Lava - Kevin O'Donnell, Jr.v1.0
January 16, 2007
The Journeys of McGill Feighan III
Lava
Kevin O'Donnell, Jr.



contents
      Chapter I
      Chapter II
      Chapter III
      Chapter IV
      Chapter V
      Chapter VI
      Chapter VII
      Chapter VIII
      Chapter IX
      Chapter X
      Chapter XI
      Chapter XII
      Chapter XIII
      Chapter XIV
       Chapter XV
      Chapter XVI
      Chapter XVII
      Chapter XVIII
      Chapter XIX
      Chapter XX
      Chapter XXI
      Chapter XXII
      Chapter XXIII
      Chapter XXIV
      Chapter XXV
      Chapter XXVI
      Chapter XXVII
       
       

 
LAVA
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
 
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / April 1982
 
All rights reserved.
 
Copyright © 1982 by Kevin O'Donnell, Jr.
 
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other 
means, without permission.
 
ISBN: 0-425-05248-6
 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



 
I want especially to thank Mary Anne Burghart, who taught me to love plants; 
Fred Jackson, who taught me about them; and Dave Schlosser, who taught me I 
could grow the damn things in the first place. I'm also grateful to Mary 
Kittredge, Mark J. McGarry, Joel Rosenberg, Victoria Schochet, and of course, my 
wife, Kim Tchang. They all read this novel in manuscript and what they said 
about it helped me make it better than it would otherwise have been.
 
To Cherry Weiner,
because I couldn't spare a gastropod
when she really needed one,
and because without her
the lava might never have flowed.
Chapter I
^ »


The psychiatric evaluation of Marion Jefferson Greystein disgusted him. 
"Emotional immaturity and consequent rebelliousness, compounded by alcoholic 
tendencies." In plain English, Greystein broke whatever rules he pleased. As 
that anonymous phone call had just made clear.
Davis drummed his fingers on the desk. PsychSection recommended nonsense: 
comprehension, counseling, therapy. All a smokescreen spewed out to hide its 
failure to properly indoctrinate Greystein in the first place. If it had done 
its job— damn the personality damage!—Greystein would never have acted up.
Not one Flinger except Harry Lipsiento, whose Psych session he had overseen 
personally, seemed to have been indoctrinated properly. Whiners, all of them! 
Ask them to work overtime, to squeeze in one extra Fling—"I'm too tired," or 
"Couldn't get it there safely," or even, to his fury, "No." Except for Harry, 
who was as courteous and as reflexively obedient as any boss could want.
Time to draw a line. Whip the prima donnas into shape. Make an example out of 
Greystein. His roommate Feighan was nearly as bad, but at least Feighan did his 
job. Greystein thought he was above all that. Dead last on the performance 
ratings the last six months. Four days out of five he came to work hung over; on 
the fifth, he came drunk. No therapy for him. What he needed—and would get, if 
that caller sent the proof— would be a good headscrub.
That would solve the problem. For sure. And forever.
Chapter II
« ^ »


Teetering on the edge of the bathtub, Sam asked, "Why won't the other kids play 
with me?"
McGill Feighan smiled sadly at his three-year-old ward, then raised his chin to 
shave beneath his jaw. "Probably because you're different."
"But why does that matter?" Sam blinked all four lids on each eye: the inner 
pair were transparent; the outer, opaque. He swished his tail. At the scrape of 
his twenty-four claws on the plascelain, he shuddered. The triangular fins 
running the length of his spine rippled.
"I think it makes them afraid of you." Feighan tugged a comb through his tousled 
black hair, but to little effect. He made a face. "That's the way people are."
"I'm a people, and I'm not afraid because somebody's different."
"Well, yes and no." Feighan squinted into the mirror: bloodshot brown eyes 
peered back at him. You gotta start getting more sleep, he told himself. Next 
time, leave Gina's earlier. "First of all, most people can't tell when somebody 
wants to hurt them, like you can. Second, you're an intelligent being, and you 
were born and raised right here in New York, but you're still a Rhanghan, and 
when I say 'people' I mean Terran."
"What's a Terran?"
"Like me and Greystein—we're Terrans." He sighed. He and Sam must have held this 
same conversation ten times in the last month alone. "Listen, if I don't get a 
move on, I'm going to be late for work, so—"
"Can I come with you?" His magenta tongue flickered out to sample Feighan's 
forearm. Please, McGill, can I?"
"That's 'may I,' and the answer is no." He pirouetted to inspect himself in the 
mirrored back of the bathroom door. The black boots and white pants accentuated 
his height, and the interwoven color bands of his energy tunic set off his 
muscled frame nicely. "Not today, Sam."
"But there's nothing to do here!"
"Believe me, it'd be just as dull in the Flinger Room— worse, 'cause there's no 
holo. And you'd have to keep quiet all day long. You wouldn't like that, would 
you?"
"No, I guess not." His surrender sounded like a snake's hiss. "How come I can't 
go to school like the other kids?"
"I told you, you start at All Saints in September."
"But the other kids go to O'Toole."
"That's a public school. The law says you have to be five years old to get into 
public kindergarten, and you're only three."
"That's not fair."
"Hey—why don't you go pester Greystein while I eat breakfast?"
"I wanted to, but he's not home."
"He's not?" Feighan stepped out of the bathroom; Sam slithered off the tub and 
followed. "Where'd he go?"
"I don't know. His bedroom's empty, though."
"Did you check?"
"McGill, you know I don't have to check—I just know it's empty."
"I wish I knew how you did that." Feighan headed for the kitchen. "When did you 
see him last?"
"The night before yesterday."
He frowned. "I'll bet he's on Canopus Eighteen again, on that beach he calls 
Hideaway." To the computer that ran the penthouse apartment, he said, "Oscar, 
query: where is Greystein; answer it now."
A ceiling speaker replied. "No data."
That worried Feighan. His roommate might go off without notifying his human 
friends and acquaintances, but he almost always told Oscar where he would be. 
"Oscar, query: when does Greystein's next shift start; answer it now."
"June 4, 2105; 1000 hours."
He checked his watch. Nine-thirty already. Half an hour was time enough, but… as 
he stepped into the kitchen and said, "Oscar, order: plate three blackberry 
doughnuts; pour one cup coffee, cream three sugars; do it now," he fretted.
You're gonna feel real dumb when he shows up safe and sound, he told himself, 
but he did have cause for alarm. For most of his life, an interstellar crime 
syndicate known simply as The Organization had been trying to capture him, for 
reasons that were still not clear. Over the years of sporadic skirmishing, The 
Organization's man-hunter, Milford Hommroummy, had killed a number of people 
close to Feighan—including his parents. And every time Greystein went off on his 
own, Feighan feared that he had been added to that list.
The chef panel opened to reveal his breakfast. He carried the plate and saucer 
over to the table, set them down gently, and sat. His stomach growled. Sam 
wriggled into the seat across from him.
The doorbell rang.
Groaning, Feighan put down the doughnut. "I hope that's not Mrs. Estwund again."
Sam looked offended. "McGill, I haven't bit her dog since the last time! And you 
know that wasn't my fault."
"Yeah, I know, kid, but she's got you on her rot list now, and anything happens 
to her beloved Absalom—"
"Gets blamed on me." Sam's spine fins drooped morosely.
Feighan pushed himself back from the table. "Oscar, query: who rang the 
doorbell; answer it now."
A hum came from behind the grille in the ceiling. "Print ID impossible."
Feighan froze. Building Security was supposed to prevent anyone from reaching 
the penthouse without authorization. He had too many enemies. "Oscar, order: run 
visual ID; cross-reference it with police files—"
Sam slipped down from his chair. "I'll check it, McGill." Four legs blurring and 
tail held high, he whisked out the kitchen door.
"Be careful!"
The Rhanghan threw a disgusted look over his shoulder. "McGill!"
"Yeah." He got to his feet. "Sorry, Sam. I keep forgetting."
At the front door, Sam closed his eyes. He touched the mahogany with his right 
hand. Cocking his head, he inhaled till his chest puffed up—then nodded with 
apparent satisfaction. He turned the knob. And jumped back, hissing.
"What is it?" said Feighan.
Silencing his guardian with a raised hand, Sam swallowed visibly. "Good morning. 
May I help you?"
The raspy voice sounded like a giant cricket: "I seek McGill the Flinger."
Sam turned his head and motioned. "It's safe."
Damn. As his stomach rumbled its discontent, he eyed his watch. He had twenty 
minutes to get to work, and breakfast sat untouched. Yet he had to be polite. 
"Tell him to come in."
Sam squinted at the stranger. "Are you a him?"
Feighan winced in embarrassment.
"I am an it," it said in that serrated voice. "May I enter nonetheless?"
"Oh, sure." Sam's tail dropped, and brushed from side to side. Backing away from 
the door, he let it swing open.
Into the vestibule hobbled a two-meter-tall barrel cactus on spider's legs. 
"Thank you." It spoke by rubbing four of its longer spines together. A pale, 
glossy patch of skin pointed straight at Feighan; another ambered its left side. 
A purplish gourd the size of a cucumber dangled from its top.
The Flinger almost tripped. He blinked—then snapped his fingers. An Actuni! He 
had met one, once, a long time ago. An odd creature, it had been. A diplomat 
attached to the Flinger Network Control's New York Field Office, it had become 
addicted to Terran showers; crown rot had hospitalized it within six months.
He walked forward to greet his visitor, wishing he could remember some Actuni 
customs. He could not. Ordinary politeness would have to do. "Good morning." 
Checking his instinct to extend a hand, he bowed. "What is it that you wished to 
see me about?"
The alien, green and bristly, hopped through a quarter turn, bringing into view 
the third of its glowing ocular aureoles. The middle convexity stared Feighan 
full in the face. From it jutted a slender spike that quivered at its grey tip. 
"You are Feighan McGill the Flinger?"
"Yes. Please, come into the living room."
Once the Actuni had tottered all the way inside, Oscar closed the door behind 
it. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." It moved with a slowness maddening to a hungry 
twenty-two-year-old whose doughnuts dried just around the corner but who had to 
be at work in—Eighteen minutes, now; sure hope this guy talks quicker than it 
walks.. .He kept his face stiffly free of impatience, though, because some 
aliens could read human expressions.
The living room's glass wall overlooked Manhattan; a southern exposure, it 
received direct sunlight all day long. At 9:45 a.m. on that June day, a wedge of 
brilliance electrified the blue of half the Chinese carpet. The alien marched 
all the way into the wedge. The green of its waxy skin came alive. Then it did a 
dance and a scuttle to turn itself around. "I am called Hngchgck."
Dubiously, Feighan attempted to repeat the sound. The hoarse gutturals tricked 
him into a cough. "Your people approximate that as: H'nik."
"I am very pleased to meet you." Bowing again, he gestured to his ward. "And 
this is Sam."
"How do you do, Sam?" The Actuni's thousands of spines rippled like grass in a 
breeze. "You are a long way from your home world; are you also a pilgrim?"
Sam nictitated in apparent confusion; his tongue fluttered briefly. "No, I'm a 
Rhanghan-American."
The alien's noise of response sounded like a dry chuckle. "I have been studying 
your language for many years, Feighan McGill—"
"It's the other way around," said Sam. "You've got it backwards. It's really 
McGill Feighan."
"Ah? I apologize. We of Actu, having no parents, are unfamiliar with 
patronymics; I had thought all names beginning with 'Mc' were surnames."
"Usually they are." Feighan shifted his gaze to check the wall clock. He had 
twelve minutes left. "But, ah, in this case, it's my given name."
"Fascinating…" It seemed very much at ease, with its short thick legs buried in 
the carpet's pile, and the sunlight rubbing its back. "Your language is a source 
of constant wonder to me—in part because it has no exact term to describe my 
vocation."
Ten minutes. "Listen, H'nik, I am sorry to be rude, but I have to report for 
work in a very short while. Ah…" He did not know the diplomatic thing to say. 
"Why exactly did you want to see me?"
"I do apologize, McGill Feighan. I am slow and verbose. It would take more time 
than you have for me to explain precisely why I have taken the liberty of 
calling on you. Perhaps when you are finished for the day, we might talk 
together, and I could elucidate."
"That sounds good." He glanced at the wall clock again. Nine-fifty-two. Scratch 
the doughnuts. "I finish for the day in twelve hours."
H'nik flexed its legs and wobbled upright, then began to creep out of the pool 
of sun. "I will wait for you in the hall. Should I not respond to your call, 
shine a strong light on me for perhaps ten of your minutes; that should activate 
me."
He looked at Sam, who shrugged. "Activate?"
"The paucity of light, you see, causes something akin to your sleep; it is a 
natural physiological response, however, and nothing to be alarmed about."
"McGill," said Sam suddenly, "he—it can wait here. On the terrace. There's lots 
of sun out there."
He wished he could ask his ward if their visitor were on the level—but then, Sam 
would not have made the offer if he were suspicious of H'nik. "Okay. 
H'nik—please, make yourself at home until I come back. Sam will get you anything 
you need or would like or—or whatever."
"Thank you very much. It is most gracious of you."
"No problem. I'll see you both later." He had less than a minute to make it to 
work. Stepping back, symbolically to distance himself from the other two, he 
closed His eyes. Summoning his Talent, that inborn, out-of-this-world skill that 
only one Terran in ten million possessed, he concentrated on himself: tall; 
broad shoulders veeing into a seventy-centimeter waist; thumbs hooked into the 
corners of his pants pockets; boots reflecting the glitter of his tunic in their 
gloss. At the same time, he visualized his destination: the small, white-walled 
chamber at the Flinger Building on Long Island, the one with the fluorescent 
lights that hummed and the white-tiled floor that no amount of scrubbing could 
ever rid of heelmarks. And in the seeing he juxtaposed the two images, feeling 
how the one belonged inside the other, knowing how to make it so, and—
*PING*
—he began to teleport. It was instantaneous, but time is relative; from within a 
Fling lasts forever. Space explo/lapsed. He grew yet shrank. In one and the same 
perceived instant, he ballooned to twice the universe's size, yet the smallest 
subatomic particle dwarfed him. The insanity of shredded time and space came 
through as pain: a tearing, a rending. It lasted longer than could possibly be 
endured—almost long enough to sense. And then his sizes changed again, the one 
shrinking and the other growing, until they merged, and he was, once more, one 
meter ninety centimeters and ninety-five kilograms, standing on a scuffed tile 
floor in a small, white-walled chamber in a busy building on Long Island.
The teleporting was done.
Sort of.
He left his private locker room as the second of four musical chimes pealed from 
the building's public address system. He hurried down the long hall to his 
Flinger Room; the shift officially commenced in fifty seconds.
"McGill!"
Still moving, he looked over his shoulder. Behind him, leaning half out of a 
doorway, was his roommate, Marion Jefferson Greystein. Feighan halted in 
mid-stride. "What the—?"
Greystein wore only a bathing suit, black with silver piping; a wet towel hung 
around his neck. His curly brown hair was plastered to his skull. Stubble 
coarsened his long cheeks. A silly grin on his pale face, he rested a shoulder 
against the doorjamb as though he needed to.
Aw, geez, late again! But Feighan went back. "Where have you been? We were 
worried."
Greystein drew himself up to his full height, which was nearly Feighan's though 
he lacked his roommate's bulk. "I have just discovered a magnificent way to get 
laid."
"You're drunk!"
"And rightfully, delightfully so, McGill my young daffodil. For I have 
discovered that if you take a cute young thing to a beautiful black sand beach 
on a planet so distant that its star can't be seen through even the mosht acute 
of Earth-based telescopes, you can ball that cute young thing to your heart's 
content. All it takes is to meet her resistance with the shimple sentence, 'If 
thash the way you feel, then you can walk home!' "
"Greystein, that's rape!"
"Isn't everything?" He blinked owlishly. "But I was only kidding, anyway."
"Jesus, Greystein, sober up."
The other closed his eyes and sagged against the doorframe. "Uh-uh," he said in 
a mumble. "If I sh— sober up, I'll remember what a prick I was, and that's 
something I don't wanna do just yet… hey, before you go—"
The speakers mounted in the ceiling boomed: "McGill Feighan, report to your 
station. William Abernathy Cole, report to your station. Marion Jeff—"
"I have to go," said Feighan.
"No, wait!" He lurched into his Room, and came back proffering a large parcel 
wrapped in irridescent paper. "Here. For you. Picked it up on Inta Leina."
"What is it?"
"A mirror."
"Greystein, I—"
"When you get a chance, open it up—look into it—then turn it around. Surprise 
hell out of you, it will, McGill my young daffodil."
"McGill Feighan," said the public address system, "report to your station. Wil—"
"I'll see you later." Feighan took the mirror and moved off.
After him Greystein called, "You can count on it, roomie!"
Safely inside his Flinger Room, he hurried to the Data console. The display 
screen flashed: THRONGORN II. In the white chamber below the window, four 
Terrans and one alien, a three-meter-tall Timili that looked like an unhappy 
lemur, waited on the scale with a stack of boxes. Feighan slid into his chair; 
the corner of the display screen glared 926 kilograms. He touched the button on 
his microphone. "Good morning, folks; sorry I'm running a bit late but you know 
how it goes. You are eight kilos overweight."
The shortest Terran, a pipe-smoking woman with waist-length black hair, said, 
"How much extra will those eight kilos cost?"
He suppressed an angry rejoinder. People could be so ignorant. The signs, the 
manifests, the brochures—they all explained it—but people never read the fine 
print, so this situation arose again and again. One of these days he would start 
screaming, but until then, he would remember the rules and stay polite to the 
customers. "Ah, no, ma'am, that's not the way it works. The most I can Fling is 
918 kilograms; if the cargo weighs more, I can't get it off the ground. You'll 
have to leave something behind."
"But I need all this!"
"Ma'am, I believe I mentioned that I'm running late?"
"Yes." Hands on her hips, she stared up at his window. "So?"
"Ma'am, my whole day is scheduled already, and the next cargo is waiting 
outside. If I don't get you off real quickly, things are going to back up 
something fierce. So please, cut eight kilos off your load—"
"I'll do no such thing, young man!"
Why were people so difficult? Why did they have to behave as though they could 
flout the rules with impunity? "Ma'am, you've got thirty seconds to dump the 
excess baggage or you will lose your time slot for good. Do you want to get a 
move on?"
She stalked off the scales, raised a clenched fist, and shook it at him. "I am 
Professor Katrina van der Voort of the University of the North Atlan—"
He could not resist the opportunity. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, 
visualized, felt, knew—*PING*—and sent the other three Terrans and the one 
Timili on their way to Throngorn II.
After adjusting the travelers' angular momentum, and setting them down safely on 
the planet so many parsecs away, he said, "Professor, I really don't give a good 
goddam who you are. I'm in charge here. You are legally required to obey my 
instructions in regard to mass and dispersement. You did not. I have sent the 
rest of your group on. You will have to make another reservation. Good day."
"You filthy bloodsucking pig!" She threw her pipe on the floor and stomped it; 
shards of plascelain skittered across the tiles. "You can't do that to me; I'll 
have your ass in court—"
To his computer he said, "Program: Cite overweight option regulations; execute."
The screen displayed a series of numbers and letters, and beneath that, four 
paragraphs of closely spaced, densely written text.
He skimmed the screen. "Professor, North American Consortium Regulations, 
Section Twelve, Paragraph 93, subparagraphs (a) through (e) specifically enable 
me to do what I have just done. I have neither the time nor the inclination to 
read them off to you. I will simply state that Twelve, 93, (f) empowers me to 
have you arrested for causing a disturbance in a Fling Booth. You have thirty 
seconds to leave before I call the police. Counting." With that, he switched off 
the PA system and leaned back, eyes closed.
People!
Feighan's job was to Fling up to 918 kilograms of mass— animal, vegetable, or 
mineral; it mattered not—to one of the twelve planets in the Flinger Network to 
which he was certified to teleport. It was a good job, in the sense that it gave 
him security, $250,000 a year, a distinctive uniform, and a fair amount of 
prestige—but it was boring.
He opened his eyes. Van der Voort had gone; the next group had entered. Thirteen 
Terrans, both sexes; all were young and a bit on the lean and hungry side. The 
screen's destination segment read: DELURC. The countdown clock gave him 
forty-two seconds. They weighed in at 917.8 kilograms. He touched his mike. "Is 
everybody ready?"
A chorus of assent rose up.
"Anybody who wants to change his mind has thirty-five seconds—mark!—to leave the 
room."
Nobody moved.
He sighed. "Twenty-five seconds, mark! Delurc is not what you think it's going 
to be, friends, and dream-selling is a lousy way to make money. Fifteen seconds, 
mark! All ashore that's going ashore." He shut his eyes, concentrating on the 
group before him while visualizing the underwater domes of the planet Delurc, 
where lived the fish who bought men's souls. He felt, and he knew, 
and—*PING*—for one gasping moment thought he had skewed the angular momentum. At 
the last second he got it right, and Flopped them down safe and sound. "Idiots!" 
Savagely, he switched off the PA and called up a crossword puzzle onto the 
screen.
He had forty-six more Flings before his first shift of the day would be over. 
After four hours off, he would have to report back for another four on.
The phone rang; he picked it up. "Feighan."
"Hi, McGill, it's Sam. Listen, you know that big tub on the terrace, the one the 
Christmas tree was in?"
"The guaranteed live one that died in a week?" That still stung; he should have 
seen the brown needles.
"That's the one."
"Uh-huh. What about it?"
"Can H'nik use it?"
He scratched his head. "For what?"
"To, um… you know. To sit in. Or whatever."
Feighan shrugged. "I don't mind." Through the telephone came a rasping. "What?"
"He says, do we have any plant food? What was that?" said Sam to H'nik. While 
Feighan waited for them to settle it, the door below opened. Automated pallets 
bore in a stack of crates the screen showed were destined for Rii—edsch. Then 
Sam got back on the line. "He says 5-10-5 is best, do we have any?"
"What is 5-10-5—and I don't think we have any, anyway."
"Can I ask Oscar?"
"Sure, if you know how."
"Thanks!" The receiver clattered down; Feighan replaced his own with a puzzled 
frown.
He sent the crates to Rii—edsch when the clock down-counted to zero, then called 
back his crossword puzzle.
Flinging was a lot like driving a bus that went nowhere.
At the end of his first shift, he stepped into the hall. Yawning, and stretching 
the kinks out of his back, he looked around for someone to talk to.
The long hall was empty, but from the Flingers' Lounge fifty meters down came 
grumbling voices. That hooked him; he started walking. The Lounge was rarely 
used: most Flingers found it easier to pop home for their four off.
Inside, fifteen or twenty of the North American Consortium's first-line 
teleports clustered around an oversized display screen. Jaws and fists were 
clenched; angry mutters bounced around the room. The anger focused on the text 
and numbers scrolling up the screen.
"Hi, McGill." A hand touched his shoulder; lips pecked his cheek.
"Hey, great!" He smiled, and hugged Gina Maccari, the staff telepath. "I thought 
you were on vacation."
She took his hand. "Come on." Leading him a few doors down the corridor from the 
Lounge, she said, "I hate to meet and run, but there's too much hostility in 
there—it's starting to get to me."
"Well, listen—" He slipped his arm around her waist. "I know a nice quiet 
restaurant—"
She snuggled against him. "I'd love to, but I can't. Director Davis wants me in 
his office quote right now end quote. How about tonight?"
She felt warm and good and he wanted to hold her forever. "I don't get off till 
ten, if you don't mind a late dinner."
"That's fine, as long as it's an early evening—I got rescheduled. My shift 
starts at 6:00 tomorrow."
"A.m.?"
"Uh-huh."
"You poor thing. An early evening it will be." He drew her close and kissed her 
forehead. "I'll pick you up—oh, nuts! Why don't you meet me at my place at ten? 
I've got a visitor, an Actuni—ever met one?"
"H'nik?"
"You know him?"
She smiled wearily. "I gave him directions to your place this morning." She 
glanced at her watch. "And I really have to go—see you at your place at ten 
tonight."
"Let me give you a hand." He closed his eyes—
"No!" Prodding him in the ribs, she winked. "No offense, but I'd rather walk." 
She blew him a kiss, turned, and ran down the corridor. The hem of her skirt 
flipped up with each move.
He shook his head and sighed, then went back into the Lounge to see what had so 
upset his colleagues. Greystein vociferated in the midst of a knot of them, but 
Feighan did not feel like talking to him just then. He looked around for someone 
else.
"How do, McGill," said an Arizonan from behind.
He spun. "Hi, Walking Mule." He shook hands with the Senior Flinger who had 
trained him in interstellar teleportation four years earlier. "What's all the 
uproar?"
Walking Mule flipped his braids back over his shoulder, then nodded to the 
display screen. "The honchos dreamed up a new comp plan."
"They're always doing that."
"Yeah, yeah, they are—but this one here is what they call a competitive rating 
system. The score you get figures your schedule, the number of times you Fling a 
day, and how much you get paid for each Fling."
Feighan gaped.
"Come on over, take a looksee for yourself." He led Feighan through the crowd by 
the elbow. "Remember that clause in our contracts, the 'You Get Exactly What You 
Earn' clause? Somebody finally wrote that—" He pursed his lips in 
mock-prissiness: " 'quality control program to establish norms for Flinging. ' 
And they invoked that clause. Here's height above ground and velocity at moment 
of materialization." His stubby forefinger tapped a line on the screen. 
"Point-oh-one centimeters up is now the norm for h-over-g; velocity norm they 
reckon at one centimeter per second. You hit those numbers bang between the 
eyes, they'll pay you $7.93 for that Fling. Do better, they pay you more; worse, 
less."
"Seven-ninety-three a Fling? I never calculated it out—what are we making now?"
"Seven-ninety-two point-seven." He smiled. "Naw, I didn't work that one out in 
my head: it's right up top there."
"So if you hit the norm, you're making exactly what you are now?"
"You got it. But if you don't, you make less."
"That rots!"
"And that's just for openers. They are listing us in order of accuracy; list 
changes once a month. High man on the totem pole gets his choice of shifts for 
the next month, then number two picks his, and then number three, and so on down 
the line… here's the list." He called it up on the screen.
Feighan raised his eyebrows. "I'm Number One, huh?"
"You always were a meticulous sumbitch. But don't let it go to your head, 
boy—you might get paid more, and you do get to set your own hours, but you are 
going to have to work a little some harder than, say, your roommate, who came in 
twenty-third."
"Out of twenty-three, huh?" Then he frowned. "What do you mean, work harder?"
"What I said: See, along with the higher pay per Fling goes more Flings per 
day." He leaned forward to examine the number after Feighan's name. "See here, 
now? They cut your rest time to 255 seconds—your daily quota's now a hundred and 
twelve."
"Uh-uh." He peered at it himself, not believing— "One hundred twelve a day!"
"Yup.".
He shook his head. "No way. Walking Mule, I can't do that many. I do ninety-six 
and I'm really tired; after nine days on I'm wiped! Who do they think I am, 
Superman or something? I can't do it."
Walking Mule tapped himself on the chest. "I know that. You know that. Everybody 
in this here room knows that—but Director Davis can't seem to get it through his 
thick head that Flinging's harder work than riding fence in a blizzard. Which 
figures, since he ain't got even a trace of Talent."
"We're going to have to talk to him about this."
"We already have, McGill—and he says his mind's made up. This is the way the 
rain falls. No changes. Period."
"He's crazy."
"Yup."
A hand touched Feighan's back as a familiar voice said, "Then let's drop the 
bastard in the sun, hey guys?"
Walking Mule scowled at Greystein. "Don't even think that way. That's a real 
good way to make people think it's something we just might do."
"No sense of humor, Walking Mule. Hey, McGill, what do you think of that mirror 
I brought you?"
He snapped his fingers in annoyance. "I'm sorry, Greystein—I forgot all about 
it."
"Well, you check it out, you are going to be so pleased! Those Inta Leinans do 
not make bad mirrors."
Walking Mule said, "Greystein, I'd reckoned the bosses made it clear you just 
ain't supposed to Fling off on your own without permission."
For one moment Greystein blanched. Then his smile flashed bright as ever. "What 
they don't know won't hurt them."
"And what happens when they hear about it?"
Greystein's dark eyes narrowed. "Now how would they happen to hear about it, 
Walking Mule?"
The older man shrugged. "Word gets around."
Greystein caught his breath, then let it out raggedly. "I do my job and I do it 
awful damn well, if I do say so myself—"
Walking Mule jerked a thumb at the screen. "The numbers say different."
"Goddam the numbers! I can make any set of numbers say anything I want them to 
so, so I don't trust those fudged-up so-called facts of theirs. I do my job, and 
that's all they should be worried about."
Feighan drifted away. Depressed and grouchy, he could too easily imagine himself 
as overwrought as Greystein—and did not want to achieve that state. So he 
wandered back to his Room and opened the package. The paper fell away from a 
double-sided mirror mounted in such a frame as to enable the user to spin it 
around. He did. It displayed the back of his head. "That's perfect!" With a 
laugh, he straightened the cowlick at the rear of his skull. "Trust Greystein to 
find something like this…"
He napped through the rest of his break, awoke to the computer's beep, and Flung 
forty-eight more loads in the next four hours. At 10 p.m. he was done. He tucked 
the mirror under his arm, and Flung himself home. Greystein was already there, 
stretched out on the couch with a beer mug in his hand. "Gina, Sam, and the 
plant are out on the terrace."
"Are you okay?"
Greystein scowled. "I have a headache, a bad one." He hoisted the mug. "Maybe 
this'll help."
"Until you wake up in the morning." He crossed the room and pushed the gliding 
door back on its rollers. Manhattan shone like a tiara. The night breeze ruffled 
his hair. "Hi, everybody."
Maccari hugged him hard, lingering on the release. "I'm sorry, really—I have to 
go. But I programmed Oscar for dinner. Teriyaki is all right, isn't it?"
"Just fine," he said, bewildered. "But—"
"Honest, I'm sorry, but I'm standby Minder tonight, and they just called me. 
Please?"
He made a face, a histrionic pout, to mock that which he actually felt.
"Please?"
"Okay." He closed his eyes, concentrated— *PING*— then, suddenly weary, turned 
to the other two. "How's it going, Sam?"
"Neat, McGill! H'nik's five hundred years old, did you know that? And this is 
the thirty-ninth planet it's been to, and it met my mother! And she wants us to 
visit her."
"Really?" It was an effort to be polite. "When did you meet Sahaang?"
The alien's speaking-spines rustled together. "When we first met she barely cast 
a shadow at all, but fascinated me even then; I returned to visit her recently, 
and she directed me to you."
"Oh?" Leaning back till the stucco wall bit into his shoulders, he wondered how 
to deal tactfully with what had to be coming. "What, ah—?"
"I will come directly to the point, McGill Feighan. I am researching the Far 
Being Retzglaran—"
"Somehow, I knew you'd say that."
"I have been told that shortly after you broke into the world, you had a most 
curious encounter with an agent of the Far Being, and that that encounter has 
altered the entire course of your life."
He nodded. "H'nik, if you're researching the Far Being, maybe you can tell me: 
What is the Far Being? What species, what—"
"My studies, even after all these centuries, have barely begun to penetrate the 
mystery that is Retzglaran; one web of evidence, however, suggests that it is 
the last scion of an ancient stock of space-farers."
Feighan frowned. It did not jibe with what he had learned on his own. "But I 
thought—"
"That is one web of evidence, McGill Feighan, or perhaps only a portion of one 
web. Yet there are many, many others; I would seek your help in determining on 
which prowls the true Spinner."
He shrugged. "If I can—ask away."
H'nik's spines scraped in apparent agitation. "No, no. I would question you 
longer."
"Well, you can stay a day or two if you like. I—"
"No, no. I would question you longer."
He sighed. "How much longer?"
"Eight hours a day for perhaps a year."
Feighan blinked, and forced a chuckle. "No, I'm sorry, that's impossible."
Before H'nik could reply, Greystein shouted in the living room. "No fucking 
way!"
Feighan turned. "What's the matter?"
Greystein joined them on the terrace, a printout in his hand. His cheeks were 
pale; spilled beer stained his pants. He thrust the sheet of paper at Feighan. 
"Read it yourself."
He did. It said: "Report to Behavior Modification Center immediately."
Chapter III
« ^ »


"Don't you understand? I don't care!" He slammed the phone down. Psychiatrists! 
The nerve, criticizing his order to Greystein as "counter-productive: it might 
trigger an undesirable response."
"Undesirable response." Phaugh! What could be less desirable than drunken 
lechery? The idiot psychiatrists just did not understand. His half-psychotic 
employees had to maintain Earth's links in an interstellar transportation web. 
The only way to keep them working was to crucify anyone who stepped out of line.
He picked up the holocube and stroked it with a fingertip. Thank God somebody 
had his head on straight, and would help him bring those spoiled brats to heel. 
This clear plastic box, fifteen centimeters on a side, offered enough evidence 
to justify scouring Greystein's skull twice over.
"Undesirable response." Like what—mutiny? He almost hoped it came to that. The 
more insubordinate Greystein became, the more severe an indoctrination his 
behavior would warrant. Even PsychSection would agree to that. So let Greystein 
flout him. Just let him.
The system had rules so it would run smoothly and efficiently. When people 
started breaking the rules, they threatened its survival. But the Network was 
bigger than people, and star travel more important. It had to survive. Even if 
some of them did not.
The obedient ones, like Harry Lipsiento, would do very well.
And the Greysteins would make very nice examples.
Chapter IV
« ^ »


Feighan settled gingerly onto the terrace railing. The night wind moaned in his 
ears; all around gleamed the light jewels of Manhattan. Shock waved tremors 
through his voice: "Why do they want you?" He gripped the cool wrought iron for 
support.
Greystein rattled another sheet of paper. "Because of this."
"What?"
"Do you know they put a detective on me?"
"What?"
"That bastard Davis hired a detective to investigate me, and this is what she 
came up with." It crackled when he passed it over. "She listed all my alleged 
violations of the FNC Code. You ever seen such crap?"
"Can I see?" asked Sam.
"No," said Feighan instinctively. "This is, ah, this is grownup stuff here."
"Aw, come on, he's my roommate, too."
"Sam," said Feighan in a warning tone.
Greystein bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet. "Just look at that, can 
you believe it? The NAC spent good money on a detective just to smear me!"
"Listen, ah—" He glanced from Sam to H'nik. The Actuni's eyespines pointed right 
at him; Sam had cocked his head attentively. "Let's talk about this inside, 
okay? H'nik, please excuse us."
"Of course. Sam, perhaps you can point out to me some of the city's major 
landmarks?"
"Sure, H'nik." He flicked his tongue at Feighan, then turned his back on the 
two. "Over there is—"
Feighan led Greystein by the arm. "Now what is this?" he said, when they had 
closed the living room door behind them.
"I need a drink, you want one?"
"No, and—"
"Order, Oscar: Pour one beer; do it now." He stalked across the room to the bar, 
and tapped its wood-grain panel. "C'mon!" But he had to wait. He rested his 
elbows on the countertop and lowered his face into his hands. "I don't believe 
that bastard Davis hired a detective…"
Feighan skimmed the legal-sized sheet of paper in his hand. Headed "Surveillance 
Report: Marion Jefferson Greystein," it was subtitled, "Summary of Violations."
The compiler, one Avis Louder, had numbered the offenses in chronological order. 
Feighan skipped down the list. "Flinging for Personal Gain" cropped up more 
often than any other. The last entry, #67, was dated 3 June 2105; it accused 
Greystein of rape on the planet Canopus XVIII. He shook his head. "Are these 
true?"
Greystein looked up just as the bar delivered his beer. He downed half the stein 
before wiping the foam off his lips with the back of his hand. "What do you 
mean, true?"
"Did you do all these?" He checked the printout. "On May 10, did you charge 
William N'komo five thousand dollars for passage to Delurc?"
"No, dammit!" He slammed the empty mug on the counter. "Look, McGill, Bill's a 
good buddy. He came to me, he said his father's on Delurc and they just got a 
message that the old chief's really sick, and could I Fling him there 'cause the 
waiting list is four months long. What the fuck was I supposed to say, 'Gee 
golly whillikers, Bill, I wish I could, but the rules say I can't'? Huh?"
"Did you charge him five kay for it?"
"Christ, no! What do I need money for? Transportation?" He told Oscar to give 
him another beer, and twirled an ashtray on the counter while he waited.
Feighan consulted the list again. "I know you made all these trips to Hideaway—"
"Yeah, I did." His tone was belligerent. "You wanna make a big deal about it, 
too? I'm a Flinger, dammit, and if I want to go to Hideaway or Rehma or 
wherever, I'm going."
"But the rules—"
"Would you get it through your head that I don't give a shit what the rules 
say?"
Feighan threw down the printout. "You idiot! The only reason we never got called 
in for behavior modification before was because we pretended we'd already been 
brainwashed. We followed the rules in public; we made sure nobody noticed the 
b-mod hadn't taken—and now you go, and you blow the whole thing, and you have 
the audacity to complain that you got caught? Jesus Christ, all you needed was a 
little discretion."
Greystein leaned against the counter, a sour smile on his face. "You know, I 
sort of thought you'd worry more about yourself than me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm in a bind and you're worried that maybe they'll notice you."
"Well, what do you think I am, a saint? My head's at stake here, too. For 
Christ's sakes, Greystein, I never asked you not to visit Hideaway, or Fling 
your friends around, or—or—" He kicked the list of accusations. "Or any of that! 
All I asked was that you not be so blatant about the fact that you jammed the 
b-mod program when we were rooming at the Academy. And what do you do? You—"
"No." His hand slashed the air diagonally. "I did not flaunt it. You and Sam and 
Oscar are the only people with any connections to the NAC who know what I've 
been doing."
"And Walking Mule and whoever else was listening when you were talking about 
that mirror."
"But that was the first time, and that was this afternoon!" He raised his hands 
above his head, imploring the heavens to grant Feighan understanding. "Oh, 
McGill, McGill, don't you see? I was discreet. I did behave—in public, at least. 
And they got me anyway. And I don't have the faintest… I mean, look at that. Go 
on, look at it."
Feighan bent over to pick it up. "Yeah? What am I supposed to see?"
"Let's start with the fact that the detective listed my destinations."
"Uh-huh. So? It's the destinations that make the violations."
"Feighan, I didn't take any detective with me. I mean, granted, somebody's 
watching me, she can see when I ping out—but how the hell does she know where 
I'm going? Can you tell me that?"
"Ah…" He frowned. The crisp typescript had suddenly lost much of its authority. 
"Did she get it right, though? Did you really go to these places?"
"Yes! But how the hell did she know?"
"Maybe you bragged about it in a bar?"
"God save me from fools! How many years have you known me? Have you ever heard 
me brag about that kind of thing in a bar—or anywhere else, for that matter?"
He thought about it. It made no sense. "How—wait a minute. I know how she did 
it." Then he scowled. "No, that's crazy, too."
"What?"
"Well… one Flinger can follow another Flinger—"
"What?"
"Ah, come one, Greystein, you've felt the pull when I've Flung out—didn't you 
know you could let it take you along?"
He waved a hand. "Now I know what you mean, yeah. But you're saying the 
detective is a Flinger, then."
"She's got to be!"
"You mean one of our own spied on me? I can't believe that…" But from his 
expression as he ordered another beer, it was clear that he could believe it—and 
maybe did. When the beer came, he chugged it down. "Oscar, order: pour one beer; 
do it now." He belched. "Jesus, a spy in our midst."
"And she's got you cold."
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you going to turn yourself in?"
Greystein narrowed his eyes. "You know me better than that, McGill—or at least I 
thought you did. Do you really think I'd let them brainwash me?"
He laughed with both affection and sadness. "Since you wouldn't even let them do 
it to you in the Academy, no… although I think, now that things have gotten to 
this stage, maybe you ought to give the idea some consideration."
"I think you're crazy!"
Before Feighan could reply, the gliding glass door opened; Sam and H'nik came in 
from the terrace. Wind swirled through the living room. Feighan winced: he had 
promised Sam help with the coloring book, and H'nik help in its researches, but 
he was devoting all his time to Greystein. And yet Greystein was closer to him 
than any man alive; he could not just say, hey, you worry about your problems, 
I'll worry about mine. Briefly, Feighan wished that others could manage to need 
him one at a time—and only about half the time, at that. Then he sighed. That 
would never happen.
"Hey, McGill," said Sam. "H'nik's hungry, and—"
"I am very sorry, H'nik," said Feighan. "I have been a thoughtless host. What 
may I get you?"
Sam slapped his tail on the Chinese rug to draw his guardian's attention. "It 
can't eat our food, McGill. Well, it can, but it's not good enough for it."
He opened his mouth and shut it again. He did not know what he could or should 
say except, after a moment's thought, "May I get you some water, or—"
Again it was Sam who lacked the patience to wait for the alien to scrape out a 
reply. "It's the fruit thing on its, um-um, head there—that's what it can eat, 
and it's what it wants to eat, and it asked me to get it but even when I jumped 
I couldn't reach that high, so—" He pointed to the purplish gourd jutting out of 
its upper body. It had grown to cantaloupe size in the course of the afternoon. 
"So why don't you pick it for us?"
"Oh, okay. Sure." He reached for it—
H'nik jumped back.
"Ah…" Baffled, he spread his hands wide and looked from Sam to Greystein and 
back to H'nik.
The Actuni said, "Forgive me if my action seemed rude, for it was not so 
intended. The—" It rasped out one syllable so alien Feighan could not remember 
it, much less pronounce it. "—is coated with many millions of tiny 
glochids—barbed hairs—that would penetrate your skin and initiate an allergic 
reaction; the itching is said to be maddening."
Sam's tongue flickered. "How come you didn't tell me that?"
"Because your physiology, my bud, is different, and your skin is thicker; the 
glochids would not penetrate your epidermis."
"What's a epiwhatchamacallit?"
Greystein answered that one. "It's the outer layer of your skin, Sam." He 
finished another beer and shoved the stein back in for a refill.
In the meantime, Feighan had crossed to the bar, where he rummaged around for 
the ice tongs. They were behind a row of dusty shot glasses. Holding them up to 
the light, he approached H'nik. "Would it cause you pain if I were to use these 
to remove the, ah, the—"
"The—" It made that sound again. "No, not in the least."
He closed the jaws of the tongs on the fruit. "Should I pull, twist, or—"
"Twist first, then pull."
Taking a deep breath, he tried it. The fruit popped off easily, but slipped out 
of the tongs and fell, bouncing once on the thick rug, flustering Feighan 
immensely. "I'm sorry, I—"
But H'nik scuttled forward until its spread roots straddled the fruit. Lowering 
its body a few centimeters, it sat on it like a bird on her egg. Its lower body 
*slurp*ed. The fruit disappeared. *Squish* it went, and *crunch*. Then silence.
In the interim, Greystein had had his mug filled. "That is the goddamnedest 
thing I have ever seen." Elbow on the bar, he tilted back his head and poured 
the beer down his throat. His Adam's apple rose and fell again and again.
Feighan wanted to speak to H'nik, but did not know if Actuni conversed during 
meals. He did know that they hated to be kept waiting, so it impressed him that 
H'nik had displayed any patience at all, much less calmness. Even a Terran would 
have been insulted by a fourteen-hour wait.
H'nik's lower body… belched. "Thank you. My inner half had grown restless."
"Inner half?" said Sam.
"We are symbiotes, Sam—that is, two life forms who need each other so much that 
each would die without the other."
"Like me and McGill, huh?"
Feighan's face flamed.
H'nik spared him the embarrassment of having to comment. "Your symbiosis—your 
mutual interdependence—is of an emotional nature. Mine is physical. I—"
Greystein interrupted. "You're a monk, aren't you?"
H'nik shuffled about to face him. "That is, perhaps, your language's best 
approximation of my actual vocation. Not accurate, you must understand, but it 
is approximate."
"Well I got a question for you." He burped; a silly smile spread across his 
face.
"Then by all means ask it, Marion Jefferson Greystein."
No, don't, thought Feighan. You're drunk, it's going to be a stupid question.
Swaying back and forth, Greystein raised a finger to strike a forensic pose. "Do 
you believe, most reverend vegetable—"
"Greystein!" hissed Feighan.
He blinked owlishly at his roommate. "Whatsh the matter?"
"You're drunk, that's what's the matter."
"In vino veritas, old boy, which is to say that if I weren't a little on the 
inebriated side I probably wouldn't have thought to ask this question, which is, 
when you come right down to it, a very serious kind of question indeed, and 
desh—deserving of the most serious form of reply. Do you, kind sir and honored 
visitor, believe that intelligent beings should be required to submit their 
innermost selves—verily, their souls!—to the tampering of temporal authorities?"
"As Actu boasts a theocracy," said H'nik dryly, "that question is one to which 
we have devoted little debate."
Sam pulled on Feighan's pants leg. "What's a theocracy?"
"Ah… where the church is the government."
"Oh." He made a face. "Can I watch the holo?"
"If you keep it soft."
"Thanks." He waddled over to the set and turned it on. In the background, 
Greystein looked nonplused. H'nik stood quietly, asking nothing, apparently 
ready to answer anything. The holovision came alive: the cube swirled with light 
that coalesced into three-dimensional shapes that sharpened into a line of 
medics kneeling over the victims of a hotel fire. A woman in her thirties with 
red eyes and a soot mark on her forehead walked straight toward the camera, 
hands outstretched, crying, "Jim! Jim oh god where are you, Jim?" Her voice rose 
as she swelled in the cube and filled it and blurred away when she passed 
through the focal range. The voice-over said, "Mrs. James Winsocki of 
Philadelphia outside the Seven-Come-Eleven Hotel in Las Vegas, just minutes 
after the century's worst fire claimed four hundred and seventy-six fatalities."
In the silence imposed by the camera's slow pan of the bodies in their tagged 
green bags, H'nik asked, "Have you come yet to a decision, Marion Jefferson 
Greystein?"
"About what?"
"In connection with your consortium's directive."
"Huh!"
Feighan said, "Maybe you ought to go in."
"What, worried about yourself again?"
His cheeks warmed. "Cheap shot, Greystein."
"So what are you worried about?"
"You, dammit! You're my best friend—"
"I thought I was," said Sam from the floor before the cube.
Puzzlement—hurt—pinched his ward's face. "You are, Sam—Greystein's my other best 
friend."
"Oh." He nodded, wrinkled his scaled forehead, and swung his attention back to 
the holo, now aglow with the low-slung sleekness of a Kwama sports'hove.
Feighan turned to Greystein. "I don't want you to get hurt."
"Come on, McGill—they can't hurt me! Hell, The Organization's been trying to get 
you for years, and they've never succeeded for the same reason that the NAC will 
never be able to hurt me—we're Flingers. We can vanish anytime anybody attacks 
us—no matter who it is."
Feighan dropped into a black forcechair. What he heard disturbed him; it took 
him a while to organize a logical rebuttal. "Greystein, The Organization has 
never tried to hurt me—it's been trying to capture me, alive and well, so it 
could use me. There's a world of difference between that and what the NAC will 
do if you don't submit. They'll Rogue you!"
Greystein burped, covered his mouth a second late, and shrugged. "So?"
"Are you dense or are you just drunk? If they do that, if they Rogue you, 
anybody, anywhere in the universe except in the psychiatric care section of a 
Flinger Building, can kill you—and get paid for it!"
"What?" At last Greystein looked shaken.
"That's right, A reward, a bounty. One million dollars, payable in any currency 
of the Network including fancies."
He raised his eyebrows. "They think I'm worth a million, huh?"
"For God's sakes, man, this isn't a joke! With that kind of price on your head, 
somebody, somewhere, is going to shoot you just to claim it. Please! Don't let 
things get that far."
"They won't."
"Not if you report—"
Greystein's eyes cleared, and blazed. "No! I will not be brainwashed. Order, 
Oscar: pour one—"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, I don't believe you…" He looked around the room for support, 
but H'nik seemed content to observe in silence, and Sam lay rapt before the 
holo, where a man-sized purple bird, briefcase tucked under one wing, was 
emerging from the Embassy of Rehma to say, "We have no comment on reports that 
our government has fallen, and we will have no comments until such time as we 
are able to contact our capital city."
While Greystein wobbled to the bar, Feighan picked up the phone. Punching the 
number, his finger shook.
"Yo."
"Walking Mule? Hi, it's McGill. Listen, we've got a major problem 
here—Greystein's just been ordered to report to the b-mod center, and—"
"Yeah, I heard about that," said the Senior Flinger. "You go on and offer him my 
sympathies, will you?"
"Doesn't he get a hearing—any kind of chance to defend himself?"
"Nope. He waived that right when he signed his last contract—hell, McGill, the 
two of you should know that, shouldn't have to ask me about it. First thing 
Running Bear taught me was to read what I signed."
"Sixty-two pages of fine print? Give me a break, Walking Mule… but isn't there 
something you could do, a string you could pull or—"
"Nope."
"But—"
"I'm sorry as all hell, McGill. It's a damn shame, I agree, but there's nothing 
I can do to help the boy. This comes straight from Director Davis himself."
"But why is he doing it? I mean, it's not like the charges against Greystein are 
thoroughly substantiated or anything— Walking Mule, they're all anonymous 
accusations. That's unconstitutional."
"Now, I wouldn't talk too fast if I were you," said the older man. "Truth to 
tell, there was a test case on this twenty, thirty years back—and the Supreme 
Court held that, given the circumstances, the NAC had the right to impose 
whatever sort of discipline it felt necessary."
"But—"
"McGill, you're old enough to know that the only reason we Flingers are 
tolerated is because we're disciplined." Impatience sharpened his voice. "You 
get somebody like Greystein kicking up his heels, you got bad press—that means a 
queasy government—that means feuding with the FNC—and the next thing you know, 
Flingers all across the galaxy are in one heap of trouble."
Feighan winced. "Yeah, but—"
"Look. You tell Greystein to get his butt into the PsychSection. He'll be out in 
a week or two. And McGill, I swear this on my ancestors' burial grounds, he 
ain't going to be able to tell the difference, and neither will you. He just 
won't be as stupid as he is now, that's all."
"I'll tell him, but I don't think—"
"You just remind him that it's his ass, McGill. Talk to you later."
"Yeah." Feighan hung up. He liked the situation not at all.
He liked it even less when he raised his gaze to the holocube: an oldstyle 
marketplace with thousands of stalls. Vaguely humanoid figures in masks and 
breathing tanks moved past racks of glassware and stacks of produce. They paused 
only to lift another body onto another litter. The voice-over said, "This was 
the scene this afternoon in Hotu Botai, a provincial capital on Inta Leina. The 
plague struck with deadly swiftness; authorities—"
From across the room, Greystein called, "Hey! That's where I got you your 
mirror. What happened?"
"Plague." He leaned forward to hear the announcer.
Greystein tottered over to plop into the other forcechair. "Plague?"
The 'caster said, "It is suspected that the plague was released on the planet by 
a Terran Flinger who was seen wandering through the marketplace yesterday, our 
time."
Feighan's eyes widened. "My God! They're blaming you."
"McGill, I—" All color had drained from his cheeks. His voice shook, but it no 
longer slurred. "I've been there lots of times. The books say—hell, they 
prove!—that Inta Leinans and Terrans are mutually imcom—communicable. I couldn't 
have—"
Feighan shushed him with a wave of his hand.
From the speakers came, "—not of Terran derivation, but of Rehmal origin. It is 
suspected that the Flinger—"
"Oh, sweet Jesus, shut it off!" Hand to stomach, Greystein looked as though he 
might vomit.
"You took a Rehmal to Inta Leina?" said Feighan in disbelief.
"She—"
"You did?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Jesus Christ, Greystein!" He threw his head back and his arms up. "You stupid 
ass! You Flung someone to another planet without going through Immigration? Bad 
enough doing interstellar Flings on your own time, but—but—" He pointed to the 
cube. "I don't believe you did that!"
Greystein slumped deeper in his chair. "I didn't know," he said softly. "If I 
had, I never would have—but I didn't. She didn't tell me she was sick. I didn't 
know…"
In a tone equally, incongruously soft, H'nik said, "Your burden is heavy. You 
should seek to lighten it."
"How?" snapped Greystein.
"I am unfamiliar with your culture's means of expiating guilt, but surely you 
are not."
"I don't believe in religion."
"It requires not faith but sorrow, shame—do you believe in them? Or do you 
believe that you have done no wrong?"
"Of course I've done wrong!" He made a fist and pounded it against his knee. 
"But the answer isn't going to the PsychSection and getting my head scrubbed. I 
know that isn't the answer."
"Then—"
The doorbell rang.
Feighan said, "Oscar, query: who is at the door; answer it now."
As Oscar hummed preparatory to replying, Sam picked himself off the floor and 
raced for the vestibule. His spine fins had stiffened.
The computer said, "Three Terrans; unfamiliar; NAC uniforms."
"Something's wrong, McGill," called Sam.
"What?"
"They're not nice; they want to—to hurt. But not you or me. It's—" He touched 
the door and squeezed his eyelids shut. "It's Greystein I think."
"Oscar, order: run ID check; do it now."
Tension mounted in the few brief seconds before the computer came back on-line: 
"The visitors are Jayeff Washington, P. Thomas Schintrino, and Kay Bechett; NAC 
Central Computing vouches for them; they are attached to Internal Security. They 
have been issued an NAC warrant for—"
"Oh, shit," said Greystein. He levered himself to his feet. For a moment, he 
stood unsteadily, looking from Feighan to Sam to H'nik to the great glass doors 
opening onto the terrace. He took a step toward the doors.
Feighan said, "Greystein, please: go with them. Walking Mule says—"
"No." He stumbled away. "It's my head, it's my brain, I won't let anybody fuck 
with it, anybody."
"But who will forgive you?" said H'nik.
"What?"
"To accede—to submit—"
The doorbell rang again, longer, more harshly.
"—is to initiate the rites of expiation."
"I don't need them!"
"But you do. Without them you will never forget those alleyways, those bodies, 
that guilt. Without expiation your every sleep will raise monsters against you. 
Every sapient everywhere will hunt you. Go with them, Marion Jefferson 
Greystein. Only they can bring you peace."
"No, dammit, no!" He took another step, and—
Feighan felt the other Flinger's Talent tug his own as Greystein teleported 
away. He shook his head. "Thank you for trying, H'nik."
The doorbell rang four times, short and sharp.
The Actuni said, "I only wish I had succeeded."
Sadly, Feighan crossed the room. Sam stood with his tail cocked and fists 
raised. "Don't let 'em in, McGill. They're— they're nasty!"
"I have to, Sam." He turned the knob.
A shoulder caught him in the chest and bowled him over. A deep voice said, 
"Shit, I'm sor—" then cracked, and yelped.
Flat on his back, Feighan lifted himself on his elbows. The InSec who had 
knocked him down was trying to shake Sam loose from his calf, but Rhanghan jaws 
are strong. The female in the trio was drawing her weapon. The third cop was 
grabbing at Sam's thrashing tail. "Sam!"
The Rhanghan dropped off and backed away, tail high, tongue waving. He hissed 
and spat. "He hit you!"
"It was an accident, Sam."
"Little bastard," said the woman. Automatic out, now, she was drawing a bead on 
Sam's head.
Before Feighan could react, the third guard grabbed Bechett's wrist and yanked 
it behind her back. "Uh-uh, Kay. Drop it."
The gun thudded onto the floor.
The first guard, the one with J. Washington embroidered above the pocket of his 
steel-blue tunic, was twisting his right leg into an awkward angle to inspect 
it. "Shit, I'm bleeding!"
Feighan got to his feet—slowly, cautiously, a little fearfully. InSecs had 
reflexes, not brains. "Ah—if you'd like, I could Fling you to the Infirmary."
"Shit, yes," said Washington, straightening. Crimson stained both his fingers 
and his pants leg. "He got poison in his fangs?"
"No." He bit down on a smile. Trust an InSec to ask a question like that! "And 
he's in perfect health, too. If you had to get bitten here, he's the one to get 
bitten by."
Bechett was muttering to Schintrino. Her narrow face was flushed; her eyes, 
slitted. "Gimme my gun back."
Feighan strolled over to her. "Listen, lady: that's my ward. His name is Sam. 
You touch one scale on his hide, and you know what I'll do to you? I'll set you 
down halfway across the galaxy, on the reef where the baby Delu grow up. They're 
little things—barely half Sam's size—so when they go to eat you, they'll only 
take little bites. I don't know how many rounds you've got in that gun of yours, 
but the reef'll have thousands of baby Delu. Hungry baby Delu. You'll live for 
ten or twenty minutes—until one of them chews through your eye into your brain. 
Now. You gonna keep your mouth shut? Or are you going to keep on making me mad?"
She paled. She did not meet his eye. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
With a hand in the small of her back, Schintrino pushed her into the hallway. 
"Wait there." He closed the door, then turned around. "All right. You know why 
we're here. Has he Flung out?"
"Yeah."
"Okay—why don't you pop Jayeff over to the Building, then let me take a look 
around—for the report, you know? We'll lose our jobs if we don't eyeball the 
place."
"Sure."
"Hey!" said Washington. "Is this gonna hurt?"
"Not really—but don't worry, I do this for a living."
Washington bit his lip.
Feighan closed his eyes—concentrated on the other's tall gauntness—visualized 
the admissions desk in the emergency room of the Flinger Building Infirmary—felt 
how to place the first before the second—and—
Washington was gone.
"Thanks," said Schintrino. "Now, if you don't mind—?"
"Help yourself." Stepping back, he made a mock-bow and waved Schintrino into the 
living room.
The Internal Security agent gasped at the sight of H'nik, but quickly regained 
his composure. "Got enough aliens around here?" he said in a low voice.
"Sam's my ward; H'nik's visiting."
"You Flingers…" He opened the cupboard doors, walked through the kitchen and the 
bedrooms—though he disdained to look under the beds—pulled aside the sliding 
glass door of the shower so he could glance inside, and then said, "Okay. He's 
not here. Not that I expected him to be, but—" He shrugged. "Bureaucracy, you 
know?"
"I know."
"If he comes back, you will, of course, call us immediately."
"Of course."
"Of course. Let me find Officer Bechett and we'll get out of your hair." At the 
door, he dropped to his haunches and said to Sam, "Hey, you."
"What?" said Sam with a snarl.
"What you did—biting Washington's leg 'cause he knocked your boss on his can—it 
was dumb. I was a little slower, you'd be dead now, and you wouldn't have helped 
Feighan at all. But your heart's in the right place, and that's good. Next time: 
wait to see if the guy's really going to hurt Feighan—and if he is, tear out his 
throat. Got that?"
"Yeah. Why are you telling me this?"
Schintrino extended a hand—carefully—to rub Sam on the head. "Because my job is 
to protect Flingers, too—and if you're going to be doing the same thing, you at 
least ought to know how to do it right. Okay?"
"Okay." Sam twisted his neck so Schintrino's fingers could scratch to better 
effect. "I'll remember that."
"You do that." He rose.
Feighan said, "You'll never catch him."
"You don't need to tell me that. But…" He shrugged, and started to turn.
Feighan grabbed his arm. "But what?"
"You're his friend; I hate to say this; but… but about five minutes after we 
report to Director Davis, we'll be ordered not even to try to catch Mr. 
Greystein. He goes Rogue, we don't have to. All we have to do is shoot 
straight."
Wincing, Feighan released him. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah."
Schintrino left.
Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Walking Mule; he sounded tired and 
dispirited. Without preamble, he said, "The Hunt's on."
"Rogue Hunt?" The words clogged his throat.
"Yup. It's official. Davis just held a press conference. Shoot on sight. One 
million dollars cash, no questions asked, to whoever brings in the body. And—" 
He stopped.
"What?"
"The detective—"
"Who is this Avis Louder, anyway?"
"I don't know. Honest. I don't. Davis is handling all that on a confidential 
basis. But she forwarded a holo; took it with a tele-setup, she said. It showed 
Greystein eating lunch on Rehma with a man named Milford Hommroummy. Ring a 
bell?"
"I don't believe it," he said. "No. Not—not Greystein. He—he—"
"The computers have the ID cold, McGill. There is no chance whatsoever of any 
kind of mistaken identity. It's Milford Hommroummy. The man The Organization 
assigned to get you."
Chapter V
« ^ »


"Well, thank you." He settled back in his swivel chair. "Considering that my own 
people have done nothing but object, it's most kind of you to support my 
decision. Did you catch my press conference?"
"Yes," said the Voice on the phone. "You were marvelous."
" 'One bad apple…' " He shook his head mournfully. "I had to do it; I really 
did, even if it does impact our productivity negatively. Really, the unchecked 
influence of someone like Greystein can be devastating."
"I respect your ability to make the hard decisions," said the anonymous caller. 
"In this day and age, you are all too rare."
"Well…" He knew it was flattery, but relished it nonetheless. "It is my job, to 
keep Earth linked to the interstellar community."
"And a fine job you do. Especially considering your comparatively low 
remuneration—your salary is less than half of McGill Feighan's, is it not?"
Touched on a sore point, he mumbled an affirmative.
"Public sector officials as competent as yourself should be compensated 
appropriately. When you return home, do lift the pate tin in your refrigerator. 
We left a little something for you. A token of our appreciation, as it were."
"Well, thank you." Perhaps he could visit that restaurant, after all.
"You're quite welcome. Oh, and by the way—do investigate Feighan. Carefully."
Chapter VI
« ^ »


"It's a lie!" He squeezed the telephone receiver. A tendon in his wrist went 
*pop*, then cramped. Groping behind himself for the forcechair, he lowered 
himself into its soft resilience. On the other side of the room, Sam broke off 
his conversation with H'nik and turned to stare. "Walking Mule, Greystein would 
never—"
"The holo says different, McGill."
"Then the holo says wrong. I know him. He's my friend."
Silence ensued, broken only by the clicks and crackles of a patient line. Then 
Walking Mule sighed. "Decide for yourself."
A hologram appeared on the Flop Table in the corner. "Wait a minute." He went 
over and picked it up.
Fifteen centimeters on a side, in full color with good detail, it held two 
miniature Terrans who sat at a wicker table in a treetop restaurant. One was 
Greystein. The other, with the tonsure of dark hair and caterpillar eyebrows and 
machine-smooth planes of his cheeks, was Milford Hommroummy.
Feighan scowled at the two, who smiled at each other. Hommroummy was handing 
Greystein something small and green; it sparkled where light hit its facets full 
on: an emerald. "Walking Mule, this doesn't mean a thing."
"One of the top men in The Organization is paying off your roommate and it 
doesn't mean anything?"
Extending the receiver to arm's length, he gave it a glare that should have 
melted its plastic, then returned it to his ear. "No."
Sam waddled over. "What's wrong?"
"Later," said Feighan abruptly.
"What?" said Walking Mule.
"Not you, I was talking to Sam."
"So answer my question."
"What—about the meaning of this—this frame?" He eased himself into the chair 
again, settling a centimeter as its contours adjusted to his.
"Come on, McGill."
"No, you come on! Let's put you in the scenario. You're sight-seeing on Rehma. 
You can afford a posh restaurant so you go to one. It's crowded. Somebody says, 
'Are you alone?' and you say, 'Yes.' He says, 'Mind if I share your table?' and 
you say, 'No.' Over dinner you talk. He says he's a jewelry salesrep. He digs 
into his valise and says, 'Here, this is what I peddle,' and you say, 'Migod, is 
it real?' and he laughs. A real, deep, straight-from-the-belly laugh. And he 
says, 'Hell, no! We grow them in a lab at L-5. ' You go 'Whew!' and wipe the 
sweat off your forehead. And you don't know—you don't ever know—that somebody's 
in the next tree taking your holo with a tele-setup. And even if you did know, 
you wouldn't care, because you don't know the guy across from you is the guy 
who's spent twenty years trying to kidnap your best friend. You see what I mean, 
Walking Mule? This picture isn't evidence or proof or anything but a hologram of 
one lousy moment in time that could have been accidental or could have been 
staged or could have been any goddam thing—"
"McGill," said the Senior Flinger firmly, "calm down."
"My best friend's got a million bucks on his head and you tell me to calm down?"
Sam tugged his sleeve. "I thought I was your best friend."
He looked down into his ward's unhappiness. "You are. Greystein's my other best 
friend."
Walking Mule said, "What?"
"I'm talking to Sam again."
"Oh…look, McGill, it could be your scenario's the truth—it strikes me as one 
hell of a lot more likely than Davis' theory that Greystein's done himself a 
dirty deal—but there is no way anybody in NAC-HQ will believe it until Greystein 
comes back and defends himself in person."
"Hah!"
"What?"
"First off, I mean just for starters, who is he going to defend himself against, 
huh? An anonymous accuser? A holo?"
"Well, now—"
"And second, just how much defending could he do with scrambled eggs for 
brains?"
"It ain't that bad!"
"Yeah? Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble to smear him. If you think about it, 
you'll realize somebody hired a Flinger to shadow him. So you tell me this: what 
guarantee is there that the 'behavior modification' isn't going to turn him into 
a carrot, accidentally on purpose, if you know what I mean?"
"Hold your horses, son—are you saying somebody here is out to get him?"
"It sure looks that way, doesn't it?"
"McGill…" Walking Mule sounded old and frail; it was clear the strain was 
telling on him. "I see what you're saying, but there is only one way for that 
boy to clear his name. This is his only chance."
"Ah, Jesus Christ!"
"If he turns up, talk him into it, will you? You got my word on this, McGill: if 
he turns himself in to the PsychSection, nobody—but nobody—is going to hurt him. 
I will watch them all like a hawk."
"Yeah, I… if he turns up." Sickness rose in the pit of his stomach. Even a 
moment's more debate with the old Indian would bring on despair. "I'll talk to 
you later." He hung up.
H'nik still stood—squatted? sat?—in the shadows of the far corner; motionless, 
it could have been dormant or eavesdropping. Sam lay sprawled beside Feighan's 
forcechair; his tail thumped a melancholy beat. His snout rubbed circles on the 
carpet. A half-full stein was going flat on the bar. And Greystein's bedroom was 
empty.
"Dammit!"
H'nik rippled its spines; Sam sat up with a jerk.
"I'm sorry," said Feighan. "I didn't mean to disturb you two."
"It is no disturbance," said H'nik. "I understand the agony of soul which you 
are experiencing. Two centuries ago my favorite teacher stood accused of civic 
disobedience and would not reform; we its pupils were forced to assist in the 
ceremonial root-and spine-stripping. It lived less than a month before it was 
forced to tap down—now its bud is my pupil. It is genetically identical to its 
forebear, yet it is not the same. I miss my teacher greatly."
"Ah…" His thoughts spun in spirals then flew off on tangents. He appreciated the 
Actuni's attempts to soothe him, but not its timing. The world had turned 
topsy-turvy: his closest friend, his roommate for over eight years, an 
Organization pawn? True or false, it needed to age, to soften with time, before 
its edge dulled.
If only everyone else did not believe it to be true!
Wait. "Sam."
The Rhanghan lifted his head. "What?"
"You've spent a lot of time around Greystein—did you ever notice, did you ever 
feel, any, ah, malice on his part toward me?"
"What's malice?"
"Did you ever feel him wanting to hurt me?"
Sam crinkled his forehead. "If he'd wanted to, he would have, wouldn't he?"
"No. I mean… do you know what a plot is?"
"Part of a story?"
"No… it's a secret thing, where people get together and decide they're going to 
hurt somebody else at some time in the future, but until that time they pretend 
they like the person and—"
"Oh, yeah, I know what you mean, McGill. No. Greystein never felt that way about 
you."
"Dammit!"
H'nik rubbed the spines below its left "eye."
"Should that not please you?"
"Well, yes, but… I mean… it's good to hear that Greystein wasn't plotting 
against me—not that I thought he was— but I said dammit because what Sam says is 
proof that he wasn't working for The Organization. If he wasn't, he was being 
framed. And…"
"And he is in mortal danger, yes?"
"Yeah, lie is." The chair helped him up. He began to pace, then snapped his 
fingers angrily. There was only one thing he could do: find Greystein himself. 
If he could do that, he could convince him to return to New York and straighten 
the whole mess out. Somehow.
It was the only way.
"Sam."
"What now, McGill?"
"How about helping me look for Greystein?"
"I'm pretty sleepy. It's twelve-thirty in the morning, you know."
"You want somebody else to find him first?"
"But why? I thought he was your other best friend."
"He is!" He clenched his fists. He needed Sam's skills at their most acute, so 
it frustrated him when the child acted, well… childish. "Listen… anybody else 
will kill Greystein for the reward. If we can find him first, and talk to him, 
then maybe—maybe—"
"Can I have some candy?"
"If you have it quickly; then we'll take off."
"Where?"
"Canopus Eighteen—Hideaway—I have a hunch he's basking in the sun right now."
While Sam slithered into the kitchen for his bonus snack, Feighan went to his 
own bedroom. In the doorway he paused, and bit his lip. Then he crossed to the 
chest of drawers that stood against the wall. Opening the bottom drawer, pawing 
aside the mismatched socks and torn shirts he had never gotten around to 
repairing, he retrieved the bag of fifty-millimeter ball bearings.
He hefted it thoughtfully. Once upon a time, in a hotel room on the Moon, he had 
defended himself against Milford Hommroummy and company by using his Talent to 
impart high momentum to pebbles. At two kilometers per second, a pebble acts 
like a bullet. And the Talent permits more accurate aiming than do lands and 
grooves.
He wanted to put the bag back—he wanted to believe that he, of all people, would 
be safe with Greystein—but… the holo. The plague. The "rape". They scared him. 
Wittingly or no, Greystein had done them all—and if he could do that, he could 
threaten Feighan, as well. Shaking his head in true sorrow, he tucked the bag 
into his pocket.
Then he went to find Sam, who was slamming cupboard doors in the kitchen. "You 
ready?"
"Not yet." The Rhanghan chinned himself on the counter edge, planted his front 
feet on its top, and, balancing on his tail, dragged the rest of his body up. He 
opened a cupboard. "You want some fried grasshoppers?"
"You kidding?"
"They're dipped in honey."
Feighan made a face. "They're all yours, kid."
"Gee, thanks, McGill!" Clutching the box, he swung his tail over the edge and 
began to clamber down.
"Save a few, huh?"
"I thought you said you didn't want any."
"I don't, but somehow I don't think it's good for you to eat a whole box of—of 
those things. Not all at once. Take a few, put the rest back."
"Oh, all right." He poured himself a double handful, and replaced the box. "Can 
I ride on your shoulder?"
"Now I know you're kidding."
"Aw, come on, McGill—I'm tired."
"You're too big."
"I don't feel big."
"That's 'cause you're more horizontal than vertical—but there is no way I'm 
going to lug your forty-five kilos around, kid. You've got feet. Twice as many 
as I do, in fact. Use 'em."
It was Sam's turn to make a face. "Okay." He dropped to the floor and pressed up 
against Feighan's right leg. "I'm ready."
"Let's go, then." He concentrated on the black sand beach in the quiet cove, 
concentrated—visualized—felt—knew—
*PING*
The gale pelted them with rain like ice; it sucked the breath from their lungs 
and bent Feighan backward with its force. Forearm over his eyes, he peered into 
the storm. He could see less than five meters. To his right thudded the surf, 
its spray salting the rain. Squinting, he tried to spot the glow of Greystein's 
energy tunic. All was a haze.
Sam tugged at Feighan's jacket. "He's about fifty meters away, McGill." He had 
to shout it. "Behind that big rock."
Leaning into the wind, they slogged through the wet sand. Sam had to lead them; 
Feighan could not see the boulder until they were almost upon it. He doubted he 
could have found it on his own.
Greystein huddled in the outcropping's lee. Though wet and bedraggled, he 
retained his insouciance. "Welcome to Hideaway!" He cupped his hands around his 
mouth to make a megaphone of them. "You come to drag me home?"
Feighan squatted and brought his face close to his roommate's. "No! I want to 
talk you home."
"What?"
He leaned closer yet. Their noses almost bumped, but the wind still whisked away 
one word in three. "I want to talk you home."
"No way! I'm not having my brain molded."
"Come on, Greystein, don't make it any rougher on yourself."
"I'm NOT going back." His tunic flared a reflection of his defiance.
"Jesus! You planning on spending the rest of your life on the run?"
"If I have to."
He stared into Greystein's pallor. The rain streamed down his neck; it soaked 
through his underwear. Every time he wiggled his toes they squished. He shivered 
with cold—and with fear. "Come on."
"No!"
"But they've Rogued you! Anybody can shoot you and get paid for it."
"So what?"
"For Christ's sakes, Greystein—"
"No!"
He wanted to grab his friend by the shoulders and shake him till he came to his 
senses. He had crossed half the galaxy to help Greystein save his own life, but 
Greystein seemed intent on throwing it away. It angered him. And it goaded him 
into saying, "What are you going to do, run to your buddy Milford Hommroummy?"
"What?"
"I said, you going to hide behind Hommroummy's skirts?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He wiped the water out of his 
eyebrows.
Feighan patted his pocket. Damn, left it at home. "Wait here with Sam."
*PING*
He trailed wet sand from the Flop Table to the end table by his chair, where he 
had left the holocube. After pressing the button to test the batteries, he—
*PING*
—returned to the beach. "Look at this." He pushed the cube close to Greystein's 
face and turned it on. "The detective brought this to Davis. The NAC is saying 
you work for The Organization."
Greystein's dark eyes widened. "Tha—that's Milford Hommroummy ?"
"Yeah."
He took the cube from Feighan and scowled into its leafy spaciousness. "The same 
guy who's been trying to snatch you?"
"You recognize him, huh?"
"Holy shit." He sagged back against the boulder, apparently oblivious to the 
water coursing down its face. "Jesus, McGill, I didn't know."
He had defended Greystein to Walking Mule, but now he had to know the truth. 
"What happened? Why were you together?"
Greystein's tired head move might have been a shrug. "I went out to Rehma 
between shifts one day—I was supposed to meet a friend in that restaurant 
there—she never showed up. The guy you say is Hommroummy did; he came over with 
a message for her. He introduced himself as her uncle." His eyes unfocused 
slightly; he seemed to be watching something over Feighan's right shoulder.
It was enough to make Feighan want to look in that direction, too—but he could 
let Sam worry about that.
"Anyway," said Greystein, "he says his niece feels bad about standing me up, and 
he's supposed to buy me lunch to make up for it. Okay, fine. I never argue with 
people who want to buy me lunch." A flash of the old Greystein emerged with the 
words: "There aren't enough folks around like that; it doesn't pay to discourage 
them."
"So what's he doing giving you an emerald?"
"It was a bribe."
Feighan swallowed hard. "For what?"
Greystein tilted his head back and let the rain splash his eyelids. "For the 
obvious—a bit of unauthorized Flinging."
"Why?"
"He had two or three tonnes of artwork to go from Rehma to, uh… Edbarg, I think. 
There was a six-month waiting list at the local Flinger Building; he said he 
couldn't wait because he'd already paid to rent an exhibition hall on Edbarg, 
and if he didn't have the paintings by the time the exhibit was supposed to 
open, he'd be indicted for some kind of fraud or something…" Greystein leaned 
forward, set the cube down, and spread his hands. "I didn't know, McGill. The 
Network's crazy; I believed the guy. So when he offered me the emerald for an 
hour's work—" This time he shrugged with his shoulders.
"Let's go back, Greystein. Tell all this to—"
"No."
"Jesus, man! Would you—"
"No!" He scrambled to his feet. "I'm not going back."
Feighan stood, too. Squatting had stiffened his knees; they wobbled. "Please."
"No."
"For me and Sam."
"No."
"Listen, what have you got to lose?"
"My soul!"
He made a mistake: he reached for Greystein's arm.
Greystein backed up against the boulder. "I thought you were my friend."
Feighan opened his mind, his Talent—and grabbed Sam's hand.
Greystein vanished.
But Feighan was ready. When the other's Talent tugged at him, he unleashed his 
own. Promptly unmooring him from that point in space, it hooked onto Greystein's 
for a tow across the light years.
The darkness hurt, as always, but it frightened Feighan, too, because he no 
longer knew who Greystein was. A fugitive, yes, but with what destination: life, 
or death? If he had collapsed as completely as his behavior suggested, he could 
be trying to commit suicide—and would take Feighan and Sam with him.
A mechanism he could not describe sensed Greystein's change of momentum. It was 
like knowing without seeing whether it is light or dark. He altered his own 
inertia to match Greystein's.
They materialized. The room held a bed and a chest of drawers which Greystein 
was already jerking open. Feighan looked around, frowned, then smiled as he 
oriented himself: they were home.
"Thank God you changed your mind."
Greystein stiffened. He spun. "You! You—" He disappeared.
Feighan had almost but not quite relaxed his guard. He followed, hand in scaled 
hand with Sam.
Again the darkness and the tearing and the infinity that was no time at all. 
Again the shift in momentum, slighter this time, a banked curve on a high-speed 
track.
But now he sensed something in his way, something standing where he and Sam 
would materialize. For a moment he panicked. If he were to appear in a place 
that was already occupied, the explosion would waste a metropolis.
Then he relaxed. If Greystein fled, he wanted to live, not die. He would not 
risk such a blast.
A burst of light blinded him: sunlight. He drew a breath of hot, humid air. With 
a blink and a gasp, he recognized the harbor and the Peak on the other side of 
it. Hong Kong. Or that part of it called Tsimtsatsui, the most densely populated 
neighborhood in the world.
The crowds had already swallowed Greystein.
"Dammit."
Swarms of brightly colored sports shirts pushed past without a glance.
"That way, McGill." Sam pointed up Nathan Road. "Around the corner."
He was tired. Two Flings in less than five minutes, even with Greystein doing 
most of the work, had sapped his strength. But he caught his breath because he 
had to, and fought his way through the crowds.
Around the corner, a panting Greystein leaned against a fruit vendor's stall. 
His eyes were closed. The sun made his cheeks look ghostly pale.
Feighan approached him. "Greystein—"
*PING*
In the interstitial darkness Feighan bellowed out his anger and frustration. 
Flinging exhausted one when done properly; repeatedly to teleport without enough 
rest between each move invited collapse.
But he had to do it, and he had good reasons.
If he let Greystein escape, anybody with a gun and greed could collect one 
million dollars simply by pulling a trigger.
And no matter what Greystein said, he was not acting normally. He needed 
therapy—fast.
And sooner or later, the bureaucrats of the North American Consortium would 
begin to wonder about Greystein's immunity to the behavior modification fields 
emitted by the computer that had monitored the room he and Greystein had shared 
back at the Academy.
And he, McGill Feighan, feared brainwashing every bit as much as Greystein did.
So he bellowed, and adjusted his angular momentum as soon as his roommate did, 
and materialized simultaneously with him on the shoulder of a road.
The forest beyond the gravel was yellow.
The sun in the sky was red.
The sky, at least, was blue.
Where the hell are we? he thought in desperation, afraid even to breathe lest 
the atmosphere be poisonous. He clamped his hand over Sam's muzzle; the Rhanghan 
raked him with his claws.
Greystein turned. "You bastard!" Spinning, he ran.
Feighan ached to lie down and sleep. Three Flings in six minutes. Not fair. He 
could not keep it up. But he forced his legs to pump, because Greystein was 
clearly trying to open such a distance between them that when he teleported out, 
Feighan would not be able to follow.
Gasping, he ran; the air burned his lungs but seemed to have no other effect on 
him. Silly—he wouldn't take us someplace he couldn't survive.
The pavement hurt his feet, his shins. Strange sounds cluttered out of the 
forest. Overhead wheeled something with a wingspan much too large. He hoped it 
was a scavenger, rather than a carnivore.
Greystein looked over his shoulder. "Damn"—breath— "you"—breath—"Feighan
"Come"—breath—"home !"
"No!" His arms churned as if they could give him extra speed. His leather soles 
slapped the roadbed. He kept looking back, looking to see if Feighan had fallen 
far enough behind.
But Feighan was in better shape. If he had not exercised during the past several 
years, neither had he dissipated himself. Whereas Greystein drank too much, 
slept too little, and partied too hard.
His breath came short and sharp, but he was gaining. A few meters more. A flying 
tackle. Bring the other down and—
It was then that he realized that he would take Greystein back. No matter what.
Greystein, just out of arm's reach, glanced back, and—
*PING*
Feighan twisted frantically as he materialized in midair, nose to snout with a 
boggled Rii—edsch. He was in an elevator shaft, falling. Panic raced his heart—
Sam vomited on his pants, then said miserably, "I'm sorry, McGill. When I saw 
how far up we were, I just couldn't help it."
"That's okay, kid."
"Where are we?"
"The Hub." The world-city of Flinger Network Control Headquarters was New York 
cubed. Buildings shot three klicks up and five down; more people lived in one of 
them than in all of Iowa. "Where's Greystein?"
Sam pointed below their feet. "He's moving faster than we are, though."
The anti-grav gripped them so firmly that Feighan could not understand how the 
other could fall more rapidly—then it came to him. Greystein was giving himself 
little bursts of momentum—inertia that the anti-grav field quickly canceled, but 
which did widen the gap between himself and his pursuers.
Feighan smiled grimly. Pulling Sam closer, he unslung his Talent and had it add 
a few meters per second to their velocity. They jumped ahead.
Greystein, floating upside down so he could watch them, widened his eyes. He 
porpoised, then spurted for/downward into an unoccupied stretch of shaft.
Feighan teleported to within half a meter of him.
He promptly disappeared.
Feighan and Sam followed: to a spot a kilometer above New York Harbor, where the 
winds whistled crisp and the running lights of tramp schooners flickered on 
aluminized sails far below. Gulls scattered as the three appeared with a slight 
upward velocity that carried them fractionally higher, then wilted under 
gravity's demand. They fell. And fell. And—
Sam shrieked. Feighan hugged him. The water rushed up at them; to hit it would 
be like smashing into a brick wall. Two meters ahead of him, Greystein tucked in 
his arms and legs and sped up.
Feighan did the same. A four-meter gap, now. And the harbor's choppy waters 
clear and swelling in the moonlight.
He could put them into their penthouse easily, or would be able to if he were 
awake, but even with the updraft forcing his eyelids apart they kept sliding 
closed, and he yawned massively, and—
*PING*
The stars chilled him with their clarity, their numbers, their unblinkingness. 
He screamed at once because Greystein had taken them to vacuum. He squeezed 
Sam's ribcage so hard that bones cracked, but the kid had to scream, too, to 
empty his lungs so he would not explode like an overblown balloon. His eyeballs 
were drying. Steam rose from his skin and vanished at once. Greystein hung a 
meter away, watching them steadily while the small veins of his face and nose 
ruptured. Feighan thought, I ought to go now but if I do—
*PING*
And the rain whipped them with cold fury.
Whimpering, Sam fell to the black sand.
Feighan breathed, raised his eyes to the clouds, and thanked God.
Greystein looked a wreck, but he slogged through the clinging sand to the strip 
of rocks that ran from the water to the dunes behind the beach.
Feighan followed. He almost dropped from exhaustion, but he had come too far to 
give up the chase.
Sam cried, "McGill!"
He kept going.
The Rhanghan dragged himself after them.
Falling to his knees when he reached the rocks, Greystein scrabbled among them. 
He raised his head. Triumph gleamed in his eyes. "Get back!"
"What?"
The wind softened. Greystein held out his hands. They were full of pebbles. "You 
remember you taught me this?"
A pebble disappeared from his hand, and thudded gently against Feighan's chest. 
He jumped back in alarm—then understood what Greystein had done. He slipped his 
own hand into his pocket. "Careful."
"Go home, McGill."
"Only with you."
"I won't go." Another pebble winked out of existence on his palm, and reappeared 
a centimeter in front of Feighan. This had more momentum. It jabbed at his 
flesh, almost breaking the skin.
"Hey!"
"Go home."
"No. Not unless you come, too."
Sam tugged his left hand. "McGill, he's going to hurt you."
"Listen to the lizard, Feighan. Get out of here before— before I do something I 
don't want to do."
"Give it up, Greystein. Come on home."
This pebble knocked him on his ass. When he moved, rib bones grated.
"The next one comes fast enough to kill, Feighan. Get out of here!"
Sam grabbed Feighan with his six-fingered hands. "Stop it! He will kill you! 
What's wrong with him? Why are you doing it? Stop it! Stop it!"
"Please, Greystein, don't make me—" He shrieked. The pebble had burned right 
through his upper arm.
He had never felt so close to death. He looked up. The maddened, vacuum-reddened 
eyes of his closest friend focused on the pebbles, then shifted to him. Blood 
ran down his own arm. His body ached and he was angrier than he had been in 
years. Scooping a ball bearing out of his pocket, he said, "Don't."
A pebble smacked through his upper left arm. He groaned, but got to his feet, 
still holding the shiny ball bearing. And staggered forward.
Greystein's tears mingled with the rain. "I don't want to! I don't want to but I 
will!"
Between them, Sam ran from one to the other, his tail whipping, his hands 
clutching desperately at theirs. "Don't! Stop! Oh, please you two, why, please! 
Stop!"
Feighan's teeth chattered. "Put it down." He stood alone on an alien beach with 
a child he had sworn to guard, and a crazed stranger who had been his friend. He 
stood there alone. If he did not act, he would die.
Greystein bent his head to study the pebbles. He had two left.
"McGill!" screamed Sam.
Feighan moved. The pebble seared his neck. He choked. Pain filled his mouth and 
nose and eyes and ears with red metal fog—
"McGill! McGill!"
Greystein held the last pebble between the index finger and thumb of both hands. 
He lifted his arms above his head, a warped priest raising the sacrament of 
death—
"No," whispered Feighan, but—
Greystein triggered his Talent. And grinned.
Time slowed. Feighan's Talent felt the other ready his. Ignoring Feighan's 
conscious mind, it spoke directly to his subconscious—which did not even think 
before saying, "Survive! Kill!"
It did.
Bearings burst out of their bag, charring Feighan's pants. A swarm of angry 
silver bees, they sped for Greystein at ten kilometers/second. Gone in a flash, 
they left a hole through his chest where his heart had been. The pebble rolled 
out of his fingers.
Feighan limped over to kneel in the sand. Wind tore at his hair. He eased the 
corpse onto its back and let the rain and his own tears wash its face. Head 
bowed, he groped for words he had not spoken in years: "Our Father…"
Then he lifted his friend, though the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he 
cradled him in his arms. "Come here, Sam."
The Rhanghan said, "Why—"
"I had to."
"I know that—and so did he. Why didn't he just come back? Why did he make you do 
it?"
Feighan bit his lip. "I don't know." Greystein dead was heavier than he had 
looked alive; Feighan's arms hurt. "We've got to go."
"Okay." Sam came over to him.
*PING*
NAC Director Nathaniel Davis sat behind a desk spun of glass and steel; it 
reflected the underside of his jowls and the front of his powder-blue suit. He 
was talking to Gina Maccari. They both looked up in surprise.
"McGill!" said Maccari. "Wha—" She saw Greystein, and sat down heavily.
Feighan's feet sank into thick grey carpet as he crossed the room. It pleased 
him to drip water and sand and blood all over that rug. He lay the corpse across 
Davis' desk. "There. You wanted him dead? You've got him dead. Bastard."
Davis leaned back, his eyes unreadable.
Maccari said, "You're bleeding."
"Tell the Director that his quarry is dead."
She leaned forward, head cocked. Eyes closed, she touched Greystein's cheek. 
Then she straightened. "There's no brain activity at all, Mr. Davis." She did 
not look at him.
The Director nodded. "We'll credit the reward to your account, Feighan."
A reflex Fling of anger gave the Director one meter/second's momentum; it sent 
him sprawling across the carpet. "You're a pig, Davis." Again he called on the 
Talent. Shutting his eyes, he concentrated on the corpse—visualized intolerable 
radiance torn like taffy by fields of magnetism—felt—knew—
*PING*
Davis said, "Where'd he go?" and gestured to the empty desk.
"The sun," said Maccari in a murmur. "The Flinger's Burial."
"Come on, Sam."
*PING*
The doctor on duty at the Emergency Room in the Building's Infirmary was chatty 
and curious, but when Sam showed his teeth, he patched Feighan up quickly, 
efficiently—and silently.
*PING*
They got down from the Flop Table slowly. Sam avoided Feighan's eye. He said, 
"I'm going to take a shower and go to bed, okay?"
He understood. "Sure. I'll see you in the morning, huh?"
"Uh-huh." He waddled away, tail dragging.
As Feighan made his way to the bar, H'nik scuttled forward. Oh my God! he 
thought. The last thing I need is—
"You grieve deeply for him."
"Yeah."
"Your friend Walking Mule visited earlier, and left with me a message for 
transmission to you: "There was no detective. Maccari provided the facts. Davis 
provided the holo himself.' He told me to tell you that when you were alone."
Drink in hand, he stood as if frozen. Maccari provided the facts? Gina helped 
destroy Greystein?
Just then Oscar chimed. The printout chattered. Torn off, the hardcopy bore the 
return address of the Office of the Director, North American Consortium. It 
read: "McGill Feighan must report for behavior modification tomorrow morning at 
9:00 a.m."
Chapter VII
« ^ »


Davis was still simmering—outright assault!— when the phone rang. His hand 
trembled as he picked up the receiver. "Yes?"
"Congratulations again! I never thought you would dare to challenge 
Feighan—since your Board is so pleased with his ratings."
"He attacked me!" In his voice ran an undercurrent of fear that he would not 
admit even to himself: Feighan had just looked at him.
"I had mentioned that he would bear investigation."
"I'm still on shaky ground, though."
"Then you might consider this: Greystein was an electronic genius. It is most 
probable that he interfered with the behavior modification field generated by 
the room computer at the Flinger Academy dormitory. It goes without saying that 
Feighan could thus have escaped indoctrination, as well."
He slapped his desktop. "That would clinch it! But how do I prove it?"
"Come, now. As you did with Greystein—only this time, do not use the Maccari 
woman. She is too deeply involved with Feighan. Your Board of Directors might 
not be enthusiastic, but I am certain that they will not stand in your way. In 
fact, I can almost guarantee it."
He nodded. Elegant, effective. "Thank you." He smiled slightly.
"You're entirely welcome. One down; one to go. Oh, and do look under that paté 
tin—again."
Chapter VIII
« ^ »


He stayed on the terrace till the dull pink of dawn seeped into the sky. The 
plastic lawn chair bit his thighs and cramped his elbows; the drinks numbed him, 
but no more. The cold wind ricocheted from his skin, never penetrating. Feet on 
the railing and cheeks wet, he tried very hard to understand why Davis had 
signed Greystein's death warrant—and why Maccari had drawn it up.
H'nik kept vigil with him. Roots sunk into the redwood tub, the monk offered the 
solace of an anchor through the long dark night. It broke silence only when 
Feighan did, and then only if Feighan asked it to.
By daybreak he had regained his composure, if not his strength. He stood, blew 
his nose, and stretched the stiffness from his body. "I have to go."
"Do you visit your Director?"
He shook his head.
"You are still full of rage."
He snorted.
"The sound signifies agreement?"
"It means, 'Yeah, so what else is new?' "
"You will control your anger?"
"If you mean will I do something stupid, I won't. I don't plan to hurt anybody, 
just get some answers."
"Be aware that even the most innocuous of questions can branch time in a 
different direction."
He raised his eyebrows. "Does that mean something, or does it just sound good?"
"We live in presents nourished by the roots of the past—be careful of where you 
spread your roots today, because of what they might nourish in the future."
"Yeah, right. Listen, I've got to go. I'll be back."
*PING*
The office was small, more a cubbyhole than a real room. Gold speckled its floor 
of synthetic tiles; years of careless heels stippled it. Three fluorescents 
almost compensated for the lack of windows. The holocube built into the rear 
wall showed a desert scene in which a burro grazed on a patch of prickly pears, 
its shadow cut sharply by the burning sun halfway up the sky. Maccari slumped 
over her desk, head pillowed on her crossed arms.
Feighan jogged her elbow. "Wake up."
She sniffed, and lifted her head. Her eyes were red. She sniffed again. "I—"
"You fingered Greystein."
"No, I—have a seat, okay?" She pointed to a tubular plastal chair.
Sitting would be the wrong move for too many reasons. "Why'd you do it?"
"Look, I was just doing my job."
"You used to say you wouldn't probe somebody without his permission. You said 
anything else was immoral."
"I didn't probe Greystein! And it wasn't my idea, anyway."
"You were just an innocent eavesdropper, huh?"
"Yes—no—I don't know, I had to. Davis ordered me to. But Greystein didn't know. 
I was in the next room, listening through a headset. Davis asked the questions; 
all I did was Mind the answers."
"So how did you get the truth without probing?"
An expression half-pained, half-embarrassed, flitted across her broad face. "He 
was in a bad way—all the true answers were at the top of his mind—I didn't have 
to probe! Davis'd ask a question, Greystein would lie but think the truth, and 
he'd think it so loudly, so clearly, that it was like he was talking to me. I 
never had to go inside, not once. I just wrote down the real answers and gave 
them to Davis."
He looked down at her. The strands of her black hair, limp and greasy, told how 
many times she had ran her fingers through it during the preceding hours. Coffee 
stained the right sleeve of her wrinkled white blouse; the splotch of pale brown 
reached nearly to her elbow. Puffiness cupped her bloodshot eyes. He wanted to 
believe her. "You know Davis is saying that Greystein worked for The 
Organization?"
"What?" She sat up straight and startled.
"Yeah, he's got a holo of Greystein and Hommroummy. Before—before, Greystein 
told me about it—said it was a phony. Did Davis ask him about The Organization, 
or Hommroummy, or—"
"Yes!" She leaned forward, dismay displacing her fatigue. "I forget the exact 
wording of the question—it was something like 'Are you now or have you ever been 
in the pay of The Organization or any other crime syndicate?'—but Greystein said 
no, and damn him anyway, McGill, that was the only true thing he said all day."
"You told Davis that?"
"Of course!" Her hands curled into fists; her jaw jutted forward. "You think I 
liked it? Greystein needed therapy, not—" She swept her arm at the holo's desert 
sun. "I told Davis that whatever else Greystein was doing, he wasn't taking any 
money from The Organization."
He sucked in his breath, stunned by necessity. "Then Davis must have framed him! 
But why?"
"He couldn't have! Everything else was true… maybe he just got carried away?" 
Her head sagged. "I don't know. I didn't know he said that. All I knew was that 
he'd declared him Rogue."
"Were you there when he signed the declaration?"
"No. No. If I had been, I'd have… I don't know, McGill, I would have said 
something! I'd have tried to stop him, but… but I didn't know until it was too 
late."
"Ah, Jesus!" Davis had lied all around, and, in the lying, had soiled the North 
American Consortium. But why? he thought, while his anger built to a seething 
boil. Why did he want Greystein dead? He was furious at Davis, and she, Davis' 
aide, was close to hand. He wanted to turn his rage on her as Davis' surrogate, 
vent it like a building cleaner screeches steam on dirty bricks, but he clamped 
his jaws tight. Yes, she had played a part in Greystein's flight, and yes, that 
flight had led Greystein to his death, but she was too obviously innocent. 
Blasting her would hardly wash away Davis' sin—or his own guilt. He scowled. 
"When you were Minding Greystein, were you listening to Davis, too?"
"Well, of cour— oh. I see. No. Not directly, I mean. In a situation like that, 
you always hear a little off to the side of your head, you can't ignore it, but 
I was concentrating on Greystein. He was coming through very loud and Davis…" 
She shrugged. "Davis is quiet all the time, anyway. Like he's not even there."
"I sort of wonder if he is." He reached into his pocket for Oscar's printout. 
"Here."
"What is it?"
He smoothed it out for her. "Read it."
She did. Her eyes widened. "McGill! He—you—"
"Did you know about this?"
"Of course not!" Dropping it, she looked at her hands as if it might have 
contaminated them.
"I've talked to Davis a few times—have you been Minding me for him, too?"
"McGill!" She pushed back and away, her eyes round and moist and red. "How could 
you think—"
"Well, you did it to my best friend without telling either of us, didn't you? 
'Just following orders,' you said, didn't you?"
"But that—"
"Aah." He waved a hand. "I know it's not your fault. I'm just… I'm not in good 
shape, okay? And getting that—" He pointed to the printout. "—getting that made 
everything worse. Look, you know Davis—"
"Not really."
"Well, you've worked with him often enough, you—"
"That's what I tried to tell you before. He's practically inaudible."
"But you—" Her meaning finally penetrated his confusion of emotions and 
suspicions. He cocked his head to stare at her. "Isn't that rare?"
"Not really." With a sigh, she brushed a strand of hair over her ear. "I mean, 
it's not something you expect to find, so it's not common, but a lot of people 
are quiet upstairs."
Snakes usually are, he thought.
She raised an eyebrow. "I heard that, McGill."
"I wanted you to."
"Well, you're wrong. There's no creepy-crawliness to it at all! Usually, you 
brush up against it, you feel like somebody's just popped you a shot of 
serenity. The people you can hear a mile away are the people in turmoil, 
grinding like gears a klick high." She made a sound of sadness, of sympathy. 
"There's an awful lot of them—a society this complex just churns them out—and my 
God, they're so noisy they drown out the ones like Davis. You just don't hear 
somebody who's at peace with himself."
"I don't know how the hell he can be."
"I imagine," she said mildly, a remembering look on her face, "that he thinks 
what he's doing is right."
He wanted to deny her balanced evaluation, but only hours earlier would have 
agreed with it himself. Davis had never shown anything to suggest that he was 
doing other than his best—by his own lights. Yet it disappointed—even hurt— 
Feighan that she did not see the man's crime as clearly as he did. "I've got to 
go."
Her glance dropped to the printout. "Are you—"
"No way."
She winced at his intensity. "But—"
"I'll call you later." He paused. "Look, I don't blame you. Really." He bent 
down swiftly and kissed her cheek. "I'll let you know what happens."
"You do that." Her arms enveloped his neck in a warm, strong hug. "You matter to 
me, McGill Feighan."
"That makes it mutual, then." He stepped back, closed his eyes, and—
*PING*
—and the Director's soft grey carpet gave way beneath his feet. Davis sat behind 
the steel-and-glass desk, eyes closed, hands folded across his belly. His face 
was pale and drawn; a pulse throbbed lightly in the folds of his neck. His grey 
suit bore the wrinkles of an anxious night. A star of mustard burst across its 
left lapel.
Feighan stalked up the desk, and rapped on its glass top.
Davis jumped; his chair squeaked. Then he relaxed. "Oh, McGill."
"Uh-huh."
Davis rubbed his eyes and yawned. "What can I do for you this morning?"
"Rescind this stupid order." He slid the printout across the expanse of glass.
Davis pulled it closer. His face fell. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
"What do you mean, impossible? You issued it, you cancel it."
Davis touched the knot of his tie. Then he leaned back, and measured Feighan 
with his eyes. They were grey, sympathetic, and a little bit hollow, almost 
haunted. "We have reviewed the records. The behavior modification unit in your 
dormitory room at the Flinger Academy was, shall we say, altered? We suspect it 
to have been the handiwork of your late roommate, of course; his propensity for 
electronic wizardry is well-known to the North American Consortium. Which is to 
say that we attach no blame for it to you, so of course disciplinary action is 
not even being considered." He smiled shyly.
"I came to get this order canceled," said Feighan, barely controlling his anger, 
"not to listen to a speech. Now—"
Davis held up a hand. "McGill, I am sorry, but I can't. You alone, of all living 
Terran Flingers, have never been satisfactorily indoctrinated. Until such time 
as you have been—"
"When hell freezes over!"
Davis shifted his weight forward, clasped his hands, and rested them on the 
desk. "McGill, you're distraught. Greystein's death has hit you too hard. I 
understand that; I've been there. I also understand that you are not thinking 
clearly. If you will allow me, I'll explain—"
"Hold on a minute. You want to brainwash me—"
"Indoctrinate, McGill. Orientate."
"Brainwash. And you want to do it because you claim it hasn't been done to me 
before. But tell me this: have you ever had a complaint about me? Have I ever 
screwed up on the job?"
Davis gave him a gentle but pained smile. "As a matter of fact, just the other 
day a Professor van der Voort filed a formal complaint against you."
"Who the hell is he?"
"She, and she—"
"Wait a minute. She smokes a pipe?"
"Now that you mention it, yes, she does."
Feighan relaxed. "All right. You've got tapes of it. Play 'em. See what happened 
and why. And then tell me I screwed up."
"I already have, McGill. You were within your authority to act in the manner you 
did. Nonetheless, your language was intemperate, your behavior antagonistic, and 
the incident a bad reflection on the image of the North American Consortium. It 
was one of the factors leading to the conclusion that you had not been 
indoctrinated properly."
"Now, look—"
"No, McGill. You were ordered to report to the Psychiatric Section at 9:00 a.m." 
He touched the arm of his chair. Blue numerals appeared in the glass of the 
desktop. "You have ten minutes."
"No way."
"I am sorry, but I hereby order you to report—at once."
"You can order all you want, fat-face, but I'm not going, and that's final."
Dismay and hurt shook Davis' jowls. "Your attitude is distressing—and ultimately 
harmful to yourself, as I'm sure you would see with just a bit of reflection."
"Reflection?" Resting his knuckles on the desk, he stared into those call grey 
eyes. "When I look in the mirror I want to see myself, not a puppet with my 
face."
"McGill, you know you're exaggerating."
"No." He slapped the desktop. "No way I exaggerate." He pushed his face to 
within a centimeter of Davis'. The man's breath had no odor at all. "See, if I 
could trust you, it would be an exaggeration. But I can't trust you because you 
lie."
Now the eyes chilled, but the voice stayed calm and soft. "About what do I lie?"
"About Greystein and The Organization, for one."
"Oh?"
"You asked Greystein if he had any links to the Organization—he told you he 
didn't—and your own Staff Telepath told you he was telling the truth. But you 
went ahead and smeared him anyway."
"That's dangerously close to slander, McGill."
"Of whom? You? No, there's no danger of my slandering you. It's dangerous for 
you, fat-face, yes, because when the FNC finds out you lied to frame a Flinger, 
they won't like it. They'll come down on you and you'll lose this cushy job, 
maybe even have to trade your fancy office for a cinderblock cell in the pen."
"I had holographic evidence—"
"Did you, now? And where did it come from?"
Davis pushed himself to his feet. "I am a busy man. I do not have to suffer 
through your ravings. You will leave at once, and report to the Psychiatric 
Section."
"No."
A flush rose into the Director's cheeks. His nostrils flared. Fingering the 
pressure pad on the desk that would summon guards when pushed, he said, "It is 
required that all Flingers submit to behavior modification, and you—"
"I will not."
"To remain a Flinger you must!"
"Then I quit."
Blinking, Davis recoiled as though from a slap. "Pardon?"
"I quit. I hereby resign, effective immediately. I'm not a Flinger any more, so 
I don't have to put up with being brainwashed. Got that? Or do you need it in 
writing, in one-syllable words?"
"I—" He blinked again, and lowered himself into his chair. It creaked. "I, 
er…I'm afraid I don't know what to say. In all the history of the Consortium no 
one has ever resigned. Retired, yes, voluntarily or otherwise, but you—" His 
gaze ran up and down Feighan's body. "You're nowhere near retirement age."
"Well, I just hit it."
"McGill, you can't!"
"Watch me." With a smile, he straightened up. The directness of it exhilarated 
him; it was such a simple solution that he wondered why he had not come to it 
earlier. "And that's that, so—" He threw the Director a mock salute, and—
*PING*
—and stepped down from the Flop Table of his living room. Morning sun streamed 
through the windows; outside, still planted in the redwood tub, H'nik chatted 
with a basking Sam.
Feighan yawned. "Order, Oscar: Pour one cup coffee, cream three sugars; do it 
now."
"Yes, sir."
By the time he had crossed to the bar and lifted the panel of the dispenser, 
rich steam rose from the full cup. He took a sip, chuckled, then frowned as his 
Talent, barely called upon as yet, reminded him that it had to be used. I forgot 
about the pressure—how am I going to bleed it off if I'm not Flinging? And come 
to that, what am I going to do with all this free time?
Out on the terrace, Sam laughed all high and wheezy. Feighan nodded. Setting the 
cup down to cool, he walked out to join his friends.
Sam said, "Hi, McGill."
"Hiya, Sam. Good morning, H'nik." He turned the plastic lawn chair so it faced 
the sun, and sat down with a grunt. "A beautiful morning, isn't it?"
"Yeah! And once H'nik's got enough energy up, I'm going to take it to Central 
Park. It says it's heard about it all over the place, and wants to test it."
The Actuni's lower bristles rustled. "Ah, did I mispronounce the word? I meant 
'taste,' of course. It promises to be most interesting. And you, McGill Feighan, 
will you join us?"
"He's got to work," said Sam, before Feighan could speak for himself.
"Not any more, Sam. And yes, H'nik, I'll be honored to join you."
"What do you mean, not any more?" The Rhanghan twisted around to stare at his 
guardian; his tail swept the concrete of the terrace.
"I resigned."
H'nik scraped out: "Do you branch tropicly or has the tip bud been lost?"
Mouth open, he tried to decipher that. "Uh—"
"I do apologize, McGill Feighan. I spoke in my idiom, not yours. What I meant by 
it was that the course of your life has been altered. Has it changed direction 
because something draws you away from what you have been doing, or because 
something has made continuation impossible?"
"Oh. I see." The sun in its deep blue sky cheered him, but burned off none of 
his fatigue. He stroked his jaw; the stubble rasped. "It was either quit, or get 
my head scrubbed."
"You refer to the indoctrination?"
"Uh-huh. And I won't be brainwashed, either."
"I don't understand," said Sam. "You make me take baths all the time."
Extending a hand, he scratched his ward on the skullbone. Sam wriggled about. "A 
little to the left, that's it, that's it."
"Brainwashing's not quite the same as taking a bath, Sam."
"Why not? You make me wash behind my ears."
"Because brainwashing is when you do things to a person's mind to make that 
person believe something different—when you change that person's character, or 
personality."
"Ah," said H'nik, "now I begin to comprehend your reluctance."
"Oh?"
"The problem lay with a mistranslation of the word 'indoctrinate. ' We had 
translated it as—forgive me, you do not speak our language. We had thought it 
synonymous with the concept of ensuring that one fulfills its social 
responsibilities; we had not realized it had to do with altering one's beliefs."
One hundred twenty-four stories below, Manhattan murmured to itself, raising its 
voice only to demand passage for an emergency vehicle. The sun's warmth soaked 
into his face and arms, lulling his body, dulling his mind. Too lethargic to 
explain that the Actuni had translated 'indoctrinate' properly but too narrowly, 
he said instead, "Were you serious about wanting to interview me eight hours a 
day for a year or so?"
The monk's long spine twitched. "Quite. Would you consent?".
"Now that I have some free time, yes. But… I'd like to make it conditional. 
You've been researching the Far Being Retzglaran for a long time, and you have 
to know a lot that I've never heard of, and if we could work something out—"
"It would be a privilege for me to share my knowledge with you."
"Then I would be delighted to tell you what I know." He yawned. "Once I wake up. 
But I warn you, I don't know all that much."
"A researcher does not look for all its facts in one location, McGill Feighan."
"That's good, because you won't find all of them here…" Sun on his face, he 
could barely keep his eyes open.
"Will you come to Actu?"
He groaned.
Sam said, "That'd be neat! You want to go, McGill?"
"Not really… no offense, H'nik, but I'd rather not spend a year on Actu. I seem 
to recall you have things like volcanoes and earthquakes and really foul air…"
"I understand completely," said the monk. "I have devoted most of my life to my 
quest; I can spend a year of it on your planet."
"Anything you need, just say so. Soil, water, fertilizer—what was that kind you 
wanted? 8-10-20 or something?"
"5-10-5, McGill," said Sam. "Don't you remember anything?"
"Actually, Sam, I remember too much… anything you want, H'nik. And listen, if 
you'd like to make a few trips home while you're interviewing me, that's no 
problem, either—even if I have resigned from the North American Consortium, I 
still have my Talent…" The adrenalin that had kept him awake and aware was 
evaporating in the heat. He wondered if the NAC would call him in for removal of 
the device that generated his energy tunic… and decided, sleepily, that it would 
not, because… his eyes closed.
They scrunched themselves against the glare. It was hot enough to melt him into 
a greasy puddle, like butter left on a stove. That wind in his ears whistled 
straight from a blast furnace. The light increased in brilliance until it 
threatened to burn away his eyelids.
"Well, well, well," said a too-familiar voice. "If it isn't McGill, my young 
daffodil, finding out how much fun it is to be in the hot seat."
Moaning, he rolled his head so he would not have to look. "No."
"But yes! So tell us, how does it feel to kill your best friend just to cover 
your ass—and then get caught anyway?"
"Greystein, I—"
"You thought it would save you and it didn't. A terrible waste of time and 
effort, wasn't it? All that chasing, all that suffering you put me through—and 
it didn't fool Davis for a minute, now, did it? The heat's on, McGill, and now 
you'll know how I felt when you wouldn't let me be, when you wouldn't let me 
flee…"
The light pulsed brighter, whiter. Sunspots danced in his eyes; magnetic fields 
seized him. In the distance rang a chime and Greystein said, "Hah! There it is! 
'Ask not for whom the bell tolls' and all that, 'cause it's tolling for thee, 
Feighan, for thee!"
A small, scaly hand woke him with its touch. "Huh?" He blinked. The dream faded, 
but not quickly enough. His heart still thudded; he still felt that awful guilt. 
He swallowed hard. His mouth tasted so dry and stale that he made a face. The 
gesture hurt his cheeks. "Dammit," he said, because the only alternative was to 
cry, "I'm sunburned."
"Is that why you're all red?" asked Sam.
"You know, you could have called me earlier." He had a headache, too. Sitting, 
up, he winced. The anesthetic had worn off and the wounds Greystein had 
inflicted ached. From the penthouse came a strident, metallic voice. "What's 
Oscar babbling about?"
"There's somebody at the door, a deputy sheriff, just like in the cowboy shows."
"Is that what Oscar said?" Stiffly, he got to his feet, put his hands in the 
small of his back, and arched his spine. He hurt all over.
"Oscar didn't say the part about the cowboy movies."
"You didn't let the guy in, did you?"
"McGill!"
"Yeah…" His vision finally cleared. "Oh, hi, H'nik— 'scuze me a minute, will you 
please?"
The monk rippled its spines. "Of course."
Feighan stepped into the welcome cool of the dimly lit living room. "Oscar, 
query: Who's at the door; answer it now."
"Deputy Sheriff Ralph T. Dogherty; computer check verifies ID."
He nodded to Sam. "Go ahead, let him in."
Sam scampered to the door and swung it open.
From outside came a gasp.
"May I help you?" said the saurian.
"Holy shit! What the hell are you?"
"A boy. Why?"
"No, I mean—"
Feighan hobbled over. Patting Sam on the headbone, he said to the rumpled, 
paunchy cop, "Sam's a Rhanghan, from Throngorn II. You looking for me?"
Dogherty fingered his mustache. "You McGill Feighan?"
"Uh-huh."
"Here." He thrust an envelope into the Flinger's hand. "It's a subpoena—you'll 
find all the details inside."
"Gee, thanks." Slapping the envelope against his left palm, he toed the door 
shut.
"What's a suh-peeny, McGill?"
"Suh-PEE-nah, Sam. It's an order to appear in court." His biceps throbbed as he 
tore the envelope open. "My God!"
"What's the matter?"
"I have to show cause why…" He moved his finger along the line of tiny type, 
trying to read it and make sense of it at the same time. "… show cause why I 
should not be required to fulfill my contractual obligations, and all that they 
would entail. The bastards! They're trying to force me to keep on working for 
them. How can they—they're not going to get away with this!"
"Get away with what, McGill?"
He made a fist, and stifled a yelp of pain. When he winced, the side of his neck 
stung. He headed for the bathroom.
Sam's tail swooshed through the carpet as he followed. "What are they trying to 
get away with?"
"They're trying to make me go back to work for them. But they can't do that. 
That's slavery, indentured servanthood or something. And that's 
unconstitutional." He peered into the mirror. "Oh, God."
"What's the matter now?" Sam clambered onto the edge of the tub, his favorite 
perch. "Your sunburn hurt?"
"That, too." He was a mess. Tousled hair, reddened eyes, coarse-stubbled cheeks… 
he reached for the ultrasonic shaver, but the thought of its tingle made him 
shudder. Maybe that was why Greystein had— "To hell with it."
"What?"
"Huh? Oh, nothing…" From the medicine chest he took first-aid cream; smoothed 
over his cheeks, it soothed them quickly. He gulped two paintabs, then wielded 
the shampcomb so that at least his hair would be clean. "I've got to go out for 
a few minutes."
"Where?"
"Take care of H'nik; I'll be back soon. Don't let anybody in, okay?"
"I won't," said Sam. "But can we go to the park?"
"Ah… yeah, sure, why not? You got money in your account?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, don't forget your charge card."
"It's no fair that I have to use a card when everybody else gets to use a 
thumb."
"Well, bankplates don't read Rhanghan fingerprints too well. Look. I've got to 
go. I'll see you later." With a last gloomy look at his mirror image, he closed 
his eyes, and—
*PING*
—and appeared in the anteroom of Goodthorpe, Goodthorpe, & Mongallo, P.C., the 
firm that handled all his legal work. Ignoring the receptionsim—a 
computer-generated shimmer of light and color—he walked for the door with the 
brass plate reading Jason Goodthorpe. Behind him, the simulacrum said, "But Mr. 
Goodthorpe is in conference! If you will take a seat—"
Shutting the door from the other side cut the receptionsim's protest in half. 
"Hiya, Jase. Nice conference."
The tall, angular man on the forcecouch blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. 
"Jesus, Feighan, didn't anybody ever teach you to knock?"
"That only gives you time to lock your door." He spun one of the three black 
leather chairs around and eased himself into it. "Got a problem, Jase."
"You got a problem? I've got a problem. I've got a client who doesn't know he's 
supposed to deal with his attorney over the telephone." He held his fat brown 
cigarette before his eyes and focused on its ember. A wisp of grey spiraled 
upward. "I'm beginning to regret I ever showed you where my office was."
"Hey, I call you, you don't answer, you're always in conference. Which means 
you're lying around in your underwear again, drinking good beer and smoking bad 
tobacco. God, that stuff stinks." He waved a hand in front of his face.
"Call me on the phone, you don't have to smell it." He puffed another cloud at 
Feighan.
"The last time I tried, it took a week before we talked to each other, 'cause 
neither of us was ever in when the other was. I don't have time to do that 
merry-go-round again."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, all right." Swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, he sat up. He had 
knobbly knees, and polka-dotted shorts. "So what's your problem?"
"This." He passed over the subpoena, and waited for Goodthorpe to scan it. "See, 
they ordered me to submit to behavior modification. From what I understand, they 
can do that—they have a right to scrub my head— if I work for them. So I quit. 
And now this."
"You quit, huh?" Goodthorpe's blue eyes were clear and piercing.
"Uh-huh. But now they want to force me back to work, and then brainwash me, and 
Jase, I don't want that. Strange things are going on down there. I have a 
feeling I wouldn't come out of it in too good a shape."
"I told you not to sign that contract."
"But I did. I had to, if I wanted to work for them—and dammit, Jase. I'm a 
Flinger. I couldn't not Fling; I'd explode if I tried that."
"I know, I know—and they'd screw you if you tried to Fling for anybody else, 
too, because only employees of the Consortia are allowed to teleport cargo or 
passengers." He frowned. "Aw, hell, McGill, they have you over a barrel. I mean, 
you signed that contract. When's the hearing?" He squinted at the subpoena.
"Tomorrow at nine." He slumped in the chair, and stroked the slick black 
leather. "Which seems awful quick to me. I mean—"
"I could maybe get you a continuance till the afternoon, but frankly, we don't 
need one."
"You're not going to present a defense?"
"Of course I am." Goodthorpe's eyebrows shot up. "What do you think, I plan to 
throw you on the mercy of the court?"
Your Honor, have mercy on Feighan; he just killed his best friend and hasn't 
been the same since. "But is one day enough time?" He rolled another smoke ring 
past his lips. "The only reason I'd need more time is if my computer crashed—and 
I'd have to swear to that to get the time."
"Well, you know what you're doing, I guess."
"Since that's what you're paying me for, you'd better hope I do."
Feighan pushed himself to his feet. "Okay. I suppose I'd better leave you to it. 
What time should I meet you in the morning?"
"Nine a.m., in Courtroom—" He glanced at the subpoena. "—C."
It all seemed wrong. Feighan had come to have his anxieties quelled, but 
Goodthorpe had increased them. "You don't want to get together ahead of time?"
The attorney stubbed out his cigarette. "McGill, when you send somebody to the 
other side of the Galaxy, do you get together with him half an hour ahead of 
time and work things out?"
"Well, no—there's no need."
"Exactly. You just be there, neatly dressed, clean-shaven, and for God's sakes, 
do something about that permanent blush of yours."
"It's sunburn. I fell asleep on the terrace."
"A likely story… oh, before you go. One last point to clear up: your objection 
is not to working for the NAC, but to being indoctrinated. Correct?"
"Right."
"And avoiding that indoctrination is your highest priority?"
"Right." He scratched the welt on his neck. Goodthorpe's questions seemed no 
more than a bald restatement of the obvious. "Why?"
"And everything else is subordinate to avoiding that indoctrination?"
"Yes. That's what I said. Why?"
Goodthorpe shook out another cigarette, lit it, then waved it at Feighan. "Just 
checking, McGill. I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well tonight."
"Oh, sure." He meant it to be sarcastic.
 
As it turned out, he did sleep well, or at least well enough so that, when he 
strode into Courtroom C, Sam in tow, he felt as mentally alert as Oscar must. It 
took him a minute to spot Goodthorpe—bright-eyed old men and women filled the 
twelve rows of seats and blocked his view of the defense table. Then he nodded, 
and worked his way down the aisle. The attorney was hunched over a computer 
printout. "Hi, Jase. You know Sam?"
"Sure, we met a few years ago, when I drew up the guardianship papers. How you 
doing, Sam? You sure have grown." He held out his hand; nicotine stained his 
fingers.
"Good morning, Mr. Goodthorpe." They shook.
"Call me Jase, everybody does." He folded up the printout and pushed it to one 
side. "You can sit here."
As Feighan reached for the chair, Goodthorpe said, "No— Sam can sit here—you sit 
over in the booth." He pointed to a glass-walled cubicle opposite the jury box.
"There?" The prospect of lexan isolation made Feighan squeamish—he would feel 
like a monkey in a cage. "I thought that was for criminal trials."
"Not any more. But look, at least you'll know nobody's going to take a potshot 
at you." His expression was sympathetic. "Go, now—the bailiff's coming."
Every step across the expanse of bare floor below the bench made him conscious 
of the curious eyes on his back. The time-killers who watched trials instead of 
holo-shows rarely saw a Flinger as a defendant. Whispers skittered back and 
forth across the courtroom.
At the booth, the uniformed policewoman asked his name, then motioned him inside 
as the bailiff called, "All rise!"
The chair filled most of the booth, leaving him barely enough room to turn 
around. The ventilator puffed hot air in his face. The speaker picked up the 
shuffling feet and thudding seats, and amplified them painfully. He tried to 
catch the attendant's eye, to have her turn the volume down, but she had her 
back to him. Short of rapping on the transparent wall, nothing could get her 
attention. He decided to put up with the noise. The heat, though… sweat ran down 
his back.
Judge Coznowski entered the room. She had to be eighty, but she walked with the 
brisk, erect carriage of a woman half her age. Taking her place, she touched her 
bun of white hair and looked from Goodthorpe to the attorney for the NAC. 
"Gentlemen, I have reviewed your arguments. Frankly, Mr. Goodthorpe, I am 
disappointed. Barring a sudden burst of inspiration on your part, I would have 
to rule for the plaintiffs."
Goodthorpe rose. "If Your Honor would be so indulgent, I would appreciate 
hearing Your Honor's reasoning before I emit such a sudden burst of 
inspiration."
An appreciative smile crossed Coznowski's thin lips. "Your client stands in 
breach of a properly executed contract, Counselor."
"But performance of that contract would endanger Mr. Feighan's sanity."
"Not proven, Counselor, and irrelevant in any event. The possibility of behavior 
modification was a condition of the contract, one upon which Mr. Feighan knew 
the plaintiffs could insist, at their discretion."
"Very well, Your Honor."
What do you mean, "Very well"? Feighan gripped the arms of his chair. He wanted 
to shout "Jase, what are you doing to me?" But the mike was off, and the lexan, 
soundproof. Had Greystein felt this trapped at the end?
Goodthorpe continued. "In that event, Your Honor, my client insists that he must 
breach the contract to preserve the integrity of his personality, but is willing 
to pay reasonable damages to the plaintiffs."
Fingers uncurling, Feighan exhaled. That's better, Jase.
The judge inclined her head. "What damages would the plaintiffs suffer, Mr. 
Scheriner?"
The attorney for the NAC, a wrinkled old man with a shock of implanted red hair, 
stood. "Your Honor, this contract has eleven months before it expires. During 
that time, Mr. Feighan would normally work nine days out of ten, making 
ninety-six 'Flings,' or acts of teleportation, each day. The NAC charges fifty 
Flinger Network Credits per Fling."
Goodthorpe bounded to his feet. "Your Honor, I would point out that the North 
American Consortium pays Mr. Feighan one-half a Fancy per Fling, which should by 
rights be deducted from Mr. Scheriner's estimate of the revenues the NAC would 
collect should Mr. Feighan agree to full performance of this contract."
Coznowski nodded. "Point taken, Counselor. If you will grant me a moment for 
calculation." She bent her head to study the benchtop; her fingers worked a 
keypad invisible to the spectators. "Twenty-one million, one hundred seventy 
thousand, one hundred sixty dollars," she said after a few minutes. She raised 
her plucked eyebrows, then cleared her throat. "Mr. Goodthorpe, those are the 
damages the plaintiff is likely to suffer should your client breach his 
contract. I presume he is willing to make such restitution?"
Scheriner's tone trembled with outrage. "Your Honor! The North American 
Consortium desires Mr. Feighan's services, not his money."
She turned her ice-blue gaze on him until he paled and sat back down. "I am 
quite aware of the plaintiff's desires, Counselor. I am also aware of Mr. 
Feighan's desires. By the terms of his contract with you—a contract, I suspect, 
which you drew up—Mr. Feighan had pledged to indemnify you against all damages 
you suffer as a result of his failure to fulfill the terms of that contract. Mr. 
Goodthorpe?"
Feighan did not like the way the hearing was going. Biting his lip, he leaned 
forward, hoping that Goodthorpe would find a way out for him.
"Your Honor," said Goodthorpe, "my client would ask you to release him from the 
terms of the contract, on the grounds that—"
"Out of the question, Counselor. The contract is legal and binding. What are the 
extent of Mr. Feighan's assets?"
"To the best of my knowledge, Your Honor, my client's assets consist of a trust 
fund with a principal of ten million dollars, stocks and bonds with a market 
value of approximately one million dollars, and a credit balance in his thumb 
account of—" He consulted a slip of paper. "—two hundred thirty-nine thousand, 
seventeen dollars and eighty-eight cents. More or less."
Frowning in concentration, she worked the keypad again.
Feighan's sweat ran cold, now, and his stomach fluttered.
"Fifty-three point-oh-nine percent," Coznowski said at last. "Very well, then. 
Mr. Feighan?"
A wave of nausea passed through him. He picked up the microphone, and fumbled 
with the on switch. "Yes, Your Honor?"
"Are you willing to return to work until the expiration of your present 
contract?"
"Your Honor, they want to brainwash me!"
The NAC lawyer popped up. "Objection, Your Honor."
She waved a hand at him. "Mr. Feighan, please answer the question I asked: are 
you willing to fulfill the terms of your contract?"
He could see where things were heading, but could not stop them. The nausea 
intensified; he had to clench his teeth to keep his breakfast down. "No, Your 
Honor."
"Very well, then. I hereby direct the defendant to surrender his assets to this 
court, for transmission to the plaintiff, before he leaves the building. I 
further declare the defendant bankrupt. In accord with the procedures 
established by NYPL 2060-2089, the defendant will have garnished—" She tapped 
the keypad. "—forty-six-point-nine-one percent of all his future earnings, until 
such time as he has repaid—"
"McGill!" Sam bounced onto the defense table. Goodthorpe reached for him, but 
the Rhanghan slapped the attorney's hand with his tail. "Get out! Get out! 
Quick!"
For one-tenth of a second it embarrassed him that his ward could behave so badly 
in a court of law—even one that had just impoverished him. He winced—then 
understood.
*PING*
He touched the blinking Goodthorpe's shoulder and whispered, "Here I am," just 
as the judge's gavel began its downswing. Goodthorpe twisted around.
The gavel struck.
A muffled roar shook Courtroom C. The booth rocked; grey smoke filled it.
Coznowski stared at the gavel in horror.
The bailiff disappeared through a side door.
And Feighan said, "That's it. I've had it. Jase, the judge wants my money, she 
can have it. All of it. Everything. Come on, Sam." Taking the saurian's hand, he 
closed his eyes and—
*PING*
—and Flopped them on the table in his living room. "Pack your things, Sam, and 
tell H'nik to uproot itself—we're leaving."
"But where?"
"Actu. Right now." He threw his clothes into a suitcase, looked around at the 
furniture, and bit his lip. The penthouse had been home for four years; he would 
miss it tremendously. Sniffing, he went into the other bedroom for a holo of 
Greystein, and carefully packed it among his shaving gear. Then he marched out 
to the terrace, where H'nik wiggled its spines in the gentle spring rain. Sam 
waited, too, a small bundle slung over his back. "Are you two ready?"
The monk said, "Yes."
*PING*
The air, dry and acrid, reeked of sulphur. Cracks ran up and down the walls of 
the Flop Booth. The floor radiated heat: and one minute after they materialized, 
it snapped up and down like a carpet being shaken by a giant. A freight train 
rumble boomed through the Booth, dislodging plaster from the ceiling and puffing 
dust up from the floor.
"My God!" said Feighan. Sam huddled against the side of his leg. "What the hell 
was that?"
"Only the volcano," said H'nik. "It is nothing to worry about… yet."
Chapter IX
« ^ »


It had gone so smoothly! The bailiff had taken mere minutes to suborn, and for 
only a third of the pate tin, had agreed to stick the plastique to the booth 
chair's bottom. He had even wired in a micro-transceiver so that Davis could be 
sure he got Feighan when he detonated the charge.
But then that damnable lizard had warned the Flinger.
And now his enemy had fled.
The phone rang. He glared at it, but picked it up anyway. "What?"
"Are you a fool, a madman, or both?"
"What are you saying? Who are you?"
"You know who I am, if not what I am named. Spare me your lies. The bailiff you 
bribed is also in my employ—and owes his first loyalty to me, always. What 
lunacy moved you to attempt an assassination?"
He had never heard the voice so hard. "But I thought you wanted—"
"I wanted him penniless, friendless, and unemployed—not dead. Had I wanted that, 
I would have arranged it myself. I do not leave matters of importance to 
bumblers like yourself. Where is he?"
The insults stung. Who did the voice think he was? "How should I know?"
"Find out. Quickly. And remember: I record all my calls. Even this."
The trap snapped shut on his life, never to open. He whispered, "Yes, sir."
Chapter X
« ^ »


"Volcano?" The floor bucked again. He wanted to run, but where? Sam hissed and 
whimpered; Feighan tried to reassure him with a hand on his shoulder. The 
problem was, he needed reassurance himself.
What had he gotten into? He could die here! What was he— Stop it, he told 
himself. No matter how bad the situation was, panic would be worse. He tried to 
keep calm as he asked, "Your Flinger Building is next door to a live volcano?"
"Oh, hardly next door," said H'nik. Slowly it moved toward the door. "Come. As I 
understand it, this room should be vacated as soon as possible after arrival."
He balked. "You're not going outside, are you?"
"Well, of course."
"But the volcano—"
"Ahhh. It is no cause for alarm, McGill Feighan. Although it seems to be 
erupting again, it is many of your kilometers distant. Only during the mightiest 
of its upheavals does this vicinity suffer more than ashfall."
Does that mean ashfall is common? Maybe I should have stayed in New York… He 
listened for screams; hearing none, he was not sure if he should feel more 
secure—or less. "Are you positive it's safe?"
"At this distance, yes. Closer up, of course, it can be uncomfortable."
"Lethal, you mean." His voice shook. The last few hours, coming so soon after 
Greystein's death, had destroyed his nerves. First the trial, and the verdict, 
and the bomb, and the abrupt flight… He wanted to curl up in a corner and twitch 
for a while.
"Lethal? Ah, lethal… oh, no. Tap-triggering, perhaps." It swayed forward to 
touch a spine to a pressure-sensitive panel; the door zipped into the ceiling, 
shedding dust as it disappeared. "Ah," it said again. "I must apologize. For you 
the volcano might be lethal. I forgot what can kill a Terran."
As it trundled into the corridor, Feighan gulped. "P-par-don?"
"Your people do die permanently, do they not?"
"Uh—yes. Frequently. And always permanently."
"So many races," said the monk. "One forgets precisely what each does. This is 
especially so of those entitled to the blessings denied us."
"H'nik—" Feighan cast a wary eye at the corridor ceiling, which bellied down 
almost to the point where it would have to collapse. "—you have me totally 
confused. What are you talking about?"
The monk stopped, jiggled up and down as it turned around, and said, "We find it 
most difficult to die once and for all. Very nearly impossible, in fact. And so 
we forget how kindly the deity regards other races in the galaxy."
"Kindly?"
"I sense, McGill Feighan, that we have stumbled upon a conversational topic that 
could occupy us for hours, to no end of mutual profit. But let us postpone that 
delight to a more propitious moment. I must report to my superiors as soon as 
possible, and since I know at least one of the questions they will ask, I would 
put it to you right now, if that would be convenient."
"Uh—sure. What's the question?"
"You have, most abruptly, changed your mind about visiting Actu—to our great 
pleasure, I hasten to add—and I would inquire as to your motivation, if that 
would not strike you as offensive."
"No. It's not at all offensive." He paused for a breath that he hoped would 
maintain his self-control. On the ragged edge of hysteria, he would lose himself 
completely if he stepped a centimeter too far in the wrong direction. "I said 
I'd let you interview me because quitting the NAC gave me a lot of free time, 
but in the beginning I didn't want to come here because—" He cut himself off 
before he stated his opinion of the planet. "I had a lot of ties to New York 
City. I didn't want to break them, but Davis did it for me. I lost my money. I 
lost my house. My best friend is—" He bit down hard to hold in the sob. Sam shot 
him a sharp glance. He winced. "Dammit! I changed my mind because I wanted to 
get out of there, because I hate, it, the people, everything. Okay?"
"I understand." The monk dragged one spine across another in a long slow hum of 
sympathy. "Perhaps now is not the best time to broach such a subject, but you 
stated that you have had your money taken from you. Does that not mean you will 
require employment?"
"Oh, Jesus." How could I forget that? He sagged against the dusty wall, his 
shoulders slumping. "That's right. I will need a job."
"I can offer you employment for an indefinite period of time."
"Oh?"
"One of the greatest problems the monastery faces is placing missionaries where 
they are needed—we have no shortage of eager spirits, but as you have noticed, 
we walk very slowly. We are also so susceptible to the whimsies of Nature that 
we must either mat out or tap down with distressing frequency— especially in 
hostile areas. Thus, to make certain that one monk reaches the far side of the 
world, we must send out a dozen, fifteen years before the one will be required. 
Could we hire you, our problem would be solved."
At least it will keep the pressure down. And take my mind off what I did to poor 
Greystein… He shrugged. "Sure. But don't you have Flingers of your own?"
"Of course, but they must devote most of their strength to their Network 
tasks—Actu owes the FNC just as much money as Terra does, McGill Feighan, and we 
buckle under the same burden to repay it that Terra does. Come." With a hop and 
a shuffle it turned itself around. "Let me show you where you live."
"Isn't this the Flinger Building?"
"Yes, but you will live at a site adjacent to the monastery. I should mention 
that 'monastery' is an approximate translation of our word and concept; it is 
not the same as, let us say, a Franciscan monastery or even a Tibetan lamasery. 
Come. It is no more than a four-hour walk."
Feighan did not want to sound rude, but he was still on edge, and had not eaten 
since that morning. "Ah, H'nik, do you think Sam and I could postpone that a 
bit, while we rest and freshen up?"
"Freshen up?"
"Yes—change clothes, get something to eat, unpack our suitcases, wash our 
hands—that sort of thing. Freshen up."
"But the dew does not fall till dawn."
"Pardon?"
"Something has just occurred to me." H'nik's spines rustled in apparent 
agitation. "You will require housing of some sort, will you not?"
"Yes." The entire building shuddered, almost jarring him off his feet. 
Remembering that the ceiling had looked ready to fall, he glanced up—and a 
cinder dropped into his eye. "Ouch!" He tried to ease it out with the tip of his 
little finger. He had no luck. "Sam—can you give me a hand?"
"Sure, McGill. What is it?"
"Something in my eye." He squatted so the Rhanghan would not have to balance on 
his hind legs and tail. Grasping his eyelids and spreading them apart, he said, 
"Do you see anything?"
"A bloodshot eyeball?"
"That's not funny!" It was a Gina Maccari sort of line, and he would have to 
speak to her about warping Sam's sense of humor—on second thought, there would 
be no need. Sam would not be seeing her for a long, long time—if ever.
"I see it." He looked dubiously at his clawed finger. "You sure you want me 
to—I've got it!" He moved closer. His dark, double-lidded eyes stared directly 
into the Flinger's. "Now, don't move—" His tongue nicked out, barely touching 
Feighan's eyeball, and retracting just as the human blinked. "Got it. Geez, that 
tastes rotten."
"My eye?"
"No, the thing." He spat it out. "Tastes like rotten eggs."
Feighan stood. Tears blurred the vision of his right eye, but he could see well 
enough to walk. And H'nik waited for them, half-in and half-out of the doorway. 
"Let's go." Together, he and Sam crossed over to the monk. "I apologize for the 
delay."
"That is quite all right. Your organs of vision were not designed for Actu's 
atmosphere. Now, ours—" It moved around until its left ocular aureole faced 
Feighan. "Ours depend on infrared radiation, and are extremely sensitive. Any 
one of our 'eyes' can sense a degree's worth of temperature difference at fifty 
of your meters; moreover, trinocular perception establishes for us the pattern 
in a being's infrared radiation. Did you know that no two beings have exactly 
the same emission pattern?"
"Uh—"
"That is how we distinguish one alien from another, with virtually one hundred 
percent accuracy." It pirouetted, then froze. "Ah, me. I forgot again. About the 
housing—"
"Yes?"
"You will desire some, will you not?"
Taken aback, he cleared his throat. "Uh… I think so, yes."
"This is quite embarrassing. "I—all of us, really—we get so few alien visitors 
that even after decades of membership in the Network we are rooted in our 
ethnocentrism. I quite forgot that most intelligent races live inside structures 
they build themselves."
The floor shimmied like a flat of jello. Feighan refused to look up. If the 
ceiling wanted to fall, it would have to do so unobserved. Eventually, things 
steadied themselves. "So?"
"We… this way, please." It led them through a doorway into a hot, bright world. 
The sun shone through a yellow haze that obscured the distant mountains. Jagged 
fissures ran through the parched ground, which fell away beneath their feet into 
a dry-bottomed valley. "You see, McGill Feighan, we Actuni have no hands."
"I, uh, I had noticed that."
"Because of that we can not build."
With a frown, he jerked his thumb at the low stone building behind them. "But—"
"Oh, no. That was constructed by the Network when it found us. Believe me, we 
had nothing to do with it."
He had an unhappy premonition. "So what you're saying is—"
"We have no place for you to live indoors. A gentle southern slope with moisture 
only eight meters down, yes—but no walls, no roof. This would dismay you, would 
it not?"
He sighed. "Yes, it would."
H'nik tilted its body a degree or two away from him. "Is there not something 
called a 'tent'?"
Feighan nodded.
"These can be purchased?"
"Yes, but—"
"Excellent! If you would be so kind as to buy—"
"Uh, there's a slight problem with that—"
"Of course." It crept a few paces onward, then shook its spines. "Ah, the 
solution: our account with the FNC shows, to my understanding, a small 
surplus—in fact, it is out of that with which we had planned to pay you. We will 
simply advance you the requisite sum."
He looked at the sky—at the ground—then tried to remember, from the few 
experiences in the outdoors he had had as a child, what it was like to live in a 
tent. He could not recall much beyond the fact that, on the first morning, one 
awoke stiff; that once, when camping with his father and Jose Schwedeker, the 
man who had discovered his Talent, he had fallen from a tree and fractured his 
skull; and that— "I don't suppose you get a lot of rain here."
H'nik's spines rasped with a sound akin to laughter. "Very little."
"I guess a tent will do it, then…"
"Fine. Let me take you to the monastery, now."
"Uh, H'nik?"
"Yes?"
"You did say it was a four-hour walk?"
"Why, yes, I did."
"If you'll point the way, I think I can get us there a little faster."
"Ahh… but will it not tire you?"
Feighan chuckled. "I'm used to doing ninety-six a day, H'nik—ninety-six across 
the entire Network. I think I can Fling us a couple of kilometers without 
dropping." Once, Greystein had taught him how to travel quickly through a series 
of line-of-sight hops. It hurt that Greystein would never teach him anything 
again.
"Excellent! It lies just beyond the far ridge of the valley below us. I must 
confess, I had not looked forward to making the trek on foot."
Sam said, "I thought those were roots."
The monk leaned forward so it could look downwards. "They are roots, but I have 
a feeling that the English idiom would not work half so well if I substituted 
'root' for 'foot.' "
Feighan stood between the Actuni and the Rhanghan, and focused his gaze on the 
haze-shrouded ridge. "Is everybody ready?"
"Uh-huh," said Sam.
"Need I be ready," said H'nik, "if you are?"
*PING*
The ground shivered as they materialized. Dust boiled up around them. Feighan 
coughed and blinked; Sam, who had yet to part his inner, transparent eyelids, 
told H'nik, "He'll be okay in a minute."
When Feighan had wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, he took a few steps forward 
for his first sight of the valley of the monastery. Expecting more of the 
cracked, baked soil and the scraggly vegetation that had surrounded the Flinger 
Building, he let his jaw drop. "A lake?"
"A what?" said H'nik.
By then his vision had adjusted. A thousand meters below, a rich blue-green 
carpeted the valley floor: plants. Millions of them. Vibrant, healthy, 
rainforest dense—"My God, it's beautiful!"
"We are proud of our handiwork. Perhaps too proud—you have a word 'hubris'?"
"Are you really afraid of that?" Feighan could not stop staring at the sea of 
vegetation. It was such a contrast to the baked-dust beige of the encircling 
slopes, terraced neatly though they were.
"The Actuni were created to suffer, McGill Feighan."
His eyes kept swimming in and out of focus; he shook his head. "Is there an 
underground river, or what?"
"A very high water table—you will note the depth of the valley?"
"Uh-huh. Nice set-up."
"Until the next eruption."
He looked up instinctively, but smoke plumed from so many peaks that he decided 
he had better not worry—it would take too much time. "Frankly, H'nik, I don't 
see how hubris enters into it. I mean, is just living in an oasis a challenge to 
the gods?"
"God. We, too, are monotheistic. And in answer to your question: no. But that 
does not describe our situation. We were not content to accept our lot. We came 
upon this valley several hundred years ago and found, the instant we dropped our 
roots, that the soil was moist, and rich in minerals. That was, truly, a gift. 
But we were not content to accept our lot. We have made the valley our garden. 
We have loosened the soil, and leveled it, and made it fertile. We have terraced 
the hillsides, and made gentle walks of torturous slopes. We have become proud."
Feighan shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Uh… well, I don't know much about 
theology. Where should I Fling us to, next?"
"Near the head of the valley is a field of Actuni—do you see it?"
He squinted into the haze. "Not really."
"Up there, McGill," said Sam, pointing north-northeast. "Right in front of those 
white pillars."
"You mean those hedges?"
"Boy, you have terrible eyesight."
"And you have a tail that can be stepped on, kid." He concentrated on the neat 
green rows and—
*PING*
—the three of them materialized two meters away from the first: a line of 
closely spaced Actuni that stretched nearly to the slope on either side.
"This is our library," said H'nik. As it began to make its way through the line, 
distant music died away.
"But where are the books?" said Sam, looking over his shoulder in bewilderment.
"You will recall, my young friend, that we are not blessed with hands. We do not 
write. We remember. That—" The monk jiggled about and trained its long spine at 
a towering Actuni. Easily five meters tall and another meter in diameter, its 
barrel was nearly spineless; great patches of brown discolored its epidermis. 
"—is the book of Creation. Later, perhaps, you will have opportunity to study 
it, and to discover that it contains interesting parallels to your book of 
Genesis."
"Really?" said Feighan politely.
"Do you see that hollow beyond the, ah, 'white pillars'?"
Feighan stepped sideways to sight between the columns of Actuni. "Yes."
"Could you convey us there, it would be appreciated."
*PING*
The bowl-shaped depression dipped some ten meters down and yawned forty wide; a 
number of Actuni clustered in its gravelly middle. H'nik said, "Wait here, if 
you would be so kind." Scuttling down the sloping side, it went directly to the 
Actuni in the center. Their conversation sounded like hacksaws attacking sheet 
metal…
When the one—monk, Feighan presumed—backed off a pace, it left a vinyl pouch on 
the ground. H'nik moved atop the gold sack like a hen settling onto an egg, 
wiggled about, then came back to Feighan and Sam. It dropped the pouch at their 
feet.
"You will find a Network Credit card within. Take what you need."
Feighan picked it up gingerly—sticky to the touch, it smelled like 
methane—opened it, and removed the plastic card with the memory molecules 
embedded in its core. "Are you sure you want me to take this? I mean, it says, 
'Treasury Account of Actu,' and if this is your government's—"
"We are a theocracy, McGill Feighan; we have no government, per se. You have 
been given the card to enable you to make purchases necessary to the success of 
the task you have undertaken for us. Naturally we will request an accurate 
accounting. Go now. Purchase your tent; darkness comes soon. Sam and I will 
locate an appropriate place for the two of you to sleep."
"All right." Shrugging, he stepped back, He closed his eyes—
*PING*
—and materialized in a quiet back alley off Nathan Road in Kowloon, Hong Kong. 
Around the corner was the People's Liberation Army Surplus Store; he stopped on 
the money-changer's window on his way in and picked up a wad of both Hong Kong 
and U.S. dollars. The turbaned Sikh who debited the Actuni account did not even 
raise an eyebrow.
Upstairs, in the camping section, he piled up binoculars, mess kits, lamps, a 
chip player for music, a stove and bottles of gas… The clerk said, "The next 
Everest expedition?"
"Mountains, yes; Himalayas, no. Is this stuff fireproof?"
She turned her head a little, as if she could not have heard him right. "You 
mean waterproof, sir?"
"No, that I don't have to worry about. I mean fireproof."
She blinked. "I don't believe anything is, sir. It has, however, been treated 
with a flame retardant."
"I guess that will have to do." Ignoring her headshake, he peeled off the right 
number of bills, gathered the equipment into a neat pile, and—
*PING*
—returned to the monastery.
Sam was waiting, a glum look on his face. Before him lay a mound of bluish-green 
berries.
"What's the matter?"
The Rhanghan raised his head. "While you were gone, I checked out their food—we 
can't eat it, McGill."
"Is that more of your instinct?"
"No, I talked to some of the people here—H'nik translated—and they said, I 
dunno, the chemicals are lined up wrong? Something like that. And there's a lot 
of metal in it, too, and I guess you can't pick it out."
"They don't mean pieces of metal, Sam. They mean…" Frowning, he scratched his 
head, and gave it up as a bad cause. Greystein had always made the scientific 
explanations around the house. "What they mean is that it's poisonous. Where's 
the campsite?"
"On the side of the hill—" He pointed to the west. "— where H'nik is. See it?"
"Uh-huh." He—
*PING*
—Flung Sam, himself, and the gear over to the waiting monk. The ground quivered; 
a sleeping bag rolled off the pile. He picked it up and started to lay it out 
before he realized that, no matter how tired he was, he had more to do before he 
could rest. He yawned. "I'll be back in a while."
*PING*
Returning to America was risky, but Houston was not the kind of town to treat a 
moneyed stranger unkindly. Still, he looked over his shoulder before entering 
the plumbing fixtures store.
"Yes?" said the middle-aged man leaning on the counter watching the cube.
"I'd like to buy a water tank—say, about—" He did rough calculations in his 
head. "About five hundred liters?"
"We got a couple in stock."
"That'd do fine—wait. What's it weigh?"
The clerk straightened up abruptly. "Weigh?"
"Yeah, weigh."
He shrugged. "I'll be damned if anybody ever asked that before… couple hundred 
kilos, I suppose."
"All right." He reached into his pocket. "You do take cash money?"
"Long as you didn't print it yourself."
"What's it cost?"
"Depends on where you want it delivered."
"I'll take it myself."
"Suit yourself…" He touched the keyboard of the cash register, and read from the 
display screen: "That'll be $1497.11, tax included."
Feighan counted out fifteen one-hundred dollar bills. "You charge for water?"
"There's a glass in the men's room; help yourself." He peered past the Flinger 
to the street. "Don't see your truck— you already parked out back?"
"Uh—I don't think I'll need one—"
"I wondered about that." He gestured to Feighan's energy tunic. "Don't like to 
pry, though. People have a tendency to take offense. So you're just going to 
teleport it away, huh?"
"That's right. Now, what about the water?"
"Oh." He pointed to a battered metal door at the rear of the display room. 
"Men's room's over there."
"No, for the tank."
"You want it filled?" His eyes widened till their whites showed.
Feighan nodded.
"Suit yourself…" He stared at the ceiling for a moment, lips moving. "Water 
costs down here, though… you've given me fifteen hundred?"
"That's right."
"Well, I'll fill the tank for you and we'll call it even. Take me a while, 
though—I'm alone in the store today."
"How long will it be?"
"Call it half an hour?"
"Okay. I'll be back."
Feighan went from the store to the telephone booth on the busy corner. While 
vehicles hissed past, he checked the commercial listings for a dried food 
supplier. Hurrying over, he bought five hundred kilos of freeze-dried foods. The 
manager looked at him dubiously, but took the cash and had two sweating 
stockboys stack the cartons up. When Feighan—
*PING*
—Flung it all to Actu, the manager immediately crossed back to the register to 
make certain that the money was still there. Then he forced a smile. "Have a 
real nice one, you hear?"
Feighan said, "Thanks," and—
*PING*
—teleported back to the plumbing store, where the clerk jumped up from the 
telephone, alarm on his tanned face. "Something wrong?"
"Sorta took me by surprise, boy." He wiped his forehead with a pink Kleenex. 
"Your tank's just about full—"
"Where is it?"
"In the back room, but—"
Feighan pushed through the swinging door, the clerk at his heels. A cylinder of 
porcelain and metal gleamed in the far corner; up its side snaked a garden hose 
that disappeared through its top. "I'm in sort of a hurry, so—"
Grit crunched under a shoe. Something hissed.
*PING*
At the tank, he spun. A nightstick clattered onto the floor. The cop who had 
tried to club him unconscious was drawing his service automatic. "You bastard," 
said Feighan to the clerk.
The clerk shrugged—and smiled. "Seen you on the news, boy."
The cop drew a bead on Feighan's chest. "Hold it right there."
"Are you really that dumb?"
*PING*
The tank wobbled as it sank into the uneven surface of the campsite. Feighan was 
still shaking his head: Did he really expect a Flinger to freeze?
The sun was setting behind the ridge above them. Bands of red and purple 
streaked the sky. He wished he could Fling to the opposite crest, from which the 
view had to be magnificent, but pitching tents in darkness is a good way to 
smash a thumb or two. "Hey, Sam, give me a hand. We'll eat later."
The Rhanghan set down the aluminum foil bag he had opened. "That stuff is awful 
chewy, McGill."
"You have to add water. Here. Hold this pole."
The ring of mallet on metal peg echoed back and forth across the valley. "A most 
appealing sound," said H'nik. "In the morning you will meet K'rach'a, who will 
introduce you to one of our own Flingers, who will teach you the locations to 
which you will be Flinging our missionaries. I hope you and Sam sleep well. 
Until then—"
The sun dipped below the ridgetop and surrendered the valley to shadow.
H'nik began to scream.
Chapter XI
« ^ »


Numb in body and soul, he sat at his desk, doodling on its glass with the oils 
of his fingertips. He had been told to await a phone call.
It terrified him to be owned. It sickened him. If he had been proud of anything 
in his life, it had been his independence. He had always been his own man, 
deciding for himself what was right and what he would do. Now he belonged to 
someone else. To a criminal.
It was all Feighan's fault for disobeying orders. Greystein's fault, too, of 
course, but Greystein had paid the price. Feighan had not. Feighan still owed 
him.
The phone rang. He shuddered, then steeled himself. "Yes?"
"Where is he?"
"We have reports of sightings in Hong Kong and Houston."
"But where is he now?"
"I—" He swallowed. "I don't know."
"Find out. Quickly."
"Yes, s—" But the connection had already been broken. Fear lay in his gut like 
lead. He wondered which other of his strings the puppeteer would be pulling.
It was Feighan's fault. Feighan would have to pay. For all of it.
Chapter XII
« ^ »


Feighan leaped to his feet. "What's wrong?"
The monk did not reply. It continued frantically to saw its spines, producing a 
noise both anguished and agonizing, like the sound of a violin being tortured by 
a small, resentful boy.
"H'nik! Jesus, what is it?"
Shivering, Sam pressed against the back of Feighan's legs, curling his tail 
around the Flinger's left ankle. He twisted his torso so he could slip his snout 
and neck under his guardian's right arm. "It's spooky, McGill—H'nik's not mad or 
afraid or anything—it's just… it's like it's crying but happy at the same time."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, H'nik's really happy about something—and I don't know what it is—but at 
the same time it's ancitipa-anpiti—" He hissed frustration.
"Anticipating?"
"Yeah, anticipating something else, something really awful, yecchy—but I don't 
know what that is, either."
Feighan hugged the child's shoulders. "At least it's not in trouble. How about 
giving me some room? My arms're hurting again." When Sam had untangled himself, 
he sank back into his cross-legged position. The night breeze riffled his hair, 
and the hazy air whipped the stars into dark cream. From the valley below—but 
not from higher up the ridge—came the hoarse wailing of a mournful, off-key 
chorus.
Sam lowered himself to the ground by Feighan's side. He breathed easier, and the 
muscles of his flanks had stopped trembling, but his tail still twitched 
spasmodically. "This is scary, McGill."
Feighan snorted. "It's irritating, is what it is—and I have the feeling it's 
just getting started."
As if in answer, new voices from the valley west of the ridge joined the dirge. 
Feighan sighed. Sam hissed, spat, and covered his ears with his hands.
He stroked his ward's skullbone. To the east, a line of pink showed behind the 
ragged hills. It can't be morning already, he thought.
Sam said, "How come the moon is red here, McGill?"
He winced, embarrassed that the young Rhanghan had understood what he had not. 
"It must be the dust in the air. I'm not all that sure how it works, but it does 
something to the light."
"Oh." Sam yawned. "When are they gonna shut up?"
"When they're done, I guess."
"But when will that be?"
"If I knew the answer to that, I'd be a lot happier than I am."
"You don't like it either, huh?"
"To put it mildly." It rasped on him like sandpaper on a bare belly. He tried to 
re-direct his thoughts, to ignore the caterwauling, but it was just too loud.
So he started listening to it, instead. Before too long he found in it a 
pattern; a rhythm almost. The husky cries rose and fell with a long slow beat 
that surged forward in gladness only to draw back in slow and deep dismay. He 
heard in the music a lamentation, a bewilderment held in check by a deep-rooted 
sureness, a constant reaffirmation that that for which the singer longed would 
surely come, would surely offer ease and surcease, even if it meant the long and 
terrible passage through the…
And now that he was listening, hearing—understanding!— his mind with its 
customary perverseness drifted away. It towed his thoughts from the harshness of 
Actu to all that he had left behind, and all that lay before. Greystein's still, 
pallid face floated before his eyes, and whispered accusations through cold, 
dead lips. Gina Maccari rolled over in bed, mumbled a sleepy endearment, and 
wrapped her strong right arm around him. Oscar called, "Wake up! Wake up!" The 
night brushed his cheek with dry, clean air, but it had the metallic tang of New 
York's on a late summer evening, with a hundred stories muting the machines on 
the street below, and—
H'nik fell silent.
Sam said, "Boy, it's about time," and crawled into the tent.
"H'nik," said Feighan, "what was that all about?"
The monk said nothing.
"H'nik?"
It loomed bristly and still, its spines cocked and apparently frozen.
"To hell with it. I'm going to bed myself."
But he had to lie on his back because his arm wounds ached, and that made him 
sleep poorly. He tossed and turned in the sleeping bag, snarling it around his 
legs until he had to get up and untwist it. Sharp pebbles jutted from the soil 
like broken glass from the top of a cement wall. No matter how many times he 
swept them away, a new one would break the soil to stab his shoulderblade. 
Stiffness set in before sleep did. In the morning, even breathing would hurt.
And all night long, H'nik's wails reverberated through his dreams. Dreams of 
exile. Of wandering. Of quake-torn lands and lava seas and scaly hands patting 
his cheek—
"Wake up, McGill!"
He blinked open his eyes. Dust immediately flew in, and his vision blurred. "Oh, 
God." He groaned as he lifted his head. "What do you want?"
"It's almost morning," said Sam with evident indignation. "And you have to go to 
work, remember?"
"With you around, I don't need to remember things like that—you do just fine 
without any help at all." Painfully, he pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Is that an insult?" The Rhanghan lowered his hindquarters to the ground and 
studied Feighan through the gloom of the tent.
"Not really…" Blinking and blinking again, he scraped at the corner of his eye 
and finally hooked the dust-mote under a fingernail. "I just had a bad night and 
I'm sort of grouchy. How'd you sleep?"
"Me, too! First all that noise, and then the ground was hard and it got chilly 
and there was a funny kind of bug I had to keep chasing out of the tent and then 
the noise again…" He shook his head mournfully.
"What noise?"
"That noise?"
Feighan tried to cup a hand around his ear, but his arm would not go that far 
that early. "I don't hear anything."
"It's real high, like the whistle Mrs. Estwund uses to call her dog."
"Oh." He yawned. "Ultrasonic, huh? No wonder I can't hear it."
"You really can't?"
"Really."
"You're lucky." Glancing at the tent flaps, he hissed. "There's that bug again."
An antennaed head about the size of Feighan's big toe slipped backwards through 
the flaps.
He shuddered. "Did you see the pincers on that thing?"
"Uh-huh. Didn't scare me, though."
"Only 'cause you've got thicker skin." Suddenly his arms felt good enough to 
pull his boots on. "Remind me to zip the flap shut tonight."
"But then it gets stuffy!"
"You want that thing back in here?"
"Uh… no, I guess not," said Sam resignedly. "But I can't sleep when it's 
stuffy."
"I have the funniest feeling that you're going to sleep real well—tonight, at 
least."
Sam's magenta tongue flickered out. "Maybe."
Feighan covered another yawn with his hand. "Let's go outside."
He pushed through the tent flaps, stepping carefully. A pebble clinked a few 
meters away, but it was too dark for him to see anything. The sky was paling, 
though. Overhead the stars were beginning to fade, and to the east swirled 
pre-dawn's milky-grey.
He stretched. His joints, tendons, and ligaments cracked and popped, sounding 
surprisingly loud in the quiet. Then Sam hissed.
"What is it?"
"You still can't hear it?"
"What?"
A wail wafted over from the eastern ridge. A rusty, grating noise, it filled the 
air and echoed off the hillside. After a moment, it doubled in volume. Then 
tripled.
"Oh, no!" Feighan had awakened to a number of unpleasantnesses in the past, but 
this… this ranked high on the list.
A nearby boulder offered itself as a stool. After first making sure that nothing 
had already claimed squatter's rights, he sat, drew up his leg, planted his 
elbow, and rested his chin on his hand.
"You look like that statue," said Sam. "Can I come up?"
"I suppose." He reached down, grabbed the Rhanghan's right hand, and pulled. His 
arm protested sharply. "Go on, get your front legs up, there's toeholds in the 
rock."
"Yeah, but they make my claws hurt."
"Well, I'm not going to lift you, so you'd better find 'em."
"You're no fun." With the scrape of ivory on basalt, Sam scrambled to his side. 
Tail scales made a soft susurrus against the rock. "Can you see better from up 
here?"
"It's only a meter higher."
"Hey, look, the sun! Oh wow! Look at H'nik!"
He lifted his head. Light as red as blood lanced through a notch in the distant 
mountains. It would have shone in his eyes, but H'nik stood in the way. He 
blinked—and smiled in surprised delight.
Dew beaded the spines of the Actuni, and the droplets broke each ray of light 
into a million tiny rainbows. They shimmered and glittered as the sun inched 
higher.
He held his breath, afraid that the slightest motion would shatter the scene. 
The screeching from the crest above seemed to soften as he focused on the 
jewel-hung figure before him. The wind stirred; he prayed it would not blow the 
magic away. Beside him, Sam gave a long, low hiss of rapture.
H'nik awoke. Its spines rippled like meadowgrass teased by a zephyr. The million 
tiny rainbows spun and shivered and—and died, as the monk twitched its spines to 
flick the dew onto his skin. It was like a dog shaking off water in reverse.
Feighan let his breath out wistfully.
Sam spat at the ground. "Aw, nuts."
"Well, you couldn't expect it to last forever."
"No, but—there's that bug again!" His tail flashed in the sun as he leaped off 
the boulder and bounded toward the insect. It was nearly the size of Feighan's 
hand, and its carapace glinted a dull blue-green. Its antennae drooped for an 
instant, then came to full attention. It skittered to its left.
Sam threw a pebble in its path.
Its dozens of armored legs milled as it spun, and scurried into the nearest 
shade: between H'nik's roots.
The monk dropped down.
Something crunched. Something else slurped. And H'nik wriggled its spines. 
"Thank you," it said. "A delightful way to begin the day. I am indebted to you 
for your thoughtfulness, young Sam. Brx'gn are rare delicacies to us, given 
their exasperating mobility. Good morning, McGill Feighan."
"Good morning. I take it your inner half is omnivorous?"
"Very." It rose. The ground beneath it was bare. "Are you ready to begin the 
day?"
Sliding off the boulder, Feighan brushed the dust from his hands. "Once we've 
had a little breakfast ourselves."
Two of H'nik's lower spines snapped together once, twice. "Something has just 
occurred to me, McGill Feighan."
"Yes?"
"If you will forgive a root in your bed—"
"Huh?"
"I do apologize; I transliterated one of our idioms. If you will forgive me, I 
meant to say, for intruding on what might be a private matter—?"
Feighan wanted to be cautious, but fatigue made his tongue clumsy. "It's hard to 
say in advance." Damn, I didn't mean to sound rude.
"Well, I—" The monk seemed flustered, but only momentarily. "I am aware that 
some of your Terran cultures have taboos about the subject I am about to 
mention, and I wish to assure you in advance that I have no intention of giving 
offense." It twisted 40° right, then 40° left, back and forth and back, so that 
one flankeye after the other could get a look at Feighan.
"Assurance taken," he said.
"We have very different metabolisms, McGill Feighan, and as I understand it, you 
need to eliminate your waste products rather more frequently than I do—and in 
rather greater bulk, as well."
He cleared his throat. "Ah… I really couldn't say."
"In many respects, Actu is a very poor world—we suffer the travails of too much 
sun and too little water—in consequence, our soil, though rich in minerals, 
magnificently aerated, and beautifully drained, is barely sufficient to permit 
life."
He gestured to the lush, clipped fields below. "But—"
"That soil results from centuries of close attention."
"Oh." Again he wished he could still call on Greystein's scientific 
expertise—his roommate had known something about almost everything, and could 
explain it well.
"You see, it needs organic matter between the particles of sand and silt and 
clay—organic matter to provide a home for our smallest cousins which, in dying, 
provide us with our nutrients. Organic matter to retain the infrequent rainfall. 
Organic matter to lighten it so that our roots might work through it more 
easily. We need this, McGill Feighan."
He made a face, and hoped at once that H'nik could not interpret it. "I, ah, I 
think I know where you're heading—at least I think I know what you're talking 
about—but what is it exactly you want me to do?"
"We would consider it a deep courtesy if you were to donate your waste products 
to the monastery."
He visualized himself and Sam, in suit and scale polish, solemnly proffering 
their "donation" to the monks. Though his nose twitched, he kept a straight 
face. But when a determinedly literal portion of his mind decided that such a 
donation had to be tax deductible, he giggled aloud.
Sam looked at him strangely.
Tilting its barrel a bit to one side, H'nik twiddled a dozen of its lower 
spines.
He nipped his tongue to sober himself up. "I'm sorry, H'nik—a private joke. 
Forgive me, and please, go on."
"I assure you that your gift would be put to good use—"
Pressing the bandage on his left biceps helped—some.
"—for the general public, and not for the private benefit of the clergy, as I 
understand was once the case in your Christian religion, and which, I 
understand, has left a lingering suspicion as to the actual altruism of the 
religious orders."
"I—" A cough into his hand concealed well enough his helpless grin. "I see no 
reason why we couldn't, ah, endow the monastery in the manner you have 
described—" Only the formal, stilted language kept him from total collapse. 
"—but I would appreciate your taking the time to explain a few of the details: 
for example, where you would like it delivered, how you would prefer it to be 
packaged, and how often we should, ah, ah—"
"Defecate?"
"Deliver," he said firmly.
"What's defecate mean?" said Sam.
"To make a BM."
"Why are you talking about that?" The Rhanghan looked from one to the other, and 
his expression accused them both of idiocy.
"The Actuni use it as a fertilizer."
"Can't they buy the chemical stuff we have at home?"
H'nik rustled its spines. "It is not the mineral enrichment which we require, 
young Sam; rather, we need the fibrous bulk as a soil conditioner."
Sam grimaced. "And you eat what grows in it?"
"We are what grows in it."
"Yecch."
Wincing, Feighan reacted as his training had taught him to. With a bow, he 
launched into the all-species speech every Flinger knew by rote: "From the 
depths of my heart I apologize. Sam has, unwittingly, given you offense. He did 
not intend to. Being alien to this world, he is ignorant of many of its customs. 
Pray forg—"
"It is quite all right, McGill Feighan. Even within a single species, the habits 
of one cultural grouping can profoundly disturb members of other groups; for 
example, it revolts the peakroots to see us eating lizards, bugs, and the like. 
The differences between species can be far more upsetting. I recall that when I 
visited Sam's mother many years ago, I found incomprehensible—even 
nauseating—her family's insistence on spending the winter sealed into a cave in 
a chalk cliff. Many weeks passed before I could consider that the act of an 
intelligent being."
Sam spoke up again. "She spends the whole winter indoors?"
"That is correct, young Sam."
"She doesn't go outside even once?"
"That is correct."
"Yecch." He flicked his tongue. "When we were there, it was summer."
H'nik shuffled around to face the valley. With the longest of its spines it 
pointed to the one patch of brown on the entire valley floor, some two klicks 
south of the monastery. "Do you see the line of faithful down there?"
The haze obscured all but the dominant colors. "No."
Sam hissed, and scurried into the tent.
H'nik said, "Were you to go there, you would find many hundreds of Actuni 
preparing to make their tithes. One simply gets in line—"
Sam returned with a pair of binoculars. "Here, McGill."
"Thanks." He pushed them against his eyes, then spun the knob. A long bristly 
line sprang into focus. One Actuni walked from the field to the head of the 
line, touched spines with the native there, then led it into the open ground. A 
hundred meters in, it stopped at a spot just beyond one that looked freshly 
tilled. How do they plow? thought Feighan. The second Actuni sank its roots 
deep. The spines banding its middle twirled aimlessly for a minute, then 
stopped. It rocked back and forth, and its roots reappeared, bringing subsoil 
with them, It rose, and departed in the general direction of the monastery.
Feighan scanned the line. It stretched for perhaps a kilometer. "Are they all, 
ah, waiting to make a donation?"
"To tithe," said H'nik, "though of course we do not use that word, nor is the 
percentage the same, but the concept is similar enough. They are—again I must 
use one of your words that only approximates our concept—they are communicants, 
adherents. The faithful do not donate, for the faithful know what they owe."
"So we're supposed to go down and get in line and wait our turn?" The thought 
made him queasy for a number of reasons. Not the least of which was that the 
second being in line was only now moving into the field.
"If you would be so kind."
"H'nik, I have a feeling you don't understand our metabolism quite as well as 
you might think you do. Those, ah, people at the head of the line must have been 
waiting a day or so—"
"Perhaps a bit longer."
He spread his arms. "We can't, ah, see, we need to ah, relieve ourselves several 
times a day, and ah—"
"You seem uncomfortable discussing this topic. Is it taboo after all? For if it 
is, I do not wish to cause you embarrassment or unpleasantness—"
"Well, it's just not something we usually talk about in public, if you know what 
I mean… I'll tell you what. What if we, ah, collect it all in say a paper bag—"
"McGill!" All four pair of Sam's eyelids popped as wide as they could open.
"—and I just Fling it down? The bags, of course, are biodegradable also… it 
would probably make things easier all around, wouldn't you say?"
One of H'nik's forward roots curled around a stone, and with that scratched the 
rocky soil of the terrace. Then it said, "Yes, that would be agreeable, if you 
are willing to sacrifice the grace."
"The grace?"
"Again an approximation, deeply though I regret the necessity of resorting to 
words that fail to communicate fully the concepts they are intended to express. 
You see, to tithe—to donate—before every eye is to prove to the world at large 
that you are accepting God's will, that you are suffering as you were intended 
to suffer. Theologically speaking, one acquires more grace by announcing one's 
willing acceptance of suffering than one acquires merely by accepting suffering 
willingly… but I digress. The stones already speak back to the sun. There is 
work to be done. If you would be so kind as to take us to the monastery—"
*PING*
They stood on the lip of the gravel-lined hollow; down below, a clump of six 
monks listened to a seventh address them in ear-aching tones. Quietly, H'nik 
said, "When the Abbot has finished, I will introduce you to—" It gargled, 
clicked glottally, and hummed. Then it clacked two dorsal spines, which sounded 
remarkably like "tsk-tsk."
"It would probably be easier for you to call it K'rach'a."
The native pronunciation felt like a regurgitated fishhook to his throat, and 
even he could hear that his accent was atrocious. For this language he needed 
the synthesizer Greystein had built into Oscar.
| Sam, however, who had cocked his head and listened sharply, repeated the name 
guttural for guttural, up to and including the "tsk-tsk."
"That is very good, Sam," said H'nik, "but those two final sounds were an 
expression of exasperation, not part of K'rach'a's name."
"I was wondering about that, but I couldn't tell."
In the hollow below, the Abbot still spoke. In its upper torso, a flame-orange 
flower blossomed. Feighan took the opportunity to ask, "Last night, right after 
sundown—and again this morning, right before sunrise—you were all, ah—"
"Praying. You did not hear the warning call to prayer, perhaps because human 
hearing is not overly keen, but as the sun approaches the far horizon, a cry of 
joy springs from the faithful in the land newly dark. It warns the faithful in 
twilight that our moment to praise is almost upon us."
"Okay," said Feighan dubiously. "But what about this morning?"
H'nik stepped back a pace. "You will learn more as your stay lengthens." Its 
voice rasped more harshly than usual. "The Abbot is finished, so let me 
introduce you to K'rach'a."
Six monks came clambering out of the hollow, each headed in a different 
direction. One hobbled directly for the trio, calling, "Good sun, H'nik! And 
wasn't that a lovely dew today?"
"Good sun, K'rach'a. Allow me to introduce you to McGill Feighan and his ward 
Sam, the Terran-speakers to whom I have assigned you as interpreters."
"Feighan McGill, how nice to meet you!"
H'nik scraped something in their own tongue.
K'rach'a said, "I apologize; I had thought McGill to be a surname."
"Quite all right," said Feighan. "Apparently everyone does."
K'rach'a was a few centimeters taller than H'nik, but much thinner. Most of its 
gnarled roots were short, stout, and splintery on the ends; from one or two 
dripped glittering sap. Wrinkles radiated from its top, running so deep it 
looked shriveled. It seemed to be aware that Feighan was studying it, for it 
said, "It was that flipping earthquake last month that did this to me—"
H'nik sawed on its spines.
"Don't be rude," said K'rach'a. "Speak English."
H'nik clacked those two dorsal spines. "It sounds as though you are lamenting 
your suffering, rather than accepting it."
"That's moonwind, H'nik, and you know it. I was just explaining to Feighan 
here—"
"His given name is McGill."
"Of course his given name is McGill, but his surname is Feighan. By damn, I 
didn't spend twenty years in London and five in Los Angeles for nothing! Adult 
Terran males from English-speaking cultures tend to call each other by their 
surnames—right?" It aimed its central ocular aureole straight at the Flinger.
He shrugged. "Either way; your choice."
"Thank you. I was just explaining to Feighan, here, H'nik, why I'm bald on 
bottom and flabby on top—sort of the reverse of the Terran aging process, eh 
Feighan?—because he was staring at my stumps." It rocked backward, raised one of 
its roots, and wriggled it. "I was sunk pretty deep when the quake hit—matted 
out, in fact—and I just couldn't get free in time."
Sam ambled over to inspect the mutilated roots. "Can you still walk?"
"Oh, sure, I manage to limp around just fine. The real problem is that I can't 
root right these days—no, H'nik, that's not a lamentation, just a statement of 
fact; I accept my suffering joyously because to be an Actuni is to suffer; it is 
our station in life—" It turned its attention back to Sam. "You probably won't 
believe this, but before the quake I was twice H'nik's size."
The other monk clacked its dorsal spines.
"Oh, all right. I'm exaggerating again—you'll have to watch for that in me, 
Feighan; I have a horrible tendency to hyperbolize everything—but I had at least 
a long spine on you in girth, and a short spine in height, yes?"
"What happened?" said Sam.
"With my roots torn up, I can't sink as deep as I used to, which means I sorta 
get by on dew. And let me tell you, it's tasty stuff, but there's just not 
enough of it. Even a good rain wouldn't help 'cause I can't spread far enough, 
either."
H'nik made a clucking sound. "The day brightens; I must leave you. K'rach'a—" It 
clattered into their own language for a few moments. "McGill Feighan, Sam, I 
will visit with you at the end of the day." Then it turned about, and trundled 
down the slopes of the hollow.
K'rach'a waited till H'nik was well out of earshot. "That monk is one hell of a 
theologian—did I get that idiom right?— but it is also the most touchy, 
peremptory, grouchy bastard in town. Well, let's get a move on before it comes 
back and chews me out again." It shifted awkwardly about until it faced the 
western mountains. "I'm supposed to escort you to the Flinger Building, so let's 
go."
The trail was bare and rocky. Once it left the valley floor, it wound up terrace 
after terrace—always fully exposed to the glare of the sun. Feighan looked at it 
with distaste. "Ah, K'rach'a, why don't I just Fling us there?"
"You know the way?" it asked with apparent surprise.
"It's where I arrived yesterday."
"Well, hot damn! I have to admit—"
*PING*
"—I wasn't looking forward to cooking this new growth of mine on that frying pan 
of a pathway." It did a small dance and spin. "Are we here already? That is such 
a fine skill you have, Feighan! It must make you just about the happiest guy in 
town, eh?"
He touched the welt Greystein's pebble had left on his neck, and he grimaced. 
"It has its drawbacks."
"Yeah? Well—come on, down this hall." Its roots made a broomlike noise on the 
tile floor. The fluorescents cast a purple-tinged light that sallowed the green 
of its skin. "Drawbacks, eh? I do seem to recall hearing that you're here 
because of something that went wrong back home—nothing serious, I hope?"
Sam caught Feighan's eye before the Flinger could open his mouth; the Rhanghan 
gave a small shake of his snout.
Feighan frowned. What's up? K'rach'a came on friendly enough—but Sam did have a 
track record. So he shrugged, and said lightly, "Oh, a small contretemps with, 
ah, the father of a young lady of my acquaintance."
"Huh?"
"I'm sorry." He hoped Sam never repeated that to Gina Maccari—she might not 
understand. "Contretemps means—"
"I know what it means," K'rach'a's tone sounded gruff. Feighan could not decide 
if that were a reflection of its feelings, or an effect of the echoes in the 
corridor. "What I don't get is—oh, ho! My mistake. I forgot that you Terrans 
breed, not bud."
It was Feighan's turn to be confused. "Don't you?"
"Us? Hell, no. No knocked-up women around here."
"Then, how do you, ah—"
"Well, we don't!" They rounded a corner; before them lay a row of doors leading 
to the Fling Booths. "Unless one of us taps down, in which case the death root 
buds a month or two later."
One of the doors opened. A short, very stout Actuni emerged. It wore an energy 
tunic similar to Feighan's; the bands of light wove in, around, and through its 
bristles. It said something to K'rach'a, who replied in their language.
Feighan glanced over at Sam, who was picking at a loose scale. Everything was 
okay, then.
K'rach'a said, "This here is Ghu'h'o, who's going to take us to all the points 
on the planet that you're supposed to learn. Later on, you'll be Flinging our 
missionaries to the points."
The Actuni Flinger spoke again.
K'rach'a said, "Whoops! Slight change in plans, folks— Ghu'h'o says it's pretty 
worn out today. Just came off its second shift, I guess. Anyway, you're only 
going to see three points today—"
With a quick rasping, the Flinger interrupted.
Again K'rach'a translated. "The thing is, Feighan, Ghu'h'o isn't going to go 
with us, so it'll be up to you to get us back from the places it Flings us to—is 
there going to be any problem with that?"
The building quivered slightly; dust puffed off the walls. Feighan held his 
breath till the tremor passed, then sighed. "I don't think I'll have any trouble 
remembering this place."
"Good, good! I guess we're supposed to get into the Booth here, so—" It shuffled 
backward, clearing a lane for Feighan and Sam to pass in front of it.
Feighan was uneasy about allowing another to Fling him— it was something he had 
not permitted since his high school days at the Flinger Academy. It was more 
than just pride or independence; it was, rather, that his Talent reacted to the 
use of another's Talent anywhere in his immediate vicinity. And the last time he 
had felt that reaction was when he had followed Greystein. It was too soon to be 
reminded of that.
K'rach'a said, "Our first stop will be at—"
*PING*
A roar filled the air, and a stink of sulphur gushed over them. They stood a 
hundred meters from an erupting geyser.
"—Yellow Springs. Oh, we're here already." Gingerly, it pivoted, seemingly 
oblivious to the clouds of reeking steam that billowed past.
Feighan coughed and rubbed his eyes. Sam had all his eyelids shut, and his 
nostrils were puckered, too. He had clamped his jaws so tightly that the muscles 
along his snout bulged; it was clear he did not want to whip his magenta tongue 
through that air.
K'rach'a loomed over them. "Are you two all right?"
The mist began to clear. Feighan took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. "I 
feel like I've been gassed."
"Really? I am sorry. This is one of our health spas, you see—we come here for 
the air—I didn't know it would bother you." It shuffled back and forth; the 
spines on its upper barrel made a lullaby sort of hum. "It won't blow again for 
another thirty or forty minutes, but if you need to get out—"
"No." The hot breeze was thinning the fumes. "No, we should be okay in a couple 
of minutes." His throat hurt. "So this is the monastery's health spa, huh?"
"No, it's the people's, not the monastery's—in fact, monks are expressly 
forbidden to come here except when they get lucky enough to get sent here as 
missionaries—or as guides for visiting dignitaries."
"Yeah? Well, why—"
"Do we send missionaries here? Believe it or not, there's a lot of ground water 
in this area, and there must be, oh, five hundred thousand of us—Actuni, not 
monks—living within a couple hundred of your kilometers from here. I know that's 
not much by your standards, I remember in London they had a hundred thousand 
people in a building, but you know, we don't get much rain here, so our 
population density's pretty low. And that's why we send missionaries here."
Eyes finally clear, Feighan looked around. They stood in the bottom of a 
depression ringed by rugged hills that rolled back into the haze; saucer shaped, 
the depression had to measure ten kilometers in diameter. "So the missionaries 
Flop here and spread out in all directions, right?"
"No, we're not allowed to sleep within three of your kilometers of Yellow 
Springs."
Feighan scratched his head, then understood. "When a Flinger says, 'Flop,' he 
means to arrive in a place after having been teleported. I didn't mean sleep."
"I am sorry. The idioms you English-speakers have come up with are enough to 
drive us aliens to total distraction… and you know, I've gotten half of them out 
of books—"
"I thought you couldn't read," said Sam.
"Oh, we can read perfectly well, if we let the page sit in the sun for a while. 
It's sort of a strange skill, but we can learn it. What we just can't do is 
write—it's not easy to hold a pen with one of these spines. But like I was 
saying, I picked up my idiomatic English from books, and I'll be damned if I can 
figure out whether or not any of it's contemporary. I mean, do you guys still 
use 'flop' as a synonym for sleep?"
"Not really. Maybe some people do, but I've never heard it in conversation—the 
only reason I knew what you meant was that I've read some old books myself. So 
what I asked was, your missionaries arrive here, and—"
"Head for the hills."
Feighan winced.
K'rach'a drooped its spines. "Wrong again, huh?"
"Uh-huh."
"Damn it," it said crisply. "Very well, then. They arrive and disperse among the 
farmers in the outlying districts. Some take up residence along the highways—"
Feighan raised an eyebrow.
"To us, Feighan, a highway is a path five or ten meters wide, smoothly graded, 
and free of rocks with sharp edges."
"Now I'm sorry." He wished he had not given vent to even that little sarcasm. 
Aliens could be touchy when they detected sneers. "Please, go on."
"As I was saying, some take up residence along the—" It did a quick jig. "Along 
the caravan routes, all right? They proselytize among those coming to the spa: 
the vacationers, the ailing, the tradesmen. This is a place of overweening 
materialism, Feighan, and it is in such a place that one must remind the people 
of their debt to God. At least that's what the Abbot says."
Feighan looked around again, then bent one knee so he could scratch the soil 
surface and rub its grit between his fingers. He sniffed the air, still tainted 
with sulphur, and closed his eyes, slipping into a quasi-trance that held just 
long enough for his subconscious to memorize the location. Then he blinked. He 
"knew" Yellow Springs, now, knew it in a way only a fellow Flinger could—and 
when it came time to teleport a missionary to that spot, he would have no 
trouble. "Okay. I'm done. Shall we go back?"
K'rach'a's spines made a sound like a sigh. "I picked that up in London. Sound 
Terran enough?"
"Were you trying to suggest wistfulness?"
"Precisely."
"You got it, then. Let's go." He stood, and—
*PING*
—brought them back to the Flinger Building, where Ghu'h'o waited in the 
corridor. It snapped its spines loudly.
K'rach'a said, "It's a little p-o'd at us for taking so long."
"Explain about the geyser and what it did to us."
"Ghu'h'o understands English—just can't speak it, that's all."
Feighan turned to his native colleague. "I'm very sorry about the delay. We 
arrived just as the geyser was erupting, and the sulphur, ah, sort of 
incapacitated Sam and me. It took us a few minutes to recover."
Ghu'h'o spoke at great length, pacing up and down with its bristles waving.
K'rach'a said, "It's really ticked that I didn't know the air at the springs 
would be hazardous to your health."
On the Actuni's far side, Sam nodded.
K'rach'a continued. "It says, even though I didn't know you guys didn't like to 
breathe that stuff, I shouldn't have taken any chances—I should have timed 
things so that we got there long after the geyser blew."
Sam nodded again.
"But honest, Feighan, I didn't know—and I didn't even stop to think that maybe 
the timing on that would have been better. I mean, if you took me to, say, 
Calcutta, you wouldn't stop to wonder if it were monsoon season and what effect 
that would have on me, now, would you?"
Sam hunched forward. Eyes slitted, he wagged his snout slowly, slightly, from 
side to side.
Feighan thought, What's going on here? Sam thinks K'rach'a did do it 
maliciously, but why? Soon as I get a chance, I better find out… "These things 
happen, and it didn't do any serious harm, so let's not worry about it. 
Ghu'h'o—"
The Actuni Flinger literally jumped up and down, rasping its spines so loudly 
that both Feighan and Sam stepped back. Feighan would have covered his ears, but 
to do so would give offense. So he tried to maintain an expression of polite 
interest until the other had finished. It was difficult.
K'rach'a said, "As I think you can see, Ghu'h'o's angry— it feels its 
reputation's been besmirched; that it has, uh, what's the phrase? Lost face?"
Feighan said, "No, Ghu'h'o, really—it was a perfect Fling, and it's not your 
fault we Flopped just as the geyser was going off. We don't blame you in the 
least." As he finished, he wondered which represented the Actuni norm: 
imperturbable H'nik, or temperamental Ghu'h'o. He hoped the Flinger was 
atypical—he really did not want to spend all his time on the planet smoothing 
ruffled spines.
But Ghu'h'o had apparently been placated, for it turned and strode back to its 
room. Before it closed the door, it snapped something at K'rach'a.
"Time for the second locale, guys." It led the way into the Fling Booth. The 
door whispered shut behind them; Feighan's boots crunched gravel on the tiles. 
"This time we're going to the badlands—"
"Aren't we there already?" hissed Sam, a shade too loudly.
K'rach'a's spines stiffened; it seemed to swell before their eyes. It gave a 
hum, high and ominous—
*PING*
—then rocked its top as a Saharan landscape materialized around them. The hum 
quieted. Its spines relaxed. "I hadn't noticed the transition," it said to Sam. 
"I'm sorry I got mad."
Feighan shot his ward a single warning glance.
Sam, doing his best to look innocent, scratched the middle of his back with the 
tip of his tail.
A rock landed at their feet, kicking up dust.
Feighan spun, scanning the horizon for whatever had hurled the head-sized stone 
at them. Catapult? Some kind of bi-i-ig shot-putter? The sun burned grainy brown 
sand, boulders softened by years of abrasive wind, and nothing else. "K'rach'a, 
are we under attack, or what?"
"Naw. Tell me, Feighan, why do you Terrans think everybody's out to get you? 
Seems like anytime something happens around a Terran, the first thing he says 
is, who's got it in for me? A little paranoia's a healthy thing, but as a 
species, you people take it too far."
Thinking, Even a paranoid can have enemies—look at poor Greystein, he said, 
"Then what the hell is this?" He kicked the rock. It was warm. Fifty meters 
away, sand fountained as a small boulder thumped into the side of a dune. "And 
that? What is it, who did it?"
"These are the badlands, Feighan." It hobbled through a pivot until it faced in 
the opposite direction. "See that smudge on the horizon?"
"Clouds?"
"Mountains."
"That was my second guess."
"More accurately, volcanoes. There's a line of them, running north and south for 
a couple thousand of your kilometers. It's more a belt than a line, and the 
belt's about five hundred kilometers wide."
Feighan walked over to a basalt outcropping and sat on its smooth top. Sam 
stretched out in the sand like a sunbather. "Okay, fine, you've got a lot of 
volcanoes over there—what does that have to do with this bombardment?"
K'rach'a waddled up to him. "The volcanoes are doing it."
"What?" He squinted, but the dark line on the horizon would not resolve into 
separate peaks. The Rockies looked that way from Kansas… "Those have to be 
hundreds of kilometers away."
"They are—but they're tall. Very tall. And there's a whatdoyoucallit, a jet 
stream, up above them. It goes from west to east. If one of those cones spits a 
rock in this direction, the wind carries it a little farther than it would have 
gone on its own. It's awful damn rare for two of 'em to hit so close together, 
but it's what the badlands are all about. Dig around here and you'll turn up 
rock after rock after rock, all of them from those cones."
"Then why in the world do you want to Fling missionaries here?" Even as he 
spoke, he kept an anxious eye on the sky. He wondered if, did he see a chunk of 
hot rock rainbowing toward him, he would have time to get out of its way. He 
rather thought not. He squirmed.
K'rach'a waggled its long spine in a westerly direction. "About a hundred 
kilometers that way is some of the finest farming land on this planet. It's 
another belt, parallel to the cone belt, and it's a hundred, two hundred 
kilometers wide itself. See, the cones leak ash all the time, and that gives the 
water vapor in the air something to condense around, and so it rains—not like 
London, of course; in fact, there isn't a place on this planet as wet as Los 
Angeles, even—but then, the stuff we grow doesn't need very much water. And the 
ash really enriches the soil."
Feighan shook his head. Actu was insane. "If that's the case, then why Fling 
missionaries here instead of a hundred kilometers to the west?"
"It's half politics, and half theology." It burrowed a root into the sand to 
raise a ridge, down the sides of which slid the sparkling grains. "See, the 
farmers have this thing about strangers just sort of showing up and dropping 
root—they're pretty possessive about their land. In fact, after the FNC brought 
us into the Network, the farmers spread the word that any Flinger—any Actuni 
Flinger—who showed up on their land would have its roots chewed off. If you walk 
in, though, they're a little more hospitable."
That made as much sense as anything did. "So what's the theological part?"
It rasped a few spines in random noise. Then it said, "Mortification."
"Pardon?"
"A missionary can't go straight into the goodlands! It has to suffer, first. It 
has to understand our role in life. So it has to walk."
A pebble hit centimeters from Sam, splashing dust onto his snout. He opened one 
eye wearily, studied the pebble, then let his eyelid slide closed. "McGill—" His 
voice verged on a whine. "—can we go home now?"
"You really did sleep bad, huh kid? Hold on a minute." Squatting, he sifted a 
handful of dirt through his fingers. His eyes blurred out of focus. While the 
wind rushed past, he sniffed at its dark, smoky undercurrents. Then he stood. 
"Okay." *PING*
Sand spilled off K'rach'a's roots onto the white tiles of the Flop Booth floor. 
Ghu'h'o was in its room, behind the plate glass window. It shook a spine at 
them.
"Feighan, you wouldn't believe what a rotten temper that Ghu'h'o has," said 
K'rach'a. "Do you know what it's threatening to do?"
"I don't speak Actuni." Holding open the door to the Fling Booth, he motioned 
Sam in, and waited for the monk.
"He said if we'd taken a minute longer, he would have Flung me into the middle 
of your Atlantic Ocean."
Sam's tail swished restlessly. "And I'll bet you can't swim, either, huh?"
"No."
"So you'd drown!" His eyes were very wide.
"No, I'd bob like a cork."
"Well, then, why—"
"And then I'd rot from too much water."
"Oh."
"Just between you and me, Sam, I'd rather drown—it hurts to rot. First thing 
goes is your spines; they just fall off. So you're all bald, and then you 
shrivel a little 'cause your veins have shut down, then you go soft and 
puffy—sorta squishy— when the rot sets in. No, I'd really rather be able to 
drown."
Behind the plate glass window, Ghu'h'o's spines quivered. Its energy tunic 
dimmed almost to invisibility, held steady for a second, then flared—"
*PING*
The breath torn from his mouth condensed into a puff of white that the wind 
promptly shredded. He stood knee-deep in snow; Sam, neck-deep. The sky above was 
purple, and the air was damn thin. Gasping, he hugged himself. "K'rach'a! What 
the hell is this?" To shout made him pant for oxygen.
"The Crown of Actu." The monk scraped harder to speak louder. "It is the highest 
mountain on the planet."
Already the cold had seeped into him; his teeth chattered and he bounced up and 
down. In this place he did not need to stoop, to scratch, to sniff—this place 
had already sunk into his bones.
*PING*
The Flinger Building was an oven, and he was glad to be in it. Beside him, Sam 
shivered. K'rach'a said, "You didn't want to look around?"
"No. Why ever do you send missionaries up there?"
"You have a saying, 'All roads lead to Rome.' On Actu, all roads lead to the 
Crown."
"To the peak?"
"Well, no. To the base, actually, which is something of a high plateau."
"Then why not Fling to the base—or is it more mortification?"
The monk seemed amused. "More politics. Or actually, self-preservation."
Sam looked from one to the other, nodding slightly.
Feighan said, "Self-preservation?"
"The mountain folk are a hostile, suspicious people, especially—well, never mind 
about that. To put it very simply, if you don't approach them by coming down 
from the Crown, the peakroots'll trigger your tap."
"But why?" said Sam.
The monk's roots ground slowly against the tiles, as if straining to push 
through them. "It's a very long story, Sam, and to understand it you have to 
know a lot more about our physiology, our theology, our agriculture, and a whole 
lot of other things. Okay? After you've been here a while, after you've gotten 
to know us better, then I'll try to explain."
"All right." The Rhanghan's tail rose, to swing from side to side in steady, 
measured beats.
That alarmed Feighan. "Sam!"
He did not take his eyes off the native. "What, McGill?"
"No."
"But—"
"No."
K'rach'a said, "Is something wrong?"
Sam hissed at the same instant Feighan said, "No."
The monk backed away, did a stutter step on its lumpy roots, and spun around to 
face the door. "Then let's go."
Feighan let it get into the corridor before he dropped to his knees. He rested 
his hand on Sam's lower back. "What's wrong, kid?"
"I don't know." He still stared out the doorway.
"You were ready to attack."
"I know," he said miserably, "and I don't know why."
"Is K'rach'a planning to hurt us?"
"No, but—" He snapped his jaws shut.
"But what?"
"It'll sound silly."
"That's okay."
"It wants to eat us." The words out, Sam hung his head in embarrassment.
Feighan rocked back on his haunches. "What?"
Sam glared. "If you laugh at me I'll hate you."
He spread his hands. "No. I promise. I won't laugh. But— I mean—K'rach'a wants 
to eat us?"
"No."
"But you just said—"
"It wants to eat us. Not K'rach'a. The other one. Inside." He made vague 
stuffing motions with his hands.
"You mean its symbiote?"
"Whatever you call it. K'rach'a's our friend—sort of. I mean, it's not, really, 
but it doesn't want to hurt us. The symbio, though—"
"Symbiote."
"Symbiote. It's hungry. For us."
He did not know what to make of a guide/translator whose inner half wanted to 
make a meal of its outer half's responsibility. "Are we in danger?"
"Sometimes," Sam said thoughtfully. "I can feel it. And then… we're not."
Feighan looked at him skeptically. He wondered how much of what Sam felt was the 
truth, and how much sprang from the child's undoubtedly fertile imagination.
"I told you it'd sound silly, but it's all true."
"Hey, I believe you, kid. It's just… it's just I wish I knew how you did it. I 
mean, you're not a Minder…you're not, are you?"
"Uh-uh. I can't hear thoughts like Gina can."
"But the instant anybody plans to hurt us—"
"Then I hear it. But not before. And I don't hear like words or anything—I just 
sort of know."
"Well—" He stroked his ward's skullbone, scratching the spot behind the ears 
that Sam preferred. "I'm glad you're with me, and if you hear—"
"Hey, Feighan!" The raspy voice came from the corridor. "You're late for work."
The Flinger rose. Physically he was exhausted and in pain, but his Talent had 
lain on the shelf for the past couple of days, and it wanted to be used. For a 
moment he felt as two-minded as K'rach'a: half of him yearned for a cool, shady 
place to nap in; the other half needed a seat in the booth of echoes and tiles, 
there to expend its energy with one sure Fling after another. He smoothed back 
his hair and shouted. "I'm coming." To Sam he said, "Let's go."
The Rhanghan followed obediently, but at the door said, "Later—not now, but in a 
while—ask K'rach'a about the long spine."
"Huh?" Ahead, the monk motioned for him to hurry up.
"Just ask him."
"All right." Five paces down the hallway, a door opened into an empty Flinger 
Room. Ghu'h'o had left already; the only being inside was K'rach'a. Feighan 
looked around for a chair.
"I took your pot—figured you wouldn't have much use for it—you mind?"
The terra cotta container, a meter high and wide, was filled to within five 
centimeters of the top. He could have perched on its rim, but that would have 
gotten very uncomfortable very quickly. "Uh-uh." He waved a hand. "It's all 
yours."
"Good soil in here. You Flingers do all right by yourselves." Its roots squirmed 
around in the rich black loam, stirring it as they spread, releasing its 
leaf-mold fragrance. "This stuff's imported all the way from Rii—edsch; nothing 
like it anywhere here."
"Is there a chair around?"
"Uh… no, no, can't say as there is." It riffled its bristles. "We don't sit 
much, you see."
"Uh-huh." He sighed, and made a mental note to pick up a chair the next time he 
went home for water. Or sooner, if standing by the observation window grew as 
tiring as he figured it would. He walked over to the glass.
Down below, in the Fling Booth, half a dozen Actuni stood spine to spine in the 
exact middle of the room. They did not move or speak.
"Where's this group going?"
"The Crown."
Feighan glanced at his console. It looked like the sort of machine Greystein 
used to build—only more so. "That should be displayed here somewhere."
"It is."
"Where?" He frowned at the panel. Most were standard issue, distributed by the 
Flinger Network Control, but he had never seen this model before. Of course, the 
standard issue was designed for use on worlds whose dominant species had hands… 
"I can't make heads or tails of this board."
"It's the fourth light from the right."
"This purple one?" He tapped it.
"Purple, huh? But yeah, that's the one. It's the infrared pattern we associate 
with the Crown."
"Right." As he scanned the board, his frown twisted into a scowl. "Where's the 
weight read-out?"
"Right next to it, the third from the right."
"But it's dark! Is it broken?"
"Dark! It's—I keep forgetting. You guys can't see into the infrared. Obviously, 
I'm going to have to hang around and read these for you. Tsk-tsk, poor me. It 
says, uh, wait a minute, let me work this out—" It fell silent for a long 
moment; one patch of spines twitched from its normal position to point at the 
ceiling, then twitched again to aim at the floor. "Okay, it's nine hundred four 
kilograms. I think."
"You mass about one fifty, huh?" Feighan turned back to the window.
"On average. Me, I'm down to about a hundred these days—"
"Can you tell them we're ready up here?"
"Sure." It scraped out a long, wavering note. Each member of the party repeated 
it. "They're ready, too."
A shudder ran down Sam's vertebral fins; he whispered, "Are they going to do 
that every time?"
He shrugged, then closed his eyes so he could concentrate on the group, and 
visualize that icy peak, and feel the first on the second, and then he knew how 
to put the one onto the other, and—
*PING*
—the missionaries vanished.
Feighan leaned forward. The glass of the window cooled his forehead. "Five 
minutes and we'll do the next."
K'rach'a sawed out a series of different notes. The door below opened; another 
batch of missionaries began to file in.
"Something I wanted to ask," said Feighan.
"Yes?"
"Your long spine—it looks different from the rest, and you don't seem to use it 
the way you use the others."
"We don't. We point with it, of course, but the only other thing we use it for 
is to trigger taps." The monk shifted around in the pot, spilling dirt over the 
rim. "That means to kill somebody."
Feighan's jaw dropped. "To kill?"
"Yeah, didn't you know? It's not permanent; they always bud up from the death 
root, but it's as close as we can get."
He studied it with new respect. "You use it like a lance?"
"Sort of. But it's got a high metal content—copper, mostly—and it's hooked to 
our brain case for the tap shot."
"Uh… what's a tap shot?"
"You didn't know about that, either, huh? See, our brain cases function a little 
like your—hell, they are like your storage batteries. We can deliver a pretty 
good jolt if we want to. But the tap shot is when you poke your long spine 
through the other guy's eye and brain till you make contact with the far side of 
its brain case—at which point you throw the switch and short the sucker out. 
Takes a good long time to line yourself up for it, but boy, it's over in a 
second."
"And you don't short yourself out?"
"Nah. Your spine fuses to the other guy's brain case, though, and you've got to 
rip it off before you can break away from the corpse. It takes forever for it to 
grow back, too, and even then it usually regenerates in a different place."
Six more monks had clumped in the middle of the Fling Booth floor. One stood at 
the center; five surrounded it. Their bristles interlocked: except for their 
long spines, which they swiveled up into the Actuni equivalent of "right 
shoulder arms."
Feighan said, "Where to this time?" The display panel glowed rust orange.
"The badlands."
"Are they ready?"
"Let me ask."
Sam covered his ears immediately. Feighan wished he could do the same.
"Squaw-wa-wa-wa-wriiiiiiik!"
The monks returned the cry.
Feighan was only too glad to send them on their way.
He made forty-six more Flings before K'rach'a called a halt.
"I can do more," he said. His body was ready to quit, but his Talent was just 
getting warmed up. Over the years, it had gotten used to ninety-six Flings a 
day. Fifty-one was nothing.
"Ah, but night's coming on. Why don't you take us back to your campsite?"
*PING*
The tent lay in shadow, though sunlight still bathed the top terrace on the 
eastern slope. Sam headed straight for the water tank, and Feighan said, "Pour 
me a glass, too."
"In a minute." The Rhanghan paused, and cocked an ear. "Oh, no!"
"What?"
"They're at it again!"
"Every night," said K'rach'a. Hobbling about, it faced the east. As the last 
band of gold slivered off the opposite peaks, it, too, began to screech.
"I think I brought some cotton," said Feighan. "In the first aid kit. You want 
to get it?"
"Will it help?"
"It's got to cut the racket some."
Wisps of cotton protruding from their ears, they cooked dinner over the camp 
stove and tried not to shudder as the litany wore on. "Jesus," said Feighan. 
"It's like gears with broken teeth."
"Claws on a bathtub," said Sam mournfully. "I don't like the sound when I make 
it, but when somebody else does—"
"Maybe tomorrow I'll Fling home. I need a chair, and I can pick up some ear 
plugs at the same time."
"I'll love you forever if you do, McGill."
At least K'rach'a did not fall asleep right afterwards. It explained to them 
that the litany actually went on all day. "In fact, our history roots eighteen 
thousand years back, to the Great Drought, and in all that time the liturgy has 
not stopped once."
"But everybody quieted down."
"You see, as Actu spins on its axis, two groups begin praying—those who enter 
night, and those who enter day." Its spines quivered, then, and its long spine 
snapped into the locked position. Then it relaxed. "The theologians argue about 
which time is better for prayer, but the important part is that we do pray. When 
the prayers stop, the world ends." It made the sine-wave rasp that Feighan had 
begun to associate with thought. "Well, that's what the Holy says, at least, but 
Holy's eighteen thousand years old. Today, thanks to Network science, we know 
better."
Feighan smiled into the darkness. With a trace of condescension, he said, "I 
would hope so."
"Today," said K'rach'a, "we know that if we stop praying, the entire universe 
will end."
"Ah…" The Flinger closed his mouth before something regrettable slipped out.
"My— I guess you'd call it my 'faction,' but that has political connotations 
that don't really jibe with our situation— my faction believes you ought to pray 
at dusk, and at least three times during the day. The other faction says you 
pray at dawn, and at least three times during the night. But what do they know? 
They're all mountain trash."
Sam gave a small snore, and Feighan yawned. "K'rach'a, it's getting late; we 
should sleep." He picked up Sam and walked to the tent.
"Of course, of course, go right ahead. And if you don't mind, I'll just stick 
around—it's sort of hard for me to walk, you know."
Feighan was about to mumble a sleepy, "Sure, go ahead," but Sam stiffened in his 
arms. The Flinger came wide awake. "Oh, hey, no need! I'll Fling you back to the 
monastery." And before the monk could protest, he had done just that.
Sam relaxed.
"Was it hungry again, kid?"
"It was thinking about it. You want to put me down? I can make it on my own four 
feet."
"Just so long as you get the flap." In minutes he was asleep, wounds, 
night-prayers, and all.
In the morning he picked up K'rach'a, and Flung all three of them to the Flinger 
Building. Once again he teleported squat squads of chanting Actuni to the 
various reference points K'rach'a read off the display for him.
After forty-eight Flings, they knocked off for lunch, and wandered out onto the 
Building's patio, which overlooked a short, narrow valley with farms in the 
bottomland. K'rach'a settled itself in the sun. Feighan and Sam poured metallic 
canteen water into packs of freeze-dried stew. Sam said, "Yecch."
"Would you rather go hungry?"
Sam eyed the aluminized pouch with disfavor. "I don't think so."
Secretly, Feighan agreed… but they had a case of the stuff left, and would just 
have to put up with it for at least that much longer.
After lunch, Sam prowled the patio, peering over the cliff edge down into the 
valley. "Hey, K'rach'a. How come those guys over there haven't moved in a long 
time?" He pointed to a line of closely spaced Actuni which looped around a field 
of berry bushes.
" 'Cause they're guarding the field."
"How come they're not moving, though?"
"Because they rooted themselves."
"I thought you all did," said Feighan, "all the time."
"Ah, but you've got two ways to do it: you can send out these—" It rocked 
backward to lift a root. "—quite a ways. They spread quick, and ingather 
quicker. But you can also mat out—that means you sprout fibrous hairs from these 
main roots, and the hairs grow and grow until they get so interwoven that you 
can't tell another guy's root from its bed. Fences and library monks mat out." 
It gave a long, low scrape: the sound of sadness. "And that's dangerous—you 
can't escape the soil so easily."
"Weren't you a library monk?" asked Sam.
"Until the earthquake. It's a great life—you think slowly, but oh so deeply…"
"But what do you do all day?"
"Oh, we sing the Holy—both as a focus for our own meditation, and to help out 
those who pass by."
Feighan said, "Would it be rude of me to ask about your God?"
The monk shuffled around in the sun. "Nah, it's never rude to ask that. But 
really, you don't need to."
"Why?"
"Because you know our God, although under a different name."
That surprised him. Greystein had been an accomplished amateur exologist, once, 
but had never mentioned that Terra and Actu "shared" a divinity. "Who—Jehovah?" 
He pictured Him in His long white beard.
"No. No, no, no."
"Who, then—Allah?"
"The Far Being Retzglaran, of course."
Chapter XIII
« ^ »


He wished he had a number to call. It frustrated him immensely to sit at his 
desk till midnight, waiting for the phone to ring, when he had finally obtained 
the information.
At long last, the instrument jangled. He snatched it up. "I've got him!"
"In your possession?"
"What? No, no. I mean, I know where he is!"
"It is about time. Give me the address."
That flustered him. "Well, uh, it's not an address, exactly— it's a planet. I 
mean, Feighan's on the planet Actu."
The sigh came clearly through the wire. "Inadequate. I trust you are aware that 
the surface area of Actu is rather larger than that of Earth?"
"Uh… well, I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but now that you—"
"We have a small base there. Devise a means of locating Feighan—without 
delay!—and put a Flinger on standby to transport us there. Be ready to depart on 
a moment's notice. Is that understood?"
"Yes." His palms were sweating again, and he hated it. "Yes, it is."
The dead line hummed to itself.
A Flinger on standby… He took a deep breath. Harry Lipsiento. He'll do what he's 
told—he, at least, is programmed correctly.
Chapter XIV
« ^ »


"The Far Being Retzglaran is God?" He had heard that suggested before, but never 
by anyone who believed it. His shadow spilled out as he leaned forward in 
excitement. "Listen, could you tell me—"
"Not right now, Feighan, because you have to get back to work."
"But—" A million questions bubbled up.
"Sorry—later, all right?"
He had to let it lie. Frustrated and vaguely resentful, he went back into the 
hot, dead air of the Building, and took up his prowl before the plate glass 
window. He could not concentrate. The questions that remained unanswered kept 
percolating through his consciousness for the rest of the afternoon.
At long last, he Flung the ninety-sixth batch of missionaries of the day, and 
turned eagerly to K'rach'a. "About the Far Being—"
"No." The monk clambered out of the pot, waddled down the ramp, and went 
outdoors.
"What do you mean, no?" As he stepped outside, the hot breeze dried his sweat.
"Feighan, I'm no theologian—"
"But you spent all those years as a library monk!"
"Centuries, actually, but that doesn't make me a know-it-all on God. It means I 
know the Holy, that's all—backwards, forwards, and upside down, you bet, but 
that's all. You want to ask about the Far Being, you ask H'nik. Besides, you're 
supposed to be meeting with it at eight arcs—that's three of your hours before 
sundown—so it can ask you about the Far Being. And that—" It tilted its barrel 
so its central eyespine pointed to the sun. "—oh boy, that's right now! Let's 
go."
"But—"
"No. Take us to the monastery."
"McGill—" Sam grabbed his wrist. "—do I have to go, too?"
The plaintive note in his ward's voice silenced his instinctive affirmative. He 
looked down. Sam's shoulders slumped, his arms hung loose, and his tail lay flat 
on the patio. Feighan felt for the kid. "Not if you don't want to go—but what 
are you going to do?"
"I don't know. There's nothing to do here. I'll just go back to the tent and lie 
in the sun or something."
Feighan squatted, bringing himself down to the Rhanghan's eye-level. "You sure? 
You're welcome to come with us, if you want."
"Yeah, I know, but it's no fun to sit around listening to you talk about the Far 
Being Retzglaran." He pronounced the name with a sharp swift twist of dislike. 
Then he brightened in a child's optimism. "Hey, K'rach'a! Are there any kids 
around here I can play with?"
"Afraid not, Sam. We don't have kids—only stump buds. By the time they can move 
around, they're thirty or forty years old—that's pretty grown-up, even for us. 
And as soon as they tear free of the death root, they go to work. They don't 
have time to play or anything."
"Aw, nuts." He bent over to pick disconsolately at a loose scale on his right 
front foot.
"What about your picture books?" said Feighan.
"I colored them in already." Straightening, he folded his arms across his chest. 
"This is no fun, McGill. When can we go home?"
He shook his head sadly. "I wish I knew, Sam. Not any time soon, though." As he 
stood, he muffled a yawn. "I'll set you down at the tent, and I'll be up later, 
okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
"And remember to use the paper bag."
"I hate that, too!" His tongue flickered out while his tail arched up and over 
his back. "I hate everything here. I'm just going to go to sleep, that's what 
I'm going to do. Maybe I'll wake up in New York."
"Hey—"
"Just leave me alone, okay McGill? And Fling me back to the tent."
"All right. I'll see you later." He closed his eyes, and—
*PING*
—and Sam was gone.
It hurt that he could not cheer the kid up. "Aah… you ready, K'rach'a?"
"You bet."
*PING*
They stood on the lip of the monastery bowl. Late afternoon sun fell warm on the 
Flinger's face. "I meant to ask, why is the monastery down in a hollow?"
"Self-abnegation."
"Pardon?"
"The Actuni role in life is to suffer; the monks' role is to suffer more. That's 
what the Abbot says, and the Abbot's boss. So, over the years, we built this 
place by carrying off all the soil particles smaller than, uh… what is that 
thing you Terrans eat? Round and green and pretty small?"
He stretched and yawned. The heat was sapping his strength and replacing it with 
lethargy; his wounds still hurt. "A pea?"
"That's it! Nothing down there is smaller than a pea. If you spent your whole 
life rooted in the monastery, you'd starve to death."
"How's that?"
"There's no nutrition in gravel—wonderful aeration, you bet, but no food. No 
organic matter for the microbiota to live on, no clay particles to hold the 
nutrients for you… if we didn't get out and around, we'd shrivel to nothing in 
no time."
A monk trudged up the slope toward them, calling, "McGill Feighan! I am glad you 
were able to spare me the time."
"It's part of my job, isn't it?"
"In a way, yes. Rather, it will be, once you have acclimated yourself to what 
must surely be a difficult planet for a Terran to adapt himself to. At the 
moment, though, it is most certainly not a condition of employment. As I said, 
later on, yes, certainly. But for now, we really must consider your willingness 
to subject yourself to my inquisitiveness as an act of charity, so to speak."
H'nik's spines were twitching in preparation for further elucidation, but 
K'rach'a interrupted. "Feighan, I'm going to take off now. This guy here is just 
too wordy for me. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"
"I'll pick you up."
Shining position to face the other monk, H'nik rasped at it in their own 
language for a good minute.
K'rach'a answered with a curt guttural.
H'nik sawed again, longer this time.
K'rach'a seemed to wilt. It dipped forward, hummed briefly, then backed away, 
dipping at three-meter intervals.
Feighan said, "What was that all about?"
"Oh, nothing for you to worry about, McGill Feighan, just a small matter between 
K'rach'a and myself. You know how these things go."
He did not, but was tired enough to let it pass. "K'rach'a said today that we 
know your God by the name of the Far Being Retzglaran?"
"Ah? Interesting… before we continue, perhaps it might be wiser if you were to 
transfer us to another location—say, perhaps, that small sandy knoll over by 
the, ah, the eastern slope? Somewhat to the south of the library?"
He peered at it, blinking against the dazzle of sunlight it reflected. "You sure 
you wouldn't rather find a shady spot?"
"You have a marvelous sense of humor, McGill Feighan. Please, take us there at 
once—life at the bottom of the soup bowl is perilously close to dormancy."
*PING*
"Soup bowl?"
H'nik sank its roots with audible pleasure. "I must confess I am of mountain 
stock, and was raised on brighter light than is available in the monastery 
hollow. About the Far Being… I do rather wish K'rach'a had not said that, for 
such knowledge might well prejudice your answers to my questions. But yes, the 
Far Being Retzglaran is God."
Feighan felt betrayed by the answer, and immediately astonished by his reaction. 
Why? But then he realized that he had been hoping the scholarly H'nik would 
ridicule the idea as the belief of a bumpkin, and go on to describe God in the 
vague, almost abstract and aloof terms favored by Terran theologians.
It was comforting to think that there was a God, a Shaper and a Creator now 
retired, working part-time as the universal security guard Who enforced the 
basic laws of nature. That was comforting precisely because it kept God at a 
distance, ever unlikely to affect the affairs of a twenty-two-year-old Terran 
named Feighan.
But to hear that the God of omni/ubi attributes was not only still in Its prime, 
but was still watching the sparrows fall in a trillion fields on a million 
worlds—to suspect that the gastropod which kidnapped you at birth was not an 
alien but an angel— to know that you are the focus of the interest of God 
Itself— this is scary. Even to approach those thoughts had always frightened 
Feighan, and so he had always shied away instinctively, like a horse pulling up 
at a rattle in the dry grass. Now H'nik was saying it was all true—and though it 
excited him, it terrified him as well. He shook his head.
"What is it?" asked the monk.
He let his breath out with a soft hiss. "So many things have happened to me 
because of the Far Being. The Organization got after me because of It, and 
they've cost me my family, friends, a lover… I lost my money, my house, my job, 
a second woman whom I've come to love… if the Far Being is God, then I'm Its 
Job. And maybe…maybe that's okay, if it's part of God's plan… but I keep 
remembering that God's enemy is the Devil, and I don't want to—I can't—fight the 
powers of Hell. It scares the shit out of me."
"Tell me what you remember of the Far Being Retzglaran."
"Nothing."
"Oh, come now, one isn't impaled on a divine needle without its leaving a mark. 
Surely there must be something—"
The marks were there, all right: a scar for every death, a perpetual wariness, a 
life in exile… but they had been left by Its enemies. It frustrated him 
immensely. How could he talk about Something the nature of which he could only 
deduce from the reactions of its opponents?
"Well?"
"I told you, I've never met the Far Being! Right after I was born, I was seized 
by one of Its, ah, employees? A giant gastropod. It held me for three days, then 
released me. It offered no explanation, and I don't remember a thing about it." 
He paused. It always daunted him to discuss intensely personal matters with 
anyone whose body language was different from his own, but to open up to an 
animated cactus—!
"I sense something," said H'nik. "A hesitation on your part; perhaps a reticence 
that branches from your new apprehension of the Far Being Retzglaran's true 
nature. K'rach'a should have known better."
Feighan's shadow, fuzzy around the edges, reached across the sand for the 
retaining wall of the first terrace. He studied it as he spoke. "I have these 
dreams—not often; once, twice a year tops—and in these dreams I'm someplace 
strange. I'm waiting. An alien landscape. I can't move. Brown, flat, a desert of 
the spirit… and this gastropod comes charging over the horizon and I know it has 
a message for me, an assignment, a… but this is a big world and the horizon's a 
billion klicks away. Before the gastropod ever gets to me, I wake up."
"You have spoken to the gastropod, have you not?"
Suddenly suspicious, he chose his words with care. "I don't remember telling you 
that."
"The telepath—Gina Maccari—mentioned it to me."
"Oh." From back among the distance-blurred peaks, dirty grey smoke plumed into 
the sky. Feighan waited for the temblor, for the lava, but nothing came. So he 
said, "Last year, on Delurc, I… it was very strange. Have you ever been there?"
"Yes. I visited there a good many years ago, when I was much younger, and when 
humidity bothered me less. It is an unnerving planet to visit… unhealthful, as 
well. The lights in the domes on the reefs do not emit enough of the radiation 
we Actuni need to thrive; as I recall, I spent much effort staving off dormancy. 
But what of your time there?"
"I'll skip the details," said Feighan. "Do you remember how the Delu trade you 
time and access to their minds in exchange for equal time and access to your 
mind?"
"Memory-swapping? But of course! It was exhilarating to move so smoothly, so 
sleekly, through so much water."
"Well, I swapped memories with an old female fish who had spoken to the 
gastropod—but when I was reliving the experience in her memory, the gastropod 
spoke to me. The memory was twenty years old, but the gastropod clearly expected 
me to be there, exchanging memories with the old female, twenty years after it 
had gone." He scratched his head. The wind that ran over him dried his sweat 
instantly; its encrusting salts itched like mad. "I still don't understand the 
whole thing."
"But what did it say?" H'nik jiggled up and down by flexing its roots.
"It said I was supposed to lead a normal life—that the Far Being had not called 
me or anything like that—that I should just go home and pretend nothing had 
happened."
"And?"
"Well, up until all this—" He waved a hand in the direction of the last few 
days. "I mean, until Greystein and the trial and all, I was following 
orders—being normal, the works. And then…" He made a tired, disgusted rattle in 
his throat. "Then the bottom fell out of my life, and here I am."
"I see, I see," said the monk. "Well, that should be enough for today, do you 
not agree?"
The abrupt adjournment startled him. He straightened up, raising his eyebrows 
and tucking in his chin. "I thought you wanted to question me for hours at a 
time—not that I'm complaining, but that's what you said you wanted, back in New 
York."
"Though that is exactly what I want, McGill Feighan, my other duties intrude. 
Besides, it does strike me that you are suffering from considerable stress. 
Being new to this arid planet as you are, you must surely be experiencing enough 
cultural shock to distort the thematic accuracy of your answers. So… we will go 
slowly in the beginning, and every day we will spend a slightly larger wedge of 
time on the problem. Is that agreeable?"
"Fine by me." He lied. The less time he spent answering H'nik's questions, the 
less time it would spend replying to his. And he wanted a lot of answers from 
the monk.
A pea-sized clod of dirt splatted against his thigh as H'nik pulled up its roots 
and began to pivot. "I must go; we have received reports that a grove of… of… 
heretics is marching toward the monastery. They will reach it shortly before 
sundown, and I should be there."
"Is there going to be trouble?"
"Oh, I would rather expect not. We have eschewed mass violence since before the 
Day of Burning Water; it is far more likely that the confrontation will involve 
only haranguing— perhaps some name-calling—although it might go so far as to 
include insults to the ancestral roots." It began to toddle toward the 
monastery.
"Hey, wait!"
"I do regret my inability to linger, McGill Feighan, but really, I must go at 
once. You are, of course, more than welcome to walk alongside of me, at least 
until we reach the slope of the sacred precincts.".
With one long stride he came abreast of the monk; another took him past it and 
he paused to wait. "You said if I let you interrogate me about the Far Being, 
you'd tell me what you know about it."
"Yes, I did say that, did I not? Ah, me, one would have thought that after all 
these years I should have learned not to make promises that circumstances might 
prevent me from keeping… but then, one could say with equal justice that you 
have failed to keep your promises, couldn't one?"
"What do you mean? I—"
"You remember nothing about the Far Being Retzglaran, and since you do not, you 
can not answer my questions, can you?" It struggled onward. Thirty meters from 
its right flank, a lean greyish-green shape slipped out of the shrubbery at the 
foot of the first terrace.
"But—but—"
"More importantly, the Abbot has instructed me to refer all your questions 
directly to it." A trace of rue seemed to infuse its voice, but Feighan was 
skeptical. Anthropomorphism was something he had been trained to reject. 
"Apparently my researches have aroused suspicions in higher quarters. There is 
talk that the truths I have begun, in part, to reveal—as an archeologist brushes 
dust from the corner of a building he is excavating—there is talk that these 
truths be heretical."
"Are they?" Feighan was more interested in the terrier-sized animal loping 
silently toward the fields of ripe berries, but he hoped that a sympathetic 
interest would embolden the suddenly evasive H'nik.
"To tell you the truth, McGill Feighan, I have not the slightest idea, because I 
have only begun to expose these truths. To return to my simile of the 
archeologist, he can not tell whether the flat surface he has uncovered belonged 
to a palace or to a castle or to a… a wine cellar, not when he first uncovers 
it. He must reveal far more than that single carved face; he must find the 
foundations and trace the walls and estimate their original height, width, and 
depth… then, perhaps, after years of careful work and far more careful thought, 
he can say, 'Ah, this was an outhouse.' Do you understand?"
"I think so." Feighan took another step. Walking with an Actuni involved more 
waiting than walking, and it was beginning to irritate him. "So you can't tell 
me anything unless your Abbot approves it, huh?"
"I regret to say that you have described the situation exactly as it is—you must 
remember, McGill Feighan, that I am under our equivalent of your monastic 
orders. I have taken a vow of obedience to my superior, and when my superior 
limits my freedom of speech, as it has done—"
"Then you have to shut up, yeah, I understand." Hands folded behind his back, he 
took another step. Sunlight iridesced on the scales of the animal up ahead. It 
was approaching a line of Actuni who stood with their backs to the field. To 
Feighan's astonishment, the entire line interlocked spines and flexed their 
roots to raise their barrels twenty or thirty centimeters off the ground. They 
made not a sound. Their roots bulged into gnarled arches and held firm. "So tell 
me, how can I convince your Abbot to let me hear what you've learned?"
"I warn you now that you will not like the answer."
"What is it?"
"I have been forbidden to discuss the content of my researches with any but the 
members of our order. Before I could tell you my findings, you would have to 
become one of us— a monk, I mean, of course."
"You'd let me in?"
"Of course! We are ethnocentric only by accident."
Something in the notion appealed to him. Perhaps it was H'nik itself, or, 
rather, the serenity that the monk seemed to embody. It would be very nice to be 
that much at peace with oneself. Then he pulled back and shook his head 
violently. What am I thinking? Walking Mule has that kind of inner peace; it 
comes from letting somebody else program you. You're always placid 'cause you're 
always following orders! Uh-uh. No brainwashing for me. Aloud, he said, "Hmph."
"I expected no other response—and to speak frankly, McGill Feighan, I disagree 
with my superior's ruling. However, given the political realities of our order's 
hierarchy, I could not appeal that ruling with any hope of success. Even to 
attempt such an appeal would jeopardize my freedom of investigation. And while, 
as an academic, I value the ability to announce the results of my research, as a 
scholar I assign the greater imperative to having the freedom to do the 
research, if you see what I mean."
"Yeah." Neat, H'nik. You just told me you won't even talk off the record, 
dammit. I wonder how they indoctrinated you? Ahead, the lizard-like animal 
lowered itself to its belly to wriggle under a root-propped Actuni farmer. 
"Yeah, I see…"
"Scccrrreeeeeeee!"
Feighan said, "Wha—?"
"That? It is regrettable, but given half a chance the ghu'ghu' ru'ru—ah, the 
grazing lizard? It would strip our fields bare. And, of course, lowlanders have 
large appetites…"
They passed along the line, which had dropped down to normal posture. The 
grazing lizard still screeched, while its tail drummed the soil. The farmer 
squatted astride its back, making squishy, crunching noises only barely audible 
beneath the lizard's frantic shrieks. Suddenly the squeals cut off. The tail 
still thrashed, but it was disappearing from view, as though the lizard had 
broken free and was squirming out the other side. But on that other side 
protruded its snout which, jaws snapping, was retreating under the bulk of the 
farmer. Feighan felt queasy. "Ah—"
"I would prefer to ignore this scene, if you please. Let us speak of you and the 
Far Being Retzglaran."
"Ah… all right." Just before he turned his head, the scaly green tail vanished 
with a slurp. He could not help thinking of Sam. Remember to warn the kid never 
to crawl under one of these guys… he shuddered.
"McGill Feighan, I understand your desire to learn about the focal point of your 
life. I would suggest to you that you give serious consideration to the notion 
of joining our order, at least temporarily."
"Ah…" Distracted as he was, he did not immediately understand what H'nik meant. 
Then he blinked in surprise. Though he had never practiced his Catholicism 
devoutly, he had been raised to believe that once a priest, always a priest. 
"You can leave your order? Stop being a monk?"
"Of course." H'nik waddled a shade faster because the edge of the monastery 
hollow had just come into view. "We are, in that respect at least, somewhat 
closer to your Terran Buddhists than we are to any of your other 
religions—although I do not wish you to interpret that to mean that we hold the 
same beliefs as your Terran Buddhists do."
Scratching his right temple, he outlined a scheme: he would sign on as a monk 
for a while—just long enough to learn what H'nik and the rest knew about the Far 
Being, but not long enough to get indoctrinated. Then he would drop out and go 
back to… He winced. There was the sticking point. What did he have to go back 
to? Nothing. To the best of his knowledge, only the Actuni monks would hire a 
Flinger in trouble with the consortia of the Flinger's native world—well, so 
would crime syndicates like The Organization, but he would burn in hell before 
he worked for those who had killed his parents and helped frame his very best 
friend…
"I sense your turmoil," said H'nik softly.
Still, it might be nice: A quiet, peaceful life; I'd learn about the Far Being; 
maybe I'd even stop dreaming about Greystein… ah, Jesus, they'd be in my head, 
though… "What can I say? I am confused. I want to learn about the Far Being, but 
not by making a phony commitment—I mean, I was just thinking, I could pretend to 
sign up, but…"
"It is as well that you have put that possibility out of your mind," said H'nik, 
"for any knowledge that you gained by deception would be so gnarled by your sin 
as to lack meaning and value. I really must leave you here. May I suggest that 
you stroll over to the library and wander through it? I believe you would find 
it to be the sort of experience from which you would benefit."
Feighan raised his eyebrows. Was H'nik hinting at something which monastic 
discipline forbade it to reveal openly? He decided it could not be; H'nik was 
probably revealing no more than scholarly enthusiasm for a remarkably old and 
complete collection of documents… If you can call a matted-out Actuni a 
document, he thought. "Aah, I don't know, Sam's alone back at the tent, and—"
The monk scuffled its roots in the sand. "The choice is yours, McGill Feighan, 
and no one but yourself can make it for you; I would, however, take the liberty 
of suggesting that when one is confused, one is unlikely to find the serenity 
necessary for meditation in the vicinity of a young child."
At that he had to laugh. Sam was not giving him much peace for anything, what 
with his questions, complaints, and general restlessness. But still, would rows 
of aged, semi-senile Actuni—all broiling in the late afternoon sun—provide him 
with what he needed? So you got anything better to do? "All right, H'nik, I'll 
go wander through the library."
"I believe you will find that you have made a wise decision; at least I hope you 
will. Go. Inspect. Meditate. And afterwards, should you have the time, please 
let me know about the quality of your experience."
"I certainly will." He looked around. "Ah… which way is it from here?"
It swiveled its long spine to point to the south. In the sunlight, it glinted 
with a coppery sheen. "Two hundred some meters that way, just beyond what Sam 
calls the 'white pillars'. Oh. Feel free to Fling yourself there; there is no 
taboo of that sort connected with the monastery library."
"Thank you." It was so close he really should have walked, if only for the 
exercise, but his Talent was jumpy with untapped energy. He aimed for the white 
obelisks, and—
*PING*
—stood on loose, stone-free soil of the type he had come to associate with 
Actuni pathways.
Before him, in two columns of three, towered six strange plants. The smallest 
rose at least eight meters, and had to be two meters thick at its base. They 
were clearly cacti, but they had no spikes; instead, from a skin as green as a 
late summer oak leaf grew long white hairs that reached almost to the ground. He 
bent over to roll a hair between his fingers. It had a stiff, wiry texture; its 
ends were split and frayed because the wind rubbed them against the rocks piled 
against the plant's base. Rising, he put his hands on his hips and tilted back 
his head to see the plant's top. He was not sure if he liked leafless plants as 
tall as small houses. They always reminded him of a certain giant saguaro… And 
now Greystein… He let go of the hair and went inside.
Music welled up to greet him. A soft violin spoke of spring breezes; a drum away 
far off tapped the pitter-pat of rain. It entranced him because it was so 
totally unexpected. He stopped to listen.
A harpsicord plucked the passage of a being lost in desolation: hesitant, 
frustrated, back-tracking again and again as it sought the way to salvation. The 
rocks blocked the trail, though; the cliffs soared up to stymy it. It struggled: 
a step, another, a halt…
The violin wailed anguish.
A fiddle danced down the path, sure and light on its feet, twisting up the 
escarpment and never missing a beat or a turn or a climb or a foothold on the 
craggy, sun-washed cliff that had stopped the harpsicord stiff. The fiddle 
reached the top, and jigged to meet the sun in its dew-filtered dawn.
But a big bass doom came screaming across the sky, trailing flames a thousand 
klicks wide and ten thousand high. It hammered at the cliff with its deep 
persistent voice and the fiddle quaked, terrified—
"Ter-r-r-r-ran?" The hoarse rumble came from his right.
Startled out of his reverie, he jerked his head around. A monk matted out some 
ten meters away twitched six of its sparse spines. "What?"
"You Ter-r-ran?" It stood at least four meters tall; age browned its skin.
"Yes."
"Hot."
He assumed it meant the weather. "Yes."
Its long spine flashed.
Suddenly alarmed, he backpedaled until instinct succumbed to reason. Big and 
matted-out, this Actuni was far less mobile than average. Its lance-like spine 
deserved respect, but not fear.
The spine pointed to the shade the monk cast. "Sit. Co-oo-ool."
"Aah…"
"Sit."
"Okay." He shrugged. The heat had not bothered him till the monk had mentioned 
it, but once reminded of the sun, his cheeks burned. He moved into the being's 
shadow. Hot though it was, the steady wind dried his sweat almost immediately. 
He sat cross-legged a careful three meters from the monk's roots—just in 
case—and looked up. "So you speak English, huh?"
"Noooo—"
"But, ah, you—"
Few worrrrds know. No speak 'k'k'k'k'k."
"Oh." He did not know what to say to that.
"R-r-r-est."
He gave a half-smile. "Thanks."
It did not reply.
In the background, a viola waltzed on the village green. Alone at first, it 
found a partner within a turn, and lost it to another within another. Soon it 
found a second partner, and the two moved about through the mist and the gentle 
rain. The green filled up with waltzing couples and triples and quadruples. 
Music played and dancers danced in ever-smaller squares. Soft balmy air so 
soothed their skins that more and more festivants crowded onto what had really 
been a very small area to begin with. It became impossibly small. One could not 
take a step without jabbing or being jabbed. The rich moist soil practically 
begged for the penetration of thirsty roots, but the law was the law. Even 
though there was no room to drop root anywhere else, all one could do on the 
green was dance, dance, around and around. With the newcomers. The goddam weedy 
sprouts who thought they had as much right to the space as did those who had 
lived in the fields nearby for generation upon generation. Not only could one 
not sashay without getting jabbed by one of them, one ran the risk of being 
burned out by a long spine with every step. Tempers were flaring. Harsh words 
scraped back and forth. One thing led to another. *Sizzle* it went. *Sizzle* as 
the long spines snapped down. And in. Brains shorted out.
A light burst in the sky.
A vast huge light, brighter even than the sun itself, it whizzed from east to 
west, leaving heat streaks on every eyepatch. It disappeared. And one moment 
later the entire western horizon burned red, then white, then brilliant enough 
to blind forever the eyespikes aimed in its direction.
The dancers stumbled about, dazed. The ground shook violently. Fully half of 
them lost their rooting and toppled over. A huge dark cloud spouted into the 
western sky. It reached toward them, closer, closer… It extended over their 
heads till the sunlight, the blessed loving brightness that with the moist and 
the rich made the feet so fleet and the trunks so thick so green, the sunlight 
faded.
The squabble went on, *sizzle* and *sizzle* and *sizzle*.
One had room to waltz, now, though one had to be careful not to dance across the 
decaying husk of a less fortunate partner.
But the cloud deepened. It became increasingly difficult to muster the energy 
for the sharp precise circles, dips, and bows.
*sizzle*
Darker.
*sizzle*
Darkest.
*sizzle*
The remaining dancers slowed.
And stopped.
And tapped down.
 
"Hey, Feighan!"
His eyes snapped open. Before him stood two Actuni— K'rach'a and a companion. 
Uncomfortably aware that he might have violated a law or a taboo or a regulation 
by dozing in the shade of a library monk—but I wasn't! he thought. I was 
listening, and the music took over!—he scrambled to his feet, hoping they would 
put it down to his alienness. "Ah, I'm sorry if I—"
"Not to worry, Feighan, not to worry one little bit. Want you to meet the Abbot 
here. It's been watching you, and I don't mind telling you, it likes what it 
sees."
He made a bow to the other Actuni. The Abbot's flower had begun to fruit. "I am 
very pleased to meet you, Your… Your Holiness." He turned back to K'rach'a. "Is 
that the right title? Or is there a better one?"
"That doesn't matter at all. It doesn't speak a word of English; when I 
translate, I put it right for you. Don't worry so much. With me as your 
interpreter, you come across as the most diplomatic being to visit this planet 
since the FNC Contact Team made us think we were getting a real bargain by 
taking on a four-billion fancy debt." It rasped a series of spines and waited 
for the Abbot to reply. "It says you were lost in the music."
He nodded. "I thought this was a library, but it's more like a symphony 
orchestra hall." Someday I'm going to have to show this to Gina—she'll love it.
"No, just the old guys reciting the Holy—it's all they do all day long, so 
they've gotten pretty good at it. You liked it, huh?"
"I couldn't understand it, of course—"
"Crap."
He blinked. "Pardon?"
K'rach'a swayed on its roots. "Doesn't 'crap,' used in that context, mean 'don't 
be so modest'?"
"Ah… no, not really." He was woozy from the music, the sun, and his own fatigue. 
It made everything unreal. It split him down the middle so that half of him 
watched his other half stand in the slanting desert light giving a language 
lesson to a two-meter-tall plant with long sharp bristles. The observing half 
wanted to laugh—or to weep, it could not be sure. So it stayed silent while the 
teaching half said, "No, in that context, 'crap' means 'I know you're lying to 
me, so cut it out.' "
"Isn't that what 'don't be so modest' means?"
Now he had to laugh. "Literally translated, maybe. But the connotations are 
vastly different. One's an insult; the other's a compliment."
"Oh." It shifted on its roots for a moment. "And 'crap' is the—?"
"The insult."
"Ouch. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. What I meant to 
say—although to tell you the truth, Feighan, it's the Abbot who said it first, 
I'm just repeating it in English— is that anybody could see how the Holy 
affected you."
"It did." He wondered how. It was scary that something as alien as the library 
had reached right into his head like that.
"The Abbot says you understood the meaning even though the words slipped by 
you."
Why did it matter to them? Was it proof of his respect—or of his susceptibility? 
"I don't know. I sure got something out of it, but whether or not it's what 
you're supposed to get from it…"
"Doesn't really matter. It says a sensitivity like yours belongs in the 
monastery, and it invites you to join us. No entrance exam, nothing. Just say 
'yes' and you're in. Wait a minute." It swiveled on its roots to speak to the 
Abbot.
Feighan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He still did not know if he 
wanted to join the order. He wanted, most definitely, to hear what the Actuni 
knew of the Far Being, but to become a monk solely for the purpose… At the north 
end of the library, the violin spoke once more of the gentle rain that would 
cleanse the dust from the skin of a thirsty being, and the harpsicord reminded 
all its listeners that the way was long and crooked and easy to lose.
He inhaled again. He had not known such peace in a very long time. He liked it, 
no matter what evoked it. He wanted to wallow in it for the rest of his life. 
And all the monks— with the possible exception of K'rach'a—seemed to possess it. 
Did it come with the territory?
He opened his mouth.
K'rach'a spoke first: "The Abbot says you shouldn't decide today. Wait till 
tomorrow. Sleep on it; think it over during work tomorrow. Then, after work, let 
us know."
"Okay, but—"
"Fine. We'll see you tomorrow." It rocked through a 180° turn, then began to 
limp back toward the monastery. The Abbot followed.
Feighan watched them struggle across the sandy soil. He felt flattered by their 
attentions, but puzzled, too, and a little wary. He shrugged. And—
*PING*
Thirty meters from the tent, Sam lay sprawled on a rock, bright eyes fixed on 
the wings that fluttered over the eastern crest. He did not look over as Feighan 
walked up to him.
"Hiya, Sam."
Now he looked. "I ate dinner, and I used the paper bag, and just leave me alone, 
all right?" He turned his snout and studied the flying creatures again.
Feighan raised both his hands. "Hey! What's the matter?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"McGill, please?"
"I'm only trying—"
"You're just being nosy again, that's all, and I don't feel like having somebody 
be nosy all over me, so will you leave me alone?"
He sighed. It hurt him to be held at such a distance when his ward was so 
troubled. "Okay, kid. Whatever you want. Anytime you're ready to talk about it, 
you know I'll listen."
"Yeah, sure."
Exhausted, he lacked the energy to press the matter further. "See you later." He 
turned and walked back to their tent, where he fixed himself a quick, cold 
meal—used the paper bag—and went promptly to sleep.
Twilight prayers did not penetrate his dreams at all.
He knelt in the last row of pews in a small Catholic church. Sunlight slanted 
through the stained-glass windows. Day-old incense peppered the air. Decades of 
worshipping hands had smoothed the seat back beneath his fingers—and dozens of 
bored young parishioners had left toothmarks in the soft pine.
His eyes adjusted to the dimness. In the front row knelt a boulder of a man, 
with bookshelf shoulders and a muscled back that stretched the fabric of his 
shirt. Next to him hunched a small, black-haired woman.
The hairs on the back of Feighan's neck rose.
The priest at the altar chanted the Latin Mass, and had his back to the 
congregation. His voice rang high and tripping— glib, even.
Ice began to crystallize in the Flinger's stomach.
An altarboy holding a burning taper glided across the sanctuary to light the 
candles stuck on the spines of the giant saguaros that served here as 
candelabra. They grew in huge terracotta pots, and one of them shared its pot 
with a lump that could not be distinguished in the shadows.
Feighan prayed that the lights would not brighten.
But they did, first illuminating the crucifix mounted on the wall behind the 
altar. Furry arms pulled taut and torment twisting his face, a Timili hung from 
the cross. It was Rothono, once Feighan's best friend, whose life Sam's mother 
had spared; whose life The Organization had claimed.
Feighan's heart raced; he clenched his jaws against the nausea of fear.
The candles' glow grew impossibly bright. It reached down into the saguaro's pot 
to glint off an ivory cheek and reddish-brown hair. A bumblebee buzzed.
Frozen in terror, he could not move.
With a rustle of his silk chasuble, Greystein turned to raise the Host high and 
proclaim "Resurrexit sicut dixit! Alleluia! He has risen as he said!"
Feighan woke up screaming.
The tent pressed in on him, swallowing his labored breathing in its darkness. 
His heart still beat a hundred forty times a minute. Oh, Jesus, please, no more, 
I can't take them… gradually it dawned on him that the tent was empty.
"Sam?"
"I'm out here."
Still trembling slightly, he went to the flaps and stuck his head into the night 
air. It was cooler, with a hint of moisture and a tang of sulphur. "How come 
you're out here?"
The Rhanghan swung his snout about to stare Feighan full on. His eyes did not 
blink. " 'Cause it's hot and stuffy in there, and you make too much noise 
anyway."
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "I… nightmare, you know?"
"I'll sleep out here."
"But—"
"Go to sleep, McGill." His tongue flickered in the ruddy moonlight. "I won't let 
the bugs get you."
He could not think of a thing to say except, "Okay… thanks. I'll see you in the 
morning."
"Yeah."
He stumbled back into the tent's stale air. He stretched out on his sleeping 
bag. Then closed his eyes. God, I don't know Who or What you are, but the Actuni 
say they know, and I want to investigate. I want to find You. I need to find 
You. I hope I'm doing the right thing—but I don't know. Please. Help me?
He slept.
 
He woke up so late that he had to skip breakfast and report directly to the 
Flinger Building. As he was pulling on his boots, he marveled at the fact that 
this was only his fourth day on Actu. So much had happened; it seemed he had 
been there much longer. He grunted as his heel slipped into place, then stood. 
"Hey, Sam, you want to come along?"
"Uh-uh."
"Well… okay. And say, thanks for keeping the bugs out."
The Rhanghan slowly nictitated his inner eyelids. "You're welcome."
"You sure you don't want to come?"
"You're late."
"All right. Have a good day." He—
*PING*
—stepped into the Building. Prickly rows of monks lined the long corridors; he 
counted three hundred twenty-one of them before he reached the Flinger Room. 
There he took his seat, just as K'rach'a finished settling itself into the pot 
of Rii—edsch topsoil. "You ready?"
"Feighan, I've been ready for ten minutes."
"Sorry, I overslept."
"That's the advantage to being a plant. It has to be awful cloudy for that to 
happen. We've got a full day ahead of us. This first group goes to the Crown."
The day went quickly, though he got progressively more hungry as it wore on. 
After forty-eight Flings he went back to the tent for a break and a bite to eat. 
Sam, still basking in the sun, ignored Feighan's arrival.
"Hiya."
"Done for the day?"
"Uh-uh. I have go to back."
"Hmph." His tongue darted out and glistened in the sun.
"Hey, it's my job."
"I know :.. later on, you want to help me with that picture book?"
"I thought you colored it in already."
"I did—I mean help reading it."
"Okay." He smiled. "Later on, we'll go through it."
"Thanks." He turned his snout the other way, but his tail swept back and forth 
in the rhythm of contentment.
If you'd stop snapping at the kid, he'd be that happy all the time. Just relax, 
stop fretting—but again he saw the angry silver bees swarm, and Greystein fall. 
He shook himself, like an Actuni drinking the dew, and came to his decision. For 
a moment his choice surprised him. All his instincts screamed against it, but 
dammit, it was the wisest course! Safest, too, even if it might mean depriving 
himself of various things. He licked his fingers, crumpled the foil pouch, and 
tossed it into the garbage box. From within came a cranky snapping. A second 
later a multipedal red insect with serrated pincers half the length of its body 
scampered up and over the side.
Feighan returned to the Building, then, no longer eager to spend his four hours 
off sitting on a boulder, fearing a bug bite. Besides, he wanted to get his work 
over with, so he could go to the library and announce his decision to the Abbot.
Naturally, since something momentous would happen when the shift ended, the 
shift refused to end. "K'rach'a," he said wearily, "where are they all coming 
from? You only have, what, two thousand people in the whole valley? By the end 
of the day I'll have Flung five hundred of them!"
"Something like about a hundred people a week join the monastery, Feighan. They 
come from all over the planet to spend a few weeks in the, uh… I guess you'd 
call it a cemetery?"
"Seminary?"
"Oh, yeah, seminary. And then they get shipped back out again. It's just for the 
last month or so we've been waiting for a Flinger to come, so we held them over. 
The workload will taper off in a day or two."
"Oh, for joy," he said softly. Minutes dragged. Seconds crawled. He drummed his 
fingers on the console and muttered "Hurry up!" under his breath.
"Feighan, they're moving as fast as they can."
"Sorry." He glared at the monks creeping into the Booth. "I'm just impatient 
today."
"It shows, believe me, it shows."
Scowling down through the window, he did not reply. Nor did he wait for the 
monks to complete the ritual of lining up and raising their long spines; rather, 
as soon as they were close enough together, he—
*PING*
—Flung them to the Badlands.
"Feighan, let them finish praying! The farewell liturgy means a lot to a bunch 
of green missionaries heading out to God knows where."
He squelched a pulse of anger. "Sorry." Then gritted his teeth when the next 
batch took forever to say its prayers…
But eventually the day came to an end. After Flinging K'rach'a to the monastery, 
he teleported back to the tent. The SolaRefridge had chilled the gallon jug of 
water nicely; there was even a thin film of ice on its surface. Uncapping it, he 
lifted the wide-mouthed jar to his lips, and drank deep. He made a small sound 
of satisfaction before replacing the jug. Then he closed his eyes—
"Hey, McGill!" said Sam. "Where you going? I thought you were done."
"Yeah, I am."
"Well, where—"
"To the library. Where else can you go on this planet?"
"But you were going to help me with my alphabets!"
He had forgotten his promise of that afternoon, and it embarrassed him—it 
irritated him—that Sam had remembered. He frowned. "That's alphabet, singular. 
And some other time, huh? I'm not in the mood, for one thing, and for another, 
I've got an important appointment."
"All right," said Sam unhappily. "I guess that tells me what your promises are 
worth." With a flick of his tail, he disappeared into the tent.
Feighan raised his right arm and opened his mouth—then shut it, and let the arm 
drop. Really, he could say nothing to improve the situation. So he closed his 
eyes and—
*PING*
—materialized by the six tall plants with the long white hair. But something 
felt wrong, something in the surroundings…
Just inside the library entrance, H'nik and the Abbot conversed; they sounded 
like a congress of cicadas whose voices were changing. They hurt Feighan's ears, 
but had not caused his uneasiness.
"Good afternoon." As he approached, he looked around anxiously. What was 
different?
"Good day, McGill Feighan."
Ah, that's it! Beyond the north border of the library massed row upon row of 
bristly Actuni. Almost all of them displayed signs of gauntness. Not emaciation; 
just general skinniness. Surprisingly, their skins glowed more brightly green 
than did H'nik's, which seemed sallow in comparison. "What are they doing?"
"Ah, them? They are the dawn prayers, and for reasons known only to themselves 
they gathered here during the night, their caterwauling to commence as the sky 
began to lighten this morning. Did you not hear the cacophony?"
After the nightmare, he had slept like the dea—like a log. "But why are they 
here? I mean, this is dusk-prayer territory, isn't it?"
H'nik heaved itself out of the ground, and began to lead the way into the 
library. "They are attempting, through the good example they set and the prayers 
they utter, to help us find the true path to salvation."
"Missionaries, huh?"
"Precisely," it said glumly.
"Ah… huh. How's your own campaign going?"
"One wishes that one could say, 'Far better than theirs,' but alas, were one to 
make such a statement, one would be guilty of hubris—ah, perhaps not hubris 
itself, you understand, but a particular sin of pride which cannot be translated 
into English in any other way."
"About the same, huh?"
"Yes." Its long spine drooped.
"Are they converting your people, then?"
"Not in the least! Our communicants would hardly be misled by such—" H'nik 
flattened its prickles for a moment. "—such peakroot Holy hailers!"
"But if you're no more successful than they are—"
"Ah, here we are." It stopped before a towering, time-ravaged monk. Years of 
dust-storms had sanded off its bristles; insects had gnawed tunnels through its 
three-meter-thick barrel. "This is Brother I'ghra, the oldest of all Actuni."
"Really?" He offered the monk a slight, polite bow; it made no response.
"Yes. Brother I'ghra tapped down on the Day of Burning Water, and has not had to 
tap down since. Allowing for the somewhat, ah, confused chronology of the years 
afterward, it still must be at least eighteen thousand of your years old. Even 
by our standards, that is ancient. But Brother I'ghra is privileged in another 
way: it is the only one among us who remembers hearing the Far Being 
Retzglaran."
"It met the Far Being?" Now he did not have to feign interest. "The Far Being 
was here?"
"Of course! I'm certain I must have told you—it was, in fact, the Far Being 
Retzglaran which set fire to the rain. To proceed: Brother I'ghra would question 
you, but before it does, the Abbot would ask your intentions concerning its 
invitation to you to become a member of our beloved order."
He caught his breath. He had changed his mind at least fourteen times since 
lunch. But facing someone which had met the Far Being—"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I would like to join your order."
H'nik interpreted; the Abbot spoke; H'nik translated again. "Excellent, McGill 
Feighan, excellent!—ah, I am quoting the Abbot here—I am pleased with your 
decision, and proud of you for having had the courage to make such a testimony 
to your faith. As has been foretold, you will make a monk of surpassing quality, 
I am convinced."
"Foretold?" said Feighan blankly.
While the Abbot addressed I'ghra, H'nik leaned closer to Feighan. Softly it 
scraped out: "Really, Acolyte McGill Feighan. I am certain that I mentioned that 
we have been waiting for you for eighteen thousand years."
Chapter XV
« ^ »


It surprised him to feel so good, considering that he had just invented a way to 
locate any Flinger, anywhere, with off-the-shelf technology. But then, although 
the NAC still paid him, his real employer now was—
The phone rang. Jauntily, he picked it up. "Got it!"
"Really?"
He shuffled the specifications into a neat stack. "Guaranteed. With one 
electronics technician and two long-duration aircraft, I can do it easily."
"You sound confident."
"A few days ago you called me a humbler. I'm not. I'm really very, very 
competent. As I believe I've just proven."
"Until I see it work, you have proven nothing."
"You'll see it. My Flinger's ready, by the way. Are you?"
"Yes. We shall leave from your office. Tell the guard to admit me."
"And what name should I give?"
"Mil—no, 'John Smith' would be better. Oh, Davis—let me make one thing 
absolutely clear. Do not, repeat do not kill McGill Feighan—"
"All right." It disappointed him. But he had to jerk as the strings pulled. "I 
won't."
"—until I tell you to."
Chapter XVI
« ^ »


Feighan stood stunned in the sun. "What—?"
H'nik kept its voice low. "According to I'ghra—who is, after all, the only one 
of us who can remember it directly—the Far Being Retzglaran promised that some 
day someone, ah, answering your general description would arrive to provide us 
with the answers we have desired for millennia. As a scholar, I find it 
particularly interesting that at the time the promise was made, we desired 
water, not answers to questions which we hadn't the wit to formulate anyway. 
Apparently the promise also foretold the rise of our curiosity…"
He shook his head. It was disturbing to be the object of an eighteen 
thousand-year-old prophecy. What disturbed him more was that no one had thought 
to inform him of it. "You said my general description—you mean tall, dark—"
H'nik gave the spine-rasp of amusement. "Not quite. It was said that the source 
of our answers lay within 'a soft, wet foreigner whose roots have neither 
filaments nor pores but which carry its weight all the same; a foreigner who 
will glow both hot as a noon lizard and cold as a dark stone; a foreigner who 
will come to us from the farthest star, taking only a single step to complete 
the journey, and—it goes on at considerable length; with each phrase as vague as 
the last. Shall I continue?"
"No." It disappointed him: almost any mammalian Flinger could fit it. "It is 
sort of general, isn't it?"
"Rather," said H'nik.
Feighan sighed. But he would remember the prophecy for Gina, who loved that sort 
of thing. "Anyway. Now that I'm one of you, you'll tell me about the Far Being, 
right?"
"Ah? Yes, on the Abbot's instructions, I did state that, did I not? Very well, 
then. The Abbot instructs me now to state that once we know, we shall share our 
information with you."
"But I thought—"
"Brother I'ghra's questions have been deemed essential to our understanding of 
the Far Being Retzglaran—which is to say that, until you have answered them, we 
will not even hint that our knowledge of the Far Being Retzglaran is anything 
but woefully inadequate. So if you will be so kind—"
"Oh, all right." Stepping forward, he bowed again, careful to avoid its 
half-meter-long short spines. "How do you do, Brother I'ghra?"
"It does not speak your language."
"Oh?" He sidled closer to H'nik. "Then I can ask you this without insulting 
anybody—is it capable of questioning me? I mean, I thought that a matted-out 
Actuni like I'ghra is, ah…"
"Senile?" H'nik chuckled again. "Yes, yes, mentation—as opposed to 
meditation—and mobility lie in direct proportion to each other. But these are 
ritual questions, devised centuries ago by one more, let us say, intellectually 
capable than itself; it has merely memorized them."
"Okay." With a shrug, he turned back. "Fire away."
I'ghra's spines twitched: a guitarist strumming a minor key chord.
"It asks," said H'nik, "if—if—excuse me, the archaic form of our language is 
difficult, and not easily translated into contemporary English. I must request 
amplification." Lengthily it conversed with I'ghra. Then: "Did the 
stomach-foot's abduction of yourself cause jubilation?"
"Stomach-foot?" Confused, he frowned—then snapped his fingers. "Oh! The 
gastropod." He stopped, and gaped at the ravaged hulk before him. Centuries ago 
they knew about the gastropod? "H'nik, how'd you know that?"
"It is part of the prophecy, McGill Feighan—but please, answer before I'ghra 
dozes off."
"Ah… yeah, sorry… 'jubilation?'… boy, that's a good one; I mean, I was a day 
old, but… later on, my parents said, ah—" For a moment he was three again: 
supine on the couch by the holo. While his father rattled cookie bags in the 
kitchen, his mother sneaked a sip from the green bottle she kept wedged in the 
cushions of her chair. The warm wet spread through his diapers; the smell 
reached him a moment later. Paralyzed since the gastropod had released him, he 
could not call out. He would have to wait for the touch, and the look of 
disgust.
Feighan shuddered, and cleared his throat. "Actually, it caused a lot of trouble 
in a lot of ways—especially since nobody knew why it did what it did."
H'nik translated, and I'ghra spoke again. H'nik queried it sharply; it sawed out 
a reply that sounded identical to its initial formulation of the question. H'nik 
said, "I am not certain of how to communicate this in the terms of your culture: 
'Does the dew of the divinity swell the rind of your stock'?"
"I have no idea what that means. How can I answer it?"
"Although we no longer use the term in conversation, 'the dew of the divinity' 
was once used to refer to the largesse of the gods, as it were; it has a meaning 
similar but not identical to your own 'divine providence.' As for the rind of 
your stock,' well… I must confess, McGill Feighan, that I translated that one 
literally; it is a term we do not use at all today, a term with which I must 
admit I am not familiar. I suspect it to be an archaic idiom referring to, ah, 
the health or prosperity of your—what is your Terran phrase for skwirun'k? Ah, 
your kinfolk."
"In other words—" Bitterness welled from a reservoir he had not even known he 
contained. "—did the Far Being's intercession enrich me and my family?"
"Yes, why, yes, that would perhaps be a—"
"No. No, my family—" The faces flipped past his mind's eye like holos in an 
album: Patrick Sean Feighan's smile; Nicole Buongiorno's merry brown eyes; and 
Rothono and Greystein and Nadia and… "No. They're all dead. The Organization. 
Which got interested in me because of the Far Being."
H'nik relayed the answer and I'ghra spoke again. This time the translation came 
swiftly, if not fluently: "Have you been told the why of your losses?"
He bit his lip. "No. And—"
H'nik's sharp guttural brought a long slow lament from I'ghra that the Abbot 
repeated. H'nik started, then twisted about, apparently to remonstrate with its 
superior. The Abbot paid it no mind. Uprooting itself and spinning around, the 
Abbot moved toward the library entrance with speed surprising in one as ungainly 
as an Actuni. Dirt flew; the other monks laid down their spines. As it ran it 
sang the lament over and over again.
Feighan said, "What was that all about?"
"Your answers have upset a balance ages old. Eighteen thousand years of 
searching have ended with a few words between a matmind and an ani—a Terran."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Abbot is now proclaiming that we know beyond a doubt the essential nature 
of the Far Being Retzglaran."
He studied the monk closely. Its spines drooped and its tone was more muted than 
usual. "So what are you unhappy about? Shouldn't this be your big day?"
"You speak out of turn, acolyte!"
The other's vehemence took him aback. "Ah—"
"Forgive me," it said quickly. "I should not have spoken so harshly, even though 
your impertinence does warrant a reprimand…" It shuffled its roots about, 
rippling the soil. "I am a scholar, Acolyte McGill Feighan, an historian as well 
as a theologian. I have invested three centuries of effort in the extension of a 
thesis which you have severed in your answers to three questions…"
"With all due respect, I don't understand."
"Your information has led I'ghra and the Abbot to a conclusion that the Abbot is 
now announcing as Revealed Truth: that the Far Being Retzglaran is evil."
"Evil?" He shook his head. "But—"
"The announcement will cause an uproar, for all true believers must accept 
Revealed Truth as soon as they hear it. This is only the fourth of all Revealed 
Truths, and the other three are that God planted the universe, that Actuni are 
meant to suffer, and that Actuni must pray at God's favored hour every day."
"But why—"
"Because the dawn prayers believe to the tips of their roots that the Far Being 
Retzglaran is good!" It jabbed its long spine at the highlanders arrayed north 
of the library, and then at the crests and ridges that folded back upon 
themselves in all directions. "The peakroots will never, ever, accept this as 
Revealed Truth. A time of schism lies ahead—schism, and taps."
"H'nik, I don't—"
"I would discuss it with you later, when we have the time and the privacy to 
explore the reputed logic behind the deduction, but for now, I have duties to 
which I must attend. Perhaps tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?" That frustrated him. He wanted to talk about it right then and 
there—but he had to admit that since H'nik had taken the news so poorly, any 
discussion would waste both their time. The monk would probably just keep on 
complaining and worrying. But still—the Far Being Retzglaran evil? It did not 
make sense! "Oh, all right. Should I look for you?"
"On this planet, at least, you are easier to recognize—I will look for you." It 
headed out of the library without another word.
Feighan moved to I'ghra's eastern flank, there to hide from the late-day sun in 
the shade of its trunk. He needed to think: This changes all the ground rules, 
and for once in my life I better stop and really work things out instead of just 
plunging ahead. I do that too often, and it always lands me in trouble. And what 
better place for meditation than a library?
All around him, the matted-out monks chanted the Fourth Revealed Truth. They 
sang out of tune, not having had centuries to rehearse it. Their off-key 
wailings made his teeth hurt; no way could he ponder productively there. 
Wincing, he scanned the horizons, and wondered where—"Ah-hah!"
*PING*
The winds of the Crown whipped about him, driving snow into his face and eyes. 
He ran before the wind till the edge of the high plateau plummeted away from 
him; careful of his footing, he peered down the cliff-face. A thousand meters 
below, a ledge jutted into sunlight.
*PING*
The shelf extended twelve meters out, and ran for thirty-five. Its rock was 
warm; its air, chill. His Talent twinged, then quieted. He sat, crossing his 
legs and propping up his chin in his cupped hands. The sun beat on his face—it 
was barely noon at this longitude.
Below, in an arid highland valley, farmers tended their crops. Tiny, grey-green 
pincushions, they moved from point of blue to point of green, pausing, fussing. 
An updraft carried the scrape of their voices all the way to Feighan's ledge.
Then he realized he heard not the farmers, but two other Actuni. One stood on a 
boulder at the east end of the fields, and the other on a terrace at the west. 
He squinted. They were shaking, bouncing; their spines flashed in the light so 
often that each looked to be wearing a rainbow.
While he wondered what they were doing, his stomach rumbled. "Oh, damn—I forgot 
dinner."
A voice next to him said, "Well, you're a Flinger—pop back to New York for a 
burger and fries."
For a moment he thought his heart had stopped. He gasped—turned his head—and 
stared at the fist-sized black rock half a meter away. I been out in the sun too 
long, that's what it is…
"Look closer, fool."
He prodded the rock's slickness, then hefted it. Turning it over revealed a mesh 
work grille set into its underside. "A radio?"
"Such powers of deduction!"
"Who are you?"
"Milford Hommroummy, of course."
He—*PING*—teleported the rock radio into Actu's sun. "Whew!" But before he could 
relax, something tweaked his Talent gently.
Hommroummy said, "Wait! This is not a trap. Just hear me out."
He scrabbled through the loose stones, looking for one with a speaker. "Oh, 
sure, you're such a good buddy."
"Hardly that—but we must talk."
"Why? What do you want?"
"You."
"Drop dead." Sunlight glinted off chrome. He closed his eyes—
"Wait! It has taken us quite some time to find you; I'd rather our efforts did 
not go for naught."
He opened his eyes, keeping his Talent hair-triggered so he could Fling out in a 
snap. "Why should I listen to you?"
"You're an outcast, Feighan, unwanted by your own people. Exiled to the most 
barren planet in the Network, you bake in the sun and—"
"What—do—you—want?"
"You. We shall pay you well."
"I don't want your money."
"But you have none of your own, have you?"
He clenched his jaws. "You know—"
"We shall commence our relationship by having your trust fund returned to you in 
its entirety—would that not please you?"
In the valley, the orators still sawed away while their audience kept its 
distance. Feighan wished suddenly for a leafy glade, with a waterfall and ferns 
lacing out beneath broad-branched trees. If he had the trust fund back, he could 
buy a place like that… "No," he said quietly. "I'd rather be poor than get it 
back that way."
"Feighan, we ask so little! One Fling a day, no more. Sometimes it would be only 
an intraplanetary Fling—New York to Shanghai, let us say—although to be honest, 
most would be interstellar. Is that too much for us to ask? Considering what we 
offer?"
"Forget it." He lifted the radio.
"Ah, Feighan, this is your opportunity, man!"
"No."
The voice drew back, growing colder and sharper. "Perhaps, then, there is one 
last thing I can offer you which would change your mind."
"You can't offer me a thing, Hommroummy."
"No?"
"No." The wind blew hot across his face.
Hommroummy chuckled: dryly, humorless. "I offer you your life."
He stiffened. Dust spattered his cheek, abrading it. Below, the orators 
clambered down from their podia. They trundled across the fields to meet each 
other. Their long spines led them like lances. "Hommroummy—"
"For years we have sought to capture you alive and unharmed, because those were 
Gryll's orders. It has recently changed them."
"What?" He hunched forward, watching the Actuni.
"Sign with us, Feighan, or die. We shall never again attempt to capture you 
alive."
"But you can't kill me! I'm—"
"A Flinger? Of course you are. But surely you don't think we would send a man to 
meet you in the street and throttle you with his bare hands, do you?"
"Well—" The orators collided; a huge spark cracked. A hoarse wail spiraled up to 
him. "I credit you with more subtlety than that."
"Good. Beware, then, of poison in your water—bombs in your mail—and snipers in 
the sun."
"Huh?" He shook the radio. "What?"
A bullet grazed his cheek, and ricocheted off the cliff to his rear.
Below, the dead orator tumbled onto its side.
*PING*
Still holding the radio, Feighan materialized outside the tent.
"You see?" said Hommroummy. "You have till tomorrow morning to decide. And 
then—" His chuckle rasped like the Actuni's death cry. "And then you die."
Chapter XVII
« ^ »


Hommroummy spun his swivel chair around. The cockpit insulation muffled the 
engines to a numb whisper, and passed almost no vibration. "Well done," he said. 
"Very well done."
"I told you it would work." Slouching in his seat, Davis grinned.
"And your man has no idea what he's doing?"
"He thinks it's a wildlife project." He snorted. "The only problem with 
indoctrinating them so thoroughly is that they believe anything—and damn near 
anybody. Can't seem to get one without the other."
"You did hear what I said to Feighan, I trust?" Hommroummy's caterpillar 
eyebrows lifted.
"Yes. A very nice squeeze. Now I see why you wanted him alive; he could be 
extremely useful."
To the pilot, Hommroummy said, "Take us down."
To Davis he said, "I have been informed that the lizard has been tagged, as 
well. Before you take off again, make certain that our technicians have rewired 
the detectors to accept that beacon, as well."
"A fail-safe?" At Hommroummy's nod, he inclined his head slightly. Things were 
becoming exciting. "Very good. They're ours, now."
Hommroummy smiled like a shark spotting dinner.
Chapter XVIII
« ^ »


Slumped in the shade of a basalt outcropping some ten meters from the foot of 
the next terrace, he let the heat bake the moisture out of his body, and the 
sulphurous air foul his lungs. What difference did it make if he died of 
dehydration? What difference did it make if he died, period?
Hommroummy sure called it right—I am an exile. The US government had stripped 
him of his wealth, and would seize anything he ever earned again; if he went 
home he would be an indentured servant. The North American Consortium—his 
friends, his colleagues—had taken his job, and would not return it until he 
submitted to their brainwashing. And no one else on Earth would hire an enemy of 
the two most powerful hierarchies on the planet. Or off Earth, either, because 
elsewhere in the Network the FNC would voice the NAC's grievances, and scare 
alien employers away.
Oh, God, it hurts! He had a Talent—a wonderful, nearly miraculous Talent—which 
he could not exercise to its fullest. Oh, he could Fling monks all around 
Actu—even sneak back home once in a while, if he were careful—but that would 
barely tap the potential of the Talent. The ability to teleport across a hundred 
light years had to have been the Creator's gift to the entire galaxy—and here he 
could not use it in the way the Creator had wanted, the way the Talent itself 
wanted. A dolphin in a goldfish bowl, he could have an ocean—if he would be a 
tuna.
He almost laughed, then. Milford Hommroummy had just given him a new reason to 
resist the behavior modification: physical survival. Hommroummy had agents 
everywhere. If Feighan submitted to the b-mod, he would never emerge from the 
PsychSection alive. Someone would see to that.
Assuming, of course, he could enter the PsychSection alive.
And to top it all off, the Far Being Retzglaran—the beacon of his life since 
childhood—the being that even before Actu he had suspected might be God—turned 
out to be evil, as well as divine.
He could not stand it.
Depression settled over him like a poison mist. The glare of the setting sun, 
reflected off the eastern slope, blinded him. The air clawed at his throat. A 
bronze-shelled bug crawled out from under a rock to chew on his boot. And he did 
not move, because he did not care.
A mottled-green tail slapped down on the bug, squashing it flat. "That was going 
to bite you, McGill! What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"You're just sitting there—getting sunburned again, too."
"I know." As he turned his head, the skin of his cheeks stretched, and flamed. 
But he did not care.
"Didja have fun at the library?" On his left wrist rustled a woven bracelet.
"Not really."
Sam looked hard at him. "Let's go home and see Gina."
"No." But he really wished they could—he missed her more every hour.
"You don't have to go to work, do you?"
"No. Where'd you get the bracelet?"
"K'rach'a gave it to me." Sam's tail lay still; his tongue flicked dejectedly. 
"You're going back to the library, huh?"
"No."
He came over to sit down beside Feighan; his tail curled around the Flinger's 
back. "Then what's the matter?"
"Ah—" He waved a hand. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know."
"I know what you mean."
Feighan lifted an eyebrow. "You do?"
"Yeah. I feel that way, too. I don't like it here."
"Really?"
"It'd be okay if it were just the heat—I like the heat, you know," he said with 
a three-year-old's solemnity. "But it's so dry! There ought to be like an ocean 
or something, so we could go and get wet and cool off."
"Dew doesn't make it, huh?"
"Uh-uh." Dejected, he dropped his head, and pressed his snout to his chest. 
"McGill, I wanna go home!"
"We can't, kid."
"Sure we can, you just have to Fling us back."
"Yeah, but then they'll catch me, and—"
"That's not it."
"What?"
Sam got to his feet. As he glared at Feighan, the shadows of dusk distorted his 
features, making his eyes pools of alien fire. "You don't wanna go home, that's 
what it is. You don't care about me or about how I feel and so you're making us 
stay here and I hate you! I hate you!" Tail arched, he spun, and rushed into the 
tent. Through the flaps came muffled sobs.
Stung and stiff and sunburned, Feighan got up. His body hurt almost as much as 
his soul. Already more depressed than he could remember ever having been, he now 
had a child to soothe. He took a step toward the tent—but stopped. Sam needed 
privacy; he needed time in which his anger could cool. So Feighan sat back down. 
His butt protested; his back found the basalt too hot. He shook his head.
Hommroummy's radio lay on the ground beside him, mute and gritty to the touch. 
He picked it up. Holding it next to his ear, he shook it. Nothing rattled. He 
wondered if its microphone were "live," and listening to all that he and Sam had 
said to each other. It would be just Hommroummy's style, and it somehow made the 
whole fight worse. Some things should not be overheard.
Pebbles clinked on the other side of the basalt outcropping. He tensed, 
instinctively suspecting a sneak attack by the Organization—but Gryll had 
changed its standing orders. From attempted capture he was safe. Assassination, 
now… but he had till morning.
Shadow climbed the far slope as the sun slipped beyond the ridge. Feighan sighed 
his relief. Things would not cool for hours—not with the airborne dust's 
greenhouse effect, and the barren terrain's release of the heat absorbed during 
the day— but at least he could stop squinting. Next time I go back for water, I 
should get a pair of sunglasses… A cinder landed in his right eye. Sungoggles!
Prickers scraped stone. He looked over his shoulder, but his eye was watering; 
he could not see. "Hi," he said, hoping H'nik had come to discuss the Fourth 
Revealed Truth. "Let me just—"
A dry, abrasive something pinched the top of his left ear.
Startled, he tried to scramble to his feet, but could not break its hold.
It clamped down hard. Grinding, it sucked at his ear.
He screamed in panic and in pain. Frantically he jerked his head—and the top of 
his ear tore away. Blood ran through his sideburns and down his neck. It 
spattered on the backs of his hands.
But he was free. Lunging away from the outcropping, he dove. The coarse soil 
scraped his palms. Somersaulting, he bounced to his feet, striking a martial 
arts pose with his weight balanced and his arms held high and stiff.
On the basalt stood an Actuni, its roots stained with Feighan's blood. Between 
them extruded the pale blind snake that was the mouth of its symbiote.
Shock washed through him. "K'rach'a?" It carried away the fright, diluted the 
ache, and cleared a space for rage. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"
Its lower end belched softly.
That pushed him beyond reason. With a grunt, he hoisted a rock the size of his 
head. Holding it high, he ran forward. A meter from the monk's long spine, he 
stopped, and hurled the stone.
It smashed into K'rach'a's central ocular aureole, and knocked the monk 
backwards off the outcropping. It landed upside down between jagged rocks. Its 
roots wiggled; its mouth retracted.
The mouth looked like an anus with teeth.
And its tongue darted out to lick up a splotch of blood.
He stood above it, panting. With almost no thought and even less effort he could 
Fling the beast into the heart of Actu's sun—and he wanted to—but he forced the 
desire down. His heart beat so fast and loud that it drowned out the feeble 
scrapings of the downed monk. His fists clenched and unclenched on their own. 
Teeth gritted, he forced himself to draw the deepest breath he could—and to hold 
it for as long as possible. Then he said, "You bastard!"
"Sorry about that, Feighan," said K'rach'a. "My inner half got the better of me. 
With these torn-up roots of mine, I can't move quick enough to catch the 
beetles, and—and things got out of control, I guess. Honest, Feighan, I'm sorry 
about that, and I won't let it happen again."
"Damn straight you won't," he said, still seething.
"If you could just tip me over so I could get myself right side up, I'd 
appreciate it a lot—we're very sensitive to gravity, you know, and I'm starting 
to feel pretty confused."
"I told you it wanted to eat us."
He whirled around to point a shaking finger at his three-year-old ward. "You! 
You knew what was going to happen, and you didn't say a word!"
"Why should I?" Sam pouted. "You're mean and I hate you and I'm glad it ate your 
ear!"
"Hey, Feighan, you want to give me a hand here? I'm getting awful dizzy."
"Shut up," he said. "I'll get you out of there when I'm good and ready. And as 
for you, young man—"
"I'm not a man, I'm a Rhanghan, and that's different, you said so yourself."
He grabbed Sam's left arm and marched him over to a boulder of convenient 
height.
"You wouldn't!" All Sam's eyelids flew open as Feighan seated himself.
"Watch me." Releasing Sam's arm, he grabbed both the child's left legs and 
hauled him onto his lap. He ducked the flailing tail. "You bite me, kid, or claw 
me, or slap me with that damn tail, you're in real trouble." He slapped Sam's 
hindquarters hard. His palm stung.
"OWW! Oh, McGill, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, 
really, please, don't spank me again, please?"
He brought his hand down again. The child squirmed desperately. Sam's hide was 
so tough that it was like spanking a moving suitcase—Feighan had to be one of 
the few parents alive who could truthfully say, "This is going to hurt me more 
than it does you." But he delivered a third blow, anyway, because one should 
never teach a child that a few tears will save him from deserved punishment. 
Then he said, "All right, you can get down now, but you better not do it again."
Sam scrambled off. "I won't, McGill. I didn't know it would hurt you that bad."
He was careful not to reveal how his hand felt. "I think I understand—you were 
trying to show me that I needed you, right?"
"Uh-huh." He sniffed. A slow nictitation forced out large moist drops that 
rolled down either side of his snout. "I thought if you got scared, you'd be 
friends with me again, and take me home."
Feighan had his doubts about the sincerity of those tears, but not about Sam's 
words. "I sort of thought that's what it was. But we can't go home, not to live, 
and it's not because I don't love you. I do, Sam. You're my very best friend—"
"I thought Greystein was your best friend."
"Grey—" The name caught in his throat; he had to turn his head and cough. 
"Greystein's dead."
"You mean you stop being friends with someone when he's dead?"
"It's sort of complicated to explain—"
"Hey, Feighan, would you get a move on? My sap's flowing in the wrong direction; 
if this keeps up much longer I'll be growing roots out the top of my head."
Exasperated, he shut his eyes, as if by closing them and wishing hard he could 
make all the bad go away. Then he sighed. "Excuse me, Sam, but I'd better get 
K'rach'a right-side up or it'll never quiet down."
"You gonna spank it, too?"
"An Actuni?"
Sam made a face. "Yeah, I forgot… but what are you gonna do? You've got to teach 
K'rach'a a lesson, right?"
"I suppose so, Sam, I suppose so…" He pushed himself to his feet and swayed. 
Dizziness swirled the world around him. For a moment he thought he would faint. 
He dropped into a crouch, hands on his knees, and let his head hang low. His 
cheeks felt clammy where they brushed his wrists.
"McGill! What's the matter?"
"I think…" It took an effort to speak. "I think I lost more blood than I thought 
I lost… let me just take a breath here…"
"Feighan, would you get the lead out? I need help over here, and I need it now."
Sam glanced once at his guardian, as if assuring himself that Feighan could 
stand without assistance, then raced to the outcropping. "K'rach'a, if you don't 
shut up, I'm gonna chew your roots off! McGill's bleeding to death and all you 
can do is gripe. If I hear one more word out of you, I'm gonna get real mad."
Hunched over, his vertigo slowly fading, Feighan had to chuckle. He took a few 
more deep breaths and slowly straightened up. This time the horizon stayed 
level, and the darkness in his eyes was that of twilight. He walked over to Sam 
and the monk.
"McGill, you should go to a hospital—forget about K'rach'a; it got itself into 
this mess and it should get itself out."
"It's okay, Sam—this won't take more than a minute or two." He looked at the 
Actuni. Even if he could lift a two-meter-tall being that had to weigh a hundred 
kilograms, he would not attempt it with K'rach'a: the monk had too many 
prickers, each of which was too long, too sharp, and too stout. He would have to 
use his Talent.
It was going to be tricky, though. He would have to impart sufficient angular 
momentum to make the other spin through about a third of a revolution—or was it 
rotation; he could never remember the difference—at any rate, the momentum 
imparted would have to flip K'rach'a back into a normal vertical position, and 
to do that, Feighan would have to have the monk up in the air to start with, 
and— He grinned.
*PING*
K'rach'a materialized two hundred meters up, with nothing between itself and the 
rocky soil but all that dusty air. It wailed as it plummeted.
Deftly, Feighan worked his Talent to shove the monk into a vertical posture. 
Then he waited.
For six and one-sixth seconds K'rach'a fell. The wind shrieked through its 
spines. At the end of the sixth second it was traveling at a velocity of thirty 
meters a second. It must have thought the ground was leaping up to squash it.
Feighan timed it perfectly. At the very last moment he awakened his Talent again 
and took from K'rach'a every bit of the momentum it had accumulated on the way 
down. The monk alit as lightly as if it had hopped into the air by itself. It 
sank its roots immediately. Its spines quivered, saying nothing intelligible but 
conveying overwhelming fear nonetheless. It shook as though an earthquake had 
struck.
Sam said, "Wow!"
"Think that taught it a lesson?"
The Rhanghan cocked his head and stared at the Actuni. "Yeah. Probably. I mean, 
I think it'd be fun, but K'rach'a doesn't look too happy, so maybe it did. How 
come you never do that with me?"
As he looked down at his ward, he realized that Sam was right. He had never 
dreamed of playing skyrocket with him, even though his own change-ringer—Jose 
Schwedeker, the retired Flinger who had discovered Feighan's latent Talent— had 
played it with him time and again when he had been a child. But Jose did it to 
teach me about my powers, he thought. It's a Flinger game, not a kid's game… 
.And even as he thought it, he realized how much of a rationalization that was. 
"We'll try it sometime soon, okay?"
"How about right now?"
He pointed to his ear. "This is making me woozy, Sam. I sure would hate to faint 
just when I was supposed to catch you."
The Rhanghan looked him up and down, then shrugged.
"Tomorrow, all right?"
Sam shrugged again.
K'rach'a said, "F-feighan, I told you I was s-sorry! You didn't have to go 
taking that kind of revenge on me. " Its shudder sounded like a bad orchestra 
tuning up. "My God, you sent me so high I was looking down on the Crown."
"Not hardly, K'rach'a—you weren't even higher than that ridge up there." From 
the far valley came a wailing. Feighan said, "Oh, no!"
Sam glanced at him. "At least tonight you'll only hear half of it."
"Huh?"
"You mean you can still hear out of that ear?"
"Better than I'd like to right now." He felt like crying. To sit in gathering 
gloom and listen to dusk prayers through an ear that throbbed with every beat of 
his heart… "Come on."
"Where?"
"Ah… Hong Kong. I know a doctor there."
Sam waddled closer. "Can we get something to eat, too. Like some good fish?"
"Sure." He shivered with adrenalin aftermath, and with worry about returning to 
a world from which he was a fugitive. He dared not be seen.
*PING*
They materialized on the landing of a fire escape. Feighan tried the door into 
the corridor; it was locked. "Damn." He leaned forward to listen through it, and 
caught himself just before he pressed his ear to the metal. "Sam, is anybody on 
the other side?"
The Rhanghan's flank muscles bunched as he concentrated. "Some people way down 
the hall, waiting for an elevator or something… nobody else."
*PING*
Their feet sank into the green wool rug of the hallway. Soft, indirect lighting 
put Feighan more at ease until it dawned on him that the same dimness could 
disguise a Feighan hunter, as well. Nervous again, he looked over his shoulder. 
The long hall was empty—the elevator doors *snicked* shut.
Twenty meters down on the right hand side, a brass plaque announced, "Dr. Lemuel 
Q. Leung, MD." He looked for a door bell. Nothing.
Sam said, "Why don't you just go in?"
"This is his apartment, not his office." Maybe a thumb pad worked into the 
intricate bas-relief design of the molding?
"Oh. That's why it's so quiet inside."
"Most likely. How many people?" The door could not be voice-activated, could it?
"Inside? Some—it's quiet; nobody wants to hurt us—but I can't count 'em, McGill. 
It's just good or bad, that's all."
"Okay." Wishing he had a full-fledged Minder like Gina to help, he rapped 
lightly on the mahogany.
It said, "One moment, please," in a soft female voice, and repeated the message 
in Cantonese, Mandarin, and Japanese.
Then it opened on a short, pudgy man in a blue silk robe he was holding shut. 
His jet black hair was tousled; he blinked in even that dim light.
"Hi, Lem."
He focused on Feighan and smiled—but the smile flitted away. He grabbed the 
Flinger's arm and yanked him inside. The door closed of its own accord.
"You've not been followed, have you? Or seen in the corridor?"
The questions heightened Feighan's anxiety. "Followed, no; seen? I don't think 
so. Why?"
Leung relaxed. "The inquiry agents have been round, you know." He looked over 
his shoulder and said something in Cantonese. From the bedroom came the whisk of 
slippers on parquet floor. An ivory arm closed the connecting door.
"Nice," said Feighan, raising an eyebrow.
The other smiled broadly, but made no explanation. Then he squinted at Feighan, 
blinked, and spoke to the ceiling. The lights came on bright and dazzling. "I 
say, old chap, you've not been in a Wanchai bar fight, have you? One hardly 
knows which are more dangerous, the sailors or the hostesses." As he spoke, he 
took Feighan's jaw in his left hand and turned the Flinger's head to the right. 
"Nasty bit of work, here." Leung had trained at Cambridge, and was proud of his 
affected accent, anachronisms and all. Drunk, he did a better Brooklynese— which 
was how the two had met a few years earlier. Leung had spotted Feighan in a 
restaurant, ascertained that he was American, then asked in all seriousness if 
the proper idiom were "moider da bums" or "moider dem bums." The Flinger had had 
to confess ignorance. "The kitchen, I think."
"Huh?"
"Well, I should be a proper fool if I worked on you in my living room, what?" He 
spun on his heel and marched toward the far end of the room.
Feighan followed, as did Sam. The lights faded behind them while brightening 
before. It was like being tracked across a stage by a spotlight. "What was that 
you said about inquiry agents?"
Leung pulled out a chair at the formica-topped kitchen table. "Sit. Tilt your 
head to the right. Tsk-tsk-tsk. I presume that this large beast watching me so 
steadily understands that I am allowed—nay, encouraged—to touch you?"
Sam hissed. "I'm not a beast, I'm a Rhanghan, and for a Rhanghan, I'm pretty 
small. That's 'cause I'm only three."
Leung's jaw dropped and he took a step backwards.
Feighan chuckled. "I forgot to make the introductions—Dr. Lemuel Qun Ching 
Leung, meet Sam, my ward."
Leung recovered nicely. "I am most pleased to meet you, Sam," he said with a 
small bow. "I've not met a Rhanghan before."
"And it's nice to meet you, Dr. Leung—did McGill pronounce your name right?"
"As usual, he made a great bloody ballsup of it."
"He always does—how is it really?"
Leung pronounced it properly.
Sam echoed it tone for tone, then flicked his tongue at McGill. "That's easier 
than H'nik's name."
"Most impressive," said Leung in a murmur. "Have you perfect pitch, or—"
"Ah, Lem? My ear?" He pointed at it for emphasis.
"Terribly sorry, my dear chap—but torn ears are a dime a dozen, you know, while 
Rhanghans enter my chambers rather less frequently." He bent over to inspect 
Feighan's head again, then straightened up. "I'll just get my bag." He left the 
room through the swinging door, and re-entered before it had stopped 
oscillating. "A little anesthespray, and…"
He had the ear cleaned, stitched, salved, and dressed in ten minutes. "Rather 
good work, if I do say so myself, what?"
Feighan examined it in a mirror. "Uh-huh. Not bad for a society doctor who 
hasn't seen blood since he got out of med school. Thank you."
"One assumes that you'd rather the police failed to get wind of this."
"I'd really appreciate that," he said. "You were going to tell me about the 
inquiry agents?"
"Two sets of them dropped by for a bit of a chat. The local constabulary, of 
course, and then, the day before yesterday, a pair of brutish-looking fellows 
with bulges in the oddest of places."
The Organization, he thought. "A computer somewhere must list you as one of my 
acquaintances." He laughed, but weakly. "And I came to you because I was sure 
they wouldn't know about you… Did they explain why they wanted me?"
"Something about welshing on a rather large debt, I believe."
Feighan snorted. "Yeah, the court took every penny I had, and wanted a couple 
million more… so they're looking for me here in Hong Kong, too?"
"Assiduously."
"Then I'd better get going." He pushed himself to his feet.
"Have you a place, then?"
He nodded. For the first time in hours, the motion did not hurt. "But I'd better 
not tell you where—there seem to be a lot of Minders floating around, and I'd 
rather not put a name in your memory for a telepath to pluck."
"Marvelously sensible of you, old boy. And Sam, it has been a pleasure and an 
honor to make your acquaintance; p'raps we'll meet again in the not too distant 
future."
"Yeah, I hope so, too, Dr. Leung."
Feighan and Leung shook hands, then—
*PING*
—they materialized outside their tent. .Dusk prayers still screeched at the 
stars. The wind blew hot and dry. K'rach'a stood thirty meters away.
"McGill! You said we could get something to eat!"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but if the Hong Kong police are looking for me, I can't 
afford to go to a restaurant—somebody'll call the cops, and then—"
"But you promised!" When he shook his fist, his bracelet rustled fibrously.
"I said sure, we'd eat, but—" He spread his hands helplessly. "Sam—"
"You know I'd know if anybody was going to try to hurt you, and you know I'd 
tell you right away, so that's not the real reason. The real reason is you don't 
want— you want me to be miserable. I hate you!"
"Honest, Sam, that's not it. It's—" But how could he explain his anxiety to a 
child? Yes, Sam was extremely sensitive; yes, he could Fling them away on half a 
second's notice. But one sniper with a good rifle, one cop with a dart gun, and 
bam! Down he would go, dead, or worse. "Sam, I'm sorry. But sometimes you just 
have to take the bad with the good. We had a couple of good years in New York 
there, and we'll have good years later. Right now, though, we just have to put 
up with the way things are going."
The prayer of the valley came to an end, and the sudden silence rattled him. He 
waited for Sam to reply.
But the Rhanghan turned without a word and went into the tent.
Feighan followed. He slept poorly.
In the morning, screeching Actuni awoke him. Yawning, he pushed his head through 
the tent flaps and looked down into the valley. The dawn prayers encircled the 
monastery; their liturgy seemed a challenge, a taunt.
"Hey, Feighan!"
He looked to his right. K'rach'a stood there, the same thirty meters away it had 
stayed the preceding night. Apparently it had learned its lesson. "What?"
"H'nik wants you down in the monastery."
"Now?" The sun was barely over the eastern ridges. "Can't it wait?"
"No. You better get down there quick."
He yawned again; his eyes watered. "All right." He crawled back inside the tent 
to get his clothes on and to tell Sam where he would be, but the Rhanghan had 
already left. He sighed. Maybe I should have risked a restaurant after all, he 
thought. I hate it when Sam's this way…
Dressed, he stepped back outside. "Hey, K'rach'a."
"What can I do for you?"
"If you see Sam, tell him where I am, all right?"
"Sure thing… how's your ear?"
"Better than it was yesterday." He nodded to the monk. As an afterthought, he 
picked up Hommroummy's radio. If he were Greystein, he would use it to track 
down Hommroummy and get him—but he was no genius. He sighed wistfully, and—
*PING*
—materialized near the monastery hollow. "H'nik!"
Half a kilometer away, the scholar flashed its metallic bristles. "Here!"
*PING*
Its long spine quivered a meter from his shoulder; it made him uncomfortable. 
"K'rach'a said you wanted to see me?"
"Why did you not report at dawn?"
He blinked. "Ah… I didn't know I was supposed to."
"All seminarians report here at first light; arrive late again at your own 
peril."
He frowned. "I'm a seminarian?"
"You did say you sought entrance to the order, did you not?"
"Well, yes, but I thought there would be a ceremony or something."
"Of course not. You're a monk now. An acolyte, to be precise. That's all there 
is to it." For the first time since the two had met, the asperity in H'nik's 
voice was directed at Feighan. "It is equally easy to resign."
"No, I don't—"
"Then obey orders." It did the scuttle-and-hop that turned it around. "There is 
your row." It pointed with its long spine. "Weed it. And drive off any grazing 
lizards you see."
The line of plump-leaved blue bushes stretched for two or three hundred meters. 
He went to the first, which came almost to his knee. "I take out everything 
growing in this row but this kind of plant?"
"That's right." It moved away immediately.
He squinted down the line. The first weed glistened with dew a meter away, and 
the next grew three meters beyond that. Easy. It would probably take less than 
an hour. He knelt, and set to work.
Two hours later, he had covered less than fifty meters. The weeds had thorns, 
and roots of marvelous durability. His knees hurt; his back ached; his neck 
already stung from the sun. Sweat kept dripping into his eyes, blinding him. It 
turned the dust on his cheeks to mud.
The rock in his pocket said, "Feighan?"
He groaned. Milford Hommroummy was the last person he wanted to hear from now. 
"Yeah?"
"Have you come to a decision?"
He sat back, resting his scratched palms on his thighs. "Yeah."
"Well?"
After digging the radio out of his pocket, he held it to his mouth and screamed: 
"DROP DEAD!" Then he filled it with momentum. It shot straight up at two 
kilometers per second, trailing a soft mutter of disturbed air. It sparkled 
briefly, and was gone.
Going back to his weeding, he felt marginally better. He had needed to let off 
some steam. Of course, maybe it wasn't the smartest thing in the world I could 
have done… I mean, maybe I should have tried to string him out a little longer, 
because now they're gonna come looking for me…Ah, the hell with it. I've got 
Sam, the Actuni, the Talent…It'd cost them to get me. Too much.
Behind, a pair of Actuni chatted in their own tongue as they drew closer. He 
lifted his head—then stood, just in case.
When they were a meter away, one said, "McGill Feighan, we would converse with 
you." It had the prominent ribs and bright green skin of a highlander.
"Sure. Anything for a break from this weeding."
"We are dawn prayers, and we ask you to join us."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I've just joined the order here, and…"
"We know that, but truly, dawn is the only acceptable time of day to pray the 
major liturgy."
"Ah…" Helpless, he spread his hands. "Theology isn't my strong point. I—"
"Do you not see? It is at dawn that the dew falls—"
"I thought it was a little before, myself."
"Admittedly the dusk prayers have a point when they maintain that twilight 
brings surcease from the heat of the day— but dawn brings moisture and the sun. 
It brings strength and wisdom. It is a beginning, not an ending, and we who 
would maintain the universe must dedicate ourselves to beginnings, not to 
endings." <
"Well, that does make sense, of course, but… uh…"
"Join us. Not permanently; we could not ask such a commitment of you. But work 
our fields and talk to us and see if your path does not lead more directly than 
does theirs."
Though already heartily sick of working others' fields, he was interested in any 
path that might be shorter. "Tell me more."
"You of all people should join us."
He wiped his forehead, then dried his palm on his pants. "Why is that?"
"Because the Far Being Retzglaran has sent you to us."
He froze. "Why do you say that?"
"It is foretold."
He began to relax—
"You are its pawn and it has directed your life to this moment in time, this 
point in space. It is the Maker, the Planter, the highest form of life in the 
universe. It is God. And the so-called Fourth Revealed Truth is a pernicious lie 
spread by the dusk prayers."
He studied the other. "You say It shaped my life just so I'd get here now?"
"Yes." It rustled its bristles affirmatively.
"It littered my life with bodies just so I could wind up here?"
"The Far Being wants no one to suffer."
He snorted. "I thought that was why you Actuni were created—to suffer."
"Sadly, that is our role. But the Far Being Retzglaran did not desire it; it 
simply happened that for the universe to function, we had to suffer. Yet 
remember: it is through the intercession of the Far Being Retzglaran that we 
live at all."
"But—"
"Join us."
He exhaled slowly, sadly. "No. No, if the Far Being twisted my life around just 
to bring me here, as you claim It did, then It has to be evil, and you're 
wrong."
"You must join us."
"I said, no."
"We need you."
"No."
"But—"
"Just get out of here." Suddenly he shouted at them. "Leave me alone!"
They backed away, scuffling the dirt. "If you feel that way about it—"
"I do!"
"We will speak again."
"Not if I can help it."
As they came forward, he stepped aside to let them pass.
They hurried by, their roots kicking up soil as they moved. He stood, hands on 
hips, angry with them for disturbing him with their contradictory spiel about 
the goodness of the Far Being. If It made him kill Greystein, It had to be evil. 
They had to be wrong. They had to be.
Thirty meters away, they scurried over a patch of freshly turned earth.
The explosion knocked Feighan on his back. It peppered him with dirt, and 
pebbles, and scraps of shredded Actuni.
Chapter XIX
« ^ »


Hommroummy's voice came through strong and static-free— The Organization bought 
quality equipment. "Our ground spotter says Feighan is alive!"
He stared in bewilderment at the display screen of the detection unit. "So does 
this. I don't understand it."
"You turned it on too early, fool!"
"I could have sworn he was right on top of it…" He examined the control panel. 
His heart raced; his throat felt swollen on the inside. If he failed, he would 
die. "Wait. I don't have a reading for Avarice Two. Where is it?"
"In orbit, picking up a passenger."
If he had been in charge, he would have torn off his headphones and hurled them 
at the wall. But he was not. Even his advice against the land mine had been 
ignored. "Too far for accurate triangulation. Who ordered it away?"
Hommroummy took a while to answer. When he did, his voice was subdued. "A 
higher-up."
"Does this higher-up know that, because it did not notify Operations Control, it 
single-handedly aborted a successful strike?"
"That," said Hommroummy slowly, "is something only a madman would say to Gryll. 
If you value your life, forget that that thought ever occurred to you."
He scowled. "Let me know when Avarice Two is ready to go again. I will get 
Feighan my own way. And very, very soon."
Chapter XX
« ^ »


The line of dawn prayers enclosing the monastery pressed inward. Their piercing 
wail rent the air; it rang as loudly as if the sky itself had been torn in half. 
At the valley's south peak, a flying creature flapped its leathery wings and 
veered away. At the north end, loose rocks slid, raising a cloud of dust. In the 
middle, Feighan covered his ears—and gasped as pain shot through the left side 
of his head.
On his feet again, he brushed off the debris. Dust clung to a sticky smear on 
his right forearm. Actuni sap, he thought, making a sound of revulsion. It 
burned. The damp skin reddened and began to swell. Oh, great—I'm allergic to it! 
Within seconds, it itched so badly that it was all he could do to keep his other 
hand away from it. Instead, he bent down, poured dirt over it, and rubbed that 
off. The scouring did not relieve the irritation, but when he had finished, his 
skin was dry.
Then he walked forward, picking a zig-zag path through the pulpy bits of the 
dead Actuni ''s lower bodies. Their upper bodies lay fifteen or twenty meters 
away. The blast had dug a crater half a meter deep and three meters wide. If he 
had stepped there first… he almost vomited.
He forced himself to approach the corpses. Why? Everywhere I go people die 
because of me—my parents, Rothono, Nadia… the list ran to too many names. 
Friends and enemies alike; all dead on his account. I didn't even know these two 
and now they're destroyed…I can't take it any more. I just can't take it…
His head ached. Shoulders slumped, he turned away, retracing his steps down the 
row he had weeded. The coarse soil crunched under his boots. Such a stupid way 
to try to get me! There was no guarantee I'd be there first—hell, there was no 
guarantee I'd ever get there! And yet The Organization had tried it anyway… or 
was it Hommroummy? He's usually more subtle. He knows Sam could have sensed the 
danger, just like he sensed the bomb in the courtroom… He groaned. I couldn't 
have two sets of enemies, could I? Please. Tell me I couldn't.
Dozens of Actuni thumped across the fields toward him. Bristles fluttering, 
K'rach'a and H'nik led the way. As soon as they were within earshot, K'rach'a 
shouted, "Feighan! What in tarnation is going on out here? What did you do to 
those two old fools?"
He waited for them to draw nearer. The air stunk of chlorophyll; he stifled a 
sneeze. "I didn't do anything. They stepped on a land mine."
"Speak sense, acolyte," said H'nik. "Explain to us how you know it was a land 
mine, and then explain to us how such a device could have come to lie beneath 
the soil of Actu."
He spread his hands wide. "What else could it have been? I was watching them the 
whole time. Nothing fell on them, like a bomb or an artillery shell. It wasn't 
in one of them, because if you look you'll see—" He gagged on the memory. "The 
damage is all to their lower bodies. There's a hole in the ground. The dirt 
and—the dirt flew up. It had to be a mine."
"But what was it doing there?"
He inhaled deeply, and let it out slowly. "I think it was there for me."
"You?" Scuttling closer, H'nik twisted from side to side so that all three of 
its ocular aureoles could survey him. "Did you not leave all that nonsense 
behind?"
"I thought I had," he said unhappily, "but it looks like it followed me."
K'rach'a advanced, long spine twitching. "Who planted the mine?"
"I don't know!" Hands on his hips, he glared at the monk which had tried to eat 
him. "It was somebody who knew I'd be working this row, that's for sure. And it 
had to be somebody who has it in for me."
"That sounds like an accusation, Feighan." It leveled its long spine.
He readied his Talent. "Does it? Then maybe it is. Maybe I do suspect you—after 
all, you're the only one around who's tried to hurt me." Gina—where are you when 
I need you?
H'nik moved between them. "Silence, acolyte. It was K'rach'a's inner half which 
hungered for you; now, having tasted you, it knows better. And K'rach'a itself 
would cause you no harm."
The dry wind parched his throat. "Then—"
"Silence, I said! The dawn prayers approach, and it will be difficult indeed to 
convince them that you did not deprive them of their leadership deliberately. 
You will leave while K'rach'a reasons with them."
The oncoming green wall had more sharp points than a dagger factory. "All 
right." Besides, he was too tired to argue anyway. "I'll be at my tent."
"One moment, Acolyte McGill Feighan."
"What do you want, H'nik?"
"You have not been excused from your duties. You will teleport the two of us to 
Iixa Ha'gnu."
He rolled his eyes to the hazy sky. "H'nik, I—"
"Do what it tells you, Feighan," said K'rach'a.
"All right, but I don't know where Ixy Hag is."
"Then we shall travel in line-of-sight jumps. Make the eastern ridge your first 
destination."
*PING*
Twenty minutes later, they reached the valley called Iixa. Barren slopes poured 
into it, sulking dark even in the bright sun. Lava had flowed there in recent 
times, and what soil there was lay beneath a smooth black shell. H'nik said, "Do 
you see that flat ledge halfway down the volcano?"
"Yeah."
"Respect your superiors, acolyte."
"Yes," he said through gritted teeth. "I do see it."
"Then take us there."
*PING*
The ledge faced south. It caught the sun's heat and held it like a miser. The 
rock warmed Feighan's feet even through his boots. "Here we are." He was ready 
to drop.
H'nik ignored him. It bustled across the ledge to a quarter-size Actuni at the 
very rear.
Curious, Feighan followed.
H'nik rustled its spines furiously. After a very long pause, the small one 
replied. And they began to talk.
Hot, tired, and aching in head and arms, Feighan grew bored quickly. To him, 
listening to two aliens converse in their own language was barely more 
interesting than watching bubbles form in a glass of tap water. Half-wishing he 
had studied Actuni, he wandered away.
The ledge stretched a hundred meters long by thirty deep; except for the dwarf 
native, it was lifeless. Only one fissure marred the smooth, dark rock, and it 
was through that that the small one had sprouted. Feighan walked to the edge.
In the very bottom of the valley, where ashfall and gravel had made a kind of 
soil, perhaps a score of Actuni worked struggling fields. He squinted down. Thin 
lines of blue traced a grid on the dirt—the succulent he had been weeding 
earlier. He wondered which part they ate. The leaves? Did it have pulpy fruit 
like the Actuni, or just small, dry seeds…he frowned, thinking, Wait a minute. 
They said they don't have children, but if they have fruit…maybe it's all 
sterile? Still, you'd think…
"Acolyte!"
He spun around. "Yes?"
"Prepare to depart."
"Okay. Is your friend coming?"
H'nik made the bristle shake of negation. "It is not my friend; rather, it is my 
genetic identical."
"Your twin?"
"My clone. Almost six of your centuries ago, I was drowsing here in the sun when 
Iixa erupted. The noise awoke me, but it was too late. Hot lava inundated me. 
Having no other choice, I tapped down."
Feighan shaded his eyes. "I thought you didn't remember your past lives."
"Only the last one, the one whose ending forced the present life's beginning. To 
continue, when I budded back up—"
"Through the lava?" He stamped it with his heel; the jar ran up his spine and 
hurt his head.
"Of course. One emerges through one's old brain case, which is usually where the 
rock is weakest. But the fissure was narrow and the bud bruised itself, 
triggering the branching process. As the senior, I had first access to available 
nutrients—and the soil here is poor. G'raxa never got quite enough… Your word is 
'retarded.' "
"But it seems to talk okay."
"The first time I visited New York, I spoke English poorly; in fact, I was there 
as a language student. On one occasion, I spent perhaps forty-five minutes 
engaged in a most pleasant conversation with a parrot. I did not know it merely 
repeated that which it had heard before… G'raxa is the same. Interestingly 
enough, Brother I'ghra maintains that in the time before the Day of Burning 
Water, all Actuni were as stunted mentally as my clone. One wonders about that, 
of course, but I'ghra is the only one among us who has actual memories of the 
period. Perhaps it is correct."
Feighan looked at the malnourished Actuni. It seemed shriveled, pathetic. "But 
you managed to develop normally, even in the poor soil, huh?"
"Hardly. When I broke free of the death root I was barely the size G'raxa is 
now, though I was close to fifty-five years old. I was so small that I had not 
even tried to find mobility— I clung to the root and drew from it as much 
nourishment as I could. Had a large stone not rolled across us one evening, 
snapping me off, I would in all likelihood still be attached— and by now I would 
surely be insane. I thank God every dusk for Its intercession."
"You think it was God?"
"Your own Bible says that 'not a sparrow falls…' yes?"
"Well—"
"Come. Surely it is safe for us to return to the monastery."
"All right." He glanced over to G'raxa and waved goodbye. So it was a retarded 
dwarf. It could still see.
*PING*
They materialized on the edge of the basin. Yawning, Feighan looked across. An 
energy tunic glistened; two Terran faces turned to him; something tugged his 
Talent. He blinked. They were gone.
"H'nik!"
"Yes, acolyte?"
"Who—" He was shaking. One of them had looked like Greystein. Or was he cracking 
up from guilt at last? "Who were those two Terrans?"
"What Terrans?" Slowly, it made its way down into the hollow. "Remain wh—I 
apologize. You are now a monk, and hence allowed to enter the sacred precincts."
He pointed to the other side. "When we Flopped here, there were two Terrans 
standing over there. Who were they?"
"I see no one there now."
"I know that—one was a Flinger." He was positive. And it was not a guilt-born 
vision, either, because he no longer felt guilty. Sad, yes, and lonely, too. But 
not guilty.
"The day has been stressful, Acolyte McGill Feighan. Return to your tent for a 
short rest. Report back to me in half an hour."
"Wait a minute. I want to know who those Terrans were."
H'nik's lower spines rubbed in exasperation. "Are you determined to harass me? 
K'rach'a!"
The other stood some thirty meters away. It scuttled about to face them, but did 
not speak.
"K'rach'a, the acolyte maintains that two Terrans were visiting the monastery 
when we arrived. Do you know anything of that?"
"He's been out in the sun too long again."
"Do you see, acolyte? Your perceptions are impaired."
"Crap."
H'nik made the scrape of resignation. "Is that the 'I know you're lying to me, 
so cut it out' word?"
"You got it." His head throbbed; massaging his temples did not help.
"As I thought… acolyte, it is remarkably unwise to insult your superiors in the 
order."
K'rach'a said, "Apologize, Feighan."
He felt crowded by the two large monks. "Why should I? I know what I saw."
"Should the Abbot learn of your insults to K'rach'a and myself, it would demand 
your immediate expulsion from the order—and of course, it being the Abbot, it 
would see its demands granted. You would be expelled."
Grouchy from heat and exhaustion, he said, "So? Why should I worry about that? 
You said I could leave the order any time I wanted."
K'rach'a spoke. "It works like this, Feighan. You can quit any time you 
want—walk away, no hard feelings on either side. But if you get thrown out, it 
means you're so screwed-up that the order would be committing a sin if it let 
you wander around loose—so everybody gets together and makes sure you tap down." 
It paused reflectively. "See, that gives you a fresh start in life."
He took a step backward, and almost turned his ankle on a loose stone. "How do 
you make sure somebody taps down?"
"Burn it out, how else?" Its long spine twitched.
"But I can't tap down!"
"That would be your problem, acolyte, not ours." H'nik advanced on him. "We have 
yet to hear you tender your apologies."
"Okay. I'm sorry. Now: Who were the Terrans?"
"There were no Terrans, acolyte, and should you persist in your impertinence, 
you will face expulsion."
"Then I quit!"
"Ah?" H'nik tilted back slightly on its roots. "As you would prefer, McGill 
Feighan, but I feel it incumbent upon me to point out that now that you have 
resigned from our order, we will find it sadly necessary to ask you to leave the 
planet."
He sagged. "That's not real fair, H'nik—you know I don't have anywhere else to 
go."
"Would that be a request to re-enter the order?"
He clamped his jaws shut and held his breath; after a long slow count to twenty 
he exhaled. "Yes. Yes, H'nik, it is a request to re-enter the order."
"Your request is accepted, acolyte. Return to your quarters until the 
hallucinations have faded, then report back here."
"All right." He found it distasteful to have to obey. While recognizing that he 
had no choice, he refused to be submissive; if they wanted him to do their 
bidding, they would have to accept his sullenness.
"Fifteen minutes should suffice, should it not, acolyte?"
"Yeah."
*PING*
"Hi, McGill! I didn't expect you back so early."
He sat in the shade of the basalt outcropping next to Sam. "I didn't either, but 
I've been told that I'm suffering from hallucinations and delusions and various 
other mental afflictions that require me to rest."
"You sound pretty angry."
"I am."
"I got an idea that ought to cheer you up." Sam's tongue flickered happily. 
"Let's go to Hideaway for the afternoon! They have good sun and the ocean and we 
can cool off, maybe stop somewhere else first for a picnic basket—" He broke off 
to stare at his guardian. "Why not?"
Feighan shook his throbbing head ever-so-slightly. "Sam, it's a great idea, but 
I have to go back to work in just a few minutes."
"You're working more here than you did back home."
"Tell me about it." He folded his arms and looked down into the valley. He 
smelled stale even to himself. "Did you see a couple of Terrans at the monastery 
a while ago?"
Eyes widening, Sam lifted his head. "Is that what it was?"
"I thought you had good vision—you're always bragging about it."
"McGill, I wasn't looking. Just I felt something… funny."
"Like what? Danger?" He was sitting on a sharp pebble, but was too discouraged 
to move.
"It was too far away. Just a—a feeling."
"What kind of feeling?"
"I don't know. A—" The three-year-old rippled the fins of his backbone.
"Well, try, will you?"
Sam held out his hands. "McGill, I am trying, but—"
"Jesus." He slapped a flat rock. "Was it somebody trying to hurt me, or not?"
"McGill, I don't know!"
He snorted. "Thanks."
After a moment of sulky silence, the child said, "Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you."
"You are too."
"I am not!"
Sam hissed. "You're mean, you know that?"
"Dammit, I am not, I just—"
"You're mean and nasty and I hate you!" He scrambled to his feet and sped for 
the tent. "Leave me alone!"
Feighan let his head roll back against the basalt. Overhead the sky hung 
cloudless but hazy. He wished that just once it would rain, good and hard, to 
clear all the junk from the air so he could look up into crystalline blue sky 
stretching into eternity without a flaw. Rain? Sure. Santa Claus brings it…
The fifteen-minute respite had ended; he had to go back to work. Using the 
outcropping for support, he hauled himself to his feet. His muscles complained 
stiffly; his head pounded like a jagged-voiced drum. And every motion hurt his 
ear.
*PING*
"Here I am, H'nik. What do you want?"
"Beyond the library field lies a patch of land that requires clearing if we are 
to extend the library into it, as we have planned."
"Uh-huh." Nodding, he waited for instructions.
"Did I fail to make myself clear?"
"I'm afraid so. What do you want me to do?"
Pointing with its long spine, it said, "Go clear the field."
"Pardon?"
"Clear it. Remove the rocks and boulders. Grade—"
"Boulders?" He squinted at the monk, who seemed to be shimmering in the 
sunlight. The heat was affecting him, after all.
"Boulders. Remove them." It twisted back and forth on its roots so all three of 
its eyes could focus on him sequentially. "Then you may rest for the remainder 
of the day, as long as you understand that it is my compassion which permits you 
to idle away valuable hours, and not any action on your part."
With a muttered, "Sure," he headed for the field H'nik had pointed out.
Things were just not going the way he had thought they would. He had expected 
that joining the order would change things for the better, that he would be 
entering into a fellowship, a fraternity of loving, caring beings who would ease 
his hurts and teach him the path to serenity. Instead, H'nik barked orders, and 
K'rach'a treated him with derision, and the only thing he had learned was that 
the Far Being was evil—and that was something that he wished he had never heard, 
no matter how much sense it made…
The new field had to be twenty-five hundred square meters, and on first glance, 
a boulder jutted up from each of those square meters. "Oh, God!" A mere 
examination of the area drenched him with sweat; what would the actual labor do?
He soon found out. Bending for those rocks he could lift, he piled them up and 
teleported them out to the badlands, then straightened to rub the small of his 
back. He felt like a sponge which the hand of the sun was squeezing dry. Dizzy 
from the heat and exertion, he looked longingly up the slope to the green speck 
that was their tent. With just a little bit of effort, he could Fling right up 
there, chug some water, pop a salt tablet…
The effort was too great. Wobbly, he sat down abruptly.
A bullet whizzed past his head. Mica chips flew as it smacked into a rock and 
ricocheted away.
Feighan reacted on instinct.
*PING*
He stood at the front of their tent, scanning the far ridge for the sniper. Actu 
blurred visibility. "Sam!" He needed the Rhanghan's sense, both physical and 
para-physical. "Hey, Sam!" Licking the salt off his upper lip, he squinted as 
hard as he could, but veils of haze draped the western crest. "Sam, I need you! 
Hey, Sam!"
It struck him that to stand erect before the only tent in the valley made him 
extremely vulnerable. A trickle of sweat ran down his neck. He dropped to his 
knees, and stuck his head through the flaps to see if Sam were inside sleeping.
The tent was empty—except for a dark card on his pillow: a recording chip. 
Worried, now, he scrambled inside, dug through the pile of camping gear for the 
player, and popped the chip in.
"Good-bye, McGill." The Rhanghan's voice was full of melodramatic self-pity. 
"You don't want me, so I won't bother you any more. I'm leaving."
"Sam!" Heedless of danger, he ran outside. No Sam. Nowhere. He loved the kid 
more than anybody in the universe, except maybe Gina; if anything happened to 
him… He jumped onto a boulder for better perspective, but it made no difference. 
No matter how he twisted and squinted and shaded his eyes, he could not spot 
mottled green skin anywhere. And the ground—barren, dry, and rocky—bore no 
tracks.
"Sam!"
His mind *twitched*. He frowned: somebody had used the Talent nearby.
Who? And why? And—but instinct said get out quick!
*PING*
Standing on the lip of the monastery basin, he looked back up to his tent. 
Nothing. He began to feel foolish for having been so jumpy. H'nik was shuffling 
toward him, presumably to bawl him out. He was already starting to formulate an 
explanation that would satisfy the monk without embarrassing himself too 
greatly.
His tentsite fountained in a spray of rocks and dirt. Moments later, a muffled 
roar rolled down the slope. Gravel rained over the valley. Jaw agape, he stood 
immobilized while the wind worried the cloud of dust that was all that remained. 
The Organization was on the attack.
Chapter XXI
« ^ »


He gaped at the blue light on the screen. Another miss! Hommroummy would not 
excuse it. The sweat ran down his neck; his collar sopped it up. What was he 
going to say? He—
"Davis." Hommroummy's voice whispered coldly in his earphones. "Davis, I—" He 
cleared his throat. "I find myself in the distasteful position of having to 
apologize."
"Apo-apologize?" His breath came harshly enough to blur his boss' voice. 
"Wh-what do you mean?"
"Our ground observer reported that she had a clear shot at Feighan. Her 
marksmanship has always been superior. I granted permission to fire. She 
missed."
He sagged back in his swivel chair, giddy with relief. "Youm—you mean he got 
nervous and jumpy because he was dodging a sniper?"
Hommroummy cleared his throat again. "Yes."
"I see." He inhaled deeply. Exhaling, he felt in command once more. "Well, 
kindly tell your sniper to hold her fire. I shall dispose of Feighan. And then 
I'll burn the lizard." He looked forward to that. He had hated Sam for a good 
long time. "But if ground fire keeps them on the move—"
"It won't," snapped Hommroummy. "Now get him!"
"With pleasure."
Chapter XXII
« ^ »


Anger finally freed Feighan from the paralysis of shock. Clenching his fists, he 
strode up to the oncoming H'nik. "All right. You told me before there were no 
Terrans on Actu—"
"You speak with disrespect, acolyte. Need I remind you—"
"At this point, all you can remind me of is that you lied. And every time I 
think of that, I get mad." He kicked dirt on its roots. "Maybe K'rach'a told you 
what I do when I get mad? Quit stalling. Where are the Terrans?"
"When I relate this conversation to the Abbot—"
"If you don't answer me pretty soon you won't be relating any conversations to 
anybody—you'll be squatting in a field trying to grow new bristles. Now." He 
wiped sweat off his forehead, and dried his hand on his pants. "Somebody just 
Flung an explosive charge into my tent. Actuni don't have the technology—or the 
physiology—to make that kind of time bomb. Who did?"
The monk backed off; the top of its barrel leaned away from Feighan's intensity. 
"I have no knowledge of this, acolyte, and I find your implicit accusations 
reprehensible in the extreme. To suggest that clergy—"
"Who would know?" He stalked after it.
"No one. There are no Terrans on this planet except for yourself, and that is a 
situation which will soon be remedied." Its long spine snapped into the locking 
position; it quivered as the monk shuffled about to aim it at Feighan. "You have 
caused me annoyance enough, Acolyte McGill Feighan."
He narrowed his eyes. Surely H'nik knew better than to—
The monk charged.
Gravel flew as its roots churned the soil. Its spines waved, circled, then 
interwove to form the fibrous equivalent of chain mail; only the ocular and the 
long spines jutted out. All four pointed straight at Feighan. Between its roots 
dangled the symbiote's mouth; it made soft slurping noises. H'nik advanced on 
him at a good ten centimeters per second.
Feighan laughed. Backpedaling a fast five meters, he waited. What am I going to 
do? I really don't want to hurl this guy too badly—I mean, it's got answers I 
need, for one thing— but I can't let it think it can scare me. The problem was, 
it was like fighting â legless bull, and where is the challenge— the honor—in 
that?
Then he snickered. He found a weathered grey rock that fit comfortably into the 
palm of his hand. After retreating three more steps to give himself room, he 
crouched slightly, and held the rock in both hands at about chest level. Then he 
moved, swinging the rock back underhand and bringing it forward to roll it along 
the ground just exactly like a bowling ball aimed at H'nik's roots—
The uneven surface caught the stone, ramped it into the air, bumped it to the 
right and to the left, then channeled it right into H'nik.
The monk toppled forward. Its long spine jabbed the soil, sinking in to half its 
length. With a furious wriggle of its roots it tried to right itself, but the 
long spine had penetrated too deeply, and the angle was all wrong.
He sauntered over. "You seem to be having problems here, H'nik. Need a hand?"
A field of crickets *chirrupped* as it untangled its coat of spines. They 
slashed up and down; if Feighan came any closer they would rake his skin. "I 
order you to put me upright, acolyte."
Its tone irked him. "You don't understand. I don't take orders from you any 
more. If you want my help, you'll have to ask for—"
"I ask your help, acolyte!"
"—it, and you'll have to help me, in return." While he waited for it to answer, 
he looked around, half-expecting another attack. The other monks and the farmers 
ignored them, though; the only sound came from the library, still chanting the 
Fourth Revealed Truth, and from the dawn prayers massed outside the monastery. 
The scene was so pastoral that it raised the hairs on his neck—it was too placid 
to be real.
"Very well," said H'nik. "Assist me into an upright position, and I will tell 
you what I know."
"Uh-uh. Tell me first. Then I lift you up."
"When the Abbot hears of—" It stopped, sighed, and said, "No. The Abbot will 
never hear of this, for I am violating my vow to keep it secret."
He had no sympathy. "Talk."
"I know very little," it said with audible reluctance. "The Abbot, with K'rach'a 
translating, conducted the negotiations for the order, and it excluded me from 
most of the discussions. To the best of my knowledge, they have settled into 
Ng'ha Ha'ghu—the second valley north of here—which is useless to us because its 
volcano erupted only a few years ago, and coated all the land with lava to a 
depth of two or even three of your meters. For their purposes, it is adequate: 
the lava provides a landing pad for their rockets—"
"They're using shuttle craft?" He clutched his stomach. The Organization usually 
relied on Flingers—except within a few days travel of a major base. His throat 
suddenly dried and constricted. If Actu were close to a sector headquarters, ten 
thousand Organization gunmen could be within range right now.
"Yes. And their craft have made many, many trips."
"But why are they here?"
All its bristles twitched violently. "Did you know, Acolyte McGill Feighan, that 
tapping down releases into our dying pulp a hormone which, dried and purified, 
is hallucinogenic to Rehmal? Cumulatively toxic, too, of course—and hence most 
illegal—but quite pleasurable. And therefore profitable."
He groaned. "And you say their camp is the second valley north of here?"
"Yes."
"All right." He started to prepare his Talent to extricate H'nik, then stopped. 
"Wait a minute—those two Terrans I saw a couple of hours ago—were they from that 
camp?"
"No." It scraped its spines hesitantly. "That is, I do not believe so; one of 
them was your Director Davis. He said he had information that your life was in 
danger and that we should direct you to him. The Abbot said that you were not on 
the planet."
Davis? Had he changed his mind? "Why did the Abbot lie?"
"Because it suspected the motives of your Director, and decided that inasmuch as 
you had become a member of our order, you deserved the protection of our order. 
So it lied— and just look at how you have repaid it!"
Ignoring the outburst, Feighan said, "Hold still a minute." He closed his 
eyes—concentrated on the fallen Actuni—visualized—felt—knew—
*PING*
Still horizontal, H'nik materialized ten meters up, and began immediately to 
rotate. It fell, squalling in fright even while the momentum Feighan had applied 
brought it into true vertical. He caught it just before it hit—and let it settle 
down soft and easy. "All right?"
"Ye-yes. I…" It shook itself, fluffing out its bristles, and in the process 
recovered its arrogance. "Yes." It turned to trundle toward the monastery.
"You could say thank you," he called after it.
Without stopping it said, "Yes, I could—but I won't."
He was tempted to teach it how to play skyrocket for real, but decided that that 
would be juvenile—as well as a waste of his time and strength. Grimacing, he 
focused on the cliff at the head of the valley.
*PING*
He stood on a small plateau. Its north end tumbled into a gorge so long and 
skinny that it looked like a dry fjord; its far slope ran like a frozen black 
river. For a few minutes he rested on a sun-warmed rock while the hot wind 
rustled his hair. Suddenly he shivered: I forgot about Sam! What if he goes back 
to the tent? He—He swallowed hard. Migod. What if he can't go back to the tent? 
What if he made that tape because he had to? Because The Organization had 
grabbed him?
Tired or not, he had to go on now.
*PING*
He materialized on top of the lava flow just as the plateau to the south 
exploded. How the hell did they know I was there? Instinctively, he looked for a 
helicopter or an observation balloon or even a glider—but the sky overhead 
stretched hazy and empty from horizon to horizon.
He glanced down. He stood on the lip of a crater perhaps half a kilometer wide. 
At its bottom, steam rose through fissures in the lava; here and there magma 
gleamed a dull red. No, I don't think I'll cross this on foot…
*PING*
Behind him the crater belched. He yawned. Even short hops could sap his 
strength. I really ought to wait at least ten minutes, recharge myself… but 
ahead, men and machines swarmed over a smooth valley floor, and he feared that 
any delay could doom Sam.
Haze filled the valley, a giant amphitheater two or three kilometers in 
diameter. All the way at the other end, sheet-metal buildings nestled against 
the bare, gentle slope. He could not even count them, much less see anything 
useful. Stifling another yawn, he—
*PING*
—Flung himself to the northern rim, and looked back to The Organization's 
outpost on Actu.
A gout of flame enveloped his last resting place. Three seconds later, the roar 
of the explosion reached him. What is going on? How can they home in on me so 
quickly? Ah, Greystein, Greystein, you could tell me, if only—
Obviously, he could not afford to stay in one place for more than a minute or 
two. He squinted down through the smoke. Seven buildings. The largest was 
clearly a shuttle hangar; Sam would never be imprisoned there. None of the other 
buildings' windows looked to have bars—but then, the windows themselves were 
nearly invisible. He would have to get closer.
*PING*
Pulse pounding in his ears, he leaned against the window frame for support, 
pressing his face to the glass. A row of cots stretched from one end of the 
building to the other; each had a locker at its foot. Every bed was made, with 
its sheets and blankets pulled so taut and tucked so tight that it seemed to 
quiver. A door in the right wall opened. Out stepped a man with wet hair, 
wearing a towel knotted about his waist.
"Attention all personnel!" Jaw dropping, Feighan looked up—to the speaker 
mounted on the ten-meter pole in the center of the compound.
"Attention all personnel! Hostile loose in the area! Draw weapons; shoot on 
sight. Hostile is a tall, dark-haired Flinger—shoot on sight. Hostile is 
extremely dangerous—shoot on sight."
A well-Flung stone would silence the speaker, but Feighan would need every Fling 
he had in him just to survive. He had none to spare for annoying distractions.
The man inside dropped his towel and ran for his locker, from which he pulled an 
automatic rifle. After checking the clip, he sprinted stark naked for the front 
door of the barracks.
Feighan dashed for the rear door of the next building. He had barely opened it 
before a small *krrumph* sounded behind him—exactly where he had been standing a 
moment before. Glass shattered; smoke dissipated.
This is serious! Somebody knows where I am all the time, and that's spooky. He 
ducked inside, hoping that he was being tracked visually, and not 
telepathically.
Long fluorescents glared down on four-meter-tall rows of shelves bearing canned 
goods, sacks of flour and dried peas, boxes of breakfast cereal… he moved to the 
other end of the storeroom, tiptoeing because voices came through the door 
there. He could not make out the words until he had pressed his good ear to the 
flimsy wood:
"—air-conditioning, damn planet's bad efuckingnough but when you got these 
muthing stoves turning this whole damn place into a oven, I got a good mind—"
"You really got a good mind, Jimboy, you going to keep your thoughts to youself. 
You say anything to Mr. Hommroummy, he find you something a lot hardern just 
cooking for the team."
He stole away, not needing to hear more, thinking, No way they'd lock Sam up in 
the messhall, too many people around, too vulnerable… three down, four to go. As 
he reached the back door, another anti-personnel bomb went *krrumph*. The cook 
screamed. His shriek clogged into a gurgle. The other said, "Jim—?" and retched 
loudly.
Panting, Feighan slipped outside. Well, it's not visual, that's for sure, must 
be telepathic unless I've got some kind of homing beacon stuck on me, but where— 
He ran his hands down his body, pressing his clothes tight against his skin so 
he could feel for suspicious bumps or bulges. All was normal. He scowled. He had 
wasted at least thirty seconds frisking himself. He ran for the next building.
The storeroom's back door exploded. A piece of wood thunked his left ear; he 
yelped in pain. Out front a voice shouted, "He's back there! Let's go!"
He twisted the handle hard and tumbled inside, pulling the door shut as he 
turned to—
—to face Milford Hommroummy. The hard old man perched on the edge of a grey 
metal desk. He cradled an automatic rifle. His grin spread as his trigger finger 
tightened and—
—flames raged across Feighan's mind.
*PING*
Stunned, he shivered. The image of Actu's sun still burned in his brain. Jesus, 
that was too damn close. But I did it! Yet he could not pause to savor his 
victory, his vengeance. He took a step, stopped, trembled—My God, after all 
these years… I don't believe it… Milford Hommroummy is dead!— then sped into 
Hommroummy's office, where he yanked open closet doors and shouted "Sam!"
As he passed a window, the round brown face of a guard peered in. Her eyebrows 
shot up. She snapped her rifle into the firing position—
He lunged away. Glass burst. A thousand holes appeared in the opposite wall. 
From that side of the building came the cry of a wounded man.
He hurried through Hommroummy's living quarters as another *krrumph* slashed the 
office with shrapnel, and filled it with smoke. Nothing. No cages, no locked 
doors, no saurians bound and gagged behind the couch… He cracked the front door 
a centimeter and peeped out. Dozens of armed guards were converging on him. He 
had to use his Talent, exhausted as it was, because he had to escape, he had to 
search—
*PING*
—the building farthest from Hommroummy's. The running guards had their backs to 
him, now. One of them kicked in the door he had just left. Grateful, he turned 
the front doorknob of this building and practically jumped inside. Sweat dripped 
from his forehead into his eyes, blinding him to—
"Hi, McGill. Haven't seen you around, lately. You here to give me a hand?"
His heart almost stopped. Moving slowly, expecting bullets but finding the voice 
familiar, he wiped his eyes. And trembled with abrupt relief. The speaker was 
another Flinger from the New York Building, an older man whom Feighan knew but 
could not name. "Hi, uh—"
"Harry." He stroked his bald head. "Don't feel bad, I'm lousy on names myself; 
only reason I remember yours is because Jose and I were buddies, and I've sort 
of taken an interest from a distance, if you know what I mean."
He blinked. "Uh, yeah, it's real good seeing you, Harry, but I'm not quite sure 
just what's going on, so—"
Harry threw his hands up into the air. "On this planet it's impossible to tell 
what's going on—d'jou come straight from New York, or you been here a while? 
Hey, how's Gina? You know, she's one of my favoritest ladies. You two make a 
great couple."
"I've been here a while." If the pattern held, another bomb would explode any 
second. He crossed to the far side of the room and stood behind a desk with a 
thick front panel of white-marbled epoxy-glass.
"Then you've heard those damn tremors out there. I tell you, McGill, I don't 
know how I'm supposed to clean up this epidemic—"
"What epidemic?" He rolled the desk chair to one side so he could drop 
unhindered if he had to.
"They didn't tell you anything, did they?" He pointed to a stack of oblong metal 
boxes painted a flat green. "That's a wind-spread fumigant there. Davis is up in 
orbit right now tracking a flock of infected birds; every time it settles down I 
set the timer for about thirty seconds and Fling it to the coordinates Davis 
gives me. When it goes off—"
"Wait a minute. You Fling to coordinates?"
The older man blushed. "Well, not coordinates, really—my computer takes the real 
coordinates and gives me distance and direction." He patted the device in his 
breast pocket fondly. "You can do that, can't you?"
"Uh-uh." The skill impressed him, even though it had been used nearly to kill 
him. Then his eyes widened. Along the opposite wall ran a line of drums labeled 
"Caution—Herbicide."
"You know, McGill, I didn't think you could do it, which is why I'm surprised 
they sent you here. Far as I know, only six Terrans can do it—Rii—edsch are real 
good at it, of course—but I was pretty sure you weren't one of us. Boy, I don't 
know why they sent you, then, even though it's real good to see you again. Have 
a seat. Davis should be calling down any minute now. The flock's been up a long 
time. Hope it comes down close. I'm only accurate to about ten klicks; past that 
I'm wild."
Feighan wondered how Harry would react to an order to "fumigate" the office he 
was sitting in—But he's not all there; he'd probably just shrug and go ahead and 
do it and Jesus, Davis must be going crazy up there trying to figure out how to 
handle this… He realized then just how he would handle it if he were in Davis' 
position. Leaping to his feet—
The door flew open and a machine gun—
*PING*
—they materialized on top of the cliff at the north end of the valley, but most 
of Harry's blood and all of Harry's skull had stayed behind. Feighan turned away 
from the bullet-torn figure and vomited. Ah, Jesus, Harry, you didn't deserve 
that at all… you didn't know what you were doing and you wound up shot by the 
people you were helping…
He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and wished he could rinse it out. 
Down below, the metal roof flipped off the building in which Harry had been 
working. It rose into the air, turning end over end, glinting in the sunlight. 
Smoke poured from the interior; two adjoining walls collapsed. A huge roar 
reached Feighan a second later.
Musta machine-gunned the time bombs, too…
At least he could rest. No more explosions, thank God. He needed to catch his 
breath; he had been Flinging too hard, too fast, too often… as he sat, 
resolutely ignoring the corpse behind him, he wondered how Davis was tracking 
him. I could swear there's no beacon on me.. .on the off chance, he tugged off 
his boots and scrutinized their heels. Both were so worn down that nothing could 
have remained within and undetected. His fatigue was lifting.
With a yawn and a stretch, he stood. First things first. Clenching his jaw, he 
looked at Harry's body.
*PING*
Actu's sun vaporized it instantly, and scattered its atoms to mingle with those 
of Milford Hommroummy. Maybe I should have Flung him to a different star—a good 
Flinger buried with Hommroummy… never thought I'd get that chance… hard to 
believe he's out of my life permanently, he's been chasing me so many years now… 
about time, though. Small repayment on very large debts.
Then he turned about to study the outpost in the valley, trying to remember 
which buildings he had searched and which might still imprison Sam. Mentally he 
marked the ones he thought he had entered. Why didn't I go through them in a 
line! Is that one the mess hall? I can't see a thing from here…no, that's 
Hommroummy's, so that's the mess hall, so…
He waited till the crowd of milling guards left one door unwatched, then—
*PING*
—grabbed its knob, hot from the sun; twisted it and stepped inside. A single 
glance: half a dozen jacked-up jeeps and spare parts dangling from every wall: a 
motor pool. That left the building next door.
He peered out the window. The guards had extinguished the fire in Harry's 
building and were spreading out again. They held their weapons at the ready and 
their heads swiveled ceaselessly. Dammit, how— He snapped his fingers at the 
answer.
He went to the closet. A pair of grease-stained coveralls hung inside; he pulled 
them on and zipped them up over his energy tunic. Patches and splashes of color 
showed through, but palely. Got to be a cap, a hat, a towel— A dirty black beret 
lay on the floor. A size too large, it tilted over his bandaged ear and flopped 
down across his forehead. He wiped his hands on the coverall and then rubbed 
them on his face. It's the best I can do.
Holding his breath, he opened the back door—but caught himself and returned to 
the tool bench for a wrench. Then he went out, flipping the wrench as he walked, 
hoping nobody would stop him on general principles.
No one did.
The last building housed the generators. A deep thrum of electricity made the 
hairs of his body stand on end. A brief search turned up nothing.
He did not know whether to be angry or relieved. Here I've gone and risked my 
neck to find the kid and he's nowhere around. Hommroummy didn't grab him. That 
means he did run away. Just wait till I get my hands on him. He won't sit down 
for a week… but he had to break his anger with a chuckle, because Sam never sat 
down anyway…
*PING*
The south slope of the valley offered a good view of the base and its landing 
strips. He wanted to destroy the installation without killing too many 
people—those below were hardly your upright citizen types, but then, neither was 
he their judge or jury. But first he ripped off the beret and slipped out of the 
coveralls. To wear them a second more would have overloaded his skin. Why don't 
mechanics ever wash their work clothes'!
Squatting, he contemplated his options. He could slap a hundred-kilo rock into 
the generator at maybe twenty meters a second—knock out all their power and 
communications, probably. And do the same with the motor pool, but bring the 
boulder in from above to collapse the roof and dig a crater and really ruin 
everything. Or—
A beam of light stabbed his eye. He looked up. A gleaming fuselage winked at 
him. Somebody coming in for a landing? The flash of light swelled into a shuttle 
craft—No, a fighter! It dove at him. Not at the runway, at him! He stood and 
squinted. Yes. No way it could land at that angle. It—
Smoke enveloped its stubby wings, then blew back as rockets leaped away. He 
shook his head, not believing—
*PING*
On the northern cliff, he turned around. A mini-nova burst on the far slope as 
the rockets slammed home. The valley trembled. Loose rocks clattered and slid. 
Flames spewed from the impact site; for a moment, Feighan doubted his eyesight. 
Fire on bare rock? Then the mountain quivered and a fissure opened in its north 
face. It ran from top to bottom in a giant, ragged zig-zag that widened and 
gaped and—
The volcano coughed.
White-hot magma gushed from the fissure, which yawned wider with each passing 
second. Molten lava splashed the valley floor a kilometer away from its source; 
hot gravel spattered even near Feighan.
In the base, people were scurrying for the landing pad, where a shuttle crew 
readied its craft for take-off. One high-speed stone through the fuel tanks 
would—
Images of greasy smoke and charred metal quickened his pulse, his breath, and 
made him feel superbly potent—then he spurned them, as he would the come-ons of 
a whore. He had to.
They were his enemies, yes, and evil too, and he would not save them, but 
deliberately to strand them in a bowl filling with the planet's hot blood was 
more than he had any right to do.
Again the volcano coughed. A ten-ton spray of basalt soared across the valley. A 
man-sized chunk punched a hole through the shuttle's right wing. Feighan 
shrugged.
A hot pebble glanced off his shoulder; it was time to leave. He looked around 
one last time—and threw up his hands in disbelief.
The fighter had returned in silence, knifing ahead of its own soundwave. Its 
rockets, already launched, would strike in a second. He staggered backward—
*PING*
—and bumped into one of the cliffs of the Crown. He had come to the ledge where 
he had spoken to Milford Hommroummy, and he had come there because the fighter 
could have struck the monastery too swiftly. Feighan needed time to breathe and 
to plan.
Preparing to relax in the sun for the first time in what had to be hours, he 
sat—and gawked. A giant balloon was tethered to the ledge. Blue and gold, it 
bobbed in the stiff breeze. It flew a white flag.
"What the hell?" He grabbed for a pebble.
"Feighan." A speaker attached to the underside of the balloon synthesized the 
voice. "Fear not. Truce."
Instinct said, "Flee!" but he was tired. And curious, too. "Who are you?"
"Gryll."
His heart raced as he scrambled to his feet. "Gryll of The Organization?" 
Clutching the pebble so tightly that its sharp edges bit into his palm, he 
readied his Talent. If anything happened, he could scatter the gas-being to the 
winds of Actu. "What do you want?"
"Truce talks. Peace treaty."
"I told Hommroummy, I am not going to work for you no matter what you offer—or 
threaten."
"Would you consider mutual non-aggression pact?"
"What?" He squinted against the glare.
"After twenty-two years of effort, have come to reluctant conclusion that you 
are too well protected. Wisest course is to stop throwing good money after bad. 
Concentrate efforts on more profitable investments. Competition is over."
"Why should I believe you?"
The breeze pushed it toward the rocks; a small propeller on its rear whirred 
into brief life. "Hope is that you scoff. That you stay on guard. That you sleep 
poorly for rest of your life. Would be inadequate revenge for loss of 
Hommroummy, but any vengeance better than none. Scoff. Avoid dark alleys. Trust 
no one. Give some return for billion dollar investment."
"This is insane!" He sat down slowly, but did not release the pebble.
"More like return to sanity. Have been obsessed with you for twenty-two Terran 
years; sector profits dropped accordingly. Suspect intervention of your 
protector, my enemy— 'Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.' 
Superiors most displeased."
"Let me get this straight." Staring at Gryll, he noticed idly that blue and gold 
were the colors of the gases, not of the balloon itself. They swirled in and out 
of each other, never mixing. He wondered how. "You're going to leave me alone 
from now on because you've spent so much time and money chasing me that it's 
hurt your profits and gotten your boss on your back?"
"Approximately. "
"How can I trust you?"
"Don't. Yield some pleasure, at least."
He jiggled the pebble in his open hand. "So why shouldn't I destroy you right 
now?"
"Can't. Mass 950 kilograms even without prop: more than you can Fling. And 
pebble trick futile—balloon skin my skin; instantaneous chemical reaction 
between body-gas and Actuni atmosphere."
"I don't believe you."
"Try."
He did. At the instant of puncture he caught a whiff of something foul, but the 
hole puckered up and sealed immediately. That shook him. Fully alert, striving 
to keep his voice calm and even, he said, "All right. Tell me about this mutual 
non-aggression pact you want."
"Simple. No attacks in either direction. Self-defense acceptable."
"In other words, you won't be hunting me any more?"
"If you abide by agreement as well."
"That includes calling off your man Davis?"
"Davis? Free-lance, mercenary. Not subordinate; merely temporary ally of 
convenience. Dispose of as you see fit."
He slapped his thigh in anger. "I should dispose of him? You sicced him on me; 
you call him off!"
"False. Davis had own motives for attacking you. Launched own attacks before 
alliance formalized."
Feighan leaned forward, interested now. "What were his motives?"
"Never discussed." It spun a quarter-turn on its tether, then returned to its 
original position. "Must go, but will offer two small tokens of good faith: 
first, Rhanghan carries tracer unknowingly, and Davis will kill it. Second, you 
carry beacon as well."
He sagged back against the sun-heated cliff. "I knew it! Where is it?"
"Tunic-energizing implant. Decommission and beacon falls silent."
He touched his collarbone, behind which lay the implant. "How do I decommission 
it?"
"Tunic generated by silicon chip powered by nervous system. Break connection 
between chip and container, and beacon shuts off."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
"Don't. Impaling you on dilemma offers one small consolation for red-ink balance 
sheet. Choice is yours."
He scratched a shoulder blade on the rock's rough face. "Dammit… do you know 
where Sam is?"
"Rhanghan?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Where?" He bounced to his feet and walked over to Gryll. "Where is he? Tell 
me!"
"No. Second small consolation. Mutual non-aggression pact establishes 
relationship as not enemies. Says nothing about friendship. Good-bye." Its 
mooring line parted abruptly. With a whirr of its tail propeller, it scooted 
away on the wind.
Frustrated, Feighan kicked a stone over the edge; it raised a small dust cloud 
in the valley below. Can I trust it? He touched his collarbone again. If I mess 
with this, will it blow up on me? Jesus, what am I going to do?
Light flashed on metal. He lifted his head. The fighter zoomed straight at him, 
again so close that he had no time to take it down, he had to—
*PING*
—get out. The library monks chanted the Holy. He stepped into the shade of 
Brother I'ghra, knowing he could not stay for long… unless he did something 
about the implant.
From the periphery of the monastery came the shouts and sizzles of schism. He 
cocked his head, listened for a while, then decided he would not even 
investigate. He would let H'nik, K'rach'a, and the Abbot handle it. It was their 
responsibility.
Sitting, leaning against I'ghra's bare trunk, he fingered his collarbone. He 
knew where the tunic implant was; he knew exactly what it looked like. If he 
closed his eyes—concentrated on that plastic horse-capsule with the two metal 
contacts— visualized the integrated circuit within both as it should be and as 
it would look were it twisted half-way around within its shell—felt how it 
should happen—knew how to do it—
*PING*
He had time for one throat-tearing scream before pain knocked him unconscious.
Chapter XXIII
« ^ »


The blue light vanished from the screen. "Dammit!"
"Where to now, sir?" said the pilot over his shoulder.
"Let me think." Feighan had caught on to the implant. But how? And how had a 
dumb Flinger shut it off? Davis mopped his forehead. "How many hours fuel do we 
have?"
The pilot glanced at a gauge. "At least forty, sir."
"You are leaving us enough to reach the orbiter, aren't you?"
"Of course." His tone said, Do I look suicidal?
Both Harry and Hommroummy had severed contact. He would have to nail Feighan by 
himself, with rockets. He wished the pilots were better, though. Those rocket 
runs over the base had been sloppy.
One green light remained on his screen. It glowed small and steady. He nodded. 
"Let's go for the green."
"Do we blow it away, sir?"
"Y—" He stopped to think. "No. Not yet. Let's use it as bait. You do have good 
visuals here?"
"Yes, sir. The best."
"All right. Notify Avarice Two of our plans, and let's go."
He would get Feighan. He would.
Chapter XXIV
« ^ »


Unconscious, he dreamed. Around him the library chanted the Holy; the music 
seeped into his dreams to shape them, color them, and give them direction.
Bronzed by the sun, he lay on a black sand beach talking to Greystein. Sam 
frolicked in the wavelets, shrieking with delight when they splashed on his 
snout. Only Gina was missing—and he missed her. He was saying, "I'm sorry I had 
to kill you, but it was you or me—I mean, it was pure self-defense, if you 
hadn't tried to kill me first, well, you know…"
Greystein, paler than usual, tapped the hole in his chest. "McGill, McGill, my 
young daffodil. I really don't mind. Events transpired exactly as you say they 
did; your rationalization not only attempts to clear you of guilt, it actually 
does exonerate you! Besides—so many times I'm confronted by someone who calls me 
a heartless bastard that I really appreciate the chance to open my shirt and 
say, 'You're absolutely right!' Wonderful to see the looks on their faces, 
simply wonderful…"
Dragging his tail, Sam came up to the blanket. "Where'd the water go?"
"What do you mea—" Feighan stopped, stunned. The ocean had vanished. 
Brownish-red dust coated the empty sea-bed, transforming it into a rusty mixing 
bowl. Away off, a smear of green retreated to the horizon. "My God! What's 
happening?"
Greystein shrugged. "Somebody pulled the plug."
"Yeah, but—where is it going?"
"Let's go take a look."
"That's got to be ten klicks, at least—that's an awful long walk."
Greystein and Sam shared a look of mutual exasperation. "Do you want to tell 
him, Sam, or should I?"
"You better; he never listens to me."
"McGill, there is about you an attribute that sets you apart from most of the 
human race, not to mention all the various and sundry alien races floating here 
and there around the Galaxy. A rather unique Talent, it is unusually useful in a 
situation such as this. Not to put too fine a point on it, you're a Flinger, you 
chucklehead, and you can teleport us out there!"
He looked down at his clothes. Blue shirt, white pants, black boots… "I can't be 
a Flinger, I don't have a tunic. Why don't you teleport us? You have a tunic."
"Ah, but I'm not a Flinger, either—I'm a Rogue! It means I'm heartless. And this 
is definitely not my job; I'm just along for the ride."
He groaned. "All right. But I warn you, if it doesn't work, don't blame me, 
because I don't have a tunic. Come to think of it, I don't have a job, either. 
But I'll give it a try." He closed his eyes, and—
*PING*
"See?" said Greystein. "No muss, no fuss; not a hump or a bump: maybe you lost 
your shirt of many colors, Joe, but you haven't lost your Master's Talent. And 
here's the last of the sea."
He pointed to a large pond, in which waded perhaps ten million dwarf Actuni, 
shouting at each other while they sucked up the water.
"I can't understand them," said Feighan.
Sam flickered his tongue in mock-disgust. Waving to the two nearest Actuni, he 
said, "The one on the right's saying, 'Grr! Rgr!' And the other one's saying, 
'Krch?' "
" 'Krch.' "
" 'Gng-rrg?' "
" 'Ka.' "
" 'Ka kr grr rrg?' "
" 'Krkrkr—ca!' " It locked its long spine into place, then charged the other, 
which quickly readied its own weapon. Wet sand spattered as they clumped toward 
impact; the others in the pond turned and watched.
On they came, never swerving, holding course till spines stabbed rinds and 
lanced on through. Sap spurted. Roots knotted for better purchase. The spines 
penetrated deeper and deeper and—sizzled at simultaneous discharge. Their 
prickers drooped. Their tap roots thumped into the drying sea-bed. Their 
barrels, still twined in fatal embrace, tore free of their stumps and fell over.
"Jesus," said Feighan softly. He shook his head, then stopped abruptly. All the 
water had vanished. He squinted into the burning sun. The Actuni had left 
nothing behind but ten million fleshless brain cases already rusting into 
powder. "Greystein, do you believe that? They're all dead. Greystein?" He 
turned. He was alone. He spun on his heel through 360°, searching for any sign 
of life or friend or ward—
A plume of smoke rose on the horizon.
"There they are." He closed his eyes—
 
In disbelief he studied his feet. Or rather, the stumps of his legs. They had 
sunk hawser-thick roots through the dusty soil, down through the clay and the 
gravel and the vast sheet of basalt thirty meters below, down to the 
subterranean aquifer which maintained the deathroots of all the dead Actuni in 
the area. Maintained, not nourished. Feighan could draw so little water that his 
hands began to shrivel. His ears withered up and fell off. "Help!" He threw back 
his head and screamed it to the blazing sun. "Help!"
The smudge on the horizon bellied into a cloud. Not smoke, but dust. Kicked up 
by a massive vehicle or a buffalo stampede or an ochre gastropod that had to 
stretch at least a hundred meters long as it raced across the desert.
He waited patiently, wondering only if the sun would set before the gastropod 
reached him. Not that he would mind— the sun would rise again in the morning—but 
animals who come calling on vegetables get upset if their hosts nod off when 
photosynthesis shuts down for the night…
It wheezed to a halt a few meters away from his branches. "Hello, McGill. Long 
time no see. Sorry to hear that the trust fund got confiscated, but some things 
simply can not be foreseen."
"What's going on here?"
It swiveled its huge snail-head, as if surveying its surroundings for the first 
time. "Oh, yes, well… time-lapse holography, you know; it actually took a good 
many eons for things to reach this point. Surprising that the Far Being let it 
get so out of hand, but in my master's defense, I must point out that its 
attention had been occupied elsewhere for rather longer."
"You're not making any sense! None of this makes sense! I'm a human, not a—" He 
scowled at his leaves, but did not recognize them. "A maple."
"Actually, you look more like a son-of-a-birch to me, heh-heh. You're not 
laughing—did I get the idiom wrong?"
"It's not funny, dammit! I'm trapped here and there's not enough water."
"That's because it's all locked up in the deathroots of the Actuni—but don't you 
worry, we're providing more."
"We?"
Its ochre deepened into red. "I do exaggerate… the Far Being is going to provide 
the water." It twisted one eye-stalk to stare at the sun. "Should be on its way 
now—I'd get out of here real quick if I were you."
"What? How the hell am I supposed to get out of here when my roots go forty-five 
meters down?"
It made a noise of sympathy, a warm slurping sort of sound. "In that case, it's 
been a real pleasure, and—"
"Wait a minute! What's going to happen?"
"Oh, didn't I say? The Far Being is sending down some water—in the form of some 
very large icesteroids."
"Asteroids? But—"
"Icesteroids. Balls of frozen water. Say, ten kilometers in diameter, each. It's 
not going to turn this place into a rain forest, but it'll keep the Actuni going 
for another few million years—once things settle down."
"Pardon?"
"Well, you can't expect to drop huge icesteroids into a gravity well without 
major repercussions. It's going to shake this old planet up, let me tell you 
that. Anyway, I really must run, and McGill, it has been wonderful seeing you 
again." With that, it rippled about and humped back to the horizon.
Feighan called, "Hey, wait! Come on, don't leave me here! Take me—"
The sky caught fire as the first asteroid entered the atmosphere. It streaked 
from west to east. A sonic boom knocked the leaves off his branches. Denuded, he 
trembled in the wind of its passage.
Disappearing beyond the curve of the horizon, into the night side, the asteroid 
struck—
Searing light blinded him. Things that hissed and spat plopped into the sand all 
around. Reflected heat warmed his trunk. The ground shook, slowly at first—
The noise of a billion bombs roared by.
The ground heaved him free, savaging his roots. A fissure opened. He toppled 
half into it.
And then the fireball washed over him. It torched his twigs; it scorched his 
limbs. Flames crackled all over his bark—and he could not put them out.
He died.
 
He awoke in the full glare of the sun, and for a moment could not figure out 
why. I mean, I'm dead. No, he had to be alive: his head hurt; his collarbone 
throbbed. Just a dream. But why am I still on fire? Oh, yeah… shadows move, and 
if you're asleep and don't move with them you wind up getting— He touched his 
face. Ouch damn! Sunburned again.
From the south came a screeching as of a million rusty saws chewing through 
warped wood. He sat up, then groaned and lowered his aching head onto forearms 
crossed atop his knees. Oh I don't need to hear that! I'd better get the cotton— 
But the cotton had blown up along with the tent. The tent from which Sam had run 
away. Sam who had not been found yet. Sam who was in mortal danger, if Gryll's 
half-recollected statement were true… "Oh, my God!" His throat was so dry and 
dusty that the words came out ugly as a crow's squawk.
Greenness bristled in his peripheral vision. He lifted his head. "Oh, K'rach'a."
"For the dark and the dew we thank you, Master. Did you sleep well?"
He squinted at the Actuni, wondering if he had mistaken its identity—but no, it 
was indeed K'rach'a. The monk held a round grey rock in its roots. Odd. And what 
was this 'Master' stuff? "Are you feeling okay?"
"Well, sure, Master—as an individual. As Abbot of the order devoted to your 
worship, I'm pretty anxious about our future, though. Which is how come I've 
scraped up the courage to ask for your help."
"What are you talking about?" His stomach rumbled; his eyes ached from the 
glare. Closing them, he considered Flinging back to America for a quick 
breakfast. And a shower and shave, too, he thought, catching a whiff of himself. 
"Make sense, will you?"
"The infidel dawn prayers attack, Master, and they just might overrun the 
monastery. If they do that, they'll have the power to deny your true nature." 
Carefully, it set down the rock, which looked like a weather-slicked tennis 
ball.
"K'rach'a, who do you think I am?"
"Do you seek to test me, Master? Everybody knows you're the Far Being Re—"
"What?" He rocked to his feet and shook his head—then clutched it as pain ripped 
through him. His upper left torso was so swollen he could barely move that arm. 
"Who do you think I am?"
"The Far Being Retzglaran, Master—or do you prefer another title?" it said 
anxiously. "I'ghra remembered your pattern, but didn't say you might want 
another name."
The monk's broken eyespine must have confused it. "I'm McGill Feighan."
Its barrel rocked from side to side; its roots churned the soil. "We always said 
you've got the best sense of humor in the universe, Master, and you just proved 
it again. That was really funny. Will you help us?"
"McGill Feighan, K'rach'a." He walked over, stopping three meters in front of 
the partially blind monk. Pirouetting slowly, he displayed his front and his 
back and both profiles. "McGill Feighan—now do you recognize me?"
"You know, Master, I had thought your voice was familiar, but since you don't 
look a thing like Feighan, I put it down to coincidence." Suddenly it fluttered 
all its spines, and then flattened them against its epidermis. "Oh, Master! I 
humbly beseech your forgiveness! I had not realized who you were, and I just 
remembered that I did not treat your avatar with appropriate respect. Please, 
Master, I beg your forgiveness, but if you think I'm not worthy, only say the 
word and I'll tap down to start a new cycle, so maybe next time I'll pick up the 
understanding, the insight, I so clearly lack in this."
Am I still asleep? But except for K'rach'a, none of his surroundings had the 
surreal touch so common to dreams. Nah—I've just gone crazy, that's all. He 
patted his chest. Other than the hematoma around the implant, his body had 
surely not changed overnight—but his fingers looked different.
He frowned. Holding his hands out to arm's length, he examined them in the 
strong sun. No, palms up or palms down, they looked all right. So why, when he 
brought them in close, did they suddenly— He snapped his fingers as the answer 
came. The tunic's gone! And that changed my infrared emission pattern. My new 
pattern must look like the Far Being's, so when I'ghra saw me… And though the 
thought frightened him—for if the Far Being Retzglaran's worshippers could 
mistake Feighan for It, so could Its enemies—it also relieved him, vastly. He 
was not crazy, nor was K'rach'a.
And for the moment, at least, he was God. He started to smile, then stopped: If 
the Far Being were truly divine, It— uh-oh! "K'rach'a, have you seen Sam?"
"The Rhanghan ward of your previous avatar?"
"Yes." He gave it a sour look.
"No."
I've got to find him before Davis homes in on him…no, wait a minute, Davis is 
probably way the hell up in that damn fighter, keeping an eye on Sam with a 
computer telescope or something, and as soon as I show up near the kid 
*kapowie*. Hmm… so maybe Sam is safe for a little while, at least until I get 
there… Hmmmm
"Master, please! Will you help us?" One of its roots curled around the grey rock 
it had set down earlier.
He raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, K'rach'a—your faction believes in my evil, 
correct?"
"Yes, Master."
"And the lot of you are, of course, aware that should you have made a mistake in 
your assessment of my nature, such a mistake would be a grievous offense to me."
Sand clumps crumbled as its roots shivered. "Yes, M-master."
"Then tell me, plainly and simply, why you think I am evil."
Its spines whirled in agitation. "Because you condemned us to life, Master. To 
an arid, sunbaked existence in which our only joys are the relief of night and a 
sip of the morning dew. If you were good, if you loved us, you would have let us 
die during the Great Drought, You wouldn't have given us just enough water to 
stay alive. Nobody else in the Network puts up with such misery and suffering. 
If you were good, you would have let us die! That's why we know you're evil."
"I see." He scratched his chin. His whiskers scraped his fingers. "And tell me, 
how did I provide the water?"
"Is this another test, Master?"
"It's certainly another question."
It rotated its barrel 40° right and then 40° left, back and forth and back, so 
it could study him through its functioning flank eyes. It seemed suspicious—but 
fearful, too. "As you well know, Master, you dropped the water on us from the 
sky. It burned as it fell, and it struck the world like a huge rock spit up by 
the biggest volcano of all time—and then some. Just the noise it made going by 
stripped off our spines; the quakes smashed our roots. Most of us died right 
then, not from thirst but from all those quakes."
"Do you know this because you remember it?"
"Me? I'm K'rach'a, not I'ghra, who last tapped down on the Day of Burning Water. 
What I know is what I heard from I'ghra while I was a library monk."
He nodded. The Far Being had dropped icesteroids into the atmosphere to provide… 
Wait a minute, if they were ten klicks in diameter, lessee now, God I wish Oscar 
were here, he'd eat this up in a second, but it's 4/3-pi-r³ = lemme see, now.. 
.He could not work it out in his head, so he lowered himself to his haunches and 
fingered the numerals into the sand. Five hundred cubic kilometers of water in 
one of those mothers? That'd put five hundred square klicks one klick 
underwater, or 500,000 one meter under, and the Far Being— "How many separate 
balls of water did I drop?"
"I knew this was a test," said K'rach'a fretfully. "I apologize, Master, but I 
never paid much attention to the details since so many of the other library 
monks knew them so well. Eight, I think. Maybe twelve."
Feighan sighed. Suddenly, a great deal made sense to him. And if he still did 
not understand the Far Being's essence, at least he knew that the Far Being was 
not God.
For a true God makes miracles, not messes. A God of omni/ubi attributes inclines 
toward the elegance of creation, rather than the brute force manipulation of 
large masses. And a God with wisdom and power who nonetheless has a weakness for 
the pyrotechnic would certainly not miscalculate the trajectories of the relief 
supplies.
Unless, of course, It were malevolent…
No! he thought. No, I can't believe it. I refuse to believe it. True evil would 
have let them die, or it would have extorted payment for continued life, but it 
wouldn't have acted like a clumsy Good Samaritan…No, the Far Being can't be 
evil.
And then he shivered. While he had convinced himself that It was neither divine 
nor evil, he had also glimpsed Its power: It could juggle eight or twelve 
asteroids each the volume of a good-sized lake.
He opened his mouth to explain it all to K'rach'a, but closed it again 
immediately. Discussion now would be futile. The monk was too obviously 
attentive only to the screeches shrilling out of the valley.
"Let's go see about your uprising," he said instead.
"This way, Master." Seizing the round grey rock, it turned to lead him, but he 
said—
*PING*
—"My way's quicker," and stepped onto the lip of the terrace overlooking the 
monastery valley. He sucked air past in teeth in surprise.
Marching roots had trampled the neat fields from the monastery hollow to the far 
south end of the valley. The cause of the devastation massed in the middle: 
perhaps three thousand Actuni, arrayed in two long opposing lines. Two meters in 
front of the southern column, a wide white stripe had been painted on the soil. 
He squinted through the haze, leaning into the noise from below as though it 
were as tangible as the wind. All three rows, two green and one white, stretched 
as straight as laser beams. Each ran from one terraced slope to the other: 
easily two kilometers.
"I can't see a thing from up here." He fingernailed gunk out of the corner of 
his right eye. "Where's your Abbot?"
"In the library." It pointed back to where they had come from.
"Is it hiding, or what?"
"When the dawn prayers opened their attack, it decided today would be a good 
time to go into retirement. It toddled back and matted out."
"Who's in charge, then?"
"I am, Master." It tilted its barrel forward in a prickly parody of a bow.
"Hmm! That's quite a promotion, K'rach'a."
"Thank you, Master."
*PING*
They stood between the approaching lines. Now Feighan could see. Talk about 
Birnham Wood to Dunsinane… for the Actuni of either camp stood as close as 
possible to the individuals on either side of them, and interlocked spines with 
them. The row of vegetation ran bristly and unbroken along the entire front. 
Behind each column milled single Actuni, apparently waiting to take the place of 
any forward warriors who fell in battle.
Forty meters separated them, but hours would pass before they clashed. They did 
not advance as units; rather, the individual on the eastern end took one small 
step forward, and then its immediate neighbor went exactly as far, and so on all 
the way to the extreme western end, where that one took two steps—one to 
straighten out the row, the next to advance it— and that salient would ripple 
back through the line to the east end.
That, thought Feighan, is the silliest battle formation since Yorktown. 
Although, they're probably not too eager to get on with the killing, even if 
they are screaming like banshees… A silence fell over the valley.
"They recognize you, Master," said K'rach'a.
That should make things easier. "Find out, please, who's in charge of the dawn 
prayers."
Before K'rach'a could scrape out the question, a familiar voice rasped, "I am, 
Your Excellence."
"H'nik!" He scanned the line. The voice had come from somewhere in its middle— 
Ah, there it is! He strode up to the monk, while K'rach'a stayed north of the 
white stripe painted in the soil. "H'nik, I'm surprised. I thought you were a 
dusk prayer."
"I was, Your Excellence—"
So H'nik "sees" me as the Far Being, too.
"—until their dogma and my researches came into ineluctable collision."
"You no longer believe me to be evil?"
"No, Your Excellence. Once I did, but no more."
"What changed your mind?"
"Never have I found proof that you have ever acted with other than the best of 
intentions, Your Excellence. Evil has followed you, yes, but it does so because 
your existence is both a reproach to it, and a threat. Your followers could 
stamp it out, if they so chose. You are not evil."
"Master, will you let it malign you like that?" said K'rach'a. Then it paused, 
scraped a few spines thoughtfully, and set down the grey stone. It scuffed the 
soil with its stumpy roots. "Is malign the right word? H'nik's saying good 
things about you, and that's praise, but the good things are exactly what you 
stand against, so… why are we speaking English, anyway?"
"Because I prefer to," said Feighan firmly.
"I am sorry to have questioned you, Master, I did not mean—"
"K'rach'a," said H'nik, "you are wrong! And only the beneficence of the Far 
Being Retzglaran keeps It from striking you down for slander."
"No, it is evil."
"It is not evil."
"It is, too."
"Is not!"
"Is so!"
"Hey!" said Feighan. "What is this? You people are going to go to war over 
whether or not I'm good or evil, and you don't even think to ask me which I am?"
H'nik twisted about on its roots. "Ah, Your Excellence, with all due respect… I 
do not need to ask, for I know the truth. Did I need to ask, then it might be 
conceivable that you were evil, in which case it would be in your nature to tell 
me that you are good, in order to delude me. And were you now to state that you 
are, indeed, good, K'rach'a here would refuse to believe you, and would prefer, 
instead, to believe that you were lying to me to sow the seeds of confusion. Am 
I not right, K'rach'a?"
"The peakroot's right, Master. As usual, of course, it got so busy passing dust 
that it missed the main point, though. See, Master, we're not fighting over 
whether you're good or evil—we're .fighting over which of us gets the 
monastery."
"What?"
"Yes, Master. The important point isn't which of us is right—because one of us 
will always be right, and the other will always be wrong—what matters is that 
one of us is right. And one of us must be. As long as the right one keeps on 
praying, the universe stays alive, and we've done our duty. Now, we can pray 
anywhere—we can keep the universe alive from anywhere—but whoever runs the 
monastery is top dog, politically speaking."
Feighan scowled. "Don't you have a theocracy?"
"Of course we do! The monks are in charge, we run things. But see, Master, the 
one in charge gets more grace." It crept forward and sat on the small grey rock.
I don't believe this. He threw up his hands. "There will be no war, do you hear 
me? I forbid it."
H'nik clacked two dorsal spines together. "Ahh, Your Excellence, this is not 
truly your decision to make, I am afraid. It is, of course, another sign of your 
goodness, that you wish to spare us the horrors, the agonies, of the 
battlefield—but you must remember that our role is to suffer." It stepped 
forward then as the salient in its line reached it and passed on.
"This is crazy," said Feighan in a mutter.
"Yes, Master, H'nik is crazy, and that's why we beseech your help. Wipe these 
heretics out for us—toss 'em back up above the frostline where they 
belong—please?"
"No!"
"In that case, Your Excellence, we beseech your assistance. We would be most 
appreciative if you were to snap your fingers and turn the opposing line into, 
say, berry bushes, to replace those it has trampled."
"I'm telling you, you're not going to fight."
"Sorry, Master." K'rach'a shifted about to return to its own side. It had tucked 
the rock out of sight among its roots. "But if you won't kick those guys out for 
us, we'll just have to do it ourselves. Can't have heretics running the 
monastery."
Frustrated, he spun on his heel and paced toward the dusk prayers. White 
crystals crunched under his boot. Puzzled, he dropped to one knee, pinched some 
onto his palm, and sniffed them. They had a strange, sharply chemical odor. What 
the— ohmigod, those drums in Harry's building! Rising, he hurried back to H'nik. 
"You have to stop."
"Have we not discussed this completely then, Your Excellence?"
"That stuff on the ground there—" He pointed. "You see it?"
"The cool, coarse substance?"
"Yes. That's herbicide—poison—it'll kill you if you walk through it. You have to 
stop."
"I am sorry, Your Excellence, but we are willing to die for our faith. Excuse 
me." It moved twenty centimeters forward. Another six steps and it would be 
rooting in the herbicide.
"Please, H'nik!"
"Our duty is clear."
*PING*
He stood on the lowest terrace of the valley's western slope. Turning around, he 
glared at the massed Actuni. There had to be a way to stop the battle before the 
dawn prayers crossed the line.
But how? There were fifteen hundred on each side! If he tried Flinging the dawn 
prayers to safety, he would collapse— or they would reach the poison—long before 
he had saved more than a few of them. Even if he could Fling seven at a time… He 
spat on the rocky soil. No way.
What about a warning? A shot across their bows, so to speak? Say he took a big 
rock and gave it enough momentum to act like a cannonball… Velocities and 
trajectories came effortlessly—instinctively, almost; he had spent so many years 
working with them that he calculated them as an outfielder does his throws.
Boulders littered the terrace. He glanced at the nearest and *PING* moved it 
just a meter, to make sure he could handle it. After a short rest, he 
concentrated on where he would make it materialize and what sort of momentum he 
would impart to it.
He took a breath—
*PING*
—the boulder appeared at the west end of the dawn prayers' line and promptly 
headed east. Displaced air clapped in behind it like a roll of miniature 
thunder. Its surface heated from friction and began to redden, but it crossed 
the valley in two swift seconds and slammed into the opposite terrace with 
enough force to blast a hole in its wall.
Both lines continued to ripple as they advanced.
I think I've just invented a siege gun, thought Feighan in disgust, but it looks 
like a rotten anti-personnel device…
The problem was, H'nik knew that he would not send the boulder careening through 
its line—his intent was to prevent sapshed, not cause it. And so they would 
continue to march forward, confident that he would not hurt them.
What he needed was something that would shake them up, terrify them, and 
simultaneously prevent them from sinking one root into that tainted soil.
But what could he use? He looked around. Rocks. Sand. Hazy air. He ran wildly 
through a list of things he could find on Earth and Fling back to Actu: 
Gasoline, spill it out and draw a line of fire; a brick wall, lay it and watch 
them butt up against it; tons of excelsior, pour them atop the herbicide and 
watch the Actuni wade into the fluffy whiteness… Oh, crap, I can't think of 
anything decent, gotta pull a solution out of thin air like this… thin air… air?
It was worth a try.
He concentrated on the air before him. He squinted his eyes and imagined a 
sphere—Darn, it weighs two grams a liter, 500 liters a kilo times 900 is 
something like 450,000 liters times a thousandth of a cubic meter is 450 cubic 
meters… Moving gingerly, he squatted to work the math out in the sand. Nine 
meters in diameter? My God, that's the size of a small house! He imagined a 
sphere nine meters in diameter, composed entirely of air. He visualized it 
floating, its bottom about three meters off the ground. He concentrated on that. 
He triggered his Talent. He pulled from the Energy Dimension enough momentum to 
give it a slight upward velocity of about one kilometer a second and—
*PING*
Flames burst and leaped away. A sonic boom threw him onto his butt, then rumbled 
into the distance. As it sped across the valley, it blew the Actuni back and 
down like nicked bowling pins. The lines lost all semblance of order. Some 
smaller Actuni wound up five and even eight meters from where they had started.
He crossed his legs. His swollen shoulder hurt, but he laughed as the fireball 
slapped into the opposite terrace. If dislodged more of the retaining wall, and 
ignited the plants at its base.
Chuckling, not really caring that he could barely hear himself, he got to his 
feet and brushed dust off his clothes. Boy, that oughta show 'em.
All across the valley floor, Actuni were digging their roots into the soil and 
levering themselves erect. Most had broken dozens of spines. Though he felt bad 
about that, the damage would have been worse if they had collided with each 
other.
And then, to his utter disbelief, the Actuni marched forward to reform the 
battle lines.
*PING*
He stood one terrace higher up the slope. Catching his breath, he waited for 
them to mesh spines so that he could—
*PING*
Fire streaked across the sky, trailing a thunderclap that once again hurled the 
Actuni roots over crown like a row of cards brushed by a gale. Smoke wisped up 
from scorched berry bushes, and against the eastern slope the flames doubled in 
size.
His ears hurt. As did the rest of him. But he nonetheless picked H'nik out of 
the crowd and—
*PING*
"Well, H'nik?"
The monk wobbled, almost stabbing Feighan in the side. More than half its rear 
spines had snapped off; several roots leaked glittering sap. "Your Excellence?"
"I believe I told you not to fight?" He crossed his arms and looked stern.
"Yes, your Excellence, you did."
"And yet you attempted to disobey."
"Yes, Your Excellence."
"You have witnessed my reaction?"
"Yes, Your Excellence."
"Do I need to repeat it?"
The monk shuddered. "Your Excellence, why is it that you direct your rage only 
at me? We who pray at dawn would honor you properly if you would but let us 
seize the monastery."
"You would honor me by forcing those who pray at dusk to tap down?"
"It would give them a fresh start in life, Your Excellence."
*PING*
K'rach'a looked even more woebegone than H'nik. It staggered about, seemingly 
dazed by its new perspective. The grey rock rolled from its grip, and lay before 
them. "Please, Master, enough is enough! I beg you, no more."
"Will you stop fighting?"
"If they stop attacking, Master—but if they won't, then we'll have to defend the 
monastery."
"Even if I give you specific orders not to defend the monastery?"
"Why in the world would you want to do that, Master?"
"Because I don't want you killing each other!"
It grabbed the round stone. "Master, I'm afraid we'd have to pretend we didn't 
hear that order—"
*PING*
Force Ten winds threw granular snow in their eyes; Feighan gasped at the 
thinness of the air. "All right!" He shrieked to make himself heard. "Do you two 
want to walk home from here? Or can you settle this without going to war."
Both monks trembled. K'rach'a said, "You mean if we don't negotiate you leave us 
here?"
"That's right."
"Well, maybe we can work something out… what do you think, heretic?"
"The name is H'nik, infidel, but yes, perhaps, if we were to sit down together 
and discuss things reasonably, we might be able to—"
*PING*
The snow melted in the hot air; both monks hummed appreciatively as their skin 
soaked up the moisture. On the plain below, the leaderless armies milled about, 
waiting for a command to regroup—or to disperse.
Feighan said, "It's only a suggestion, but your people, H'nik, seem to function 
better in the day than they do at night—"
"Well, of course, Your Excellence. We are mountain-bred."
"Uh-huh. And yours, K'rach'a, seem to do better at night—"
"Naturally, since we're from the lowlands."
It still made no sense to him, but he let it pass. "All right, then! Let me 
suggest that the dusk prayers run the monastery at night, and the dawn prayers 
have it during the day. What could be simpler?"
"We'll see," said K'rach'a.
*PING*
The steady dry winds of the Badlands teased his hair. He needed a shower and 
shampoo so badly he could scream. Something long and cold to drink would be 
nice, too. But he forced himself to be patient, and to say to the native at his 
side, "K'rach'a, you tried to poison H'nik and its people."
"Never, Master, it was those Terrans the Abbot—"
"Crap. It wasn't the Abbot, it was you. This very moment you're carrying one of 
their transmitters, disguised as a rock. What were you going to do, call them in 
if the poison didn't work?"
K'rach'a wiggled until it squeezed the radio in a coil of root. "Exactly," it 
said. "And that's what they're doing right now—killing all the dawn prayers. I 
don't care if you are the Far Being Retzglaran, you're wrong—and they're tapping 
down."
"Sorry, K'rach'a." He gave the radio enough momentum to break it out of the 
monk's grip. It fell to the ground a few meters away. He walked over and stepped 
on it. Delicate components *crunch*ed. "There was a slight eruption in that 
valley a while ago. They won't be killing anybody. They're all dead."
Its bristles twanged. "But—"
"Too bad. Have a nice walk home."
*PING*
"Back so soon?" said H'nik.
"The dusk prayers are going to need a new leader."
"Ah?" It twisted about on its roots to broaden its field of vision. "Ah."
"K'rach'a was working for The Organization."
"I rather thought so. The Crown?"
"The Badlands." He wondered how many years would pass before K'rach'a showed up 
again. If it did at all.
"Excellent choice, Your Excellence."
"Thank you." The words were parching in his throat again. "Now you can go down 
and tell your troops to go home, yes?"
"Of course."
But before he put it back on the battlefield, he said, "H'nik—have you seen 
Sam?"
It tilted its barrel sideways. "The small Rhanghan?"
"Yes."
"Why, yes. The last I saw of him, he was on the ledge with my clone—"
*PING*
Sun shimmered off the ledge. "Sam?"
"McGill!" He emerged from a small fissure in the cliff face. "Didjou bring your 
canteen—McGill! Danger!" He spun and pointed upwards.
The fighter came screaming out of the sky, sunlight sparkling on its stubby 
wings. Smoke billowed as it launched its rockets.
He almost Flung them to safety—but the clone was matted out, and its roots held 
far too much soil for him to get the three of them off the ledge.
"McGill, do something!"
Two rockets, four, six— He could not detonate each of them in time to— Wait. He 
concentrated—
"McGill!"
"Quiet, Sam." He imagined again that massive sphere of air, and visualized it 
appearing ten meters from the nose of the lead rocket with a velocity of three 
kilometers per second and—
*PING*
"Cover your ears!"
The sky caught fire. One instant later the flames outburned the sun as the 
superheated air swallowed the rockets and ignited them. A half-second later it 
gulped down the fighter and gave its luminance to the dusk.
The sonic boom hit like a massive fist. Feighan flew backwards. Slamming into 
the cliff face, he grunted in pain. Sam dug his claws into the crack in the 
ledge, and then slipped his tail in as an additional anchor. The clone squawked 
in fear.
Then came the roars of the exploding rockets—and the huge hollow bellow of the 
bursting fighter. The echoes rattled down through the hills. Hot metal fell like 
misty rain.
And then it was quiet.
Feighan tried to get up. Broken ribs grated together; his shoulder screamed. He 
groaned aloud.
"McGill! Are you okay, McGill, oh please be okay, McGill?"
"Yeah, Sam, I just—" He winced as he levered himself to his feet. "I just hurt 
my back, that's all. How about you?"
"Who was that? Hommroummy? Who?"
"Davis. Hommroummy's dead. So's Davis, now…" He looked out across the ridges and 
the slopes, but the fighter had broken into parts too small to see.
"Does that mean we can go home?"
He cocked his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe… I'll have to check. But if Davis 
really was waging a private war… maybe we can, Sam. Maybe we can…"
"Before we do, though, there's something I've got to check at the library."
He could not help smiling. "You want to visit the library?"
"Uh-huh. 'Cause then I can tell the Actuni how to have babies again."
Chapter XXV
« ^ »


Gryll counted its losses. Eighteen survivors from the base, out of the one 
hundred thirty-seven stationed there, plus however many were alive in the one 
aircraft spiraling up to the orbiter now… its gases roiled.
It would have a most difficult time explaining this to its superior. One hundred 
employees and perhaps a third of a billion fancies down the drain. No, find 
another idiom; its superior was not Terran… ah, a third of a billion shed in the 
sun…
And the planet itself was a write-off, too. After this fiasco they would not be 
permitted to return for generations. Which meant that thousands of customers on 
Rehma would be forced to learn to live without the palliatives The Organization 
had been providing…
Madness, pure and simple. If it had not tangled with the Far Being, it would be 
showing a profit at that moment. But it had. So it showed a loss. And it 
regretted its foolishness immensely.
One had to recoup. Regather, reorganize… Hommroummy was gone, too; he required a 
successor…
The last lifeboat off Actu drew near to the orbiter. Gryll watched it on the 
screen. It would have a long conversation with those beings. And it would not 
punish them for failure— after all, they had survived.
Perhaps they were immune?
Chapter XXVI
« ^ »


On the ledge, Feighan had to laugh. "You really think you can teach plants a 
hundred times older than you are how to make babies?"
"I know I can, McGill." Sam folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin 
haughtily. "I been thinking about it for a long time, and now I know I can show 
them how to do it again."
He reached out to scratch his ward between the ears. "If you're so confident, 
kid, how come you have to visit the library first?"
"A little farther back, ah, ah, ahhhh… thank you. I missed you, McGill. I'm 
sorry I ran away." His tongue flicked Feighan's wrist. "You need a bath."
"Even I knew that. So how come—"
"Because I gotta check something. A little bit of history. Please, can we, 
McGill? It won't take long, honest."
"Fine by me. You ready?"
"Can we go to the tent, first, though? I'm real thirsty."
He rubbed his jaw. Stubble scraped his fingers.
"You sound like G'raxa! So can we get the water?"
"You speak Actuni these days?" he asked in surprise.
"Yeah, it's easy. But puh-leeze, McGill, I'm so thirsty!"
"The problem, kid, is that the tent and the water tank got blown into a billion 
pieces—"
"Oh, yeah…" Sam shuffled his front feet. "Yeah, I saw that."
"The Flinger Building has some water, though—let's go there."
"Okay." He turned to wave good-bye to H'nik's clone.
"Wait a minute." He took Sam's left arm, and slid the bracelet off his wrist. "I 
think—" He squeezed it. A metallic lump hid in its middle. "Uh-huh. This is a 
signal beacon. It's how they found us."
"Yeah?" Sam tugged it out of his fingers, sniffed it, then threw it over the 
edge. "I didn't like K'rach'a anyway."
*PING*
As they entered the one-story stone building, Feighan cast a suspicious eye at 
the sagging ceiling. It had not yet collapsed. Probably waiting for me to come 
back and get underneath it, he thought.
Sam scampered ahead, tongue lashing the air as he tried to smell water. Feighan 
plodded behind, feeling stiff and sore and much older than his ward. At least 
Davis is finished, and Hommroummy too, though I can hardly believe that…or that 
K'rach'a would poison the dawn prayers just to keep control of the monastery… 
hope it has a nice long walk home…people!
As he thought about it, he realized he had racked up an acceptable score for a 
mere seven days on the planet: the destruction of an Organization outpost; the 
healing of a schism and concomitant prevention of a religious war; the death of 
two people who could have ruined Terra; I even weeded fifty meters of garden 
row, cleared boulders out of a field… and got used to what I did to Greystein…
Around the corner of the white corridor, Sam yelped in outraged surprise. A 
moment later a Terran male shouted, "Dammit!"
Oh God! Tired as he was, he broke into a run. Anybody *pant* hurts Sam *pant* he 
dies!
And then his ward said, "I'm sorry, but you scared me, grabbing my tail like 
that. You oughta know better!"
Puffing, Feighan slowed down and listened.
"Well, I reckon it is my fault, Sam. How many teeth you got there, anyway? Felt 
like about a million."
Walking Mule? He swung around the corner. Sure enough, standing there with 
Sam—and wrapping a red kerchief around his bloody right wrist—was the Senior 
Flinger from the New York Building.
"Walking Mule!" He said it with joy and affection, but instantly wondered if he 
should have. They had parted on less than good terms. "Ah… fancy meeting you 
here."
The Amerind's smile made his eyes crinkle. "How do, McGill. Gina sends her love. 
Say, you look like you've been rode hard and put away wet. Can you help me on 
this?" He raised his forearm. "Can't do a hospital job working one-handed…" He 
sniffed. "I'd appreciate it if you stayed downwind of me, boy."
He tied the kerchief's loose ends together. "Actu doesn't have all that many 
bathhouses, you know?" Then he backed off to eye the older man carefully. "So 
what brings you here?"
"You do." His smile vanished. "What happened to your tunic?"
"I had to shut it off." Quickly, he explained why.
"You and me are going to have to have a lo-o-ong talk, McGill."
"I'm not so sure we will." Something green and prickly flashed behind Walking 
Mule; he looked over the other's shoulder. "H'nik? How'd you get up here so 
quickly?"
The monk made the scrape of amusement. "I hurried."
Sam said something in Actuni.
H'nik rustled its bristles in amazement. "That is most impressive, young Sam. 
You have learned our language most rapidly."
Again the Rhanghan resorted to the native tongue.
"Your, accent is flawless," said H'nik, "but your manners are not. Please speak 
in English so that McGill Feighan and Walking Mule can understand you."
Feighan raised his eyebrows: forty-five minutes earlier, H'nik had been taking 
him for the Far Being, and calling him "Your Excellence." Now it was back to 
McGill Feighan, but the tunic implant had not yet been fixed. What was going on?
"I shall explain momentarily," said the monk.
He lurched forward, almost elbowing Walking Mule aside. "Wha—?"
H'nik had already turned back to Sam. "There is a water dispenser down the hall 
and to your left, but it is heavily locked. Perhaps I had better escort you." It 
scuttled about to face in the opposite direction. "Let us proceed."
"That's one hell of a neat eetie there." Walking Mule held his wounded wrist in 
his left hand. "Must have been a real pleasure getting to know it."
Feighan made a face. "It just trotted out its company manners."
"Like that, huh? Remind me to stay company, then."
Feighan leaned his right shoulder—the uninjured one— against the wall. "So why 
did you come to this oven?"
"Like I said, it's on your account. You really believe Gryll's going to lay off 
you?"
"Uh-huh," he sighed. "Well, I can hope, can't I?"
"Let's mosey on down to the dispenser while we talk; looks like you could use 
some of that water, too."
He yawned as he gave up the support of the building. "Not a bad idea. But you're 
still stalling."
"Well—" He drawled it out so it sounded like "Way-ull."
"It appears as though the good Director Davis has up and disappeared on us, you 
see, and considering some of the things he had instigated, initiated, and 
authorized before he did his Invisible Man trick, the Board of Directors thought 
it might be a good idea to take a careful look at all the things he's been 
doing."
Feighan stifled another yawn with the palm of his hand. "It's only been a couple 
of days, hasn't it? Why would they get that suspicious that quickly?"
Walking Mule twitched his dark eyebrows. "I know you don't have a whole lot of 
faith in the system, McGill, and I'm not so sure I can blame you for it, but 
some of us have been a little on the curious side ever since he started putting 
the screws to Greystein."
What he wanted to say was, Goddammit, you could have gotten curious in time to 
keep him from screwing Greystein— but then, if he himself had had faith, he 
would have waited before hounding his roommate to his death… Something pricked 
behind his eyelids, then, and it was not dust. Nor was it guilt. "Okay," he 
said. "But still. He must have covered himself, must have said he was taking a 
couple of days to go fishing or something. Why didn't the Board buy it?"
"A combination of things." Around another corner, to their left, a door stood 
ajar. Inside, Sam and H'nik rasped away in Actuni. "That's one sharp kid you've 
got there, McGill. You must be proud as hell of him."
He gave the Senior Flinger a wry look. "To tell you the truth, there are times 
I'd rather strangle him."
"Since I have a couple of kids of my own, I can't say as how I'd blame you, but 
if the temptation ever gets too much, remember, just about the last thing you 
want is to start an interstellar incident." He winked.
"Hey, McGill!" called Sam.
He stepped into the small, high-ceilinged room. Next to a scintillating panel in 
the wall, Sam held a plastic cup of water. H'nik stood next to him; its roots 
spasmed now and then. "Did you leave some for me?" said Feighan.
"Yeah, there's plenty. Let me get you some. Watch!" He reached high up the wall, 
and pressed a soft bronze plaque. Behind the panel, something whirred. Something 
else splashed. A moment later, it retracted to reveal another plastic cup, 
filled to the brim with sparkling water. "Here you go." He snatched it up and 
went to pass it to Feighan, but he jiggled it, and spilled some on the floor.
"Aahhh!" said H'nik. Its roots slapped down in the puddle. Which dried.
"Thank you," said Feighan. Cold and clean, it tasted like liquid heaven.
"You know what else, McGill?"
"What?"
"I told H'nik about how they could have babies again—I didn't need to go to the 
library 'cause it knew the answer I wanted—and—"
"Wait a minute. What was it you wanted to know?"
Sam flashed him a most superior look. "If they used to have bees, of course. 
Back before the Great Drought. And they did! But they all died, and that's how 
come—well, not really how come." His tail drooped.
Feighan looked from the monk to his ward. "You just hooked me; don't stop now."
Sam shrugged. "See, I figured, since they didn't have bees any more, they 
couldn't ponnilate—pottilane?"
"Pollinate?"
"Yeah, that's it! I figured they couldn't pollinate each other like they're 
supposed to, and that all they had to do was get some from home. Only H'nik…" He 
looked up to the Actuni. "You tell it; I still don't understand it too well."
"There is really very little to tell. Needless to say, your Terran bees would 
not survive in our environment, but should we desire pollinating agents, the 
Network entomologists and geneticists could surely provide us with something 
appropriate."
Feighan nodded. "They could probably make you something almost identical to your 
old bee."
"The key point, however, is that we do not desire 'bees.' "
Sam said, "I thought it was because they stung, but H'nik said no."
"As McGill Feighan probably understands, the Great Drought came upon us 
gradually, but one of its proximate causes was overpopulation. We quite 
literally drank our planet dry."
Walking Mule pressed the bronze dispenser plaque. While he waited, he said, 
"That's a good line, H'nik, but it does seem a bit improbable."
"You must remember our deathroot. When we tap down, we return our barrels to the 
environment—but we keep the root. A new bud forms off it, and slowly 
reincorporates the deathroot into itself. Thus, whereas on your planet you 
continually recycle all elements, here we recycle only a portion of the elements 
which compose one being. Now, if that being has thousands of offsprings, as we 
can, you will see that in not too many generations the world can be drastically 
overpopulated. Remember that no offspring ever die, either. And neither do their 
offspring. Before the Great Drought, I have been told, it was virtually 
impossible to drop root without encountering a dormant deathroot waiting for the 
moisture to bud. Think of that in terms of your own planet. Think of being 
unable to walk without disturbing the bones of your ancestors. Think of how it 
would be if those bones never decayed, but always ate just enough of your food 
to maintain themselves. Famine would be your constant companion—as drought was 
ours."
Feighan refilled his cup—and looked at it uncomfortably. "So what you're saying 
is, your childlessness is a conscious decision on your parts?"
"Exactly. The extinction of the 'bees' has made it easier to implement, but wind 
and close physical contact and occasionally other insects do serve as 
pollinating agents. Self-pollination is not unknown, either. So not all our 
seeds are sterile."
"So you do have babies!" said Sam.
"No, young Sam. For we have learned to eat our own fruit as soon as it falls. 
Not only is it nutritious, it prevents accidents."
The three-year-old turned to Feighan. "Can you believe that, McGill? They don't 
want kids!"
"Speaking as a parent," he said, "I don't find that at all hard to believe."
"Oh." Sam backed up a step. "You mean 'cause kids cause trouble?"
"Uh-huh." He advanced on his ward, made the most threatening face he could, and 
spread his hands into a circle just wide enough to fit around the Rhanghan's 
neck. "They sulk and they complain and they run away—" He grabbed Sam under the 
arms and hoisted him into the air. It hurt his shoulder, but he did not care. He 
pushed his nose up against Sam's snout so he could glare at him eye-to-eye. "And 
they worry hell out of the people who love them."
Sam nictitated slowly. "So how come you're not mad at me?"
"I'm too tired. Tomorrow I'll be mad at you." He set him down.
"What if I'm real good?"
"Then I probably won't be mad."
He clapped his hands together. "Okay! Then tomorrow I'll be real good." Tail 
swinging from side to side, he whisked across the room. "Hey, Walking Mule, you 
ever seen an Actuni fence?"
The Senior Flinger looked down with a smile on his seamed face. "Can't say as I 
have, Sam. How come?"
" 'Cause H'nik wants to talk to McGill in private for a minute, and there's a 
real neat fence outside, so let's go." He seized Walking Mule's hand and dragged 
him to the door.
"Guess I'll talk to you in a few minutes, McGill," he said, before the Rhanghan 
pulled him out of sight.
Chuckling, Feighan told the monk, "Three-year-olds are not known for their 
discretion."
"How true. But then, I do not embarrass easily. I wished to say farewell. It is 
almost time for me to leave. And I wished to thank you, McGill Feighan."
The other's use of his real name reminded him: "Say, H'nik—back in the valley 
you were calling me 'Your Excellence.' I, ah—"
"Does the descent from godhood disappoint you?" It scraped its spines for the 
sound of amusement. "I used that title because the others believed it to be 
true. It would not have served our purposes if I had occasioned doubt."
Puzzled, he frowned. "I'm not too sure what you mean. You recognized me without 
the tunic? Why didn't the others?"
"Oh, no—without the tunic your pattern was, indeed, identical to the Far 
Being's—which is as it was intended to be."
He crushed the plastic cup, blinking as he did so. "Intended to be?"
"Why ever do you think the gastropod ingested you, McGill Feighan?"
He looked around for a chair to collapse into. Finding none, he squatted, 
leaning back against the wall. "Wait a minute. You're saying that the gastropod 
swallowed me to change my emissions pattern so that when I came here and turned 
off my tunic I'd look like the Far Being?"
"Among other things."
"But why?" He almost wailed it—it made no sense!
"Only the intervention of the Far Being Retzglaran could have prevented a 
horrifying schism that would eventually have resulted in the tapping down of 
millions of my people. Agents of The Organization would have collected the 
discarded husks, processed them, and sold the purified drug on Rehma. The 
quantity would have been sufficient to addict half that planet, and subsequently 
poison those addicts. Both Actu and Rehma would have collapsed utterly, their 
civilizations destroyed."
"Jesus." He whistled softly. "Two whole planets, wiped out? But in that case, 
why didn't the Far Being Itself come?"
"It is busy elsewhere, attempting, if I remember correctly, to prevent an 
eight-planet war of teleportation scheduled to occur sometime next century. 
Which is why It delegated us to handle this problem."
"It saw this coming twenty-two years ago?"
"Oh, much longer than that."
"How did It do it?"
It rattled its bristles. "I have not the faintest idea, McGill Feighan. I am an 
employee of the Far Being Retzglaran, not the Far Being Itself. I really must be 
leaving." It made for the door.
"Wait!" He had a billion questions; it could not just leave them unanswered. 
"You've seen the Far Being?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Where is It?"
"Wherever It wants to be."
"What does It look like?"
"Ahh… rather like you, with your tunic off… but only to another Actuni. I have 
not the faintest idea of how it would appear to a Terran." It edged closer to 
the door. "And now—"
"Please, H'nik!" On his feet, he stretched out his arms. "Did It—has It been—oh, 
I don't know how to phrase it. I mean, I'm here because It wanted me to be here. 
Does It make me do things, or—"
"Do you ask if It caused you to kill your friend?"
"Among other things."
"No. Your friend caused you to kill him."
"And I caused him to cause me… but what about—"
"It sees the paths you walk, the branches you might take. Sometimes It will snip 
off a branch, to force you to grow in another direction, but you are not Its 
puppet. Were you, you would be no use to It."
It was halfway through the door. "One last question: is It— is It God?"
H'nik paused. "No," it said at last. "No, It is not God—but It is good, indeed, 
it is. Good-bye, McGill Feighan." And it disappeared.
His Talent twinged; his jaw dropped. H'nik was a Flinger all along?
Dazed, happy, and trying to comprehend some of what he had just been told, he 
ambled down the long corridor to the terrace, where he found Sam instructing 
Walking Mule on the predatory habits of the grazing lizard.
The Senior Flinger said, "You look blissed out—something H'nik said?"
He nodded, and sat on top of the low stone wall. After all these years I got 
some answers! Holy— It almost makes it worthwhile…
"You want to talk about it?"
"Ah… no, not yet." The glare hurt his eyes, but he kept on smiling.
"Sam was telling me what you did to Davis—real neat trick, there, McGill. When 
we get back home, you'll have to show it to us. Flashy."
"You don't get good flames unless there's a lot of dust in the—" He cocked his 
head. "Was that a roundabout way of asking me to come back?"
"Yup. I never did finish telling you what we found."
"So tell."
Walking Mule made himself comfortable on the wall next to Feighan. "To begin 
with, Davis told his staff he was going to spend a week in Kansas City, checking 
out some new steakhouses. The mistake was that Gina Maccari was there when he 
said it. She got suspicious; said he didn't 'feel' right."
It was nice to hear that after unwittingly helping Davis to nail Greystein, she 
had used her Talent against the Director. "Uh-huh. And that?"
"Well, Harry Lipsiento disappeared, too. Didn't make his shift, and if you know 
Harry—"
"I met him about ten minutes before he died." He sketched in Harry's fate.
"Damn shame." He sighed heavily. "Well, the Board got concerned, got a warrant, 
and searched Davis' place. Found a small fortune in exotic jewels—not stolen, 
understand, but definitely smuggled. Damnedest thing: he kept them in his 
refrigerator, in an empty goose liver can. So they suspended him without pay in 
absentia. If he'd shown up, they'd have given him a hearing, but he probably 
would have gotten, um, canned in the long run."
"So who's the new Director going to be?"
Walking Mule grinned.
Despite the glare, Feighan's eyes widened. "You?"
"Yup."
He slapped the older man on the back. "Congratulations!"
"Thank you kindly. It's more like a sentence than a promotion, but it's high 
time the NAC had a Director who understood what Flinging's all about, you know? 
I think I can do some good things in the job… truth to tell, McGill, I've 
already made a start."
"How's that?"
"Well, with the Board's written permission, I canceled every executive order 
Davis issued—on the grounds that we didn't know when he went off the rails, and 
every one of his orders ought to be double-checked for craziness or corruption 
before it was implemented." He winked broadly.
"I get the feeling you're trying to tell me something, Walking Mule, but I am 
too damn tired to work it out for myself. What is it?"
"Well, hell, McGill, you ought to spot it! One of his orders was for you to 
report for behavior modification."
He sat up straight. "And that's been canceled, too?"
"Yup."
He started to beam. "And it's not going to be reissued?"
A cloud passed over Walking Mule's face. "Well…"
"Ah, hell!"
"Hold on there, McGill. I didn't say it would be reissued. Just I find myself in 
a delicate sort of position. See, I've been indoctrinated just like every other 
Flinger—well, like almost every other Fl—no, let's not say that. That's a 
question I am never going to ask you on my own."
"Thanks for that," he said with a grunt.
"But see, if I get orders, I have to follow them."
He squinted at the new Director. "Which means—?"
"Well, the way I figure it—and Sam, you keen-eared, big-mouthed little critter, 
if you ever repeat this to anyone, I'll have your tongue for a flyswatter—the 
way I figure it is, the people who need re-indoctrination are the people who 
don't do their jobs. As I recall it, you were Number One on the rating list just 
about every month. So it seems like you were doing your job. Which, if you 
follow my logic right on through to the bitter end, makes it seem like about the 
last thing in the world you need is re-indoctrination. If you get my drift."
Relaxing, he smiled. "I think I do, Walking Mule. Thank you." He held out his 
hand.
Walking Mule took it. "But I've got to warn you, McGill— if I'm ever ordered to 
order you to report to PsychSection, I will obey. Because I will have to." The 
older man's gaze searched Feighan's face. "You do understand?"
"Yes," he said. "But we'll worry about that when it branches off our paths, all 
right?" He was pretty sure that if it ever did, Something would be there to 
offer an alternative.
"All right, boy! Let's get ourselves on home." He stood, and slapped the dust 
off his pants. "Oh, speaking of that— once I canceled Davis' orders, I sent our 
lawyer back to court. Oscar, the penthouse, and the trust fund are all yours 
again."
"I don't think," said Feighan slowly, "that I can ever live there again."
"Well—" Walking Mule patted him on the shoulder. "I can understand that. There 
are other places to live—and hotels to stay in in the meantime. So what say we 
get on back now? I need a drink."
"And McGill," said Sam, wrinkling his nose, "needs a shower."
*PING*
Chapter XXVII
« ^


Gryll floated in the alkali flaying tank. It hated it, but it could not bear 
confinement within that "skin" of its a moment longer. Skin was convenient for 
wandering through the atmospheres of certain planets, but it aggravated one 
after a while.
At least it had company. "Seem qualified for position. Vacancy must be filled. 
You want?"
"Yes," he said, "yes, I do want it. Badly."
"Silly statement. Weakens bargaining position. Start tomorrow?"
"That's fine by me."
"First couple years, watched constantly till competence proven."
"I have no problem with that—you will find I'm very, very competent."
"Job's yours."
"Thank you." And Nathaniel Davis smiled.