to imagine a scene more innocent.
   When Targovi let himself into the hospice, he missed the scent
   of Diana. He went to her room and peeked in. The bed stood
   unused. For a second he stood irresolute. Should he try to find
   her? The loss of time could prove fatal. On the other hand, a third
   member of his party might tip the scales, and the gods knew that
   most weight now lay in the wrong pan … And what of his
   sisterling herself? Ought he make her share his danger? Would
   she be safest staying behind? Maybe. The Zacharians might be
   satisfied with a straightforward interrogation and do her no harm.
   If she had been romping with the man Kukulkan, he should have
   the decency to use his influence on her behalf … But maybe the
   Zacharians would work ghastliness upon her, in fear or in spite.
   Maybe none of them felt in any way honor-bound to an outsider
   lover.
   Decision. Targovi couldn't hunt over Janua for her. But if she was
   where he thought was likely, it might not be too distant. He sought
   the infotrieve and keyed the area directory. Kukulkan's home
   address appeared on the screen. Houses lacked numbers, but
   streets" had names, and coordinates on a grid indicated each
   location. Acacia Lane—yes—Targovi's disconsolate wanderings
   while Axor conferred and Diana flirted had had the purpose of
   learning the geography. Acacia Lane was south of here, not really
   out of the way when you were trying to escape.
   He entered the Wodenite's room. Axor filled it, curled on a seat
   of mattresses. His breathing was like surf below the sea cliffs.
   Targovi slipped past the scaly body, bent over the muzzle, took
   hold of its nostrils. Those, he had discovered, were the most
   sensitive point, He tweaked them. Horny lids flipped back under
   craggy brow ridges. A row of teeth, ; meant for both ripping and
   crushing, gleamed into view. "Ochla, hoo-oo, ksyan ngunggung,"
   rolled between them. "What's this, eh, what, what?"
   "Quick!" Targovi said. "Follow me. I've come on something
   unique. It won't last. You'll want to see it."
   "Really. I was awake late, reading."
   "Please. I beg you. You'll not regret it."
   "Ah, well, if you insist." Hoofs banged, the floor creaked, Axor's
   tail scraped a wall. He followed Targovi out and across the
   greensward. Such people as were in sight gave them looks but
   continued on their own paths. The xenosophonts were no longer
   a novelty.
   Where a pair of majestic trees shaded a bench, Targovi
   stopped. "This will be an unpleasant surprise," he warned. "Hold
   fast to your emotions. Reveal naught."
   "What?" The Wodenite blinked. "But you said—"
   "I lied. Here is the truth. Curl around. I want you to screen off
   what you're about to see."
   Squatting, Targovi pulled his bundle from under the bench where
   he had left it and undid its knots. Three data slabs, two firearms
   on non-Technic make, and something wrapped in a wet red towel
   appeared. He unfolded the cloth. Axor failed to suppress a
   geyserish gasp. Beneath his gaze lay the severed head of a
   Merseian.
Chapter 20
   A few times in the past, Diana had felt she was being well and
   thoroughly kissed. Now she found her estimates had been off by
   an order of magnitude. Kukulkan's body pressed hard and
   supple. When she opened her eyes she saw his blurrily, but
   gold-brown, oblique, brilliant. The man-scent of him dizzied her.
   She felt his heartbeat against hers. She clung tight with her left
   arm and let her right fingers go ruffling through his hair.
   His hand slid from her hip, upward, inside her half-opened
   blouse. It went under her brassiere. Sweetness exploded.
   Wait! rang through. Dragoika's voice purred across the years:
   "Give yourself to the wind, but first be sure 'tis the wind of your
   wish." The loneliness of Maria Crowfeather—
   Diana pulled back. She must exert force. "Hold on," she said with
   an unsteady laugh. "I need to come up for air."
   "Oh, my beautiful!" His weight thrust her downward on the sofa
   where they sat.
   She resisted. A gentle judo break, decisive since unawaited,
   freed her. She sprang from him and stood breathing hard,
   flushed and atremble but back in charge of herself.
   "Easy, there," she said, smiling, because warmth still pulsed. She
   found occupation in pushing back her tousled locks. "Let's not
   get carried away."
   He rose, too, himself apparently unoffended, though ardency
   throbbed in his tone: "Why not? What harm? What except love
   and joy?"
   He refrained from advancing, so she stayed where she was, and
   wondered if she could really resist the handsomeness that
   confronted her. "Well, I—Oh, Kukulkan, it's been wonderful." And
   it had been, culminating in this night's flight above the Hellenes to
   a lake where they swam while the reflection of the sun-ring
   flashed everywhere around them, as if they swam in pure light;
   and ate pheasant and drank champagne ashore; and danced on
   a boat dock to music from the car's player, music and a dance
   she had never known before, a waltz by somebody named
   Strauss; and finally came back to his place, where one thing led
   to another. "I thank you, I do, I do. But soon I'll be gone."
   "No, you won't. I'll see to that. You'll stay as long as you want.
   And I'll take you all over this planet, and eventually beyond, to the
   stars."
   Did he mean it? Suppose he did!
   She had no intention of remaining a virgin for life, or until any
   particular age. Pride, if nothing else, forbade becoming
   somebody's plaything or, for that matter, making a toy of a man.
   But she liked Kukulkan Zachary—more than liked him—and she
   must be a little special to him, or why would he have squired her
   around as he did? What an ingrate she was, not to trust him.
   If only she'd had a reversible shot. She wanted neither a baby in
   the near future nor an abortion ever; but living hand-to-mouth on
   Imhotep, as often as not among the Tigeries, she just hadn't
   gotten around to the precaution. She thought this week was safe
   for her—
   "I'd better go," she forced herself to say. "Let me think things
   over. Please don't rush me."
   "At least let me kiss you goodbye until later," he replied in that
   melodious voice of his. "A few hours later, no more, I beg you."
   She couldn't refuse him so small a favor, could she, in common
   courtesy?
   He gathered her in. She responded. Resolution wobbled.
   Whether or not it would have stood fast, she never knew. The
   front door, unlocked on the crimeless island, opened. Targovi
   came in. Behind him reared the dragon head of Axor.
   Diana and Kukulkan recoiled apart. "What the flickerin' hell!"
   ripped from her. He snarled and tensed.
   Targovi leveled the blaster he carried. "Don't," he said.
   "Have you two jumped your orbits?" Diana yelled, and knew
   freezingly that they had not.
   Kukulkan straightened. His features stiffened. "Drop that thing,"
   he said as if giving a routine order to a servant. "Do you want the
   girl killed in a firefight?"
   "Who is to start one?" Targovi retorted. He gestured at a window.
   Leafage turned young daylight to gold-spattered green. Like
   most local homes, this was tucked into its garden, well back from
   the street, screened by trees and hedges. It was obvious that the
   intruders had entered unseen.
   Axor crowded in. He went to Diana, laid his enormous arms about
   her, drew her to his plated breast, as tenderly as her mother. "My
   dear, my dear, I am sorry," he boomed low. "Horror is upon us.
   Would that you could be spared."
   For a minute she clung tight. It was as though strength and calm
   flowed out of him, into her. She stepped back. Her gaze winged
   around the scene and came to rest on Targovi. "Explain," she
   said.
   His scarlet eyes smoldered back at her. "The spoor I followed
   proved true," he answered. "I followed it into the lair of the beast.
   Axor, show her what I brought back."
   The Wodenite visibly shuddered. "Must I?"
   "Yes. Didn't diddle about. Every tailshake we wait, the odds
   mount against us."
   While Axor took a package from a carrier bag and untied it,
   Targovi's words trotted remorseless: "The Zacharians are in
   collusion with the Merseians. This means they must be with
   Magnusson. The Merseians must be! You understand what this
   betokens."
   "No," she protested, "please, no. Impossible. How could they
   keep the secret? Why would they do such a thing?"
   Axor completed his task, and It stared sightlessly up at her.
   "They are not like your folk," Targovi reminded.
   Struggling out of shock, she heard him dimly. "We must bring this
   evidence back."
   "How?" challenged Kukulkan. Diana regarded him, which hurt like
   vitriol to do. He stood shaken but undaunted. "Would you steal a
   car and fly off? You might succeed in that, even committing
   another murder or two in the process. But missiles will come
   after you, rays, warcraft if necessary, to shoot you down.
   Meanwhile, whatever transmissions you attempt will be
   jammed—not that they'd be believed. A waterboat is merely
   ludicrous. Surrender, and I'll suggest clemency."
   "You'll not be here." Targovi aimed the blaster. He had set it to
   narrow beam. Kukulkan never flinched.
   "No!" shouted Diana and bellowed Axor together. She pursued
   with a spate of words: "D'you mean to silence him? What for?
   The alarm'll go out anyhow, when they find that poor headless
   body. Tie him up instead."
   "You do it, then," the Tigery growled. "Be quick, but be thorough.
   Meanwhile, think whether you want to join us. Axor, stow the
   goods again."
   "Into the bedroom," Diana directed. The irony smote her. "Oh,
   Kukulkan, this is awful! You didn't know anything about it, did
   you?"
   Under the threat of Targovi's gun, he preceded her, turned, and
   said in steeliness: "I did. It would be idiotic of me to deny that.
   But I intended you no harm, lovely lass. On the contrary. You
   could have become a mother of kings."
   She wiped away tears, drew her knife, slashed a sheet into
   bonds. "What do you want, you people? Why've you turned
   traitor?"
   "We owe the Terran Empire nothing. It dragooned our forebears
   into itself. It has spurned our leadership, the vision that animated
   the Founders. It will only allow us to remain ourselves on this
   single patch of land, afar in its marches. Here we dwell like
   Plato's man in chains, seeing only shadows on the wall of our
   cave, shadows cast by the living universe. The Merseians have
   no cause to fear or shun us. Rather, they will welcome us as their
   intermediaries with the human commonality. They will grant us the
   same boundless freedom they desire for themselves."
   "Are you s-s-certain about that? Lie down on the b-b-bed, on your
   stomach."
   He obeyed. She began fastening his hands behind his back.
   Would he twist about, try to seize her for shield or hostage?
   She'd hate slashing him; but she stayed prepared. He lay
   passive, apart from speech: "What do you owe the Empire,
   Diana, this shellful of rotting flesh? Why should you die for it?
   You will, if you persist. You have nowhere to flee."
   Instantly, almost involuntarily, she defied him. "We've got a whole
   big island where we can live off the farms and wildlife, plenty of
   hills and woods for cover. We'll survive."
   "For hours; days, at most. In fear and wretchedness. Think. I
   offer you protection, amnesty. My kin will not be vindictive. They
   are above that. I offer you glory."
   "He may intend it, or he may just want the use of you," Targovi
   said from the doorway. "In either case, sisterling, belike it's your
   safest trail. If we bind you, too, somebody will come erelong to
   see what's happened, and none should blame you."
   "Naw." Diana secured Kukulkan's ankles. "I stay by my friends."
   "A forlorn hope, we."
   She hitched the strips to the bedframe, lest the prisoner roll
   himself off and out into the street. Straightening, she happened
   to spy and open closet. Hanging there were clothes for both man
   and woman.
   Well, sure, she thought, Zacharians didn't marry. No point in it, for
   them. He had admitted as much, and mentioned children raised
   in interchangeable households, and she had wondered how
   lonesome he was in his heart and whether that was what drew
   him to her, and then they had gone on with their excursion. But,
   sure, Zacharians would have sex for other reasons than
   procreation. Interchangeable people? The idea was like a winter
   wind.
   She stooped above the bonny face. He gave her a crooked
   smile. "Goodbye," she said to the alien.
   Seeking Targovi: "All right, let's scramble out o' here."
   "—state secrets. Almost as dangerous are their persons, for they
   are armed and desperate. While capture alive is desirable for
   purposes of interrogation, killing them on sight is preferable to
   any risk of allowing them to continue their rampage—"
   Targovi heard the announcement out before he switched off the
   audio transceiver he had brought from the hospice. It was a
   natural thing to put in Axor's carrier, along with food, after they
   had voiced their decision to go on a long tramp through the hills,
   for the benefit of any electronic eavesdroppers. While the
   Wodenite recorded a message apologizing for thus cancelling
   his next appointment with Isis, explaining that he wished to savor
   the landscape and this was his last chance, his comrade had
   surreptitiously added a hiking outfit for Diana to the baggage.
   Being a Tigery, Targovi skipped banalities like, "Well, now they
   know." He did murmur, "Interesting is how they phrase it, the scat
   about 'state secrets'. I should think most Zacharians will realize at
   once what this means. The rest should cooperate without
   questions."
   "I s'pose the words're for the benefit of whatever outsiders may
   catch the broadcast," said Diana around a mouthful of sandwich.
   "F'r instance, on watercraft passin' within range. Not that they'd
   investigate for themselves."
   The three rested in a hollow in the heights above Janua, well
   away from settlement. Its peacefulness was an ache in them.
   Birch stood around, leaves dancing to a breeze in the radiance of
   westbound Patricius. Prostrate juniper grew among the white
   trunks, itself dark blue-green and fragrant. A spring bubbled from
   a mossy bank. Somewhere a mockingbird trilled.
   "The Zacharians will be out like a swarm of
   khrukai—swordwings," Targovi said. "They'll use aircraft and
   high-gain sensors. We'll need all the woodcraft that is ours. And
   … we are not used to forest such as this."
   Diana smote fist on ground. "Be damned if we'll die for naught, or
   skulk around useless till Magnusson's slaughtered his way to the
   throne!" Her head and voice drooped. "Only what can we do?"
   Axor cleared his throat. "I can do this much, beloved ones," he
   said, almost matter-of-factly. "My size and lack of skill at
   concealment will betray us even before my bodily need has
   exhausted the rations. Let me angle off and divert pursuit while
   you two seek the mountains." He lifted a hand against Diana's
   anguished cry. "No, no, it is the sole sensible plan. I came along
   because, much though I abhor violence, as a Christian should,
   yet there seemed to be a chance to end the war before it
   devours lives by the millions. Also, while I cannot believe the
   Merseians are creatures of Satan, they would deprive many
   billions of whatever self-determination is left. It is a worthy cause.
   Afterward, if you live, pray that we be forgiven for the harm we
   have done our opponents, and for the repose of their souls, as I
   will pray." His neck swayed upward from where he lay till light
   caught the crest of his head and made a crown of it. "Let me
   serve in the single way I am able. Lord, watch over my spirit, and
   the spirits of these my friends."
   This time the girl could not stem tears. "Oh, Axor—!"
   "Quiet, you two blitherers," Targovi grated. "What we want is less
   nobility and more thinking."
   He jumped and paced, not man-style but as a Tigery does,
   weaving in and out among the trees and around the bushes. His
   right hand stroked the blade of his great knife over the palm of
   the left, again and again. Teeth gleamed when he muttered on
   the track of his thought.
   "I led us hither because I dared not suppose my deed at the
   command post would go undetected enough longer for us to
   rustle transportation and reach the mainland. In that I was right.
   My hope was that the Zacharians would show such confusion at
   the news, being inexperienced in affairs like this, that we could
   double back and find means of escape—mayhap forcing the
   owner of a vehicle to cover for us. After all, they had not been
   well organized at the post. The hope was thin just the same, and
   now is not a wisp. I think their … oneness … makes them able to
   react to the unforeseen as coolly as an individual, not with the
   babble and cross purposes of an ordinary human herd taken by
   surprise. You heard the broadcast. Every car and boat will stay in
   a group of three or more, under guard. Every movement from the
   island will be stopped for inspection. This will prevail until we are
   captured or slain.
   "Shall we yield? They might be content to shoot me, and the
   imprisonment of you two might not be cruel.
   "You signal a no."
   "My mother passed on an ancient sayin' to me," Diana told them.
   "Better to die on your feet than live on your knees."
   "Ah, the young do not truly understand they can die," Axor
   sighed. "Yet if any possibility whatsoever is left us, what can we
   in conscience do other than try it?"
   Still the Tigery prowled. "I am thinking, I am thinking—" Abruptly
   he halted. He drove the knife into a bole so that the metal sang.
   "Javak! Yes, it was on my horizon—a twisted path—But we must
   needs hurry, and not give the foe time to imagine we are crazy
   enough to take that way."
   The south side of the Mencius range dropped a short distance
   before the land resumed its climb. This was unpeopled country,
   heavily wooded save where the canyon of the Averroes River
   slashed toward the sea, and on the higher flanks of the
   mountains. Kukulkan had told Diana it was a game and
   recreational preserve. The location of the spaceport here dated
   from troubled early days, when it might have become a target,
   minor though it was. Perhaps its isolation had been a factor in the
   conceiving of the Merseian plot.
   Despite everything, the girl caught her breath at the sight. Clear,
   apart from a slight golden fleece of clouds, the sky was pale
   below, deepening in indigo at the zenith; but still night cast a dusk
   over the reaches around her. Heights to north and south walled in
   the world. Only at the ends of the vale did the sun-ring shine,
   casting rays that made the bottom a lake of amber. Where trees
   allowed glimpses, the hills above were purple-black, the snow-
   caps in the distance moltenly aglow. Air was cool on her brow.
   Quietness towered.
   Wonder ended as Targovi pointed ahead.
   Beyond the last concealment the forest afforded was a hundred-
   meter stretch, kept open though overgrown with brush and
   weeds. A link fence, to hold off animals, enclosed a ferrocrete
   field. Her pulse athrob but her senses and judgment
   preternaturally sharp, she gauged its dimensions as five hundred
   by three hundred meters. Service buildings clustered and a
   radionic mast spired at the farther end. Of the several landing
   docks, two were occupied. One craft she identified as
   interplanetary, a new and shapely version of Moonjumper. The
   other was naval—rather small as interstellar ships went, darkly
   gleaming, gun turret and launcher tubes sleeked into her
   leanness—akin to the Comet class, but not identical, not
   designed or wrought by humans—What ghost in her head blew a
   bugle call?
   Huge and vague in the shadows, Axor whispered hoarsely, "We
   take the Zacharian vessel, of course."
   "No, of course not," Targovi hissed. His eyes caught what light
   there was and burned like coals. "I was right in guessing the
   islanders are as militarily slovenly here as at the centrum, and
   have armed no watch. The thought of us hijacking a spaceship is
   too warlike to have occurred to them. But the Merseians are
   bound to have a guard aboard theirs. I know not whether that's a
   singleton or more, but belike whoever it is knows how to dispatch
   a seeker missile, or actually lift in chase." Decision. "However,
   we may well dupe them into supposing we are after the easier
   prey, and thus catch them off balance. The dim light will help—"
   When he burst from concealment, Axor carried Diana in the
   crook of an arm, she would otherwise have toiled far behind him
   and Targovi. The pounding of his gallop resounded through her.
   She leaned into his flexing hardness, cradled her rifle, peered
   after a mark.
   It was an instant and it was a century across the clearing, until
   they reached the fence. Axor's free arm curved around to keep
   torn strands off her while he crashed through. Nevertheless,
   several drew blood. She barely noticed.
   Men ran from the terminal, insectoidal at their distance, then
   suddenly near. She saw pistols in the hands of some. She heard
   a buzz, a thud. Axor grunted, lurched, went on. Diana opened fire.
   A figure tumbled and lay sprattling.
   Targovi bounded alongside. The cargo carrier was straight
   ahead. He raised his arm, veered, and went for the Merseians.
   Diana's vision swooped as Axor came around too. She glanced
   past his clifflike shoulder and saw the Zacharians in
   bewilderment. They numbered perhaps a dozen.
   Targovi mounted the entry ramp of the dock. An airlock stood
   shut against him. He shielded his eyes with an arm and began to
   cut his way in with the blaster. Flame spurted blue-white, heat
   roiled, air seethed, sparks scorched his fur. A light ship like this
   relied on her forcefields and interceptors for protection in space.
   Nobody expected attack on the ground.
   The Zacharians rallied and pelted toward him. They had courage
   aplenty, Diana thought in a breath. Axor went roaring and
   trampling to meet them. She threw a barrage. The men scattered
   and fled, except for one wounded and two shapeless.
   Diana's trigger clicked on an empty magazine. Above her,
   Targovi's blaster sputtered out, its capacitors exhausted.
   Axor thundered up the ramp. "Diana, get down!" he bawled.
   "Both of you, behind me!"
   They scrambled to obey. He hammered his mass against the
   weakened lock. At the third impact it sagged aside.
   Four Merseians waited. Their uniforms revealed them to be
   soldiers, unqualified to fly the craft they defended. Rather than
   shut the inner valve and risk it being wrecked too, they had
   prepared to give battle. Merseians would.
   Axor charged. Beams and bullets converged on him. That could
   not check such momentum. Two died under his hoofs before he
   collapsed, shaking the hull. Targovi and Diana came right after.
   The Tigery threw his knife. A handgun rattled off a bulkhead. He
   and the Merseian went down together, embraced. His fangs
   found the green throat. Diana eluded a shot, got in close, and
   wielded her own blade.
   Targovi picked himself up. "They'll've sent for help," he rasped
   out of dripping jaws. "Lubberly warriors though Zacharians be, I
   give us less than ten minutes. While I discover how to raise this
   thing, you close the portal." He whisked from sight.
   The lock gave her no difficulty; the layout resembled that of
   Moonjumper. With the ship sealed, she made her way across a
   slippery deck to Axor. He lay breathing hard. Scorch marks were
   black over his scales. Redness oozed from wounds, not quite
   the same hue as hers, which was not quite the same as the
   Merseians', but it was all blood—water, iron, life—"Oh, you're so
   hurt," she keened. "What can I do for you?"
   He lifted his head. "Are you well, child?"
   "Yes, nothin' hit me, but you, darlin', you—"
   Lips drew back in a smile that others might have found
   frightening. "Not to fear. A little discomfort, yes, I might go so far
   as to say pain, but no serious injury. This carcass has many a
   pilgrimage ahead of it yet. Praises be to God and thanks to the
   more militant saints." The head sank. Wearily, soberly, he
   finished, "Now let me pray for the souls of the fallen."
   A shiver went through Diana's feet. Targovi had awakened the
   engines.
   Atmospheric warcraft zoomed over hills and mountains. He did
   not try keying in an order to shoot. Instead, he outclimbed them.
   Missiles whistled aloft. By then he had learned how to switch on
   the deflector field.
   And after that he was in space. The planet rolled beneath him,
   enormous and lovely, burnished with oceans, emblazoned with
   continents, white-swirled with clouds. Once more he saw stars.
   He could only take a moment to savor. Single-handing, he hadn't
   a meteorite's chance against attack by any Naval unit. "Diana," he
   said over the intercom, "come to the bridge, will you?" and
   devoted himself to piloting. He couldn't instruct the autosystem
   the unfamiliar manual controls responded clumsily to him, and the
   navigational instruments were incomprehensible; he must eyeball
   and stagger his way. At least he'd managed to set a steady
   interior field of about a gee. Otherwise his comrades would be
   getting thrown around like chips in a casino.
   Well, if he and they could walk from the landing, that was amply
   good—if they walked free.
   The girl entered and took the copilot's seat. "I hope to bring us
   down at Aurea port," he told her. "No doubt the Zacharians will
   call frantically in, demanding the Navy blow us menaces out of
   the sky, and no doubt there are officers who will be happy to
   oblige. I lack skill to take us away on hyperdrive. You are the
   human aboard. What do you counsel?"
   She considered, hand to smoke-smudged cheek—tangle-haired,
   sweaty, ragged, begrimed. Glancing at her, scenting her,
   knowing her, he wished he could be, for some hours, a male of
   her species.
   "Can you set up a strong audiovisual transmission, that'll punch
   through interference on the standard band?" she asked.
   He studied the console before him. "I think I can."
   "Do." She closed her eyes and sagged in her harness.
   But when he was ready, she came back to strength. To the
   computer-generated face in the screen she said: "I have a
   message for Commandant General Cesare Gatto. It's not crank,
   and it is top priority. If it don't get straight to him, courts martial
   are goin' to blossom till you can't see the clover for 'em. The fact
   I'm in a spacecraft you'll soon identify as Merseian should get
   you off your duffs. He'll want a recognition code, of course. Tell
   him Diana Crowfeather is bound home."
Chapter 21
   The database contained much that became priceless to the Navy
   in its operations against the revolt. Some continued valuable
   afterward, to Terran Intelligence, until the Merseians had
   completed necessary changes of plan and organization—an
   effort which, while it went on, kept them out of considerable
   mischief abroad. A part of the record dealt with Sir Olaf
   Magnusson. From previous experience and knowledge, Flandry
   reconstructed more of the story, conjecturally but with high
   probability.
   A man stern and righteous lived under an Imperium effete and
   corrupt. Emperor Georgios meant well, but he was long a-dying,
   and meanwhile the favorites of the Crown Prince crowded into
   power. After Josip succeeded to the throne, malfeasance would
   scarcely trouble to mask itself, and official after official would
   routinely order atrocities committed on outlying worlds entrusted
   to them, that wealth might be wrung into their coffers. Erik
   Magnusson, space captain and trader of Kraken, forswore in his
   heart all allegiance to the Empire that had broken faith with him.
   Somehow a Merseian or two, among those whom he
   occasionally met, sensed the unhappiness in him and passed
   word of it on to those who took interest in such matters. Upon his
   next visit to their mother planet, he received baronial treatment. In
   due course he met the great lord—not the Roidhun, who has
   more often been demigod than ruler, but the chief of the Grand
   Council, the day-by-day master of that whole vast realm, insofar
   as any single creature could ever be.
   This was Brechdan Ironrede, the Hand of the Vach Ynvory, an
   impressive being whose soul was in many respects brother to
   the soul of Captain Magnusson. Well did he know what would
   appeal. There were humans by race who were Merseian
   subjects, just as there were Merseians by race who were Terran
   subjects—tiny minorities in either case, but significant on many
   levels. Those whom Brechdan summoned must have joined their
   voices to his. Why should Kraken pay tribute to an Imperium
   which enriched toadies, fettered commerce, and neglected
   defenses? The law of the Roidhun was strict but just. Under him,
   men could again be men. United, the two civilizations would linger
   no more in this handful of stars on a fringe of the galaxy; they
   would fare forth to possess the cosmos.
   Erik Magnusson was converted. Perhaps Aycharaych, the
   telepath, confirmed it.
   The man must have realized how slight the chance was that he
   could ever be of important service. He might or might not recruit
   a few others, he might or might not sometimes carry a message
   or an agent, but basically he was a reservist, a silent keeper of
   the flame. At home he could not even declare openly his love for
   Merseia.
   But the time came when he gave Merseia his son.
   The boy Olaf accompanied him there and remained. Nobody on
   Kraken suspected aught amiss when Erik returned within him.
   Olaf's mother was dead, his father had not remarried, his siblings
   had learned to refrain from pestering with questions. "I got him an
   apprentice's berth on a prospector ship. He'll learn more and
   better than in any of our schools."
   The secret school he did enter was neither human or humane.
   High among its undertakings was to strengthen the strong and
   destroy the weak. Olaf survived. He learned science, history,
   combat, leadership, and tearlessness. Toward the end,
   Aycharaych took him in charge, Aycharaych the Chereionite, he
   of the crested eagle countenance and the subtle, probing
   intellect. Merseian masters had laid a foundation in the boy:
   knowledge, physique, purpose. Upon it Aycharaych now raised
   the psychosexual structure he wanted.
   The Golden Face, the uttered wisdom, the Sleep and the
   Dreams and the words that whispered through them … carefully
   orchestrated pleasures of flesh, mind, spirit … dedication to a
   God unknowable—
   Young Olaf Magnusson reappeared on Kraken after some years,
   taciturn about his adventures. He soon enlisted in the Imperial
   marines. From then on, he carried out his orders.
   They were the directives of his superiors. Never was he a spy, a
   subversive, or anything but a bold, bright member of the Terran
   armed services—enlisted man, cadet on transfer, Navy officer.
   The commandment of the Merseians was to do his utmost, rise
   as fast and high as possible, and inwardly stand by for an
   opportunity that might well never come.
   What action he saw at first was against barbarians, bandits, local
   rebels and recalcitrants, nothing to stir inner conflict. But when
   crisis erupted into combat at Syrax, he fought Merseians. What
   agony this cost him—and perhaps that was little, for he had been
   taught that death in battle is honorable, and an individual is only a
   cell in the bloodstream of the Race—was eased when a secret
   agent brought him praise and told him that henceforward he
   would be in the minds of the Roidhunate's mighty.
   He had also called himself to the attention of the Empire's. His
   career plunged ahead like a comet toward its sun. If Merseia or
   its cat's paws made trouble, that was frequently in regions where
   he was stationed, and he distinguished himself. Knowing Eriau
   and two other major Merseian languages, he served on
   negotiating commissions, and gained still greater distinction.
   Beginning as an aide, he proffered such excellent suggestions
   that presently he was in charge; and under his direction, the
   Terrans got terms more advantageous to themselves than they
   had really hoped for.
   True, these were all ad hoc arrangements, concerning specific,
   spatially limited issues of secondary concern. Nonetheless Olaf
   Magnusson proved that he understood the Merseians and could
   get along with them. Manifestly, they did not hold his combat
   career against him; rather, they respected his ability and
   determination.
   The Navy did likewise. Aloofness and austerity became
   advantageous traits in the reformist reign of Emperor Hans; they
   showed Magnusson to be no mere uniformed politician. He was
   a spit-and-polish disciplinarian, but always fair, and, given a
   deserving case, capable of compassion. Where he held office,
   morale rose high, also among civilians, especially after his
   broadcast speeches. Thus it became logical to make him
   responsible for the defense of an entire, strategically critical
   sector, bordering on the debatable spaces between Empire and
   Roidhunate.
   Terra later had cause to give the High Command thanks for so
   wise a choice. What seemed like another quarrel between the
   powers, ugly but resolvable, abruptly escaped control. It flared
   into the worst emergency since Syrax. There was no rhyme or
   reason to that; but how often is there with governments? Once
   again a Merseian task force moved toward an undermanned
   Terran frontier "to restore order, assure the safety of the Race
   and its client species, and make possible the resumption of
   meaningful diplomatic discussions."
   The meaning of those discussions would be obvious, when
   Merseia held a sizeable chunk ripped out of the Empire's most
   vulnerable side. The concessions demanded would not be such
   to provoke hall-scale war; but they would leave Terra sorely
   weakened. Time was lacking in which to send adequate
   reinforcements. Against the threat, Olaf Magnusson's fleet
   orbited alone.
   "We will pay the price," the Merseian envoy had said in the
   hidden place. "You must it exact it ruthlessly. Spare us no blow
   that you can deal. Your duty is to become a hero."
   The Imperials at Patricius met the foe and broke him. His
   shattered squadrons reeled back into the darkness whence they
   came. Merseian representatives called for an immediate
   reconvening of the high-level conference, and suddenly what
   they asked and offered was reasonable. Jubilation billowed
   through the Empire, yes, even on jaded Terra. Magnusson went
   there to receive a knighthood at the hands of the Emperor.
   He returned to folk who adored him and felt cheated by their
   Imperium—almost as embittered as were many Merseians who
   had seen comrades die and ships lost because of
   unprecedented ineptitude. Sir Olaf began to speak out against
   the decadence of the state, of the entire body politic. He spoke
   both publicly and privately. Given his immense prestige and his
   remoteness from the center of things, no one ventured to quell
   him … until he proclaimed himself master of all, and his legions
   hailed him; and then it was too late.
   "This is the day for which we have prepared throughout your
   lifetime," said the envoy in the hidden place.
   "I am to reach the throne?" Magnusson asked, amazed in spite
   of having guessed what his engineered destiny was. "Why? To
   undermine the Empire till it lies ready for conquest? I—do not
   like that thought. Nor do I really believe it's a possibility. Too
   many unforeseeables, too many whole worlds."
   "Khraich, no. Victory shall be as quick and clean as we can make
   it. You are to come not as the executioner, but the savior."
   "Hard to do."
   "Explain why."
   "Well—Hans Molitor had it easier. The Wang dynasty was extinct,
   aside from a few idiots who could raise no following. Everybody
   wished for a strong man and the peace he would impose. Hans
   was the ablest of the contending war lords. From the first, he had
   the most powerful forces behind him. Yet the struggle dragged
   on for bloody years. Gerhart may be unpopular, but he is a son of
   Hans, and people hope for better things from his son. I would not
   expect very much of the Navy, besides the units I lead, to
   support me, nor any large part of the populations. Most will see
   me as a disturber of their lives."
   "You shall have our support. Abundant war material will flow to
   you through this sector, once you have achieved an initial
   success. Later, 'volunteers' will appear, in organized
   detachments drawn from subject species of ours. They need not
   be many or conspicuous; you can employ them with care, while
   affirming your loyalty to your own civilization. We will furnish proof
   of that, border incidents wherein your partisans show they
   continue ready to hold the foreign threat off.
   "As soon as you seem clearly in the ascendant, you should find
   more and more Terrans—Navy officers included—embracing
   your cause. Your triumph should be total, and at relatively low
   cost. You will thereupon set about binding up the wounds of war,
   pardoning opponents but punishing evildoers, reforming,
   cleansing, strengthening, just as you promised. You should
   become the most widely beloved Emperor Terra has had since
   Pedro II."
   "But what then? How does this serve the Race? You must be
   aware that the power of the Emperor is only absolute in theory. I
   couldn't decree submission to the Roidhun; I'd be dead within
   the hour."
   "Assuredly. But you will call for a genuine peace, wherein both
   sides bargain honestly, and see to it that your side does so
   bargain. You will make appropriate appointments, first to the
   Policy Board and High Command, afterward elsewhere; the
   names will be furnished you. From time to time questions will
   arise, political, economic, social, where you, the forceful and
   incorruptible Emperor, will make yourself arbiter. The list goes
   on. I will not weary you with it now. Your imagination can write
   much of it already.
   "Fear not, Olaf Magnusson. You should end your days old and
   honored. Your inheriting son should follow in your tracks. By then
   Mersiean advisors will sit in his councils, and Mersiean virtue be
   the ideal extolled by his intellectuals, and if certain edicts are
   nevertheless so distasteful as to cause revolts, Merseia will
   come to the help of the good Emperor … Your grandsons will
   belong to the first generation of the new humanity."
Chapter 22
   Lieutenant General Cesare Gatto, Imperial Marine Corps,
   Commandant for the Patrician System, issued his orders
   immediately. An escadrille of corvettes left Daedalus orbit and
   accelerated downward. At the speed wherewith they hit
   atmosphere, it blazed and blasted about them, behind them.
   They were too late by minutes, and buzzed back and forth over
   Zacharia like angry hornets. The interplanetary freighter which
   had been in port on the island had taken off. She could never
   have escaped pursuit, except by the means chosen. Rising
   several hundred kilometers, she nosed over and crash-dived.
   Under full thrust and no negafield protection, she became a
   shooting star. Afterward, Merseians would sing a ballad in praise
   of those comrades of theirs who had died such a death.
   No Zacharians attempted flight. "Our people tried to stop them,
   but they were armed and resolved on immolation," their
   spokesman said over the eidophone. "We are staying together."
   "You will destroy no evidence and make no resistance when his
   Majesty's troops land," Gatto snapped.
   Tangaroa Zachary shrugged. His smile was as sorrowful a sight
   as the general had ever beheld. "No, we realize we are trapped,
   and will not make the situation worse for ourselves. You will find
   us cooperative. We are not conditioned to secrecy, thus
   hypnoprobing should be unnecessary; I suggest narcoquizzing a
   random sample of us."
   "Behave yourselves, and I may put in a word on your behalf when
   the time comes for dealing out penalties. I may—provided you
   can explain to me what in God's name made you commit mass
   treason."
   "We are that we are."
   Gatto's broadcast ended a week of uncertainty and unease.
   Nobody but the most trusted members of his staff knew more
   than that he had let a Merseian vessel land at Aurea, and had had
   the crew hurried away in an opaque vehicle; that he had
   thereupon put the defense forces on alert against possible
   Merseian action; and that for reasons unspecified, a brigade
   occupied Zacharia and held it incommunicado. He needed the
   week to prepare forestalling measures, while his Intelligence
   agents feverishly studied three data slabs.
   At the appropriate moment, various officers were surprised when
   placed under arrest. Their detention was precautionary; he could
   not be sure they would be able to instantly accept the truth about
   their idol Sir Olaf. Then Gatto went on the air.
   From end to end of the system, that which he had to tell cut
   through the tension like a sword. Recoil came next, a lashing of
   outrage and alarm. Yet a curious quiet relief welled up
   underneath. How many folk had really wanted to undergo hazard
   and sacrifice for a change of overlords? Now, unless the
   Merseians took an ungloved hand in matters, the requirement
   upon them was just that they muddle through each day until the
   status quo could be restored.
   By the hundreds, recordings of the announcement, together with
   copies and analyses of the proof, went off in message
   torpedoes and courier boats to the Imperial stars.
   Gatto's image was not alone there. After his speech, the uptake
   had gone to a woman. She stood very straight against a plain red
   backdrop. A gray robe draped her slenderness. A white coif
   framed dark, fine features. Behind her stood two half-grown boys
   and a little girl. They wore the same headgear. On the planet
   Nyanza, it is the sign of mourning for the dead.
   "Greeting," she said, low and tonelessly. "I am Vida Lonwe-
   Magnusson, wife of Admiral Sir Olaf. With me are the children we
   have had. Many of you sincerely believed in the rightfulness of
   his cause. You will understand how we four never thought to
   question it, any more than we question sunlight or springtime.
   "Tonight we know that Olaf Magnusson's life has been one long
   betrayal. He would have delivered us into the power of our
   enemies—no, worse than enemies; those who would
   domesticate us to their service. I say to you, disown him, as we
   do here before you. Cast down him and his works, destroy them
   utterly, send the dust of them out upon the tides of endless
   space. Let us return to our true allegiance. No, the Empire is not
   perfect; but it is ours. We can better it.
   "As for myself, when we have peace again I will go back to the
   world of my people, and bring my children with me. May all of you
   be as free. And may you be ready to forgive those who were
   mistaken. May those of you who are religious see fit to pray for
   the slain in this most abominable of wars. Perhaps a few of you
   will even find it in your hearts to pray for the soul of Olaf
   Magnusson.
   "Thank you."
   The task finished, she gathered her sons and her daughter to
   her, and they wept.
   Winter night lay over the South Wilwidh Ocean. Waves ran black
   before a harrying wind, save where their white manes glimmered
   fugitively in what light there was. That came from above. The
   moon Neihevin seemed to fly through ragged clouds. So did a
   tiny, lurid patch, the nebula expanding from the ruin of
   Valenderay; and across more than a parsec, its radiation
   unfolded aurora in cold hues. Several speeding glints betokened
   satellites whose forcefields must still, after half a millennium,
   guard Merseia against the subatomic sleetstorm the supernova
   had cast forth. Hazy though it was, this luminance veiled most
   stars.
   Those that blinked in vision were far apart and forlorn.
   Seas crashed, wind shrilled around the islet stronghold from
   which Tachwyr the Dark spoke with his Grand Council. The
   images somehow deepened his aloneness in the stony room
   where he sat.
   "No, I have as yet no word of what went wrong," he told them.
   "Searching it out may require prolonged efforts, for the Terrans
   will put the best mask they can upon the facts. And it may hardly
   matter. Some blunder, accident, failure of judgment—that could
   well be what has undone us." Starkly: "The fact is that they have
   learned Magnusson was ours. Everywhere his partisans are
   deserting him. If they do not straightaway surrender to the
   nearest authorities, it is because they first want pardons. The
   enterprise itself has disintegrated."
   "You say Magnusson was ours," Alwis Longtail murmured. "How
   do you know his fate? Might he be alive and bound hither-ward?"
   "That is conceivable," Tachwyr replied; "but I take for granted that
   the crew of his flagship mutinied too, when the news came upon
   them. We shall wish they killed him cleanly. He has deserved
   better than trial and execution on Terra—yes, better than
   dragging out a useless existence as a pensioner on Merseia."
   "Likewise," said Odhar the Curt, "your statement that his
   followers are giving up must be an inference."
   "True. Thus far I have only the most preliminary of reports. But
   think."
   "I have. You are certainly correct."
   "What can we do?" asked Gwynafon of Brightwater.
   "We will not intervene," said Tachwyr to the dull member of the
   Council. "What initial gains we might make while the Terran Navy
   is trying to reorganize itself would be trivial, set next to the
   consequences. Much too readily could the militant faction among
   the humans, minority though it is, mobilize sentiment, seize
   control, and set about preparing the Empire for total confrontation
   with us.
   "No, Merseia denies any complicity, blames whatever may have
   happened upon overzealous officers—on both sides, and calls
   for resumption of talks about a nonaggression pact. My lords, at
   this conference we should draft instructions to Ambassador
   Chwioch. I have already ordered the appropriate agencies to
   start planning what to feed the Imperial academies, religions, and
   news media."
   "Then we might yet get two or three beasts out of this failed
   battue?" Alwis wondered.
   "We must try," Odhar said. "Console yourselves with the thought
   that we invested little treasure or effort in the venture. Our net
   loss is minor."
   "Except for hope," Tachwyr mumbled. He drew his robe close
   about him; the room felt chill. "I dreamed that I would live to
   behold—" He straightened. "By adversity, the God tempers the
   steel of the Race. Let us get on with our quest."
Chapter 23
   Imhotep spun toward northern autumn. Dwarfed Patricius burned
   mellower in skies gone pale. When full, the big moon Zoser rose
   early and set late; with its lesser companions Kanofer and
   Rahotep it made lambent the snowpeaks around Mt. Horn.
   Sometimes flakes dusted off them, aglitter, vanishing as they
   blew into the streets of Olga's Landing. Dead leaves scrittled
   underfoot. In Old Town crowds milled, music twanged, savory
   odors rose out of foodstalls and Winged Smoke houses; for this
   was the season when Tigery caravans brought wares up from the
   lowlands.
   Fleet Admiral Sir Dominic Flandry had time to prowl about.
   Things had changed a good deal since last he was here, but
   memories lingered. One hour he went to the Terran cemetery
   and stood quiet before a headstone. Otherwise, mostly, he
   enjoyed being at liberty, while hirelings flitted in search of the
   persons he wanted.
   After the loyalists—the Navy of Emperor Gerhart—reoccupied
   Sphinx and released him, he had set about learning just what had
   been going on. His connections got him more information than
   would ever become public. On that basis, he decided to send
   Banner a reassuring message but himself, before returning
   home, visit Daedalus. There he spent an especially interesting
   while on Zacharia. However, those individuals he most desired to
   see had gone back to Imhotep. Flandry followed, to learn that
   Diana Crowfeather and Father F.X. Axor were at sea on an
   archaeological expedition, while Targovi was off in the asteroid
   belt chaffering for precious metals. Like everything else, the
   minerals industry was in a fluid state, and would remain thus until
   the aftermath of the recent unpleasantness had damped out. A
   smart operator could take advantage of that.
   Having called on Dragoika in Toborkozan, Flandry engaged
   searchers. In Olga's Landing he took lodgings at the Pyramid
   and roved around the city.
   Almost together, his detectives fetched his guests. Flandry bade
   them a cordial welcome over the eidophone, described the credit
   to their accounts in the bank, and arranged a date for meeting.
   Thereafter he commandeered an official dining room and gave
   personal attention to the menu and wine list.
   From this high level, a full-wall transparency looked far over
   splendor. Westward the city ended at woods turned scarlet,
   russet, amber. Beyond the warm zone were boulders and crags,
   hardy native bush, thinly frozen rivulets and ponds, to the dropoff
   of the summit. Beyond the depths, within which blue shadows
   were rising, neighbor mountains waited for the sun. Their snows
   had come aglow; glaciers gleamed nebula-green.
   In air, weight, warmth, the room was Terra. Recorded violins
   frolicked, fragrances drifted. It made the more plain what an
   enclave this was, and how much the more dear for that.
   Flandry leaned back, let cigarette smoke trail, regarded his
   daughter through it. A charming lass, he thought. Granted, the
   outfit she had bought herself was scarcely in the latest Imperial
   court fashion—crimson mini-gown, leather sandals, bracelet and
   headband of massive silver set with raw turquoises, spotted
   gillycat pelt from right shoulder to left hip, where her Tigery knife
   rested—but it might well have ignited a new style there, and in
   any event the Imperial court was blessedly distant.
   As he hoped, cocktails were bringing ease between him and her.
   But Targovi, to whom the drinking of ethanol was not a social
   custom and who had not started to inhale what was set before
   him, persisted in hunting down what he wanted to know. The
   Tigery had vanity enough to wear a beaded breechcloth and
   necklace of land pearls; a colloidal spray had made his fur shine.
   Still—"And so you, sir, you caught the same suspicions as I?" he
   inquired.
   In the background Axor rested serene along the floor, listening
   with one bony ear while contemplating the sunset. He was clad
   merely in his scales and scutes, unless you counted the purse,
   rosary, and spectacles hung from his neck.
   "Why, yes," Flandry said. "Magnusson's being a sleeper, as we
   call it in the trade—that possibility occurred to me, although an
   undertaking such as his would be the most audacious ever
   chronicled outside of cloak-and-blaster fiction. I thought of
   comparing his account of his early life with what various
   Merseians recalled. They could not all have been vowed to
   secrecy; and as for those who had been, a percentage would be
   susceptible … Blatant inconsistencies would give me a strong
   clue. Unfortunately, Merseian counter-intelligence nailed our
   agents before they could accomplish anything worthwhile.
   Fortunately, you had the same intuition, and this trio here in front
   of me carried out a coup more dramatic and decisive than I had
   dared fantasize."
   "What's the latest news about the war?" Diana asked. "The truth,
   I mean, not that sugar puddin' on the screens."
   Flandry's grin was wary. "I wouldn't dignify it with the name of war.
   Not as of weeks and weeks ago. Mainly, everything is in
   abeyance while Imperium and bureaucracy creak through the
   datawork. People who, in good faith, fought for
   Magnusson—they're too many to kill or imprison. Punishments
   will have to range from reprimands, through fines and reductions
   in rank, to cashiering. The scale and the chaos of making it all
   orderly defies imagination; beside it, the accretion disc of a black
   hole is as neat as a transistor. But it'll settle down eventually."
   "Magnusson. Any word about him?" Flandry frowned. "He died at
   the hands of his men. Do you really want to hear the details? I
   gather there are no plans to release them. Why risk rousing
   sympathy for him?"
   "And I suppose," Targovi put in slowly, "the tale of how the
   conspiracy came to light, that will also stay secret?"
   Flandry sighed. "Well, it wouldn't make the government look so
   terribly efficient, would it? Besides, my sources inform me that
   Merseia had indicated its release would make Merseia equally
   unhappy. It could jar the peace process … Not that you're
   forbidden to talk. The Empire is big, and you have no particular
   access to the media."
   "What of the Zacharians?" came like surf from Axor. "Is mercy
   possible for those tormented souls?"
   "Tormented, my foot!" cried Diana, and stamped hers. She
   checked herself, drank of her martini, and said, while a slight
   flush played across her cheekbones: "Not that I'm after genocide
   on them or any such thing. Javak, no! But what will happen? You
   got any notion, Dad?"
   "Yes, I do," Flandry replied, glad to steer conversation into softer
   channels. "Not that a final decree has been issued; but I've been
   studying the situation, and … my word is not without leverage."
   He likewise sipped, drew breath and smoke, before he
   continued: "They're unique. No other population, at least no other
   human population, could have kept a secret the way theirs did.
   Virtually every adult was privy to it. Let's eschew quibbles about
   what 'human' really means.
   "Their children, of course, are innocent, had no idea of what was
   going on. Can we kill them? The Merseians might, to 'purge the
   Race.' Whatever its entropy level, the Empire has not yet sunk to
   that.
   "Pardons, amnesties, and limited penalties are going to be the
   order of the day. They must, if we want to shore up this social
   structure of ours so it might last another century or two.
   "I think the punishment of the Zacharians will be the loss of their
   country. They'll be forced to vacate—scatter—find new homes
   wherever they can. I'd not be surprised but what Merseia offers
   them a haven, and many of them accept. The rest—will have to
   make their way among the rest of us."
   "And what will come of that?" Targovi mused.
   Flandry spread his hands. "Who knows? We play the game
   move by move, and never see far ahead—the game of empire,
   of life, whatever you want to call it—and what the score will be
   when all the pieces at last go back into the box, who knows?"
   He tossed off his drink, tossed away his cigarette, and stood up.
   "My friends," he said, "dinner awaits. Let us go in together and
   rejoice in what we have.
   "But first—" his glance swooped about—"I'd like to give you
   three some extra reason for rejoicing. Diana, Targovi … are you
   really heart-bent on faring out yonder? I'm prepared to arrange
   that for you, however you choose. Trader, explorer, scientist,
   artist, or, God help you, Intelligence operative—I can see to it
   that you get the schooling and the means you'll need. I only ask
   that first you think hard about what you truly want." The girl's and
   the Tigery's spirits fountained radiance.
   "As for you, Father Axor," Flandry went on, "if you wish, I'll obtain
   adequate funding for your research. Shall I?"
   "God bless you, whether you like it or not," the Wodenite replied,
   ocean-deep. "What you endow goes beyond space or time." He
   crossed his hands on his forelegs and smiled, as a being may
   who is winning salvation for himself and his beloved.