Mustapha Ali sat on the end of Rorqual Towne
and was not seasick. There was nothing any save an
outsider would have found remarkable in this. Mus-
tapha had lived all his long life on Cachalot, and those
who are bom to that world know less of seasickness
than a worm does of Andromeda. All born on Cacha-
lot rest in two cradles: their nursery, and the greater
nursery of the all-encompassing Mother Ocean. Those
who arrived on Cachalot from other worlds did not
long remain if they proved susceptible to motion sick-
ness.

It was a great change, wrought by history and ac-
cident, Mustapha thought as he let his burl-dark legs
dangle over the side of the dock. They moved a meter
or so above the deep green-black water. His ancestors
had come from a high, dry section of Earth, where the
sea was only a tale told to wide-eyed children. And
here he lived, where most of the land was imported.

His ancestors had been great players of the game.
That was his only regret, not being able to carry on the
tradition of the game. For where on Cachalot could
one find fifty fine horsemen and a dead goat? Mus-
tapha had settled for being a champion water polo
player, having mastered that game and its many local
variants in his youth. Compared with the game of his
forebears, all had been gentle and undemanding.




2           CACHALOT

Now he was reduced to experiencing less strenuous
pleasures, but he was not unhappy. The old-fashioned
fishing pole he extended over the water had been hand-
wrought in his spare time from a single piece of broad-
cast antenna. A line played out through the notch cut
in the far end, vanished beneath the surface below the
dock. The antenna had once served to seek out invis-
ible words from across the sky and water. Now it
helped him find small, tasty fish at far shorter distances.

Mustapha glanced at the clouds writhing overhead,
winced when a drop of rain caught him in the eye. The
possible storm did not appear heavy. As always, the
sky looked more threatening than it would eventually
prove to be. Thunder blustered and echoed, but did
not dislodge the elderly fisherman from his place.

Behind him the town of Rorqual rested stolidly on
the surface. The nearest actual land, the Swinburne
Shoals, lay thirty meters beneath. For all that, the town
sat motionless on the sea. A vast array of centerboards
and crossboards and complex counterjets held it steady
against the rising chop. Held it steady so as to provide
its inhabitants with a semblance of stability, to provide
old Mustapha with a safe place to fish.

The dock was empty now, the catcherboats and
gatherers out working. The long stretch of unsinkable
gray polymer disappeared beneath a warehouse, the
dock being only one of dozens of such supports for the
town.

But there was no counterjet or centerboard to hold
the dock completely motionless. Four meters wide and
equally thick, it bobbed gently to the natural rhythm
of the sea. That was why Mustapha chose to fish from
the dock's end instead of from one of the more stable
outer streets of the town. When he was playing with
the ocean and its occupants, he preferred the feel of
their environment. It was a cadence, a viscous march
that was as much a part of his life as his own heart-
beat.

CACHALOT           3

The rain began to pelt him, running down his long
white hair. He ignored it. The inhabitants of Cachalot's
floating towns had water next to their skin as often as
air. Here near the equator the fat drops were warm,
almost hot on his bare upper chest. They rolled down
from his bald forehead and itched in his drooping mus-
tache.

The pole communicated with his fingers. He lifted it.
A small yellow fish wriggled attractively on the hook,
its four blue eyes staring dully into the unfamiliar me-
dium in which it now found itself.

Mustapha debated whether to unhook it, decided
the fish would serve him better as bait for larger game.
He let the fresh catch drop back into the water. An
electronic caller would have drawn more food fish than
he could have carried, but such a device would have
seemed incongruous functioning in tandem with the
hook and line. Mustapha enjoyed fishing in the tradi-
tional way. He did not fish for food, but for life.

An occasional flash of awkward lightning illuminated
the dark underbelly of the storm, forming drainage sys-
tems in the sky. The flare made candle flames of the
wave crests. He knew there was more heat than fury in
the discharges. Then" frequency told him the storm
would not last long. Nor was it the season of the heavy
rains.

Occasional drops continued to wet him. He was
alone on the dock. Thirty minutes, he thought, and the
sun will be out again. No more than that. Perhaps then
I will have more luck.

So he stayed there in his shorts and mustache and
waited patiently for a bite. Some thought the pose and
activity undignified for the town's computer-planner
emeritus, but that did not bother Mustapha. He was
wise enough to know that madness and old age excuse
a multitude of eccentricities, and he had something of
both.

A few deserted gathering ships, sleek vessels wide of




4           CACHALOT

beam, were secured two docks away from him. A cou-
ple of magnetically anchored skimmers bobbed off to
his right. Their crews would be on their week of off-
duty, he reflected, home with family or carousing con-
tentedly in the town's relaxation center.

An affectionate but uncompromising type, Mustapha
in his early years had tried life with two different
women. They had left more scars on him than all the
carnivores he had battled in the name of increasing
the town's catch.

His reverie was interrupted by a new, stronger tug
at the line. His attention focused on where it inter-
sected the surface. The tug came again, insistent, and
the antenna pole curved seaward in a wide arc, its far
end pointing like a hunting dog down into the water.

Mustapha held tight to the metal pole, began crank-
ing the homemade reel. There was a lot of line, and it
was behaving oddly. It was almost as if something were
entangled in the line itself, not fighting the grip of the
hook.

A shape was barely visible down in the dark water.
Whatever it was, it was moving very quickly. It came
nearer, growing until it was altogether too large. The
old man's eyes grew wide above the gray mustache.
He flung away the pole and the laboriously fashioned
reel. The rod bounced once on the end of the bobbing
pier before tumbling into the water.

Mustapha ignored it as he ran toward the town. His
raised voice was matched by the sudden cry of the
town's defense sirens. He did not make it beyond the
end of the pier. As it turned out, it would not have
made any difference if he had.

Two days later the first of Rorqual Towne's wander-
ing fisherfleet returned, a gatherer loaded several heads
high with the magical Coreen plant and many crates of
sleset-of-the-pennanent-spice. The wealth the cargo
represented was now rendered meaningless to the men

CACHALOT           5

and women of the ship's crew by what they did not
find.

Though they crossed and recrossed anxiously and
tearfully above Swinburne Shoals, they found no sign
of Mustapha Ali. Nor did they find their families or
sweethearts, not a single one of the eight hundred in-
habitants of Rorqual Towne.

Shattered bits of household goods, a few scraps of
clothing, fragments of homes, and pieces of families
mixed in with chunks of gray-white eggshell polymer,
were all that remained of the town. These, an engima,
and the memory of once happy lives.

And for some on the woe-laden boat, the worst of it
was the knowledge that this was not the first time . . .

Far, far above the scrap of green sea once occupied
by Rorqual Towne, a vast, quiet shape rested silently
in a much more diffuse ocean. The occupants of the
bulbous metal form were divorced by time and dis-
tance from that oceanic tragedy and its cousins.

A comparatively tiny, sharp shadow of the gleaming
hulk detached itself from the great stem and dropped
like a silver leaf toward the atmospheric sea immedi-
ately below. Though it displayed the motions normally
indicative of life, the shadow was but a dead thing
that served to convoy the living, a shuttlecraft falling
from the KK drive transport that dwarfed it like a
worker termite leaving its queen.

The argent arrowhead shape turned slightly. Its rear
exuded puffs of white, and the craft began to drop
more rapidly, more confidently, toward the world be-
low, a world of all adamantine blue-white, a great
azurite globe laced with a delicate matrix of cloud.

A full complement of twelve passengers stared out
the shuttle's ports as the vessel curved into its approach
pattern. Some stared at the nearing surface expectantly,
thoughts of incipient fortune percolating through their
minds. Others were more relaxed. These were the re-




6           CACHALOT

turning inhabitants, sick of space and land, anxious
once more to be on the waters. A few regarded the
growing sphere with neither anticipation nor greed.
They were full of the tales of the strange life and
beauty that slid tantalizingly through the planetary
ocean.

Only one stared fixedly at the surface with the gaze
of a first-time lover, youthful exhilaration mixing with
the calm detachment of the mature scientist. Cora
Xamantina kept her nose pressed against the port. An
air release below prevented her breath from fogging it.

Intense reflected light from Cachalot's star made her
obsidian skin appear polished behind the glassalloy. It
shone on the high cheekbones that hinted at Amerind
heritage, on the delicate features almost eclipsed by
those protruding structures. Only the vast black eyes,
coins of the night, stood out in that heart-shaped face.
They darted excitedly from one section of the globe to
another. Her hair, tied in a single thick braid that ran
to her waist, swung like a pendulum with her move-
ments.

Physically Cora Xamantina was in her midforties.
Mentally she was somewhat older. Emotionally she
was aged. She was no taller than an average adolescent
and slim to the point of boyishness. A surprisingly deep
voice, coupled with a vivacity that was anything but
matronly, was all that kept her from being mistaken
for a child.

Even when she was quiet, as she was now, her hands
and shoulders seemed always in motion, her body lan-
guage elegant and personal. She came from stock that
included both slaver and slave, both of whose destinies
had been molded and sacrificed to the recovery of the
sap of a certain tree. Slavers and slaves were part of
history long past now. For the most part, sadly, so
were the trees.

She commented frequently on the beauty of the
world they were steadily approaching. Her descriptions




CACHALOT           7

were intended for the younger woman seated next to
her. For the most part, they were accepted with an air
of helpless resignation by the taller, far more volup-
tuous shadow of herself. Where Cora's movements
were frequent and full of nervous energy, those of the
younger woman were all languorous stretchings and
physical sighs. She cradled a peculiar and very special
musical instrument in her arms and made no attempt to
appear anything other than bored.

"Isn't it beautiful, Rachael?" Cora leaned back in
her deceleration lounge. "Here—lean over and you
can see, too." The enervated siren made no move to
peer outward. "Don't you want to see? We're going to
be living down there, you know."

"Only temporarily." She sighed tiredly. "I know
what Cachalot looks like. Mother. God knows how
many tapes of it you've made me study since you found
out we were being assigned there. Maybe I have got a
year's work left to finish at the Institute, but I still
know how to do homework." Her eyes turned to
study the narrow aisle running down the center of
the shuttle. "The sooner we get this over with, the
sooner we can get back to Terra and the better I'll
like it!"

"Is that all you can think of to say, girl? We're not
even down yet and already you can't wait to leave?"

"Mother ... please!" It was a warning.

"All right." Cora made calming gestures with man-
nequin hands, the long fingers fluttering restrainingly.
"I'm not asking for commitment until we've been
down there for a while. You're only my special assist-
ant on this assignment, just as it says in the directive.
The fact that you're also my daughter is incidental."

"Fine. Suits me fine."

"Just try to keep an open mind, that's all."

"I'll try. Mother. I've said that for six years now.
Another few months seems fair."

"Good. That's all I ask." Cora turned her attention

8           CACHALOT

back to the port, the view drawing her insistently,
soothing her, massaging away the concern she felt for

her daughter's future. And the guilt.

She had been pushing, cajoling, Rachael for three
years of advanced work in extramarine biology. The
girl's reports were good, her work was good—dammit,
she was good! She has all the tools, Cora thought.
More than I do, and without bragging, that's saying
something. She lacks only one thing, a single ingredi-
ent that keeps her from embarking on a brilliant career

in the same field as mine: enthusiasm.

Cora had gotten that from Silvio. Ah, Silvio . . .
"Keep an open mind, Cora," he had always told her.
And she had kept an open mind. She had kept it so
open that she lost him to another woman. To a string
of other women. And then be had died, his enthusi-
asm for life and loving having proved incapable of fi-
nally saving him.

No, she told herself firmly. He lost me. Not the

other way around. She still missed him, from tune to
time. Brilliant he had not been. Nor had he been es-
pecially handsome, or rich, or a sexual magician. What
he had been, she thought, startled at the sudden knot
that had formed in her chest, was enthusiastic. About
everything. And comfortable. He had been oh so
comfortable. Like her battered old Nymph under-
water camera, the fraying Elatridez Encyclopedia of
Commonwealth Marine Life, the voodoo necklace her
great-grandmother had given her on her second birth-
day—which she still wore, incongruously, around her

neck—Silvio had been comfortable.

She missed having him around, just as she would
have missed the encyclopedia or the necklace. Lots of
other women probably missed him also. She had kept
an open mind, though. Each time. Until after Rachael
was bom. The funny thing was, Silvio never truly un-
derstood the reason behind her fury. He liked everyone
and everything—too much. But then he had died. The

CACHALOT            9

hurt had died with him. Now she was only occasionally
plagued by a hurt of a different kind.

As it kissed the outer fringe of atmosphere, the shut-
tle lurched slightly. Below was the culmination of a
dream, of twenty years' hard work. She had performed
well for the various companies that had employed
her, even better when the government services called
on her expertise. Twenty years of choosing exploitable
salt domes. A year on the anthology of poisonous
Riviera system marine life. Four years of arduous
work among the seallike natives of Largesse, then back
to still more dull, boring government research. Always
she had kept up with the latest techniques, the latest
developments and discoveries. Always wishing for
something that could carry her to the mecca of all ma-
rine biologists: Cachalot.

Now that goal had been realized. The ocean world
lay close beneath her, shining with nacreous beauty,
awaiting her with promises of wonder and a mystery
yet to be solved. If anything could ignite the genius
that Cora knew lay hidden inside her daughter's head,

it would be Cachalot.

Though she continued to press against the port and
search hard with those huge and sensitive eyes, she
could not locate any of the widely scattered islands
that were the only land on Cachalot. Nor were the iso-
lated islands formed of rock or stone. On Cachalot, the
eternal war of wave and cliff had long ago been de-
cided in favor of the wave. Tiny creatures called hex-
alates left behind their hard exoskeletons, building
atolls and reefs much like the corals of Earth.

There was nothing that could be called a continent,
though in places the oceans were quite shallow, if
never for any great extent. All that showed above
water from Cora's present position were the bright
mirror-white patches at opposite poles, ice packs tense
on the water. They were far smaller than those of
Earth.




CACHALOT

11

10           CACHALOT

Cora pointed them out to Rachael, who responded
by picking indifferently at the strings of her neurophon.
"Stop that." Cora frowned at her. "You know better

than that."

Rachael wrinkled her brow. "Oh, Mother . . . I've

got the projection matrix turned off and the power way
down, I can't possibly bother the shuttle."

But Cora had experienced a telltale if faint tingle
along her spine. "Your axonics are lit. I felt it. You

might disturb the other passengers."

"I haven't heard any complaints," Rachael said
softly. But she touched several contact points on the
chordal dendritics, cut final power. She plucked petu-
lantly at one string. It produced a normal musical tone
that drifted through the cabin. Several passengers

turned back to look at her.
Cora's nerves did not respond. Satisfied, she returned

her gaze to the port.

Rachael was sharp enough to find nonverbal ways

to show her unhappiness. Cora told herself that her
daughter knew damn well that playing a neurophon in
an unsealed room on board any craft was against all
flight rules. It would have been bad enough on board
the liner-transport they had just left. In a shuttle, where
the descent was a matter of delicate, critical adjust-
ments by pilot and machine, it could have placed them
in deep trouble. Rachael was fooling with her damn-
able toy only to irritate her mother, Cora knew. It
would be so much better for her if she would simply
disown the instrument. It occupied far too much of
her study time. Cora had tried to persuade her to
abandon the device. She had tried only once. It had
become an obsession with her daughter, and more than
that, a surrogate larynx. Rachael knew she couldn't
battle her mother with words, so she would sometimes
counter an argument by sulking and speaking only
with the nerve music. Her daughter was turning into a

tonal ventriloquist.

A polite, slightly tense voice came from the cabin
speaker. "Brace for heavy atmosphere, ladies and gen-
tlemen. Thank you."

Cora made certain her harness was properly secured.
She gripped the arms of her lounge and leaned back.
For a few minutes there was nothing of note, then a
sharp bump. A second, a stomach-queasing drop, and
then they were coasting gently through clear blue sky.
She eased her grip on the lounge arms and looked out

the port.

The whirlpool of a small cyclone appeared beneath
them, raced past and behind. Clouds of all shapes and
sizes flew by, and once, only once, she thought she
saw a bright flash that might have hidden an island.
She hunted through her memory for the details of
Cachalot's topography she had force-fed herself, finally
decided the brightness had been a low cumulus cloud
and not land.

Commonwealth headquarters were located on Mou'-
anui, one of several enormous lagoons enclosed by
land sufficiently stable to permit the establishment of
permanent, nonfloating installations. Cora was hunting
the sea for it when a voice sounded from behind them.
"Excuse me."

The harness sign was off. She unbuckled, looked
over the back of her reclined lounge. The speaker sat
across the aisle, one row behind their seats, a stocky,
coffee-colored gentleman about her own age. His hair
and eyes were as black as her own. The hair hung to
his shoulders, was combed straight back, and exhibited
not even an echo of a curl or kink. He had a wide
mouth, almost lost beneath a sharp, hooked nose like
the beak of a predatory bird.

"That's a neurophon, isn't it? I thought I felt some-
thing picking at me a little while ago." He smiled ex-
plosively, changing suddenly from nondescript to
swarthily good-looking.




12 CACHALOT CACHALOT 13

"Yes, it is." Rachael spoke coolly, and Cora thought,
Good for you, girl.

"It's a Chalcopyritic finish. Twelve Plank model,
isn't it? Made on Amropolus? With the Yhu Hive
tuner?"

"That's right." Rachael brightened, turned in her
seat. "Do you play?"

"No." The man sounded apologetic. "Wish I did.
I'm afraid my musical abilities are pretty nonexistent.
But I know enough to be able to appreciate a skilled
performer when I hear one. However briefly." Again
the lustrous grin.

"Is that so?" Rachael's tone was turning from cool
to coy. "I can understand when you say you know tal-
ent when you hear it, but it seems to me you're doing
more looking than listening."

"I can't see talent, no," the man replied. He seemed
uncomfortable, shy, yet unwilling to retreat into silence.
"But sensitivity and emotional flexibility, those I think
I can see."

"Really?" Rachael responded, flattered and pleased.
"Are you trying to flatter me?"

"I am flattering you, aren't I?" he said with disarm-
ing directness. It was honestly a question.

Rachael controlled herself a few seconds longer,
then broke into a high, girlish giggle that contrasted
strikingly with her normal husky speaking voice.

"All right, I suppose you are." She eyed him inter-
estedly. "Next you're going to ask me to please come
over to your place and play something for you."

"That would be nice, yes," the man replied openly.
Just in time he added, "But I'm afraid I can't. I don't
even know where I'm going to be staying on Cacha-
lot."

Rachael stared at him. "I think you mean it. About
just wanting to listen to the music."

"That's what I said, wasn't it? If we do meet again,
my name is Merced. Pucara Merced."

"Rachael Xamantina."

"Tell me," he said, shifting in his seat as they
skipped a light bump in the atmosphere, "on direc-
tional projections, can you change keys and limbs
simultaneously?"

"Sometimes," She sounded enthusiastic. Cora stared
resolutely out the port. "It's hard, though, when you're
concentrating on the music and trying to produce the
matching neurologic responses in your audience. It's
so difficult just to execute those properly, without try-
ing to worry about physiological orientation, too.
There's so damn much to concentrate on."

"I know."

"Would you like me to play something for you now,
maybe?" She swung the lyre-shaped instrument into
playing position, her left hand caressing the strings, the
right poised over the power controls and projector sen-
sors. "In spite of what my mother says, I don't think
the pilot would mind."

"It's not a question of the pilot's minding," he said.
thoughtfully. "I know you can keep the level down.
But it wouldn't be courteous to our fellow passengers.
They might not all be music lovers. Besides," and he
smiled slightly again, "you might accidentally put out
the lights, or drop the temperature thirty degrees."

"All right. But when we get down, if you don't dis-
appear on me too fast, I promise I'll play something for
you. Tell me," she went on excitedly, leaning farther
into the aisle, "do you know anything about the new
cerebral excluder? That's the one that's supposed to
allow you to add another forty watts' neuronic power."

"I've heard of it," he admitted pleasantly. "They say
that it can ..."

They rambled on enthusiastically, the discussion
shifting from matters musical to the latest develop-
ments in instrumental electronics.

It was all somewhat beyond Cora. A top-flight neu-
rophon player had to be musician, physicist, and phys-




14           CACHALOT

iologist all in one. She still refused to give her daughter
credit for attempting to master the extraordinarily dif-
ficult device. To her it represented a three-fold waste

of energy.

Of one thing she was certain. For all that he was a

head shorter than Rachael and apparently shy to boot,
Merced was interested in more than just her daughter's
aesthetic abilities. Not that that made him anything out
of the ordinary. Any man not intrigued by Rachael did
not deserve the gender. That was the nature of men,
and it was intensified by her daughter's nonmental as-
sets.

But there was nothing she could do about it. If she

tried to order Rachael not to speak to him, it would
produce exactly the opposite result. And there was the
possibility she was wrong about him. Certainly he did

not have the look of a collector of bedrooms.

Better, she told herself, to put the best light on the
situation. Let Rachael remain interested in him instead
of, say, being drawn to the more conventionally hand-
some pilot of our shuttle. Once we are down and set-
tled in our quarters, it will no longer matter anyway.

She stole another glance at Merced. He was listening
quietly while Rachael expounded on the virtues of
Amropolous-made neurophons as opposed to those
manufactured on Willow-Wane. He had the look of a
fisherman returning home, or perhaps a financial ex-
pert shipped out by an investment firm to explore the
earnings of one or two of its floating farms. His skin
was properly dark, but his facial features and small
bone structure did not jibe with those of the dominant
Polynesian-descended settlers of the water world. He

was an off-worlder for sure.

Well, she would keep an eye on him. A lifetime of

experience made that automatic. Thoughts of unhappy
past experiences led her to the dim possibility of future
ones. She mused on the problem that had brought her
to Cachalot. It involved more than the destruction of

CACHALOT           15

property or fisheries. There had been, it seemed, many
deaths. She had been sent off with only enough infor-
mation to tease her. Someone was going to great efforts
to keep whatever was happening on Cachalot from the
general public.

No matter. She would leam soon enough. The pos-
sibility of work on Cachalot had been sufficient to per-
suade her to accept the assignment. When offered
choice of her own assistant, Cora had been able to
choose Rachael. Now, if she could only convince her
daughter to junk that bizarre instrument, one of the
two major problems Cora had come to solve would
have a happy resolution.

There had been some trouble. Rachael was still
technically a student, and a few howls had been heard
when it was declared she had been appointed Cora's
assistant. Hundreds would have taken the job. Very
few scientists made it to Cachalot, despite its wealth of
unusual marine life. That was part of the agreement
that had been struck with the original settlers of the
blue planet, who had been studied so long they were
sick of it. They did not object to the presence of a very
limited number of fishers and gatherers and even some
light industry, but they put a strict quota on the num-
ber of researchers resident on the planet at any one
time. Hence the rarity of the opportunity granted to
Cora and Rachael. It was a chance Cora would not
waste, would not permit Rachael to waste.

"That's an interesting name." Rachael spoke as the
shuttle skimmed low now over an endless expanse of
gently rolling sea. Cachalot had no moon, therefore
very little in the way of tides. Severe storms like the
cyclone they had recently passed over were common,
but predictable. It was altogether a far more benign
world than most.

"It's an amalgam of words from two ancient human
languages," he was explaining to her. "Pucara means
'shining' in a tongue called Quechua, which was the




16

CACHALOT

principal language of my ancestors who lived on the
continent of South America."

"I'm sorry," Rachael said. "I'm afraid I don't know
Terran geography very well. I've lived there only for
a few years, while I've been in school."

"No matter. Merced means 'river' in the language of
my other ancestors, who conquered my principal ones."

" 'Shining river.' Very pretty."

"What about yours? Does it mean anything?"

"Damned if I know." A hand reached back, touched
Cora. "Hey, Mother, what does 'Xamantina' mean?"

"I don't know, Rachael." She looked again at the
earnest little man behind them. "It's an Amerind
name, also derived from South America. A different

region, though, I think."

Merced looked intrigued. "Perhaps our ancestors

were neighbors, then."

"Possibly." Cora spoke softly. "No doubt they fought
and killed one another with great vigor." She turned
away, looked back out the port.

"Mother," Rachael whispered at her angrily, "you
have a talent for displaying the most exquisite rude-
ness."

"Calm down, dear. We'll be landing soon. You
wouldn't want your toy scattered all over the cabin,

would you?"

Rachael huffily snuggled down into her seat, though

Cora could still feel her daughter's eyes on the back of
her neck as she stared out the port. She chuckled to
herself, thankful that Merced had given her the chance
to let him know how she felt without her having to in-
trude on the conversation.

"Four minutes to touchdown," the speaker voice

said. "Refasten harnessing, please."

Cora did so mechanically. Mou'anui should be
straight ahead of them. She should be able to see at
least part of it immediately prior to touchdown. They
would approach the oval lagoon from one end. It was

CACHALOT            17

sixty kilometers long in places, and surely they—yes,
there!

A brilliant flash stung her eyes through the port,
from where direct sunlight impacted on the hexalate
sands. She stared at the kaleidoscope of color until her
eyes filled with tears.

A dull thunk sounded as the long, solid pontoons
were lowered. Seconds before contact, the light had
become so strong Cora had to turn from the port. The
brief impression she had had of Mou'anui would never
leave her, however. It was as if they were touching
down inside a diamond.

Another, louder thump was heard as they touched
water. The rear engines roared. Cora struggled to clear
her vision, but occasional lances of reflected light shot
through the port, blinding her. She was aware of a dif-
ferent motion, one that was at once familiar and yet
strange.

They were floating now, adrift on an alien sea.

CACHALOT            19

II

We will be debarking shortly, ladies and gen-
tlemen," the voice from the speaker said. "Welcome to
Cachalot."

Passengers were unslipping their flight harnesses,
organizing luggage and tapecases and personal effects.
Cora tried to single out those who might be natives,
settled on the man and woman in the first two portside
seats. They were not of Polynesian ancestry, but
boasted skin tanned the color of light chocolate. They
wore only fishnet tops over swim shorts.

The shuttlecraft slowly taxied across the lagoon.
Through the windows, which had automatically dark-
ened in response to the reflected light, she could see
down into the limpid transparency that was the surface.
Gradually the darkness gave way to lighter, brighter
colors as the water grew shallower.

Now Cora could make out shapes moving through
the water. So excited was she at these first signs of
Cachalot life that she almost forgot to breathe. The
forms darted in and around the peculiar branchlike
growths formed by the hexalates.

None of the crystalline growths possessed the gentle
curves or smooth surfaces of the corals of Earth. Large
or small, the formations universally displayed straight,
angular architecture, a crystallographer's nightmare.
The tiny creatures whose decomposed skeletons

formed the sand that filled the lagoon's bottom and
comprised its shores created their exoskeletons from
silicon, whereas the corals of Earth utilized lime. The
beaches of Cachalot were made of glass. Multicolored
glass at that, for minute quantities of different miner-
als were enough to produce hexalates of every color of
the spectrum. The tridee solidos Cora had seen of
Cachalot's islands reminded her of vast heaps of gem-
stones.

She could see buildings now, built on the nearest
outer island. Scattered here and there around the
structures were long, low green plants. They were sea-
langes, varieties of local plant life that had developed
the ability to take oxygen from the air instead of from
the water. Their roots were anchored deep within the
body of the reef.

More familiar vegetation had been used to landscape
the complex. Cora recognized numerous varieties of
off-world, salt-tolerant plant life, including several from
Earth. Outstanding among the latter were the prosaic,
arching shapes of coconut palms. Probably the plants
and the soil they survived in were imported.

Several small docks came into view. Men and women
worked on or near them, engaged in unknown tasks.
All were clad in the barest essentials. Wide-brimmed
dark hats seemed popular among many. The instru-
ment belts several wore contained more material than
the rest of their clothing.

Turning right, the shuttle slid toward several large,
two-storied structures. Traveling in the opposite direc-
tion, a small skimmer roared past. Its crew waved
cheerily at the shuttle's occupants.

The once reverberant thunder of the shuttle's engines
had been reduced to a chemical snore. They coughed
once or twice more as the pilot altered the shuttle's
heading slightly. Then it was sitting silently alongside
a floating dock of brown polymer. The dock bobbed
between thin posts of green glass.




20

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

21

Cora wondered if the glass was composed of hexal-
ate sands, decided that most likely it was. Any out-
post world had to make the most of its own resources.
Self-sufficiency was the goal of every colony. She ex-
pected to find a great many of Cachalot's everyday
items constructed of glass. A small suprafoil was linked
to the far side of the dock.

The forward door between the pilot's compartment
and the passengers' was opened. A gust of warm air
filled the cabin, replacing the stale canned atmosphere
with dampness and the strong, pungent aroma of the
sea. Cora inhaled, her eyes closing in pleasure. Per-
fume, pure perfume.

"Why is it," Rachael was grumbling, "that all the
oceans of all the planets have to stink?"

They had been through such arguments before. Cora
did not comment on her daughter's insensitivity to one
of the most wonderful smells in the universe.

Abruptly, the doorway was filled by a large, bearish
form. It squeezed into the cabin, ducking its head to
clear the entryway, and surveyed the human contents.

The massive man was clad only in a trylon pareu,
patterned with blue nebulae and pink flowers, loosely
draped around his waist down to his ankles. Chest and
chin were hairless, though the huge round skull was
thickly overgrown with black ringlets that might have
been combed once in the past dozen years.

While the man was only a few centimeters taller
than Rachael, his physique was that of a giant. Or a
granite massif. He was in his early forties, Cora
guessed, but with the roundness of a child in his fea-
tures. Most prominent among the latter was a consider-
able belly that curved out and away from beneath his
chest but had no fat ripples. The structure was a
smooth, slick curve of solid muscle that arced back to
vanish beneath the almost hidden waistband of the
pareu.

The face was also rounded, giving Cora the eerie

feeling she was looking not at a mature man but at a
seven-year-old giant. Besides his size, all that marked
him as a knowledgable adult was the instrument-laden
belt he wore around hips and waist, tucked more under
the belly than across it. She studied the array, recog-
nized the emergency underwater breathing unit that
could give a diver twenty minutes of air, an under-
water lumar, several instruments of uncertain purpose,
and, on his left side, a small rectangle of metal with a
constantly changing digital readout. She had a similar
rectangle in her own gear. On command it could pro-
vide time, depth, direction and speed of current, water
temperature, and numerous other factors of vital inter-
est to anyone working underwater. It was expensive,
not the sort of device that would be carried by, for
example, a common fisherman. Possibly he was at-
tached to the local science station? She would find out
soon enough.

The massive amount of flesh he revealed did not dis-
turb her. Of necessity the citizens of the Common-
weatlh who lived on its oceans wore less than their
landlocked counterparts. Partly this was related to con-
vention, partly to reasons of comfort, and partly, she
often suspected, to man's having risen from the sea and
his secret wish to return to it. The closer man got to the
sea, the greater the number of civilization's artifacts he
seemed to shuck.

Cora was dressed only in a simple one-piece bit of
shipboard fluff that ended above her knees. Even so,
now that she was on Cachalot, she felt unbearably
overdressed. Once they were assigned quarters, she
would change into a suit. She couldn't wait.

It would be nicer still to be able to go about only in
skin, but even a world as casual as Cachalot would
likely be affected by universal conventions. Sadly,
these included the wearing of at least minimal clothing.
Not all the inhabitants, let alone visitors and tempor-
ary workers, would willingly trade false morality for




22 CACHALOT

sensibility and comfort. And there was always the awk-
ward problem of the desires and proximity of men.
Those she would be working with would be fellow sci-
entists, but experience had shown that scientific detach-
ment had a disarming way of dissolving in her
presence. Not to mention in Rachael's.

"Sam Mataroreva." The man was looking down at
her. His voice was gentle as a cat's, as easy and open
as he seemed to be. He was ambling down the aisle,
squeezing his bulk lithely between the lounges. Despite
his size, he was physically less intimidating to her than
men half as large. Perhaps it was the baby-smooth,
hairless visage. Perhaps simply the charming smile.

"You're Cora Xamantina?" His palm enfolded hers.

She pulled it away defensively. "Pardon?" Now, why
did you do that? she asked herself. Why that instinctive
pulling away? Looks and deceitfulness did not neces-
sarily go together. That was Silvio's fault. Scientifi-
cally, there was no basis for such an assumption.

Mataroreva appeared not to notice her defensive-
ness. He was already shaking Rachael's hand. "And
you are Rachael, e'?"

"Yes." She shied away slightly when that huge mass
of flesh leaned over her.

Some official sent out to greet them, Cora thought.
Well, that was only to be expected. She stood, prepared
to ask those same but necessary questions all visitors to
a new place must ask, when Mataroreva shocked her
by moving farther down the aisle and addressing a third
passenger.

"And Mr. Merced, of course."

"That's right."

Cora stared open-mouthed at the little man.

"You're from Commissioner Hwoshien's office?"
Merced asked.

Mataroreva smiled, ran thick fingers through the
kelp-bed on his head. "Sort of a liaison between the
government and the private companies chartered to

CACHALOT            23

operate here. That gives me the best and the worst of
both sectors."

Cora continued to stare at Merced, who looked like
a dark splinter fallen from the flank of the huge Poly-
nesian. Merced noticed her stare, appeared more em-
barrassed than ever.

"I'm terribly sorry. I suppose I should have intro-
duced myself before." He stepped out into the aisle.
"I was just so fascinated by your daughter's instrument.
They're very rare, you know, and . . ." He stopped,
flustered, and extended a hand. "I'm Professor of Ad-
vanced Oceanographic Research at the University of
Toleamia on Repler."

"Toleamia?" She wasn't ready to believe this irrita-
ting person was a representative of so prestigious an
institution.

"That's right." He sounded apologetic. "Please ex-
cuse me. I really was interested in the neurophon."

"And in its operator?"

"Mother..." Rachael said wamingly.

"I'd be lying if I said no." Merced seemed nothing
if not truthful.

Mataroreva's smile had faded somewhat as he lis-
tened to the exchange."Am I missing something?"

"No." Cora turned, forced herself to smile up at him.
"Nothing important. We're very glad to be here, Mr.
Mataroreva. I just hope that we can be of some help."
She noted that they were the only passengers still
aboard the shuttle. "If I seem confused, it's only be-
cause I was led to believe that my daughter and I
were the only experts called in for consultation, to con-
sider your problem." She looked at Merced. "I don't
suppose your presence here and your being greeted by
Mr. Mataroreva could mean you're going to work on
something else?"

"We're all here for the same reason, I'm afraid."
Merced shifted his feet. "For what it's worth, I was as
ignorant of your involvement until you boarded the

24

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

25

shuttle as you were of mine. The difference was that I
knew something of you by reputation and sight, and
you did not know me." He forced a smile. "I shouldn't
think we'd have any trouble working together."

"Assuming that we do indeed end up working to-
gether." Cora was conceding nothing.

Mataroreva was growing distinctly uncomfortable.
She decided he deserved some reassurance.

"I'm not usually this testy. It's been a long, difficult

journey."

"I understand." He relaxed a little. "Call me Sam,

please."

"Okay . . . Sam it is." She was too tired to debate
protocol with anyone. Besides, "Sam" was a lot easier
to say than "Mataroreva."

"Good." He beamed. "Your large luggage should
already be on its way to your rooms. Anything else?"

They all shook their heads. Each had his or her in-
strument belt comfortably stocked and settled around

the waist.

"We can leave for Administration, then. But
first . . ." Reaching into a large waterproof packet
clipped to his Christmas-treelike belt, Mataroreva with-
drew a handful of goggles made entirely of some sup-
ple, transparent material, the headband of the same
stuff as the lenses. He slipped another pair over his
own face. "They're completely self-adjusting," he said
as the others slipped on their own. "I suggest you don't
take them off until you're inside a building. You don't
need them out on the open sea, either. All our build-
ings have windows formed from the same material."
"Can't you grow used to the glare?" Cora asked.

Mataroreva shook his head. "There's simply too
much of it. You'd go blind eventually. You can take it
early in the morning," and he stared into Cora's eyes
in a way she didn't like, "or late at night when the
sun's almost down. But while the local star is up, it's
simply too much." He turned and exited the shuttle.

Cora followed him, then Rachael with her precious
neurophon, and lastly Merced.

Then they were standing on the narrow, motionless
pier. Clouds and sky appeared sunset dark because of
the goggles. The lagoon itself stretched some twenty
kilometers to the north, another thirty to the south.
Transplanted off-world trees, water-anchored scrub
growth, and additional piers all appeared dark from
behind the special plastic. There was a dim reflection
from the buildings scattered along the wide spit of
sand.

Cora raised her right hand and slipped a finger be-
neath the lower rim of the goggles. She lifted it slightly,
glanced down and across at where the pier was slotted
into the shore. Instantly something stabbed at the back
of her eyes; crimson, emerald, blue, and yellow knives
battered her outraged optic nerves. The light seemed
as intense if not as pure as a cluster of tiny lasers. Hur-
riedly she let the goggles slip back into place, blinking
away tears. Now the sand ahead merely twinkled at
her through the lenses, did not blind.

They were preparing to leave the pier when she felt
a gentle tingle in her lower legs. The tingle traveled up
her thighs, ran like an acrobatic arachnid up her spine.
Simultaneously a plaintive melody sounded in her ears,
counterpointing the delicate rippling active inside her.

Apparently the subdued beauty was inspiring Ra-
chael. Her daughter's hands caressed the neurophon.
One strummed the dual sets of circular strings that lay
in the center of the instrument, the other fluttered over
the contact controls set in the instrument's handle and
base. The coupling of aural music with the subsonic
vibrations affecting her skin and nerves produced a re-
laxing sensation throughout Cora's body, as if she had
just spent an hour beneath a fine-spray shower.

Merced appeared similarly affected, but Mataro-
reva's reaction was quite different. The smile vanished




26           CACHALOT

from his face and he turned so abruptly he almost

knocked Cora down.

"What's the matter?" She tried to make the wide

grin return. "I'm no music lover myself, but . . ."

"It's not that." He was looking nervously beyond
her. "It has nothing to do with the music. I like the
music and the neuronics. It's just that... I think she'd
better stop." He was standing on the edge of the pier,
across from the shuttle, staring down into the muted
crystalline water. Elongated bands of light, reflections
of the sun on water ripples, flashed up at him.

Rachael paused when he made a quieting gesture in
her direction. "But you said you liked it," she pro-
tested. "I can play something else if you want."
"Just turn off the dendritic resonators."
"Not again." She petulantly ran her hand across a
long series of contacts. Cora felt something combing
her nerves. "I keep trying to explain it's all of one
piece, the aural and the neuronics. If I can't conjoin
them properly, I might as well give it up and take up

the violin."

"Just for now," Mataroreva said.
Merced was also staring over the side of the pier. "I

do believe there is something under the sand."

Rachael ignored them both, her hands flicking an-
grily over the neurophon's controls, generating a last
discordant dual projection before shutting the instru-
ment off.

Cora's nerves jumped a little under the sharp stim-
ulation. Then she discovered herself bewilderedly
stumbling backward. Seawater geysered in front of her.
Draped by the water like a maiden in a blue-green suit
was a four-meter-high orange body, flattened like a
flounder's and encrusted with rough protrusions like a
chunk of pumice. Several thick pink pseudopods waved
at the air. Cora did not see any eyes but received the
distinct impression that the creature perceived her

clearly.

CACHALOT            27

Mataroreva fell flat. From his cluttered equipment
belt he withdrew a very compact beamer. The under-
water weapon functioned well on dry land; a beam of
bright blue struck the apparition in its midsection, or
what Cora assumed to be its midsection. She could see
it a bit more clearly now. Only seconds had passed. It
looked like a cross between an obese squid and a star-
fish with delusions of grandeur. The blue fire struck
between a pair of tentacles, pierced clean through the
orange flesh. One thick, bristly appendage slapped
wetly on the pier, only centimeters from Cora's ankles.
The blue beam struck the creature again and it slid
back into the water. It had not made a sound.

Most would have lain quietly, panting and fearful.
There was too much of the scientist in Cora to permit
that. As soon as the creature vanished beneath the
water she crawled quickly but cautiously to the edge.
Large bubbles were making blemishes on the clear
surface. She could barely make out a hint of thick
bristles breaking the sand as the creature receded be-
neath it. Soon the bottom appeared undisturbed, as if
nothing had slept there in the first place.

Several figures were running toward them from the
nearest of the low-lying buildings. A few were armed.
Mataroreva got to his feet. Carefully he clipped the
beamer back onto his belt.

A hint of polished blue metal disappeared as Pucara
Merced slid something indistinct into an inside com-
partment of his own belt. No one noticed. Cora's at-
tention was still on the sea floor, as was Mataroreva's.
Only the still-motionless Rachael, arms wrapped pro-
tectively around her instrument, had the faintest
glimpse of the object, and she was too stunned by the
suddenness of the attack for the tiny shape to register
immediately on her mind.

A couple from the building reached them, panting
heavily. As soon as they saw that Mataroreva had re-




28           CACHALOT

clipped his beamer, they put away their own. He was
leaning over the side of the pier.
"What happened, Sam?"

"Toglut."
Now the man joined Mataroreva in inspecting the

sand below. "It must've gone crazy." His brow was
creased and he sounded confused. "I don't under-
stand."

The big Polynesian gestured toward Raehael. The
woman who had joined them nodded understandingly.

"She was playing that?"

"I—I'm sorry." Raehael stared at them dumbly. "I
didn't know. I mean, I know that a neurophon's vi-
brations can affect certain animals. It's just . . . the
water here is so shallow, and we're in a protected la-
goon near human habitation and I—I didn't see..."

Mataroreva stared grimly at her, seemed about to
say something, and then he was smiling broadly as be-
fore, as if nothing had happened.

"Forget it. It's over and no one was hurt. Not even
the toglut, I think. I suppose that from a biological
standpoint your assumptions were accurate. You
couldn't have known there would be something within
range of your instrument under the sand. Actually,
your thinking was mostly correct. There are very few
dangerous creatures living inside the reef, and most of
them stay out in the center, where the water's deep."
He pointed downward, over the side of the pier. "The
toglut's big, but normally it's about as offensive as a
kitten. I guess," he joked, "it wasn't much of a music
lover, either." He grinned at Cora. "Anyway, you've
had an introduction to the real Cachalot. This is a
poorly explored, little-researched colony world. Para-
dise orbits a different star.

"Come on." He looked over at the two newcomers
who had joined them so hurriedly. "We'll manage,
Terii," he told the woman. She nodded, turned to leave,
but not before giving Raehael a disapproving glare.

CACHALOT            29

Mataroreva started to follow, but when he saw Cora
still on hands and knees, staring over the side of the
pier, he walked over to her and extended a massive
brown paw. "Ms. Xamantina? Cora?"

She glanced up at him. "A toglut, you called it?"

"That's right. They spend most of their time under
the sand. They can tear up a boat without working
hard, but normally one would rather run than fight
something half its size."

"I wish I'd had a better look." She took his hand and
he helped her to her feet. She continued to gaze down
into the water. "Fascinating. I've never seen a cepha-
lopod like that."

"It's not a cephalopod."

"Echinoderm?"

He shook his head. "Polydermata. If I remember
right. A new class, native to Cachalot. We have a lot of
them, I'm told. You'll learn the reason for the name if
you ever get the chance to dissect one. The cephalopo-
dian characteristics are coincidental. Or mimicry."

"That's marvelous. Really marvelous." She grew
aware he was still holding her hand and pulled free.

"Raehael—"

"Please, Mother. No lectures, huh? I explained
myself. Nobody's as sorry as I am."

Cora sighed deeply. "You and that toy. I'm sur-
prised at you, ascribing Earthly characteristics to an
alien world. But I suppose I myself would have said,
if asked, that it was probably safe to play that thing
here." She started for the buildings, chatting with Mat-
aroreva.

Merced moved to walk alongside Raehael. "Anyone
would have made the same assumption, just as your
mother said. Besides," he added softly, "I thought
what you were playing was beautiful."

She looked down at him. "Flattery will get you no-
where, Mr. Merced."




30           CACHALOT

"Pucara, please. We are going to be working to-
gether."

"Maybe," she replied cautiously. "We don't know

the nature of the trouble, so I think it's a little prema-
ture to say we'll be working together." He looked away,
lapsed into silence. "However," she added, "I hope

that we will." She smiled enigmatically.

"It's my hope also, Rachael. Maybe you'd be will-
ing to play for me another time, as you said you would.
When we're a bit farther away from the water where
your instrument's projections won't, uh, irritate the

local life."

"That'll have to include my mother. She tends to re-
act like that toglut thing did." She chuckled.

They were mounting a slight slope now, climbing the

firmly packed sand. Occasional shafts of brightly col-
ored light made her blink even through the protective

haze created by the goggles.

"She's protective of you," Merced ventured. "You

can't blame her."

"Protective of me?"
Rachael laughed, the rhythmic trill so different from

her husky speaking voice. "I can take care of myself.
Besides, what does she have to be so protective of me
for? What's there to protect me from?" And she
smiled at Merced in what could only be called a chal-
lenging way. He simply smiled slightly and looked

away.

Intriguing character, she thought to herself. He acts

so shy and tentative, yet some of his comments and
questions are damned direct. She slid the neurophon
around on its straps so that it snuggled beneath her left

arm, made certain the power was off.

Two mysteries for her to explore; Cachalot and
Pucara Merced. Two mysteries to inspire music. She
ran three fingers over the steel strings of her soul.

.aving reached the top of the gentle slope, they
found themselves among a complex of buildings. All
displayed windows formed of the same phototropic
material as their goggles. Some of the structures looked
like housing, others were clearly used as offices and
labs. Far to the south were the outlines of much larger
buildings. Warehousing, perhaps, or processing facili-
ties.

The shuttle that had brought them in was now
docked near one of the other, larger structures. Small
human shapes could be seen using floaters to shift con-
tainers from building to shuttlebay and vice versa.

They were approaching a two-story building larger
than any they had yet passed. It occupied the crest of
the hill. A flag, hanging limply from a post in front of
the entrance, displayed four circles arranged in a
square: two blue, representing Terra; two green, stand-
ing for Hivehom. A fifth circle occupied the center,
tangent to the other four. It was marked with a Mal-
tese cross, half blue and half green on a crimson field.
Were this a Church facility, the field would have been
aquamarine. Flag and post were sufficient to indicate
they were nearing the center of humanx activity on
Cachalot.

From what Rachael had learned of the ocean world,
she knew it was not developed enough to qualify for

32 CACHALOT

even associate status in the Commonwealth. It was
listed as a mere class nine, a general colony with no
direct representation in the Council. Instead, it oper-
ated under the direction of a Resident Commissioner,
like any other world without full membership. Its
inhabitants would have true franchise only through
their home-worlds. Those with multigenerational an-
cestry on Cachalot would be represented through the
Commissioner.

They halted before the entrance, and she and
Merced slowed behind her mother and they guide.

"I don't understand," Cora was saying, gesturing
first at the Administration Building and then at the
others nearby. "Don't you have a fusion plant?"

"Sure," Sam told her. "For backup purposes. We
hardly ever use it. Why do you find the photovoltaic
paneling so unusual? It may not generate as much
power as fast as a fusion reactor, but we have excellent
storage systems and a year with ninety-five percent of
the days sunny. In the long run it's much more effi-
cient."

"Meaning cheaper?"

"Exactly. Generating a fusion reaction isn't that ex-
pensive. Containing and channeling it are."

They passed the flagpole and encountered a small
sign attached to a post made of coconut palm. Cora
glanced expectantly at Mataroreva, who grinned at her.

"That marks the highest point of land yet measured
on Cachalot. Thirty-two meters above sea level." His
grin grew wider and he gestured at the atoll. "The
name 'Mou'anui' is itself a joke. It's the name this atoll
was given by the first workers who settled here. My
ancestors were among them. It means 'big mountain'
in the ancient Tahitian tongue."

"Everything's relative," Merced said from behind
him.

"Very true."

"I would think you'd be swamped here." Cora

CACHALOT            33

looked back at the calm water of the lagoon. "We
passed over a pretty good-sized storm on our way
down."

"That's why most of the people on Cachalot would
choose to live on the floating towns even if there was
more land. It's safer, easier to ride with a storm rather
than fight against it." Mataroreva shrugged. "But for
an administrative center, for a central distribution and
product collection and processing point, it was decided
that a truly permanent installation was required. There
are larger atolls, but none with this much stable land,
so it was decided to place the fixed buildings on
Mou'anui.

"The foundations of these buildings go many meters
down into the solid rock of the sea mount on which the
reef stands. The reef follows the contour of the crest
of an ancient volcanic caldera. The mountain comes
very close to the surface here. Even if the sand were
to be completely washed away, most of the buildings
would remain. We're safe. The majority of big storms
strike the atoll on the far side anyway."

"Is there any place," Rachael asked, "where real
land actually projects above the water?"

Mataroreva thought a moment. "Not that I've heard
of. Sea mounts like the one below us come within a
couple dozen meters of the surface. But wherever you
see dry land projecting above the water, it's there be-
cause the little hexalates have worked to make it so for
millions of years."

They passed through the tinted plastic doors of the
Administration Building. "Most of the people I've seen
so far have retained much of then: Polynesian ancestry
in their faces and physiques," Cora said.

"Oh, you know how it is," Mataroreva replied cas-
ually. "The Commonwealth's not so ancient that pock-
ets of settlers on nonurbanized worlds haven't retained
then- ethnicity. That's not to say you won't find ancient
Northern Europeans or Central American farmstockers

34            CACHALOT

or Mongols working here on Cachalot. Not to mention
a very few thranx, despite their natural hatred of large
bodies of water. But the permanent residents, the ones
who aren't here simply to try to get rich quick in phar-
maceuticals, say, derive mostly from Polynesian or
Melanesian ocean-going ancestors. I'm sure there's no
genetic reason for it. But tradition dies as hard in cer-
tain ethnic groupings as it does in families."

Down a hall, than around a comer. "Here we are."

But the door before them refused admittance. "Com-
missioner Hwoshien is not here," it politely informed
them. "He is working elsewhere at the moment."

"Where is he, then?" Mataroreva did not try to con-
ceal his exasperation at the delay.

The door hesitated briefly, then replied, "I believe

Commissioner Hwoshien is in Storage and Packing

Number Two."

"Oh, terrific," their guide mumbled. Then his frus-
tration vanished, as all such upsets seemed to after an
instant. "Nothing for it but to go find him, I suppose."

He turned, began retracing their steps.

A rich roaring greeted them when they exited the
building. The shuttle, having completed its exchanges,
was departing. It thundered down the lagoon on its
pontoons. Then the nose tipped up. Engines boiled the
sea behind as the craft arced sharply into a sky polka-
dotted with white.

The noise and violence startled a flock of creatures

just below the surface. Flapping membranous wings,
they soared aloft, circled several times, and glided over

the Administration Building.

"Ichthyomithsl" Cora shouted delightedly, clapping

her hands together like a little girl. "Those I was able
to study prior to leaving Earth. How wonderfull"

"Mother, what are they—birds?" Rachael was

staring curiously at the distant flock.

"Didn't you read anything before you left home?"

CACHALOT           35

"Yeah, I did," her daughter snapped, and she rattled
off a list of popular fiction.

Cora looked resigned. "They're flying fish. Real fly-
ing fish." She stared upward, enraptured by yet another
of the sea's miraculous examples of protective adapta-
tion. Each ichthyomith had a transparent, gelatinous
membrane surrounding the rear portion of its stream-
lined body. Within those membranes they carried
oxygen-rich water, enabling them to stay airborne and
clear of the water for substantial periods of time.

There were no land animals native to Cachalot. So
there were no reptiles or mammals for true birds to
evolve from. In the absence of true birds or flying
snakes or their relatives, the ichthyoraiths, with their
water-carrying body sacs, had adapted to a partial
aerial existence, spending as little time in the water as
possible, breeding and living in a mostly predator-free
niche left to them by a nonwasteful nature.

Their long silvery forms shone in the sun, light
bouncing from wide wet wings and the full water sacs.
They returned to the lagoon and skimmed low, search-
ing for a place to set down.

As Cora watched, one of the winged shapes suddenly
fell from formation, splashed into the water.

"Koolyanif," Mataroreva explained. "It floats just
below the surface, changing color to match the sand or
deep water below it. It has an arsenal of stinging spines
which it can blow outward, like arrows, through a
kind of internal air compression system. That's what
brought down the ichthyomith."

Even in the air, life is not safe on Cachalot, Cora
told herself. This is not the friendly, familiar ocean of
Earth. She found herself longing for the sight of some-
thing as predictable as a shark.

Around her the plants waved lazily in the faint
breeze. All seemed peaceful and quiet. But they had
been on this world only a short time and had seen tog-

36 CACHALOT

luts and koolyanifs. The sea and the peacefulness were
deceptive.

She wondered how the original settlers of Cachalot
had coped with the inhabitants native to the world-
ocean. Not being human, they had possessed other ad-
vantages. She was intensely curious to find out for
herself if they had done as well as all the histories and
infrequent reports indicated they had.

It seemed that would have to wait until she had con-
fronted this Hwoshien person. She had dealt with bu-
reaucratic demagogues before. She could handle this
one, even if he could intimidate as impressive a speci-
men as Sam Mataroreva.

She eyed the big Polynesian as he led them down
the slope toward another pier. Maybe she was over-
rating him. He was so relaxed, so easygoing. Perhaps
it wasn't that he was intimidated so much as overly
respectful of authority. He was certainly gentle enough
with everyone, like an oversized teddy bear.

She resolutely turned her thoughts away from such
trivialities. More important was the matter of their still
unspecified assignment and her anger at being bounced
around like a servant ever since they had set foot on
this globe. She would straighten out both as soon as
they confronted Hwoshien.

A number of craft were docked at the pier. Matar-
oreva directed them to a small, waterstained skimmer.
They boarded and he activated controls. Immediately
the little ship lifted a meter off the water. It could go
considerably higher, but there was no need to expend
the power. A touch on another switch and they found
themselves racing across the broad lagoon toward its
southernmost end.

Cora leaned back, marveled at the faceted hexalate
formations speeding past beneath the rapidly moving
craft. She could hardly wait to get into the water here,
to see at first hand the marine marvels she had studied.
Reefs a thousand meters and more in depth were not

CACHALOT

37

unknown, for the hexalates had been building on Ca-
chalot for millions of years, long before the land had
all been worn away or had subsided.

Mataroreva looked back from the controls, watched
her watching. "You love the sea, don't you, Cora?"

"All my life," she told him quietly. "Ever since I
was old enough to realize the difference between ocean
and bathtub."

"I know how you feel," he replied. "To me. Cacha-
lot the planet is one vast, perfect ozmidine, cut and
polished by the hand of God. If I could," he said in the
same voice, "I would make a bracelet of it so you
could wear it on your wrist."

"Thanks for the thought, Sam. But I've been given
similar gifts and promises in the past. The bracelets
were fake, and the promises broke, too."

"I understand." Mataroreva turned back to his con-
trols but continued to speak. "Bracelets, gems, can be
Mke that sometimes; bright and flashy instead of solid,
well crafted, and made with care . . . like promises."

Cora felt ashamed. Why couldn't she be more open,
like Rachael? Age had nothing to do with her way of
looking at people. It was a question of experience.

Take Mataroreva, for example. Why assume his de-
ference toward Hwoshien was owing to a lack of back-
bone? He was only an employee here, without her
off-world independence. And he was charming.

Ah, but Silvio had been charming. Oh, how charm-
ing! As charming, as bright, as the crystal formations
they were skimming over. But Mataroreva was not
Silvio. Why condemn him for being pleasant? The
two had nothing in common save gender. Wasn't it
time she ceased condemning all because of one? She
was so tired of acting tough.

Downright delightful, this Mataroreva—Sam. Men-
tally he was still a mystery. But he shared her love of
the sea, and the warmth of holiday and the sense of

38 CACHALOT

eternal vacation that hung over this world were be-
ginning to weaken her.

Mataroreva shattered the reverie. "You know, an-
other town was destroyed last week. Rorqual."

This brought her brusquely back to reality. She was
all business again. "Destroyed—an entire town? I know
we were being brought in on this because people were
being killed, but no one mentioned anything about
the destruction of an entire town. And you said 'an-
other.' "

"There have been several such incidents."
"How many?" Merced asked patiently.
"Four."

"Four deaths?" Rachael was staring at Mataroreva
now.

He shook his head. His expression had become
solemn. "Four towns. The entire populations, com-
pletely wiped out. Not a trace of them left behind,
and we've no idea what's causing it. Twenty-five hun-
dred men, women, and children. All gone. 'Ati."

"Similarities?" Cora wanted to know. "What were
the similarities, the links tying these incidents to-
gether?"

Sam smiled patiently at her. "Hard at work al-
ready? Take your time, Cora Xamantina. We have
already eliminated the obvious." He glanced back at
Rachael and Merced. "You all may as well take your
time. We haven't just been swimming in circles here,
so don't expect to find any quick answers. Twenty-
five hundred people." He returned his full attention to
the skimmer controls.

"We'll determine the cause," Cora said finally, after
a long silence in the craft, "and put a stop to it."

He smiled affectionately at her, not boyish at all
now. "Maybe you will, Cora Xamantina. Maybe you
will. I hope so, because the thought of you becoming
a new addendum to the obituary disturbs me. You've
seen only a bare fraction of the hostile life-forms of

CACHALOT            39

Cachalot, and what they are capable of. Remember
that most of the Cachalot world-ocean has not been
explored, nor any of the great deeps. We don't know
what's out there. Maybe something that can take a
floating town apart piece by piece."

"Well said." Cora grinned back at him. "We're all
suitably intimidated. Now—what are the similarities?"

Mataroreva chuckled. "If stubbornness were a cure,
this world would be healthy in a day. Hwoshien will
want to explain himself."

"I'd rather you tell me, Sam."

"Don't condemn Yu until you've met him. He's
been through a lot this past month."

"Isn't it permissible?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I haven't been in-
structed not to tell you.

"I suppose the most obvious link is the impossi-
bility of this happening to a single town, much less to
four. The towns themselves are supposed to be im-
possible to sink. Hell, they are impossible to sink!
They are not solid structures. Each town is a vast raft
composed of thick slabs of buoyant polymer, like the
piers we just left. The town slabs are as much as ten
meters thick in places, beneath some of the larger
buildings. They can be broken, but the individual
fragments will continue to float.

"The varied shapes of the polymer slabs—triangles,
trapezoids, and so forth—give the raft tremendous
structural strength while still leaving sufficient flexi-
bility for it to glide over the waves."

"Even so," Rachael pointed out from the rear of
the thrumming skimmer, "couldn't a storm, a really
big storm, take a town apart?"

"No. At least, it hasn't happened yet. Even the
largest waves slip under the raft sections. Those that
break atop the town sift down through the drain places
between the sections, or slide off. The polymer actually
rejects water, in addition being a hundred percent

40 CACHALOT CACHALOT 41

non-porous. And the hinges that link the sections to-
gether are magnetic or chemical, not affected by brute
mechanical wave action.

"Also, each town has several means of further
stabilizing itself—centerboards, special fluids which
can inhibit wave action, and so on. No, storms are out
of the question. Except for," and he glanced back at
them helplessly, "one awkward contradiction."
"What's that?" Cora wondered.
"The fact that each town has disappeared during
a storm."

"I'd call that more than an awkward contradiction."
Mataroreva adjusted the heading of the skimmer,
angling it slightly to starboard. "But some of the storms
have been too light to damage a sensitive flower, let;

alone an entire town. The storm that covered War-'
mouth when it was lost was measured by a weather
satellite almost directly above it. Our weather system
is even more advanced than our cross-planet com-
munications system. It recorded the winds at the height
of the storm at less than forty kilometers per hour.
There's no potential for destruction in that."

"Sounds like something is using the storms for
cover," Merced murmured. Mataroreva nodded.

Cora wasn't ready to rule out natural causes. "What
about seismic disturbances?"

"All the towns, though drifting near fishing reefs
or sea mounts, were in essentially open ocean. The
biggest quake on this world might shatter someplace
stable like Mou'anui, but it would send only a swell
rippling under the floating towns. They're immune to
quakes."

"You said you found pieces of the polymer sec-
tions?"

"Yes. Shattered and torn. Not only sections of the
town foundations but buildings, equipment, structures;

but not a single body. Not one corpse. Either the cause
of the destruction has a ghoulish nature, or it's a red

herring. True, corpses will eventually sink, or be taken
by the numerous scavenger species, but it does seem
unlikely that not one out of twenty-five hundred has
been found."

"Did all the wreckage show similar damage, the
effect of identical forces?" Merced was making notes
on a recorder.

"Everything was just—splintered." Mataroreva
shrugged enormous shoulders.

"You've been out to the sites?" Rachael asked the
question respectfully.

"No, but I've seen the tridee tapes that were brought
back."

"There was no sign of melt-down in the debris?"

Mataroreva looked approvingly back at Merced. "I
know what you're thinking. No, no meltage. No in-
dication of the use of energy weapons. The polymer
sections would show that for sure. We discarded that
possibility long ago."

"Then you've discarded weaponry as a cause?"

"No, of course not. We have our own specialists
working on sections of broken buildings and raft, on
the chance that a more exotic variety of weapon might
have been used. But the molecular structure of the
polymer fragments is unaltered. That rules out, for
example, the use of supercryogenics, which could
freeze the material and cause it to fragment."

"What about ultrasonics? That could produce a
similar effect without affecting structure."

Mataroreva threw him a peculiar look. "I thought
you were all just oceanographers."

"Physics is only a hobby." Merced sounded apolo-
getic.

"Sure. Yes, I suppose that's a possible explanation.
But I've been told by our local peaceforcer computer
that in order for ultrasonics to produce that kind of
universal destruction, a different frequency setting
would have to be used for each element of the town.




42

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

43

One for the polymers, one for the stelamic walls, an-
other for seacane furniture, and so on. Practically
every object of any size that was recovered was in
pieces. It seems incredible that an attacker could have
enough weaponry or could adjust frequencies rapidly
enough to obliterate everything before counteraction
could be taken."

"They wouldn't have to destroy everything," Merced
argued. "All they'd have to do is jam or eliminate a
town's communications. Then they could proceed
with methodical annihilation under cover of the storm.
You said your satellite system was sophisticated. Can't
it monitor the towns through a few clouds?"

"Certain energy weapons, yes, they'd be detected
if used. That's one of the things that has contributed
to the frustration. Our satellites have given us nothing
in the way of explanatory information. It seems self-
evident that there are weapons which can operate
without being detected."

Merced nodded. "I know of a couple which prob-
ably could, no matter how advanced the orbital scan-
ning system."

"For example?"

Merced squirmed uncomfortably, aware he was
very much the center of attention. "As I said, it's a
hobby. Now, I'm not positive about this, but I've heard
that the Commonwealth armed forces have access to
devices which can affect the interatomic bonds of
elements. The explosive result would be very much
like the destruction you've described, Sam. The device
could be adjusted far more rapidly than a subsonic
projector and would be unlikely to set off a town's
warning system, which, I presume, would be directed
to keep an eye out for much more conventional
weaponry."

"Some of them aren't even equipped to detect
that," their pilot admitted. "Our primary source of
danger on Cachalot has always been inimical local

life-forms, not other people." He looked unhappy.
"By this world's nature, by the way the population is
concentrated yet dispersed, we have to maintain a
peaceful society.

"Oh, we have our occasional troublemakers, but
we've never, never experienced anything on this scale
of mass murder. The local peaceforcers have always
been able to cope. Our problems run more along the
line of drunken brawls or jealous husbands. And there
are some who become frustrated because they're un-
able to adapt to our world and our ways. But frus-
trated enough to organize and commit wholesale
slaughter? I doubt it."

"If we rule out human or off-world attack," Cora
declared in measured tones, "that leaves something
from the sea."

"That's your department. That's why you've been
brought in. Human or other intelligent assailants will
be dealt with by the peaceforcers, but . . . well, the
Commonwealth has had people on Cachalot for over
four hundred years and the original settlers for four
or five hundred years before that, and we're still com-
paratively ignorant about the local denizens."

"That's nothing new," Cora said. "There's still much
we don't know about life in Earth's oceans. You needn't
apologize."

"I wasn't apologizing," Sam said matter-of-factiy.
"I'm not the apologetic type."

"Well, we can rule out the storms as direct causes,"
Merced allowed. "I don't know about you ladies, but
I personally am not ready to deal with human
attackers. All we could do is determine that they
' were the likely cause of the trouble."

"That would be sufficient," Mataroreva told him.
"You're not here to provide final solutions. Only to
determine causes."

Odd thing for him to say, Cora mused. Oddly de-




44 CACHALOT

finitive. "Sam, you've never told us exactly what it is
that you do."

"That's true," Merced agreed. "Are you attached to
the scientific community here, or are you independent,
or what?"

"Neither," Sam finally confessed, with that same
easy smile. "I'm a government employee."

"Communications." Cora snapped her fingers. "That
why you were sent to greet us."

"Not exactly, Cora. Communications is only a part
of my job. All that talk about less-than-benign human
agencies at work on this world is taken quite seriously
by the government as well as by local authorities. I
gave you my name, but not my title." He used his
free left hand to turn down a blank section of his belt.
Cora saw a radiant olive branch glowing on a circular
blue field. Beneath the olive branch was a pair of
tiny, glowing gold bars.

"It's Captain Sam Mataroreva, actually. I'm the
commander of the peaceforcer contingent on this
world. My primary task wasn't to greet you. It was to
protect you."

IV

, his news upset Cora even more than she showed.
"So we're to suffer a bodyguard." She tried to make
light of it. "So the powers that be are afraid someone
might try to—what was it you and Pucara were talk-
ing about?—explosively debond my molecular struc-
ture or something."

Mataroreva did not smile. "If there are groups or
individuals who are preying on the floating towns, and
if they are already responsible for the deaths of twenty-
five hundred people, it's unlikely they'd balk at assas-
sinating a few imported specialists if they felt that
action would continue to keep their operations secret
and unimpaired."

She had no reply for that, fumed silently at the lack
of specific information. Perhaps the original settlers
could provide some information, despite all she had
heard about their famous (or infamous) insistence
on privacy. They were the real, secret reason for
her leaving her comfortable post on Earth and coming
all this way, regardless of the potential danger of the
assignment. She found herself trying to see over the
enclosing reef, out beyond the garland of glass that
surrounded the lagoon, to the open ocean beyond.

"I want to meet the whales, Sam." He continued
to steer the skimmer, listening. "I need to meet some
of them. Ever since I was a little girl I've read about

45

46

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

47

the whales of Cachalot. Every adult oceanographer's
dream is to come here and perhaps be granted one
of those extremely rare opportunities to study them,
if only briefly. To wangle the chance to come here, to
observe what many consider to be the greatest ex-
periment in Terran sociohistory ... I couldn't return,
couldn't leave, without doing that."

"I'd like to see some of them, too." Rachael was
peering over the side of the skimmer, studying the
rising bottom.

"Well, you won't see any of them here," Cora chided
her. "It's unlikely they'd come into the lagoon."

"As a matter of fact," Sam countered, "there are
a couple of passages through the reef large enough
to admit them. The lagoon is big enough and deep
enough to accommodate some. Many, I understand,
like to calve in the larger lagoons. But not in Mou'-
anui."

"Why not?" Cora asked.

Sam told her, his words touched with something
beyond his usual carefree self. "They could explain
in words, but they don't wish to. It's simple enough
to guess. They came to Cachalot to get away from
people, remember."

"I would think that by this time," she murmured,
"on an alien world, having come from a common
planet of origin, all mammals together—"

Sam interrupted her gently. "You'll understand
better if you do meet any of them."

"What do you mean 'if? I know it's difficult, but
surely it can be arranged. It's unthinkable to come
all this way and—"

"Mother," Rachael said admonishingly, "we weren't
sent here to study whales. We were sent to find a solu-
tion, or at least a causative factor, for a very dangerous
situation."

"I know, I know. But to come to Cachalot and not
study the cetaceans ..."

"Remember that they don't wish to be studied,"
Sam told her. "Part of the Agreement of Transfer is
that they can't be studied or bothered unless they
specifically ask to be. There are certain species who
are friendlier than others, of course. You know about
the porpoises and their relatives. But the great whales
shy away from any human contact. They find us ...
well, irritating. Their privacy is their right. The details
of the Agreement of Transfer go back to before the
Amalgamation and the formation of the Common-
wealth. No one would even think of violating it."

"What about individuals?"

"We don't know that they think individually. That's
one of the mysteries. They may have evolved a col-
lective consciousness by now. And it's not a matter
merely of irritating them. They can be downright hos-
tile at times. That right is reserved to them as well."

"Six, seven hundred years or more," Cora whis-
pered. "I would've thought they'd gotten over that
by now."

"They'll never get over it," Sam replied, disturbed
by his own certainty. "At least, they haven't as yet.
It's been seven hundred and thirty years exactly, if
I remember the histories right, since the serum was
discovered that enabled the Cetacea to utilize all of
their enormous brains. That's when it was decided
to settle some of the pitiful survivors of the second
holocaust on a world of their own. No, they haven't
gotten over it"

Cora knew that Sam was right, though it was hard
to feel guilty for the actions of an ignorant and prim-
itive humanity. She insisted she should not feel guilt
for the repugnant and idiotic actions of her distant
ancestors.

Sending the whales to Cachalot had been hailed
as a magnificent experiment, a gigantic fleet of huge
transports working for two decades to accomplish the
Transfer. It had been done, so the politicians claimed,




48

CACHALOT

to see what kind of civilization the cetaceans might
create on a world of their own.

In actuality, it had been done as penance, a racial
apology for nearly exterminating the only other in-
telligent life ever to evolve on Earth. The Cetacea
had possessed cognitive abilities for nearly eight hun-
dred years now. From all the reports she had eagerly
devoured, as keenly anticipated as they were infre-
quent, she knew they were still growing mentally.

Part of the Agreement of Transfer stated that they
would be left alone, to develop as they wished, in their
own fashion. Intensive monitoring of their progress,
or lack of it, was expressly forbidden by the Agree-
ment. But the idea that they would resist such study
to the point of open hostility was new to her, and
surprising.

"I would think by now they'd enjoy contact," she
said. "When you're building a society, conversation
with others is helpful and psychologically soothing.
Our experiences with other space-going races has
shown that."

"Other space-going races didn't have the racial
trauma that the Cetacea did," Sam reminded her.
"And the society they're constructing, slowly and pain-
fully, is different from any we've yet encountered.
Maybe it's a reflection of their size, but I think they
have a slower and yet greater perspective than we
do. Their outlook, their view of societies as well as of
the universe, is totally different from ours.

"When they were first settled here, they were of-
fered, for example, aid in developing devices with
which they could manipulate the physical world. Tools
for creatures without hands or tentacles. They refused.
They're not developing as a larger offshoot of man-
kind. They're going their own way.

"Sure, it seems slow, but as I said, their outlook is
different from ours. A few experts do study them a
little, and depart discouraged in the belief that in the

CACHALOT            49

past half a millennium the Cetacea haven't made any
progress." There was a twinkle in his eye.

"Then there are some of us on Cachalot who think
they are making progress. Not progress as we would
consider it. See, I don't think they care much for what
we call civilization. They're content to swim, calve,
eat, and think. It's the last of those that's critical. We
really know very little about how they think, or even
what they think about. But some of us think that may-
be our original colonists are progressing a little faster
than anyone realizes."

"All the reports I've read are fascinating in that
respect, Sam. I understand they've developed and
discarded dozens of new religions."

"You'd know more about that than I," Mataroreva
confessed. "I'm just a peaceforcer. My interest in the
Cetacea is personal, not professional. I only know as
much about them as I do because I live on their world.

"As to whether we'll encounter any of them, that
I can't say. They've multiplied and done well on this
world, but it's still incomprehensibly vast. We are duty-
bound not to seek them out."

"Don't you think that under the present circum-
stances we might make an exception?"

Sam considered the matter, spoke cautiously. "If
it's vital to your research, well, we might try locating
a herd or two. But only if it's absolutely necessary."

"Whom do I have to clear it with?"

"With the cetaceans, of course. No arguing per-
mitted, by the way." He spoke sternly. "H we do hap-
pen to run into a pod and they don't want to stop and
chat, there must be no disappointed tantrums. If we
pester them beyond a certain point, they're fully within
their rights to smash the boat—and its inhabitants."

They were approaching the southern tip of the atoll.
Curving beaches reached out and around to embrace
then" arrival. The buildings here were larger than any
they had seen up close, larger even than the central

50 CACHALOT

Administration Building back by the shuttle dock.
Some were circular, others massive and foursquare
to the sand. All were coated with photovoltaic panel-
ing. Much plastic and metal tubing ran between the
buildings. Bulky structures running up each end of
the atoll looked like warehouses. And far more ac-
tivity was visible than they had encountered at Ad-
ministration. The Commonwealth is present on Cacha-
lot because of this, Cora told herself, and not the other
way around.

"South Terminus," Mataroreva announced. "The
clearing area for the produce of Cachalot's ocean."

"What about the processing?" Rachael inquired.

"The basics are performed on the floating towns
themselves—sizing and grading corbyianver, for ex-
ample. Concentrating and precrating are mostly done
right here. The final refining takes place," and he
waved at the sky, "out there. There are a number of
fairly large orbital factories set in synchronous orbits
above us."

Cora nodded. "We saw one on our way down, I
think."

"That's where the final work takes place." He angled
toward the beach. "All of the more valuable products
are completed up there: pharmaceuticals, perfumes
and other cosmetics, foodstuffs, minerals. It's cheaper
than trying to build a floating factory down here. Also,
most of the raw materials take acceleration better
than the finished products would."

"I wouldn't think an orbital factory would be
cheaper," Cora protested.

"Consider that everything you see on Mou'anui
was built with imported materials. Undersea mining
is prohibitively expensive, not to mention refining.
Cachalot's population doesn't call for an extensive
manufacturing base. It's cheaper to import."

He slowed, edged the craft up against one of several
empty piers. Switches were flipped and the engine

CACHALOT            51

died. Another switch locked the craft to the pier. They
followed their guide into a complex of buildings that
were as modem as any Cora had seen. Ferrocrete
covered the sand. It sounded harsh and alien against
her sandals.

Around them strolled technicians whose accents
she traced to many worlds. The atmosphere was
radically different from the casual aura that enveloped
the Administration Center. "Hustle" was the word
here, commerce the constant reaction. This realization
killed some of the charm Cora had come to associate
with the new world. She had to remind herself that
the human presence on Cachalot existed because of
cold economic figures.

Mataroreva left them to chat with a lanky lady who
looked rather like one of the imported coconut palms.
She held an electronic notepad as she inspected man-
high rows of opaque plastic containers.

"He's inside," Cora heard her say, "near the con-
veyors. He's checking potential extract yield himself.
Seychelles Town brought in a large batch of formicary
foam."

"Thanks, Kina." As she turned to resume her count-
ing, he gave her a fond pat on the derriere. Cora took
note of this, along with the ambient temperature and
the time of day.

As they penetrated farther into the complex, Mat-
aroreva pointed out the functions of various structures.
Eventually they entered a long, cavernous edifice
that seemed to stretch onward forever. The clank and
hum of machinery grinding out credits for distant,
uncaring proprietors further deepened Cora's mel-
ancholy. The last vestiges of paradise were being
drowned around her. An ancient bit of music by Mos-
solov echoed in her head.

Clearly Cora had arrived on Cachalot with a brace
of misconceptions, which she was rapidly shedding.
No wonder the cetacean settlers wanted nothing to

52 CACHALOT

do with the local humanity. The same self-centered,
acquisitive drives that had goosed mankind across
a thousand parsecs in six directions were functioning
round the clock on Cachalot.

She noticed a few thranx working some of the more
intricate machinery. No doubt they were more com-
fortable here, inside, well away from the threatening
water.

Occasionally Mataroreva would wave at this worker
or another. Some were human, some not. Of the for-
mer, the majority was female.

They turned a corner and a gust of fresh salt air
swept over them. They had completely crossed the
reef and were now in a huge chamber, the far end of
which lay open to the ocean. Gentle waves slapped
metallically against the duralloy seawall. Two large
suprafoils bobbed queasily against the broad metal
platform. Both were portside-up to the wall. Their
foils lay beneath the water. Stabilizers kept them from
rolling farther.

Conveyors were moving large bulk crates from the
holds of both vessels, stacking them neatly in a far
comer of the chamber. The crates were pink, marked
with blue stripes and black lettering. A small group
of people were gathered by the nearest conveyor.
Dwarfed by the mechanical arms and large crates,
they seemed to be arguing politely. Mataroreva
headed toward them.

Two men and one woman were chatting with four
others. They wore pareus similar to Mataroreva's.
One was a strikingly handsome blond youth of late
adolescence who stood over two meters tall. Of the
four they confronted physically and verbally, two
were clad in suits and the popular net overshirts. One
man wore standard trousers and a casual shirt. The
last was clad collar to toe as if he were about to attend
an inaugural ball. His shut was long-sleeved, of jet-
black satiny material that blended into crimson metal

CACHALOT            53

fiber at wrists and waist. The trousers were identical
in material and cut. The high collar buttoned beneath
the chin was also of woven metal. The soft plastic
sandals he stood in seemed strikingly out of place.

It was to him alone the three pareu-clad visitors
spoke, while the other three deferred to him in voice
and manner. Cora studied Yu Hwoshien. He was
no taller than she, but seemed so because of his pos-
ture, as stiff as any antenna. When he spoke only his
mouth moved. He did not gesture with hand or face.
His hah- was pure white, thinning in the front. Though
he was at least thirty years older than she, there was
nothing shaky about him. His eyes, small and deep-
sunk, were the rich blue of daydreams.

Mataroreva did not interrupt to announce their
arrival, so they were compelled to listen in on the
conversation, which had something to do with for-
micary foam. Cora knew nothing about that, but when
the words "exene extract" were mentioned, she perked
up quickly.

Exene was not quite a miracle drug, and its appli-
cation was specialized and limited. However, anything
Commonwealth chemistry had been unable to synthe-
size was extremely valuable. Of such substances,
exene was among the most desired.

As safe as cerebral surgery had become over the
last several centuries, there was always a certain de-
gree of danger whenever one tampered with the human
brain. Microxerography could detect even the smallest
embolisms, but such dangers still had to be excised.
No longer, though. Not since the discovery of for-
micary foam, which could be reduced to produce
exene. A small dose injected into the bloodstream
would dissolve any arterial buildup or blockage. It
was nontoxic and had no side effects. The enzyme
literally scoured clean the patient's circulatory system.
The ancient scourge colloquially known as a "stroke"
had been banished forever.

54 CACHALOT

So, the famous drug was made from something
called formicary foam. Cora could neither see nor
smell the stuff, encased as it was in the airtight crates.
It seemed as if quite a lot of foam was required to
produce a small amount of exene. She wondered what
the antlike creatures which secreted it looked like.

During the conversation Hwoshien spoke less than
any of his companions. He was apparently content to
let his subordinates do most of the talking. He
remained motionless, arms folded across his chest.
When he did speak, the arms didn't move.

For a wild instant Cora suspected his extraordinary
rigidity was a result of some physical infirmity. But
when the discussion ended and he shook hands with
each of the visitors, she saw there was nothing wrong
with him. His movements were just extremely spare.
He was as economical of gesture as of word.

As he turned toward them she noted a few
wrinkles in the long, impassive face, but not nearly as
many as one would expect in someone of his apparent
age. Those startling blue eyes seemed to Stare not
through her but past her.

Hwoshien spoke to Mataroreva. His voice was soft
but not gentle, each word loaded with irresistible com-
mitment. Then he again eyed them each in turn, stop-
ping on Cora. To her surprise she discovered she was
fidgeting. It was not that Hwoshien intimidated her.
No one intimidated her. But he somehow managed
to convey the inescapable feeling that he was just a
bit smarter than anyone else in the room.

He extended a hand and smiled. The smile seemed
to say, "This is my official greeting smile. It's genuine
and friendly, but not warm." There doesn't seem to be
much warmth in him, she thought as she shook the
hand. Not that he was cold, just distant. Here was a
man impossible to get to know. Whatever Yu Hwo-
shien was made of was sealed behind many layers of
professionalism.

CACHALOT            55

You could live, work, with such a person, she
thought, but you could never be his friend. Associate,
yes; companion, yes; but not his friend. She decided
that somehow, somewhere in the past, a part of his
humanity had been killed off.

"Welcome to Cachalot." The smile did not change.
His tone was cordial. Just not warm.

"I've already told them about the towns, sir," Mat-
aroreva hastened to put in. That eliminated any worry
Cora had about whether Sam had said more than he
was supposed to. Though why should she care how
Hwoshien dealt with their guide? My mind, she told
herself angrily, is filling up with extraneous material.
Cotton-candy thoughts. She tried to shove aside all
considerations except the reason for their presence
here and gave her full attention to Hwoshien. That
was easy to do. He still had not unbent, remained
perpendicular to the center of the planet.

His smile disappeared, was replaced by a neutral
expression that was neither grin nor frown but a care-
fully controlled in-between. But at least he unfolded
his arms. He locked his fingers together, gestured with
the combination as if praying while he talked. He
seemed to have trouble deciding what to do with his
limbs.

"I have very little to add to what Sam has already
told you, save that we recently lost another town and
several hundreds of citizens to the same unknown
cause, with all the grief that implies. On our side of
the ledger we have learned nothing new. Our ignor-
ance only justifies my request for outside assistance.
I am glad you have finally arrived." Just a hint of
irritation showed through the mask.

"It was suggested by some of our local specialists,
after Warmouth was annihilated, that they would even-
tually identify the cause of all the destruction. I gave
them one additional day. I was rewarded only with
an elaboration of the possibles that I am sure Sam

56 CACHALOT

has already mentioned to you. Any one of them could
be correct, or there might be something we have over-
looked. Regardless, at that point I was determined to
bring in outside help.

"I do not think," he said casually, indifferent to
how his words might affect them personally, "that just
because the three of you are new to Cachalot, you
are any more intelligent or better versed in such mat-
ters than our local experts. Quite the contrary, in fact.
But they have all lived here for many years. As I'm
sure you are aware, one's approach to problems, one's
way of thinking, is often colored by one's environ-
ment. I saw no harm in trying a new approach."

He took a small scent-stick from a pocket, put it
between his lips, and ignited it by flicking off the pro-
tective tip. It burned cleanly as soon as it came in
contact with the air. As he continued speaking he
puffed lightly on the stick. Mildly narcotic smoke be-
gan to tickle Cora's nose.

"It is my own personal feeling that your off-world
approach will be productive within a month or not at
all. Either you will hit on a cause within that time or
you will not. Four towns, twenty-five hundred citizens.
It's my responsibility to see that no inexplicable fifth
disaster occurs. If it must be, I will tolerate a fifth
explicable disaster, but a solution must be found—you
are all marine biospecialists."

"That's right." Cora became aware that she had
listened to him as a student would a professor/ She
steadied herself. That was not an accurate reflection
of their relationship.

"I'm sure Sam has already mentioned the theory
that intelligent forces could be behind all this?"

"The possibility was alluded to," Merced admitted.

"They may be local, they may be off-world," Hwo-
shien said. "Sam's people are already working on that."
Behind him, the huge doors to the sea were beginning
to slide downward. The jet engines on the suprafoils

CACHALOT            57

were revving up, filling the huge chamber with an
ostinato thunder.

"That is not your concern; though of course, if you
find anything indicative of such a cause, you will so
inform Sam. Your job is to find out if some as yet
unidentified variety of local marine life could be re-
sponsible.

"Being well aware of what certain claimants to the
name 'humanity' are capable of, I suspect that our
search will lead us eventually to causes of a two-legged
nature. As we presently dwell in ignorance, we can
ill afford to neglect any possibility.

"Many of those specialists I mentioned have local
tasks they have long neglected to work on this major
problem. I cannot insist they continue to do so. Most
of them are under contract to the large companies that
finance Cachalot's commerce. Those concerns have
expressed their wish that their expensive people re-
turn to their expensive jobs. I can't require otherwise
without declaring martial law." He looked slightly
unhappy. "I would rather not do that. The panic that
might result could be devastating to business."

"I would think that the destruction of the floating
towns would be a damnsight more devastating,"
Rachael said indignantly.

"I'm afraid you don't understand the situation—Ms.
Xamantina the younger, isn't it? You see, the floating
towns are not owned directly by any of the large com-
panies. They are variously leased, sublet, or otherwise
rented to the citizens who live and work on them. In
return for supplies and salaries, the bulk of their
catches is turned over to the large plants here on Mou-
'anui or on the other permanent atoll installations and
is credited against a town's general account.

"So if a town is destroyed," he said easily, as if he
were talking only about equipment and structures
and not about people, "it is the company that bears the
financial loss, not the inhabitants."

58 CACHALOT

"They only lose their lives," Rachael muttered.
But Hwoshien did not hear her, or chose to ignore the
comment.

"Without any huge investment in the towns, the
citizens are free to pick up and leave if they so desire.
If a major panic arose, the companies would be left
with the expensive floating towns, no one to run them,
and no raw materials for their equally expensive orbital
factories. The repercussions would be felt throughout
the Commonwealth. And ordinary citizens would feel
the loss of such irreplaceable substances as exene.
We simply cannot afford a panic."

"So you shield the commercial interests involved,"
Cora commented quietly.

"As I said, in addition to other things, yes." The
Commissioner seemed not the least perturbed by her
veiled accusation.

"Of course," Merced agreed. "Death is a fiscally
irresponsible policy."

v

JTJLwoshien looked over at the little scientist, finally
replied in a different tone, a touch less formal than
the one he had been employing thus far.

"I had friends on those lost towns myself. Kindly
keep in mind that I'm in a very difficult personal po-
sition here. I do not expect you to sympathize. I do
expect you to understand. I am trapped between the
average citizen, who cares nothing as long as he or
she is protected, and the commercial interests, which
don't care what happens as long as the flow of produce
is not interrupted. In addition, I am responsible first
to a third party, the Commonwealth government itself.

"My sympathies lie with the first group, my thoughts
with the second, and my allegiance with the last. This
is a problem none of you must face. You will have
everything in the way of material assistance you re-
quest, though I would ask you to be circumspect.
Large, new concentrations of scientific instrumentation
could attract the attention of our as yet hypothetical
human killers.

"You will have complete working freedom. I sin-
cerely hope you won't disappoint me."

Despite his formality, a formality that bordered on
hostility, Cora found herself wanting to please Hwo-
shien. He inspired in others the desire to please him,

59

60            CACHALOT

as one would try to please a distant but concerned

parent.

Could he be a mechanism, a robot? On rare oc-
casions the Commonwealth was known to make such
substitutions for organic personnel. No, she decided.
He could not be a machine. A robot assigned to such
a position already would have displayed far more
warmth and affection. Hwoshien was too mechanical

to be mechanical.

"We'll do our best." Rachael was becoming irrit-
able, and it showed in her tone. Cora knew that her
daughter was unable to remain interested in anything
besides her neurophon for anything longer than half

an hour at a time.

Hwoshien gazed at her a moment, then turned
sharply and gestured them to follow. "Come over

here."

Cora and the others followed him towards the docks.
He walks like a thranx, she reflected. Stiffly and from

the joints.

The doors had stopped descending, leaving a three-
meter gap between floor and door bottom. They
mounted a slight rampway. Then they were standing
on the edge of a brown wall of burnished duralloy
against which the waves beat ceaselessly. The supra-
foils had long since departed, thei/ faint whines swal-
lowed by distance.

Hwoshien put his left foot up on the low flange that
edged the dock, his left hand on his hip, and pointed

with his right.

"Look out there, visitors." His finger traced the
horizon. "Stretch your eyes. Travel any direction you
choose and you will likely circumnavigate this world
without ever seeing land. Cachalot's land lies beneath
its waters, beneath a fluid, unstable atmosphere we
have only just begun to understand. Man is still more
at home in interstellar space than in the medium of
his birth.

CACHALOT                61

"This is home to the creatures that have evolved
here, home also to the cetacean settlers, but it can
never be that to those of us here on Mou'anui or to
those out on the floating towns. We live here on suf-
ferance. For all that we staggered out of the seas of
Earth, they are still only places that we visit."
He stepped off the flange, stared hard at each of them
in turn.

"Thirty-six years I've lived on Cachalot. Still I feel
like an alien. I am comfortable in my living arrange-
ments, secure in my chosen profession. Were I not,
I would never have been appointed Resident Com-
missioner. But at 'home'?" He shook his head, a small,
controlled movement. "That is something I can never
be. Though there are those who claim to feel other-
wise. They say I do not think in the 'Cachalot' manner.
Sam here is one."

The officer looked uncomfortable.

"That's all right, Sam. In no way am I being critical
of you. You know what I mean."

Mataroreva nodded. Again Cora had that sugary
sensation in her brain that something very important
was being said, and she could not understand.

"Even Sam cannot be at home here. He can only
try to be."

"Respectfully, sir, I do feel at home here."

"I know." Something shifted in Hwoshien's head
and he was suddenly downright cordial. "I know how
tired you must be. Would you join me for dinner to-
night, please? We're very informal about such things
here. We can talk further then. You'll have an op-
portunity to sample the unique cuisine of our
kitchen ... we sometimes even use human chefs to
prepare our food. Again, I apologize for rushing you
so abruptly from your long journey to this meeting,
but I wanted everything spelled out quickly . . . and
to meet you myself."

62           CACHALOT               g

"We'd be happy to join you," Cora said. "Any-   |
thing—as long as we can shower first."                 :

"Of course. Surely the humidity is no worse than

you expected?"

"I think we're all prepared for everything we might

encounter," she said significantly.

"Good. At nineteen hundred, then?" He added a
last comment that was so atypical, Cora had to re-
assure herself that he had actually spoken. "It will
be a distinct pleasure to work with two such beautiful

ladies."

The cafeteria-style dining area was separate from
their quarters. Sam had to escort the three newcomers
from their rooms. He and the two women waited in
the small lobby for Merced, who arrived late, puffing
slightly, tucking his net shirt into his shorts.

Cora wore a drape-weave that swirled around her
body from right shoulder to left calf in alternating
rows of fluorescent pink and yellow, dotted with
deadcolor black flowers. Maybe everyone else on this
world dressed informally when they ate together, but
she still retained a number of civilized virtues. Be-
sides, this would probably be the last time she would
be able to dress decently before they got out into the

field.

Rachael had opted for a seemingly simpler summer

drape, in pale green. The simplicity was deceptive.
Several fish were inlaid in silver thread along the hem.
They breathed bubbles that appeared to flow up the
dress. At certain wavelengths, depending on the il-
lumination, the sizable bubbles were transparent. The
motile peekaboo effect that resulted turned a number

of heads as they entered the mess.

One corner was deserted save for Hwoshien. He
wore the same stiff, utilitarian dark suit he had worn
earlier in the day. Cora looked at his chest for the
expected crimson insignia of a Commissioner. There

CACHALOT

63

wasn't one. His lack of pretentiousness is the most
humanizing thing about him, she mused.

There was some small talk and some absolutely
magnificent local food. Mataroreva had managed to
slip quickly into the chair next to Cora. Merced and
Rachael sat on the other side. Occasionally Merced
would lean over and hesitantly whisper something to
her and she would giggle. Then he would turn rapidly
away, as if embarrassed by his own temerity in talk-
ing to her, and shovel his food.

The interchanges troubled Cora, but she was too
busy talking with Hwoshien to pay much attention.
Not that she could have done anything to prevent
them.

"What would human agents have to gain by de-
stroying the towns?" she asked. "Surely you must have
some suspects?"

"Were that only the case." Hwoshien caressed his
tall drinking glass. "Cachalot's oceans hold many
riches. You saw a tiny sample of them today. Some
small, independent operators would be happy to see
their better-organized competition obliterated.

"For example, there are the people of the ships.
They live and work on old-fashioned ocean-going
boats. Not suprafoils, but real ships in the ancient
floating sense. They own their vessels, unlike the peo-
ple of the towns, who only lease their homes and equip-
ment from the larger companies. They also refine some
of their own produce right on board.

"The quantity is small, but it still cuts into the pro-
fits of the large concerns by bypassing the expensive
orbital factories. So there has always been dislike
between the people of the ships and the citizens who
inhabit the floating towns."

Cora speared a forkful of a delicate white meat,
chewed as she spoke. "Wouldn't they be easily dis-
covered? Wouldn't a sudden rise in some ship's pro-
duction be noticed?"

64

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

65

Mataroreva shook his head. "They don't have to
ship off-world via Mou'anui or any of the other atoll
bases. A shuttle could put down anywhere on Cacha-
lot and take off fully loaded with refined goods or raw
materials."

"Expensive," Hwoshien commented, "but with the
produce and booty of an entire town to pay for it,
such an operation would be immediately profitable.
Eliminating the populations involved would be the
best way of covering such piracy.

"Economically it is feasible. One would think the
inherent danger would override such potential profits,
but there are people who do not think such things
through very clearly, to whom murder and destruction
require little in the way of rationalization.

"Actually, we have been questioning the ship folk
intensively. But you must understand that the existing
rivalry precludes our making any overt accusations
without irrefutable facts to back them up. We can't
afford to alienate a large segment of the populace by
accusing it of something none of its number may be
responsible for^Off-world agencies may be involved.
The AAnn, for instance, would enjoy watching and
abetting chaos on any Commonwealth world.

"But as I have said, that is not your problem. Spec-
ify what equipment you wish, and Sam will have it
drawn from government stores or billed to the local
Commonwealth account. The question of personal
financial recompense was settled, I believe, prior to
your departure for Cachalot."

"You say you want to try to keep our purpose here
a secret?" Rachael asked.

"You will be treated as visiting specialists engaged
in typical commercial exploration. Escorts for such
visitors are not uncommon, so Sam's presence among
you should not be remarked on." He stared down
at his plate. "This destruction must stop. It is bad for
living, and bad for business."

They ate on in silence, finished with a dessert that
Mataroreva informed them had been produced from
the jellied insides of a round creature about the size
of his fist. The substance was coated with poisonous
spines and had to be properly treated prior to serving
or it could kill instantly. The treatment was effec-
tive, however, and there were no known deaths at-
tributable to comsumption of the delicacy. If he was
trying to tease Cora, he had picked the wrong person.
She had eaten far more bizarre products from several
oceans. The transparent gelatin was cool and had a
flavor like pomegranate.

The graphic description made Rachael queasy,
though. Cora finished her daughter's plate as well as
her own. She was just downing the last spoonful of
her second helping when Merced asked quietly, "What
about the whales?"

"What about the whales, Mr. Merced?" Hwoshien
was puffing contentedly on another scent-stick.

"They're intelligent, they have no love of mankind.
Couldn't they destroy a town?"

"Sure they could," Mataroreva yelled, "but why
should they!" Aware of the effect of his violent re-
action on Cora and Rachael, he lapsed into his usual
boyish tone. But what the announcement of his pro-
fession had begun, his unexpected violence concluded.
For better or worse, the mantle of innocence Cora
had bestowed on him had vanished forever.

"They could," he said more calmly, "if they had a
reason to, and if they could organize sufficiently. Re-
member that every floating town is protected against
inimical local life-forms. Each has sophisticated warn-
ing systems and large underwater needlers which op-
erate automatically in tandem when anything comes
too close.

"There are leviathans in Cachalot's ocean larger
than the largest whale that ever lived. The town nee-
dlers are quite capable of frying even a mallost.




66

CACHALOT

"What's a mallost?"
"Something I hope you never see, Rachael." Hwo-   |

shien answered with such intensity that she subsided.
"As Sam says, one could make short work of a whale,
but it couldn't get within tentacle-throwing range of

even a small town.

"A whole pod of whales working in perfect unison

might destroy a town, but they do not think that way.
For one thing, nothing like competition exists be-
tween the cetaceans and the towns. By and large, the
townspeople are after varieties of local life the whales
have no interest in. The plankton the towns take and
strain for a few types doesn't make a dent in the cope-
pod population. There is more plankton on this world
than a million times as many baleen whales could
ever consume. The baleens are the largest of the
Cetacea, and also the dumbest. The toothed whales,
which are more capable of considering such an attack,

don't eat plankton."

"And they're either openly friendly," Mataroreva

continued, "or indifferent to us, as I explained before.
Unless.they're bothered, and then their reactions have
always been direct and personal. They've shown no
interest one way or the other in the towns. They go

after the togluts and the large teleosts.

"While they travel in herds, the catodons, largest

of the toothed whales, have nothing resembling mil-
itary guile. They've no experience in organized war-
fare—there are simply too many factors against it."
He added an afterthought, "I suppose you have to
consider every possibility. That's what you're here for.
I just don't think the whales fit the requirements we've

established for our mysterious cause."

He leaned back in his chair and toyed with his own
second helping of dessert, uncomfortably aware of

the reaction his initial outburst had produced.

Cora pushed back her chair, delicately dabbed at

her lips with a napkin, and forced a smile as she spoke

CACHALOT             67

to Hwoshien. "Thanks for the delicious meal. We'll
start work in a couple of days, as soon as we've had
a chance to become a bit more acclimated."

"Very well." Hwoshien rose and shook hands with
her. "I bid you all a good evening."

Mataroreva escorted them out of the mess.

"Isn't there some other way to return to our quar-
ters without going through all these corridors?" Cora
asked.

"You mean, Cora-doors?" She winced. They turned
right, exited the structure.

The door deposited them onto a path paved with
jewels, wilder in hue, richer in extent, than any an-
cient prince from Haroun al-Rashid on down could
have dreamed of. They had started dinner before sun-
down. Now the stars shone on glass sands, making of
them an echo of the distant Milky Way.

They trod cold fires. Buildings and trees became
mere cutouts from a child's games, toy silhouettes
against the night. Merced and Rachael had fallen
well behind.

"How did you happen to get into peaceforcer
work?" Cora asked Sam curiously. "You don't strike
me as the type."

"Meaning I fit the mold physically but not men-
tally?" He grinned at her discomfort.

"I didn't mean ..."

"Forget it. I'm used to it. I just drifted into it, I
guess. Why do people become what they become?
Life twists and turns on picayune events."

"Well, I always wanted to be a marine biologist."

"And I always wanted to have it easy and
be happy," he countered. "Not very elevated career
goals, but satisfying ones. I was born and raised here
on Cachalot. Didn't have the aptitude for science,
and fishing, gathering, and mining were too much
work. That left some kind of administrative post.

"I wasn't much good with tapework, so when the

68 CACHALOT CACHALOT 69

request was made for local peaceforcers, I joined up.
Hwoshien believes strongly in compromise. Well, if
I have any talent, it seems to be the ability to get
others to do just that. Which is another way of saying
I'm very good at stopping fights before they get started.

"I guess I've reached my present position because
I did my job, didn't offend anyone or make too many
mistakes. I also happen to be good at what's necessary
after compromise has failed."

"I know," Cora said. "I could tell that from the
way you reacted to that toglut by the pier."

"Oh, a toglut is nothing." He spoke in an off-handed
way that indicated he wasn't boasting. "As I explained,
they're slow and generally inoffensive. Wait till we're
out on the open ocean. Away from Mou'anui. Cacha-
lot's predators have evolved in the most extensive
oceanic environment in the Commonwealth. A mallost
would have togluts for breakfast."

"I can't wait," she told him honestly.

They had almost reached the looming shadow of
the administrative dormitory. A few lights were visible
within the structure, moth-eyes in the night. Some-
where the somnolent hum of storage batteries taking
over from the now useless photovoltaics sounded a
counterpoint to the steady slapping of small waves
against the distant beach.

"Wait^ second," Sam said.

Oh, oh ... Cora readied herself. What sort of line
would he try? She doubted it would be very original.
Bless his gentle boyish soul, Sam didn't seem the type.
But it would be a line nonetheless. Years had enabled
her to assemble a formidable arsenal of disarming
responses. Because she liked him, she would opt for
one of the milder disclaimers.

Instead of reaching for her with words or hands
he knelt. One hand held a palmful of sand, the other
worked at his utility belt. "Have a look." A small light
winked on, ultraviolet. He thumbed a switch on the

side of the generator. The beam broadened slightly.
He turned it on the sand he held.

It was as if he had dipped his hand into the treasure
chest of some ancient mogul or pirate. Under the ultra-
violet beam the hexalate grains fluoresced brilliantly
in a hundred shades, sawdust shaved from a rainbow.
The glow did not have the blinding prismatic harsh-
ness created by sunlight. Instead, the colors were soft
and rich, gentle on the eyes.

The light winked out, but to her delight the colors
remained. The phosphorescence faded slowly, reluc-
tantly. As it did so, he turned his hand and let the
ribbon of tiny suns dribble from his palm.

"Oh, how beautiful, Sam! I expected a fairyland
world, but not in such variety."

"Remember the predators." He chuckled. "Some
of those 'fairies' will gobble you down quick."

They moved on, stopped outside the dormitory.
She turned, looked up at him. "I enjoyed walking
back with you."

"Thanks for letting me. You really couldn't have
gotten lost. You can't do that on land on Cachalot."

She was waiting for the kiss, wondering if she would
object, wondering if she would let him and like it,
when he startled her by touching her on the nose with
one finger.

"Good night, Cora Xamantina. See you ananahi
'ia po'ipo'i. Tomorrow morning."

More puzzled than disappointed, she watched him
lumber off into the night. Unlike the sands, he did
not glow in the dark, though she felt that with the
right kind of stimulus, he might.

Thoughts drifting, she made two wrong turns in
the building before finding her room.

Her chamber was Spartan but impeccably clean,
although bits of hexalate sand glittered in spots. She
suspected one could be completely free of that sub-
stance only on the open sea. The room contained a




70 CACHALOT

bed, a small clothes closet, a couple of chairs woven
from some local sea plant, and a matching mat of
emerald-green growth and intricate handwork: off to
one side was a small sanitary annex with amenities
for cleaning and washing.

In one corner were three neatly placed cases, two
large and one small. The seamless plastic responded
to her electronically encoded key when she pressed it
to the exterior of the seal-lock. From the second case
she carefully removed her diving suit. Her second
skin, really, considering the amount of time she had
spent inside it. It consisted of a double layer of vir-
tually untearable plastic alloy colored a watery blue-
green. Between the two incredibly thin layers was a
special thermosensitive gel that would keep the body
warm to a depth of a hundred meters at one gravity.

She laid the suit neatly across one of the chairs.
It was unharmed, as always, but that never prevented
her from going through the ritual check.

Next she withdrew the special face mask that
covered her entire head and sealed itself to the body
of the suit. In addition to examining the curved glass-
alloy faceplate that permitted excellent peripheral
vision, she checked the regulator on the gillsystem.
The backpack unit took oxygen directly from the
water arid mixed it in proper proportion with nitro-
helium from a second small tank.

The tiny container of concentrated liquid rations
that would rest behind her left ear was full. She hooked
it to the head mask, made sure the spigot feed inside
the faceplate was clear. A spigot entering from the
other side provided desalinated seawater for drinking.

Weighing very little, the complete ensemble per-
mitted a human to exist underwater for several weeks
without having to surface for food, water, or air. She
set the mask alongside the suit, brought out the last
item, which was not vital for survival but which made
working underwater considerably more enjoyable.

CACHALOT           71

The belt contained packets that held a pressure-
sensitive, liquid metal alloy. It was at its heaviest now,
out of water, at one atmosphere. But as the diver
wearing it descended, the weight of the metal
decreased until, at a depth of ninety meters, well be-
low normal diving limits, it achieved negative buoy-
ancy. The diver could not descend farther without
dropping the belt.

The check completed, Cora walked into the san-
itary chamber and took a rapid shower. Then she
retired, fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep as
soon as she decided what had been troubling her.
There were no wave sounds.

VI

Cora had neutralized the window glass so that
when the sun rose, it would not automatically be com-
pensated for.^The light woke her.

Joints aching, she crawled from the bed. Her neck
hurt from having slept in a single position too long.
She wondered why she hadn't slept more easily.

Rachael was in the hallway, greeted her with a
cheery "Good morning, Mother."

"Morning. Got everything?" Rachael displayed a
case dangling from each hand. Cora carried only a
single container. "Don't forget to put on your goggles."

The photosensitive lenses could not completely dam-
pen the electrifying brilliance of sunrise on Mou'anui.
It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust before
they left the confines of the dormitory.

Anchored at the end of the main pier was a much
larger vessel than the skimmer Core had expected to
see. It was a broad-beamed, aerodynamic shape of
gray metal with a crimson stripe running around it just
above the waterline and with the imprint of the
Commonwealth stamped on each side of the bow. Two
small beams emerged from the side of the craft facing
them and disappeared into the water. A four-foil craft,
she reflected.

There was a single, large, above-deck cabin and an
enclosed bridge near the bow. The entire craft was

72

CACHALOT            73

coated with photovoltaic elements, which would pro-
duce plenty of power for the electric engine.

No need to wonder why Sam had chosen such a
vessel over a large skimmer. It would be slower, but
they were likely to be out on Cachalot's ocean for
some time. A skimmer could not hover forever, be-
cause it required a type of engine more powerful than
anything the sun could fuel. The suprafoil could sit
powerless on the water and act like a boat, whereas
a skimmer would be helpless, or worse, would sink.
Cora knew from experience that even large skimmers
had trouble maneuvering in rough weather. A power-
less foil could ride out a storm that would sink a skim-
mer in a minute. And on a long journey a foil's spa-
ciousness would be more than welcome; it would be
vital. No aircraft could provide such comfort, even if
Cachalot could afford such expensive luxuries, which
it could not.

Mataroreva appeared from below, moved to the
dock to help them with their luggage. "E aha te hum
—how y'all doing?"

Cora mumbled something about their being ready
to go.

"Not a bad ship," he said buoyantly. "I angled for
the largest one possible."

"It's more than big enough," Cora agreed, stepping
aboard.

"We each have a private cabin," he went on. "Noth-
ing like research in style. They let the requisition pass
because this is such important business. And because
I told them that you work better when relaxed." He
chuckled. "So they let us have the Caribe without so
much as a question."

"How nice." Cora noticed that Rachel was bent over
one of her cases. It was open. Without surprise she
saw that her daughter was carefully inspecting her
neurophon.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to play anything."

"Then we're ready to leave—except," she said to
Mataroreva, "for Merced." She tugged at the bodice
of her suit netting, studied the shore. "Here he comes."

Looking awkward with his burden of cases, the lit-
tle oceanographer was jogging hurriedly toward them.
He ran down the dock, tossed the containers up to the
waiting Mataroreva with evident disregard for their
contents. Cora winced, preferred to think they held no

delicate apparatus.

In a second he had clambered monkeylike over the

side and was standing on deck clad only in a thin swim-
suit. His nfliscular body was slightly darker than
Sam's, though nowhere near the deep chocolate of her
own or Rachael's. A thick mat of black hair covered

his chest.

"That's all of us, then," Rachael said brightly.
"Not quite," Mataroreva corrected her. "There'll be

two more joining us."

Cora frowned at him. "I thought that we three con-
stituted all the imported help."

"You do, but we'll be assisted by a couple of local

specialists."

Cora was so upset she failed to notice his wink.

"What is this? Hwoshien told us they were all tied up
with other projects and didn't have any more time to
devote to this problem, or that they'd exhausted their

own ideas."

"Not these two." He grinned at her. "Don't worry,

Cora. They won't intrude on your work. They're com-
ing along more to help me than to help you."

More security people, she thought. Yet Hwoshien
had told them Sam would be their only escort. She
looked down the gangway into the bowels of the

ship.

"Where are they, then?"

"Waiting for us outside the reef." Before she could
question him further, he had turned and bounded up
toward the bridge.

CACHALOT            75

"Nice day, Ms. Xamantina." Mereed was standing
next to her.

"So far," she replied noncommittally. "Listen, you
might as well call me Cora. We're going to be living
and working in first-name proximity to each other, so
we might as well identify each other the same way."

No point in offending this man, she was thinking.
After all, he was a colleague, though of unproven abil-
ity. Like it or not, she was going to be working with
him.

"Sure thing . . . Cora." He strolled over to Rachael.

Cora moved forward, away from them. If she re-
mained she would overhear their conversation, some-
thing she preferred to avoid.

A waking noise was coming from inside the stem.
The suprafoil slipped free of the anchorage. Once out
in the lagoon, they turned to port. The waking sound
became a steady, rich growl. The wind blew Cora's
hair back free of her shoulders and the salt air com-
menced its gentle massage.

Raised out of the water on four foils, the Caribe
was skating across the surface at sixty kilometers an
hour, heading northwest. Cora walked to within a cou-
ple of meters of the bow, enjoying the smooth ride
while at the same time mentally decrying the wasteful-
ness. They could have managed efficiently with a ship
half the size. She had to admit, though, that having
her own cabin would be nice.

The foil was traveling too fast for her to make out
anything beneath the blurred surface. A small cloud of
icthyomiths, their water-holding sacs fully distended,
shot out of the water ahead and curved away to star-
board. Following them, her gaze was intercepted by
the sight of Sam standing alone up in the enclosed
bridge, his huge shoulders blocking out any view of the
overhead instruments, pareu rippling in the slight
breeze, eyes straight ahead.

For the first time since she had touched down on

76

CACHALOT

Cachalot, she felt the cold kiss of fear. It occurred to
her that whatever had obliterated four entire towns
could probably dispose of a single boat and its occu-
pants as easily as she could stifle a sneeze. She forced
the worry aside. There was no point in wasting her
time thinking about such a possibility. Death was
merely a physiochronological abstraction she would
have to deal with sooner or later.

Even at the Caribe's speed, it was many minutes
before they had crossed the gigantic lagoon of
Mou'anui and the first of the small outlying motus, or
islands, came into view. No tall transplanted palms
waved acknowledgment of their presence. They were
almost on top of the low, sandy piles when she finally

noticed them.

Mataroreva had slowed their pace. While the pas-
sage through the reef was reasonably wide, he took his
time guiding the Caribe through. A thick accumulation
of transparent hexalate could not harm the duralloy
hull but might do damage to the more delicate, flexible

foils.

Only a slightly increased swell met the craft as it
slipped free of the lagoon. No thunderous breakers to
ride out here, except during a storm.

They were well clear of the exterior motus, and
Mataroreva still held their speed down as he turned
farther to the west. Cora watched interestedly as they
approached a small atoll, a miniature version of
Mou'anui complete with two glassy islets whose
crowns barely broke the surface. Sam was leaning out
of the bridge enclosure, hunting for something even the
slight distortion caused by the transparent glassalloy

chamber might hide.

Cora looked in the same direction, but strain as she
did, she could not find a boat, a raft, or anyone on the
islets. If they were supposed to meet their additional
assistants here, she couldn't . . . What she did finally
espy, and what broke her train of thought, were two

CACHALOT            77

huge dorsal fins moving straight for the Caribe. They
were black with white markings. Orcas—killer whales!

"Rachael—Rachael!"

Her daughter joined her, her expression anxious.
"Mother, what's.? . .."

Cora was pointing excitedly over the side. Rachael
and then Merced noticed the approaching fins of a pair
of Cachalot's true colonists.

Cora called up to the bridge. "Sam!" He glanced
down at her. "Can't you pull over for a better look?"

"Not necessary," he shouted down to her. "You'll
meet them in a moment. They're the two other experts
I told you about."

He pressed several switches inside the transparent
bridge, climbed down to join the others. In one hand
he held several ear-and-mouthpiece sets. The other
held a thick black box—the heart of the ship, with
which he could control most of the Caribe's move-
ments and actions.

"Here," he said, handing the headsets around.
"These are analogs of the speaker-receiver units in
your gelsuits. If you want to listen in or join the con-
versation, you'll need one of these." He was wear-
ing one already.

Like two racing spacecraft in a blue-green void, the
orcas drew alongside the bobbing suprafoil. Cora
studied the black and white coloring through the clear
water. The sandy bottom was still only some fourteen
meters below them, and the orcas hung within that
medium, floating as if suspended in air.

Whistles and squeaks came from Sam, and she hur-
riedly adjusted her own headset. His voice was dis-
torted by the electronic diaphragm, but the words
were now understandable.

"These are our lookouts and helpfriends," he was
saying. "I've known them both for a long time. The
big male is Wenkoseemansa. In orca that translates
roughly as Double-White-Death-Scar-Over-Right-Eye.

78            CACHALOT

You can see it when he rolls to port. Got it when a
calf in a fight with a sunmori fish. His mate is Late-

hoht—She-Who-Rises-Above-The-World."

"What is the origin of?—" Merced started to ask.

Before Mataroreva could reply, the question was an-
swered by action.

Cora stumbled backward in spite of herself, in spite

of all her supposed scientific preparedness, and fell to
the deck. Rachael gave a scream and ran into Merced,
nearly knocking him over. Only Mataroreva wasn't
affected. He ducked, bent over as much from expecta-
tion as from laughter.

All seven meters and nine tons of Latehoht had

exploded in a geyser of salt spray. Cora lay on her
back, staring in horror and fascination as the enormous
body flew completely over the low bow of the Caribe,
to land with a tremendous splash on the starboard side.
She fought the wildly rocking deck as she scrambled
back to her feet, dripping water and shouting angrily
at Mataroreva. "Why the hell didn't you warn us?" He
was laughing too hard to reply. She had to admit she
was more embarrassed than frightened. "Why didn't

you'.—"

"Awwwoman—awwwoman!" She was so startled by

the unexpected, mellifluous voice that suddenly
sounded in her ears that she forgot her embarrassment
and Sam completely. In a daze she turned and walked
to the starboard railing. She had studied many tapes
of cetacean talk, both in the natural state and trans-
lated into terranglo. But it was one thing to hear such
an alien yet warm voice on tape, quite another to ex-
perience it in reality.

A massive blunt head protruded above the water.

Two tiny, almost imperceptible eyes of vitreous black
were staring up at her as the head moved slowly from
side to side. The mouth was open, showing startlingly
white, sharp teeth. The sounds uttered from within

CACHALOT            79

reached Cora not as squirps and squeals but as rich,
clean terranglo.

"You drop in fear. You worrry and wince with
your body and soullll. She-Who-Rises-Above-The-
Worid intimidates and does not pleasse you in herr
greeting-time." Then, more quietly, "I do not knoww
if I like this one-she, Sammm."

"I'm sorry," Cora said automatically. "Really I am."
She ignored the whistles and yelps that blasted from
her headset speaker, concentrated on forming the
words with her lips. "I was startled, that's all. Prob-
ably," she continued more confidently, "I could do
some things which would startle you."

"She of surprise, she of mystery haunts my dayyy.
Unknowwwn neww quality. Can it be that a female
human has such capability, Samm?"

"I don't know," he said. "But in the case of this one,
it is possible-thing." He grinned at Cora, then spoke
again to the distraught orca. "You should not be up-
set, little one."

A second, more massive head emerged from the
water next to Latehoht's, rose to the railing, and turned
one eye on Cora. She did not pull back. White teeth
were centimeters from her face.

"She did not mean to upset or displease," Wenko-
seemansa rumbled. He sank back toward the water,
no longer treading on his tail. "But onlyy to greeeet."

"I wasn't upset," Cora replied a bit defensively. She
leaned over the railing. "It was a glorious jump, Late-
hoht. I've swum many of the oceans of the universe
and encountered much in them that amazes and de-
lights me, but none that truly displeases."

"Know we fast ones nothingg of the otherrr oceans,
though Samm tells us sometimes of them." Wenkosee-
mansa did a neat little pirouette on his tail. "Know
we much of the universe that isss this ocean. We will
protect you frommm it. We sufferr you to live upon




80

CACHALOT

and within it. We will watch over you for our friend
Sammm, for such is whatt we wish to do."
"Whatt we wish to do," Latehoht echoed.
Another fountain of water spurted as Wenkosee-
mansa rolled onto his side and slapped the surface
with his flukes. "Timmme to swim, time to go. Time to
kill a little more thp parasite impatience, the gerrrm
of boredom, beneath a fairr upper sky. Where go we
to, friend Sam?"

"To where I told you seven days ago," Mataroreva
replied. "To the place of my people last dying, to the
town on the waters that is no more. Toward the non-
scarred side of the sun."

"To the placcce of deathhh," Latehoht said som-
berly. "To the where of sudden screamming and the
realms of the vanished men, to theme we go." The
great head ducked out of sight as she and her mate
turned to the northwest.

"Wait!" Cora yelled, the high-pitched screech from
her headset speaker almost deafening her. The two
whales paused. "Do you know what caused the death
place? Do you have any idea what might be respon-
sible for the vanished men?"

"Would that we knew," Wenkoseemansa bemoaned.
"Would that we had the rhyme or reason of it, so that
youu would not hawe to be herre. Would thatt it had
not happened."

"Swim with uss, Samm!" Latehoht cried in an en-
tirely different voice.

"Yes, swwim with us!" her mate added.

"I can't," he told them, looking over the railing. "I
have to guide the boat."

"Poorr humans," Wenkoseemansa observed sadly.
"Poorr people of the airr. A thin environment makes
for narroww people. Narroww people make forr nar-
roww thoughts. And narroww thoughts make for too
much worryy to the nonscarred side of the sunn." He
ducked his massive head and started westward.

CACHALOT            81

"Nonscarred side of the sunn." Latehoht performed
one final prodigious leap, again drenching the unpre-
pared passengers on the foil, then joined her mate,
vanishing to the west. In a moment even the two
towering dorsal fins had disappeared and nothing
could be seen breaking the gentle blue swells ahead.

"You'll lose them, Sam!" Cora called to him.

He shook his head. "We're headed in the same di-
rection, for the same destination. They'll always know
where we are."

"They'll stay within range?" she asked uncertainly.

"Of our sonar as well as theirs, yes." He started
back up toward the bridge as the Caribe began to ac-
celerate.

Cora knew that, of all the cetaceans, the orcas were
the ones who found the company of mankind con-
genial and that they thought more like humans than
did any of their relatives. But she suspected from what
she had just observed that these two had a more than
merely tolerant relationship with Sam. They were more
than assistants and advisers; they were friends.

Spray stung her cheek and eyes. In the absence of
hexalate sands they had no need of the protective
goggles. The glare off the water was no worse than on
the seas of other worlds.

She leaned over the railing and looked sternward.
Distant flashes of light, green and pink and yellow,
were fading behind their rear horizon. They were the
last signals of Mou'anui's sands and the subsidiary
motus that surrounded the great atoll.

Then there was just ocean. Ocean, air, and sun.
They were surrounded by Cachalot. She decided she
was hungry.

There was no rocking motion to the Caribe, only
the steady, soft vibration which transferred itself from
the foils to the hull. From the hull to the mattress of
her bed the vibration dimmed still more. It was too

82            CACHALOT

much sleep that finally awakened her, groggy and

cotton-mouthed.

The small port was covered, shutting out any ex-
tenor light. A glance at the chronometer indicated she
had been asleep for nearly twelve hours. She hadn't
thought she was particularly tired, but in this case it

seemed her body^ad disagreed with her brain.

She put her face back together; then, feeling no less

than fifty percent human, she made her way up to the

deck.

They were cruising at a slightly slower speed now.

So as not, she suspected, to exhaust even the muscular
orcas. Rachael was sunbathing on the rear deck. Mer-
ced was nowhere to be seen this new morning, and
Sam was on the deck above the central cabin, be-
hind the bridge.

The master control lay nearby. To her surprise Sam

was reading a book. A real book, not a tape or disc.
"la ora na—morning," he greeted her. "It's not often
I have the pleasure of meeting someone who lives in

reverse."

"Fm still half asleep, Sam," she told him with only

a touch of irritation. "Don't play games. What are you

talking about?"

"Only that you get younger and more beautiful each

day."

"That's nice." She turned, scanned the endless

ocean, the view no different from the day before, that
she knew would be no different tomorrow. "When I

regress all the way back to an egg, I'm yours."

"Fried, poached, scrambled, diced, or in an omelet?"
"Hard-boiled," she responded, not missing a beat,
She eyed the empty bridge. "Master remote or no,
shouldn't you be up there checking other instruments?"

"For instance? You worry too much, Cora." He
eased back into the lounge. The material cooled his
back, kept him from perspiring too much. "The Com-
monwealth's been overtechnologized tor centuries. If

CACHALOT            83

anything goes wrong, the ship will stop. If nothing
stops, there's no reason for me to hover over the in-
struments. You're still thinking in terms of the oceans
of more developed worlds.

"There isn't an island or reef within kilometers. This
section of sea, this close to Mou'anui, has been fairly
well mapped. The chance of our encountering another
ship, let alone running into one, is about one in several
million. A true passenger passages and lets his ship
take care of itself. That's what it's designed to do. In
the unlikely event we do encounter something, it will
warn us in plenty of time. You don't think any vessel
as smart as this one is going to bash itself up simply
because it has a few dumb humans aboard, do you?"

"Okay—let up on me, will you?"

Several high whistles and squeaks joined the conver-
sation. She looked to starboard. Sam put down his
book, frowned intently. "That's Latehoht. She's talk-
ing to you."

"How do you know, and why to me?"

"I know a little orca. As to the second"—he smiled
at her—"ask her yourself. You'll need your headset.
And hurry." He glanced upward. "Soon it will be hot
noon and they'll slide beneath the ship. They like to
travel in the shade of the hull."

She started to leave. "It's down in my cabin. I'll go
get it."

"Never mind. Use mine." He pointed.

She located the translator unit, donned it, and ad-
justed the controls. Then she was leaning over the side
and shouting, "Good morning."

"Haill and good hunttingg, grreetings to thhe
sssun!" the joyful response came. For an instant the
magnificently streamlined black and white body disap-
peared, only to break the surface seconds later. "A
ggood dayy to beee aliwe, to swwim and to eatt and
to thhinkkkk."

"Haill and morrrning," a slightly deeper echo

84             CACHALOT

sounded. Wenkoseemansa greeted her nearby. Cora
noted that when traveling, one had to adopt a pause-
and-wait style of conversation to match the whales
arcing in and out of the water. But the male did not

reappear.

"What's wrong with Wenkoseemansa?" Cora asked
Sam, moving the headset pickup aside so the unit
would not translate her question into orca. "Doesn't

he like me?"

"What makes you think Latehoht likes you?" he
teased. "Don't mind Wenkoseemansa. He's the strong,

silent type."

"Awwwoman, off anothher wworrrld!" a new cry

sounded. Cora turned her attention back to the wa-
ters. From her position high on the overdeck she
could see the entire powerful body. It cut through the
water like a ship through vacuum, sometimes playing
only centimeters from the sharp, flexible metal of the
fore starboard foil.

"Lissten to a tale, lissten to a tale!"
Wenkoseemansa reappeared but did not speak. He
cut under his more loquacious mate, raced just ahead
of the dangerous foil, and let it kiss his tail flukes.

"I could listen to you all day," Cora replied hon-
estly.

"Nottt sso longg," Latehoht corrected her quickly.
Cora heard a noise, raised her earphones, and heard
in terranglo, "The translator has a difficult time with
metaphors," Sam was telling her. "Try to be as literal
as possible, even if Latehoht is not. And pay attention,
or you'll miss something good." He turned onto his
side, his huge stomach shifting to cover completely the
instrument belt encircling his waist.

"Latehoht's a fine storyteller. Orcas love to tell
stories. They all think they're poets. Sometimes I think
they stay around men just to have someone new to
listen to them. So be a good audience."

With pauses while she was beneath the surface,

CACHALOT            85

Latehoht proceeded to tell the story of Poleetat, an
ancestral orca and one of the first to reach Cachalot.
It seemed that Poleetat, in exploring his new home,
encountered a megalichthyian, one of the largest crea-
tures inhabiting Cachalot's ocean. The megalichthyian
was four tunes Poleetat's mass. Its teeth were sharp
and small and many, and it boasted an enormous sin-
gle tusk protruding from its lower jaw like a sword.

Unlike some of the younger orcas, Poleetat did not
try to bite the megalichthyian. Instead, it remained
out of range of that murderous, sharp-edged tusk and
harried its wielder, teased and tired and tempted it.
All the while the furious megalichthyian, which had
already killed or severely wounded several less circum-
spect orcas, slashed and thrust at its tormentor.

Eventually, all the other orcas either had been
wounded or had fled in confusion, not knowing how to
deal with this alien enemy. And this was no ordinary
megalichthyian, Latehoht explained, but an enchanted
one. It would not tire or give up the fight.

Yet Poleetat, though his strength waned, refused to
flee or pause to eat lest this dangerous monster harm
others of the pod. So they dueled a dance of death,
the enchanted megalichthyian twisting and stabbing,
having only to make a single strike with its great tusk
to kill, while Poleetat spiraled and spun around the
great spotted brown bulk, snapping at its fins and tail
and trying to get in a bite at one of the monster's
several eyes.

They danced their way all around the world,
changed direction, and fought from pole to pole, fight-
ing even beneath the ice packs. Still the megalichthy-
ian did not tire. But Poleetat, though the strongest of
the orcas, was nearing the end of his strength and saw
that something radically new in the way of fighting
would be needed to end this war.

So he faked exhaustion, letting the spear of his op-
ponent pass close, so close to his belly that blood was

86 CACHALOT

drawn. Then he turned to swim limply away. Smell-
ing death and triumph, the megalichthyian rushed in
pursuit, growing nearer and nearer, ready to run
Poleetat through from fluke to nose.

With his apparent last bit of strength Poleetat gave
a final burst of speed and soared out of the water as if
to escape. Contemptuously the megalichthyian fol-
lowed.

Ah, but Poleetat had judged well his distance. He
shot through the air and passed over the thick ice, to
land an incredible distance away—and drop cleanly
through the far hole he had perceived.

But the megalichthyian could no more fit through
that comparatively tiny hole than the waltzing sea
worms of the lagoon floors could slip through the
breathing duct of a clam. It landed hard on the ice
pack, which cracked slightly but did not give.

It lay flopping there, helpless beneath the pressure
of its own great weight. Poleetat swam back up to the
open sea, stuck his head out of the water to inspect his
beached enemy. The convulsions faded and the mon-
ster soon died, for it could not breathe air, as could
orcas and men.

With his remaining strength the dying Poleetat sum-
moned orcas from wherever they had scattered to, and
told them they could swim safely with their calves now,
for this particularly dangerous enemy had been van-
quished. Then he died, and there was much mourning
in the sea that day. The orcas managed to grasp the
tail of the megalichthyian where it lay on the edge of
the ice. They pulled it back into the sea and feasted
on it for days, and made this song-story so that Po-
leetat would not remain dead, but would be ever re-
born in the tales parents tell to their calves on the
long hunts for food.

"That's a wonderful story," Cora finally told her.
"There's an incredibly ancient human tale similar to it,
involving a man named Hercules and a wrestler named

CACHALOT           87

Antaeus, who lost his strength when he was held away
from his mother, the Earth, the solid ground."

"You'll have to tell me the tale sometimme," Late-
hoht said.

"Yes!" Wenkoseemansa might not talk, but he ap-
parently listened well. "Sometimme you will have to
tell uss the story and we will listen, will listenn." He
sounded interested now.

"Don't you have any stories remembered from tunes
before you came to Cachalot?" Cora asked. "Times
andstories from Earth, from Terra?"

"Tales from the past," Latehoht murmured. "Tales
from the time of mourning."

"We do nott go back to the pasts," Wenkoseemansa
said sternly. "To the times of troubles, to the timmes
of terror." He sounded upset. "We go noww to the
place of recent passing of mean." In tandem they
shot forward past the bow.
"Wait! I didn't mean ..."

She took off the headset, explained to Sam what had
happened. "I've offended them, haven't I? Are
they sorry because they have no such stories?"

"Oh, they remember." He spoke very quietly.
"Many of them hold the stories sent down through the
generations raised on this world. They have no me-
chanical memories, but those huge brains of theirs can
retain much more than we can. It just bothers them
to have to do the remembering.

"Earth is remembered as a paradise, you see. Un-
til the rise of 'intelligence' among men. Then paradise
was transformed into purgatory."

"I know the history of ancient whaling." She found
the word hard to pronounce. "I would have thought
all that had been—"

"Forgotten by now?" he finished for her. "I just told
you, they don't forget. There are scattered citizens of
the Commonwealth who trace their ethnic ancestry
back to a people known as the Jews. They have a par-

88 CACHALOT

ticular abhorrence, I understand, for a period of
Terran history known as the midtwentieth, old calen-
dar. A thing called the Holocaust in the old records.
The cetaceans know of it. Their own holocaust over-
lapped that same period, though it lasted far longer.
For centuries. They regard the gift of Cachalot as
mankind's attempt at an apologia for that time."

She looked stricken.

"They're not offended by your asking. Don't look so
distraught, Cora. They simply prefer not to talk about
it. Earth isn't their true home any more, though some
cetaceans still exist there. Cachalot is their world now.

"But I'm sure they'll appreciate it if you don't men-
tion it again."

VII

A

beeper sounded from the bridge. He put aside
the book and moved to investigate. She joined him,
studied the instrumentation professionally.

"Reef?"

"No, porpoises. They're not quite paralleling us,
should cut our course in a little while. Maybe they'll
stay with us for a bit."

"Won't Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht scare them
on?"

He smiled, tried not to sound patronizing. "Didn't
you study anything before coming here?"

"There's practically nothing on intercetacean rela-
tionships," she countered testily. "You know that. I
didn't have the advantage of being raised with them."

"Hey, easy—they don't hunt each other any more.
With all the food available on this world, the orcas
don't bother with blood relatives. Even if all the local
life vanished, I think Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht
would starve to death before eating a cousin." He
studied the small screen nearby. "Call your daughter
and Pucara. It's a fair-sized school. They should enjoy
the sight."

Merced had been reading below decks, in his cabin.
He joined the other three at the starboard railing.
Rachael cradled her neurophon, hoping perhaps for
melodic inspiration.

89

90 CACHALOT

At first only tiny glints could be made out here
and there, sun sparkling off thrown water or gray
backs. The reflections became brighter and more fre-
quent, resolved themselves eventually into slim shapes.

Then they were surrounded, engulfed by lean, per-
petually grinning gray forms that broke the water in
repeated leaps of breathtaking symmetry. Wenkosee-
mansa and Latehoht remained close to the hull.

"Thousands, there must be thousands of them!"
Rachael finally gasped into the awed silence.The sea
was alive around the suprafoil, from horizon to hori-
zon.

"No one can say how many thousands," Mataroreva
agreed. "Ten, twenty—herds of thirty and more have
been reported by aerial transports. The porpoises have
done well on Cachalot, too." He was slipping on his
headset, and now Cora had to rush below to locate her
own.                      /

"Want to talk to them?" he asked when she had re-
joined him at the rail.

"I—I don't know. How do you pick one out?"
"You don't. Just switch on and shout 'Howdy.' "
She adjusted her speaker, called aloud, "Greetings
to the gray friends of man!"

"Greetings—hello—how are you—good day—
cheers!—" Her earphones rang as the barrage of re-
plies nearly overloaded the headset. There was also a
great deal of whistling and piping that came through
unaltered. She fiddled with the tuner, but the sounds
did not resolve into words.

"I'm getting something that's not being translated."
Sam described it back to her, nodded. "There's no
way to translate it," he told her amusedly. "It's laugh-
ter."

"Foolishh wasteful of time!" Latehoht muttered.
"Foolish wasteful of life," Wenkoseemansa added.
"Just because they no longer hunt porpoises doesn't

CACHALOT            91

mean they've become particularly fond of them," Sam
noted.

"Why not?" Cora had given up trying to estimate
the size of the herd. "They're close relatives." She
leaned over the railing. "Why don't you like the gray
ones?"

"Flighty, silly, useless creatures!" Latehoht re-
plied at the top of a jump.

"No direction ... no purpose," Wenkoseemansa
agreed. "Their lives are all frivolity and playy. They
think not seriously on any matterr. They knoww only
howw to enjoy themselves and fritter away their living-
time."

"That's not so bad."

"Are there menn who do that wayy?" Latehoht
sounded curious.

"Some," Cora admitted.

Without slowing, the female orca indicated her dis-
pleasure by slapping angrily at the surface with her
tail flukes. She came up, inquired, "Whatt think you
of such of your own people?"

"Yes, of your owwn people, what do you thinkk?"
her mate wondered.

Cora hesitated a moment, then smiled as she told
them, "I think they're lazy, frivolous, and useless!"

At that the two orcas commenced to spiral about a
common axis as they continued to parallel the Caribe,
as if rifling an unseen gun barrel.

"Ah, she sees wisdomm, this she!" Wenkoseemansa
said.

"The wisdom she sees," Latehoht added. "In manyy
ways are orca and man truly closerr to each other than
orca and porpoise."

Twenty-five minutes went by before the enormous
herd of flashing, silver-sided animals passed from view
to the northeast of the cruising suprafoil.

"I thought porpoises were supposed to be as smart

CACHALOT             93

92             CACHALOT

as orcas." Rachael was still composing a silent song to

the departed herd.

"They are," her mother told her. "Almost. They

didn't try to talk to us, though."

"Too busy having fun," Sam told her. "You can ar-
gue with that kind of lotus-eating existence, as do the
orcas, but there's much to be said for it. They love to
perform tricks on us poor air-bound humans. Heredi-
tary delight of theirs, I'm told. Handed—or finned—

down from their domesticated ancestors.

"I was called outside Mou'anui one day by a har-
ried local guide. Seems a small herd of porps had
joined his tourist party and wouldn't let any of them
out of the water. They were pushing them around like
toys, but the tourists didn't know what was going on,

and some of them were panicking.

"Then there's the story of a couple of males who
encountered some visiting teachers from . . . from
Horseye, I think it was. They put on a display that the
helpless guide—he was afraid" to interfere—later de-
scribed as 'elegantly obscene.' The porps were just
having fun, but the young ladies were a little worried
about just what their intent was. Scared them some,

I'm afraid.

"The porps apologized when they learned their

antics weren't taken in the spirit of casual friendliness.
They made amends with a voluntary display of aquatic

acrobatics few visitors ever see."

"Lazy, good-for-nothings!" Latehoht bawled over

the earphones. "Unrepentent calves!"

Cora switched her speaker back on. "Tell me,
Latehoht, why shouldn't they spend all their lives play-
ing? What purpose is there other than to eat and live
and enjoy oneself? Since you don't desire to explore
other worlds as mankind does, what do you do with
your time when you aren't at play?" She held her
breath, remembering what she had been told about
cetacean sensitivity to interference in their lives.

But Latehoht replied immediately, without rancor.
"We do explorre the universe. The ends we seekk are
closerr to uss than yours to you, yet no less reall to us
for thatt. You said we 'don't desirre to explore other
worlds as mankind does.' Why should we have to ex-
plorre 'as mankind does'? We leavve it to man to look
upwardd. We wishh to spend many thousands of years
looking inwardd."

The orcas put on a momentary burst of speed, con-
tinued cruising several meters ahead of each fore foil,
riding the slight bow waves from each side.

Cora slipped free of her headset. "So they're all
philosophers?"

"Many see themselves that way," Sam told her,
"except for the porpoises and a few others, like the
belugas. The orcas are a little confused. They think
sometimes like the great whales and sometimes like
the porpoises—and sometimes, as Latehoht hinted,
like us.

"I don't pretend to be able to make sense of every-
thing Latehoht and Wenkoseemansa say, but some of
the finest alien psychologists in the Commonwealth
have listened to tapes of their conversations and
haven't been able to follow their multilevel semantics,
either. So I don't feel I'm missing much." He shrugged.
"Who knows? Give them another few thousand years
and they might be building spaceships of their own,
though I can't imagine how. We know a little about
how they think. We don't know much about what
they're thinking of."

Several days passed before Latehoht and her mate
raced back to circle the Caribe excitedly. It was early
evening, and the sun was bequeathing the world-ocean
its last hours of light.

Everyone was finishing the evening meal when the
monitors began to squawk with orca cries. Sam led




94 CACHALOT

the rush for the deck, fumbling with his own headset
as he waddled explosively up the stairs.

"What is it, Wenkoseemansa?" he asked the first
massive black and white head he saw.

"You wish to know of the cauuse of destruction. Of
what has caused the deathh and disappearancces, of
the absencing of peoplle."

"Of the vanishhment of your friends," Latehoht
added, breaking the surface nearby.

Cora found herself nodding, not sure whether the
orcas knew what the gesture meant. Surely, as long as
they had been around humans like Sam, they would
understand so simple a movement.

In any case, Latehoht rambled on. "Those comme
who might be best to answwer." There was a slight
touch of awe in her voice.

"Thosse come who would be besst to ask," Wenko-
seemansa declared somberly, "buttUhey will not an-
swwer."

"Likely will they nott answer," Latehoht concurred,
"but if you wishh it, we will askk them if they will
deign to be askked."

"Yes, do so," Sam urged, "and hurry—before they
get too far away. We won't intrude on their course, but
will wait here if they swerve."

He raised the master control, cut the ship's speed to
a crawl, though he did not, Cora noticed, completely
shut down the engines.

"Who's coming?" she asked. "Whom were they talk-
ing about?"

"Exactly whom they indicated, Cora. Those who
would be in the best position to give us information on
the destruction of the towns. As I said before, the
Cetacea no longer fight among themselves, haven't for
a thousand years. They have nothing here on Cachalot
like a formal hierarchy or caste system or pecking
order as we know it. But there is such a thing as re-
spect—we humans occasionally practice it ourselves—

CACHALOT                95

and we're going to meet some of those whom the orcas
and their brethren respect most of all."

She was nodding understanding. "I know whom you
mean now. This is one of those 'exceptions' you told
me we might make."

"Yes." He shifted his stance uncomfortably. "Par-
don me if I'm a little nervous. I've never talked to any
of them before. Very few humans have."

"Who's he talking about?" Rachael had her headset
resting on her forehead.

"What creature has the largest brain of any animal
that ever lived on the Earth?"

"Sperm whale," her daughter said promptly.
"They're going to talk to us?"

Cora looked back to Sam, ignored Rachael's wide-
eyed expression. "I'll get the cameras. Think they'll
mind?"

"If they do," he replied in a no-nonsense tone,
"they'll let us know."

Time passed. They remained together, leaning
against the rail and staring to the west. There was no
sign of the orcas, nor yet of those they would try to
question.

Sam studied the miniature grid on the master con-
trol. "Pretty far-sized pod, according to the sonarizer.
I'd guess between two and three hundred." He felt a
hesitant hand on his arm, saw in surprise that it was
Cora's.

"No, I'm not all that worried," he told her. "The
catodons aren't openly hostile toward humanity. None
of the great whales are. They just don't like our
company. They're more indifferent than anything else,
I believe. We annoy them. They're the most suspicious
of the Cetacea, as well as the smartest.

"However, Latehoht and Wenkoseemansa can be
persuasive. As to whether they can turn the pod to
speak to us, that will depend largely on the mood the
pod leaders are in. If they do consent to talk with us,

96            CACHALOT

it will likely be only to insure that we won't chase
them in hopes of getting them to talk at some future
date. They may try to get rid of us now, as soon as

possible."

"Not worried, then, but still nervous. I can sense it."
"You know me that well already?" he asked gently.
She pulled her hand from his arm. "I can tell when
anybody's nervous. You learn."

"They're just so damned unpredictable," Sam said
after several minutes had passed in silence. "I said
they're not overtly hostile, but that doesn't mean this
bunch couldn't be covertly hostile. Without witnesses,
they could do whatever they pleased to us without
fear of retribution. The law here favors them every
step of the way."

"Why take the chance, then?" Rachael wondered.
"Because what Wenkoseemansa said happens to be
true. If any among the native cetaceans knows any-
thing about what happened to the four lost towns and
their inhabitants, it would be the catodons."
"Because they have morbid interests?"
"Because they're interested in everything, young
lady—except maintaining a relationship with mankind.
I think it's a chance we have to take at least once, and
we'll never have a better opportunity or meet a more
likely placed pod than now." He studied the increas-
ing darkness.

"Anyway, I trust Latehoht and Wenkoseemansa. If
the pod appears irritated or cantankerous, if there's
any significant mating taking place, they'll stay clear
and not make the request."

"Shouldn't you be up in the bridge?" Merced won-
dered.

"What for? To run our puny weapons system?" He
waved the master control at the horizon. "There's two
to three hundred catodons out there. If they do join us,
they'll surround us in a minute. Most of them are
likely bigger than this ship. If they're friendly, all's

CACHALOT            97

well. If they take it into their heads to get nasty . , .
well, we'll be up against twelve to twenty thousand
tons of intelligent, carnivorous mass. Might as well
pray."

It was almost dark and still no sign of any visitors.
Cora had believed herself well prepared, but she for-
got all her preparations, fell back against the wall of
the cabin. She let out a loud "Oh!" of surprise.
Rachael actually comported herself better because
she was too stunned to move or speak. Even Sam took
an involuntary step or two backward. Knowledge
never eliminates all the old racial fears man retains for
something bigger and stronger than he is. Knowledge
can sometimes vitiate that fear, but on a strange
world, in near night, it was hoping for more than mere
fact could supply.

The head that loomed against the night was a good
six meters long and weighed no less than twenty tons,
probably more. A long, narrow lower jaw hung open
beneath it, showing sharp ivory teeth bigger than a
fist. An absurdly tiny eye, close enough to touch,
glared over the railing and twitched as it regarded
them with an unmistakable air of contemptuous bore-
dom.

The catodon, or sperm whale, was balancing on its
tail. Most of the gigantic, spermaceti-filled skull was
thrust vertically from the water. The head itself
weighed more than the entire suprafoil.

It slid leisurely back into the water, having had its
look at the tiny humans on the ship. Gradual as the
slippage was, it still threw enough water on deck to
drench the dazed watchers.

Sam wiped back his hair, reminded Cora, "Switch
on your headset."

"What?" she mumbled, still stunned by the proxim-
ity of so much flesh.

"Your translator unit—switch it on."

98 CACHALOT

She moved slowly to the railing, wondering if she
had imagined the apparition. Her hands were shaking.
Stop that, she ordered herself. You're dealing with in-
telligence here, and a mammalian intelligence at
that. Not gross brute strength. She switched on her
unit, stared over the side.

Around them the dark water was no longer flat and
smooth. It had grown an instant topography, a field of
brown hills. The hills moved slowly, filling the eve-
ning air with explosive hisses and puffs, the exhala-
tions of a colossal cetacean calliope. Dead breath made
music in the night.

It was a relief to see two familiar black and white
forms drifting lazily alongside the slowly moving hull.
The once intimidating torpedo shapes were dwarfed
by the great bulks lolling around them.

"They've comme," Wenkoseemansa announced an-
ticlimactically.

"They hawe come." Latehoht breathed easily.
"Come to talkk to the people from off this worrld. To
listen to their words and taste of their thoughts. That is
the reasson they hawe come."

"I guess we should feel flattered." Cora giggled,
nervously self-conscious.

They waited. The two orcas fluttered toward the
bow. To make room. "One of the podd leaders
commes," Latehoht said. "Onne of the Thinkers,
whosse thoughts are rich as milkk."

I will not, Cora told herself, act like a schoolgirl
this time! Both small hands clenched tightly around
the railing. I won't back up. I will not allow myself to
be shamed.

But it was not easy. A new head rose out of the sea.
It was half again as big as the first, deeply lined and
dotted here and there with thick clumps of para-
sites. It was streaked with long white scars, inflicted by
some unimaginable adversary of the Cachalot Deeps.
Cora wondered what could do such damage to an in-


CACHALOT            99

telligent catodon, larger and leagues smarter than its
ancient Terran progenitor who had warred eternally
with the giant kraken.

Like the rest of the Cetacea, the catodonia had
prospered on this world, growing to sizes unmatched
by its persecuted and intellectually stunted ancestors.
Evidently there was ample local food to support the
population, although, as evidenced by the terrible
scars this individual boasted, that food did not quietly
accept its place in Cachalot's newly revised food chain.

There was also a curious growth, a thickening of the
lower jaw at the front end. It resembled a burl on a
tree. The eye, small in comparison to the rest of the
gigantic body, viewed Cora appraisingly. She did not
have time to wonder at the herculean strength that
kept the great head above water, because a voice re-
verberated in her headphones. It was slower than that
of the orcas, almost as if its orginator found the mere
process of speaking boring beyond belief.

"My Little Cousins Say That Thou Wouldst Have
Converse With Us."

"Yes." Cora spoke without hesitation now. "We
thank you."

"Do Not Thank Us." The huge mammal continued
to tread water, unbearably graceful for something so
massive. "We Did It Not To Please Thee, But To
Please Our Cousins, For They Were Most Insistent.

"Now Say What Thou Wilt. Already Is The Talk
Wearying To Us, And We Would Be On Our Way."

"What do you—but we haven't even started yet."

The head commenced a slow slide surfaceward.
Around them sounded a vast, explosive heaving as the
herd expelled bad air preparatory to sounding.

"That Ends It," the whale said.

"Wait, wait!" Cora was waving frantically at the re-
ceding eye. "I didn't mean to insult you. I—"

"You can't be subtle or dilatory with His kind."
Sam spoke curtly, angry not at her but at Them. "They

100

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

101

understand neither." He raised the volume on his
translator.

"Four floating towns. Four of the off-bottom islands
on which our people lived have vanished in the past
three months! All the people on them also disap-
peared. Nothing has been heard of them; no trace of
their passing has been found. Have you any idea what
might have happened?"

The head paused, the eye now just above water.
"We Do Not."

"But how can you say that?" Rachael left off pro-
gramming her instrument to interrupt undiplomati-
cally. This did not upset Cora. At least her daughter
was becoming involved. "You haven't even asked the
other members of your pod!"

The great eye swiveled to stare dispassionately up
at her. "I Am Called," and the translator fought
with whistles and squeaks to announce finally, "Lump-
jaw. Lumpjaw Speaks For The Pod. If Thou Hast Any-
thing More To Say To Lumpjaw, Then He Bids Thou
Sayest It. If Thou Hast Anything More To Say To The
Pod, Then Say It To Lumpjaw. If Not..."

"No, we do. At least I do." Cora took a cautious
breath. "Why are you so hostile?" Her curiosity had
the better of her now. "We haven't done anything to
you. Why can't you wait?"

From the water rose the great head. It eased toward
her, barely touched the railing. Even so, the Caribe
slid slightly sideways and listed several degrees to star-
board.

"Nothing To Us? How Many Whales Did Thy
Ancestors Slay? How Near To Completion Came
Man's Policy Of Genocide?"

"That was a thousand years ago," she said indig-
nantly. "I will not be held accountable for the trans-
gressions of my distant ancestors. Nor should you
identify so intensely with your equally ancient ones."

The whale pulled away. The railing groaned, unbent

in the middle, "The Little Female Hath Spirit. We Do
Care. We Do Remember. The Diaspora Came Al-
most Too Late. But What Mankind Hath Done He
May Do Again.'

"Mankind has changed." She moved tentatively to
the bent rail, looked down. "Just as radically as have
the Cetacea."

"Words!" Lumpjaw rumbled, though with seemingly
less conviction. "And Worse, They Are Words of Man-
kind, Who Is Not To Be Believed."

"What about Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht?"
Cora argued. "And their cousins the porpoises? They
trust."

"The Little Ones Who-Leap-All-The-Time Are But
Children, Locked Into A Degraded, Permanent In-
fancy Of Their Own Choosing. As For The Mottled
Brave Who Are Also Our Cousins; They Have For
Reasons Of Their Own Chosen Friendliness And As-
sociation With Thy Kind. We Do Not."

"Unhappy to you," a new voice said, "Ponderous
Swimmer." Latehoht had appeared nearby.

"Perhaps So." Lumpjaw sounded philosophical, not
angry with the orca. "We Cannot Judge Eventuality,
Only The Present. Perhaps Thy Course May Be The
True One, Little Mottled Cousin. But We Of The
Catodonia Have Not Yet Forgotten Nor Forgiven. We
Only Hope For Thy Sake That Thy Trust Is Never
Betrayed."

"It won't be," Sam insisted.

"May It Be So." The head turned slightly, bringing
huge ivory teeth within Cora's reach. She did not
flinch. "There Are Men, And There Are Men. They
May Differ As Much As The Colors Of The Fish Who
School In The Millions, And Their Feelings And Be-
liefs And Desires May Be Equally Diverse. That Be
The Difference Between Us. We Strive For A Singu-
larity Of Thought, A Unity. Not Diversity."




102           CACHALOT

"Mankind has its own form of unity," Cora pointed

out.

"Aye, But Tis Not A Unity of Soul." The whale

waxed poetic: "Thy Unity Springs From A Drive For
Survival. We Of The Catodonia Have No Such Need
And Find Our Strength In Individual Independence

Joined To A Uriity Of Thought.

"In That Unity There Is As Yet," he added almost

as an afterthought, "No Room For Trusting Mankind.
I Have Seen Nothing Of Man As Yet To Convince
Me Otherwise And I Have Made The Great Migra-
tion Yea, Twenty Times."

"Five years of adolescence," Sam murmured, "give

or take a little, and four years per migration. That
would make him eight-five years old, or more."

"How can you be so sure of man if you remain aloof

from him?" Cora wanted to know,

"I Would Debate Philosophy With Thee Longer,

Little Female," Lumpjaw said, "But There Are Those
In The Pod Who Grow Anxious. We Have Distances
To Travel And Thoughts To Think. Thou Hast Inter-
rupted Both."

"Are you sure," Merced interrupted, speaking for

the first time, "that in all your travels you've seen or
learned nothing from other whales that could give us
a hint of what might have caused the obliteration of
the four towns? The destruction occurred over a wide
area. Surely some of the cetaceans must have been
nearby. With your ability to sense and hear over con-
siderable distances, it seems inconceivable that—"

"Why Should We Trouble Ourselves?" Lumpjaw
muttered the question with alarming indifference. "We
Care Not What Happens To Humans." The eye
turned back up to Cora. "We Do Not Oppose Thee.
We Do Not Support Thee. We Tolerate. Cachalot Is
Our World. As Long As Man Realizes That, We Will
Coexist Here Better Than Ever We Did A Millennium
Ago On Earth. The Loss Of A Few Human Lives Is

CACHALOT               103

of No Concern To Us. Less So Than Was The Loss Of
Thousands Of Cetacean Lives To Thy Ancestors."

"I wish you'd stop going on about people long
since turned to dust!" Cora shouted, more out of frus-
tration than from anger. "I told you, I won't assume
the guilt of a thousand years."

"Perhaps Not, Little Female. But Remember Al-
ways That Somewhere, At Sometime In Thy Past, One
Of Thy Ancestors Ate, Or Read A Book By The Light
Of, Or Dressed In Part Of The Corpse Of, A Whale.
We Cannot Forgive Thee, For Thou Knew What Thee
Were About."

Merced had more courage than sense, because he
finally asked the unaskable question. "You say you've
no idea what happened to the towns or their missing
inhabitants." Cora and Rachael turned to him in sur-
prise. Sam was making urgent silencing motions. But
Merced ignored him. "Just for the sake of conversa-
tion, wouldn't it be possible for a large, well-organized
group of like-thinking cetaceans—yourselves, for ex-
ample—to commit that kind of destruction?"

Rachael stared at him in horror, held her breath.
Sam's fingers tensed on the master control, ready to
give full throttle to the engines if a probably futile at-
tempt at flight became necessary.

But Lumpjaw's reaction was no more and no less
hostile than his previous statements. "Of Course Such
A Thing Would Be Possible." He considered the
question dispassionately. "But Why Would We Do
Such A Thing?"

"To force humans off Cachalot," Merced offered.

Another gray-brown wall rose into the starlight. A
third suddenly loomed over the rear deck of the ship.
Two more huge eyes stared down at the puny inhabi-
tants. The three catodons could have demolished the
Caribe merely by nodding. They did not. The new-
comers, however, were less controlled than Lumpjaw.

One, whose voice was translated with a distinctly

104 CACHALOT

feminine tone by the head unit, said in outrage, "What
A Bizarre Conception!"

"How Typically Human," the other new arrival
agreed. "Dost Thou Believe That Because We Have
Gained Intelligence We Are Doomed To Repeat The
Mistakes Of Mankind?"

"We Have Heard Tales Of Things Like 'War,'" the
female said. "'Tis Difficult Enough For Us Merely
To Imagine Such An Obscenity. The Idea Of Practic-
ing It Is Utterly Beyond Us. Dost Thou Think We
Have Gained Intelligence, Improved, And Progressed
So That We Might Imitate Thy Stupidities? Contra-
diction, Contradiction!" Both breached slightly. An
enormous volume of water cascaded over the Caribe,
drenching its occupants.

"We Could Not Do Such A Thing," the younger
male said. "We Do Not Hate Humans. We Ignore
Thee. Were We To Engage In Any Form Of ...
Of . . ." He hesitated, searching for a word to use.
". . . Of Organized Destruction Of Human Lives, That
Would Mean Paying Attention, Devoting Time, To
Thee. We Would Pay Thee As Little Attention As
Possible." Another gigantic double splash, and the two
disappeared.

Cora wiped salt water from her face, tried to wring
out her hair. Many more such physical adjectives, and
she would have to don her gelsuit.

Lumpjaw pivoted on his tail, a balletic mountain.
The other eye examined them now.

"If not you, what about other catodons?" Merced
inquired.

"What Holds True For Us Holds True For All," the
whale declared with certitude. "We Are Not Subject
To The Kinds Of Individual Madness That Afflict
Humans. We Think As One. Only In That Manner
Can We Hope To Aspire To Our Great End."

"What is your 'great end'?" Rachael asked curi-

CACHALOT               105

ously, mechanically entering a variation or two into
her neurophon's memory.

"If We Knew That," Lumpjaw told her portentously,
"We Would No Longer Be Aspiring."

"What about the other cetaceans?" Merced per-
sisted. "The baleen whales, for example?"

Cora's earphones were filled with an eerie high-
pitched whistling the headset could only make audible.
It might have been laughter, as had been that of the
porpoise herd. It might have been amazement. It
might have been a combination of things, but it came
from many members of the pod. When Lumpjaw did
not elaborate, a puzzled Merced turned to Sam for ex-
planation.

"The catodons and the orcas are by far the smartest
of the cetaceans. I'm sure you know that"—to this
Merced nodded—"but because of the lack of informa-
tion, you may not know how great the gaps are.

"There are many degrees of intelligence, and among
the cetaceans the gaps seem to be widening, not
closing. For reasons which our limited studies have not
been able to establish, the baleens are the mental
primitives of the Cetacea. They're big, but compara-
tively stupid. The pod," and Sam gestured out over
the dark water, "is reacting in surprise at the possi-
bility anyone could seriously consider such an idea."

"I have to consider every possibility." Merced
sounded miffed.

"Our Toothless Relatives Are Incapable Of Con-
ceiving, Far Less Carrying Out, Such An Adventure,
Even Were They So Inclined, Which They Are Not.
They Have Not The Mental Ability To Do Such A
Thing. They Can Join Together To Defend Against
An Attack, But The Kind Of Effort Thou Suggestest
Is As Far Beyond Their Capability As Is The Thought
Of Our Doing So. Thou!" His eye focused on Cora.
The head came closer, touched the railing once more.
The eye stared at her, spitting distance away, and she

106

CACHALOT

did not have time to consider the remarkable feat of
balance.

"Touch!" It was a command.

She hesitated, glanced ^at Sam. He said nothing. In-
congruously, the worst thing about the confrontation
was not the proximity of enough weight to smash her
flat, or the nearness of those huge teeth, but the breath
that emanated from a distant gullet.

She reached out, ran a hand along one tooth a quar-
ter of a meter long. Her fingers trailed down the tooth,
touched the thick lower jaw. The whale pulled away
and she instinctively jerked her hand clear. All bravery
has its limits.

"Those Teeth Never Have Nor Ever Will Damage
Anything But Food," Lumpjaw told her somberly. "To
Do Otherwise Would Be To Surrender Everything The
Cetacea Have Accomplished On This World, To Snuff
Out In An Instant The Progress Of A Thousand
Years."

"If you're not responsible, if the other whales aren't
responsible, we're left with two possibilities," Merced
declared. "Some variety of local life"—he hesitated,
but Lumpjaw did not volunteer any suggestions—"or
humans, for reasons we can imagine but cannot yet
confirm."

"The Latter I Can Well Believe!"

"If that's the case, could you help us locate those
who have caused the destruction?"

"Certain Jt Is That We Could," the whale said,
"But We Will Not."

"Why not?" Merced asked.

"The Great Question," Lumpjaw said, not being
particularly profound. " 'Why' Indeed? Why Should
We? Why Waste Our Time On Such Triviality? We
Live And Die. Thou Livest And Diest. Better To
Spend Time Exploring Life Rather Than Death.

"All Humans, All Whales, Die All Too Soon, Be-
fore The Great Mysteries Can Be Explained, The

CACHALOT            107

Great Questions Answered. Those Who Perished On
Thy Floating Towns Would Have Perished Soon
Enough. Why Waste Time Trying To Learn The
Cause Of Their Passing? We Work For The Ends Of
Thought. No Time To Waste."

"Do youu nott underrrstandd?"

Cora looked down and to the left of the balancing
sperm whale. A black and white head peered up the
cliff of Lumpjaw's side, unimpressed by the vast
mass hovering near it.

"Whhen willl you slowww swwwimmers underr-
standd?" Latehoht asked. "Underrstandd as do the
orrca and the porrpoisse, underrstandd as wwe hawe
comme to, thhat all liffe and all the questions of liffe,
hummman as welll as cetacean, arre interrelated.
Thhat all quesstions that so concerrn catodon allso
concerrn mann. Thhat we arre tied togethher on this
worrld byy ourr alienness to it."

Lumpjaw slid down into the water, keeping his eyes
above the surface. "Ah, Small Cousin, Is It Indeed,
Then The Porpoise Who Is The Greater Because He
Has Sense Enough Only To Play With Man And Not
To Deal With Him? What, Then, Would The Orca
Choose To Do? Have Hands And Feet And Walk
About On Land?"

There was a splash in front of the great catodon's
gnarled forehead as another shape slid whippet-fast
past it.

"Ayye, arre you grreaterr in weight and lengthh.
Thhat does nott mean you knnoww the wayyy forr
yourrselves anyy morre than you do for alll. Do nott
attempt to speakk forr us, to coddle orr tease us,"
Wenkoseemansa warned, "forr you did nott act so
superriorr lo those manyy centurries ago on Earrthh,
and you arre no morre superriorr noww. We choosse
onlly to rrelate to mankindd. Nott to becomme as
menn."

Cora moved to stand close to Sam. "I thought

108            CACHALOT

you just said that cetaceans don't fight among them-
selves."

"Only verbally," he explained. "Some bad feelings

between catodon and orca have always existed,
though they're among the most closely related of all
the whales. I guess it goes back to the ancient times on
Terra, when the orca packs would eat any great whale
they could kill. Just because the orca no longer eats
the catodon doesn't mean they've grown to love one
another. Respect, yes. They won't fight physically, but
they're not the best of friends. Don't forget that they're

cetaceans together, though."

"Enough Of This!" the irritated old whale roared.
"Enough Time Wasted! We Shall Not Help Thee," he
told Cora. "Not Because We Wish To Hinder Thee.
Understand That." He let out a long, modulated whis-
tle. In a wonderful demonstration of the unity of
thought the old male had talked about, three hundred
massive backs arched as one. Enormous flukes came
up, filled the surface with a temporary forest of gray-
brown flowers, and dipped into the ocean with
hardly a ripple as the herd vanished beneath the

waves.

In seconds it was as if they had never been more

than a dream.

VIII

No

to violence marred their passing. They were sim-
ply gone.

"Simultaneous sounding," Cora murmured.

"Yes." Sam studied the surface. "They'll come up
to breathe somewhere far from here, where we won't
be around to disturb them. We could track them, of
course, but they wouldn't take kindly to that." He
smiled. "What the old one—Lumpjaw—said about
not fighting with man is very true. In fatal incidents
between the great whales and men on Cachalot, the
fault has always rested with the persistent stupidities
of the people involved. We won't make those kind of
mistakes."

"What about letting Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht
follow them?" Merced ran a hand idly along the rail.

"To what end?" Sam asked. "You heard their
leader. They know nothing about what caused the de-
struction of the towns."

"Or they're not saying."

"That's possible," he conceded. "But you're still not
taking into account their massive indifference toward
mankind. That's genuine. They really don't care one
whit what we do or what happens to us as long as
we leave them alone."

Merced persisted. "Holding back information
wouldn't contradict their policy of ignoring us. At the

109

110 CACHALOT

same time it would passively encourage whatever still
unknown force is conveniently ridding their ocean of
humanity."

The big man considered that, then leaned over the
side. "She-Who-Rises-Above-The-World!" A head ap-
peared, dim in the starlight near the bow. It floated
back to linger below them.

"Tell me. Beautiful Swimmer, what did you think of
the old catodon's comments?"

"Forr all that wwe arre rrelated, theyy arre a con-
ceitted rrace," she announced readily. "Likke wwe
nott theirr companyy orr theirr philosophyyy."

"Wwe like nott theirr thoughts," Wenkoseemansa
added from nearby. "Theirr grreaterr intelligencce has
brred in themm a grreat contemptuoussness. Yea, forr
all thhat theyy mayy bee the smarrtest of the Ceta-
cea."

"Ayye, though theyy mayy bee the smarrtest of us
allll," his mate agreed. "Butt thhat does nott makke
themm wise."                ___

"No," Sam agreed, "that does not make them wise.
Annoying, yes. But I want you to be more specific
about what they said."

"Theyy arre sharrpp and yyet vague, talkatiwe yet
coyyy. Annd neverr as prroperrly poetic as wwe,"
Latehoht said.

"Maybe they don't fight, but they snipe," Merced
whispered to Rachael. "Certain vices seem to go with
expanded intelligence."

"Shush," Cora admonished him, trying to concen-
trate on the orca's words.

"Wwe beliewe," Latehoht went on, after consult-
ing with her mate, "thhat the Olid Onne was telling
the trruth. Wwe listened carreful and close, to worrd
and inflection. Wwe slid inn and ammong themm,
ammong even the garrulous young, beforre wwe
camme to rejoin you. Beforre we lefft the podddd."

CACHALOT            111

"Thhey murrmurred of manny things," Wenkosee-
mansa added. "Of grreat shoals of voula fishh, of
battles withh the great mallost inn the depths. Of
calwings and matings and arrguments ammong the
philosophher bulls. Butt newerr did we hearr talk-
ings of mann orr his worrkks. Not of the towwns
destroyyed, not of the people killed and missing. Not
of thhose still actiwe, fishhing orr gatherring orr
mminning. Theirr callous indifference is as hhonest
as it iss monumentally foolishhh."

"Thhat iss all we werre able to learrnnnn," Late-
hoht finished. "Whhat noww, frriend Sammmmm?"

"To the Rorqual Station, and the reefs by which it
kept company. But slowly. Our ship will follow your
path, but we must have some sleep."

"Ahhhwww, poorr humanssss!" Latehoht commis-
erated sadly. "Sso little aliwe timme, so muchh of it
spent in the brreathing deathh. We'll go and eat, we
twwo, and watchh forr youuu." She and Wenkosee-
mansa turned as one, vanished supplely beneath the
starlit surface.

Rorqual Station Towne, the last attacked, was the
nearest to Mou'anui. Its proximity was both conven-
ient and ominous, for that hinted to Mataroreva,
Hwoshien, and the others responsible for keeping
Cachalot's citizens quiet and secure a growing bold-
ness on the part of whatever was behind the assault.

As the town most recently destroyed, it was also the
most likely to yield any clues to research. And if any
trouble arose, skimmers from Mou'anui could reach
the Caribe more rapidly than if it were to anchor at
the town site of, say, Te iti Turtle, which lay a thou-
sand kilometers farther out in the ocean.

Thinking of destruction as she slipped into her bunk
made Cora think of Silvio. And of her breakdown.
Rachael had been five at the time of her father's death
and her mother's collapse. She knew of both only

112 CACHALOT

vaguely. Someday Cora would have to explain both,
explain what had truly happened.

Mataroreva was at work on the bridge.

"What are you doing?" Cora asked as she ap-
proached him.

"Oh, good morning. Beautiful." He glanced up
momentarily from the console and smiled hugely.

"Just plain Cora will do."

"Okay. Good morning, just plain Cora." He touched
a contact switch. "I'm setting the stabilizers. Wouldn't
be much fun if we spent a few hours diving and sur-
faced to find that the ship had drifted out of sight."

"Stabil—we're here, then?" She looked around in
surprise. The ocean looked no different from what
they had crossed in days of traveling out from
Mou'anui.                              \

"More or less. I'm picking a spot. Have a look
over the side."

She did so, moving to the upper railing to peer at
the water. She almost blinded herself in the process.

Several hexalate formations grew almost to the sur-
face, and their reflected glare made her blink. The in-
tensity was not as bad as that from the sands of a
motu, however. By not looking directly at the upper-
most growths and by squinting hard, she could gaze
into the water without protective goggles. She could
not see any end to the reef. The Caribe hovered above
it, adrift in a sea of emerald and yellow. "This is
where the town was located?"

He nodded. "The position was fixed by the first ves-
sels that returned here after the destruction—the sur-
vivors of the town, those who'd been out working." He
pointed, and she noticed several widely spaced, floating
blobs of red: polymer marked buoys, each containing
its own directional transmitter.

"What was the town doing here?"

"This is a fairly good-sized, well-known fishing reef.

CACHALOT            113

The Rorqualians had it staked out for organic mining
purposes. The survivors indicated that the town had
taken its limit and was preparing to depart only a cou-
ple of days after it was hit. But they were primarily
the fishermen. They weren't sure precisely what was
being stocked in the town's holds."

"And, just like the others, they didn't find any bod-
ies?"

He shook his head. "Not so much as a finger. You
would think at least one or two would sink, or be
trapped under falling debris and pinned to the bottom.
But nothing."

She stared at the water. "It's hard to believe anyone
ever lived around here."

"Oh, the town was here." He started for the ladder.
"Get into your suit. I haven't explored the area myself,
but records say there's still plenty of evidence
around."

He finished setting the stabilizers and the automatic
warning network. The latter was engaged as a matter
of procedure more than anything else, since the two
patrolling orcas provided a far more efficient advance
detection system than anything composed of circuitry
and transceivers.

Cora was first in, followed closely by Rachael,
Mataroreva, and Merced. Pristine beauty she had an-
ticipated. The reef did not disappoint her. Great hex-
alate heads like crystal trees rose from the sandy
bottom, while diamond tunnels pierced labyrinths of
frozen cloud.

She did not expect the nudge from behind. It com-
pounded her shock when she spun and encountered
massive jaws lined with even white teeth. A dense
whistling filled the air around her, and a moment
passed before she remembered to switch on her suit-
mask translator.

"Sorrry iss this one to hawe starrtled you-she,"
Latehoht said. "It was not meanntttt."

114

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

115

"That's . . ." Cora caught her breath, relaxed.
"That's all right." She kicked easily, enjoying the fa-
miliar freedom that came with being underwater.
Latehoht barely flicked her flukes as she spiraled over
and around the tiny swimmer, keeping her right eye
always on her smaller human companion. The gelsuit
had already turned comfortably warm. Cora grew lazy
within her transparent armor.

"To thhis placce has comme a sadness," the killer
whale moaned. "Inn the waterr lingers still the effluvia
of deathhh."

"Don't believe a word she says."
Cora looked around, saw the graceful bulk of
Mataroreva moving up to join them. "Latehoht revels
in the rhythms of languid depression."

"I doo notttt!" the orca whistled indignantly. "Thhe
smmell iss herre. It does too linnger." She left Cora,
twisted to charge Sam. At the last second he ducked
below her rush. She swatted at him with her tail, but
he anticipated the swing and clutched tight to one
fluke. He hung on for several seconds until she flipped
free, came up and around to bump him in the belly.
Cora heard him grunt. Kicking around, he snatched at
her dorsal fin.

There followed several minutes of violent chore-
ography as she half tried to buck him off, but he was
not as easy to shake from her back as he had been
from her tail.

"Pilay theyy well together, well annd frreeee."
"Yes, they do." Cora managed not to jump this
time, although Wenkoseemansa's approach had been
stealthy.

"Hawe I enjoyed to thhink, in momments of quiet
contemmplation, in timmes of idle speculation, thhat
the humman Sammm would hawe made a passable

cetacean."

"Certainly," she admitted, unsure of how to inter-

pret the orca's observation, "he's built more like you
than like most of us."

"Iss he? You mmust underrstandd, and carreful I
amm not to sayy thhis with derrogatorry intent, thhat
you hummans arre so smmall thhat to us any phhysi-
cal differrences of sizze orr shhape arre so superrfi-
cial as to makke us strrain to notice them."

"Yet for all our smaller size, we have a greater va-
riety of features."

Wenkoseemansa considered. "Thhat only adds to
ourr confusionnnn."

She looked back through the clear water, trying
hard to ignore the wondrous diversity of alien pisca-
torial life swarming about her in order to concentrate
on the problem at hand.

Where were Rachael and Merced? Had they
sneaked off somewhere? "Rachael!"

"Over here, Mother!"

She turned a circle. "Where?"

"I esppy thhemmmm." Wenkoseemansa swung his
seemingly weightless mass around, presented a black
and white wall to her gaze. It occurred to her that he
was offering her a ride.

"Theyy are a modest distance, byy your standards.
I will convey you to yourr offspring."

She hesitated only a second before locking her
gloved palms over the front of the towering dorsal fin.
Then the water was rushing past her so fast it put
pressure on her suit. In an instant (or so it seemed)
she had traveled several hundred meters through the
clear water.

Rachael was swimming alone beside a crystal cas-
tle. It looked like an interlocked series of colored, spi-
raled shells that rose to within two meters of the
surface. Several smaller constructs, miniature versions
of the larger, grew from the reef base farther down.

"Isn't it grand. Mother?"

"Isn't what grand? Yes, it's beautiful, but—"




116 CACHALOT

"I'm sorry. How could you know? Listen!" Rachael
held a small metal sampling tool. She used it to tap
one side of the growth. A distinct, mellifluous tone ran
through the water. "It must be partially hollow."

Yellow and blue stripes ran around the shell spirals,
a collection of unicorn horns. The shells were pale
green to transparent. In the center of each shell pulsed
crimson organs, sending colorless fluid throughout the
individual organisms.

"Okay, it's grand." Cora glanced around, relieved
to find that Merced was nowhere in sight. She still
couldn't keep herself from asking, "Where's Pucara?"

"Off somewhere, investigating on his own. Think he
follows me everywhere?"

"Doesn't he?" Cora quickly added, "I'm sorry,
that's none of my business."

"That's right. Mother," Rachael agreed with dis-
arming cheerfulness. "It's none of your business." She
swam up a meter or so and tapped the spiral central
cone where it tapered considerably. Again Cora heard
the ringing, only an octave higher this time. "I'll bet
several people working in unison could play these."

So that was it. For just a moment, Cora had be-
lieved her daughter's scientific interests had been stim-
ulated by the cone creatures. "Must you always be
thinking of music?"

"I don't see any harm in combining my work with
my music." Then, more seriously, "There's something
else here you probably ought to have a look at." She
arched her back, kicked downward. Cora followed.

Strewn between the crystal pinnacle and its lesser
companions were several huge fragments of metal.
The battered pieces of coated stelamic still retained
their sheen and even markings. The inscriptions
showed that they had been components of some large
structure; a warehouse, possibly. Several of them were
a third the size of the Caribe.

Cora drifted over one, studying the torn edges. "It

CACHALOT               117

doesn't look as if this has been severed—by an energy
beam, for example."

Rachael was inspecting another fragment nearby.
"Here's one that's badly dented, but it's still intact."

Cora joined her daughter, saw that she was right.
Torn supports were still fastened to an unbreached
container. The tank itself was bent almost in half,
flattened in the center by some tremendous force.

"A whale's tail could do that," Rachael murmured.
She looked behind her. "What do you think, Wenko-
seemansa?"

The orca swam over, turned his head, and exam-
ined the ruined tank with his right eye. "Howw frrag-
ile arre the arrtificial constrructions of hummankind.
A whale's tail?" He sniffed, sending bubbles skyward.
"Could doo thhis little thhing a whale's brreathhhh."

"We've no evidence yet to support that hypothesis,
Rachael. A weapon could do the same."

"What kind of weapon?"

"I don't know, dammit," her mother snapped. "I'm
a marine biologist, not a munitions specialist. Pucara
might know, and Sam surely will have some ideas.
Wonder where they've got to?"

"Sooon will thhey rejoin you." Wenkoseemansa let
loose a sharply rising whistle that the translator could
not refine into human terms, then vanished in a rush
of displaced water.

He wasn't gone long before he returned with Pucara
Merced clinging to his dorsal fin. Latehoht and Sam
rejoined the others seconds later.

The four humans drifted, exchanging thoughts and
theories while the two orcas waited interestedly near-
by.

"What about the possibility of a rogue whale?"
Merced suggested. "A deranged one."

"One whale?" Mataroreva was properly skeptical.

"Well, what kind of weapons, then?"

"Any number of possibilities there." The peace-

118 CACHALOT

forcer eyed the twisted tank, which they had tenta-
tively identified as a type used to store liquid protein.
"Let's not forget that the force of another, nearby ex-
plosion could have caused this. Also, there are com-
pressed gas weapons which could directly do such
damage. Or a storm wave could have caused it. I'm
afraid this isn't much in the way of evidence."

"And no hint that energy weapons were used,"
Cora added. "That's obvious even to me."

"Could someone," Merced continued, "be trying to
make it look as if the whales are causing the destruc-
tion, to cover their own activities? By using those
compressed gas weapons, for example?"

"Could be," Mataroreva agreed. "It would add up
with what the old catodon told us about the impossi-
bility of any whales actually being responsible."

"There's more over this way." Merced had drifted
off to their right, down a glass canyon. "Smaller stuff.
We might find something more specific."

"I doubt it." Cora moved to join him. "The local
experts have undoubtedly sifted everything already.
Though you never know. What do you hope to find,
Pucara?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe someone had a
personal tridee recorder going at the moment of at-
tack, though, as you say, it's likely the initial search
teams would already have checked for such items. But
it would be good for us to make our own search of
the reef."

Mataroreva started to protest, intending to cite the
size of the reef and the thoroughness of the previous
inspectors, but decided not to. Cora and the other two
were not as familiar with Cachalot growths and for-
mations as were the residents. Therefore they might
search where a local scientist would disdain to.

"Anything that looks helpful, we take aboard for
detailed analysis," Merced continued, looking at
Mataroreva.

CACHALOT            119

"Sounds like a reasonable suggestion. I know that
you're all experienced in underwater work, so I'll say
this only one last time and never mention it again.
Watch yourselves. As soon as we think we've identi-
fied every danger, some innocent-looking new crea-
ture appears with a unique form of protection. We've
already catalogued twelve entirely new indigenous
types of toxin. I don't want any of you discovering the
thirteenth.

"Everyone should report in to the Caribe's receiver"
—he checked his chronometer—"at least on the
hour. Give your approximate position in relation to
the sun and the ship." He studied them each in turn,
said finally, "That's all I have to say."

"Everyone pick a compass point," Cora said, anx-
ious to begin, "and let's start hunting."

They learned nothing from the many fragments of
town cleaned that day from the reef and sand. Subse-
quent days of searching added more material but no
revelations.

Among the material recovered were many personal
effects: bits of clothing, water-sealed foodstuffs, shreds
of expensive pylon netting, electronic instrumentation,
and whole gelsuits. One morning Rachael excitedly di-
rected them to a half-buried case that contained two
dozen tridee tapes. They were perfectly preserved in
a watertight inner container and of no value whatso-
ever. All were entertainment tapes.

It was very frustrating to Cora. The frustration built
as night ran into morning. It was pleasant enough
work, swimming through the exquisite reef, idly ex-
amining the exotic and occasionally bizarre native life
of Cachalot. Only an isolated tropical rainstorm ar-
rived from time to time to break the routine.

But they were finding nothing. The growing moun-
tain of debris still held its secrets. They could not
even tell whether the assault had been made by an
animal or a human agency.

120 CACHALOT

Merced believed that this very lack of clear evi-
dence pointed to the work of belligerent humans. The
absence of clues suggested to him a careful, methodi-
cal attempt to destroy or eliminate any such evidence.
He could not attribute this type of attempt to blind
animal rage.

Cora still kept an open mind. Barring the recovery
of some deus ex machina such as the hypothesized
tridee tape of the town's moment of destruction, she
would settle for a hint that Merced was right or, con-
versely, that some local life was responsible. She
rather hoped the little scientist was correct. The
thought that some unknown and immensely powerful
whatsis might be lurking out in the depths bothered
her more than the prospect of piratical humans.

While they found something every day, no plethora
of debris lay strewn across the reef. For one thing, the
town had been anchored off the edge of the reef in-
stead of directly above it. Much of the town had sunk
to depths beyond their diving capabilities. They could
have requisitioned a deep-diving submersible to
search the three-thousand-meter level, where the sea
floor evened off, but she and Merced agreed they
were as likely to find something near the surface as in
the abyss. More so, in fact, since in the depths most
everything would have been distorted by pressure.

But as the days passed in continued ignorance, she
began to wonder if they ever would find anything.
What made it worse was the certain knowledge that
whatever had destroyed the four towns remained at
large out there, cloaked in ocean and mystery, watch-
ing, waiting.

IX

C

'ora was sitting on the rear deck of the Caribe,
trying to decide if a shred of fabric had been torn by
a weapon or by teeth. It looked like part of a pareu.

A ripple ran down her back. Her hair tingled. Look-
ing around, she lifted her eyes to the roof of the main
cabin. Rachael sat on the edge, her legs crossed. Her
right hand manipulated the double set of strings of the
neurophon while her left fingered the contact controls
of the axonic projector.

A warm feeling of well-being crept over Cora, the
result of the perfect combination of lilting synthesized
song and proper stimulation of her nerves by Rachael's
playing. She felt as if she were being caressed by a
pair of giant velvet gloves.

Abruptly the melodic massage changed from sooth-
ing to plaintive, then sank into melancholic. Despite
the warm air, she found herself shivering. The reac-
tion was stimulated as much by the melody as by the
accompanying neuronics.

"Can't you play something happier?"

Rachael leaned over to look down at her mother. "I
play as the mood takes me. I know that's not very sci-
entific." Her mouth twisted. "But it's aesthetic."

"I don't want to argue about it, Rachael." Cora
turned back to her study of the burnt bit of material.

"Then why did you bring it up?" Rachael contin-

121

122 CACHALOT

ued to play and Cora continued to shiver, saying
nothing.

Merced was sitting beneath Rachael, Just under the
overhang of the upper deck. He was laboriously ex-
amining a huge pile of water-damaged tape fragments.
Cora wondered what he hoped to find in that massive,
messy mound of communications numbers, personal
histories, pay charts, and medical records. He con-
fessed quite frankly that he wasn't sure, but at least
the information was varied, and more relaxing than
going cross-eyed picking through chunks of torn metal
and plastic. She could sympathize. He was obviously
frustrated, too.

Mataroreva came up from below. Since he wasn't
directly involved in the research, he should have been
more bored than any of them, what with nothing to do
beyond seeing to the maintenance of the Caribe. But
he was relaxed, even appeared to be enjoying himself.
While they studied, he dove and recovered additional
artifacts, concentrating on the edge of the reef where
he had forbidden them to travel. There were large
pelagic predators out there, where reef gave way to
open sea, and he preferred not to have his charges
tempt them. And he only hunted there himself when
accompanied by the two orcas.

Now he looked over Cora's Shoulder, noting her
discomfort. "I've got to admit her current choice of
dendritones doesn't lighten my day, either. How about
a dive? Not for work this time, for a change. Just to
relax."

"I can't," she told him. "Just because we're having
a hard time doesn't mean we aren't making any pro-
gress."

"Really? You're making progress, then?"

"Well... take this piece of burnt fabric here."

Mataroreva looked at it. "So?"

"Don't you see that?" She paused, eyed it herself,
then looked over at the knee-high ridge of similar

CACHALOT            123

fragments. She saw no answers there, only additional
frustration.

Then she picked up the bit of water-soiled material,
wadded it into a ball, and threw it angrily over the
side of the ship. "You can take it and do what you
want with it! To hell with it—let's go!"

"That's the spirit!" He moved to don his gelsuit.

No, it isn't, she thought exhaustedly. She didn't have
much spirit left.

The strains of the sobbing Trans-Carlson tune fol-
lowed her over the side, and the neuronic projections
tickled her for several meters more. Then they were
out of the instrument's preset range. Once more she
was cruising among the delicate hexalate formations.

Sam continued to point out unusual examples of
Cachalot life as they encountered them. There hadn't
been much time for such sightseeing in days past. He
spotted one advanced variety of pseudoworm, far
more spectacular than any of the Terran nudibranchs
that were its closest visual relative, fluttering in and
out among the reef formations. It was about half a
meter in length and swam with an incredible supple-
ness. Hundreds of long, thin streamers trailed from its
flanks. The feathery filaments were a rich azure blue,
spotted with yellow and pink.

"Gorgeous," Cora muttered, overwhelmed as she
had so often been already by the endless beauty of
this world.

"That's not all. Watch." Sam kicked on ahead, ran
a finger down the creature's slowly rippling ventral
side. A thin, cloudy pink fluid filled the water around
it.

She winced instinctively. "Protective mechanism?"

"No." He was grinning. "Slip on your mask and
smell just a little. Inhale as much water as you can
without choking."

"You're crazy." She was giggling.

124            CACHALOT

"Just once," he begged. "Quick, before it dissi-
pates."

"Well . . ." She raised the mask, breathed in a tiny
amount of water. It set her coughing as she hurriedly
replaced the mask and cleared it.

But she hardly noticed the cough. Her head was
swimming. She drifted dazedly, feeling as if someone
had just increased her olfactory sensitivity a thousand-
fold. She was no longer swimming in salt water but in
perfume. Her body was smothering under the concen-
trated scent of a million wildflowers.

Unperturbed, the pseudoworm fluttered gracefully
away, disappearing into a crevice in a turret of emer-
alds.

"Lord!" she gasped when she could finally breathe
easuy again. "That's the most incredible fragrance I've

ever smelled in my life."

"That's a Ninamu Pheromonite. They aren't com-
mon, but they never have any trouble locating each
other." He started downward. "Incidentally, that could
have been the reason for the town's anchoring here."
She followed him, still stunned by the overpowering

aroma.

"As I said, there aren't too many of them, but even

one like the individual we just encountered would re-
lease enough essence to make it worthwhile for an en-
tire town to spend a few weeks hunting for him. I
believe that a centiliter of the essence costs about
half a million credits on the open market. You just

got dosed by five times that."

"Surely," she murmured, her thoughts dreamy, "it's
not sold that way. No one could enjoy it."

"I wouldn't know," Sam said. "I expect it's diluted.
But aromatics aren't my business."

They had descended some thirty meters. Sam lev-
eled off, swam down a narrow natural canyon. The
light at this depth was barely evident. The normal

CACHALOT            125

spectrum-spanning colors of the hexalates were ho-
mogenized to a uniform dark blue.

"I guess there are some rich enough to afford to use
it straight," Sam was saying. "Though they don't swim
in half liters like we just did. No one smells that bad."
He chuckled. "A very tiny amount would be sum-
cent."

"You couldn't measure it small enough to use it
straight," she argued. "It has to be diluted. There can
be such a thing as being too overpowering."

She looked below them. A bottom fish was crawling
across the crystal sands. It walked on its lower fins
and sported a trunk like a tiny elephant, which it used
to probe at the sand for the small creatures dwelling
therein.

"What's that one called, Sam?" There was no re-
ply. She looked around. "Sam?"

He had vanished. Seconds ago he had been swim-
ming parallel to her and just behind. She turned,
kicked hard. Perhaps he had made a turn behind
some hexalate protrusion. But the canyon was steep
and relatively smooth-sided.

She stood treading water, hands on hips in a most
unhydrodynamic pose. "You're not being funny, Sam."
She was still drowsy from the effects of the perfume.
"I'm going back to the ship."

Something hard and unyielding wrapped around her
ankle. She felt it keenly through the gelsuit, gave a
little scream, and tried to pull free. She couldn't, but
when she looked down, it was to see Sam grinning at
her behind his face mask. He was leaning out of a
modest hole in the reef wall.

"Don't go back just yet," he said easily, ignoring her
furious expression. "I've something to show you. Why
did you think I brought you down here?"

More curious than angry now, she followed him as
he disappeared. She could touch both sides of the tun-
nel by extending her arms. Her suit light showed that

126

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

127

the roof and the floor were equally close. Of course, if
Sam could fit through...

They swam for several minutes. Then the tunnel
angled upward slightly. It was completely unexpected
when she broke the surface.

"What on earth? ..." A soft hissing sound came

from nearby.

"Air cylinder from our chemical stores," Sam said.

"Switch off your light."

She did so, blinked as her eyes adjusted, and then
sucked in her breath in surprise.

Lining the curving ceiling of the cave were a thou-
sand creatures that resembled starfish, only they
boasted rune dancing tentacles and a single greenish
eye in the center of their bodies. At the tip of each
tentacle was a glowing jewel, and the arms and cen-
tral body sparkled with lambent dust.

Each animal was a different color from its neigh-
bor: green, crimson, argent and gold, white and pur-
ple. Doubflessly the larger lights on the end of each
weaving tentacle were used to attract prey when the
cave was filled with water, as it would normally be.
She had the feeling they were outside on a clear night.
Only now she could actually reach up and touch the
stars. The ghostly firmament, constantly shifting to
some instinctive choreography, hummed down to her
as the massed creatures chatted at one another.

"Never . . . I've never seen anything so beautiful."
First the perfume, now this, she thought. The stars
were moving, crawling across each other as the ani-
mals hunted for better places on the ceiling.

"I don't understand ... the air ..." Hesitantly she
lifted her mask. Not only was the air breathable, but
it was fresh and sweet.

"There's enough pressure from the cylinder to hold
the water back for roughly half an hour," he whis-
pered to her. "The chromacules can survive much
longer than that without it."

He was behind her now, treading water easily, his
enormous arms enveloping her around her shoulders,
hands locked in front of her. The fresh oxygen, the
crawling, semaphoring stars on the ceiling, and the
lingering aroma of the Pheromonite combined to over-
whelm her. The tenseness that had been with her in
varying amounts since she had first landed on Cach-
alot left her completely. What was more, some of that
other, permanent tenseness faded away.

"You know," he was whispering in her ear, "the
water's not that cold."

"That cold? How cold is 'that' cold?" Her gaze was
fixed on the stars that weren't.

"That all depends, doesn't it?" he murmured. He
nodded toward the large cylinder. It lay on a flat area
several meters wide that was just above the waterlme.
A smooth glass beach.

Cora had never before made love under the stars.
The fact that the stars were alive and that she and
Sam were thirty meters beneath the surface of an
alien sea did not matter. Nor did the fact that they
were watched by a thousand dispassionate green eyes.

"Find anything?" Rachael extended a hand, helped
her mother back onto the deck.

"Not really." The bright sunlight burned Cora's
face.

Mataroreva was right behind her, slid up his mask.
"We did a lot of looking. Found many beautiful
things, but nothing that would help the investigation,
I'm afraid."

"You looked long enough." Rachael studied Cora's
back for a moment more, then added, "Pucara thinks
he's found something significant."

"That's more than any of the rest of us have been
able to do. Where is he?" Cora was grateful, no mat-
ter what the little researcher might have discovered.




128

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

129

"He's still down below, using the ship's duplicator
to make a copy of what he's found. Just in case."

"It must be significant." They all moved below.

Merced was working in the one large, below-decks
room, surrounded by familiar apparatus. He glanced
up briefly as they entered. "Any luck?"

"Not a thing." Cora shook her head. "You've had

some?"

"Maybe. I think it could be." He moved aside,

switched on the duplicator's viewer. They crowded
around the tiny screen. Cora felt Sam pressing close
behind her, shifted her stance ever so slightly. Appar-
ently he understood, because he moved back a step.

"Figures," Mataroreva muttered as he examined
the screen. "Another list. So what?"

"The figures line up economically with some mani-
fests I found. Here." Merced adjusted the instrument.
Words and quantities were superimposed alongside the
lists of numbers. "I found out what the town was
working, here on this reef." He looked up at their
guide. "Do you know something called Teallin?"

"Sure," Mataroreva said. "It's a mollusk, looks like
a perverted abalone. That's what the town was har-
vesting?" He nodded thoughtfully. "It would explain
why we've come across so few of them in our search.
The mature ones were all harvested, then?"

"That's what the records indicate."

"What's the significance?"

"I've been through the lists of what the first search
teams found when they arrived here to hunt for evi-
dence. There are fragments of everything you can
imagine, but no Teallin. Yet the town was just getting
ready to move, according to its fisher survivors. After
three months of anchoring here."

"It's a luxury item," Mataroreva said interestedly.
"Like most of the foodstuffs that are exported from
Cachalot. You can extract about a kilo of meat from
one mollusk. That may not sound like much, but the

stuff has a strong, smoky flavor. It's combined with
other foods, mixed to give them spice. And they'd
been gathering it for three months?"

Merced tapped the viewer screen. "Two shiploads
packed for transfer at Mou'anui. Several thousand
kilos. Just a footnote in the regular records, mixed in
with all their other work and their own food imports,
medicines, power packs, and other general inventory.
Just another statistic."

"So that's it," Mataroreva muttered.

"So what's it?" Rachael wondered. "Somebody put
it together for me, please." She looked apologetic.
I'm afraid I wasn't listening too closely." She tried to
hide her neurophon behind her.

"Teallin is perishable. It's packed in polymultiene
containers, vacuum-sealed until it can be transported
to its eventual processing destination."

"Oh—oft/ Vacuum-packed?"

"Not only that," Mataroreva continued, "but poly-
multiene is a chemical relative of the polymeric ma-
terial that the towns themselves were built upon.
When the search skimmers out from Mou'anui arrived
here, they found thousands of fragments of the stuff,
from finger-sized all the way up to square meters of
town-raft. And a lot of other related, unsinkable ma-
terial."

"I see," Rachael said.

"I've got to check this." He tamed, hurried up-
ward. Moments later they could hear him mumbling
into the ship's communicator. The signal would go out
instantly via satellite relay to the Administration Cen-
ter on Mou'anui.

"If this proves out," Cora said, "is it sufficient basis
for us to declare that a human agency was responsible
for all the destruction? Any local life thorough enough
to devour every human inhabitant would only natur-
ally consume all the available food it could get its
teeth into."




130 CACHALOT

"But we found packaged foodstuffs ourselves," Ra-
chael countered. "Some were exposed to the water
and decomposing."

"I know. And the Teallin was vacuum-sealed, too.
I don't see any attacking creature or creatures being
able to detect the food inside such containers. Yet it's
all gone. You'd expect that the previous searchers
would have found some of it."

"We're forgetting one thing," Rachael reminded
her. "All the attacks took place during a storm. Even
a mild storm could have dispersed any floating debris
quite rapidly."

"Yes, but every single container?"

Mataroreva rejoined them, glanced at each in turn.

"They didn't find anything?" Cora asked.

"On the contrary, they did. Polymultiene vacuum
containers, each about a meter square."

Merced looked disgusted. "That kills it. We're back
at square one again."

"Not necessarily," Mataroreva told him. "They
found some. Twelve, to be exact. They didn't show on
your list of recovered materials," and he indicated the
still glowing screen of the viewer that Merced had
been studying, "because all the edibles, for example,
were grouped together. What's more," and his eyes
gleamed, "all twelve were damaged. Now, friends,
what does that suggest to you?"

"Twelve!" Amazing how everything is falling into
place, Cora thought. "All broken. If animals had been
responsible, they would have emptied the twelve and
left the others. Instead, it seems we've exactly the op-
posite situation." She looked at Merced. "How many
containers did the town manifest list as ready for ship-
ment?"

"Eight hundred."

"Seven hundred and eighty-eight unaccounted for,
hmmm? Allowing for dispersal by wind and wave,"
and she nodded to Rachael, "I'd say that left rather a




CACHALOT            131

large number which have unaccountably disappeared."

"Even allowing for extreme weather," Merced
agreed. "It would normally be expected that some-
what more than twelve should have been recovered.
If animals were involved, they would not break into
sealed cases and leave a dozen that were already
open." He glanced at their guide. "What about con-
tainer fragments?"

Mataroreva shook his head. "Uh-uh. Only the
twelve. No pieces."

"Couldn't they have been listed with other contain-
ers of approximately the same size and composition?"

"No," he said positively, "Each polymultiene crate
is stamped with the name of its town, the day it's
sealed with whatever it's holding, who provided the
contents, and most importantly, the contents them-
selves. The searchers found other containers, but none
holding Teallin."

"Well." Cora slapped both hands on her knees,
stood up. "That's that, then. No more mystery. Some-
how a group of belligerents—local, human, or off-
world—are raiding the floating towns and destroying
any evidence that could implicate them."
"Pirates," Rachael said.

"Oh, Rachael, I'm not sure such an archaic term—"
"Why not?" Mataroreva asked. "As many millions
of credits, as many deaths, as we have? I can't think
of a more appropriate term."

They split, Merced to recheck his lists, Rachael to
strum her neurophon. She kept the range down, and
Cora left the stimulating projections behind as she
walked up on deck and moved to the stem of the
ship. Mataroreva went with her.
. "But why?" she muttered, staring down into the
clear water. Purple and yellow fish drifted beneath
her, vanished under the stem. "Whole towns, entire
populations?. . ."
"H you kill ten people or a thousand, the penalties

132            CACHALOT

are the same," Sam told her softly. "Once the first
step, the first multiple murder, is committed to cover
one's tracks, subsequent actions become routine.
You'll be wiped and personality reimprinted for the
first as much as for the second and third. Why risk

witnesses?"

"I suppose you're right." She tried to consider the

situation coldly, as a question of statistics and not of
individual lives. "At least we know what we're looking

for now, if not who."

"I imagine they're from off-planet," he speculated.

"I can't believe even part-time residents of Cachalot
committed mass murder for profit. For any reason.
But you're wrong about one thing. We're not going to
be looking for these people. At least, you're not. I'll
communicate our information and our theory to Ad-
ministration and they'll turn it over to my people.
This is peaceforcer work, not biology."

"I'd like to keep working," she argued. "Maybe we
have a good idea who to look for, but not how to lo-
cate them. They've covered their work thoroughly.

How can your people find them?"

He considered. "If this was a more technologically
developed world, I'd set up a scan for any shuttle-
craft leaving or arriving and have it searched for con-
traband materials. But Cachalot's satellite system is
nowhere near sophisticated enough to watch the whole
planet. Though they have to be getting the stolen

merchandise off-planet via shuttle.

"As to finding the local end of the business, that's

going to be tougher still. We can't search every town
and independent gathering vessel. Not only isn't it
practical—illegal goods could easily be dumped or de-
stroyed—but the Cachalotians wouldn't stand for it."
He grinned slightly. "Our citizens are very independ-
ent, as you may have guessed."
"What does that leave you with?"

CACHALOT            133

"Trying to catch them just before they act." He
sounded grim. "I don't like the implications there."

"Were the other lost towns also getting ready to
make full shipments?"

"Sorry. I had the same thought. That was one list 7
checked. Not only did they have varying stocks on
hand, but I'a, the second town attacked, had just fin-
ishing sending off its quarterly production only a few
days before it was wiped out."

"It could have been mistiming on the part of the
attackers."

"It could have been." He shrugged. "It doesn't mat-
ter."

"Why not?"

"Because I think we'll find, when we check the rec-
ords, that all produce, regardless of quantity, disap-
peared," and he went below.

He was gone quite a while. Cora did not move, con-
tinued to watch the subsurface denizens, to envy them
their freedom from thought. Much better to be able to
rely only on instinct, she mused.

"Well?"

"Everything crated for shipment," he told her. "No
sign of it. And that's not all. Merced and I made a
detailed study of the recovered-articles lists. Absent
from them is just enough in the way of water-resistant
valuables—power packs, generator units, converters,
and personal effects like jewelry—to give credibility to
our theory.

"Many personal items were recovered—sunk to the
bottom or found inside pieces of town. But enough is
missing to fit with our analysis. Our pirates were care-
ful to limit their greed. The absence of all such items
would have pointed to human agents long ago. But
just a few—now, they wouldn't be missed." One mas-
sive fist punched gently into its opposite palm. "I'd
like to meet these folks." His expression now was any-
thing but boyish. "Yes, I'd like to meet them."

134 CACHALOT

"Sam, how can you predict where the next attack
will take place since they don't rely on information
regarding which town is ready to ship?"

"Time for some inspired guesswork, I suppose. We
do know that every attack has taken place under
cover of bad weather. All towns have been alerted to
that fact. I've requested meteorological reports for this
quadrant of sea for the next week. All four towns
were within two thousand kilometers of each other.
Now we have something else to alert the towns to."

"Two thousand . . . that doesn't exactly pin them
down."

"There are only a dozen or so towns within that
region now, and another dozen bordering it. Of the
two dozen, the ones that will have to be extra careful
are those that will be subject to bad weather. That
reduces potential trouble spots somewhat," he insisted.

"We still have no idea what kind of weaponry
they're using."

He looked helpless. "No, we don't." There was a
yell from below. He and Merced exchanged words.

The report he had requested had been provided.
For the next five days only three towns were likely to
be subject to storm conditions.

"What were the time intervals between the previ-
ous attacks?" she asked.

"That's just it. There weren't any. Two of the towns
were destroyed within days of one another, and then
it was weeks before the third attack. There doesn't
seem to be any predictability to it."

"So all we know," she murmured, "is that three
towns might possibly be attacked within the next
week."

"I'm afraid so. We'll travel to one of them. Vai'oire
is closer to us than Mou'anui, and I want to talk to
the town council in person about what we've learned.
Certainly Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht ought to be
available at one town for sentry duty."

CACHALOT           135

"Why Vai'oire, other than its proximity?"

"No reason. It's as likely a target as Hydros or
Wasser. But there is another reason for our going to a
town, and it's because of you, not me."

"What's that?"

"After weeks on this boat I suspect you'd all enjoy
sleeping on something that doesn't rock quite so
much."

"Amen!" Rachael was coming up from below, with
Merced behind.

"Speaking for myself, I could certainly do with a
change," Merced admitted.

But Cora added nothing, instead turned silently to
gaze back down at the crystal reef. The rocking mo-
tion never troubled her. She was as at home in the
arms of Mother Ocean as ever she was on any stable
land.

x

Vai'oire was not land, of course, but it certainly
was stable. Cora could not see any motion when the
Caribe slid into one of the several docks that extended

into the ocean.

It was a quiet morning. Only a freshening breeze
hinted at any possibility of the predicted storm. A few
sooty clouds scudded past overhead, uncertain as yet
whether to retain their independence or to join to-
gether to bleed life.

As the craft entered the dock it passed above the
outskirts of the reef Vai'oire was exploiting. Sonarizers
kept the suprafoil well apprised of any dangerously
high hexalate formations.

"A coincidence," Sam assured her as they prepared
to link to the dock. "True, Rorqual was anchored off a
reef when it was hit. So was Warmouth. But the other
two were over open ocean, moving or following
schools. Sure, if they'd all been attacked when sitting
off a reef, we could predict exactly which town would
be struck next. Unfortunately, that's another common
denominator that doesn't exist, except as wishful think-
ing."

The Caribe gently touched the starboard dock. A
click sounded from bow and then stem as the
suprafoil locked into the dock. Then the boarding
ramp slipped into place. They descended, standing

136

CACHALOT           137

rubber-legged on a surface that did not sway beneath
them.

They were met by four locals. Three men and a
woman, all middle-aged or older. One of the men, a
short, portly Polynesian type, stepped forward to shake
hands with each of them in turn. He was bald on top,
had a fringe of white hair that ran around his head
like a three-quarter halo. All his features were round
and soft, like those of a cartoon figure.

"Ja-wen Pua'ahorofenua," he announced. Cora de-
cided that "Ja" would do. "I'm the current mayor of
Vai'oire. We received a General Alert report from
Mou'anui yesterday. Said that you folks had deter-
mined that human pirates—I had to look the term up
—or other Commonwealth intelligences were responsi-
ble for the crisis we've been living with these past few
months. That's hard for us to accept."

"Hard but not impossible, Ja-wen," the woman be-
hind him said. Cora had noticed her first. She was so
enormous that beside her Sam looked skinny. Yet as
with Sam, the immense volume of flesh looked firm,
and the rolls were minimal. "But then all of these at-
tacks are hard to accept."

"I know that, H'ua," the mayor said. "I just can't
imagine how any kind of human assault could get
through screens and prewam systems, not without
leaving at least a hint of how it had happened."

"Four towns lost and nobody knows anything," one
of the other men grumbled sourly. He wore an object
around his neck which looked like a single tooth. It
was at least sixteen centimeters across at the base, and
the point hung halfway to the man's navel. Cora won-
dered what creature it might have been wrenched from
and thought of what might still lie unobserved in
Cachalot's deeps.

Beads and shells formed the rest of the necklace,
alternating with light-emitting units. She wondered if

138

CACHALOT

it was some kind of personal ornament or perhaps a

local badge of office.

"At this point," the last speaker concluded, "I'd be-
lieve anything."

"That's the truth," the fourth member of the greet-
ing party said. "My five-year enlistment is up in a
couple of months. We're thinking of taking our sav-
ings, Suzette and I, packing up the kids, and maybe
moving to New Riviera or even someplace like
Horseye, where the dangers are known."

The mayor turned incredulously to his companion.
"You, Yermenov? You're lived on Cachalot all your

life."

"I know, and I want to live the rest of it. I'd rather
risk thirty years somewhere else than end up a miss-
ing statistic here."

"Well, I wouldn't worry about Vai'oire." Ja-wen
turned confidently back to his visitors. "You can un-
derstand our concern. We're all worried, but now that
we have some idea what to look out for, I'm sure we
can handle it. Vai'oire's a big, well-financed town. Our
defensive equipment is the latest available to private
buyers. If you people are certain of your—"

"We're as certain as we can be at this point," Cora
told him, "that people are responsible and that there's
not some unknown entity lurking about that's swallow-
ing towns whole."

"We knew that from the start, Ja-wen." The huge
woman spoke in a voice that bordered on the girlish.
"Too many pieces left floating about."

"Yes." Ja-wen leaned close to Cora, spoke conspir-
atorially. "I'm sure you've heard that part of our trou-
ble is preventing this information from starting rumors
we can't control. If something isn't done soon, some
shuttle pilot's going to hear about our problem and
word will get off-planet. Then it'll get on a liner going   ;

out-system, and before you know it, well—look at   (
Yermenov. A lifelong resident. If people like him

CACHALOT            139

start leaving, before long this world will be less than a
colony. We've already noticed unusual trouble in hir-
ing new specialists." He looked away, upset and em-
barrassed.

"What do you think the reaction of our young peo-
ple is going to be? Especially our brightest, away at
University? There's no institute of higher learning here.
You think they'll want to come back to face oblitera-
tion?" He shook his head.

"This has to be stopped, and soon." How like
Hwoshien he sounds, Cora thought. "Too many of our
friends have died already." And business is off, she
thought coolly. Then he said something which made
her regret her harsh appraisal.

"I understand you've come from the last docking
site of Rorqual Towne." She nodded. "The assistant
mayor there was my cousin. We've all lost friends or
relatives. For all its size, Mou'anui is a tightly knit
community, even if our knitting is via satellite. We
feel the loss of any of our fellow citizens personally.
But entire towns!"

"Whoever's responsible," Merced said confidently,
"is a candidate for mindwipe."

"Mindwipe," the mayor echoed, nodding slowly. "If
any of us lays hands on the perpetrators of these out-
rages first . . ." He left the sentence unfinished, but
elaboration was unnecessary. If the inhabitants got to
the pirates first, there would not be enough of the
outlaws left to reimprint with new personalities.

"Well, they won't find us unprepared!" he said
loudly. "We've nearly eleven hundred permanent resi-
dents here, and they all know what their day-status is.
We don't rely just on our automatics. Since the trouble
started, we've had people watching the monitors
twenty-five hours a day. We go on about our business,
but with an eye on each other's backsides." Cora won-
dered if the brave speechmaking was for their benefit
or for the mayor's.

140 CACHALOT

"What's Mataroreva doing?" The portly executive
was looking past them, toward the far end of the dock.
"I haven't seen him since last Harvest Holiday."

Cora turned with the others. Their guide was bent
over, conversing with the water. "We've a pair of
orcas with us. He's probably chatting with them." She
noticed he was wearing his translator.

"Drifters or associates?" one of the other men in-
quired.

"I don't know the precise meaning of those terms,"
Merced said, "but if you mean do they work with Sam
and humans on any kind of regular basis, I'm fairly
certain that they do, judging from what we've, ob-
served thus far."

"Very nice," the enormous lady, H'ua, chirped.
"They're the best early-warning system you can have.
I've always been sorry we've never been able to in-
duce one or two to associate with Vai'oire."

Mataroreva rejoined them, confirmed that he had
been talking with their black and white companions.
"I was setting them a patrol," he explained. "They'll
circle the town about a kilometer out. How shallow is
the reef you're working?"

"Breaks the surface in some places," Yermenov
said. "I'm fisheries supervisor for the town, by the
way. We're backed up to one end of the reef. It
spreads out in a fan shape, more or less, from where
we're sitting now. It's hundreds of meters across on
the other side of town, expanding to kilometers at its

greatest diameter."

"What are you thinking of?" Cora asked the pen-
sive Polynesian.

"Submersibles. They would be the most effective
means of attack. If they're emission-silent or screened,
or both, no satellite would detect them. And if they're
small enough and fast enough . . ." He shrugged.
"They could be the explanation. The reef here will
screen about a quarter of the ocean approach from

CACHALOT            141

any such underwater assault. I'm building an imagi-
nary defensive ring around the town."

"It doesn't matter," Mayor Pua'ahorofenua said
testily. "We'll keep our systems operative three hun-
dred and sixty degrees. Just in case."

"That's just what I'd do if I were in your position."

To Cora, the simple fishing and gathering village
was fascinating. On several of the ocean worlds on
which she had worked, floating resorts had been con-
structed on polymer rafts. Occasionally she had en-
countered an isolated floating research facility. Never
anything of this complexity, she mused. Not a com-
plete community, with homes and places of work and
recreation, of local commerce and schooling. Right
now the illusion was that people actually worked and
walked on solid land. It was at its most effective near
the center of town, away from the sea. The walkway
under her feet did not sway at all, yet she knew only
meters of extruded polymer separated her from the
depths. The compensators held the walkway and the
buildings surrounding it as steady and secure as a
padre's thoughts. If anything, it was more than natur-
ally stable. The surface she trod was smooth and
seamless, not shifting like the glass sands of Mou'anui
Atoll.

Some of the buildings rose three stories from their
raft foundations. Most roofs sported a fringe of small
dish antennae, like split bivalves, to receive and
broadcast via satellite.

"Looks like weather coming in," Mataroreva ob-
served as they turned toward a long structure which
the large woman had identified as her home.

H'ua glanced up at the darkening sky. "We're due
for a day or two of rain. Nothing serious, according
to the forecast. Mild winds and light chop. Besides,
the rain is good for us."
Merced frowned. "Why? I thought the floating

142 CACHALOT

towns produced all the fresh water they required
through desalinization."

"E mau roa—that's very true," H'ua replied. "For
drinking and cooking and most other functions, the
desalinated sea is quite sufficient." She winked at Cora
and fluffed the mane of long black hair that framed
her moon face. "But some of us traditionalists believe
that for washing one's hair, rainwater is a necessity.
Rain is also good for the soul."

They passed the house, turned up another street,
and eventually reached a two-story, molded rooming
complex. They entered a small reception area.

"You are our guests. It's not often Vai'oire has a
chance to display its hospitality to off-world visitors."
H'ua looked at Rachael, nodded toward the object the
girl held under one arm. "I understand you can actu-
ally play that witch's lyre?"

Rachael looked surprised. "How could you know?
Many people carry them and can only practice with

them."

Mataroreva smiled hugely. "That was one of the
less serious pieces of information I broadcast prior to
our arrival."

"You would honor us with a concert," H'ua added.

Rachael looked embarrassed. "Now, wait, I'm not a
professional, only an enthusiastic amateur and—"

"Anyone who can make a neurophon do more than
simply wail is more than a mere amateur." A huge
hand patted Rachael on the back. "Anyway, you are
a new and exotic quantity. Wear something skimpy.
If the music and projections are weak, the men won't
notice." She eyed the girl approvingly. "They may
not notice anyhow."

With a long, infectious, little-girl giggle, she turned
to lumber from the reception station. "You all have a
good time while you're here. Each room has its own
autochef, communicator, and tridee. There are broad-
casts from Mou'anui every day. If there's anything

CACHALOT            143

else you want, buzz me through your room corn on
the local network. I'm one-forty-six. My husband's
name is Taarii Maltzan, by the way. You won't get
him. He's out working the reef with the rest of the
gathering teams."

"Thank you," Cora barely remembered to say as
the woman left them.

The door to her assigned room was locked. That
was to be expected. In an area as restricted and iso-
lated as a floating town, privacy would be highly
prized. The door opened at the sound of her voice
and the application of her thumb to the recess in its
frame.

What was inside was totally unexpected, however,
and she nearly let out a yell. Her surprise was due to
the apparent absence of floor. Then she saw the re-
flections in the comers. Gingerly she stepped out onto
the transparency.

Her uncertainty rapidly gave way to delight. The
floor of the surprisingly spacious room was completely
transparent. Six meters below she could see wonder-
fully bizarre, multihued creatures swimming back and
forth, lit by lights someone had thoughtfully turned on
for her prior to her arrival. Meters farther lay a sandy
bottom spotted with hexalate formations.

On the clear floor sat a lounge and bed woven from
some dried blue sea plant, an exquisite chunk of
polish hexalate containing the tridee unit, and scat-
tered mats of spiral design and exquisite workman-
ship.

Cora knelt and ran her hands over the smooth
floor. The glassalloy was perhaps half a meter thick.
The room-wide shaft that continued deeper on all sides
was part of the polymer raft on which Vai'oire rested.
It was the lack of motion which had deceived her into
thinking she was stepping out into nothingness.

Further investigation revealed a hatch in the far
corner. It was part of the same transparent material.

144

CACHALOT

Steps cut into the white wall of the raft structure led
down to a bench resting just above the water. There a
guest could sit beneath the floor of her room and
bathe in complete privacy in the warm sea.

The guest building was located on the edge of the
town, so the water beneath would be relatively warm.
Rising, Cora found the one-way window which looked
out over the ocean and the small docks holding pleas-
ure craft. Outside, people walked past clad in the
familiar pareus, occasionally in a diving gelsuit. Small
children often went naked.

Such casual imagination expended on behalf of the
rare guest hinted at an industry only marginally ex-
ploited on Cachalot: tourism. She envisioned floating
hotels anchored above or near the seamount reefs and
atolls—and chided herself. Tourism and science rarely
mixed. No doubt the resident cetaceans would vigor-
ously oppose any such form of permanent floating de-
velopment. She should be devoting all her thoughts to
the serious mission at hand.

Though perhaps not too serious any more. Her
thoughts were not on enigmatic sources of death and
destruction, but on a cave filled with living stars. She
glanced around the empty room again and for the
first time in a long while felt the key word in the
description to be "empty." Maybe Sam would enjoy
sharing a dive. There was a new reef to explore.

She checked the other rooms assigned their party.
Merced was luxuriating in the shaft of his. Rachael,
he told her, should be on her way back to the boat,
in whose lower cabin she would practice frantically for
the demanded concert. As to the whereabouts of
Mataroreva, he had no idea.

She thanked Merced, cut off, and left her room.
Vai'oire was not so enormous that she wouldn't be
able to locate him. In the air of a muggy afternoon
she asked questions of the townsfolk.

For a while the answers were identical. "No,

CACHALOT            145

haven't seen him; yes, know who you mean, but I've
been out fishing all day; no, sorry..."

As she wandered around the town she came to feel
progressively more isolated. The differences hadn't
been so obvious back on Mou'anui. Many technicians
from off-planet worked at the Administration Center
and its processing facilities. Here on Vai'oire the ma-
jority of the population was of traceable Polynesian
ancestry. Their massive bodies and cafe au lait color,
encased only in pareus or skimpy diving gear, made
her feel like an awkward splinter of jet set among
twenty-karat topazes. She felt smothered by sweaty,
heaving flesh, pressing in on all sides.

Eventually she ran into someone who had seen
Sam. "The peaceforcer captain?"
She nodded energetically.

"He was headed over that way." The young man
pointed, added good-naturedly, "Two buildings down,
you turn to the left. Town Communications. I'll bet
he was going there."

Communications—yes, that made sense. She
thanked the youth, followed his directions carefully.
She needn't have been so intense. One could not be-
come very lost on Vai'oire, since all steps led eventu-
ally to the sea.

The structure was clearly marked, with curved cor-
ners. Its walls, like all on Vai'oire, were formed of a
light but extremely durable honeycomb plastic that
was impervious to salt corrosion and placed little bur-
den on the supporting polymer base; Several small
domes protruded from its upper sides and roof, along
with a broad dish antenna. An impressive array of
electronic webwork connected antennaes and domes
and other projections, spun of titanium and magensoy
and glass instead of silk.

Inside she found not a single worker. She was not
surprised. Automation and robotic sensors could han-
dle the prosaic, monotonous chores of aligning anten-

146            CACHALOT

nae and distributing long-distance bulletins. The bulk
of radiowave information went directly into the in-
habitants' homes, ready for display on individual

tridee units.

She finally found a man using one of several public
viewers. His home unit had blown a module and had

not yet been repaired.

"Mataroreva? Big fellow, real easygoing?" She
nodded. He jerked a thumb to his right, his attention
still wholly on the viewscreen. "Went into the library,

I think."

Two rooms farther on she found the town storage
bank. Thousands of tape chips with information on
everything from how to dissect local forms of poison-
ous fish to entertainment shows imported all the way
from Terra filled the slots in the bank. The room was
very small. No one except the librarian needed to use
the room, since the chipped information could be
called up on any screen in town.

Maybe Sam was hunting a restricted chip, or pro-
viding information to be stored and shipped hard copy
to Mou'anui, to back up his broadcasts. She tried the
transparent door. It wasn't locked. Yes, he was prob-
ably encoding a chip. For all his seeming frivolity, she
knew he was a diligent and conscientious worker.

She could surprise him as effectively as he had sur-
prised her. She opened the door quietly and slipped
inside. There was no sign of him ... no, there, toward
the back of the room, some noise. A local technician
was probably helping him, she realized. That would
spoil some of her surprise.

As it developed, her surprise was as total as she
could have wished, but she drew no joy from its effect.
A technician was also present, as she had suspected.
The trouble came from the fact that Sam and the
woman weren't engaged in research or programming.

Cora simply stood and stared, her expression com-

CACHALOT             147

pletely blank, like a mindwiped idiot awaiting imprint-
ing.

Oddly enough, her attention was focused mostly on
the technician, the stranger, who was taller, fuller, at
least ten years younger, than Cora. Sam moved
slightly away from the woman, shattered the incredi-
bly awkward tableau by doing the worst possible thing.
He smiled apologetically.

"Pardon me," Cora finally managed to say, with the
incredible calm that so often occurs in times of emo-
tional paralysis. "It wasn't anything important."

"Cora?" She had already left the room. He did not
follow.

Still icily composed, she exited the building. She
managed to get halfway back to the visitors' apart-
ments before she broke into a run. A few locals eyed
her curiously. There was no need to run on Vai'oire.
Everything was close to everything else.

Cora entered the reception area. The fates had
chosen to bestow a small favor: Rachael was not to
be seen. Stumbling into her room, Cora sealed the
door behind her. Then she collapsed on the woven
bed and lay there interminably, trying to cry. She dis-
covered that she could not. She laughed wildly, her
throat burning. Out of practice. Old habits die hard.
No tears fell from her eyes. Not for Sam, not for her-
self.

Exhausted, she eventually rolled over. Her head
hung toward the floor. Rainbows danced and swirled
beneath the distant water.

Why so upset? she asked herself silently, angrily.
What do you have to be so upset about? He promised
you nothing, he forced you into nothing. It was the
mildest possible seduction.

Yes? What about the cavern, then? Beauty that he
knew would overcome you. And you were overcome,
but he and the beauty were separate, and you will-

148 CACHALOT

ingly drank of both. So you wanted to make love to
him.

Integrate critical query: do you want more than
that? Don't know, don't know god I don't know. You
went into this with your eyes open. Yes, eyes open
and brain shut. Serves you right. You deserve what
you get in this life.

Then stop acting like a sixteen-year-old! You're al-
ways harping at Rachael for acting immature, and
you're acting worse than she ever has. When you see
him again, you go right on as if nothing has happened.
Yes . . . he's still in charge of the security end of this
expedition. You treat him that way. Polite, friendly—
and distant. If he so much as touches you ...

Again the fury rose like lava in the throat of a
volcano, subsided as quickly. How interesting to spec-
ulate, she told herself, on man's continuing familial
relationship with the ape. Don't blame Sam for a
species-wide lack of progression.

She rolled onto her back, studied the ceiling. Al-
ways the male must prove himself. You cannot be
mad at the leader of the baboon pack for acting like
himself.

She could cope with that reality. She had done so
for years. No reason to regress now. Sam had made
his point. She did not bother to debate the thoughts
behind his ludicrous little grin, back there on the floor.
How jejune!

Running back to her room, memory and confusion
and hurt all mashed together in her mind, she had
thought he had been taunting her, deliberately flaunt-
ing the woman at her. The male peacock flares his
feathers, she mused.

But that was asking too much of him. He had
never laid claim to eloquence or cunning, and now he
had demonstrated his lack of both. You were the one,
Cora reminded herself with satisfaction, who took the
situation in hand and spoke, made the decision to

CACHALOT            149

move. That smile was nothing more than a truthful
mirror of his inner vapidness. She had made a mis-
take. Sam Mataroreva was not merely boyish in ap-
pearance and manner, he was a boy in all things. She
should simply treat him as such. Her expectations had
been too, too high. How she had permitted herself to
regard him as an admirable man she now could not
imagine.

Enough. She would relax with some tapes the re-
mainder of the afternoon, dine with the others as
pleasantly as possible, and have a good night's rest.
There was still much of the town to be seen, for who
knew wherein might lie the critical clue? Perhaps she
might even seek out that girl and ask her to show
them about Vai'oire. Yes, that was it, show her how
a mature woman can act. Let the other be the nerv-
ous one, awaiting the explosion that would never
come.

For now a nap would be a good idea. She would
have no trouble falling asleep. The autochef could
dispense things other than food. At the last moment
she changed her mind. Naturally induced tranquility
was better than drugged.

She lay back down on the bed, rolled over, and
darkened the window and floor. The anger had sub-
sided, the anxiety vanished. But though the room was
now as dark as night, she could not shut out the af-
terimage burned into her retinas of two bodies en-
twined on a floor.

Dinner proceeded with a forced amiability that
fooled no one. Rachael knew something was wrong
with her mother, but for once had the sense not to
open her mouth. Mataroreva ate with an unusual
single-mindedness, letting Rachael and Merced carry
the conversation.

After dessert he brightened, however, at a thought.
"Listen, there's going to be a spectacle on the reef to-

150

CACHALOT

night. The townsfolk are used to it already, so we
ought to have the entire reef to ourselves."

"What kind of spectacle?" Cora displayed more in-
terest than she felt.

"Well," Mataroreva hurried on, believing that he
had genuinely aroused her interest, "it involves a na-
tive cephalopod. It doesn't look like a squid or sexa-
thorp. More like a ball with tentacles."

He withdrew a sketch film from his pareu pockets,
then a stylus. The instrument was wielded with sur-
prising delicacy by his thick digits. The creature he
outlined was actually more ellipsoidal than spherical.
Four squat fins protruded from one end while a ring
of six or seven tiny eyes orbited the other. Each eye
had a long tentacle set just above it. A single round
mouth rested in the center of the ocular ring.

"They range in color from a vitreous green to a
light lavender," Sam told them animatedly. Rachael
and Merced were listening with interest. "They school
in the thousands over this reef."

"How big?" Merced asked.

"About the size of my fist." He made one by way
of example. "Plus the tentacle length."

"The town hunts for them?" Cora was intrigued de-
spite herself.

"No, not for them. There's a small fish, about the
size of my little finger ..."

"You have expressive hands," she cut in. "Two ex-
amples already."

He eyed her uncertainly for an instant, hunting for
hidden meanings before continuing. "The fish live in
millions of crevices in the reef. When they school, the
cephalopods arrive to hunt them—and to mate. When
they're mating they pulse like fireflies: the males, dif-
ferent shades of blue; the females, of red. They're
powerful bioluminescents. And they dance, a kind of
figure-eight weave. Thousands and thousands weaving
together, and pulsing every shade of red and blue."

CACHALOT           151

"Sounds like a subject for a new composition," Ra-
chael admitted, thinking of the neurophon languishing
back in her room. As she did so, her expression
drooped. "But I promised to do that concert."

"You didn't promise a particular night," Merced re-
minded her. "You can put off our hosts for a couple of
days."

"All right, tomorrow would be as good as tonight, I
suppose." She rose from the table. "Sure. I'll go tell
them, and get into my suit." She suddenly glanced
over at Cora, asked concernedly, "You coming along,
Mother?"

What an odd tone to her voice, Cora thought. Surely
I'm acting perfectly normal. "Of course I'm coming
along. It sounds very exciting."

"Good." Mataroreva put away his sketch film, from
which the drawing of the cephalopod was already fad-
ing. "At the northeast end of town you'll find a long,
isolated pier. It's tangent to the nearest portion of the
reef shallows." He checked his chronometer. "Sun-
down's in about an hour. We should meet at two in
the morning."

"That long?" Rachael was looking out a window.
"It's dark already."

"Clouds," he replied, following her gaze. "It's not
the darkness—the cephalopods have a particular
time of night. We'll all simply have to remain awake
for a while. The rain won't affect them, if it comes."

Excitement overcoming her sleepiness, Cora made
her way through the dimly lit streets of the town. So
late at night (early in the morning, she corrected her-
self), the majority of the townsfolk were long since
sound asleep.

She reached the edge of town, heard the water lap-
ping at the polymer raft. Ahead lay the pier. At its far
end she could make out several shadowy figures.

"We're all here," Rachael offered as Cora joined

152 CACHALOT

them. She was already poured into her gelsuit. Merced
was adjusting his mask. In fact, they were more than
all there. Now five figures were standing at the end of
the pier.

"This is our guide." Sam pointed to another shape
making final tunings of its own equipment. "There
are enough ins and outs to nightdiving a strange reef
to make it tricky. It would be hard to lose anyone, but
this is safer."

"I know that. You think I'm a complete idiot?" Ra-
chael looked sharply at her mother, and Cora could
see the puzzlement on her daughter's face through
faceplate and darkness.

"I'm sorry—I know you don't," she apologized.
"Naturally it would be sensible for us to have a
guide."

"I'll do my best, Ms. Xamantina," a voice said. The
fifth figure turned toward her. Cora stared. She trem-
bled just a little, and the quivering passed quickly. It
was the girl Sam had been with.

She extended a hand. Even in the dim light Cora
could discern the tenseness in the youthful face across
from her. "My name's Dawn. I'm the town librarian."
Cora resisted the urge to say something like, "That's
not all you are, lynx." Besides, Cora was not going to
lapse into adolescence now. She reached out with her
own hand, tried to will the nerves to numbness as they
shook.

"It's an honor to meet you." The girl spoke with ap-
parent sincerity. "We all know -that you've been
brought in by the government and the administration
all the way from Terra to help us with our misfor-
tunes. If anyone can solve them, I'm sure you can."

Come on, dear, Cora thought to herself. You're
overdoing it. Nonetheless, staring at the unlined young
face, she sensed that, given half a chance, this was a
woman she could come to like. At the moment she

CACHALOT            153

was unsure whether she still hated her or merely felt
sorry for her. This was an oceanographic expedition,
no matter its aesthetic coloration. Not a sequence from
a tired old tridee fiction chip. "Let's get going," she
said briskly. "It's late. Very late." That was true
enough. The sun would rise in another few hours.

Clouds blotted out the stars. A few drops, harbin-
gers of nocturnal precipitation to come, dampened
their now masked faces. Mataroreva produced a set
of diving lights, tiny high-intensity beam throwers that
could be held easily in one hand.

"What about predators?" Merced was speaking
through his headphone system now. "I'd expect there

would be many, unless Cachalot's carnivores are all
day feeders."

"They're not," Dawn informed him, "but the large
pelagics never swim in the reef shallows. Those that
do are too small to trouble more than one swimmer,
and there are five of us."

How obvious, Cora mused. Was Merced trying to
make the girl feel comfortable with them by pro-
viding her with a chance to display some knowledge?
It had to be that. She had seen and heard enough of
the little scientist to suspect him of several things, but
naivete wasn't one of them.

Naturally there wouldn't be a swarm of dangerous
predators about, or the cephalopods would not have
chosen this place and time for mating.

One by one, they turned on their hand beams, the
projectors clipped protectively to individual wrist
latches, and slipped quietly into the water.

The beam throwers were necessary to illumine their
surroundings. It was not necessary to search out a
companion with the lights because the gelsuits, in ad-
dition to being thermosensitive, were also thermolumi-
escent. While the gel controlled body heat, that same
heat was enough to excite the atoms of the suit ma-




154 CACHALOT

terial to fluorescence. So each swimming figure glowed
a soft yellow.

As they moved farther into the reef they encoun-
tered a myriad of phosphorescent hexalates and other
creatures, but nothing particularly unique. Cora had
observed similar phenomena on other worlds.

Then the reef seemed to drop abruptly away on all
sides and they were swimming in a vast open hollow, a
natural underwater amphitheater. Within that watery
bowl was one of the most magnificent sights anyone
could imagine. For a time Cora forgot her worries
about their assignment, forgot any memories of the
painful confrontation with Sam and Dawn back in the
town library. Forgot everything. Before her was glory
that eclipsed all anxiety.

If anything, Sam had underestimated the number of
cephalopods they could expect to encounter. Tens of
thousands wiggled and fluttered before them, around
them. Some danced in threes and fours. Others were
naturally partnered, while thousands more sought
partners amid the iridescent orgy of liquid copulation.
Myriad searchlights flared and pulsed around her.
Soon something neither Sam nor Dawn had mentioned
commenced about them.

The gelsuits shone yellow. Not red or blue. That
mattered not. Driven by curiosity, passion, or forces
unimaginable to mankind, the cephalopods began to
scurry around each bipedal figure. Cora discovered
herself enveloped in a multiple waltz of other-worldly
beauty and grace. She let herself drift, suspended in
luminescence, as blue and red spheres jigged and
courted about her hands and head and legs.

Peering through the tentacled brilliance, she saw the
yellow figure of Rachael surrounded by an attentive
court of dazzling luminaries, a flavescent nucleus or-
bited by blue and crimson electrons.

She raised one of her hands. Immediately two of

CACHALOT            155

the blue cephalopods began a stately pirouette about
her fingertips, twisting and somersaulting with gravity-
defying grace. Another bumped against her faceplate,
making her jerk instinctively. But it was a soft,
powder-puff collision. She stared into septuple alien
eyes, cat-slitted and rich purple, trying to bridge a
chasm of intelligence and evolution. Blankly, the dis-
appointed creature drifted away with a hypnotic wave
of its tentacles.

Treading water easily, she remained above the bot-
tom, below the surface. There was no sky above, no
ground below. She was adrift in a sea of stars. She
had to force herself to think of the proximity of sharp
hexalate blades which could rip gelsuit or airflow
headpiece. In such light, devoid of reference points,
one could easily become disoriented and swim into the
reef wall.

Despite such dangers, she found herself wishing she
could slip free of the suit skin to swim naked and
clean in the dark water, convoyed by gently bobbing
blue and red lights.

She held up both hands now, watched as a dozen
males teased and courted her fingers. She moved her
hands up and down and the ellipsoidal forms matched
her movements exactly, never pausing in their gener-
ative ballet. I'm a conductor, a conductor of life, she
thought in wonder. She crossed her arms, and the
hopeless suitors again changed their dance to mimic
her motion. Bodies tumbled and spun, stubby fins pro-
ducing astonishing agility in the water. Two opposing
tentacles were always held stiffly out to the creature's
sides, acting as stabilizers.

Wondering how they would react, she brought her
two hands together, forming a single, larger yellow
mass. Would they fight, or freeze in confusion at the
unexpected merger?

The did neither. Instead, the obsessed dozen van-




156          CACHALOT

ished with appalling speed. She blinked, wondering if
her vision was at fault. Not only were her suitors gone,
they all were gone, as if they had never been there.
Thirty thousand azure and vermilion globes had dis-
appeared as if cut off by the turning of a single bio-
logical switch.

XI

F

' or several long, horrifying moments she was ut-
terly alone, suspended in black limbo save for the
penetrating beam of her hand light.

Then she made out other swimming, yellow forms
and their individual hand beams.

"What was that?" she inquired of everyone in gen-
eral and no one in particular via her mask broadcast
unit. "What happened?"

"Where did they go?" Rachael asked, sounding con-
cerned.

"Did we frighten them?" Merced appeared on her
right. The five figures came together.

"Dawn, I thought you said that there are no large
predators in here." Predators did seem a likely ex-
planation for the cephalopods' reaction. They would
douse their lights and scatter for shelter.

"I don't think there are, Cora." The girl sounded
curious, not defensive, which was why Cora was in-
clined to believe her.

They were interrupted by a flash of dull light from
overhead. Cora wasn't the only one who experienced
an instant of panic before the explanation reached
them in the form of a low rumble of thunder, muted
by the water.

"Lightning," she muttered. "Could that scare
them?"

157




158

CACHALOT

"It's possible," Dawn agreed. "I'm not enough of a
specialist to be able to say."

"Possible perhaps." Cora recognized Merced's
thoughtful tone. "But why should other light startle
them that way, when they generate such an immense
display themselves? Maybe that particular wave-
length? ..."

As she listened, Cora was distracted by a peculiar
tickling inside her head. It was almost familiar. She
had the strangest sensation—Then she felt herself be-
ing moved forcefully to one side.

But no hand had touched her, not even Sam's mas-
sive ones. As enormous volume of water had been
displaced somewhere nearby. Yet Dawn continued to
insist on the absence of large predators. Maybe the
girl was no specialist, but Cora granted her the bene-
fit of local experience, which she knew was often
worth much more than theoretical studies.

But there was something. She sensed it, felt it
through her suit. It had moved a mountain of ocean
and frightened the milling cephalopods into instant

oblivion.

Another flash from above momentarily lit the trans-
lucent water, a second dim rumble echoing forever
behind. She briefly saw her companions outlined in
light blue. Still no sign of anything else. Only gleaming
hexalates and nothing more. Whatever had terrified
the cephalopods had done the same to all other local
motile life.

In the center of Vai'oire was a tall, thin building
within which was a dense assemblage of the most
complex machinery in the town.

Two men monitored the instruments. They were
conscientious and attentive to their tasks. One was
presently visiting with a member of the opposite sex
in a corridor just off the main chamber. His compan-
ion remained behind, until he decided that it was vital

CACHALOT

159

he attend momentarily to certain critical bodily de-
mands.

No one saw the dial on one panel swing from one
end to the other. No one saw a fluorescent grid sud-
denly swarm with electronic pollen. The aural alarms
went off seconds later. Alert functions were beyond
the immediate reach of the busily occupied man in
the corridor. Ignoring pants and awkwardness, his
partner in the bathroom rushed for the general alarm.
He was also seconds too late, as the general alarm
system, the men, the building, and the community of
Vai'oire began to disintegrate.

Cora rested in the water, puzzled by the inexplica-
ble sudden swell. Hasty questions and theories were
exchanged by the five swimmers. Before any conclu-
sion could be agreed upon, the water around them
fragmented into a dozen arguing whirlpools, accom-
panied by a continuous, modulated rumble.

Cora was thrown about like an ant in a storm. She
kicked frantically to recover her equilibrium before
the turbulence threw her against an outcropping of
sharp reef. In the darkness and chaos something
locked onto her right arm. Water pulled the opposite
way. She felt as if her arm would be torn from its
socket and screamed inside the face mask.

But the grip held her tight. Looking around, she
saw the contorted, straining face of Sam Mataroreva
behind his faceplate. His other arm was locked around
the protruding spine of a hexalate bemmy. Another
figure also clung tightly to the formation: Rachael.

Then Sam had drawn her back to the sheltered side
of the growth. The water there was still angry and
confused, but the violence that had tossed Cora was
greatly diminished.

As the rumbling continued, rising and falling to no
recognizable pattern, Cora thought of a seaquake. She
suggested it to Sam.

"Can't be," he replied, sounding tired and frus-

160

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

161

trated. "Not that these old seamounts aren't subject
to seismic disturbances—they are. But this one's too
localized. We would be feeling the effects more where
we are right now, more toward the center of the
mount and the reef. Instead, the disturbance is off-
shore, toward the deeps."

Other figures fought their way toward the three
refugees. First Merced, then Dawn, drifted past. Like
a hesitant fisherman, Sam swam out to aid first one,
then the other. Soon all the swimmers were huddled
fearfully behind the protective mass of the bemmy.

"It's definitely coming from the area of the town,"
Mataroreva murmured. "I'm going up. Maybe I can
see something."

"Me, too."

He looked at Cora's glowing, tiny form, said noth-
ing. Then he was swimming surfaceward, keeping
safely behind the bulk of the formation. Cora fol-
lowed.

As they neared the surface the turbulence increased
considerably. Cora had to climb upward, keeping a
constant grip on the hexalate protrusions lest the surge
knock her from its protective mass. The disturbance
did not suggest a storm.

They broke the surface. This time Cora almost lost
her grasp as a huge swell smashed into her. It knocked
her face mask askew and she had to fight to clear and
reposition it. A fresh flash of lightning lit the roiling
waters and unmuted thunder assailed her exposed
head. It was raining steadily, but the wind was mod-
erate. The violence of the waves allowed them barely
half a minute above the water, which was sufficient
to imprint forever on her memory the fantastic im-
ages before them.

Bits and pieces of the town of Vai'oire were float-
ing past and around them. Violent smashing sounds
mixed with a few faint, distant screams and the action

of wind and wave. All of the town lights had gone out,
including those independently powered.

Four colossal, monolithic forms rose from the water
like a piece of the planet's crust. Breaching in unison,
the quartet of blue whales fell simultaneously onto
what remained of the now exposed central portion of
the town. Huge sections of plastic wall and roof ex-
ploded in all directions. Something irregular and heavy
made a whooshing noise as it flew past Cora's head,
to land in the water far behind her. Something smaller
wanged metallically off the front of the bemmy. Then
Sam was practically dragging her below.

The rumbles continued to assail the swimmers,
reaching their hiding place in the depths. The noise
was growing fainter as Cora numbly informed the
others, "We thought it was people, but it's been the
whales all along. I was so sure a human agency was
responsible."

"Then the catodon lied to us." Rachael treaded
water slowly.

"Lumpjaw insisted be knew nothing. Maybe they
don't."

"Probably not." Mataroreva's face was ashen be-
hind the mask. "What the old one said to us about the
baleen whales being incapable of mounting such a co-
ordinated enterprise is damn true. Yet you and I just
saw four of them operating in perfect unision. They
knew exactly what they were doing, and they were
going about it as methodically as any intelligent mil-
itary group could. I'm pretty sure I had a glimpse of
a couple of humpbacks working off to the west.
Humpbacks! They're usually as gentle as children. If
we'd been able to look around, I suspect we would
have found fins and seis and minkes and all the other
baleens out there, too.

"But I didn't see any toothed whales, and I was
looking for catodons. Until we have proof they were




162

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

163

involved, I'm not going to condemn them with their
less intelligent cousins."

Dawn's voice was agonized. "How can you hold the
baleens responsible? I'll bet the catodons are control-
ling them, directing them! It's all! ..."

Mataroreva shook her. "I know this doesn't make
any sense. Crazy—it's all crazy. Let's not fantasize,
though. Let's stick with what we know."

"What about our defenses?" she mumbled. "Some-
one ... we should have detected the approach in
plenty of time to give the alarm."

Mataroreva considered. "The whole business was
planned perfectly from beginning to end. They knew
exactly what they were doing. Probably they hit the
defense center first. What went wrong there is some-
thing we'll never leam."

"How could a bunch of dumb baleens know all

that?" Dawn moaned.

"Someone must be telling them. Someone has to,
unless . . ." He hesitated, then went on. "Unless the
baleens and the catodons, all of them, have been hid-
ing abilities and desires we know nothing about."

"That's a pretty far-fetched hypothesis," Cora com-
mented.

"I'm willing to accept a better one."

"Could a human agency somehow be controlling

the baleens?"

"I don't see how." But she could see he was seri-
ously considering the idea. "No group of humans
could so completely dominate and direct a pod of in-
telligent whales. Not by any known technique." His
hand gestured, a glowing pointer in the water.

"There must be a couple of hundred cetaceans
functioning in chorus out there to generate such total
destruction in so short a time. No wonder the other
towns never even had time to send out a warning."

"I think we'd all do well to be silent for a while."

Merced was looking away from them, around the hex-
alate tower.

"Why?" Cora asked.

He pointed toward the town, to where the reef
sloped off into deeper water. "I think I just saw some-
thing move."

They went quiet, huddling together tight against the
finger of silicate. The rumbles had vanished, and the
water, though still disturbed, was silent.

Cora couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw a
great silver-gray wall sliding past in the blackness. It
was only a dim outline on the far boundaries of per-
ception. She cursed their gelsuits' irrepressible lumi-
nescence. The sight reminded her of nothing so much
as a shark on patrol, and she shuddered, cold now
despite the warming efficiency of the suit.

The outline faded into the blackness from which it
had emerged, but they continued to stay bunched to-
gether and silent. With their suits automatically as-
sisting in respiration, they might have slept in shifts,
those awake monitoring the regulators of their somno-
lent companions. They tried to do so, but no one
could fall asleep. The gelsuits could modulate air and
warmth but could do nothing where fear was con-
cerned.

Gradually, an eternity later, the water around them
began to lighten. The storm had long since moved on.
Sunlight was once more turning the water to glass,
sparkling off the brilliant reef growths. The day swim-
mers appeared, poking at crevices in the hexalates for
food and amusement. Long, multihued fronds hesi-
tantly unfolded from their hiding places, began to
strain the water for microscopic sustenance.

All was normal save for the presence of thousands
of inorganic objects drifting on the surface. Some sank
slowly past the five tired swimmers, who made their
way carefully to the light. Around them drifted the
remnants of the town of Vai'oire, shattered and torn.




164

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

165

Sections of housing, packages, clothes, and personal
effects bobbed eerily on the gentle current. Meter-
square hunks of polymer raft dominated the flotsam
like miniature icebergs. The superstrong polymer had
a breaking point of several tons per square meter, a
point which the rampaging cetaceans had handily ex-
ceeded.

Incongruously human in the sea of technological
corpses, a doll drifted past. It was half sunk, badly
waterlogged already. Its head was bent and hung be-
neath the surface. Cora shied away from it as if it
could poison her through the water.

They remained next to the crest of the bemmy,
hanging onto it as they studied in stunned silence the
section of sea where the town had been anchored.

Considering that all her friends and associates, per-
haps relatives as well, had been killed, Dawn was
holding together surprisingly well.

"I'm going to hunt for survivors," Mataroreva an-
nounced.

"What about remaining cetaceans?"
He started swimming around the bemmy, looked
back at Cora. "I don't think so. I don't see any plumes
or backs. Not a fin in sight. They finished their work
last night."

Fin ... fin ... the way he said it made Cora think
of something else. Then she had it. There was no sign
of either Latehoht or Wenkoseemansa. Yet she had
been told the cetaceans did not fight among them-
selves. The cooperative action of the different whales
the previous night proved as much. But the effort it-
self, the hostile premeditated attack by the herd of
cetaceans, was so unprecedented that she wouldn't be
surprised to learn that the baleens had killed the two
orcas because they had been working alongside man-
kind.

Come to think of it, the orcas had been on patrol
last night but had sounded no warning. Were they

dead, or in league with the baleens? The plankton-
eaters had no teeth, nothing to bite or chew with. But
a tail weighing many tons could smash the skull of a
much smaller orca as easily as it could a section of
polymer raft.

Which survivors was Sam really worried about?

He searched for some thirty minutes before rejoin-
ing them. The current was already dispersing the broken
skeleton of the town. In the bright sunlight of morning
the remaining fragments took on a surreal aspect. It
was as if the town had never been, and something had
poured tons of garbage into the waters surrounding
this reef.

"No sign of them," he announced and then, seeing
Cora's questioning look, confirmed her thoughts. "Ei-
ther of them. I called and called. No one responded."
He forced himself on. "I didn't spot a single body.
What the hell do they do with the bodies?"

"I can't imagine," Cora said carefully. "The throat
of even a blue is too small to pass a whole man, and
they've nothing to chew a person up with." Rachael
looked ill. "Anyway, why would they suddenly switch,
after millions of years, from a diet of krill to much
bulkier food?"

"Then what do they do with the bodies?" Sam mut-
tered again.

No one had any ideas. At that point, everything
caught up with Dawn. They took turns comforting
her, calming her. Only Cora stayed aside. She was
nauseated by her own thoughts: the wish that Dawn
had perished along with the rest of the town. Her re-
action was only human, but sometimes the thoughts
that cross a human mind can be appalling. How thin is
the veneer of civilization.

Rachael and Merced did a better job of soothing
the distraught girl anyway. Cora forced personal mat-
ters from her mind by concentrating relentlessly on
the problem at hand.




166

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

167

"We have enough nutrients in our suits to keep us
going four or five days." She pulled herself up onto
the smooth top of the bemmy, slid aside her mask.
"We can rest here without having to swim and can
conserve our strength." She looked at Sam. "I'm sure
we can find something in the way of local life to sup-
plement our suit diet." She gestured at the surround-
ing debris. "There should be some useful material
among all this, food included. We'd better start look-
ing for it before the current carries it beyond our
reach." And, she mused silently, it will give us some-
thing to do besides think.

Even Dawn participated in the search, hiding her
sobbing behind her mask. They found a considerable
amount of packaged food floating on the surface.
Much of it was inedible. Either the vacuum seals had
cracked, or it was designed only for use in automatic
cooking units. But some was both intact and directly
edible.

A great deal of torn, lighter-than-water cable
drifted about like yellow seaweed. These lengths
served to tie the packages of food to the tops of sev-
eral bemmies. The pattern thus formed would also
serve to attract high-flying skimmers.

Merced suggested they employ one or more of the
emergency transmitters located in the instrument belt
of every gelsuit. The idea was vetoed by Mataroreva.
They still could not discount completely the possibil-
ity that a human agency was somehow involved in the
attacks. Setting up an emergency beacon might draw
visitors to the reef other than those desired. Besides,
the lack of communication from the town would draw
investigators soon enough.

Quite unexpectedly, they did come across three
closely grouped watertight containers from their own
sunken suprafoil. Two contained delicate research
equipment for the study of underwater life. That was
a laugh, Cora thought. They would be doing nothing

but studying undersea life for the next several days,
perhaps for weeks, until someone thought to send out
a skimmer or a ship to see why the town of Vai'oire
was not responding to signals.

She couldn't decide whether to be pleased or disap-
pointed at the contents of the third container. It was
filled with personal effects that were of no use to any-
one in the water, and included Rachael's neurophon.
Her daughter, of course, was overjoyed. To Cora's
relief, however, she wouldn't chance playing the sen-
sitive instrument, much as it would have relaxed her.

Not that the sealed, solid-state electronics would be
damaged by a little water, but Rachael was unwilling
to risk dropping the device from the uncertain perch
of a bemmy top. It would not float. So she left it
sealed in, together with the other two containers, and
tied to the top of a silicate projection.

They spent the next few days examining the rest
of the debris as it was dispersed by wind and wave.
Mataroreva made longer and longer swims out to sea,
disdaining the comparative shelter of the reef. He
claimed to be searching for weapons as well as for ad-
ditional food supplies.

Cora knew otherwise. She stayed tuned to his
broadcast frequency, listening to his plaintive calls. He
was still seeking the pair of missing orcas. As the days
passed without any reply from the empty sea, he grew
more and more morose. Less time was paid to
his companions, to eating, to anything other than his
muscle-wearying swims. Cora began to feel that his
attraction for the two whales was obsessive.

Or was it simply that in spending so much time
seeking them, he was ignoring her?

At least his obsession was inclusive. He ignored
Dawn as well. And despite herself, Cora felt increas-
ingly sympathetic toward the girl. She was too young
to take so much death in stride.
They continued hunting for a body or two. A




168            CACHALOT

drowned human would eventually rise to the surface
through the production of gas via decomposition. But
they found not an arm or a leg or anything to indicate
that hundreds of human beings had once occupied this
section of sea. To Cora, their absence posed as great
a mystery as the still inexplicable assault of the

baleens.

The food from the packages was a welcome change

from the bland liquid nutrients supplied by their suits,
Cora finished her lunch, slid back into the water. They
were entering their fourth day in the sea.

Such an existence compelled her to consider the
catodon's way of thinking. Four days of eating, sleep-
ing, and living in near open ocean is enough to affect
anyone's outlook on life. Once she had spent fourteen
consecutive hours in the water, but that was nothing

compared to four days.

A gentle current rocked you to sleep. You would
awaken beneath the surface of the sea, to find a glass-
faced human hovering above you and mumbling con-
cerns. Once or twice a day it was time to bathe out-
side your gelsuit. It began to seem foolish to get

dressed to get back into the water.

The reef became home as well as refuge. Certain
hexalate growths grew as familiar as any furniture.
Several territorial teleosts greeted the swimming hu-
mans as associates, if not friends. Cora found herself
worried one morning when a favorite blue and pink
fish failed to appear on schedule, and was relieved

when it finally did.

At night they glowed alongside their protective
bemmy, one remaining on watch while the others
slept. Thousands of nocturnal reef dwellers com-
menced to fill their half of the daily cycle of life. She
nearly forgot what it was like to be a land-dwelling
creature. Her legs were accustomed to functioning in
smooth, alternating kicks now. How much easier, more
graceful, it was than walking!

CACHALOT            169

Given gills instead of the confining gelsuit, she be-
lieved she could adapt readily to an oceanic existence.
She found that she didn't miss solid land at all. In fact,
if assured of an ample supply of food and fresh drink-
ing water, she felt she could live this way for months
on end.

Her enthusiasm was not shared by her companions.
Of the four, only Mataroreva seemed at home in the
water. There his great bulk was neutralized and he
became as graceful as a seal. But his moroseness
turned to bitterness as the days passed. When he
talked to Cora or the others, it was with an increasing
and unnatural brusqueness that was quite unlike him.

By now the last floating fragments of the town of
Vai'oire had been carried off by the current. Any-
thing potentially useful to the five refugees had been
secured. Rather than drift and think, Cora tried to do
some serious work.

It was while she was studying a particularly inter-
esting anemonelike creature that Dawn swam down
to join her. Bubbles rose like clear jelly from the back
of her breathing unit.

"You mustn't blame Sam, you know."

"What? What makes you think I blame Sam for
anything?"

"I've seen the way you watch him, react to his
presence," the girl said. "It's there in the way your
body moves, and in your eyes behind your mask."

Cora turned away from the purple fan she had
been examining, looked around. She and Dawn were
alone. Whatever expression the girl wore was distorted
by the mask. Only her eyes could be seen.

"Sam—Sam's problem is that he genuinely loves
everybody," Dawn explained. "You mustn't think of
me as a rival."

Cora looked away nervously. That was precisely
how she had come to regard her.
"It wasn't only me, you know," the lithe young




170

CACHALOT

woman continued. "I think Sam must know half the
women on Cachalot. They all like him. Why shouldn't
we? He's a wonderful, charming man. But a perma-
nent mate?" She shook her head, the motion given an
unintentional portentousness by the resistance of the

water.

Cora checked to make certain her broadcast unit
was operating with only enough power for this inti-
mate person-to-person conversation. "What makes you
think I was considering Sam as anything more than

a ..."

"Oh, come on," Dawn scoffed gently. "You're as
transparent as the water here. Don't you see that I'm
trying to help you?"

"Don't do me any favors," Cora replied coolly.

"Sam—he . . ." The girl looked thoughtful. "He
isn't designed to love just one woman. Some men and
women aren't. He truly loves everyone, and feels—
though he might not be able to articulate this feeling
—that he should spread that great love around."

"I think you and I define love in different ways."

"Maybe we do, Ms. Xamantina. Maybe we do."

"Call me Cora."

"Thank you." Dawn smiled gratefully. "I'd like
that. I'm only giving you a piece of advice, believe
me. It's absurd for you to think of me as a rival for
Sam's permanent affection. You can't compete for
something that isn't available."

"That remains to be seen. You seem awfully cer-
tain of yourself and your appraisal of Sam."

"It isn't just Sam," the girl said, oddly reflective.
"It's Cachalot. Sam was bom here. So was I. If you
had been bom here, you'd understand his attitude bet-
ter than you seem to. The competition is more than
you imagine, and yet isn't really competition at all."

"If you're trying to puzzle me, I don't pay much at-
tention to riddles."

CACHALOT

171

"No, I'm not trying to confuse you." Dawn sighed,

partly out of resignation, partly from exasperation.
"Then tell me straight what you're talking about."
The young woman hesitated. "I think it may be

better for you if you find out for yourself. I'm not sure

you'd believe me anyway."

"You're still doing a poor job of putting me off
through confusion and mystery."

"Never mind." Dawn turned to swim away. "For-
get it."

"Just a minute." Cora put out a restraining hand.
"Whatever happens, you should know that I'm terri-
bly sorry for the destruction to your life here. I know
that most everyone you liked or loved probably
perished with that town. But I've been through too
much in my own life to give up a chance at a man like
Sam. I've tried to hate him for being with you, but I
can't." She shrugged. "There's no such thing as a sci-
entific approach to love."

"I'm not asking you to give up anything," the girl
insisted. Then she smiled shyly and unexpectedly. "In
fact, though you probably won't believe this, either, I
wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks. I wish you the same."

Dawn shook her head again, slowly. "You still
don't understand. Someday I hope you will."

CACHALOT            173

XII

I'm beginning to get itchy, and it's not from living
in this gelsuit," Merced said as he and Cora sat atop
the familiar bemmy. They had their masks pushed
back and were breathing real air. It seemed unnatural
to Cora. The gaseous world was cold and harsh com-
pared with the gentle homogenized environment be-
low the surface. She was anxious to return there.

"There should have been an inquiry by now," Mer-
ced continued. "A skimmer ought to have arrived to
check up."

"Not necessarily," Cora argued. "It may not arrive
for another two, three days. Even if they tried to con-
tact the town immediately after the disaster, it would
still take time to decide that the quiet was due to some
catastrophe rather than, say, to a power failure, and
then more time to get a ship out here. Remember how
long it took us."

"Why a ship? A skimmer would be faster."

"I know, but a skimmer doesn't have the carrying
capacity of a—" She stopped in midsentence, staring.

Merced tried to see what had caught her attention.
He located it as she identified it. "A skimmer would
be faster, but not if there's a ship in the area."

Two dark blotches marred the southwestern hori-
zon. Merced had a bad moment when he thought they
might be whales coming back to make certain no one

had escaped. Then the slight spray from their flanks
became visible. "Suprafoils!" He slipped his mask
back over his head. "Thank goodness. I was getting
sick of field work. Let's inform the others."

Together they dropped into the water, where their
transmissions could be picked up by their companions.

Rachael was the first to rejoin them, towing the
crate containing her neurophon. "I can play again! It's
been too long."

"Withdrawal symptoms?" Cora commented sardo-
ically.

"Yes." Rachael was too excited to respond to the
sarcasm.

Dawn arrived next, followed closely by Mataroreva.
"You sure they're foils?" He spoke to Merced.

"Unmistakable. Two of them."

"That's funny." He sounded puzzled. "I would've
thought a skimmer from Mou'anui would have arrived
first. It's too soon for a foil from Administration Dis-
patch."

"Probably these were fishing in the area," Dawn
suggested hopefully, "When Mou'anui got the word."
Her voice dropped. "Or rather, didn't get the word.
They would come here if a general broadcast was
made, as it should have been."

"Makes sense," Mataroreva conceded. "We'll know
in a few minutes what they're doing here."

Cora frowned at him. "What are you talking about,
Sam? You still subscribing to the theory that humans
are somehow directing the baleens?"

"I'm not subscribing to anything except caution,"
he shot back. "We've nothing to lose by spending a
little while longer in the water. We can wait a bit
more. And watch."

They did so, clustered tightly behind the bemmy,
their heads just above water. The pair of foils slowed,
settled into the nearby section of sea where the town
of Vai'oire had floated in peace not long ago.




174            CACHALOT

Distant splashings reached the hidden watchers. .,
Divers in gelsuits were dropping from both foils. Fran-
tic activity marred the smooth lines of the two ships.

Cora pushed back her mask, spoke directly to
Mataroreva, as he had insisted they all do. Suit-unit
transmissions, he had declared, were too easily de-
tected.

"See? They're looking for survivors." She moved as

if to start around the mound of hexalate.

He put out a hand, grabbed her. "Maybe." He stared
thoughtfully across the thin ridge that broke the sur-
face. "But if they're searching for survivors, why

haven't they broadcast their location?"

"Maybe they're just investigating, after receiving or-
ders from Mou'anui to do so," Rachael suggested.
"Maybe they know from previous experience that

there are no survivors."

"Investigating for what?" Mataroreva went silent.
They had their answer soon enough. Divers began
returning to their ships. Blocks and winches, magnetic
and straight, were dropped over the sides of each ves-
sel. Soon the men were hoisting individual crates ana
bits of selected debris on deck. The flotsam was then
neatly stacked and tied down. It had the air of a well-
practiced operation.

"Instrumentation." Mataroreva squinted across the
sunlit surface. "Ah, and there's a couple of freshly
sealed containers. What do they look like to you,

Dawn?"

"Those are vacuum cylinders." Her voice was low,

almost trembling. "They would hold fragrance extracts

and spices: town cargo."

Mataroreva glanced over at Cora. "Do you think
they're salvaging that stuff to put the proceeds of sale
into an account benefiting surviving relatives of Vai-
'oire's dead? Or maybe to raise a memorial to them?
Look how fast they're working! They're pushing them-
selves to finish before the first official observers arrive.

CACHALOT            175

"It makes sense now. Our first guess was right. We
suspected either whales or men, but not both function-
ing in tandem. Somehow these people are controlling
the cetaceans. I can't believe the whales are working
for them of their own free will. They have nothing to
gain.

"First the whales, their activities somehow coordi-
nated by these vultures, destroy a town. Then their
human Svengalis rush in and rake up anything of
value. If anyone happened to stumble in when a town
was under attack and get safely away, the cetaceans
would get the blame."

"I can't imagine," Cora muttered, "how anyone
could control and direct a large group of cetaceans
like that."

"Neither do L But I will find out."
"What do we do now?" Rachael asked.
Mataroreva continued to study the busy operation.
"There appear to be about twenty crew per ship.
Many of them are diving. Maybe we can take one of
the ships. Even if we can't get away, possibly one of
us might make it to the ship's transmitter. We could
at least explain what's been happening. That would
doubly alert all the .other towns. Might even frighten
these people off. We have one advantage anyway."

"I'd trade all our advantages for a beamer," Mer-
ced murmured, his right hand tightening around an
invisible one.

"We know the reef," their guide continued. "We've
been swimming over and through it for days. We'll
head for the nearest foil at dusk. In the dark, we'll
glow just like those pirates. They'll still be diving after
the sun goes down, as anxious as they must be to fin-
ish up and clear out of here. If we can just get on
deck before someone raises the alarm, we should at
least have a good chance at their transmitter."

"I'm for the transmitter." Dawn looked eagerly at
the nearest bobbing vessel. "I know communications.

176          CACHALOT

I bet I can get off a signal faster than any of you. In

the dark, if need be."

"Sounds good. We'll take the boarding ladder the
last diver uses. I'm up first."

"No. Let me go."

Mataroreva stared in surprise at the soft-voiced

Merced.

The little scientist continued with gentle relentless-
ness. "They may not have any oversized specimens in
their crews," he explained. "Your suit glow will be the
same, .but your mass will not. I'm more normally built
and less likely to be noticed than any of you. Also
less intimidating."

Mataroreva considered, then nodded slowly. "You
make good sense. Now, what about weapons? We
can't chance jumping one of their divers. They'll prob-
ably work in pairs or trios, and one would be sure to
sound a warning."

"There are some blue echinoderms on the bottom,"
Cora suggested. "They have three to five large pois-
onous spines. We can break them off at the base. The
spines are pretty tough. Even if their toxicity fades
after separation, they'll make serviceable knives."

Mataroreva smiled thinly at her. "I didn't think
you'd notice such bloodthirsty details."

"Part of my job. And I'm not bloodthirsty. I'm

mad."

An orange sun hung just above the water, fire bal-
ancing on a sheet of silvered clay, when they started
toward the nearest foil. Mataroreva and Merced led
the underwater procession. All eyes turned anxiously,
seeking the telltale glow of another approaching diver.

None came near.

They could not know how many of the crew re-
mained aboard, but the craft offered little room in
which to hide. Each was built for speed, with only a
single modest forward cabin. Most of the area was
open rear deck and cargo hold.

CACHALOT            177

Two boarding ladders dipped like straws info the
water on either side of the ship, one forward and one
astern. The swimmers intended to mount the forward
ladder, nearest the central cabin and the transmitter.
That would also keep them away from the region of
greatest activity near the stem, where salvage was be-
ing loaded.

Each of them carried a twenty-centimeter-long blue
spine, four-sided, taken from an unlucky bottom-
dweller. The spines would not stand repeated use.
Mataroreva felt that if each spine found a throat, it
would more than have served its purpose.

He articulated that desire at every opportunity, run-
ning his hand along the sides of his own weapon and
making repeated stabbing gestures as they swam. Cora
couldn't share his lust for killing, despite the ghastly
crime that had been committed here. But she was
quite prepared to wound.

They reached the hull of the suprafoil without a
challenge, hovered beneath its bow. Gestures served in
place of words. Merced moved upward and grabbed
the bottom rung of the fore port ladder. Still there
was no challenge.

As soon as he was clear of the water he removed
his suit fins, but did not drop them. If he appeared
on deck without them, he would attract immediate at-
tention, whereas if he acted and looked like a normal
diver, he might escape curiosity for a precious second
or two longer. It was possible the divers on one boat
kney those on the other only casually. And it was
dark.

A minute passed while those remaining in the wa-
ter waited nervously. Then Merced reappeared, lean-
ing over the side and gesturing frantically. Mataroreva
started up the ladder. Cora was right behind him, fol-
lowed by Dawn and Rachael.

Then they were all standing on deck alongside the

178

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

179

only cabin. Lights glowed from within. They were not
interrupted by moving shapes.

The only sign of habitation was a limp figure on
the deck at their feet. Its head was twisted around at
an unnatural angle and blood trickled lazily from the
gaping mouth. Merced's spine-knife was unstained.
Mataroreva glanced curiously from the corpse to

Merced.

"I broke his neck. The opportunity presented it-
self," the smaller man whispered. Then he turned
and moved on, crouching like a spider.

Cora passed the body and wondered at the unex-
pectedly lethal talents of the wiry oceanographer. His
athletic ability had been amply demonstrated. Mata-
roreva, who knew more about such things, had
reached the conclusion that Merced was somewhat
more than merely athletic. But there was no time to
discuss such mysteries now. The real problem at hand
was far more prosaic in nature.

From the side of the cabin they had an excellent
view of the rear deck. Two men were studying a dark
gap into which an automatic crane was lowering a
basket filled with cylinders of varying size. There was
nothing resembling crew quarters. A couple of lumi-
nescent panels completely lit the interior of the cabin.
That was good. It made it difficult for anyone inside
to see into the blackness beyond.

Mataroreva bent around a comer and peered briefly
into the chamber. He turned and held up a single fin-
ger. Gestures and whispers followed. They would first
attempt to silence the single inhabitant of the cabin.
Then they would rush the pair monitoring the loading.
If the one inside the cabin managed to cry out, Mer-
ced would lead an immediate attack on the two load-
ers. It was hoped that the other ship was anchored too
far away to notice any screams.

They did not have as much success as Merced in
sneaking up on their quarry. One of the men operat-
ing the crane glanced back and stared straight at them.
For a long moment he simply stood there, a puzzled
expression on his face. His companion might have
proved more voluble if given time. Instead, he had
only seconds in which to gaze at them in shock.

They were indeed not used to the presence of sur-
vivors. It was good they were surprised as well as out-
numbered. After so many days of moving horizontally
through the water, the boarders had a difficult time
running across a solid surface.

The second loader reacted. He wore nothing in the
way of a weapon, so he hefted a slim, salt-stained
cylinder full of supercooled argon and swung it in the
general direction of the onrushmg Merced.

The scientist's leg came around in an unexpected
arc to connect solidly with the loader's forearm. The
cylinder fell to the deck. Without pausing, Merced
continued to spin, flying through the air. His back foot
landed on the other man's chin. The man collapsed
like a waterlogged steak.

Meanwhile, Mataroreva had returned from forward
and was able to help Cora and Rachael subdue their
antagonist. Neither woman had any military training,
but each was sufficiently enthusiastic to keep the first
loader occupied until Mataroreva could arrive to fin-
ish the job.

Breathing in long, painful gasps, Cora walked over
to join Merced. "Odd sort of talent for a biologist to
have. Do you find you have to knock out many fish?"

Merced grinned uncomfortably at her. "You know
that sort of thing won't work underwater. Too much
resistance. It's only a hobby. It's a good way to keep
yourself in shape when you spend a lot of your time
on your butt studying tape chips."

"Uh-huh." Cora did not sound at all satisfied,
though the explanation was perfectly sensible. She
watched as Rachael finished hauling a container they
had brought with them onto the deck. It contained the




180

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

181

best of the food concentrates—no crew quarters likely
meant no autochef—and, of course, her damnable in-
strument.

"In any case," Merced began, looking down specula-
lively at the man with the shattered jaw, "I don't think

that..."

"What's the matter? Pucara?" The biologist was
gaping past her. He made a funny sort of gargling
noise. Then his eyes rolled up and he toppled over

onto his victim.

Spinning, Cora confronted two gelsuited figures
standing on the foredeck. One flipped back her mask.
She had short blonde hair, an unfriendly grimace, and
a tight grip on the handle of the weapon she cradled.
It was stubby of body, with an incongruously long bar-
rel, all stinger and no bee. Cora recognized it readily
enough. The gun was intended for underwater defense
and used compressed gas to fire small darts. Each dart
contained a powerful soporific. The intensity of the
drug varied according to what one expected to have

to defend oneself against.

As the woman had just demonstrated, the weapon
worked very efficiently out of the water. It was tubed
to her gelsuit airsystem, powered by the carbon diox-
ide from her own lungs.

Her slightly taller male companion stood alongside
her. A similar device was held loosely in his left hand.
The other was peeling gelsuit.

"Where did you people spring from?" The woman's
query was a mixture of resentment and surprise. "You,
fat boy—hold it right there or it's sleepy time for you,
too." Mataroreva, who had started edging toward the

railing, was forced to halt.

Rachael was kneeling alongside Merced, showing
somewhat more than ordinary concern. "How strong

was the dosage, damn you?"

"Not very. He'll sleep for a while and be good as
new." The woman's tone turned threatening as she

studied the two bodies by the hold opening. "That's
more than you can say for Solly and Chan-li."

"We're from—" Cora started to explain.

Dawn cut her off quickly. "We're the last survivors
of Vai'oire. Don't talk to us about sympathy."

"That may be." The woman leaned against the in-
ner wall of the cabin. Her companion, Cora saw to her
dismay, was already yammering into the ship's trans-
mitter. "It's no concern of mine. We'll let Hazaribagh
decide whether it's necessary to know where you come
from." She smiled meaningfully. "There's no doubt in
my mind where you're going. Though I may be
wrong."

"You've killed several thousand people," Cora said
angrily. "Why pretend you're going to treat the five of
us any differently?"

That caused the woman to frown. "We haven't
killed anybody. At least, I don't think so."

"What are you talking about?"

"I said, we haven't killed anybody!" The woman, to
Cora's great surprise, appeared honestly upset. "I
think that's about enough talking." The muzzle of her
weapon swung several degrees to starboard. "And if
you take one more step, fat boy, I'm going to put one
of these into you. At this range I couldn't miss."

Mataroreva, who had used the conversation to gain
another couple of meters toward the cabin, said qui-
etly, "You keep calling me fat boy, and I'll make that
toy pistol into a necklace for you."

"Okay." She took a couple of nervous steps back-
ward. "Standoff, then. You keep your feet still and
I'll do the same with my mouth."

For all her initial bravado, the woman did not strike
Cora as a coldblooded member of a band of ruthless
killers. What was going on here?

Undoubtedly they would soon find out. Other divers
appeared, to desuit on deck while muttering with
seeming confusion about the presence of the five




182

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

183

strangers. The subjects of their attention had been
herded together just in front of the open hold.

Mataroreva and a groggy Merced gave some
thought to their making a concerted charge for the
railing, figuring that if they all went in different direc-
tions, the woman couldn't hit more than two of them
before the others were well on their way to the secret

places of the reef.

It was Merced who finally vetoed the idea. Even if
three of them made it successfully over the side, these
people doubtless possessed at least the standard vari-
eties of detection equipment. They were obviously
adept at ferreting out sunken valuables. It would not
be difficult for them to find a few divers.

A better idea might be to rush the woman, since no
one else had yet thought to bring up additional weap-
ons. Unfortunately, this idea lost its appeal when five
more divers appeared, all of them armed with identi-
cal gas-dart weapons save for one. The latter carried
a squat device that projected explosive shells for deal-
ing with particularly stubborn forms of sea life.

So the captives waited and pondered the possible
profile of the person the woman had called Ha-
zaribagh, who would decide their fate. At least they
weren't to be murdered out of hand. And why should
they be? Hadn't the woman insisted she and her co-
horts had killed no one?

It seemed to Cora that the more they learned about
the destroyed towns of Cachalot, the less they knew.
It was like breaking an egg. Instead of finding a yolk
inside, they found two more eggs. And four inside the
two. And so on and so on, on to utter frustration.

A guard kept watch on them all night. In the morn-
ing they were given a surprisingly pleasant meal. Ra-
chael asked for permission to take possession of her

neurophon.                                          t
The woman withdrew it from the watertight con-   J
tainer but paused before handing it over. As Rachael   |

watched anxiously, the woman and another of their
guards removed a back panel. The two of them con-
sulted before the first dislodged a pair of tiny solid-
state modules. Then the instrument was handed to its
owner.

"Now you can play all the music you want," the
stocky blonde told Rachael pleasantly, "but without
neuronics. In the proper hands, that otherwise delight-
ful device could be very disconcerting if someone
knew how to maltune the projections."

"I wasn't thinking of that," Rachael protested indig-
nantly.

"Maybe not. But I am."

The midday meal passed with the divers continuing
their salvage operation. Soon after, another vessel ap-
peared on the horizon. It was much larger than either
of the suprafoils. It was also of old-fashioned but
proven design. There were no foils. Beneath the dou-
ble hull of the massive catamaran, a foil could fit
neatly alongside hull doors and portals. There it could
unload even in rough weather, shielded by the bulk
of the mother ship.

The sleek mass anchored nearby and their foil
pulled in underneath. Cora noted the blotches on the
twin hulls and on the huge deck shading them. The
craft was well used.

An elevator descended to the deck of the foil. They
boarded and were carried up to the larger vessel's
main deck. A walkway took them to a second deck
near the stern. In addition to communications equip-
ment and a recorder, they found chairs, tables, a por-
table autochef, and several very large men holding
large guns.

There was also a small, dusky character clad in a
khaki-colored shirt and vest. Several necklaces framed
his thin brown chest and the white and black hair
sprouting there. White teeth alternated with faceted
red and yellow gems in the necklace. Straight black




184

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

185

hair was combed directly back and tied in a knot with
red and yellow cord. Extremely bushy white sideburns
flanked the narrow, tiny face.

A thin black and white mustache curled upward to-
ward ink-black eyes, was dampened slightly when the
man took a drink from the tall metal glass on the
table in front of him. He looked for all the world like
an elderly bureaucrat on vacation. But his face, as he
turned to inspect them, was troubled.

"Hazaribagh. Dewas Hazaribagh," Mataroreva mur-
mured.

"Yes. Mataroreva, isn't it?" The man's voice was
high, and as sharp as a paper cut.

Cora's gaze traveled from stranger to companion.
"Yeah, I know him now," Mataroreva said. "He
manages this factory ship. Independent operator. The
two foils are gathering and scouting craft for the big
one, in case you haven't figured that out already. A
modest operation, if I recall the lists right. Not the
largest working on Cachalot, nor by any means the
smallest."

"A correct appraisal," Hazaribagh agreed easily.
"Honest folk trying to make an honest living by fight-
ing whole floating towns financed by huge interstellar
companies and big new ships bankrolled by wealthy
merchant families. That kind of competition makes
mere fiscal survival a matter of thin margin."

" 'Honest living,' " Dawn sneered. "I could laugh,
if you hadn't just murdered every friend I ever had!"

"You're a former inhabitant of Vai'oire?" Ha-
zaribagh looked shocked. "I was told, but I didn't. . ."
His voice changed as he abruptly took a different
tack. "Are you all former townsfolk? Which of you
are and which of you aren't?"
No one said anything.

"Come, come, it really doesn't matter where you're
from. I'm just curious." He pointed at Mataroreva.
"Him I know from the planetary gendarmerie. The

young lady who just spoke," and he indicated Dawn,
"has confessed that she resided here. What of the rest
of you?"

Cora, Rachael, and Merced remained silent.

"Well, you disappoint me. But as I said, it doesn't
really matter. Keep your little secrets, if you must."

He looked back at Dawn, his fingers flicking away
the condensation from the chilled flanks of the glass
in his hands. It exuded a sweet aroma.

"I'm being perfectly honest with you. I said 'honest
living.' Well, perhaps 'semihonest' would be more ac-
curate now. But we're no mass murderers, no matter
what you think."

"How do you do it?" Cora blurted, unable to keep
her curiosity in check any longer.

"Do what?"

"Control the cetaceans. Order them to destroy—"
She stopped. Hazaribagh was laughing. In the face of
such callous indifference to death, Cora could say
nothing. He did not laugh so much as chirp.

"Really, lady, you ascribe to me qualities and gen-
ius I truly wish I possessed. Sadly, it is not so. I am
not the mad scientist of so many tridee thrillers. I'm
not even a scientist. Only a businessman casually em-
ploying oceanographic technology. Certainly I don't
have the knowledge to carry out mass murder, even
if I wished to do so. Control the Cetacea? No one can
do that."

"Then," Rachael hesitated, "then how? ..."
Hazaribagh put up a hand for silence. Walking over
to the upper deck railing, he stared in the direction of
the reef and the former anchorage of Vai'oire Town.

"We happened on I'a immediately after it was de-
stroyed. It was pure accident. There was no signal
from them, no indication of trouble. We just happened
to be in the area. We were utterly stunned by what
had taken place, and the first thing we did was look




186

CACHALOT

for survivors." Dawn made a noise. He turned, glared
hard at her, his voice rising.

"Yes, we searched for survivors! We suspected it
was the whales. Maybe they hadn't perfected their
method of assault yet—I'a was the first town to be
hit. We saw a couple of big backs floating around.
When the baleens noticed us, they vanished. Our so-
narizer patterned them before they all got out of
range. We noted fifty, and more had probably fled be-
fore we arrived. If they hadn't run as soon as we
appeared, we'd have been the ones doing the running,

I tell you.

"That was the first and last time we saw any whales
near the towns. We found no survivors." Dawn said
nothing this time. "Nor any bodies. It puzzled us
greatly. Our first thought was to beam in notification
of the disaster, but"—he spread his hands—"to what
end? As I said, there were no survivors. And there
was a great deal of very valuable material floating
around our ship, preparing to sink or drift off into the
sunset. What could we do but recover what was avail-
able? The ancient laws of salvage apply.

"After that, we tried to plot the location of towns
which seemed near unusually large concentrations of
baleen whales. We also learned that the attacks al-
ways took place under cover of storms."

"Just baleens?" Cora asked.

"We never saw any toothed whales," Hazaribagh
informed her. "Most curious, I tell you.. You would
suspect them the most likely of all the Cetacea to plan
and carry out such an attack.

"I want you to know also that we always searched
for survivors, but never did we find any. At War-
mouth, other vessels arrived before us. Vai'oire makes
four out of five for us, however. A good percentage of
prediction. Salvage is far more lucrative than gathering
fish or molluskan products. We have several off-world
buyers who are pleased to purchase our offerings,

CACHALOT            187

whether they be cargo the towns were storing prep-
aratory to shipment or valuable electronics, or even
personal effects. We are not discriminating, I tell you."

"If you're not controlling the cetaceans, then who
is?" she wondered aloud.

"Why must anyone be controlling them?" Ha-
zaribagh asked. Perhaps no scientist this one, but an
astute observer of life. "Why can't they be controlling
themselves?"

"Baleens are incapable of such concerted action,"
Mataroreva insisted.

The factory manager turned on him. "How do we
know that? How much do we really know about the
Cetacea beyond what they choose to tell us? Abilities
may mature in a thousand years. Simply because a
man does not talk is no indication he is an idiot. He
may simply be a noncommunicative genius."

"Only one thing prevents you from receiving abso-
lution," Cora stated. "You knew! You knew from the
start that whales were responsible. If that informa-
tion had been communicated to Administration on
Mou'anui, then Vai'oire, Warmouth, and the others
might have survived, knowing precisely what to expect.
But you couldn't do that."

"Of course we couldn't," Hazaribagh admitted. "I
don't see how you can hold us accountable for the
nondistribution of knowledge. We've harmed no one.
There's nothing criminal in opportunism, I tell you.
If we had found survivors, now that would have pre-
sented us with a problem. But we never encountered
any... until now."

He tapped the sharp edge of his chin with the rim
of the cold glass. Ice clinked within. "Now there are
five of you. A situation I hoped I would never have to
deal with." He paced in front of them, gesturing with
hand and glass. "You see, this has become an extraor-
dinarily profitable operation for us. One I am loath to
relinquish."

188

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

189

It took considerable courage for Cora to say, "By
withholding this information, you become guilty of

murder by oversight."

The accusation did not upset Hazaribagh. "Oh, I
doubt that a Church court would convict us on that.
If I were to let you go freely, however, it could com-
plicate things for us by leading, as you say, to the
prevention of such unfortunate incidents in the future.
I am not sure we can go back to the ill-rewarding
occupation of fishing. While I would not go about
destroying towns with a casual wave of my hand,
even if I could control the baleens, I think I could
see my way to order the elimination of five embar-
rassments ... I tell you."

Cora stiffened. So they were to be killed after all,
though not for the reasons she had first suspected. It
was small consolation to see Hazaribagh wrestling with

the decision.

"You must try to understand my position. My peo-
ple and I have made more profit in the time since
I'a was destroyed than in our previous thirty years of
licensing on Cachalot. We're not ready to give it up.
And while we would not murder the town people,
we of the boats bear no love for them, I tell you.

"As to why the baleens have suddenly become sub-
ject to organized mass insanity, I have certainly given
it some thought." He shook his head. "I have no better
idea than any of you. Unlike you, I do not much care,
as long as they continue their actions. We have passed
many whales, many baleen. None have bothered us.

"If we should eventually be discovered salvaging
the ruins of some town, then and only then will we
have to curtail our activities. But such an operation
would make us guilty of nothing beyond illegal con-
fiscation of private goods. The court would fine us
and warn us, but that would be all.

"Three more months," he told them firmly, "at the
current rate of destruction will enable my people and

me to make enough credit to quit Cachalot forever
and retire en masse to one of the pleasure worlds like
New Riviera. Perhaps at that time," he added thought-
fully, "we will reveal what we know about the baleens'
responsibility. Thus we will retire as heroes as well as
newly wealthy."

In a perverse fashion Cora discovered she was dis-
appointed. She had expected some extraordinary
genuis to be behind all this. Instead, the only humans
so far known to be involved had turned out to be noth-
ing more than petty crooks.

"If you intend to quit in three months," Rachael
pleaded, "why not just hold us for that time and then
let us go?"

"I'm sorry," Hazaribagh said genuinely. "I don't
think that would be good business. You now know all
about our activities. Despite any promises you might
give, I'm not sure I could trust you to be silent in
this matter. I think it would be safer to dispose of
you, much as I regret the necessity. As to the man-
ner of your death, I think that it will be ascribed to
the general destruction of Vai'oire."

Two guards shoved and pushed them toward the
railing, then down to the lower deck. Hazaribagh
followed. A section of rail was lowered, leaving them
backed against the sea below.

"You could keep us for three months and then
decide!" Rachael argued desperately. "We'd still be
your prisoners. You could kill us any time after. Why
spoil your claimed record of not having murdered any-
one and maybe have some jealous crewmember ex-
pose you for it later in the future?"

"We don't have any jealous crewmembers," Ha-
zaribagh informed her. "We suffered together. Now
we're growing rich together. And we'll all be equally
guilty." He stood back while the guards, who had
grown to six, checked their weapons.

"We have reasonably efficient facilities on this ship




190 CACHALOT

for processing large quantities of meat." He finished
his drink, tossed the foil glass over the side. "We
wouldn't want to spoil the whales' record of not leav-
ing any bodies to be found. We'll process you as
quickly as we can.

"As for holding you for three months and then de-
ciding, why should I give such obviously resourceful
folk as yourselves ninety days to escape or sow dis-
sension or put out a call for help? If I kill you now,
then I won't be troubled by such possibilities, and
this unfortunate business will be off my mind, I tell
you."

One of the guards stepped forward slightly and
raised a weapon. Cora noted it was one of those that
fired explosive shells, and tensed. Hazaribagh appar-
ently meant to finish them off as quickly as possible.
The guard sighted down the narrow barrel at
Mataroreva.

Something huge and fast flew through the air like
an ancient express train, blotting out the sun.

XIII

..here were faint thumps. Half the gunman went
one way. His lower torso and legs stood tottering on
the deck while blood fountained everywhere. The im-
mense shape landed on the planking, nearly breaking
through the tough metal into the hold below. A second
guard was crushed beneath it. The others fled in
understandable panic.

Hazaribagh was stumbling backward for the near-
est walkway leading to the upper level as four and a
half tons of killer whale thrashed about and made
a shambles of the stem deck, instrumentation, and
any human being foolhardy or blind enough to come
within range of flukes or teeth.

"Now!" Merced shouted, flipping his mask into
place. "Over the side!" He turned and leaped for the
water. Mataroreva, Dawn, and Cora followed. Once
in the water they surfaced. Cora looked around for
Rachael, finally spotted her still on the deck above. In
a moment she joined them, preceded by a sealed
container. Cora did not have to ask what it held.

"Have to replace those modules," her daughter was
complaining.

Water geysered around them as three more massive
black and white shapes exploded from the sea to join
the first. The stem of the catamaran began to buckle
under their combined weight.

191

192

CACHALOT

Cora tried to right herself in the confused water,
saw a huge shape rushing at her. There was an in-
stant of unavoidable, primeval panic before she rec-
ognized it. The shape dipped beneath her and she
slid back until she could clutch the slick dorsal fin.
Merced was right behind her. The moment they were
securely seated, the whale turned and accelerated.
She thought to switch on her translator.

"Sorrry as the windds arre wwe to hawe taken so
long, sorrry arre wwe thhat wwe had to abandonn

youuuu."

"Hello, Latehoht," she said weakly. "Never mind
your timing. For some reason I just can't find it in my
heart to criticize you."

The five of them were deposited alongside the
abandoned catcherfoil still anchored off the reef. Cora
slipped off the wide, slick back as another huge blunt
head surfaced near them. Thick ivory teeth gleamed
in the sun.

"Healthffullll?"

"Healthful we are, Wenkoseemansa, and thank
you."

The whale disappeared, was soon replaced by his
mate. Cora watched the Dantean scene taking place
around the catamaran. "What about the? ..."

"Badd mmen on shhip arre in flight rrather thhan
fight," Latehoht sang lustily. "Sit somme within the
rreeff whherre wwe cannot go. Thhey arre fearrful
and hidden. Thhey will trouble you not, thhey will not
bothher you. Onn thhe shhip stand fewerr and fewerr.
Only in its depths hidde soinme like their afrraidful
brrethrren inn the rreef. Thhey mayy yet comme out.
Wwe will kill thhen only thhose necessarrry. Did wwe
wellll?"

"Most well." Cora saw Sam offer Rachael a hand
up the foil's boarding ladder. The girl disdained the
offer, instead carefully handed up the crate containing
her precious instrument.

CACHALOT            193

"Got to go nowww," Latehoht whistled. She nodded
at her human friends, slapped the water once with her
jaw, and dashed off to rejoin the fading battle.

They stood by the stem of the badly damaged ship
and stared incredulously as a few of Hazaribagh's
team attempted to regain control. The orcas were so
fast that the hapless crewmembers barely had time to
take aim with their weapons. One or two of the
whales were hit by the hypodermic darts and had to
be kept afloat by their fellows, but for the most part
the resistance was as ineffectual as it was sporadic.
It is difficult to aim at something hidden beneath the
surface of the sea, more so when that something
emerges like a rocket straight toward you.

Only one orca was badly wounded, by an explo-
sive shell. The watchers near the reef could hear its
cries for help via their headphone units. The fight
shifted as the crew of the factory ship soon discovered
that several tons of killer whale jumping at one's face
inevitably had serious effects on one's aim. Those still
resisting retreated to the second deck, where the pro-
digious leaps of the orcas couldn't reach them.

Hopes of driving off the attackers faded quickly for
those on board. The moment the gunmen moved out
of range, the orcas concentrated their assault on the
interior of the twin hulls. Their attack had already
sunk the second suprafoil. Now they pounded at the
fibermetal hulls, working in relays. Eventually the con-
stant pressure of many tons would breach one hull or
the other and the factory ship, too, would sink.

The transmitter behind the watchers buzzed for
attention. Mataroreva moved to the battered cabin,
acknowledged the signal.

"Call them off!" a voice from the speaker pleaded.
Cora recognized the anxious voice of Dewas Ha-
zaribagh.

"Call whom off?" Mataroreva replied, thoroughly
enjoying their former captor's discomfort. " 'Why

194            CACHALOT

should I give such obviously resourceful folk as your-
selves a chance to escape?' " he added, mimicking the
manager's former evaluation of their own status.

"Call them off, I tell you! We'll do whatever you

wish!"

"Of course you will. You can't bring weapons to

bear between the hulls unless you open the service
bays—which would promptly fill up with large, unwel-
come visitors. You're stuck, Hazaribagh. You'll last
less than most once you're all in the water."

"I will not beg for myself, but as for my people—"
"Uh-huh." He turned to the railing. "Cora, you tell

them."

She leaned over the side, adjusted her mask to

make certain she was speaking into her translator
pickup. Several strange orcas waited in the water
below. They looked up alertly when she spoke.

"Tell your companions they've done well enough.
Stop the attack." She looked back toward Sam.

He addressed the transmitter. "Throw all your
weapons over the side, Hazaribagh. You can worry
about salvaging them later." He pronounced the word
"salvage" in a particularly unpleasant manner.

Splashes began immediately, dotting the surface
around the assailed factory ship.

"Fine," Mataroreva told his distant listeners. "Now
all of you sit tight. I don't want to see anyone on deck.
You can drink yourselves into a stupor, commiserate
in groups, make love, do anything you want. But
don't try to start your engines or I'll have you sunk.
And once you're down in the water, I don't think I
could keep control of my friends."

"As you wish."

Minutes later a cetacean call sounded near the
bow. "Samm! Samm!" All whale voices sounded much
alike, but this one's pitch and phrasing Cora had
learned to recognize. The voice was that of a happy
Latehoht.

CACHALOT               195

Mataroreva jogged out of the battered cabin,
shouted a hasty "Take over!" and jumped over the
side.

Latehoht swam delighted circles around him and
he around her. He kicked water in her face and she
spit it playfully back at him. Wenkoseemansa floated
lazily nearby.

"Frriends comme behind ussss," he offered, noticing
an intent Cora staring over the railing at the male-
whale waterplay.

"I guessed as much," she murmured. "I didn't think
you'd return with only cetacean help. Sam worried
that you might not have escaped." She watched as
the subject of her thoughts let out a whoop. Latehoht
had slipped her tail beneath him, and the gentle flip
that resulted sent him soaring through the warm after-
noon air.
; "What the hell happened?"

"Doing werre wwe whhat Samm hadd asked us to,
had requested of ourr timme and abilities. We watched
the waters frromm farr out in the Deeep, frromm
distant lookking-places.

"Thhe Mad Ones whho kill swwam in silence. In
grreaterr silence than thhat of any podd everr havve
I known, everr has any whale known. Knew thhey
exactly whhat they werre about, she-frriend Corra.
Knnew thhey beforehand whhat thhey would do. It
wwas . . ." and he sounded terribly confused, as well
he had a right to be, ". . . it wwas not a thhing to
bee beelived. I would not beelieve so, hadd not I
witnessed it myselffff.

"Nothing thhey said, but camme thhey silent frrom
all directions at onceee."

"A coordinated attack. But coordinated by whom?"
Merced muttered from nearby.

"Neverr did wwe hearr thhem," Wenkoseemansa
continued, "but instead felt at lasst the prressurre of
thhem in the waterr, of manny comming frrom all

196           CACHALOT

dirrections. Could it thhus mean only one thing,
could it therreby signify only one evvent forrthcoming.
Chose wwe the seconds rremmaining to us to flee
beforre wwe could bee encirrcled, forr in madness such
as thhis even the Covenant could hawe been brroken,
and wwe would then do neitherr ourrselves norr you

any gooodddd."

"I didn't think orcas were afraid of anything that

lived in the sea," she replied.

"Fearr wwe nothing wwe can underrstand, but

thhis was a thhing not to be underrstood. It is not
wrrong orr cowarrdly to fearr and flee insanityyy.

"Fast as wwe did rrace, ourr passage was not un-
noticed. Severral Mad Ones turrned frromm theirr
courrse to chase us! Thhey werre Rights and thhink
wwe one Humpback. And thhey chased us!" Aston-
ishment filled his voice.

"Twwo to ona, and wwe would hawe turmed and
fought, sizze notwithstanding. But therre werre sixx,
and thhey did not act at all as thhe baleeen should.
Faced werre wwe with suchh a horrrrible perrverrsion
of naturral law, with events beyond ourr comprrehen-
sion, and with hundrreds of otherr Mad Ones nearrby,
we deterrmined it best to find help for any thhat
might surrvive. So gladddened arre wwe to find you
well! Kneww wwe thhat if any would liwe, thhey

would bee underr Samm's guidance.

"Chhased us forr many leagues did the baleen, forr
a grreat distance and timme thrrough the waterr.
Neverr hawe I seeen such perrsistence of purrpose
in a baleeen, let alone in severral acting togetherr.
Outrran wwe thhem eventually. I believe had wwe
turmed to the depths thhey would have followed and
died behind uss. Had therre beeen among thhem
Fins, wwe might hawe beeen caught, forr is therre in
the sea little that can outrrun a Fin whale. But therre
werre none nearr us and had wwe a good stanttttt."
He paused and Cora could almost hear him thinking.

CACHALOT               197

"Sommething thhis is forr all the Cetacea to discuss,
sommething thhis is thhat must be sent arround the
worrld-ocean. Forr hawe I no doubt thhat had those
Rights caught uss, thherre would hawe beeen a death-
fight. A death-fight among Cetacea!" Mutters of disbe-
lief swelled in Cora's earphones from the assembled
orcas gathered around the suprafoil.

"Has upset sommething all of cetacean society. Has
perrverrted ourr peaceful meditations sommething of
grreat evil. Sommething thrreatens the peace wwe
hawe had forr morre than eight centurriessss."

Cora recalled a theory first propounded by her col-
league Merced. "Could the catodons be controlling
the baleens, directing these attacks for reasons of
their own?" She expected a quick denial, but hardly
the thunderous outcry that arose.

"No—neverr—it is not a thhing to be considerred!"

When the outrage had quieted, Cora spoke patiently
to Wenkoseemansa. "You've just admitted yourself
that the attack was not a thing to be considered. Yet
it happened."

"Thhis is so-o-o," the orca confessed. "Yet sooonerr
would I believe myself brreathing waterr than would
I hold the catodons rresponsible forr such madnesses.
Thhey arre closerr rrelatiwes to us thhan to the
baleeen. Obstinate and stubborrn thhey arre, but not
lacking in courrageeee."

"I understand what you mean." Merced crowded
closer to Cora. "You're saying that if the catodons
wanted the towns destroyed, they'd be doing it them-
selves."

"Thhat is so-o-o," Wenkoseemansa insisted. "Farr
morre efficient and deadly would thhey bee thhan any
baleeens could possibly bee. Would bee a lesser mad-
ness then thhan the otherr you say, forr no cetacean
can control anotherrrrr."

"Catodons don't think like us, or even like other

198

CACHALOT

whales," Dawn said from nearby. "I'd believe any-
thing of them."

"We've already learned a little about their indiffer-
ence to mankind," Cora replied. "Destruction of a
town would constitute interference of a sort they pro-
fess not to want. Destruction means notice, and they
insisted they chose not to notice us."

"Still," Vai'oire's sole survivor wondered aloud, "as
your friend in the water just admitted, something has
upset the balance of cetacean existence. Something
has to be directing the baleens. I don't for a moment
believe they're doing this of their own choice." She
chewed her lower lip thoughtfully.

"Could you tell," Cora asked, leaning over the side
once more, "if anything was controlling the attackers?"

"If so, it was not noticeable to uss," Wenko-
seemansa confessed. "But swwift wwe fled the region
of Insanity, flying fastest through the waterr. Ourr
thoughts werre on brringing back assistance and on
surrviving until wwe could do so. Might well wwe
hawe missed such evidence as would prowe the con-
tention."

"H the catodons aren't involved," Cora mumbled,
"and Hazaribagh's been telling the truth about simply
following up on the destruction, then we're just about
back to where we started: looking for some unknown,
probably human, outside agency. Or some other off-
world intelligence."

"At least we know it begins with the baleens," Mer-
ced commented. "There's another possibility we have
to dispose of first." He addressed Wenkoseemansa.
"You called the attackers the 'Mad Ones.' Have there
been many instances of mass cetacean insanity?" Cora
wondered how that might translate into orca, but ap-
parently Wenkoseemansa understood, because he an-
swered readily enough.

"Hawe happened such thhings. In the passt parr-
ticular, in ancient timmes, whole podds would commit

CACHALOT            199

suicide, as did theirr ancestorrs in fearr of the geno-
cidal harrpooon. The harrpooon was long passt, but
the fearrs still lingerred. In ancient timmes men
thhought such mass strrandings of whales due to dis-
ease or weatherr, not realizing the cause was despairr.
Even so, in madness lies not the resourrces forr plan-
ning and carrying out such a vast, orrganizzed at-
tackkkk."

"I agree," Merced said. "Insanity could account for
the attacks, but if the baleens are insane, then they
can't organize well enough to mount those same at-
tacks. Contradiction. Damn!"

While Cora still felt no particular fondness for the
little scientist, that didn't prevent her from sympathiz-
ing with him on the professional level. She fully shared
his frustration. "At least we have a beginning now."

A violent splash sounded beneath them. Wenkosee-
mansa was battering the water with his tail to get their
attention.

"Distant brrotherrs and sisterrs relay thhis newws:

the neww hummans commeeee."

"Distant?"

"Fearred wwe much the rretum of the Mad Ones,"
he explained. "Brrotherrs and sisterrs patrrol much
distance away in watch forr thhem. But it is good
newws thhey giwe nowww."

Cora was angry that she hadn't thought to suggest
such a lookout, consoled herself with the knowledge
that her thoughts never took a military bent. Some-
where behind all this, she thought furiously, lay minds
as cold as they were efficient. It was harder to believe
them cetacean than human.

Another vessel soon hove into sight: a long, sleek
suprafoil. It was considerably larger than the ruined
craft they waited on or the long-since sunken one that
had carried them out from Mou'anui a short eternity
ago.

They made preparations to meet it, moving the in-

200            CACHALOT

jured catchership alongside the catamaran. None of
Hazaribagh's crew appeared to challenge them. They
remained huddled below, mindful of Mataroreva's
threat to unleash the orca pack against them a last

time.                                                S
The four anxious researchers and single survivor   (
waited on the empty deck of the factory ship to greet

their rescuers.

Moving quickly up the ladder and the first man on
deck from the larger foil was Yu Hwoshien, not the
least embarrassed at revealing most of his elderly form
in a pair of swim briefs. His eyes swept the deck, not-
ing the absence of any but the five survivors.

Somehow the absence of clothing on an individual
Cora had come to think of as the epitome of dignity
was more shocking than expected. Divested of his
black uniform of office, he was at once more and less
human than he had seemed back on Mou'anui.

A host of armed, grim men and women followed
him onto the deck. Cora recognized none of them, but
they greeted Sam with a mixture of relief and defer-
ence. He directed them across the ship. The number
of peaceforcers was sizable. No doubt additional as-
sistance had been brought in for this rescue from other

sections of Cachalot.

While Sam was directing the counting and record-
ing of the factory ship's sullen, disgruntled crew,   |
Hwoshien joined the other survivors. His attention   |
went first to the one person among them he had not

yet met.

"What of the town?" he asked Dawn simply.

She shook her head.

"You are the only survivor?"

"And that only because I wasn't in the town at the
time it was attacked." She gestured limply to Cora
and the others. "I was on the reef, guiding these peo-
ple."

CACHALOT            201

"We know the first cause now," Cora said. Hwo-
shien turned to her. "It's been baleen whales all along,
at every town. They attack in military formations, as
if they've been drilling for such assaults all their lives,
and after each attack they disperse and disappear."

"But we still have no idea why they're doing this,"
Merced picked up for her, "or if they're doing so on
their own or under the direction of someone else."

Hwoshien put both hands behind his back, wan-
dered to the railing that had not been flattened by
whale weight. "Another town," he finally rumbled.
"Another population lost, more financial disruption
and distress." He looked back at them. "The baleens
are responsible, you say? That's bad. Very bad. We
had already been told as much, but I wanted to be
certain. Transmissions can be garbled and—" He
stopped, breathed deeply. "Not that I doubted the
source of the information, but I wanted to hear it di-
rectly from you."

"How could you have been? . . ." Rachael looked
surprised at her mother's forgetfulness. "Oh, of course.
Latehoht and Wenkoseemansa told you."

"The pair of orcas who operate with Sam, yes.
Since whales were involved, and since in a thousand
years no human has harmed one of the Cetacea, we
thought that despite the severity of the situation it
would be best to have one cetacean inflict an injury
on another, if any had to be injured at all.

"There are always several pods of orcas hanging
around Mou'anui, waiting for the chance to play with
or inspect or work together with people. Latehoht and
Wenkosee—whatever his name is—put out a call as
soon as they told us what had happened. Locals put
out the greater call to others of their kind."

"What do you think would have happened,"
Merced asked curiously, "if they had found the town
intact but still under siege by the baleens?"

"I don't know," the old man admitted. "While hu-

202

CACHALOT

mans and cetaceans no longer fight, the same is true
ten times over for cetacean and cetacean. But even if
they had elected, in such a case, not to interfere phys-
ically, they still could have talked to their cousins
more effectively than we."

"It's all so frustrating," Cora burst out. "You make
a dent in the problem and it makes a bulge on the
other side of the same problem."

Hwoshien had turned to inspect the piles of un-
stored salvage on the factory ship's rear deck. "At
least we know now what happened to so much of the
valuable electronic equipment that disappeared from
the area of the vanished towns. We suspected it had
sunk into the abyss." He sniffed. "I would not expect
such discrimination from people of this type, like this
Hazaribagh."

"You know him, then?" Cora was surprised.

"Only by records and tapes. I recognized this ship
readily enough. I know every ship and town on Cach-
alot. It's my business to know their business. But I
would never have suspected such a modest operator
and his crew to be tied into anything so extreme. He
is not controlling or operating with the baleens, then?"

Merced nodded. "That's what he's said. We haven't
had the opportunity to discover whether he's been
telling the truth, but according to what we've seen and
what you've just said, I would tend to believe him. So
extraordinary an enterprise seems utterly beyond his
capability. He's an opportunist, not a genius."

"We concur, then," Hwoshien said, "though, like
you, I'm certainly not going to leave the matter at
Hazaribagh's word."

"If he's lying," Cora said, suddenly concerned,
"and he is after all controlling the baleens in some
fashion, it's possible that . . ." Her gaze traveled nerv-
ously to the horizon.

"No, it's not." Mataroreva rejoined them, a beamer
dangling from and almost lost in one huge hand.

CACHALOT            203

"Latehoht and Wenkoseemansa's friends and relatives
are patrolling far enough out to warn us in plenty of
time if a single whale comes within ten kilometers."

Cora relaxed only slightly. The dozen peaceforcers
looked very competent as they wrist-sealed the crew.
But their suprafoil displayed only a single energy can-
non at the bow. She doubted it would last very long
under the assault of, say, twenty blue whales. The
orcas were they best defense—assuming they would
actually interfere with an assault by their larger cous-
ins. If not, she reminded herself, the suprafoil below
could outpace the fastest whale in the sea. So they
were fairly safe.

Or were they? They had learned much. But Vai'oire
had thought itself safe, too.

Only one thing kept Cora from asking then and
there for transfer back to Mou'anui. While her fear
was enormous, her curiosity was greater. That was
ever the case with the scientist in the field, whose
courage was born of brain and not of brawn.

"If this Hazaribagh person was controlling or direct-
ing the whales in any way, to any degree," Hwoshien
was saying, "I should think we would have been at-
tacked long before now."

"Yes, that makes sense," she agreed.

They followed the Commissioner of Cachalot as
he walked over to confront Hazaribagh. The scav-
enger looked even smaller with his head bowed and
his wrists sealed together. The chemical handcuff
could not be removed except by a special solvent.
The rest of his crew was similarly bound.

Hazaribagh looked up at Hwoshien, tried to assume
an air of defiance.

"So," the older man began casually, "it seems you
insist that you are not responsible for the deaths of
several thousand innocent citizens."

"I've never killed a single person or had one
killed." The ship leader sounded embittered by his

204            CACHALOT

sour luck. He threw a surreptitious glance at his
former captives. "I confess that might have changed
if your whales had not arrived when they did." He
shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps it's better this way.
I had no wish to harm anyone."

"Or to save anyone," Cora snapped at him. "H you

had no wish to do so? ..."

"I told you why. For the chance to be wealthy. For
the chance to sell this thin-seamed ship and get off
this sweaty, salt-stink of a world!" He glared across at
Hwoshien, the two men regarding each other like a
couple of irritated banty roosters. "If I'm guilty of
anything, it's withholding information. You can't even
accuse us of not aiding survivors, because we never

found any."

"We have only your word for that," Hwoshien re-
plied ominously. "You were about to dispose of these
good people to protect your activities. I wonder how
many other inconvenient citizens you had to dispose

of."

"None, dammit!"

"We'll find out when we question your crewfolk."

"Go ahead." Hazaribagh appeared unconcerned.
"They have no reason to lie. And we still have the
laws of salvage on our side."

"If you had adhered to them properly, you would,"
Hwoshien said. "But you did not report what you re-
covered for recording purposes. And salvage does not
apply to, for example, personal effects, which are to
be turned over to surviving relatives and which, I sus-
pect, you have also heartlessly marketed."

"You can't prove any of that."

"We will. You just admitted that your people have
no reason to lie."

Hazaribagh's defiance leaked away like sand through

a sieve.

"You still insist you had nothing to do with the

cetacean attacks?"

CACHALOT            205

"Yes," he murmured. He looked toward Mataro-
reva, found no sympathy there. "I've already told him
that. We're victims of circumstance."

"Victims of greed. You might have prevented the
deaths of many people. What's done with you will be
up to the courts, but they'll hear no cries of mitigating
circumstances from me." Hwoshien turned to one of
the nearby peaceforcers. "Put him on the other
catcherfoil, together with any manifests or chip re-
cords you can find."

"What happens to my ship?"

"Nothing yet, though if you have so low an opinion
of it, I wonder that you care. It will be sailed back to
Mou'anui by your crew, under peaceforcer supervi-
sion. The courts will decide what to do with it as well
as with its crew." Hazaribagh and the tall man guard-
ing him started for the side.

"Just a minute." The downcast ship manager and
his watchful attendant halted. "If you could give us
some insight, if you have any idea what is causing the
baleens to act in this inexplicably belligerent fashion,
that might be a contribution in your favor the courts
would recognize."

Hazaribagh's humorless laughter echoed across the
deck. "If I knew that and admitted it, that would
make me at least partly guilty of what you've first
accused me of, wouldn't it? A neat trick." He
coughed, said harshly, "I've not the slightest idea. My
fishing experts have no idea. Mass insanity that comes
and goes, manifests itself as rage against humanity?
Who knows? Perhaps they are at last sick of man-
kind's presence in their ocean."

Cora felt disappointed. She hadn't expected any
revelations from Hazaribagh, but she had bad hopes.
The ship manager was led down a boarding ladder to
the suprafoil below. Hwoshien rejoined the others.

"Something else doesn't make sense," Cora told
him.

206 CACHALOT

"I seek clarification, not additional confusion," he

muttered.

"In the attack we witnessed," she pressed on, "we
saw two kinds of baleens—blues and humpbacks.
Latehoht and Wenkoseemansa were chased by rights
and worried about the presence of fins. Now, these
are all plankton-eaters, but as far as I've read, they
never school together. Joint schooling of, for example, ,
humpbacks and seis is unknown. I realize that studies
of Cachalot cetacean society are limited, but in all the
preparation I did before we came here I didn't come
across a single example of joint schooling."

"That's right," Dawn said excitedly. "Not only are
they functioning as a group, the attacks involve mixed
species."

"We've tried for weeks to find a purely scientific
explanation," Merced said. They all turned to look at
him. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way."

"How do you mean?" Rachael asked respectfully,
cuddling her neurophon. She had already been badger-
ing the crew of the peaceforcer suprafoil for replace-
ment modules for the instrument.

Merced appeared embarrassed, as he always did
when everyone else's attention was focused on him.
"We've been trying to find a biological explanation for
the attacks. Now we intend to concentrate on the
cetaceans. If we throw out the insanity explanation
and assume there is some kind of intelligence at work
behind all this, how would we go about determining
the ultimate cause?"

"I'm not sure I follow you," Cora said.

"That's because you're still thinking in terms of
cetaceans. We all are. Let's use the more obvious
analogies rather than the less so. If a group of humans
attacked a town but insisted they didn't know what
they were doing, how would we begin to go about find-
ing out the cause?"

"Capture one of them and question him or her."

CACHALOT            207

Mataroreva looked at the little scientist approvingly.
Merced nodded.

"That's impossible," Cora said immediately. "You
can't restrain a blue whale without using something
more than words. Even the use of a temporarily de-
bilitating narcotic drug could be interpreted by the
Cetacea as the use of violence. That would shatter the
human-cetacean peace you're always telling us about.
Anything milder than that, like a large net enclosure,
would probably be torn apart."

"There must be some way," Dawn murmured.

Mataroreva looked at them thoughtfully. "There
may be. You can't compel seventy tons or more of
whale, but you may be able to convince it."

He went to the railing, slipping his translator unit
back over his head. Loud squealing sounds rose from
the water below, and Cora hurried, along with her
companions, to adjust her own unit as they walked to
the side of the factory ship.

Latehoht was already sounding. Moments later she
returned, accompanied by a large, scarred male.

"Thhis is hhe whho is called Kinehahtoh," she in-
formed them, "He-Who-Swims-Out-Front. Kinehahtoh
of many battles, seniorr ammong the podd whho res-
cued you, as you requested, frriend Samm. Kinehah-
toh the wise, who speaks forr the brrotherrs and sis-
terrs of the packkkk."

A surprise followed, for when she introduced the
old male to the waiting humans, she used their
cetacean as well as their human names. A touch rue-
fully, Cora learned that the name she had been given
by Latehoht and her mate was Talsehnsoht—She-
Who-Has-To-Know-Everything.

"Kinehahtoh," Sam began, "we must know why the
baleens have been killing our people and destroying
their homes."

"Surre you arre noww, surre beyond rreason or
doubt, thhat thhey arre trruly rresponsible?" the pa-

208

CACHALOT

triarch inquired. Grandfather grampus, Cora thought,
admiring him.

"I and my friends witnessed such an attack our-
selves. A blue whale is not a cloud, to be mistaken for
one. This is a truth-thing, Kinehahtoh."

"A trruth-thhat-is-not," the oldster agreed, shudder-
ing. That quiver was ancient cetacean behavior, Cora
knew. Not a reaction acquired from contact with man-
kind. "Though arre you knnown to us as one whho
speaks the trruth, Samm Matarrorreva, this one and
the brrothen-s and ssisterrs would not believe had not
wwe hearrd it frrom two of ourr own. Would thhat I
could will it not truth, yet what is, is, and cannot be
wished awayyy."

"Then you understand our need to learn the cause
behind this," Mataroreva said, "as we would yours if
whole pods of the orca had been killed."

"Wwe underrstand, though it makes ourr hearrts
fall to thhe ooze of the Deeep Places. Whhat would
you havve us doooo?"

"We must ask the why of this terrible thing of one
who was part of it." Kinehahtoh did not reply, lay
waiting. "To do so, we must have the help of the orca
so we do not risk the peace between man and
Cetacea."

Still the old male did not speak. Finally he did so,
choosing his words slowly and carefully. "One whho
has beeen parrtnerr to so vicious a thhing may not
wish to talk of it." Even in translation, the orca
sounded distinctly troubled.

Mataroreva took a long breath before responding.
"That is why we must make this request of you. We
cannot forcibly restrain a baleen to question it, as you
well know. But if the pack assembled here were to
gather tight around a single whale, as they have
around this ship, there would be no fight."

"It could be inten-preted as a prowocation to
suchh, a brreach of the peace, a challenge to the

CACHALOT            209

Covenant!. Not forr a thousand yearrs has orrca tasted
of baleeen. Wwe cannot rriskk the Covenantttt."

"I'm not asking you to," Mataroreva said quickly,
before Kinehahtoh could set himself irrevocably
against the idea. "There are fifty of the orca here. If
so many were to surround a solitary bull, for example,
what could be the result? The baleen thinks slowly.
I suspect it would simply float in one place until the
multiple obstruction was removed."

"I doo not knnow," the leader of the pack replied.
"Not forr centurries has such a confrrontation taken
plaaace."

"Just my point," Mataroreva pressed on. "The re-
sult wouldn't be anger. It would be confusion. The
restraining need last only long enough for us to ask a
few critical questions. By the time the baleen could
make up its lumbering mind that it might possibly be
threatened, maybe we'll have our answers and can leave
it in peace. No one is being asked to fight anyone."

"A thousand yearrs of Covenant," Kinehahtoh
murmured solemnly. "A thousand yearrs of peace
ammong the Cetacea."

"The Cetacea as well as man are confronted with
an unprecedented crisis," Mataroreva argued. "If men
who do not understand the ways of Cachalot leam
that the baleens are responsible, even indirectly, for
the destruction, a greater threat to the Covenant will
arise than any single confrontation could ever create."
He did not add that since the cetaceans were fully
protected, the trouble would more likely be between
men.

"Will I askk the otherrsss," the old orca decided at
last. His great head smashed into the water as he
turned and vanished. Latehoht went with him.

Mataroreva clarified the discussion for Hwoshien,
who had waited ^patiently nearby. Long minutes
passed and still no sign of returning orcas. Cora wan-

210 CACHALOT

dered to stand next to Mataroreva and watch the sea.
"What do you think they'll do, Sam?"

He didn't try to conceal his worry. "I don't know.
As far as they're concerned, I've just made a danger-
ous request. It remains to be seen whether or not
that will outweigh the threat posed by whatever is
driving their larger relatives to madness."

"But they've already saved our lives once."

He smiled faintly. "Killing bad humans is a very
different proposition from attacking or even threat-
ening another whale."

"But we're not asking them to attack."

"I'm hoping they'll see that. If they don't, we may
as well forget it and try something else. Not even
Latehoht or Wenkoseemansa can change their minds
once they've reached a decision."

Kinehahtoh returned. "The orrcas hawe agrreed.
Help you to finnd and encirrcle one of the baleeen
wwe will. But iff it mowes to escape," he warned,
"orr calls otherrs to its aid, wwe will not trry to hold
it. This abowe all must bee underrstood. Must not
the Covenant bee thrreatened, or all will sufferrrr."

"Suppose," Merced asked disconcertingly, "the
baleen we confront chooses not only to ignore our
questions but to attack us?"

Kinehahtoh's instant reply left no room for mis-
understandings. "Help and enjoy wwe worrking with
hummans in many things. Butt wwe will not fight with
cousins. Theirr actions arre theirr owwn. Wwe cannot
interrferre. If one of the Grreat Whales turms on you,
you mustt cope with it as besst you arre abllle to."

"And you won't try to protect us?" Merced sounded
more like a quaestor working a truthfinder during a
trial than a biologist querying a killer whale.

"Must the Covenant bee kept," Kinehahtoh re-
peated firmly. "Follow noww, and wwe will huntttt."
He turned away before Merced or anyone else could

CACHALOT            211

pose another question, to rejoin the waiting group
of high dorsal fins stirring the water.

When informed of the orcas' limitations and the
concurrent risk, Hwoshien did not hesitate. "Of course
we have to go along. It is our best chance to find out
what is driving the baleens to these deeds."

"And if a sixty-ton fin whale rushes our ship at
forty kilometers per?" Mataroreva asked.

"You say the pack will not intercede for us. Then
we'll have to take our chances. Dammit, people, it's
time to take chances!" This was the first time Cora
had heard Yu Hwoshien raise his voice.

"Could we outrun an attacking whale?" Rachael
wondered, nervously running fingers over the strings
and switches of her neurophon. The projectors were
silent. Only aural music floated across the deck.

"Depends on its nearness at the moment of attack
and on the type of whale," Mataroreva informed her.
"A humpback, certainly. Probably a blue. A fin—
that I can't say for certain. Over a short distance it
would be a near thing. I agree with Hwoshien, though.
It's a risk we have to take."

CACHALOT            213

XIV

Peaceforcers and prisoners, catcherfoil and factory
ship, all were soon cruising back toward Mou'anui
and a distant justice. Hwoshien and the others boarded
the peaceforcer suprafoil and followed in the wake of
the searching pack.

Several days and nights of beautiful weather and
dull sailing ensued. Working in tandem with the so-
phisticated tracking equipment on board, the orcas
located first one solitary whale, then a second. The
first turned out to be a humpback,- the other a minke.
Neither knew (or claimed to know) anything about
the attacks on the floating towns. They were allowed
to depart before they grew aware they had been re-
strained.

On the sixth day Wenkoseemansa split the water in
his haste to report that half the pack had encircled an-
other baleen and urged it to the surface. Their reluc-
tant quarry was already confused and irritable. It
would be best for all concerned if the humans were to

hurry.

As Mataroreva and his companions checked out
their translating equipment, the suprafoil swung
around and sped toward the section of ocean specified

by Wenkoseemansa.

Before very long the gentle rise of a small island

broke the horizon. As they drew nearer, the island
212

developed a modest geyser, whereupon it was clear to
all on the slowing ship that the island was solid with-
out being land.

Over thirty-five meters in length and weighing well
over a hundred tons, the sulfur-bottom, or blue whale,
lay at the surface and considered his unprecedented
situation. He looked quite massive enough to Cora
to fight off all fifty orcas, even if for some reason they
elected to contest such a battle. A nervous twitch of
that enormous tail would make a metal patty of the
ship.

He was barely moving in the water. While Cora
couldn't make out the tiny eye through distance and
sea, she supposed it to be rapidly scanning its sur-
roundings with considerable unease. The encirclement
by the orca pack could only be interpreted by the
creature as a potentially threatening gesture. It was
up to Cora and her companions to obtain the an-
swers to their questions before the solitary bull de-
cided the threat was anything other than potential.

When the suprafoil coasted alongside, taking care
to approach the living mountain from near the head
and not the dangerous tail, he shifted with ponderous
uncertainty. Initial conversation was opened by the
orcas. The cetacean-to-cetacean conversation was
strange to Cora's ears, even in translation. In compari-
son with the rapid speech of the orcas, the blue's was
turgid and slow.

Wenkoseemansa asked most of the questions, swim-
ming right up to the gigantic, striated jaw, which
dwarfed his entire sleek body.

Meanwhile, Cora fiddled with her translator, strug-
gling to bring sense out of cetacean chaos. Each
species had its own whistles, its private clicks and col-
loquial howls. The translators converted the blue's
chatter into a kind of stupefied pidgin that sounded
unintentionally comical.

"You Great Brother know attacks on human-town,




214 CACHALOT

.on human-people?" Wenkoseemansa seemed to be
asking. "All human-people their-kind killed and
gone away. Great Brother savvy?"

There was no response. Hwoshien spoke around
the pickup of his own translator. "Another blank.
Is it possible all the whales who participated in the
attack on Vai'oire have already fled this region?"

"Gone to another town, maybe?" Merced wondered
worriedly. No one felt like commenting on that omi-
nous possibility.

But the baleen finally answered. The reply was
made with assurance, though with typically maddening
slowness. "This One Great Brother savvy Little
Cousin query. This One Great Brother aware muchly
of attack on human-towns. This One Great Brother
much sad at death of human-people, yes, muchly
much."

"You One participate in attack?" Wenkoseemansa
inquired carefully, his muscles tensed in expectation.
"You One help kill?"

"This One participate," the blue said with appalling
coldness, not to mention an obvious indifference to
whatever the little knot of listening humans might
choose to do. But while the whale's tone as conveyed
by the translator contained no empathy, neither was it
bellicose. Some of the crew shifted nervously at
their stations. The helmsman's fingers tightened around
Scanning screens on the suprafoil showed the tiny dots
the controls.

Yet the blue did not move, remained peacefully if
uncomfortably in the center of the hemisphere of
orcas. He's so calm, Cora thought in admiration. Does
he know we could kill or severely wound him? The
energy cannon at the bow was purposely not aimed
at the baleen, but it was manned. It could be adjusted
to fire over and down in an instant.

Maybe he has even now sent out a distress call to
the hundreds of others who participated in the attack

CACHALOT

215

on Vai'oire, Cora thought. That's absurd, she cor-
rected herself. Any such call would have been inter-
cepted and reported by the orcas, if not by the
detection equipment on the ship.

"What for, Great Brother, you kill human-people?"
Mataroreva asked, taking over the process of question-
ing from Wenkoseemansa. "Human-people Great
One's friends. No attack, no threaten. Great One's
self or children. What for Great One and Cousins do
such terrible-bad thing?"

Slowly, with unexpected pain, the sulfur-bottom
replied, "This Great One don't know. Subject hard
to consider."

The orcas could not frown, but Cora received the
same impression from the puzzled chatter that circu-
lated among them.

"But you did participate?"
"This One did."
"Did kill?"

"Did kill," the blue agonized. "Don't know why.
This One no know. No inner-sawy why This One
attack. Hard think-back."

"Something-someone convince you attack?" Mata-
roreva pressed. "What say?"
"No savvy."

"Great One attack-kill human-people, what cause
Great One do so? Who tell Great Ones do so? Try
savvy." Mataroreva stared over the railing as if he
could will the great whale to answer.

"Savvy . . . hard is. Hard think-back. Dark waters.
No can straight savvy." He shook his head slightly.
Sudden swells rocked the suprafoil, and those on
board grabbed for support. "Hard think-back. Mind
hurt bad. No sense makes." Again the head twitched
and the entire body shuddered, throwing water over
the low deck of the nearby ship. Clearly the immense
creature was becoming frustrated and upset. "No can
remember!"

216

CACHALOT

The whale spun and the foil threatened to capsize
In the water the orcas fought hard to hold their posi-
tions against the powerful swell. Cora hung on tight to
the rail with one arm and wrestled to reduce the vol-
ume on her translator. The blue's voice was growing
deafening.

"Attack—kill—no like! No choice but. Had to do.
Ordered to do. Think-back hurts! Leave now This

One!"

Up went the great flukes, like some huge gray bird.
Down went the head as the whale arched his back.
of the orcas sprinting out of the way as the multiton
bull plunged rapidly and unhesitatingly for the
silence of the depths.

Gradually the water calmed. The ship ceased rock-
ing. Cora slipped her translator back on her head. "So
the whales are apparently not responsible. Someone is
directing them."

"Whoever it is can compel them to attack a town,"
Merced murmured thoughtfully, "but we can't compel
a single one to explain his actions."

"I still don't see how you can compel something
that weighs a hundred tons," Rachael insisted. "Let
alone dozens of them."

Cora snapped at her without meaning to. "Thoughts
don't weigh much. I think it's pretty clear we're up
against some kind of mind control. Something that can
force the cetaceans, but not people. Otherwise who-
ever's behind this could simply direct the inhabitants
of each town to blow themselves up. The Common-
wealth watches anything having to do with central-
nervous-system or mental-modulation research very
tightly. But as isolated as the cetaceans have been in
their mental development here, by their own choice
—that would make them a perfect subject for anyone
wishing to try out such a control system."

"Not only doesn't it affect humans," Merced ob-
served, "I would guess it doesn't affect the toothed

CACHALOT            217

whales, either. Certainly not the orcas and the por-
poises, probably not the catodons and their relatives."

"Not yet it doesn't," Cora said grimly. "Maybe it's
not perfected yet. Maybe the catodons will be the
next subjects, together with the orcas—and then us.
We can't break this precious Covenant, can't even
chance it, but I can think of some that ought to be
ready to risk it, for their own sakes."

"We can't," Mataroreva protested immediately.
"We tried it once and got nowhere."

"We know more now. I should think the catodons
would be interested. They ought to be, if they know
what's good for them."

"I keep telling you," he said tightly, "they don't
think the way we do. No matter what we've learned,
regardless of what we might say, they'll see it first and
foremost as another attack on their privacy, on their
thinking time. We might try another pod—"

Cora shook her head. "It has to be the same one
we talked to before. We can't take the time to estab-
lish a relationship with a new pod, even assuming we
could locate another one, and we can't take the time
to go over old ground again. It has to be Lumpjaw's
pod."

"They could consider a second attempt a provoca-
tion," he warned her. "They as much as told us so."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No, I don't have a better one!" he shouted angrily
at her. "But I don't have any as dangerous, either!"

Legally they were now subject to local administra-
tive directives. So the question was formally put to
Hwoshien.

"Let us try it," he finally told them. "It offers us the
best chance of obtaining a solution fast."

"It also offers the best chance of eliminating our
now experienced research team," Mataroreva argued.
"If we get in among the herd and they then decide on a

218 CACHALOT

unified attack, we won't have a prayer of getting out
alive."

"I am willing to trust the Covenant," Hwoshien re-
plied. "I do not think they will break it this time
merely to protect their right to privacy. And our new
information may indeed, as Ms. Xamantina says, in-
trigue them."

"There's no telling," Mataroreva muttered. "You
know people, Yu. I know cetaceans. A group of peo-
ple wouldn't react violently to the mild intrusion we
plan, but we're dealing with different moral standards,
with a different scale of values. I'm certain of nothing
except the catodon's unpredictability. Maybe it's the
smartest of the Cetacea, but it's also the most volatile."

"I have an obligation to protect the living,"
Hwoshien said firmly. "We not only require a solution
to this, we require one now. I cannot risk another town
in the name of caution." He adjusted his own trans-
lator and walked to the railing.

"Wenkoseemansa—Latehoht—pack leader." Two
familiar shapes instantly flanked the ship. They were
soon joined by a larger third: Kinehahtoh. Hwoshien  ,
explained what they wished of the orca's. When he
had finished, Kinehahtoh spun distress in the water.

"Bad timing is thhis, a woefful prroposal you
makke. Not at all goood. "Hs bitter to thhe taste of the
packk.

"Like we not the catodons oven-much, like they us
still less, and saltted is theirr irrritation with con-
temmpt. But theirr dislike of us is as swweet schools of
golden madandrra to the taste comparred with theirr
dislike of hummans. Dangerrous, woefful dangerrous
is this idea." He stopped spinning and splashing, gazed
up at the humans lining the low rail.

"Knoww you thhat if the catodons choose to vent
theirr discontent, wwe cannot prrotect you. Know you
thhis welll Even did wwe wish to, wwe could not. Arre

CACHALOT            219

firrst among the Cetacea the catodons, whho alone in
the sea arre strronger than the orrcas."

"We understand your position," Cora said, "but we
have no choice. We've come to a dead end."

" 'Deadd end'?" a puzzled Kinehahtoh echoed.

"A place that cannot be swum through, like the
bottom of the sea," Mataroreva explained helpfully.

"Awwwh. Underrstand wwe noww yourr posi-
tionnn."

"Can you find them, then?" Mataroreva asked ex-
pectantly. "The large pod we conversed with so many
days ago?"

"Can find prrobably, cann overrtaaaake."

"Then do only that much for us," Hwoshien put in,
"and the orcas are released at the moment of contact
from any obligation to us." Mataroreva whirled on
him, gaping.

"This Kinehahtoh has already restated their posi-
tion, Sam. Close your mouth. There's no point in ask-
ing them to risk their precious interspecies Covenant.
As he told us, the orcas couldn't protect us even if they
wanted to. I don't want them holding any bad feelings
against us if this doesn't work out." He turned back to
the water.

"Take us to them. That will be sufficient. We will do
our own talking."

"Fooolish thhing is thhis," Wenkoseemansa said,
leaping clear of the surface and landing with a tremen-
dous splash. "Fooolish. Arre therre not otherr ways,
otherr means, to learm the answwerrs you requirre?"

But no one could think of any, though all tried as
best they could as the suprafoil sped northwestward,
following the pack of coursing black and white shapes.

By spreading out, the orcas were able to search a
tremendous volume of ocean, backed by the long-
ranging sonarizer of the suprafoil. Even so, they lo-
cated the pod sooner than even Hwoshien might have
hoped. The catodons could be leisurely travelers, often

220 CACHALOT

following schools of food rather than any straight
course. Also, they' were hindered by the presence of
many calves, which the hunting orca pack had left
safely behind.

Cora, Hwoshien, Mataroreva, and Dawn moved to
the bow of the ship as they neared the herd. Cora
found herself wishing the other, younger woman had
remained behind. She still had not accepted Dawn's
insistent claim that she had no permanent designs on
Sam, less so that Sam held no interest in her. Cora had
too graphic a proof of the latter.

A call came to them from inside the cabin. "Twelve
kilometers and closing."

"Thank you, Mr. Asamwe," Hwoshien replied
crisply. His attention was also directed forward. "Yes,
I can see the spouts." Cora strained, could make out
nothing against the sea and sky. Whatever Hwoshien's
age, there was nothing old about his eyes.

"I don't see them."

He pointed. "There . . ." and then he frowned
slightly. "No, I don't see them any more, either. I
thought they might do this."

Sure enough, the report soon confirmed the truth.
"Reporting again, sir. The pod is sounding."

"All of them? Calves included?"

"It shows here," the crewman said. Hwoshien did
not reply, continued to stare over the bow, his back as
straight as an iron bar and his stare as cold.

"Well, they can't stay down for much more than
twenty minutes," Cora murmured. "Not with calves."
She turned and surreptitiously eyed Mataroreva. The
big man was tense, obvious worry creasing his usually
rotund, jovial face.

"They'll come up a damnsight sooner than that,
once they've decided we're not going to leave them
alone."

He's worried, she thought. Worried but not fright-
ened. Never frightened. Morally innocent, but an ad-

CACHALOT            221

mirable man nonetheless. One of the few. She might be
just the one to cure him.

Wenkoseemansa was back paralleling the ship,
leaping to confirm what the sonarizer had already re-
ported.

"Why bother to sound?" Cora wondered. "Surely
they know we're aware of their location. They can't
lose us."

"Could be several reasons." Mataroreva studied the
horizon. "They might be showing their displeasure and
just incidentally giving us the chance to change our
course—and our minds. Or they might not care one
way or the other, since we haven't actually disturbed
their activities with our presence yet. It might be a
normal feeding dive." Now he smiled slightly. "It
would be just like them to surface all around us and
ignore our presence entirely, not to mention our ques-
tions."

Minutes later the helmsman reported, with admir-
able calm, "We're right over them, sir."

"Hold just aft of the pod, as near as you can."

"Yes, sir."

The suprafoil slowed. They cruised just behind their
submerged quarry for another fifteen minutes before
detection reported again. "They're coming up, sir."

"Good," Hwoshien said into the nearby corn. "Keep
us posted, please."

"Still rising." A pause, then, "Shouldn't we move a
little farther aft of them, sir?"

"No. Hold your position and speed."

"Changing course, sir—they're going to come up all
around us." Still no panic in the crewman's voice,
though the words poured out a bit hastily, Cora
thought. Impassive, Hwoshien said nothing, continued
to stare interestedly over the bow.

"Twenty meters. Fifteen." The engine raced.

"Hold your position," Hwoshien ordered firmly.
"Show them we're not concerned. They know they're

222 CACHALOT

not surprising us. Don't show them otherwise. Besides,"
he told Cora, "it's too late to do anything anyway."

"Five . . . four . . ." the technician counted down.
"Three... two ..."

Calm sea, tolerant sun, a few white clouds con-
versing in a sky as blue as a blade of azurite, made up
the momentary universe. Then it was filled with a
sight few humans had ever been privileged to witness.

With intelligence had come more than thought. It
brought with it an aesthetic sense, coupled with a
unique unity of purpose. The entire pod, some two or
three hundred adult, adolescent, and juvenile ceta-
ceans, breached simultaneously. One moment the sea
was calm and the air deserted. The next, it was filled
with two hundred thousand tons and more of gray-
brown flesh.

The pod hung suspended in the air for a second no
onlooker would ever lose track of, before falling con-
vulsively back into the sea. Wet thunder shook the
somnolent sky. The displacement of air was enough to
knock everyone off his feet. Only the fact that the pod
was now evenly distributed around the ship kept it from
being capsized. Still, all the silent efforts of automatic
stabilizers and gyroscopic compensators were required
to hold the suprafoil level on the surface.

Everyone knew that had the catodons so chosen,
several of them could have landed precisely on the
ship itself. The vessel would have vanished beneath
the sea, to rise in thousands of fragments minutes later.
Instead, it was the pod that rose, like several hundred
gigantic corks, to dot the surface with dozens of tem-
porary islands. They did not remain, but cruised stead-
ily on their unchanged course. The helmsman jockeyed
constantly, trying to avoid ramming the whale immedi-
ately ahead without being overrun by the ones just
behind.

A new sound filled the air, dozens of explosive
whooshes and pops as the pod flushed the built-up

CACHALOT            223

carbon dioxide from its lungs. An organic fog momen-
tarily obliterated the sky above the patch of disturbed
ocean, until the gentle breeze dissipated it forever.

Hwoshien said into the corn unit, without any
change of tone, "Easy ahead, helmsman. You're doing
fine. Don't screw up." He appeared completely un-
affected by the titanic display of power and unity they
had just been treated to.

Vast, sliding bulks hemmed the ship in. The major-
ity of them were larger than the foil.

Mataroreva still looked worried. "What's the matter?'
Cora asked.

"I know what you're thinking, but it's not the
catodons now. I don't see Latehoht or Wenkoseemansa
or any of the orcas."

"They said they wouldn't interfere. I expect
Kinehahtoh and the rest of the pack accepted
Hwoshien's offer to stay out of this."

"I know, but still, Latehoht and her mate . . ." His
voice trailed away. A surprise, she mused. For all his
railing about the cetaceans' different method of think-
ing, he still half hoped his two friends might have
chosen to stay with him instead of with their kind.

Cora found her thoughts turning more to the minds
of the catodons than to Sam's. What was their state of
mind now? If she could see inside those massive
brains, what peculiar, alien concepts would she share?

As yet they might not know that she and Sam and
those who had intruded on them before were once
more among them. Hwoshien's ship was larger than the
little research vessel that had originally carried them
out from Mou'anui. How irritable would they be?
More importantly, how intractable when it came time
to ask what had to be asked?

Mataroreva slipped down his translator unit. "Time
to talk, before they make up their minds to do any-
thing."

Cora adjusted her own, as did Hwoshien and Dawn.

224

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

225

Rachael and Merced rejoined them, already properly
equipped for interspecies conversation.

It was decided that Mataroreva would speak first, as
before. He leaned over the portside of the bow, chose
a subject, and shouted hopefully, "How goes your jour-
ney, youngling?" The translator could interpret that
query several ways. It might refer to the journey for
food, the whale's personal odyssey, or the catodonian
journey through life. She guessed that he left it
purposely indistinct, perhaps to provoke a questioning

response.

A very young whale, no more than four meters in
length, responded by angling for the flank of the ship.

"Human ones, I have never seen that—" A vast
mass suddenly appeared beneath the juvenile, nudged
it aside.

"Will you talk, mother?" Matororeva hurriedly in-
quired of the female who had interposed herself be-
tween ship and offspring. She and the infant slid away,
and what she replied was not translated effectively.

Mataroreva managed a tight grin, however. "Scolding
the child, I would guess. Trying to keep him from the
evil influence of human beings."

Abruptly, a gigantic bulk emerged alongside the
ship. A vast skull, larger than most of the creatures
that had dwelled on the Earth or in its waters, reared
above the surface. Cora immediately recognized the
gnarls and whorls that slashed it, like markings on
some ancient tree.

"Greetings, old one," Mataroreva offered in recog-
nition.

"Human, I Know You," a vast, sighing voice said

through Cora's headset. The eye set back and just
above the wrinkled jaw flicked across the railing. "I
Know Most Of Thee. We Did Talk To Little Purpose
Not Long Ago." Lumpjaw paused, considering how to

proceed.

"We Did All Our Talking Then. Why Dost Thou

Disturb Us Yet Again?" No one could mistake the
urgent edge to that question, nor the implied threat
behind it. Normal catadonian apathy was changing to
anger.

"Thou Tryest The Patience Of The Pod. We Will No
More Talk With Thee. Go—Now!" he finished em-
phatically. "Or We Will Not Be Responsible. We
Know The Laws And Will Make Use Of Them! Nor
Depend On Thy Small Servants To Help Thee. They
Are Well Away From This Place And Would Not
Help Thee If They Could, For They Also Know The
Laws."

"What is there for them to help us from?"
Mataroreva asked with an ease he did not feeL "If we
are not friends, at least we are not enemies, for we
have not harmed you."

"Thou Interruptest Thought, Thou Breakest Con-
centration, As Thou Didst With That Youngling, Thou
Lengthenest The Great Journey!" the furious old ce-
tacean stormed.

"We know and we're sorry," Mataroreva replied
quickly. "We just want—"

A massive pair of flukes slammed dangerously near
the ship, dousing everyone on board. "No More Talk-
ing! No More Wasted Time! Life Is Short!" Cora
found herself wondering at their perception of time,
since a healthy catodon could live well over a hundred
years, as this patriarch probably already had.

"We Go This Side Of The Light-Giver. You Go The
Opposite Way. Go Now!"

"That's enough," Hwoshien grumbled outside his
headset. "We'll have to find another pod to question,
or look elsewhere altogether." He yelled dispiritedly
up at the helm. "Slow turn to starboard and quarter
speed ahead."

"Yes, sir," the helmsman acknowledged; he needed
no urging to comply.

"Wait," Cora pleaded with the Commissioner. "We




226 CACHALOT

can't give up now. We need to ask only one or two

questions."

"I'll take a reasonable risk," he replied carefully,
"such as entering this pod's area. I won't risk a warn-
ing such as we've just received." The engines whined
behind them.

She looked imploringly at Mataroreva, found no
comfort there. "He's right, Cora." He turned away
from her, spoke to his superior. "We might have a
chance to locate an isolated . . ."

Cora looked wildly around. Anxious crewmembers
were rushing preparations to depart. Mataroreva con-
tinued to converse in low tones with Hwoshien.
Rachael fingered her neurophon and chatted with
Merced. Only Dawn appeared unoccupied, and she
was staring interestedly at the herd, not at Cora.

Frustration, loss, Silvio, Rachael, pride, and the
eternal burning desire to slay ignorance that so often
plagued her combined to push desire past reason in the
mental race for attention that was screaming inside her
head. Impulse overwhelmed rationality.

There was a zero-buoyancy rescue disc tied to the
railing. She unlatched it, put her other hand on the
rail, and vaulted over the side of the ship. The last
words she heard were a startled scream from her
daughter and a Polynesian oath from Sam.

XV

L.er arms threatened to tear from her shoulders as
the float disc sank only a few centimeters before bob-
bing insistently to the surface. She hung on, struggled
to adjust her headset translator as she sucked air and
climbed onto the stabilizing disc. Though the water
was reasonably comfortable even out here in mid-
ocean, she still felt cold without her gelsuit.

As she attempted to get into a lotus position on the
disc, water cleared from her eyes and she discovered
she was sitting not more than a few meters from a gray
promontory. That towering cliff swung slightly toward
her as it sensed her presence. Near the line where
cliff-head met water, an eye the size of her head
impaled her with an unwinking stare.

She froze on the disc. Too late now to reconsider,
too late to apply reason. But commitment did not
breed action. She could only sit motionless and stare
back.

The cliff came close to her legs, the entire enormous
mass balancing in the water with wonderful delicacy.
Behind her, shouts of confusion and worry formed a
meaningless babble on the ship. The sounds might as
well not have been there, for all the attention she de-
voted to them. Only she and that curious eye existed.

Rows of white teeth a fifth of a meter long lay
partly exposed in half-opened jaws. The slight move-

227

228 CACHALOT

ment of the whale in the water sent swells cascading
over her legs and hips, but the disc's stabilizers held
her level.

It required no effort to concentrate wholly on the
creature before her. She wished she could see what
was going through that huge mind, what emotions if
any lay behind that speculative eye. Another impulse,
perhaps less rational than the one which had forced
her to jump overboard, induced her to reach out a
tentative hand. The old catodon did not pull away
from her touch. The feel of the skin surprised her. It
was smooth and slick, not nearly as rough as it ap-
peared.

"You Fell," a voice in her headset claimed,
strangely noncommittal.

"No. I jumped." She wondered if the translator
would convey her nervousness along with her words.

If it did, the whale gave no sign that it mattered, for
all he came back to her with was, "Why?"

"You may not like us," she began, her mind func-
tioning again. "You may not like me. But I am doing
only what you or any member of your pod would do,
defending the endangered and the calves."

"There Are No Weak, No Injured, No Calves On
Board Your Float," the whale said.

"No, but there are calves on other floating towns as
yet unharmed, healthy ones who stand to be injured,
and all who are endangered. I have to help them now,
before it's too late."

"So Thou Riskest Thyself To Leam. Preventive
Sacrifice." Cora trembled a little, wondering what the
whale meant by the use of the word "sacrifice."

"Noble. We Do Not Generally Think Of Humans
As ... Noble. Are These Questions Thou Wouldst Ask
So Vital, Then, To Thee?"

"Not to me. To the endangered, to those who stand
to die."

She waited tensely for the catodon to reply. He had

CACHALOT            229

quieted behind her, as everyone on the foil waited
breathlessly for the drama to resolve itself.

Eventually the old whale said, "What, Then, Be A
Question In The Scheme of Things? I Waste Time
With Thee. Yet The Pod Will Progress, The Pod Still
Thinks. Ask What Thou Wilt, Female."

Cora tried to stop shaking. For a moment she mar-
veled that the cetaceans would bother to distinguish
sexual characteristics among humans. Then she hur-
ried on.

"First I have to tell you," she said, feeling like an
ant addressing a man, "that we know for a fact that
the baleen whales are destroying our towns. We don't
know if any of the toothed are involved. If you doubt
this, ask your small cousins who travel with us." Si-
lence. "Did you know this?" she added.

"We Did Not Know This," the whale replied. "Yea,
Why Should We Believe Thee Or The Cousins Who
Slave For Thee?"

"They don't slave for us and you know that," she
snapped back, affecting an invulnerability she did not
possess. "They would never lie to you, and you know
that. Certainly not on human account."

"They Indeed Confirm What Thou Sayest. Normally
The Doings Of The Baleen Are Of No More Interest
To Us Than The Doings Of Mankind ... But... This
Is A Most Interesting And Disturbing Thing. Very
Difficult It Is To Believe."

"I myself witnessed one of their attacks. So did my
close companions." She gestured back toward the now
crowded railing of the suprafoil, where Mataroreva
and every other member of the crew stood watching in
mute fascination. "They acted in unison," she con-
tinued, "according to some prearranged, thought-out
plan. Blues, fins, humpbacks, rights, probably seis and
greenlands and all other plankton-eaters. We saw none
of your people among them, as I said."

"Naturally Not!" the old one roared confidently.

230

CACHALOT

"No Catodon Would Participate In Anything So Fool-
ish, To No Philosophical End. And Thou Sayest The
Baleens Acted Together? This Is Not Possible. Our
Great Cousins Have Not The Intelligence."

"Something has the intelligence," she insisted, "be-
cause it happened. Someone is directing them, in-
structing them in what to do. We found one who
actually participated in at least one attack. It admitted
this, yet could not explain why it did so. Whoever is
controlling and directing the great whales in these at-
tacks is doing so without their consent."

"That Is Possible." The old whale sounded a touch
tired. "But As I Said, The Doings Of The Baleens
Are Of No Real Consequence. It Is Interesting, But
That Is All." He slid deeper in the water, prepara-
tory to submerging.

"Wait! Think a moment, Lumpjaw. Anything that
can control the baleens against their will might soon
also manage to control your people."

"That Is Not Possible." He spoke with maddening

self-assurance.

"Probably the baleens think the same thing." She
slapped the water angrily, a pitiful gesture that none-
theless made her feel better. "You pride yourselves on
your privacy, your chosen isolation and time to think
and philosophize. You've elected for yourselves a spe-
cial nomadic, noninstrumental existence and seek to
develop your own kind of civilization. Don't you see
that whatever's controlling the baleens is a threat to
that, even if you're right and it can never control
you? Mightn't it turn the baleens against you, as it has
turned them against us?"

"I Have Said That We Will Not Concern Ourselves
With The Activities Of The Baleens, Nor Do We
Fear Any Actions Of Our Large But Harmless Cous-
ins."

"Harmless?" She tried one last time. "How do you

CACHALOT            231

know what they might be capable of under outside
control?"

Silence for a long moment, and then a bellow that
rang around inside her head.

"PEOPLE!" She forcibly reduced the volume in her
headset as the shout reverberated inside her skull like
a ball-bearing in a steel globe. "Thou Nearby Have
Heard." Answering replies came from at least three
dozen cetaceans. Cora had considered the conversa-
tion pirvate, but come to think of it, why shouldn't
many others of the herd within range have listened in?
Were not the catodons developing a cooperative so-
ciety?

"What Think Thou," he finished, "Of This Unprec-
edented Anomaly?"

"Yes," she said loudly, "and what are you going to
do about it?" She fervently hoped she was not over-
stepping her thinly stretched luck.

A great deal of rapid intercetacean communication
generated a verbal blur in her ears, too rich and rapid
for the translator to handle.

Finally the wrinkled brow turned to her once more.
"We Shall Question The Baleens Ourselves About
This Peculiar Matter."

"I told you we already tried that," Cora reminded
him. "With a big sulfur-bottom bull. He admitted the
attack, admitted being directed, but didn't know how
or couldn't say how it was accomplished. Thinking
about it gave him a whale-sized headache."

"All Thoughts Upset The Baleens. They Do Not
Like To Think. They Only Like To Eat. Feeding Oc-
cupies Too Much Of Their Time. But We Will Ques-
tion Them." He said it in such as way as to hint that
Cora and her friends were guilty of either a wrong
approach or collective stupidity. Well, that was fine
with her. She had achieved as much as she had dared
hope.

But the catodon added something completely unex-

232 CACHALOT

pected, unhoped for. "Thou And Thy Companions
May Come Along If Thou Wish To, Though I Cannot
Say When We Might Encounter Any Of The Great
Cousins."

"Thank you. We—" But the great head sank like a
stone. Then Cora felt herself rising. She was preparing
to jump clear when the ascent leveled off. She found
herself moving toward the ship. Ahead, crewmembers
ran in panic to left and right. The head beneath her
dipped slightly. She slid a couple of meters to the
deck, landed on her feet, and sat down awkwardly.
The float disc clattered next to her.

Mataroreva was the first one to reach her, lifted her
to her feet. A smile told him she was all right. She
shook free, moved to the rail in time to see the mas-
sive skull slip back into the water. A vast, fathomless
eye rolled at her. The old leader issued a high, squeal-
ing sound the translator could do nothing with. Then
he vanished beneath the waves.

As if directed by a single source, the entire herd
began moving northwestward. Their pace increased
rapidly. Gigantic backs raced and rolled past the
suprafoil, coming withing centimeters of its hull. None
actually made contact.

Having also listened in on the conversation,
Hwoshien had the presence of mind to order, "Slow
ahead, helmsman. When they're completely past and
a kilometer out, match speed and maintain that dis-
tance!" The suprafoil's engines hummed. Soon it was
racing in the wake of the herd like a silver water-
strider.

Mataroreva stood near Cora, towering over her. Yet
he no longer seemed so big. "That was a very stupid
thing to do," he said quietly.

"Yes, I know." She ran the absorbent cloth across
her legs, began drying her hair. "But we had no
choice. We knew that the catodons were our best bet
for finding out why the baleens were doing what they

CACHALOT            233

were. Our toothed friends didn't know, as it turns out,
but maybe we're all going to find out together."

"Stupid," he reiterated, but it was muted by the ad-
miration in his voice and in his face.

"Why? What would it have mattered to you if
something had happened?"

"It would have mattered, vahine."

"Sure. It would have mattered no matter who had
been in the water, right?" Not wanting an answer, she
slipped past him before he could offer one she
wouldn't like.

Dawn was waiting to confront her. She stared the
older woman squarely in the eye, said, "That was the
bravest thing I ever saw anyone do."

Cora hesitated, then smiled. "I didn't think of it as
particularly brave. Sam was right. It was a stupid
thing to do. I was lucky." Then it hit her, in detail, ex-
actly what she had done. "In fact, I didn't think of it
at all. I just did it."

Behind them both, Merced was nodding under-
standingly.

Cora was standing in the bow, watching the spouts
and backs leading the ship. Mataroreva had rejoined
her and they watched together.

"What do you think will happen when the catodons
confront a baleen or two the way we confronted the
blue, and demand an explanation?"

"I've no idea," he said slowly. "I don't think they'll
risk the cetacean peace. But as you've already seen,
they can be considerably more forceful than most of
their relatives. And where the orcas couldn't do any-
thing with that bull, a couple of catodons could."

"You think the baleens might fight rather than
talk?"

"No way of telling. Normal relationships are being
upset on this world." He nodded toward the distant,
curving backs of the herd. "It's awkward, though.

234 CACHALOT

They might risk a breach of the peace to sate their
curiosity, but they won't do it to save a thousand hu-
man lives. It would be easy to learn to hate them for
that."

"That wouldn't bother them, either," she reminded
him. "They don't care at all how we look at them."

"Self-centered egotists," he muttered.

"Not necessarily. Maybe they're right."

"How so?"

"Maybe we're just not very interesting."

They went quiet, each absorbed in personal
thoughts. A pair of familiar shapes raced the ship to
port. Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht had rejoined them.
The rest of the orca pack, they explained, had turned
back for Mou'anui. They had come to rescue human
from human. That task accomplished, they saw noth-
ing to be gained by remaining with the suprafoil. And
they found the company of their supercilious cousins
wearying.

Somehow the sonarizer operator managed to keep a
scan ahead of the cluster of blips that identified the
leading pod.

"There's something out there," he reported over the
communicators.

"Baleen?" Mataroreva asked quickly.

"Big enough to be. And there's more than one
showing. I read five or six."

"Species?"

"Too far for resolution."

The catodons had sensed them, too. The herd
turned with precision and the foil angled to remain
with them.

As the distance closed, the sonarizer operator con-
tinued to report. "I make out seven now. Not hump-
backs. Not rights. Fins or blues. Ten ... no, close to
twenty now. Fins, I think."

By now the lead catodons should be in verbal con-

CACHALOT            235

tact with the baleen pod, Cora knew. "Fins could out-
swim them," she murmured.

"If they haven't by now, that means some of the
pod are on the other side of them, and probably div-
ing to get beneath them," Mataroreva replied specu-
latively.

The fins did not try to swim away, though they
were the fastest of all the whales. But they did not
stop to answer questions, either. What they did was so
shocking that both humans and catodons were
equally stunned.

A sound echoed through the long-range pickup and
over everyone's communicator. A sound that Cora rec-
ognized as a whale in pain. Mataroreva was pointing
wordlessly over the bow as others ran to join and gape
alongside them.

Ahead, the water was churning as if disturbed by
the explosion of a series of heavy charges. Huge forms
breached clear of the sea and vast flukes battered the
innocent waters. The helmsman slowed the foil with-
out waiting for formal orders. Commotion and chaos
made froth of the ocean around the ship, jolting it and
inhabitants unmercifully. If they had been traveling
among the pod instead of behind it, they would al-
ready have been swamped.

From the speaker emanated sounds diversified in
their anguish and all too familiar.

"What's going on?" Dawn wanted to know, arriving
out of breath.

"I don't believe it!" Mataroreva told her above the
cetacean screams and the noise of great bodies in col-
lision. "I don't believe it!"

The fins were attacking the catodons.

If the humans on the foil were stunned, the pod of
catodons was more so. Surprise and shock rapidly gave
way to instincts equally basic, and they began to de-
fend themselves.

Charging at great speed, a pair of fins would at-

236

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

237

tempt to catch an unwary catodon between them. But
they were badly outnumbered, and in any case, at a
real disadvantage in having nothing to bite with. Nor
were they constructed for butting, the only form of at-
tack they could use against another whale. The more
intelligent catodons soon overpowered their cousins.

All at once the fins ceased their assault.

The sonarizer was of little help now. Crowding the
bow, the onlookers stared anxiously at the quiet sur-
face as the craft moved slowly into the area of
combat. It was left to the orcas to relay the critical
information back to the ship.

"Noww hawe thhey stopped theirr obscene activi-
ties. Now hawe thhey ceased to do battllle," Latehoht
told them.

"What are they doing now?" Cora asked.

"Lie thhey in the waterr devoid of mowement or
response." She went quiet for a moment, then,
"Wenkoseemansa says the catodons do quesstion
thhemm. Says he thhat the Great Cousins appearr
dazzed and lifeless, unawarre of whhat thhey hawe
just done. Unawarre to the point whherre thhey can-
not feeel even outrrage at thheirr actions." Her voice
was full of disbelief. "Woefful thhing is thhis. Sadness
fills the waterrs. Not since thhis worrld was given
overr to us has cetacean fought cetacean."

"I'd like to question them myself," Cora murmured.

"Out of the question." Mataroreva moved closer,
perhaps to reassure her during a nervous moment, per-
haps to be ready in the event of an unexpected leap
at the railing. "Remember Vai'oire. Keep in mind that
this bunch has just acted completely crazy and could
do so again, and we're much closer now. We'll remain
right where we are and let Lumpjaw and his brethren
ask the first questions."

"The baleeen pod leaderr," Latehoht was saying,
"knowws not whhy thhey attacked theirr cousins the
catodons. Awww . . . theirr reaction if not theirr mo-
tivation is noww clearr. They arre ashamed beyond
measurre. They say they werre drriven, forrced to at-
tack, as if ... as iff ... thhey cannot descrribe it,"
she concluded.

"Never mind how," Merced said quickly. "Tell
Wenkoseemansa to see if he can leam who compelled
them to attack."

Latehoht passed the request on. Minutes went by.
Instead of answers, the water erupted in violence once
more. The helmsman was hard put to keep them from
being swamped by the behemoth shapes that filled the
sea around the ship.

"Now what?" Hwoshien wondered aloud, spitting
out salt water.

"Commpletely mad thhey hawe gone!" a shout
sounded in their headsets. Latehoht maneuvered to
avoid ship and catodon alike. "They fight noww to
fleeee."

"They mustn't all escape!" Cora yelled frantically,
struggling to avoid being thrown overboard as the
suprafoil rocked and heeled against the best efforts of
the stabilizers. "We must hold one of them at least!"

But Latehoht was now too busy protecting herself
to relay requests or information. Those on board had
to content themselves with holding on and hoping.

The second fight raged for five minutes before a
calmer Latehoht was able to report, "Endded it is.
Ewen whhen restrrained by teeth, the Grreat Cous-
ins hawe torrn themmselves away. Too much blood
darrkens the waterrrr."

"They got away?" Cora moaned, her muscles ach-
ing from the battering she had received from railing,
deck, and cabin wall.

"Not all. Twwo—no, thrree rremain. Four. Twwo
females and twwo calves."

"Crippled?" Mataroreva inquired.

"No. Exhausted utterrly wwerre thhey by theirr at-




238

CACHALOT

temmpts to escape. Surrounded arre thhey now by the
entirre catodon pod."

"Four, and two of them juveniles." Cora looked
earnestly at the big man nearby. "We have to ques-
tion them ourselves, Sam. The catodons don't seem to
have done too well."

Frowning, the peaceforcer turned to Hwoshien. The
Commissioner said nothing, conveyed nothing via his
expression. It was left to Mataroreva.

The suprafoil moved forward. None of the catodons
questioned its advance. Indeed, several of them moved
to leave it a clear path. Wenkoseemansa and Latehoht
flanked the vessel, ready to cry a warning if the four
remaining fins should unexpectedly find the strength
and will to attack again.

A wall of enormous bodies and slick backs hemmed
the captives in. Cora knew the encirclement continued
below them.

Lying on the surface and breathing heavily were the
two females. A single calf hovered close to one. Both
adults were supporting the other calf between them,
keeping it up in the life-giving air. The lateral fins and
flukes of the females were marked by catodon teeth,
though the wounds did not appear serious. The calf
they supported was doubtless the reason why they
were unable to escape. All four shapes were propor-
tionately longer, slimmer, and lighter in color than
those surrounding them.

Cora noticed a familiar mass nearby, leaned out,
and yelled via her unit, "May we question them?"

"Madness Reigns! Madness This Is! Do What Thou
Likest," the aged leader of the pod announced. But
his anger was muted by curiosity.

It took a minute to locate the proper setting on the
translator. Then she called out to the four streamlined
shapes. "Mothers of the Sashlan! Why have you at-
tacked your cousins? Why have your people and the
others"—she gave the names of the additional baleen

CACHALOT            239

tribes—"taken to killing humans who mean you no
harm?"

The nearest grooved head swung toward the foil.
The helmsman twitched, his hands tightening on the
controls. But it was not an offensive gesture.

"Don't . . . know." The female's voice held over-
tones of frustration as well as exhaustion and pain.
"Horrible things drive Sashlan and cousins. Mind
hurts!"

"Hurts how?" was all Cora could think to ask.

"Deep inside. Thinking blurs. Hard to focus. Easier
to let other thoughts rule actions."

"Who?" Merced was so intense on the question he
was trembling. "Who is confusing your thoughts and
bringing you the mind-pain?"

"Mind hurts," the agonized voice protested. "Not to
tell."

"If you tell us," Cora ventured, "we can make the
mind-pain go away."

"Would be good thing. No like killing humans. Not
enjoy fighting Cousins of the Teeth."

"This thought-thing. Did it just direct you to attack
your cousins, and when that failed, to flee?"

"Yes. Hurts bad think about this."

"We'll make the hurt go away," Cora insisted, pray-
ing they could do so. "Just tell us who is—"

"Directions," the voice gasped laboriously. "Direc-
tions come CunsnuC."

Cora looked expectantly at Mataroreva, who could
only shake his head, baffled.

"What is the CunsnuC?" she asked.

"Don't know," the whale said. "Mind-pain hurts!"
The female began to ramble, in a voice pathetic for
so massive a creature. "Make mind-pain go away.
Calf hurts. Mates hurt. All hurt! Can't... fight."

"If you can't identify it," Mataroreva asked hope-
fully, "can you show us where this CunsnuC is?"

"Will show!" the fin emphatically said. Then she

240 CACHALOT

added in wonderment, "Yes, will show. Pain going
now. Feel better. Will show, will show, will show. Not
supposed to, but will." Without further comment, the
two fins, still aiding the weakened calf between them
and the healthier one nearby, began to swim slowly
northward.

Mataroreva thought to say something to the pod,
but there was no need to. It had listened and under-
stood. A path opened for the fins in the ring of cat-
odons. But they remained grouped close around their
four guides, aware the fins might lose their determina-
tion and try yet once more to flee both captors and
the mysterious pain that assailed them.

The suprafoil followed. Whale backs rose and fell
in regular, symmetrical curves against the horizon.

Two days later they were startled by an announce-
ment from Wenkoseemansa. He was cruising along-
side, easily keeping pace with the ship, when he
shouted in surprise, "Painnn!"

"Mind-pain?" a concerned Cora asked the moment
she reached the railing.

"Yess. But it is not bad, not unbearable. Feeding
it too arre the catodons, feeeling it and rremarrking
on itttt."

"How bad is it affecting them?" Mataroreva stared
over the bow. Only curved spines and open sea met
his stare.

"Not oven-much. Morre surrprrised thhan hurrt
they arre, morre currious thhan injurred. A feww
swwam into each otherr, but to no real hurrt. Thhey
arre resistingggg."

"The mind control. But it's not working on them.
That explains why there were no catodons, or orcas
or porpoises, participating in the attacks on the towns.
Their minds must not be as malleable as those of the
baleens. They can fight off the effect."

"We still don't know who's behind this." Merced

CACHALOT            241

spoke from nearby. "We only have a meaningless
word."

"I do."

They looked over their shoulders. Yu Hwoshien
stood there, hands behind his back, staring specula-
tively over the side at the sweeping backs and con-
sistent spouts of the pod.

"I've devoted some considerable thought to it," he
continued. "Off-world agents. Some group or or-
ganization that wants all humans off Cachalot."

"The AAnn?" Cora suggested, shivering a little at
the thought that humanxkind's persistently probing
reptilian adversaries might be involved.

"It's possible. But not certain. We might be dealing
with another group of humans who think they can
slip down here and glean the wealth of this ocean
world without any interference or supervision once
the existing operations are wiped out. Hazaribagh's
type, only on a much more extensive and smarter
scale. Or some organization with motives we are not
yet aware of."

"Won't they try to escape now?" Rachael won-
dered, cuddling her instrument protectively. "They
must know that we're hunting them, that their control
over these four fins has weakened. They try to com-
pensate by taking control of the catodons, but that
isn't working."

"I considered that," Hwoshien said. He permitted
himself to sound slightly pleased, a break in his usual
mood. "Two independent monitor satellites have been
tracking us ever since we separated from Haza-
ribagh. As soon as we began following our new guides,
I ordered a Commonwealth patrol ship to join the
watch." He jabbed a thumb skyward.

"It is up there now, waiting and in contact with us.
Anything that attempts to leave the surface within a
radius of a thousand kilometers of this ship will be
picked up and intercepted. If they try to escape by

242 CACHALOT

traveling under the sea or by skimming its surface,
the satellites will eventually locate them and direct
the patrol to their flight path. All surface vessels of
known origin have already been plotted and ac-
counted for.

"Yes, they will try to escape. But they will not."
He considered a moment, added, "It would be better
for them to surrender to us and take their chances
with a court before the catodons find them. Or any
of the locals."

It was an evaluation none commented on. They
didn't have to. The proof was visible for all to see in
Dawn's eyes.

XVI

Another day passed before the fins began to show
signs of slowing down. The catodon pod slowed with
them.

"Verry bad noww thhey say the pain iss," Latehoht
relayed to those on the ship. "Feeding it also arre the
catodons, but theirr pain iss overrwhelmmed by
thheirr angerrrr."

"Is this the closest they can guide us?" Mataroreva
asked. He searched the horizon. There was no sign
of any ship or floating installation. Yet the baleens'
continuing agony was proof that the source of that
same pain lay near. "Below the surface somewhere,"
he muttered. "That'll make it harder."

"Ask them—" Cora began.

Latehoht interrupted her. "Can askk no more.
Cann hope forr no morre help," she said sorrowfully.
"Mind-pain prroves too much, too long." No one said
anything.

"Calf die firrst, then otherr youngling. Females go
last to the Sea-That-Is-Always-In-Night. Verry woe-
fful mad arre the catodons. Most furrious is theirr
leaderrr. But therre is nothing they can do.

"CunsnuC is herre. Beloww. But tooo deeep forr
the catodoHS, tooo deeep forr the orrcas."

"How far?" Mataroreva inquired. Latehoht could
not say. If the catodons couldn't reach the source, he

243




244

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

245

knew that it must lie more than a couple of thousand

meters down.

"We need to make a decision," he said to
Hwoshien. "Whoever's down there won't wait forever
before making their own. If they try to escape off-
planet, that's fine. We're ready for them. But what if
they're gathering all the baleens within their control-
ling range? Several thousand might show up at any
time. Under cover of another massed attack, the per-
petrators might be able to get away, out of the grid
established by our monitors. So we must try to force

them to the surface."

"I concur, Sam. But they may not come up readily.
Obviously they're prepared to function at consid-
erable depths."

"So are we," Mataroreva reminded him. "Even the
threat of a small explosive charge should be enough
to drive them up. I'll wager they'll take a court rather
than explosive decompression." He spoke into his
corn. "Can you find anything down there?"

"I'm scanning all the way to the bottom, sir," the
sonarizer on duty replied. "We're over an abyssal
canyon. Drops eight thousand meters in spots, and it's
fairly broad. But I'm not picking anything up. Either
they're located in a cave in the side of the canyon, or
beneath an overhang, or they have sophisticated anti-
detection equipment. None of the towns reported any-
thing."

They never had time to, Cora thought.

Hwoshien gave orders. A thick, stubby vessel was
swung up and out of the suprafoil's hull, lowered into
the water. It had curved wings laterally and straight
paired ones above and below that gave it the ap-
pearance of a sunfish crossed with a Terran manta.
Its hull was reinforced duralloy, the same material
that made up the skin of starships.

It could dive all the way to the bottom of the can-
yon, and considerably farther if need be. Usually it

carried no weapons, being a creature of science and
not of war. But along with the usual complement of
exploratory devices, it also carried several small but ^
powerfully shaped charges for rock detonation. One (
such charge properly placed could dent the submers-
ibie's own incredibly tough epidermis. Several prop-
erly placed could breach it. Or any similar hull.

Hwoshien insisted on joining the exploration. Sam
Mataroreva would go along in his capacity as the
local authority's principal representative. Merced,
Cora, and Rachael all were able to handle deep-
diving submersibles, and in any case, had not come
so far to be denied a look at their tormentors. The
only argument over procedure arose when Rachael
insisted on taking her neurophon. There was some
acrimonious discussion between her and her mother
in which "neuronics" and "neurotic" became con-
fused, but eventually Rachael had her way.

Cora had gained no support from her companions.
The submersible was surprisingly roomy, designed for
a crew of six. While it could not be called spacious,
the five of them managed to move about without
bumping into one another. And the gentle music pro-
vided by Rachael was welcomed by most as they
commenced a long descent into total darkness.

Mataroreva and Cora operated the controls. At
three hundred meters Wenkoseemansa and Lateboht
gave wishes and farewells before turning back. A
cluster of large catodons continued to descend with
the craft, turning back one by one as the air left them.
But by now the submersible had long since entered
the realm of night.

Instrumentation continually probed the depths be-
low, and continued to reveal nothing. Powerful lights
flashed only on startled fish and other denizens of the
dark.

Lumpjaw strained muscles and lung capacity to ac-
company them to nearly twenty-one hundred meters




246

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

247

before he was forced to turn surfaceward. He startled
them all by wishing them unmistakable, if indirect,
good luck. It was the first kind word one of the
great whales had spoken to them since Cora had been
on Cachalot. Extraordinary circumstances, she re-
flected, always prompted extraordinary reactions.

Darkness reached its limits, pressure did not. Yet
despite the inhospitable surroundings, life continued
to thrive, further testament to the burgeoning fe-
cundity of Cachalot's world-ocean. Fantastically il-
luminated life-forms swarmed around the submersible,
alternately drawn to or frightened and confused by its

lights.

"Four thousand meters." Merced hovered near

Cora's shoulders, studying the console.

An incredible ribbon of pale blue and green lumi-
nescence spasmed a path past the thick ports. It
seemed endless, though she estimated its length at
about twenty-five meters. It was perhaps five centi-
meters thick save near the bulging jaws that were
filled with dozens of thin needle teeth.

Star-dotted balloons drifted by, avoiding relatives
with stomachs larger than mouths. Others possessed
more teeth than seemed reasonable for such small
creatures, while a couple mooned at the sub with
eyes larger than the rest of their bodies.

At forty-five hundred meters Cora thought she
heard distant antique church bells. At forty-eight hun-
dred meters the ringing had become a steady hum.
At five thousand meters it was as if she had people
seated on either side of her, whispering frantic non-
sense into her ears. The sounds were not words, nor
were they spoken by people.

"Trying to control us, whoever they are," Merced
declared. "Irritating, but nothing more. Like listening
to loud music for too long."

"I agree." Mataroreva eased back on his controls.
"It's not working for them, though."

Five thousand six hundred meters.

"We're practically on bottom here," Mataroreva
grumbled. "Our scan's been omnidirectional since we
started down. Even if they were hiding in some cave
or beneath an overhang, we'd have detected them by
now. There's nothing here."

"That's right," Cora agreed readily, sounding tired.
"Whoever they are, they must have fled when they
realized they couldn't control us. Might as well sur-
face and try another place."

"I fear you are both correct." Hwoshien was under-
standably disappointed. "We gave it a good try.
Perhaps other baleens can relocate them for us."

Mataroreva reached to adjust a control to begin
their upward climb. Just before he fingered it, a small
hand locked on his wrist. He looked back in surprise
at Merced. The little scientist wore a very puzzled
expression.

"Wait a minute, now. Don't you think this retreat
is a bit premature? I'd hardly say we're practically on
the bottom. We've another several thousand meters
below us. Let's go at least another thousand before
we give up here."

Mataroreva regarded him as one would an idiot
child. "I said that we're nearly down."

Merced  continued to   eye  him  uncertainly.
" 'Nearly'?" He used his free hand to indicate the
computer picture of the bottom and the figures
nearby. "We're at fifty-six hundred. Scanner shows
this abyssal canyon drops to eight thousand in places.
We're only a little over two-thirds of the way down."

Mataroreva sounded distinctly irritated. "You
heard what I said about our omnidirectional scanners.
I say we've already done the best we could. We'd
only be wasting time here if we go farther. Better to
try another spot."

Merced looked at Cora. "You feel the same way?"

"Of course!" She had never liked the researcher.




248            CACHALOT

His present inexplicable obstinacy increased that dis-
like.

"And you, and you?"

Rachael nodded solemnly. Hwoshien said, "We've
done as well as could be expected. If there ever was
anything here, it's obviously gone now. We frightened

it off."

Merced let go of Mataroreva, moved carefully to-
ward the rear of the chamber. Cora wondered if his
shy control was beginning to crack. She found herself
looking around for some kind of weapon.

" 'If there ever was anything here'?" Merced said,
echoing the Commissioner's accent as well as his
words. "Not only was there something, but I'll wager

it's still present."

"What the hell are you raving about?" Mataroreva
started to get up from his seat. "Listen, I don't know
what's going on inside your head, Pucara, but maybe

you'd better—"

From an inside pocket Merced produced a very
tiny but efficient-looking gun. "These darts are mini-
atures of the ones Hazaribagh's people threatened us
with, but they'll still put a grown man flat on his back.

I'd rather not shoot anyone."

His right eye was twitching slightly and he looked
nervous and worried. What his aghast companions
could not know was that the worry stemmed not from
Mataroreva's near charge. His nervousness came from
something that screamed along his nerves and ham-
mered at his brain, trying to get inside. It promised
to soothe him, that voice did, to relax him and take
all the burden of the past weeks and throw it bliss-
fully aside.

"I didn't think you were just a biologist," Cora said
tightly. "Though you had me believing that for a little

while."

"I am a biologist," Merced shot back at her.
To Cora's pleasure, it was Rachael who next spoke

CACHALOT               249

angrily to him. "I saw what you did when we first
landed here, back at the dock where the toglut at-
tacked us!" Merced's eyes darted quickly back toward
Mataroreva, who had moved as if to rise again. "I
saw the gun you didn't use then. But I trusted you."

"And I saw," Mataroreva said quietly, "the hold
you used on that man on Hazaribagh's ship, the way
you fought." He shook his head. "You don't leam to
react that way by making it a hobby. Only a pro-
fessional works that smoothly."

Rachael's voice was filled with disgust, "To think
that I've been all over you since we landed here!"

Cora gaped at her daughter.

"It's true. Mother. I thought for a while he was a
pretty nice guy. You know, at first I could hardly get
him to touch me, much less anything else." Cora tried
to speak, couldn't. She had suspected. But to hear it
put so bluntly, from her daughter's own lips ...

"The fighting I couldn't conceal." Merced gasped
the words out, emphasizing the first syllable of each
as if fighting merely to speak. He glanced at Rachael.
"As for the other, I'm sorry. Sometimes it helps to
mix business with pleasure."

Cora slumped back in her seat, overwhelmed by
the double revelation of daughter and colleague. "So
you've been tied in with these thought-manipulators
all along. You were in on the destruction of all the
towns, even Vai'oire. Now I can see why you want to
go on. Near the bottom, beyond any hope of rescue,
you'll lock us in and leak the air supply or something
after your friends come to save you. It will be as-
sumed we were all lost. What I can't figure out is how
your people managed to infiltrate Commonwealth se-
curity to have you, their operative, assigned to this
mission."

"No one has infiltrated Commonwealth security."
He was trying to watch them all at once. Under the




250

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

251

present circumstances, even Rachael might jump him.
He didn't want to have to shoot anyone.

Instruments protruding from the wall pressed into
his back. He forced himself against them. The phys-
ical pain helped override some of the mental anguish

he was battling.

"I said I was a biologist. I wasn't lying. I also hap-
pen to be a Commonwealth agent. Security assigned
me to this to hunt for exactly the kind of infiltration
you're talking about," he explained to Cora. He
looked anxiously at Hwoshien. "He knows that. He's
temporarily forgotten. Something's making him for-
get."

The others glanced at the Commissioner. Once

secure and serene, he now appeared to be wrestling

with his own thoughts.

"I—I . . . confusing. I don't know . . ."
"Never mind. I don't need your confirmation now."
"No—wait," Hwoshien burst out. "It's true. I think
, . . yes, it is true," he added more assuredly. "I do
remember you now. Colonel Merced." He looked at

his companions.

"Remember when you first arrived I explained that
you would explore the biological possibilities and
others would work on the chance that humans might
be involved?" He nodded toward the still wary
Merced. The muzzle of the gun had not dropped. "He
is one of those 'others.'"

"Why make us remain down here, though?" a very
confused Mataroreva wondered. Suddenly life had
grown complicated, thinking an effort. His thoughts
were slow and heavy, much like those of the fins.
Uncontrollable opposing masses warred inside his
head. "Why stay anyway? Why not go up and start
over again? At least this time we'll know exactly what
everyone's here for." Again his hand moved for the

controls.

Merced gestured convulsively with the gun. "Touch

that and I'll shoot, Captain. And these darts will pUt
you out permanently. I like you. I'd rather not have
to do that."

Slowly the big Polynesian's palm moved away from
the board. "But why? What's wrong with beginning
again?"

"In the first place, I'm not sure that's necessary,"
Merced said carefully. "In the second—you really
think you're going to send us up, don't you?"

"What else?"

"You were going to send us to the surface?"

"Of course. I—"

"Take another look, Captain. A close one. But
don't move your hands." Mataroreva hesitated, and
wasn't sure why he did so. "Go on, look," Merced
insisted. "Are you afraid?"

That challenge appeared to break the lethargy that
had come over the submersible's pilot. Like a man in
slow motion, he turned back toward the console,
keeping his hands from the controls.

The switch his hand had almost flicked was not the
one to drop the ballast—That switch was close by, but
not close enough to explain the near error. Instead, his
fingers had drifted above a double red switch pro-
tected by a snap cover. This was the emergency re-
lease used to disengage the gas cylinders in the event
of a potentially explosive leak.

Had he followed through and thrown the double
switch, they would have had no way to return to the
surface and would in fact have immediately plunged
to the ooze flooring the canyon, eight thousand meters
below normal air and pressure. Nothing could raise
them against that gigantic force save another, similar
submersible. None waited aboard the suprafoil above.
By the time a second diving craft could be prepared
and airshipped out from Mou'anui, the occupants of
the submersible would be dead from lack of air. Arti-




252

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

253

ficial gills such as those employed in gelsuit masks
could not operate at these depths.

The viscous miasma that had been dulling Cora's
mind was abruptly shattered. She looked at her com-
panions as if they had surprised her from a deep
sleep, saw that they were regarding her with the same
bemused expressions. Only then did Merced relax. But
he still held the gun.

"A very sophisticated bit of mind control, this," he
told them. "Contradiction finally broke its grip, just
as it did with the surviving baleens that led us here.
It was reimposed and finally killed them, but I think
we'll be able to stand it better now. I think it varies
in intensity and effectiveness proportional to the dis-
tance between projector and subject, which says to me
that our quarry is still here, close by, just as the baleens
suggested." He was getting angry now, sounding noth-
ing like the shy biologist of weeks gone by.

"This sort of thing is banned by every related Com-
monwealth law and Church edict. Either someone's
managed to break those laws or else we're facing those
who don't care about them. Like the AAnn, or another
hostile race that could benefit from Commonwealth
expulsion from this world.

"The controls were put on you all so subtly that even
though you were talking about such controls and their
possible manipulators, you weren't aware it was ac-
tually happening. When you all suddenly agreed that
the search was useless and that it was time to return to
the surface, I knew what was taking place."

"How come," Cora wondered, terribly embarrassed
at having been so thoroughly invaded and directed,
"you weren't controlled?"

"Even though such devices are illegal, the service
still trains us to deal with them. It's a matter of mental
gymnastics, a reflex action that commenced working
even before I knew what was happening." He sounded
a little embarrassed himself. "If there had been a fight,

I would have risked killing all of you. There's more at
stake here now than just thousands of additional lives.

"I regret having had to expose myself, but at this
point I don't suppose it makes much difference." He
looked briefly at Rachael and said in an entirely dif-
ferent tone of voice, "Except maybe to you.

"Do you still feel we should return to the surface?
That we're wasting our tune here?"

"No. Of course not," Cora said, shocked that she
could ever have thought otherwise. "They must still
be hiding here. You say that distance governs the ef-
fectiveness of the controls and contradiction breaks
them down?"

"That, and awareness that they exist. Especially
after you've been exposed to and then freed from their
effect. That's part of our training, along with resisting
drugs that have the same effect."

"I've got something here." Mataroreva had turned
his attention back to the instruments. "I suppose it
might have been here all along, and whatever's out
there blocked it out in my mind?"

"Possible," Merced agreed.

Mataroreva moved to adjust the controls, paused,
and glanced over his shoulder.

"It's okay." Merced lowered the weapon. "The fact
that you hesitated is further proof that you're your
own self again. What kind of submersible is it: mobile
or a permanent installation?"

"Neither," Mataroreva said in a curious voice. "It's
organic."

"Another ribbon fish?" Cora asked, referring to the
luminescent giant they had encountered earlier in
their descent.

"No, I don't think so."

The object continued slowly toward the neutrally
buoyant craft. At first it was a distant pinpoint, glow-
ing like a star in the night. The surrounding deep-sea




254 CACHALOT

life scattered rapidly and faded from sight. Only
breathing sounded inside the submersible.

The star grew larger, split, subdivided into many
different stars. All the while it continued to grow, il-
luminating the darkness as it neared, growing massive
beyond expectation, beyond belief. It became so
bright that they could see the last lingering sea life
race, terrified, past the windows of the submersible,
their transparent skins glassine envelopes holding
highly pressurized fluids and organs.

The huge bulk grew beyond imagination, beyond
reasonable thought. Cora wondered if Sam had been
wrong, if they were being challenged by a machine,
albeit no submersible she had ever dreamed of.

But the instruments were not awed. They did not
lie. If the object was a machine, it was made not of
metal or stelamic or duralloy but of flesh. As it ap-
proached the final meters, it assumed some of the
aspects of a machine. It was easier to think of it that
way; as a vast, organic machine. It was perfectly
spherical. Delicate fluttering cilia in the millions lined
much of the epidermis and propelled it rotiferlike
through the water. The outer, jellylike shell was per-
fectly transparent. Only its pale yellow glow revealed
its presence.

Inside, they could make out a veritable metropolis
of organs, immensely complex structures that belied
that outwardly simplistic shape. There were growths
moving freely in strange paths, others swinging like a
pendulum, still others rotating about one another or
some unseen central axis. Each possessed its own dis-
tinct color: faint pink, light green, purple, rose, and
more. Most were light pastels. Save for the purple, the
only deep colors were occasional sparks of crimson or
orange that drifted around the multitude of other spe-
cialized internal structures like gem dust in a colloid.

The headache Cora had once experienced returned,
stronger than ever. It thudded remorselessly on her

CACHALOT            255

brain, threatening to pulp her skull. She fought back,
determined that mere bone would give way before
consciousness again surrendered.

Outside floated something larger than any dozen
whales, a ball of something unknown that approached
starship-size. It was bright as day around them, for all
that they hovered more than five and a half kilo-
meters below the surface.

Merced, studying readouts, swallowed and managed
to say, "According to the scanners, there are six of
them out there. Of course, we can only see this one."

The vast lagoon of Mou'anui could not have held
the life that surrounded them. Six creatures do not a
galaxy make, Cora told herself, for all their size. She
found herself fascinated rather than fearful. Before
her drifted the end result of billions of years of coelen-
terate evolution, a collective organism of ummagined
complexity.

On Terra similar creatures had developed spe-
cialized polyps to handle such tasks as digestion, re-
production, and feeding. Why not also polyps grown
for mind control, or for other unknown purposes?
For all its great size, the creature appeared limited in
its locomotive ability. It would need to evolve other
means of defending itself. Terran coelenterates had
developed specialized stinging cells to gather prey and
defend. What could be more efficient than the ability
to simply order a predator to look elsewhere?

But ignorant predators would be easy to dissuade.
Intelligent cetaceans would be more difficult to han-
dle. Very intelligent ones like the orcas and the cato-
dons might be impossible to control at all but short
distances; and humankind, uncontrollable except when
dangerously near. An aroused or aware humankind,
such as Merced had been and they all were now,
might prove uncontrollable under any circumstances.

Somewhere within that line of thought, Cora sus-
pected, lay the reason behind the manipulation of the




256

CACHALOT

baleens and the destruction of the floating towns. She
stared into the living universe of organs. One of them,
or perhaps many, must form the creature's mind.

Then Rachael shrieked, Mataroreva cursed, and
the submersible was tumbled over and over as the
creature bumped into it. A second came around from
behind and they began to squeeze. Mental control
having apparently failed, they were resorting to a far
more basic method of attack.

A few supporting flows groaned, but the hull of
formed duralloy would resist far stronger force than
mere flesh, no matter the mass, could bring to bear.
The creatures could not damage the submersible.

They reacted by backing clear. Alternately fading
and intensifying, the outer shell of the one before them
pulsed in rapid sequence. Crimson fragments of un-
known specialized function flared and raced within, a
thousand living sunspots inhabiting a transparent sun.
Their activity might signify anything from poor diges-
tion to incipient sleep.

Or it might be a reflection of something as basic and
sophisticated as anger.

XVII

Cora picked herself off the floor, found she had
suffered nothing worse than a few bruises. Here, then,
was the source of the baleens' madness, here the off-
stage directors of organized murder.

The headache faded and Cora and her companions
received their second surprise. "CAN YOU UNDER-
STAND us?"

"Yes, we can understand you," she heard Merced
saying.

"IT is DIFFICULT FOR us," the voice in her head

Said. "YOUR MINDS ARE MORE COMPLEX, YET YOU ARE
NOT ATTUNED TO THIS METHOD OF COMMUNICATING.
WE HAVE TO PUSH OUR THOUGHTS IN AND PULL YOURS
OUT.

"THE SMOOTH-SIDES ARE SIMILAR OF MIND BUT
EASIER TO PENETRATE. THERE IS NO RESISTANCE TO
OUR EFFORTS AND NOT NEARLY THE COMPLEXITY."

"You're the CunsnuC?" Her head was beginning to
throb again, this time with effort but not pain.

"I AM THE CUNSNUC. WE ARE THE CUNSNUC."

"Collective intelligence," Merced murmured. "Just
like collective physical structure."

"ALL ARE COLLECTIVE. THERE IS NO INDIVIDUAL
US."

"There is among our people," Cora said.
257

258

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

259

"THAT IS SO, AND IT FRIGHTENS US. AND HURTS.
HURTS."

The communication might also be communal, she
thought. The voice in her mind did not exhibit changes
of inflection. They had no way of tracing it to its source.
It was simply there inside one's head, much the way
a voice sounded in a dark room.

"Why have you directed the cetaceans, the smooth-
sides, to attack our communities?" Hwoshien had no
time to waste on biological speculation.

"YOUR THOUGHTS HURT, DAMAGE OUR MINDS. OUR
SENSIBILITIES OF THOUGHT ARE EXTREMELY DELI-
CATE AND PRONE TO PAINFUL INTERRUPTION. THE
THOUGHTS OF THE SMOOTH-SIDES DO NOT PENETRATE
OR HURT."

Cora tried to imagine something the size of a small
starship having delicate sensibilities. "Static," she whis-
pered aloud. "Something in our thoughts, some pro-
jection of our nervous system, causes static in their
minds."

Then it came to her what the outstanding feature of
the creature's attitude toward them suggested: fear.
Fear and worry. For all their immense size, the
CunsnuC were afraid of men.

"It hurts you even though you dwell in these
deeps?"

"MUCH OF THE TIME WE MUST RISE TO THE SUR-
FACE," the voice said, "TO FEED ON THE CREATURES
WHICH RISE WITH THE ABSENCE OF THE LIGHT ABOVE
THE SKY. MORE THAN A FEW OF YOUR KIND THINKING
EN THAT PRESENCE HURT US, DISRUPT OUR THOUGHTS
AND ABILITY TO CONCENTRATE ON OUR FEEDING. YOU
MUST ALL LEAVE, OR THE KILLING WILL NOT STOP."

A pause, then, "ONLY BY BRINGING so MANY OF us

TOGETHER HERE CAN WE STAND THE PAIN WELL
ENOUGH TO CONVERSE COHERENTLY WITH YOU."

"Leave Cachalot?" Hwoshien muttered.

"YES. VANISH. GO BACK TO WHEREVER YOU WERE

SPAWNED." Then a question. "WHAT is 'CACHALOT'?"
"This world," Cora explained. "We come from a
world other than this."

"A WORLD OTHER THAN THIS? THERE ARE NO
WORLDS OTHER THAN THIS, BY WHATEVER NAME YOU
CALL IT."

So the sea-dwelling CunsnuC had no knowledge of
astronomy, and had not gained any from their con-
tacts with the Cetacea.

"But there are."

"THERE CAN BE NO WORLD WHERE THERE ARE NO
CUNSNUC, AND ALL CUNSNUC ARE HERE OR WE
WOULD KNOW OTHERWISE. THERE CAN BE NO
CUNSNUC WHERE THERE ARE MINDS OF YOUR KIND."

"Humanity has been working on this world," Mata-
roreva said hotly, leaving aside for the moment the
question of the existence of other worlds, "for hun-
dreds of our years. You've never done anything to us
before. Why all of a sudden this hurt, and this need for
us to leave?"

"THE HURT IS NOT SUDDEN. IT HAS BEEN WITH US
FOR AS LONG AS YOU HAVE SAID. BUT WE DID NOT
UNTIL NOW HAVE THE MEANS TO RESIST."

Cora could believe that. For all their mass, the
CunsnuC still appeared physically fragile. Only then-
size and mental defenses protected them against Cach-
alot's smaller but still sizable predators. They were
plankton-eaters, like the toothless great whales.

"WE HAD TO DEVELOP PARTS OF US BEFORE WE
COULD GAIN THE USE OF THE SMOOTH-SIDES' MINDS."

"So you could direct them to attack us," Hwoshien
concluded.

"YES. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER IF WE COULD
HAVE GAINED THE USE OF OTHER, MORE POWERFUL
SMOOTH-SIDES, BUT THEIR MINDS WOULD RESIST."

"The catodons and the other toothed whales," Ra-
chael murmured, fingering her neurophon.
"We cannot leave Cachalot," Hwoshien insisted.




260

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

261

"YOU MUST! ONE WAY OR THE OTHER, YOU MUST
GO. OR YOU WILL BE ELIMINATED."

The transparent skin of the colossus pressed up
against the ports. Cora forgot to breathe. Rachael

gasped behind her.

Within the skin of the CunsnuC were several glow-
ing green bubbles. Within those bubbles were a dozen
people. They were alive and their mouths were work-
ing, their hands pressed against the fleshy envelopes
that contained them and supplied them with air.
Cora could see that they were screaming, though noth-
ing could be heard inside the submersible.

Matarovera recognized one of them and swore
quietly. A member of his slim planetary command.
The suprafoil and factory ship had not made it back
to Mou'anui. Another bubble drifted nearer, and a
horrified Cora recognized the short, dark-skinned man
within. He flailed at the film of the bubble, and his
eyes were wide and desperate.

As the CunsnuC moved away from the ports, the
bubbles moved toward the epidermis. They passed
through the skin, and thus unprotected by internal reg-
ulation, immediately burst under the tremendous pres-
sure. The hapless humans contained within imploded

before they could drown.

This explained the complete absence of bodies at
the sites of the destroyed towns. Either the baleens
carried them to the depths, where they could be trans-
ferred to the CunsnuC for disposal, or else the
CunsnuC rose to the surface to perform the task them-
selves. Occasionally survivors were found. Hazaribagh
and his companions and guards had been brought to
provide an example for the crew of the submersible.
Others had doubtless been ingested alive to be ques-
tioned.

As expected, it was Hwoshien who finally broke the

silence. "Let us compromise." Cora gaped at him. He
sounded as if he had not just witnessed the deaths of a

dozen people and was bargaining as usual with a
group of off-world traders for fishing rights to a par-
ticularly desirable reef.

"We humans will restrict our activities to prescribed
areas of the surface. There is enough room on this
world for all of us."

"THIS IS THE WORLD OF THE CUNSNUC. THE

CUNSNUC ARE THE WORLD!" There was no hint of
vanity or presumptuousness in that statement, Cora
mused. It arose from a different approach to rationality,
much as man and cetacean differed. The CunsnuC
perception of reality was sculpted as much by their
size and mental ability as by their ignorance of the
greater universe beyond Cachalot.

"WE DO NOT WANT YOU IN OUR WORLD, IN OUR-
SELVES," the voice continued firmly.

"We'll retreat to only the few above-water islands,"
Hwoshien proposed. "We'll build nonthinking devices,
machines, to do all of our work."

"NO. NO, NO, NO!" A spoiled child, Cora thought.
Spoiled and very dangerous. This time she had a faint
impression, despite what the creature had said of col-
lective thought, of several different CunsnuC joining
to generate the chorus of negativity.

"Lie to them," Mataroreva suggested. "Tell them
we'll do what they say. We can work out a way."

"No. Any agreement I make I will keep. Besides,
I'm not sure you can produce a telepathic lie, Sam.
Remember what they/it said about 'pulling out' our
thoughts. I think they will tend to pull out the truth."

"THAT is so," the voice said, confirming the Com-
missioner's suspicions. "AS IT is so IN YOUR COMPAN-
ION'S MIND THAT HE WILL NOT AGREE TO LEAVE. AS
IT IS IN YOUR OWN. BUT YOU WILL DIE WITH HONOR."

In the darkness inside her head Cora found to her
horror that Sam was beginning to remind her more
and more of Silvio. Why now, why here? Why tor-
ment yourself with thoughts of that distant awfulness




262

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

263

in moments of stress? she asked herself. And had no

answer.

Hwoshien stood stiff-backed against a wall. "They
can't hurt us in here. They've already tried and
failed."

"ALSO TRUE. WE CANNOT PENETRATE YOUR ARTI-
FICIAL SHELL." Cora was knocked off her feet as the
submersible was rocked once again. "BUT WE CAN

PREVENT YOU FROM RISING. WE KNOW THAT YOU
REQUIRE THE GAS BEYOND THE SKY IN ORDER TO EXIST.
WE CAN KEEP YOU HERE, WILL KEEP YOU HERE,
UNTIL THE QUANTITY YOU DESCENDED WITH HAS BEEN
USED UP."

Mataroreva immediately moved to try the necessary
controls. The submersible rocked several times, bounc-
ing against the creature that hovered above it. Then
he flipped the activation switch slowly, looked wor-
riedly at his friends.

"We're not rising. I could try a full ballast drop,
but if that didn't work . . ." He let the sentence trail
away. Much as their air would trail away.

The submersible was caught in a gigantic box cre-
ated by the six huge forms.

"Lie to them! Deal with them!" Mataroreva shouted

at his superior.

Hwoshien looked at the big man uncertainly.
"You're as crazy as they are!"

Mataroreva rushed the Commissioner, both mas-
sive hands raised to strike,

Cora found herself on his back, pounding at his
ears with her tiny fists. He shook her off, threw her to
the floor. She lay there, head ringing from the im-
pact.

Merced slipped in between Mataroreva and his
spindly quarry and did something Cora didn't see.
Mataroreva grunted in surprise, then sat down, hold-
ing his middle. Merced stood nearby, hands in front

of him, ready to defend himself or retreat depending
on the larger man's actions.

But Sam's gaze was already clearing. "Th-thanks,
Pucara." He smiled wanly. "They almost had me
again." He looked up at Hwoshien. "Yu, I—"

"Never mind." The oldster spoke thoughtfully.
"Evidently they won't wait for our air to run out.
They'll keep trying to control us that way. Eventually
I think they'll get what they want." Then he frowned
at the sweating, panting Cora. "Are you all right?"

"We're going to die. I know that now." She looked
up and across to her daughter. "And since we're going
to die, there's something you should know, Rachael."

"They're working on you now. Mother. Con-
trol ..."

"No. No." She slimbed to her feet, slumped into
one of the control chairs. She rested the back of a
wrist against her forehead, closed her eyes, and tried
to force out the words. It was difficult. She had worked
to suppress them for twenty years.

"I've been hard on you, Rachael. I know that, and
I'm sorry. I've been taking out on you the resentment
I held against your father. I loved him once, origi-
nally. I grew to hate him. Yet when he died I felt
guilty. Maybe I should have been more of a woman
... I don't know what it was. I've just been trying so
hard ever since to see that you didn't make the same
mistakes, that you didn't fall into the same traps that
life sets for us. That..."

Rachael was shaking her head slowly, and smiling.
"I know how you felt about him. Mother. Do you
think children are blind?" Cora's arm slipped and
her eyes functioned. Her daughter stood staring calmly
down at her. "I noticed everything. I knew what was
going on."

"So many years," Cora whispered. "Why didn't you
ever tell me you knew?"

"I was afraid. Children don't mix in adult affairs.




264 CACHALOT

It's an unwritten law of nature. I could see how it,
how he, hurt you. So when you hurt me back"—she
shrugged—"I took it. You had suffered enough."
She bent, hugged hard. It was reciprocated. "I hated
him, too."

"You never showed it. I always thought you loved
him."

Rachael's expression twisted. "I hated him ever
since I was old enough to understand how he was
hurting you. But I thought that if I loved him enough,
it would make him stop making you cry so much.
You're very good at understanding the ways of
echinoderms and teleosts and alien water-dwellers,
Mother, but not so good with little girls." Then she
started to sob. Cora joined her.

Mataroreva turned away, looked at Merced with
great respect. "That's the second time they nearly
made me kill someone. I would have, if not for you,
Colonel. Maururu an. I thank you."

"Not as much as I do," Hwoshien murmured.

"Just trained." Merced winced. "There . . . they just
tried me again. It's hard to fight. Sooner or later they'll
turn subtle again and make us do something that we
think we're doing because we want to. Everyone has
to consider everyone else's actions from now on with
the greatest caution.

"We can't surface," he observed, changing the sub-
ject. "The first thing we should do is communicate all
we've learned to the ship waiting above so they can
relay it to Mou'anui. They'll be safe, with that herd of
catodons to protect them from any induced baleen
attack."

Mataroreva started to comply, then turned away
disgustedly from the console. "Forget it. They're gen-
erating enough distortion at this range to jam any kind
of broadcast we can make. I juggled frequencies like
mad, but they're too fast. We're not getting through to
the surface."

CACHALOT            265

"Let me see. I remember a few broadcast tricks."
While Hwoshien and Mataroreva worked at the
console, Merced divided his time between studying the
internal galaxy of the CunsnuC outside the ports and
watching his companions for signs of illogical action.

Time passed. Mataroreva and Hwoshien were un-
able to punch a word past the watchful CunsnuC. An
hour of life remained to the inhabitants of the sub-
mersible. Outside, despite the brightness supplied by
the CunsnuC, the watery dark and cold pressed close
on the five travelers trapped in their metal bubble.

Cora found pleasure in those last minutes by watch-
ing her daughter, studying every smooth curve of her
face and form. She listened to the soft music, won-
dered that it could ever have troubled her. A little
understanding, and it would never have gotten on her
nerves. She had pushed Rachael too hard in her own
image. Let her have fun. You've spent twenty years
not having any. Why deprive someone so full of life
as she? Of course, it is likely that opportunity will now
never be granted. So let her enjoy the music, and pre-
tend you enjoy it even more than you do. Pretend—

She shifted so rapidly in the chair that Merced
moved toward her from the port.

"No, Pucara, I'm okay. Rachael, show me how you
work that thing."

"It's a little late to begin music lessons. Mother."
"It's not music I'm interested in, and the less musi-
cal I can be, the better I'll like it."

A puzzled Rachael explained the workings. "Be
careful with these two, Mother. Amplitude on axonics
is dangerous. These have a built-in override, of course.
Otherwise you could seriously injure someone."

"Can you take out the override?"

"What? I—I don't know. I never considered it ...
I guess you could, but the failsafe might keep the
instrument from playing."

"Then we'll just have to try it this way first." She

CACHALOT

266

snugged the device in her arms, trying to match Ra-
chael's actions. Then she gritted her teeth and com-
menced a most distressing and atonal song. Her teeth
screamed. Her legs twitched. One time the pain in her
head was so great it felt as if her eyes would burst

from the pressure.

But several minutes later the submersible tumbled
sharply and they felt themselves rolling toward the
ceiling. Mataroreva fought his way into a chair,
worked frantically at the overwrought stabilizers. With
his help, the automatics soon leveled them out.

Cora had not let go of the neurophon. She located
the same setting, struck it once more. Again the sub-
mersible was jolted by outside forces, though not as
severely as before. She pushed the power to maximum
and held down the combination of controls she had

located by chance.

Outsid& flowed an amazing display of energy and
light. Colors far deeper than the gently pulsing pastels
they had originally observed rippled through the
CunsnuC. The chromatic storm raged through its sub-
stance as internal structures quivered and swelled.
Then the creature was moving away, the violent dis-
play fading only slightly.

Mataroreva jabbed several switches hopefully. Mo-
tion possessed the craft. "They're no longer above us."

"Fifty-five hundred meters. Fifty-four." Merced
spoke triumphantly from his seat. "We're ascending!"

Now the mass of color drifted back toward them.
Cora held her fingers on the controls of the neu-
rophon, her muscles locked. How much longer, she
wondered frantically, could the instrument continue to
generate projections of such magnitude? The particu-
lar frequency she had hit upon produced only a slight
tingle along her spine. The reaction in the CunsnuC
was ten thousand times greater.

Again it fell away from them and they continued
their unimpeded rise. Then there was pain in Cora's

CACHALOT            267

head, but it did not come from the neurophon. It was
generated by the CunsnuC.

Her hands went to her temples and she fell over on
her side. The neurophon, its controls locked, tumbled
to the floor. It bounced hard on the metal but con-
tinued to function. Mataroreva had barely thrown the
console on automatic before that intense blast of men-
tal agony overcame him.

Dimly, Merced perceived the critical gauge through
the red haze that filled his brain. Fifty-one hundred
meters. Five thousand. They were still rising.

Blood and thunder filled Cora's head and she rolled
over and over on the deck. Every image of nightmare,
every sliver of pain she had ever felt since childhood,
came back to her in those awful moments. Rachael
sobbed with the hurt.           \

They were so overcome that they did not immedi-
ately realize the pain was not projected at them by
the CunsnuC, but was instead the helpless broadcast
of those great creatures' own torment.

One rose after them, a seething mass of antagonistic
colors and thoughts. Millions of cilia drove it upward
like a rolling moon as it strove to get above them, to
force them back into the abyss. Its pain grew worse
as it neared the craft, and those on board alternated
red and yellow explosions with sharp-edged hallucina-
tion in their minds.

"YOU . .. MUST . . . LEAVE.' ..." a great voice thun-
dered in Cora's skull, barely perceptible above the
ocean of pain. Her head was a bell and her brain the
clapper bouncing off the bone.

She dragged herself to a port, saw the greatest of
all the CunsnuC nearing them. "We can't help how
we think!" she cried out, wondering if her mouth was
echoing the workings of her mind. "You can't kill us
all just to keep us from thinking!"

There was no reply.

They were at eighteen hundred meters and rising,




268            CACHALOT

and the two minnows swimming near the light of the
CunsnuC were adult catodons. They moved unafraid
of the mass that dwarfed them, knowing somehow it
could not hurt them. None of the toothed fears a
plankton-eater, she thought, no matter its size or alien-
ness.

A final, despairing mental shriek echoed through

her empty head, skidded like a needle along her
bones. Then the last CunsnuC raced for the bottom
ooze, turning into a distant red star that soon was

swallowed by the concealing fathoms ...

She blinked, wondering how long she had been out.
Merced leaned back in his chair, hopefully no more
than unconscious. Sam lay draped over the console,
breathing heavily. Hwoshien sat stiffly against the wall
nearby, taking in long, deep breaths, reassuring his
body. He was smooth when inhaling, shuddered when
he exhaled, but at least he was in control of himself.

Her eyes hunted for Rachael.

Her daughter lay on the floor, eyes staring blankly

at the roof. Painfully, Cora half slid, half fell, from
the chair and crawled across the deck, passing the
now quiescent neurophon. Its energy pack was burned
out. She was surprised to discover that it was her body
that ached, not her mind. Faint echoes of that last
massive scream still fluttered around in her thoughts
like dying butterflies. But they no longer affected her.

"Rachael?" She put both hands on the girl's shoul-
ders, shook her. The effort made her nauseous, and
she had to stop and rest before trying again. "Ra-
chael!" Muscles began to move under her fingers. The

engine was warming up.

Gradually the eyes focused, turned left. "Mother?

We were killing it. I could feel it dying."

"I know, Rachael." She cradled the girl's head in
her arms. "We all could. We shared the pain it was
feeling. But . . . rather it than us." She reached back
with a hand, pulled the neurophon over. "They said

CACHALOT            269

they were delicate. They told us. All mass and no
bite." She winced, and the hand went to her head.
"No, not no bite. An indirect one. I'm afraid your in-
strument is burned out. It saved our lives. I'll buy you
a new one. The best." She smiled. "And you can
play and practice all you wish, and I'll support you to
the best of my ability and bankroll."

"I don't know," the girl murmured. "So much hurt.
I don't know when I'll be able to play again. That
pain will always be with me when I try to play."

"The memory of the pain, and it will fade," Cora
corrected her.

"We'll work something out with them." It was Hwo-
shien. His body had not moved, but his head turned to
face them. "They have most of this world, most of the
world-ocean to dwell in. We use only tiny, isolated
patches of the surface. They're^just stubborn. We'll
reach some kind of accommodation. They have no
choice now." He unfolded his legs, stood easily.

"We don't need the catodon.s' help. Neurophonic
projectors much larger than that one will keep these
creatures under control, will disrupt their power over
the baleens. If they insist on fighting, we can dispose
of them. The killing of any intelligent alien life-form
is prohibited, except when attacked and no alterna-
tive is available. We'll give them that alternative. If
they elect not to accept . . ." He shrugged meaning-
fully.

"But surely you wouldn't? ..." Cora began.

"I have several thousand people dead, many mil-
lion credits of property destroyed. We require a mi-
nuscule portion of this world. They and the Cetacea
are welcome to the rest. I have no sympathy where
such all-encompassing greed is involved."

"I'm sure something can be arranged," Cora re-
plied. "Mental shielding that will keep our thoughts
from them, for example. If only they'd revealed them-
selves and their problem to us earlier, peacefully.

270 CACHALOT

They're unique, utterly unique, Hwoshien. The first
intelligent invertebrates we've ever encountered, pos-
sibly the most evolved of their line in the universe.
They must be studied and learned from. Not fought

with."

"That's only a last alternative I was outlining,"
Hwoshien reminded her, the very tone of his voice
indicating that he was merely being businesslike, not
bloodthirsty.

"Most coelenterates are primitive, and these crea-
tures are at the opposite end of that scale. It's almost
as if they've skipped an entire chapter of evolution.
Their physical and mental structures are incredibly
complex. What do they think about down there in the
eternal dark? What is there to stimulate the develop-
ment of such advanced minds at such depths? I doubt
they possess vision as we know it. Possibly hearing.
They are true colony creatures on a scale undreamed
of. They must be dealt with peacefully so that they
can be studied!"

"You can study them if you want to." Mataroreva
was adjusting controls. "We're almost up. Me for the
light."

"We will." Cora suddenly saw where her thoughts
had been leading, and was not disappointed in them.
"/ will. We can be friends."

"Do you want to end up like poor Hazaribagh and
his people? The CunsnuC were studying them," he
shot back.

"Would you care?"

He tamed away, moved in a manner that might
have signified anything, an indecipherable gesture.
But at least he had responded to the question—affirm-
atively, she preferred to think.

"That was caused by fear," she argued with him.
"The universe is full of otherwise benign creatures
that can be induced to kill out of fear. They must be,
can be, studied." She looked back over her shoulder.

CACHALOT            271

"I don't know what I'm going to do. Mother." Ra-
chael glanced over at Merced, who regarded her en-
couragingly. "I don't know what I'm going to do. Not
now."

"Think about it. Take your time," Cora urged. "I
rushed you, maybe in the wrong direction. Maybe in
the right. If you decide to continue on your present
course of study, I could still use an assistant."
"We'll see." She was still looking at Merced.
Natural light, fresh and invigorating, poured through
the submersible's ports. Huge shapes swarmed pa-
tiently around them as the catodons escorted them the
rest of the way to the surface. Their great bulks came
close to, but never actually touched, the rising craft's
hull.

Then a black and white shape was pressing against
one port. Mataroreva pressed his own face against the
glassalloy from the inside, whale and man separated
by a modest transparency.
Cora watched them closely.
"I think it's admirable," Merced said to her.
"What is?"

"Your willingness to remain here to study so dan-
gerous a life-form. I'm sure Commonwealth Adminis-
tration will concur, and will give you all the support
it can. The CunsnuC are as alien as any life we've yet
encountered. You'll need funding."

"I can provide whatever modest resources—" Hwo-
shien started to say.

Merced cut him off. He did not have to speak only
as a mere biologist now. "You can do what you wish,
Mr. Commissioner, but it's not necessary. I'll see that
sufficient credit is provided."

Cora looked at him appraisingly. "Thank you. For
all their size, these creatures fear us more than we
fear them. What is needed here is understanding."

Th submersible broke the surface. Mataroreva hur-
ried to the double lock, opened the bottom one, and

272 CACHALOT

squeezed his bulk through. Merced glanced out the
port a last time, was surprised to see no sign of the
catodons. Perhaps they already knew what had hap-
pened in the Deep below and had gone on their
nomadic way, indifferent to whatever the surviving hu-
mans might have to say. So they had departed, secure
in their vast, contemplative indifference that the
CunsnuC now posed no threat to their way of life.
Had left to think their thoughts and to advance then-
migratory civilization in whatever manner they thought
best. Who are truly the strangers? Merced mused. The
CunsnuC, or these huge, wallowing creatures related
to us by blood and evolution?

Hwoshien followed Mataroreva out. Cora was next,
then Rachael, cradling her neurophon. Merced watched
them ascend, enjoying the sight of Rachael climbing
and smelling the fresh, oh so sweet air above. A faint
splash reached him and he turned to the port.

Sam Mataroreva was cavorting with the two orcas,
twisting and turning like a seal outside the submersi-
ble. He clutched Latehoht's fin as she darted past, hung
on as she bucked and squirmed in the water, trying
to throw him off. There was more here to report on
besides the CunsnuC, Merced mused. Cachalot was
changing its inhabitants, as any world did. This aque-
ous globe offered more than exports and oceanog-
raphic studies. Changes in ways of thinking were tak-
ing place here that might have far-reaching effects on
all humanxkind. It might be well to encourage this
trend.

"Hey!" Rachael leaned down and in. "You going to
stay down there forever, Pucara?"

"Be right out." He watched her withdraw, leaving
the flash of an inviting smile lingering in his memory.
He thought of their previous weeks together and of
how the CunsnuC had almost destroyed the friendship
he had worked so diligently to build. Intimacy was
easily attained, but friendship—that was a rare find.

CACHALOT            273

He grinned. This was a world for enjoying oneself,
for relaxation as well as research. It was time for
some of the former.

Confident in himself and in the report he would file
with his bureau, he started to climb out of the sub-
mersible. Waiting was the bright sun of Cachalot.
Nearby drifted the suprafoil, anxious faces crowding its
railing. Soon Hwoshien would make a broadcast of his
own, and anxiety would vanish from the faces of this
world's citizens for the first time in months.

His wave was for those on the ship, but his eyes
were for Rachael.

Far below danced vast spherical forms that pulsed
and glowed. They were akin to planets in their shape
and motion, yet they orbited not a sun but a common
thought. They conversed in a manner incomprehensi-
ble to man or cetacean, conversed in a manner fash-
ioned by darkness, shaped by pressure and isolation.
They were discussing the development of a new kind
of specialized internal polyp, much as any manufac-
turer might discuss an addition to his plant.

They knew it would take time. That could not be
helped. They would work and wait, until the new
polyp was ready to perform its function. Until then
there would be enforced tolerance of Those Above.
Afterward ... afterward, they would see.

Having thus decided upon a biologic course of ac-
tion, the CunsnuC commenced an addition to the in-
ventory of their minds.

Above and far distant floated a life-form that
thought in a manner incomprehensible to man or
CunsnuC.  Lumpjaw,  whose water name was
DeMalthiAzur-of-the-Maizeen and who was elder
among his people, had slipped away from them to
think quietly on portentous matters. And to consider.

More men would come, and the free-thinking

274

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

275

stretches of sea would shrink still further. Not that
he felt they would break the laws (at least not right
away), but mankind had displayed a disconcerting
tendency throughout his history to circumvent them.
And the men of today were not the men of tomorrow.
Who could tell what changes they might propose?

Then there was the matter of the CunsnuC. Their
control over the baleen had demonstrated a disturbing
capacity for dangerous mischief. In the sanctuary of
their Deeps they might concoct further trouble for the
Cetacea.

DeMalthiAzur-of-the-Maizeen let pass the catodon-
ian equivalent of a sigh. Why must existence be so
complicated, he mused, when all one desired from life
was time to think? Of the men he had no worry, for
the cousins the orca would stay near them, professing
friendship for them and dislike for the catodon, and
report whatever they were about. Smartest of all was
the catodon, he thought, but cleverest was the orca.

The CunsnuC were more of a problem, and were
likely to present the greater problem for all that they
were confined to their abyssal home. So the people of
the sea had much progress to make, out of sight of
humanxkind and CunsnuC, out of sight of even their
massive but slow-thinking relatives the baleen.

Perhaps that progress would be part of the Great
Journey. Perhaps it would constitute only a digression.
But it was necessary to insure preservation of the
peace.

Time, the old whale thought. Never enough time.
So much wasted time. But it was vital, this digression.
Of all the creatures of Earth, only man had mastered
the ability to travel through environments hostile to
his kind. That was ever his great advantage. That,
and manipulative digits. The Cetacea had only their
minds. They could not match the simian flexibility of
man, nor the mental approaches of the CunsnuC.

Oh, well. Perhaps in time. For now, the Cetacea,

led by the catodons, would have to find another path,
would have to improve the path they had chosen to
insure their survival and their way of life.

It was time to practice, he thought. Straining his
enormous brain and nervous system, DeMalthiAzur-
of-the-Maizeen made the Shift.

How strange it makes the world look, he mused.
There was much new to think about, much that might
be learned to surprise both man and CunsnuC when
the time came. The effort was easier this time, grew
simpler with each successful Shift.

Better to return now to the pod, to think with them.
Thinking alone cleared the brain but became lifeless
and dull all too soon. He longed for the mental com-
panionship and the joint progress made while sharing
the Great Journey. He levitated a little more, regard-
ing the water below and the startled icthyomiths that
soared in his shadow.

Turning, the great whale sought his companions as
all eighty tons of his gray-brown bulk flew awkwardly
but with increasing assurance toward the setting sun.