After the Dreamtime
                     Richard A. Lupoff


   Richard A. Lupoff, after a dozen years in the East as a minion of IBM,
lives now in Berkeley, California, in a pleasant house full of children,
dogs, cats, old books and magazines, and phonograph records, and
makes his way happily as a freelance writer. He is an authority on,
among other things, early comics, paleolithic science-fiction novels, rock
music, and the writings of Edgar Rice Burroughs. His published work
includes, apart from nonfiction items on several of the aforementioned
subjects, three novels so far— One Million Centuries (1967), Sacred
Locomotive Flies (1971), and Thintwhistle on the Moon (1974)— and the
extraordinary, much-acclaimed novella "With the Bentfin Boomer Boys
on Little Old New Alabama," in Again, Dangerous Visions. He makes his
New Dimensions debut with a rich, powerful tale of aboriginal
astronauts and tall-masted starships that is likely to remain a long while
in readers' memories.


   No, I do not see that membrane ships very closely resemble the clippers
that long ago plied the living oceans of earth, those mighty windjammers
that stood so tall above the ever-moving brine, their shafty masts
thrusting canvas squares high into earth's salt-tanged air. Possibly our
captain, Nurundere, would have something to say on the topic; he is
learned in history, law and custom. Or better yet—but no, I forget myself,
old Wuluwaid will tell you nothing.

  Wuluwaid is gone; our modern outlook would mark him simply dead.
The older religions would mumble of heaven, or reincarnation. Nurundere,
our captain… now, he might have something other to say of the fate of
Wuluwaid. In the tradition of our people, he might well say that Wuluwaid
had returned to the Dreamtime.

   I respect the ancient traditions. I would rather believe in the
Dreamtime than in any heaven or the workings of the great wheel of
karma, but what I believe in actually is very little.
   "Jiritzu," old Wuluwaid used to say to me, "you lack all regard for your
ancestry and for the traditions of our people. What will become of you and
your Kunapi half Dua? For what did my Bunbulama and I raise our
beautiful Miralaidj—to marry a lazy modern who cares nothing for the
Aranda, who thinks that maraiin are mere decorations, who can hardly
read a tjurunga?

   "She might as well marry a piece of meat!" And saying this old
Wuluwaid would grimace, reminded by his own speech of the grayness of
his skin, and I would embrace him. He would take my face between his
two hands, rubbing my cheeks as if some of the blackness would be
absorbed into his own melanin-poor cells, then sigh and mutter, "Soon I
will be with my Bunbulama, and you will sail the membrane ships with my
Miralaidj and she will bear you beautiful sons and daughters to carry on
the line of the Aranda and to sail the membrane ships after you."

   Wuluwaid envied me, I know. We were the sailors of the star-winds, we
the Aranda and the Kunapi. We few thousands who owned a world,
Yurakosi, where our old folk go to live when they become grayed-out,
caring for the children too young for space. The rest of us, our
melanin-rich skins protecting us from the hard radiations of space, were
the select of all mankind.

    We alone, we few thousand, can sail the membrane ships, working their
decks and masts all but naked to the stars. Others envy our gift, blasting
from sun to sun sealed in iron boxes, venturing out only when clad in
clumsy, clanking spacesuits… and we in trousers and sweaters, the only
living beings we know of who can survive as we are in deep space,
sustained only by a close-air generator the size of a hand strapped to one
leg.

   Back on the mother planet earth our distant ancestors had been
separated by some trick of geography, cut off from human crossbreeding
and left to survive beneath the burning sky of the old Australian continent.
Blackfellows, the other earthers called our ancestors when they found
them after an isolation of twenty-five thousand years. Blackfellows,
aborigines, or—confusing our ancestors with another black race of
earth—bushmen.

  Great Mother knows there were plenty of other blacks on the old earth.
(There, Wuluwaid would be pleased with me; I call on the name "Great
Mother" for strength even though I claim no belief in the old mythology of
the Dreamtime.) There were peoples in old Africa, old Asia, with as much
dark pigment in their skin as we have in ours. But among our people there
was some subtle difference, some microscopic chemical variation that was
amplified by the hard radiation of space. Other humans would sicken and
die in the raw blast of the cosmos. We alone could thrive. Only slowly, in
the course of many years, does the solar wind, the cosmic radiation, break
down our melanin.

   Then we gray out. Then we can travel in space no longer on the decks,
in the masts and the rigging of the membrane ships. Then to venture
outside the protection of a passenger tank we would need to wear
spacesuits, like other men. The decks are still open, but in a spacesuit one
cannot work the lines properly, and even if one could—what point in
thumping about like a leaden automaton in the midst of grace and
freedom?

   Sail in a spacesuit? No sky-hero has ever so chosen. Space is not closed
even then to us. We can travel with the meat, we can loll in the comfort of
the passenger tank along with the men and women whom we carry like
freight in the passenger tanks of our membrane ships.

   We can—but who would travel with the meat, who had ever sailed the
night between the stars?

  You have never done it and never shall. You cannot know one minnow's
worth of the experience. You have seen representations, re-creations, of
membrane ships, but they are feeble attempts to communicate the
experience.

    Start with a rod of collapsed matter, matter incredibly dense yet drawn
so thin that it cannot exercise the usual property of its kind, of capturing
all matter nearby and even all radiation, and crushing them to itself. The
rod that lies at the heart of each membrane ship is so thin that it is barely
visible—beside it a pencil lead is an incredibly fat cylinder, even a fine
electronic wire is a gross and clumsy thing. A rod of collapsed matter
drawn so thin that it is virtually invisible—straight as a plumb line and
two hundred meters long.

  At each end a matter converter, a small device using the agonized
matter principle to convert a tiny chunk of the rod into pure energy,
enough energy to start a membrane ship on her way from port-orbit upon
her interstellar journey, or at the end of that journey to brake her from
interstellar speed and permit her to achieve port-orbit and unload.

   Around that rod, place a structure of flat decking material, arbitrary in
width, a hundred eighty meters in length, making a triangle in cross
section, and around it a cylinder of this radiation shielding running the
length of the ship. That makes the passenger tank: three gigantic rooms,
flat of floor, their floors mounted at three-hundred degree angles to one
another, sharing a common, curving roof.

   There the meat stays during a voyage. They can come onto the deck to
inspect cargo if they wish—some shippers insist on riding with their cargo
and inspecting it periodically throughout a voyage—but what good is that?
Clad in huge and cumbersome spacesuits like the repair crews of ordinary
ships, they peer at us sailors in amazement and envy—we return their
stares, our faces showing our pity and contempt—and then they crawl
clumsily back through the airlocks into their tank.

   When I am grayed-out—if I am grayed-out, I should say, for I am not in
the least certain that I will live that long, that I will choose to live that
long— when I am grayed-out I will ration out my last melanin carefully,
making certain that I can sail back to Yurakosi as a man, not as a piece of
meat. I will debark at Port Bralku, I will turn, still wearing sailor's garb,
and wave farewell to the Kunapi and the Aranda aboard whatever
membrane ship I have sailed. I will board a little shuttle craft and return
to the surface of Yurakosi, and I will find myself a little house, perhaps at
Snake Bay or Blue Mud Bay, and I will build myself a sailing canoe, and I
will be a water sailor when I can no longer be a space sailor.

  Never will I travel as meat.

   Perhaps I will go to visit Wuluwaid's Bunbulama if she is still alive by
then. She will be very old then if she is still alive. I will sit by her side
holding her grayed-out hand in my grayed-out hand, and we will speak of
her Wuluwaid and of her beautiful dead Miralaidj, and together we will
weep. Perhaps my Kunapi half Dua will be with us then. Bunbulama will
hold me and say, "Ah, Jiritzu, now we are alone. Now whom have we to
love?"

    Childlessness is unusual among us. There is rivalry between the Aranda
and the Kunapi to grow more numerous, but there is no serious wishing of
ill between the tribes. There is need for us; no other race of mankind can
sail the membrane ships. Without us there would be only the huge clumsy
sealed ships that other men can manage, ships constructed all of sealed
and shielded tanks where men travel between the stars like bits of canned
dingo-meal.

   Bunbulama does not know that she is alone. She thinks that her man
and her daughter are sailing the Djanggawul on the great path from
Yurakosi to N'Jaja to pick up passengers, thence by way of Yirrkalla to
make the great tack at the place of the triple suns, from there to Nala to
deposit our burden of meat, and onward by way of old earth before
returning to Yurakosi.

   Djanggawul will brake as she approaches our sun, will swing into
docking orbit at Port Bralku, sailors will make planetfall along with a
cargo of trade goods, families will be reunited. Bunbulama will await sight
of Wuluwaid her man and Miralaidj her child, but they are in the
Dreamtime and she will not see them again on Yurakosi.

   If I return to Yurakosi, I will bear her the word of what took place on
this voyage. Otherwise the duty will fall to Dua, Kunapi, my friend. That I
would not envy him.

   I will not flee, I will not transfer to another ship nor make planetfall at
any world other than Yurakosi. Not even at old earth, although I would
like to set foot on the soil of Australia, would like to sail a ship on an ocean
of old earth. But I will bear news to Bunbulama if I am not myself by then
in the Dreamtime. If I am, Dua will carry word to Bunbulama on our
world.

   Our journey started well enough. On their little mudballs the meat were
warring again. Old earth remained aloof, her concern turned inward as it
had been since the fast ships had first permitted the escape of her nations
to the stars, to find new planets of their own on which to plant their
banners of nationhood or religious tyranny or politics.

   The great nations of old earth had been dismembered, their petty
successors had seen opportunity for new glory, out among the stars. Whole
worlds had beckoned, an infinity of planets among which to choose. No
matter that on nearly all the climate was too cold or too hot, the
atmosphere poisonous, the land too dry or too rocky or the sea too deep.

  Move on, seek another world, seek another star. Great Mother had
made enough worlds in the Dreamtime; man could now seek and find as
many homes as he wanted.

  But where men went, except for the Aranda and the Kunapi, it was as
meat only.

   Old earth grew more and more deserted, save for those few tribes
whose tradition made them love the land itself. These stragglers spread
out of their ancient home, what they called the Middle East, and covered
the globe. Their interests were inward. They set a satellite dock above
their world, called it Port Hussein, and did some trade with the new
worlds.

  As they still do, of course. But their interest is the earth.

   And the Djanggawul, like the other membrane ships, plied between the
stars, carrying meat, carrying freight, faster and cheaper than the clumsy
sealed ships of other men.

   If the meat on their little mudballs went to war, it was of little concern
to Yurakosi. The ships of the Aranda and the Kunapi traded with the
meat, carried the meat about as they wished. Their money was good; with
it we obtained the trade goods that made life on Yurakosi comfortable for
the old people who spent their grayed-out years there and for the children
whose early days were passed also on the planet, husbanding their
precious melanin against the day when they might sail the membrane
ships.

   We braked to docking-orbit at Port Upatoi, the satellite of N'Jaja. The
port workers were of course meat, tending their tasks as much as they can
within the sheltering walls of their little artificial moonlet, venturing out
from those walls into the vacuum and radiation of space only when they
must, only when clad in the clumsy sealed suits that meat always wear in
space.

   The sailors of the Djanggawul scurried about on the masts and the
spars of our ship, glorying in the beauties of space. Of course our sails
were furled—no need for membrane when the braking power of agonized
matter is used, any more than there is when that same power is used to
break orbit and commence an interstellar journey.

  And of course the delicacy of the membrane is such that we would
hesitate to leave it unfurled during docking or undocking maneuvers.
    It is only when the journey is once under way that the matter converter
is switched off—the use of the converter is little more than an auxiliary in
any case—and the sails are unfurled.

   Tall and thin, the masts rise from the passenger tank, standing far
above the body of our ship. This, I think, is what makes some antiquarians
compare our craft to the clippers of earth's seas. But while they rested
atop their watery medium, their masts rising only upward from the sea,
our ships are immersed in their medium of space, and we are free to build
our masts out in all directions.

   The masts rise, ringing the passenger tank like spokes from a hub, and
from the masts there spring spars, and from the spars are hung the
membranes with which we catch the star winds and sail between the suns.

   Sailors is what we are, sailors and the sky-heroes of our people's
tradition. Still we affect the scarification of our skin in the traditional
maraiin, the sacred patterns of the Great Desert, of Arnhem Land whence
our ancestors came to space. And still we dress in the garb of old earth's
sailors— some think this vain affectation. Wuluwaid clung fiercely to it
and was pleased that I showed willingness to wear the woolen cap, the
heavy sweater and white duck trousers of tradition.

   With both Wuluwaid and Miralaidj gone to the Dreamtime, will I be a
sailor longer?

   As we made dock at Port Upatoi, N'Jaja, I was off watch. I climbed a
tall mast and sat on a spar, careful of the furled membrane even in its
protective case—membranes are expensive as well as fragile. My
sweetheart Miralaidj was beside me, it being her time off watch as well as
mine.

    Even now I can see her face as it was at that moment— the light upon
her was the reflected light of the dayside of N'Jaja, a world of mottled
green forestation, red earth and blue oceans. Miralaidj, sat beside me on
the spar, hundreds of meters above the passenger tank. Her face was the
blackest of black, rich with the generous melanin of youth. Her hair, long
and glossy, hung in braids that would be no handicap to work or play. Her
body filled her thick-knit sweater and tight trousers, every graceful line
filling me with love for her, eagerness for our wedding and the days of the
birth of our children.
   Had we been other than sky-heroes we would have worn the heavy
protective spacesuits that other spacemen need. But we of Yurakosi,
protected from the radiation by our altered melanin, breath and pressure
provided by our close-air generators, we alone of all mankind enter space
as ourselves. As creatures to whom deep space is very nearly a natural
habitat.

   For as long as our melanin lasts, we can penetrate to the deepest part of
the void—naked if we wish, although that is not the custom of our people.
In most ancient times, in old Australia's deserts, our ancestors went
naked. But once we became sea sailors on earth we began to wear clothing
of the sort that still we wear as space sailors.

   I placed my hand on the face of my sweetheart Miralaidj, with my
fingertips tracing the maraiin raised there in her infancy, its swirls and
symbolic patterns bearing their secret meaning known only to her,
different from those of any other person. When we were married, she
would tell me the meaning of her maraiin and I would tell her the meaning
of mine.

   Both of us had turned off our radios—we were out of touch with the rest
of the crew of the Djanggawul and out of the communication net that by
now would link our ship with Port Upatoi. We could speak with each other
only by leaning close so that our close-air envelopes overlapped, carrying
ordinary sound waves between us.

   I checked the dial on the close-air generator on my leg. The miniature
digital clock face indicated that there was an ample supply of close-air for
me. Miralaidj smiled as I leaned over her own generator, checking the
security of its straps, the digital indicator on the face of the generator, to
see that she too had a safe margin of air with her.

   She placed her cheek beside mine, her mouth close to my ear, and said,
"You take good care of me, Jiritzu. Without you I would surely forget my
air!" There was irony in her voice, but a sweet warmth as well. She drew
back laughing, the sound that carried through the close-air to my ears
disappearing as our air envelopes separated.

   I seized her hands for a moment, a trace of the laughter returning as
the sound waves were carried through her air envelope into mine where
they were joined at our hands, and thence to my ears. "I will always take
care of you," I said, knowing that my words were reaching her only faintly
after traveling through the air down my arms and up hers.

  "If harm befell you," I said, "I would have to contend with the
vengeance of Wuluwaid!" As if it were her father whose favor mattered to
me and not my sweetheart's own. It was a standing joke between us.

  "You know old Wuluwaid," Miralaidj rejoined. "He is so caught up in
duty and tradition, he cares more about meat than about the Aranda."

   "I know," I said—and there was some truth in that. Wuluwaid often
said that the care of passengers was a sacred trust, that it was a charge to
the Aranda and the Kunapi from the Great Mother herself, to transport
those less fortunate than ourselves safely from one little mudball to
another little mudball. Only we could know the joy of living in space—let
the little crawlers have their safety and their wars.

   "Look!" Miralaidj cried, holding her hand to my ear to conduct the
sound. "Look, the shuttle!"

    There beneath us a triangular craft had made its appearance. How long
it had been climbing through the atmosphere of N'Jaja was of no concern:
now it had burst from the air envelope, achieved orbit, and was itself
approaching Port Upatoi to dock. Its thick body, its carefully rounded
edges, its airfoil design all spoke of the clumsy hybrid duty which it served,
rising through the atmosphere of a planet, entering orbit, carrying
passengers or trade goods to the port… then dropping away, falling back
into atmosphere, skipping across the top of the planet's air globe,
constantly losing speed until it could fully re-enter the atmosphere and
glide to a landing.

   Neither true aircraft nor true spacecraft, the shuttle served as both,
served clumsily but performed its task.

   And now, where Miralaidj pointed her slender black finger, I could see
the shuttle from N'Jaja approaching Port Upatoi. Behind it sputtered a
tiny tail of reaction stuff—not even agonized matter for these little
trips—and from time to time there would be a tinier spurt of vernier
engines to make a minor course adjustment.

  Wuluwaid, as his daughter had said, was down in the passenger tank,
awaiting the arrival of the meat. He would know, as we all did, that the
meat would be dressed in their heavy space suits, that they would clump
through the airlocks and corridors of Port Upatoi and make their way to
the airlock and the passenger tank of our ship, the Djanggawul. Normally
this would be a slow process with halts and delays and the filling out of
forms and stamping of documents, but not this time.

   This was the assemblage of diplomats from a number of planets,
ambassadors plenipotentiary and their staffs and flunkies who would be
attending some sort of war conference with many more of their ilk at our
next stop, N'Ala.

   Little concern to us. Let the planet-squirmers have their squabbles and
fight their wars.

    Miralaidj tapped me on the shoulder and pointed down the mast we
had both climbed. Scrambling up its meager handholds I saw the form of
little Bildjiwura, Miralaidj's Kunapi half, her closest friend, a girl just
making her first sail. It was unusual for our people to permit halving of
two persons so disparate in age—-Miralaidj a full woman nearly ready for
marriage, Bildjiwura a a slim little thing more than five years her
junior—but as a child Miralaidj had astounded her family and friends in
their town of Kaitjou a by declining to select a half from among the
Kunapi.

   Miralaidj was a child of five, long since talking and reading, learning
now her simple sums in school, when she saw the newborn Kunapi,
Bildjiwura. "She is my half," Miralaidj had said, and that was the settling
of the question.

   She had helped in the raising of her little half, an unknown thing
among our people where halves were always expected to be of an age.
When Miralaidj's parents, Wuluwaid and Bunbulama, had sent for her to
be taken into space with them, Bildjiwura had remained behind in
Kaitjouga on Yurakosi. For five years the halves had been apart, another
thing amazing to our people.

   But now Bildjiwura was sailing aboard the Djanggawul, the halves
were reunited, and I found myself occasionally burdened, more often
delighted, with the presence of little Bildjiwura.

   I stood on the spar Miralaidj and I had been sharing, lifted one foot and
locked my ankles around the spar. I turned my radio on and tight-beamed
a quick call to Bildjiwura.
   Then I threw my weight forward, falling toward the passenger tank of
the Djanggawul (and toward the bulk of N'Jaja below). My ankle swung
me around the spar. Bildjiwura pushed herself upward from her
handholds, flinging both arms straight ahead.

   We caught hands. I swung on around the spar, Bildjiwura's mass
adding to the momentum of our swing. When I was standing upright
again I clutched tighter with my ankles, released one of Bildjiwura's
hands—she was straight over my head, now, feet uppermost—and grabbed
the mast with my free hand.

   Bildjiwura clutched my one hand even tighter, swung around our wrists
as a fulcrum and landed on the spar beside me. She threw her arms
around my waist and hung on, giggling and gasping for breath. For a
moment it crossed my mind that she had a childish romantic feeling for
me, but of course she was of the Kunapi, Miralaidj and I of the Afanda,
and that was all that there could ever be of that.

  We sat down on the spar again, Miralaidj, Bildjiwura and I. We all had
our radios on now, and we could hear the proceedings down in the
passenger tank even though we couldn't see what was going on.

   Wuluwaid's voice we could hear, attending to the mechanics of the
airlock and getting the meat inside; Captain Nurundere was of course
present too. Everyone knew it would be old Wuluwaid's final sail—he had
no intention of letting himself be treated like ballast; he was going to work
every leg of the voyage. Captain Nurundere, of course, was duty-bound to
welcome the meat aboard and see to their welfare.

   Captain Nurundere and Wuluwaid had their radios on even though the
atmosphere in the passenger tank would have carried their voices directly.
Using their radios, they could be heard by the meat even before the
passengers had removed their helmets—-and also, our two officers,
Nurundere of the Kunapi and his half Wuluwaid of the Aranda, could be
heard by all of the crew of Djanggawul, a method of keeping us informed
of everything that transpired. Our officers hold their positions by merit
and experience, but officerships are merely jobs of sailors, no different
from being a membrane rigger, a mess chef, or any other job. They are of
no different class from other sailors, and have no right to special comforts
or to keep secrets from the rest.

  High on our spar, the blackness of space stretching above us and the
radiance of N'Jaja below, Miralaidj and Bildjiwura and I listened to the
actions in the passenger tank. We could hear the turnings, scraping and
clanking of the airlock door, the hiss of free air moving from the tank into
the lock, then being replenished from the reserve supplies of the tank.

   Heavy metallic footsteps sounded as the meat emerged from the airlock
into the passenger tank, their thick shoes rattling against the hard
flooring, sending echoes off the curved metal roof. The number of clanks
surprised me—the N'Jajans and their allies were a far larger party than I
had expected us to transport. But all for the best. The tank was large,
more passengers meant more fare revenue for Djanggawul and ultimately
more trade goods for Yurakosi.

   When the last of the meat had come through the airlock and it had
been resealed, Wuluwaid and two or three duty sailors moved to help the
meat out of their helmets and suits. I could hear them working at this
task, made needful by the clumsiness of the meat's protective garb and by
the problems the meat would have in seeing inside the tank, through the
heavily shielded faceplates of their helmets.

   The first of the meat had his helmet off and (I could hear him clearly)
exclaimed something as he caught sight of the sailor who had helped him
off with his helmet. The meat's accent was thick and made understanding
him difficult, but his words were something to the effect of "Bigaw! Hands
offa me, boy!"

   I wondered who had been helping him. Baiame? Kutjara? Young
sailors, but strange that the meat would think either of them a child. Well,
perhaps a custom of N'Jaja.

   Rasp! Thump! Other helmets came loose from their collars, more meat
were helped from their clumsy protection. I heard Captain Nurundere
address himself ceremoniously to the leader of the meat party. His voice
correct, his words those dictated by the serious custom of Yurakosi space
sailors, Captain Nurundere spoke:

   "Welcome, honored passengers, to our ship, Djanggawul. Place
yourselves in the care of sky-heroes. The Great Mother will guide and
assist us in protecting you from demons."

  I heard the brushing sound of Captain Nurundere drawing from his
waistband his captain's rangga; in my spirit I could see him draw a
maraiin in the air with his magic stick.

   To my amazement I heard the voices of several of the strangers raised
in laughter! Not that I myself believe seriously in the magic of the rangga,
the sacredness of the maraiin patterns or the picture stories etched on our
tjurunga. Not to believe is one thing, but to insult the sacred traditions of
one's hosts by laughter—this was scandalous.

   "You boys pretty funny!" I heard a stranger's voice speak. "Owzbow
gettin an officer down hya swikn talk seriously?" It was difficult to
understand parts of his speech.

   But our officers seemed to understand. I heard our captain's voice. "I
am Nurundere," he spoke formally, "I am the captain of Djanggawul, your
protector and transporter, sir."

   "Ya?" the stranger's voice came. "Ya? Ya bunch a nigras," he said, great
astonishment sounding in his speech. "Zevvabody on this ship nigras?"

  There was a moment without speech, only the sounds of shuffling feet
and persons continuing to remove space suits, then the stranger went on,
"Hey, you!"

   I could not see his movements, but clearly he must have addressed
himself to the captain's half, for the voice of Wuluwaid came through our
radios. "I am the half of our captain," the old man said. "If I can assist our
charges they need but explain their requirements."

   "Yeh, you old boy," the stranger said. "You don't look lacka nigra. Wha's
going on heeh?"

  "Nigra?" Wuluwaid said. "I do not understand."

   There was the sound of more shuffling, some murmuring among the
new passengers, then I heard their leader speak once more. "You mean to
tell me"—I wondered that his accent lapsed and resumed as it did—"that
this whole ship… that the black boy is really the captain of this ship?"

  I heard Wuluwaid make a sound in his throat as if deeply hurt by the
words of the passenger. Then he said, "I regret that I am as grayed-out as
you see me. My half Nurundere is more fortunate in his blackness."
   "Ahdoe get it, ahdoe get it," the stranger's voice said. "But oreye,
oreye."

   Then there was some confused speech, as several of the meat spoke at
once, men and women tumbling over one another's words. I heard chunks
of sentences, words merely. "Na really nigras," one voice said, and another
used the word "Australia."

  I heard Captain Nurundere explain to the passengers, briefly but
courteously, the background of the sky-heroes, a bit about our world
Yurakosi and our ancestors on old earth.

   Very shortly our sailors set about to withdraw from the tank. Wuluwaid
made arrangement with the leader of the meat, a man called Ham
Tamdje, to provide a mess chef for the tank. This is a negotiable part of
any journey—we prefer to leave the meat to their own devices as much as
is possible, but if they are willing to pay, and desire extra services such as
cooking, we will provide the service.

   Soon Captain Nurundere, old Wuluwaid, Baiame and Kutjara were
settled in the airlock. Through my radio I could hear the door sealed from
the passenger tank. Then, from my post high on the spar with Miralaidj
and Bildjiwura, I could see the airlock open, giving onto the deck of
Djanggawul, and the four sailors emerge, one after another, Captain
Nurundere first, his woolen cap pulled over his head, his face as he looked
upward for a moment clearly showing in its partial grayness, then old
Wuluwaid looking nearly white of skin, so far grayed-out was he, then the
two young sailors Baiame and Kutjara.

   They separated to their posts. I heard radio communication links
becoming activated, the Djanggawul clearing with Port Upatoi control
center. Every sailor on the ship must have had radio contact going with
the net at that point, for without any command being issued from the
captain or any other office, I could see the forms of sky-heroes swarming
up and down masts, scattering across the decks of our ship, checking
equipment, moving to duty stations preparatory to getting under way.

   Miralaidj touched me in parting, dropped hand-under-hand down the
mast, little Bildjiwura following close behind. She threw one glance
quickly back to me and I could not restrain a smile before the two of them
reached the deck.
   Then I flung myself off the spar, diving headfirst for the deck below.
There is no regulation against this kind of diving, and of course it is quite
safe in deep space. A bit riskier in port, to be sure, but I was confident
that I could gauge my acceleration and I flipped above the deck, landing
with flexed knees, rolling once and springing erect again on the deck, my
breath coming fast in my close-air envelope, my blood racing with the
involuntary response of my body to the few seconds in free-fall.

   This was the life of the sailor, the crewman of the membrane ship! The
ground-squirmers who never leave their little mudballs, the seal-ship
spacemen who man the heavy agonized-matter ships—what can any of
them know of this moment?

   I ran to the dogging locks that held Djanggawul to the lock of Port
Upatoi, and with other Aranda and Kunapi worked the heavy locks and
seals open. Our task completed, we moved to our voluntary stations as the
Djanggawul made ready to move.

  For myself I selected a handhold near the bow of our ship.

   It was slightly precarious, and here in port where we hung momentarily
within the gravity fields of both the artificial moonlet and N'Jaja itself
there was none of the assurance that I would be carried along with the
ship should my hand lose its purchase.

   But no membrane sailor has ever been known to be lost under such
circumstances—we of Yurakosi do not rely upon mechanical devices or
elaborate regulations to assure our safety. Every Aranda and Kunapi is
thoroughly schooled in the ways of space, everyone is expected to keep his
or her body in condition, reflexes fast and mind alert, and to take
responsibility for his own safety. Every sailor on Djanggawul knew that,
from little Bildjiwura to old Wuluwaid, and each bore responsibility for
himself.

   At the stern of our craft I could see the agonized-matter conversion
taking place—the converter at the tip of our rod of super-dense matter
chewed off a microscopically small bit of the stuff, passed it through the
terrible process, and gave off the brightly glowing cherry exhaust I had
seen so many times before. Djanggawul began to move.

  We pulled away from Port Upatoi. The gigantic disk of N'Jaja below us
began to slide away. We were still in orbit of the planet even though we
had broken dock with the artificial satellite. Now we moved faster and
faster around the equator of the planet, pulling into higher and higher
orbit as we swung around the globe.

   By the time we reached the center of the nightside, cities gleaming like
distant suns across the continental mass below us, we were ready to swing
away. Djanggawul pointed her prow straight up, her tail directed at the
center of the planet's mass, and with a final spurt of agonized matter the
converter was switched off.

   The ship was coasting now, N'Jaja's sun eclipsed for us by the bulk of
the planet. Without need for any signal, the membrane riggers began
scrambling up the masts to unfurl Djanggawul's sails. By the time we had
cleared N'Jaja's shadow, coasting on the speed of our matter-converter
push, the sails would be spread and ready to catch the solar wind that
would carry us to our tacking point near Yirrkalla.

   But even before I began my work in the rigging I stood for a moment on
a spar, one hand braced against the mast, gazing straight ahead of
Djanggawul in the direction of Yirrkalla. The sight was one I had seen
countless times in my life as a sky-hero, but still it brought my blood to a
rush and made my heart pound with a sheer thrill.

   The far stars and galaxies were spread before us: the seven stars that
early sky-heroes had seen as the beak, eye, fins, gill and tail of the
Baramundi fish; the swirls of glowing intergalactic dust whose colors had
suggested our legendary Rainbow Serpent; the formations of the Greater
and Lesser Wallaby. I stood for a moment with my radio switched off, a
mere score centimeters of close-air separating me from the endless void,
the silence of the galaxies filling my ears and their splendor my eyes, and I
wondered.

  What is it like to be an ordinary man?

   Were one not born to sail a membrane ship, were the cells of one's skin
not blessed with protective melanin that permits us of Yurakosi to do
without radiation shielding, what meaning would there be in life?

   And in that distant time when I was fully grayed-out—how could I face
the life of a ground-squirmer, even on Yurakosi where sky-heroes could
retire with honor? I saw myself, then, husband to Miralaidj, father of
many sons and daughters who would sail membrane ships. Perhaps
Bunbulama lived through her child; Wuluwaid would do the same after
this voyage was complete. But to be an ordinary human, to travel as meat
on a membrane ship, knowing sky-heroes, knowing of their lives but
unable to share their experiences—what could it be like?

   I looked back at the deck of Djanggawul, saw my fellow sailors working
busily to rig our sails for the solar wind. I switched on my radio, caught
the flow and rhythm of work, joined in. Our work was strenuous and
precise, a joy to perform. By the time it was finished the crew were ready
to assemble on deck for the day's ration of grog.

   There is no day or night in deep space, so deck lights and rigging lights
glow throughout a journey. To keep the ship working the crew are divided
into watches, each watch with its own officers and the captain, a member
of no watch, held responsible for the conduct of all.

   Sky-heroes are few and precious to humanity; their safety on voyages is
placed above all else except the welfare of meat, for the tradition of
Yurakosi holds that the host must extend himself to any degree to
safeguard his guest, and passengers are our guests, aboard the membrane
ships even though they pay for that privilege.

   The annals of Yurakosi bear no greater shame than the story of Elyun
El-Kumarbis, a Pan-Semite of old earth who bought passage on the
membrane ship Makarata sailing the great ellipse route from NGC 7002
to Al-ghoul Phi. A black man of Ghanaian descent, Elyun purchased
sailor's garb and a close-air generator and donned them in a private room
at Port Hussein.

   When he boarded Makarata along with the other passengers, wearing
a standard protective spacesuit, no one could tell the difference. Inside the
passenger tank of Makarata he found an inconspicuous corner, removed
his spacesuit, mingled with a group of crewmen who had entered the tank
to perform routine tasks, and exited to the deck along with them.

   Elyun El-Kumarbis managed to stay on deck for nearly a quarter-hour
before he collapsed from radiation and was found out. He was carried
below deck and treated at once by the ship's medical officer, but of course
he died within the hour. The captain and watch officer responsible for the
incident were immediately ordered by vote of the crew to spend the rest of
the voyage as meat. When they reached Yurakosi they were immediately
shuttled down to the surface and never again permitted to leave the
planet, although both had many years of melanin still in their skin.

   But Elyun El-Kumarbis, tradition tells, spent that last hour of his life
raving over the beauty and the joy he had experienced. His last words
were given to begging that he be permitted upon deck again, which was
not done, or that he be buried in space, which request was met.

   Three standard days—merely, a matter of watches, of course —after
Djanggawul left Port Upatoi the captain announced a ceremonial dinner
in honor of the ship's passengers. The tank had been furnished, in accord
with the passengers' wishes, in luxurious style. One deck was devoted to
dining salons, a bar, a lounge and an entertainment area. A second was
partitioned into private quarters for the N'Jajans and their guests. The
third was set up as an artificial outdoor environment, with thick plant life
and even a small constructed lake.

   With Nurundere at our head, wearing ceremonial crimson plumes in
keeping with the ancient Aranda practice, a group of men and women
from the crew trooped through the deck airlock and emerged into the
passenger tank. Our chefs had taken over the passenger galley for hours
before the meal, preparing a lavish dinner of old-style dishes.

   The table was set with places for Aranda and Kunapi on one side of a
long white-covered board, N'Jajan and other meat on the other.

   Captain Nurundere's seat was at the center of the long table, on a small
dais; opposite him sat the senior member of the party of passengers, a
N'Jajan ambassador called Ham Tamdje who was traveling to the big war
conference on N'Ala.

   Captain Nurundere stood at the beginning of the meal: a tall, imposing
man, still with the mark of the sky-hero on his face despite the loss of most
of his melanin, his clothing a set of common sailor's garments with only
the head-plumes of the ancient Australian chieftain to mark his rank.

   Opposite him stood the N'Jajan Ham Tamdje, a man with too much
flesh on his face, pale skin marked with red veins in his cheeks and on his
nose. He wore a suit of some local cloth from his home world, a sort of
yellowish vanilla color, with a white shirt and a piece of colored cloth
knotted around his neck.

  The crew women in our party were dressed as were the men. Those of
the meat wore odd gowns that hung to the floor, most of them also coming
only partway over their bosoms; the effect was altogether as if their
clothing was hung three or four handbreadths lower than intended, and
threatened to fall off them at any moment.

   Nurundere made the same welcoming speech I had heard captains
make on membrane ships for years—the pleasure at having distinguished
guests aboard, concern for the comfort and safety of passengers,
sacredness of the sky-heroes' trust, and so on.

  Ham Tamdje looked a little uncomfortable during the captain's
remarks, then he said the passengers appreciated our hospitality and the
good food and everybody sat down and the food actually came.

   I was seated opposite a woman who introduced herself as Missy
Julietta Cadle. She was an administrative assistant to the plenipotentiary
from N'Tensi. She had wavy yellowish hair and a great deal of pale flesh
that seemed to quiver anytime she moved. She asked me what it was like
to be a sailor.

  "Work," I told her. "Sometimes it is lonely, sometimes companionable,
and very beautiful when we are outside."

  She wanted to know if she could go outside.

  I explained why she could not.

   She said we sky-heroes were being unfair to the passengers just because
we were black and they white. I tried to explain again why passengers
could not go outside without protective suits. I told her the story of Elyun
El-Kumarbis.

  She said, "But he was just a dirty nigra."

   I said, "It would happen to anyone who ventured outside without
protection. Anyone except a pure-blooded descendant of the old
Australian aborigines. Not even hybrids—there have been a few, there
were some in the early days of the membrane ships, deliberate attempts to
increase the number of sky-heroes, but they did not have the protective
melanin.

  "Only we may go."
  "You're as bad as a Jew," Missy Cadle said.

  I said, "What's that?"

   "They were an old earth people. Full of uppity notions, thought they
were better than anyone else. And full of nosy do-good ideas about nigras
bein' equal of whites. We learn about old earth races in school on
N'Tensi."

  "What happened to the Jews?" I asked Missy Cadle.

   "Oh, they got together with some of their neighboring peoples and
formed that Pan-Semitic Empire that took over old earth when all the
other nations went out to colonize new worlds."

   Somehow I didn't understand what she was driving at. We kept up our
meal—ship's rations basically, but served as fancy as a top Kunapi chef
could make it. The meat provided us with beverages from their home
worlds, mostly whiskey. The meal wore on. Down at the far end of the
table some of the meat and some of the crew were leaving their seats,
disappearing to other parts of the passenger tank.

  Missy Cadle said, "What I mean is, you Yurakosi people seem to think
you are all so special because you can go into space the way you do, and
you won't let anyone else do it!"

   Again I tried to explain that it wasn't our choice that kept others in
their tanks or in their suits. It was a quirk of nature, a dirty trick on the
other ninety-nine-point-odd percent of humanity and a lucky break for the
Aranda and the Kunapi.

   Missy Cadle turned to a man sitting beside her. "Tell this boy," she said,
pointing at me, "tell him what's going to happen if they won't give up their
secret!"

   The man drained a glass of his whiskey and tapped himself on the
shoulder. There was something hard and bulky under his jacket. His
speech was slurred and hard for me to understand. He said, "Breakin'
bread with nigras. Julietta, if Ham din' tell us himself back in Upatoi I'd
never have thought any of us could do it. But Ham says"—he stopped and
wiped his mouth with his sleeve—"Ham says we could really do a job if we
could have our own membrane ships, so we gotta find out how to sail 'em.
  "Or else!" he said, and reached for a bottle and filled up his glass again.

  I said, "There is no secret!"

   Missy Cadle and the man beside her just looked angry and didn't say
anything else to me. I wanted to talk to Captain Nurundere about what
they had said. I thought of radio, but we had all turned them off during
the banquet; there was no need for them, and the noise would have been
terrible.

   So I rose from my place and walked to Captain Nurundere's place, and
put my hand on his shoulder and said very quietly into his ear that I
needed to talk with him. Such requests do not come often among
sky-heroes, and when they come they are treated seriously and quickly.

   Captain Nurundere said a word to Ham Tamdje and rose, and he
walked with me a distance from the table, and I told him what the two
passengers had said to me. While I spoke with the captain I scanned the
table. There were many empty places on both sides. Nurundere said, "I
suppose the meat have invited our people off to try to get our secrets from
them. Hah!"

   He turned from me and strode back to where Ham Tamdje still sat in
his yellow-white suit. I saw the captain speak to him, and although I could
not hear what he said, Ham Tamdje's face grew for a moment very pale,
then an angry red as he replied to Nurundere.

  The captain said something more to Tamdje.

  The N'Jajan rose from his seat. Captain Nurundere took a step
backward. From the seat beside Nurundere's his half Wuluwaid rose.

  Ham Tamdje reached inside his jacket and pulled out his hand with a
small, old type explosive gun in it. He pointed it at Nurundere.

   "All right," Tamdje spluttered. "All right, if you damn nigras are gonna
keep your damn secrets, some white men will show you your place!" He
pointed his gun straight at Captain Nurundere.

   It was a moment of shock. My mind very nearly refused to accept the
reality of what was happening. The meat were—were what? Were
attempting to seize control of Djanggawul! But why? We were
transporting them to their objective, we were, in a sense, nothing other
than their hirelings anyway. What did they want?

   They wanted something that did not exist: the secret—the secret!-—of
survival in deep space without protective suits. Anyone could survive the
vacuum—that was possible ever since the invention of the close-air
generator—but the hard radiation would kill any human not of Yurakosi
stock. There was no secret-—it was a simple fact, a part of reality—yet
these people were demanding that we share the secret with them,
demanding at the point of a gun.

   "Ya'll tell me right now or you're one dead nigra!" Ham Tamdje slurred
at Nurundere. The captain began to explain still again that there was
nothing to tell, he gestured to emphasize his point, Ham Tamdje raised
his gun higher. I saw the gray face of Wuluwaid, emotions flashing one
after another across his features. As Ham Tamdje squeezed his trigger old
Wuluwaid launched himself at the N'Jajan, arms outstretched toward his
gun.

   The weapon fired with a roar that echoed off the curving roof of the
passenger tank. Old Wuluwaid crashed down on the white linen that
covered the long table. In the moment that Wuluwaid had thrown himself
at Tamdje's gun, I had flung myself also after him.

   Ham Tamdje stood, clearly shocked by the result of his own rash action.
In an instant I had seized his gun and wrenched it out of his grasp,
holding it pointed not at the passengers but at the floor to show that I had
no intention of firing it.

   Captain Nurundere ignored both Tamdje and myself; he was bending
over his half Wuluwaid. He turned him over so that he lay face-up on the
table, but it was clear that Wuluwaid was dead or dying. He had taken the
heavy old-fashioned bullet in the middle of his chest. Blood was pouring
from the wound, and his face had faded still further, from its customary
gray to a deathly white. Even in those few seconds his rasping breath
ceased.

   Up and down the length of the table something resembling a miniature
war had broken out. The passengers had come armed to the dinner. The
crew were without exception unarmed—membrane ships are craft of
commerce, not of war, and Yurakosi has made neither pacts of alliance
nor warfare in her history.
   Within a matter of only minutes the rattling shots had ceased.
Sky-heroes lay dead on the deck of the passenger tank. Meat armed with
old-style guns rounded up the surviving sailors, Captain Nurundere
included. For an instant I considered using Tamdje's gun to continue the
fight but did not fire a shot—I thought, perhaps, of the sacred concern of
sky-heroes for passengers, but chiefly I saw no gain in firing a few shots
against so many armed enemies.

  Ham Tamdje stepped before me, took his gun back from me and
whipped it across my face, ripping open my cheek. His face held
contempt.

    "Cowardly nigra!" he snarled. Should I have shot him, then, while I had
still had the chance? To what end? To kill a passenger? His own conduct
might have forfeited for him the right of hospitality, I might have been
held blameless—but it seemed to me at that moment that the battle, such
as it was, was over. To have killed him would have been gratuitous.

   At any rate, within minutes all of the captured sailors were forced into
two cabins, men in one, women in another. Our radios and close-air
generators were taken from us by the meat. We were told that armed
guards would await us outside the door of the cabin in which we were
held. Then the door was slammed behind us.

   I looked about the cabin to see who was with me—over a dozen men
including my half Dua. Captain Nurundere and Wuluwaid were not there.
Wuluwaid, I realized, could not be there. He was by now in the
Dreamtime. Nurundere, when last I had seen him, was unharmed. I called
out to the others, "Does anyone know what happened to Nurundere?"

  A Kunapi machinist I knew slightly, Watilun, said, "I saw him as we
came in here, standing with the meat Tamdje. He seemed not to be hurt."

  Of the crewmen in the room I determined that I was the most senior.
Sky-heroes are an egalitarian lot; we pay little heed to rank or position, as
you may already have noted. Still, for the purposes of the moment we
needed someone to lead, or at least to coordinate our energies.

  I assigned two men as door-watches and called the rest of our group to
confer in a far corner of the room. Of us all, most were too shocked to
contribute very much to the discussion, but my half Dua and the
machinist Watilun put in their shares.
   "We had best think this through," I suggested. "Can we assess the
situation up to now, and decide how to respond?" I felt pompous speaking
thus, but Dua and Watilun took me seriously.

   "We men seem uninjured, Jiritzu. Apparently those not killed outright
are unharmed," said Dua. "Probably the same is true of the women. We
are divided, now, into these two groups, plus Nurundere. Tam Tamdje
must have wished to parley with him; that was why he was kept out of this
cabin."

   Watilun said, "Some of us and some of the meat had left the dinner
before the fight began. They may still be off fraternizing on the
nature-deck."

  "Unless they were lured away for a purpose," added Dua.

   "I think not," I said. "The meat were carrying weapons, but I doubt that
they expected a fight like the one that happened. Some of them seemed as
surprised as we were."

  Watilun said, "And there are still the duty watch, outside the tank."

   "They must know that something is wrong," Dua put in. "Even with our
radios turned off, the sound of the shooting must have been carried by the
decking. Then if they tried to reach us by radio they would either have had
no reply at all, or would have got a passenger."

  "That is as it may be," I said. "But what should we ourselves do now?
We can wait for one of Tamdje's people to come in and tell us what they
want, or—"

   "No! No!" both Dua and Watilun interrupted,, echoed by several others
in the group circled around us. "We have to act!" said Dua.

   "Good," I answered him, "I agree entirely. Now, what can we do?" Dua
looked at a loss, so I turned to Watilun, "Have you worked inside the
passenger tank? Is there anything we can do to get out of here, either into
the rest of the tank or back outside?"

   He rubbed his head with both his hands, concentrating. For the first
time I studied this Kunapi: strong features, bushy hair, his skin still dark
with unused melanin. He seemed a competent man, resourceful. He said,
"I have worked on the collapsed-matter rod, adjusting braces for the tank
and decks. I have worked on the converters."

  "How do you get to the rod?"

   "Hmm." He rubbed his chin. "Normally from the deck to the converter
at either end of the ship, then along the rod from the converter. But there
are service ports for access to the rod. Let me look over here."

   He stood up and walked to a bulkhead near the corner of the cabin. He
knelt and worked for a few moments on the base of the wall. It came away
from its place, and a section of flooring with it. Beneath was a large
rectangular plate, heavily sealed at its edges. There was bright-colored
lettering on the plate.

   "Mother," Watilun spat. "The meat took my close-air, I can't go down
there without it. For that matter, I can't open the seal without this cabin
losing its air!" He sat back on his haunches and closed up the floor and
wall sections he had removed.

  "All right," I said. "That won't work. What other ideas do we have?"

   "We can try to overpower the meat when they open the door," Dua
suggested.

   "That's a desperation plan," I said. "We should be able to do something
on our own, without waiting for the meat to do something first."

  One of the sailors nearby asked, "What if we just wait? What will
happen? What do they want?"

   I sighed, not at the questions but at the irrational meat whose actions
had provoked them. "These passengers," I said, "refuse to accept the fact
that they can never be sky-heroes. They want the secret of how we can
stand the radiation of space, I suppose as soon as Captain Nurundere tells
them the secret they will free us and go on with the trip."

  "But there is no—"The sailor stopped himself. I nodded.

   In the silence that followed we could all hear a stealthy sound of
someone beneath our feet. Watilun ran to the bulkhead and again opened
the section leading to the seal beneath the floor. There the face of little
Bildjiwura looked up at us, full of youth and excitement, with no sign in it
of fear.

  Watilun and Dua pulled her into our cabin. She said, "One of the
women knew how to get under the floor from our cabin. I came first as I
am the smallest. The rest will follow when we send for them."

   "That will do it!" Watilun exclaimed.

   We all faced him, our question needing no words.

   "You go ahead back," he said to Bildjiwura. "I think we may yet be
saved, but we will all have to be in this cabin first."

   "How can it be?" I asked Watilun.

   He turned to me, very solemn in mien. Very solemn in mien.

   "If we do not regain control of our ship," he said, "what actually will
happen? How serious the result? What price can we justify to save our
ship?"

   "I think the N'Jajan Tamdje is little short of mad," I said. "If he finally
realizes that there is no secret, he and his fellows might do anything. They
will be enraged. Crazy. But if they refuse to accept that truth, they'll be
equally desperate; they will try anything to learn what they think we are
concealing from them."

   "What should we do?" a crewman called out,

   Watilun said, "We can kill them." He looked around. No one spoke. "We
can assemble in one cabin—either this or the one the women are held in
now. The meat didn't clear these cabins of furnishings—I can easily
booby-trap a cabin to open that floorplate when the door is opened.

   "Once that happens"—he made a sweeping, downward gesture with
both his hands—"the air from the entire passenger tank will go out in a
matter of seconds. The only safe place in the tank would be in a sealed
cabin, and as far as we know the only people in sealed cabins are
ourselves."

   "What about Nurundere?" Dua asked. "And what about all of us who
are off with passengers, who had already gone off before Tamdje showed
his weapon?"

   Watilun said, "They will be lost with the passengers."

   We sent Bildjiwura back to the other cabin for the women.

   When they arrived we repeated the entire discussion. Some were for
proceeding, others wanted to wait and hope for a less lethal solution. The
crew on watch, it was hoped, would use radio and realize that something
serious was wrong. They would seal the airlock to the tank and make for
port.

   While we were arguing the door to our cabin was flung open and the
captain was shoved in. The meat didn't even look in and see that we had
doubled our population!

   With the door slammed behind him, Nurundere advanced to the center
of the cabin and seated himself. There was blood on his face, his clothing
was torn. He said, "They're mad. They absolutely refuse to accept truth."

   "What happened to you?" I asked Nurundere.

   "I was questioned by Tamdje and a few of his associates. This doesn't
mean anything"—he wiped some of the blood from his face—-"just some
scratches in a scuffle. But they intend to take this ship to their port, back
to N'Jaja, if we won't give them the secret of protection in deep space.
Make us hostages of some sort. It's totally senseless, but we could be held
for years;"

   "Watilun has a plan," I said.

   The captain asked what it was, and Watilun told him.

   Nurundere sat for a long time unanswering. "I would prefer to avoid
that," he said at last. "Killing passengers, even these, and losing sky-heroes
as well. If there is any other way, we should seek it."

   "I agree," said Watilun. "But what other way?"

   Nurundere faced me directly. "Your thought, Jiritzu?"

   "Captain, they took your close-air and your radio?"
  "Yes."

   "Did you hear any attempts at communication between the deck and
the tank?"

   "I did," he said. "Several times the deck tried to call. Tamdje ordered
his people not to reply."

  Dua said, "But what about our fellows who left the dinner early? They
would still have their radios and their close-air!"

   I said, "They would! Then they would have heard the deck call! And
they would have heard the shots! What can they be doing?"

  For a reply the lights in our cabin flicked out. In a single instant we
went from bright lights to total darkness.

   "That must be it," Nurundere's voice came through the blackness of the
cabin. "The deck must be acting now to help us. Watch officer now is,
mm, Uraroju. Good, she'll do a good job."

   From the tank beyond our cabin there came shouting and the sound of
running and tumbling. "Uraroju cut the power to the tank," a woman's
voice said. "That means that the door seals are open!"

  We must all have started at once, headed for the door, but the voice of
Nurundere stopped us. "Wait!" he shouted. "Before we go out, what will
we do?"

   There must have been ten confused replies at once. Nurundere said,
"We mustn't just run out. That will serve no purpose." As if to emphasize
his words, there was the sound of shooting once more from the tank
outside.

  "What should we do?" someone asked.

    "From the sound outside, the meat are disorganized. Get out of this
cabin as quietly as we can, in case they decide to slaughter their prisoners.
If only we could get our close-air equipment back… but we don't know
where they have it.

  "Just get away from here, get away from the concentration of their
weapons. Spread yourselves, head for the nature-deck. We can count on
Uraroju to rescue this situation. Until she does, we have to stay away from
the meat and their guns."

   We got out the doorway well enough. The meat who had been guarding
the door was gone. We could see practically nothing—the tank is
completely sealed, a total environment. Panels for space-viewing are built
into its roof, but Uraroju had had their coverings closed when the power,
was cut off.

   The meat had not planned for total darkness, and I could hear them
stumbling and crashing about, shouting to one another. We of Yurakosi
had a great advantage over them; equally blinded by the darkness, yet we
knew the arrangement of the tank, we were completely at home aboard
Djanggawul with its odd gravitic effects as one moved from the center of
a deck toward its edges.

   I led Bildjiwura by the hand, she the only member of the crew making
her first voyage. We found our way from the cabin, moved across the deck.
By the varying strength and pull of the dense rod that provided the ship's
gravity, I could gauge our distance from the angle where the decks joined.

    With the passenger tank's power system completely shut off, the air we
were breathing began to become stuffy. At once the plan of Uraroju
became clear: if only the meat failed to recognize the signs of what was
befalling them, all within the passenger tank would become unconscious.
If the meat understood, they could outfit themselves with the close-air
gear they had taken from the crew, but they were clearly ignorant of space,
or at least of conditions aboard membrane ships.

   The crew on watch could come through the airlock, disarm the
passengers and confine them to cabins, where they would recover when
the power was restored and oxygen began to flow.

  Dropping to the deck where I could make my way more stealthily than
upright, I drew Bildjiwura down beside me. I, whispered to her what was
happening, then began creeping with her toward the airlock.

   I detected a heavy chair, crept around it with Bildjiwura, moved across
a section of open deck, placed my free hand before me and felt the edge of
a heavy, hanging cloth—the gown of a woman passenger! I froze! I heard a
startled gasp, the woman pulled away, clearly terrified.
   After holding my breath as long as I could I exhaled slowly and again,
leading little Bildjiwura by the hand, began creeping toward the airlock.

    After a few more creeping meters of progress my hand encountered a
still leg, wearing the tight duck trousers of a sky-hero. I pressed Bildjiwura
flat to the deck, held her in place for a moment to communicate my wish
that she stay still, then ran my hands up the figure I had felt lying on the
deck. I moved slowly, silently, but almost at once realized three things—the
person was dead, she was a woman, and she was garbed as a membrane
sailor.

  Explosive bullets had taken out her belly.

   I felt her hair with my hands, long braids. In the total blackness of the
tank I ran my fingertips over the maraiin on her cheeks. I did not know
the meaning of the sacred patterns, but I recognized them nonetheless:
this was the body of my Miralaidj.

  Half a sob may have escaped me—I felt Bildjiwura grasp me in the
dark. Miralaidj dead, Wuluwaid dead. I had no thoughts of the
Dreamtime. For me they were dead.

   Miralaidj's Kunapi half Bildjiwura was now more than ever my charge.
I could not stop to mourn my Miralaidj, I could not wail my song of grief. I
could only draw little Bildjiwura in a half-circle away from the body of my
love. Surely she must wonder what had happened, what I had
encountered, but I did not stop to tell.

   Now we were near the airlock. Now I caressed the face of little
Bildjiwura, hoping she would be quiet until the coming struggle should
end. My ears were beginning to ring, my breath was short in my throat.
Colors seemed to swirl before my eyes in the complete darkness of the
tank.

   Surely this must be the approach of unconsciousness through
deprivation of oxygen. Surely all of the meat, unused to conditions aboard
membrane ships, were by now sprawled unconscious in the darkness. Now
Uraroju and the others from the deck watch must come through the
airlock, moving quickly, to disarm and capture the meat before they
should die—yet also before they could recover their consciousness.

  The ringing grew loud in my ears, but before I lost all awareness I heard
the machinery of the airlock working, heard the first hiss of air from
within it. In my spirit I could see the airlock, opening. A sailor held a
portable deck light— now I could see, not in my spirit.

   The light was shined into the tank. Dead and unconscious bodies were
scattered about, but standing between me and the airlock I saw for a
moment one silhouette: gross, weaving, the edge of a sleeve of some nearly
white material highlighted by the flare from the airlock, and in the hand
emerging from that sleeve an old-style gun.

   One N'Jajan had divined the plan of Uraroju. One who had not been
able to warn the others—or who had chosen, in his growing irrationality,
not to speak. One who had strapped to his leg a close-air generator, and
was ready to fire at the sky-heroes coming from the airlock.

  I drew a deep breath of still-stuffy air, rose to my feet as the figure of
Ham Tamdje of N'Jaja spun clumsily toward me. I flexed my knees,
gauging the gravity at this point, and launched myself across the deck
toward Tamdje. No person other than a membrane sailor could have
made that leap, but any experienced Aranda or Kunapi could have.

   For a moment it was almost as if I were leaping from spar to deck in
the free-fall of space. There was a blaze of light as Tamdje fired his gun, a
hot impact low on my leg, then I crashed into his fat body and we tumbled
to the deck. Now there was little struggle. Tamdje was soft and unused to
space, I was hard and well at home. The wound in my leg would have
mattered standing, but as we rolled and struck each other, gouged and
squeezed there on the deck of the passenger tank, it meant nothing.

   I struck and struck the N'Jajan, the deaths of my fellows now coming to
me, the death of my Miralaidj before my eyes and my spirit. I could wail
my song of grief now, could wail and scream at this fat, pale chunk of
meat, could batter his flabby head against the deck of Djanggawul's
passenger tank until the hands of sky-heroes pulled me away from Tamdje
the N'Jajan and I saw the pulpy mass I had made of our chief passenger.

   When the other meat were confined to their cabins the sailors and
Uraroju found the two in which the crew had been held. Their walls were
marked with scores of scars where weapons had been fired—the meat had
tried to massacre their captives when the power was cut. But now began
the melancholy business of recovering the bodies of crewmen and women
killed during the battle hours earlier, among them the bodies of Wuluwaid
and of Miralaidj. The sky-heroes were buried in space.

   They were far from the first membrane sailors to die in the deep void,
far from the first whose bodies were committed to the stars, to drift
forever while their souls returned to the Dreamtime.

   The body of Ham Tamdje was set aside for delivery to his friends. Some
ground-squirming N'Missan became head of the passenger party, under
cabin arrest by Captain Nurundere.

   And we who survive are about to begin the great tack at Yirrkalla, near
the three beacon suns, the most difficult and critical portion of the voyage.
Shorthanded, Nurundere calls upon every available hand. My own trial is
delayed to the end of this sail. Meanwhile I will do my share. I am one of
the finest membrane riggers in the fleet! But afterward, afterward… I,
Jiritzu, Aranda, killed a passenger. With my bare hands. That he was
himself a murderer, armed, and would have murdered more sky-heroes
had he escaped me, is all of no concern.

   Surely there will be no criminal charge against me, but equally surely I
will never be permitted to sail again as a sky-hero.

   The meat will be delivered in shame to their destination. We will leave
them at Port Corley circling New Alabama, leave them in disgrace to be
dealt with as their planet-squirming fellows see fit to deal with them.

   And after we reach Yurakosi? I will be put aground. I will be sent into
Port Bralku, and ferried to the surface of Yurakosi, to seek out poor
Bunbulama and tell her of the end of Wuluwaid and of Miralaidj. And
then?

   I, my skin still rich with melanin, a ground-squirmer on a world of
grayed-out codgers and black-faced children?

   More likely I, will climb the highest mast of Djanggawul, and cast my
close-air generator to the deck, and launch myself as far into the deep as
my muscles can send me.

   In theory, a very strong sailor can break free, of ship's gravity and be
lost in space. It has never been done. No sky-hero would perform so mad
an act.
   But I look closely after my wounded leg. It is not a serious wound, and I
keep it well cleaned, and during every watch I exercise to keep my muscles
in good condition. Before we reach Port Bralku my wound should be
healed.

  I, a ground-squirmer while still so young? I, the sky-hero who killed a
passenger? I, whose beloved is in the Dreamtime?

   Standing atop the highest spar of the tallest mast of Djanggawul,
beneath my feet the starwind-bellied membrane sails, above my head only
the blackness and the million glittering points, and elsewhere in space the
whispered, silent progress of other membrane ships, will I climb down,
return to port, ride the shuttle ship, squirm on the ground of Yurakosi?

   A very strong sailor might break free of ship's gravity and drift forever
in deep space. He might return to the Dreamtime.