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  “You have been here long?”

  “Not too long.”

  “How long?”

  “About two months.”

  “What was your crime?”

  Kathcar responded tersely: “I am not sure in my own mind why I am here. Apparently I offended Titus Pompo, or something of the sort.”

  Glawen told Chilke and Scharde: “Kathcar is a Naturalist from Stroma.”

  “Interesting” said Scharde. “How is it that you are acquainted with Titus Pompo?”

  “It is a complicated matter, not presently relevant.”

  Scharde said nothing. Glawen asked him: “Are you tired? Do you wish to sleep?”

  “I am probably stronger than I look.” Scharde’s voice drifted away. “I think I’ll try to sleep.”

  “Give your gun to Chilke.”

  Scharde gave over the gun, crawled across the hut and stretched out on the floor. Almost at once he dozed.

  The rain waxed and waned: slowing for a few minutes as if passing over, then suddenly striking down in new fury. Kathcar marveled anew: “This storm is incredible!”

  Chilke said: “Scharde has been here about two months. Who came first: you or Scharde?”

  Kathcar appeared to dislike questions. As before, he answered curtly: “Scharde was here when I arrived.”

  “And no one explained why you were here?”

  “No.”

  “What of your family and friends at Stroma? Do they know of your whereabouts?”

  Bitterness tinged Kathcar’s voice. “As to that, I cannot guess.”

  Glawen asked: ‘‘Were you an LPFer at Stroma, or a Chartist?”

  Kathcar surveyed Glawen sharply. “Why do you ask?”

  “It might cast light on why you were imprisoned.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Chilke said: “If you have run afoul of Titus Pompo, you must be a Chartist.”

  Kathcar spoke frostily: “Like the other progressives of Stroma, I endorse the ideals of the LPF party.”

  “Very strange!” declared Chilke. “You were clapped into jail by your best friends and good clients: I refer, of course, to the Yips.”

  “No doubt there was a mistake, or a misunderstanding,” said Kathcar. “I do not care to dwell on the matter, and I will let bygones be bygones.”

  “You Peefers are a high-minded group, “said Chilke. “As for me, I crave revenge.”

  Glawen asked Kathcar: “You are acquainted with Dame Clytie Vergence?”

  “I am acquainted with this woman.”

  “And Julian Bohost?”

  “I know him. At one time he was considered an influential member of the movement.”

  “But no longer?”

  Kathcar spoke in measured terms. “I differ with him on several important points.”

  “What of Lewyn Barduys? And Flitz?”

  “I am not acquainted with either. And now, if you will excuse me, I too will try to rest.” Kathcar crawled away.

  A few moments later the rain stopped, leaving a silence broken only by the splash of drops falling from the trees. Imminence charged the air.

  Purple-white dazzle fractured the sky. A second of tense silence and another – then an explosion of thunder, dying in a sullen rumble. Across the jungle came a response of grinding chatters, angry roars and bellows.

  Silence again, and the pressure of imminence then a second burst of lightning, and for an instant every detail of the compound was illuminated in brilliant lavender light, followed as before by another clap of thunder. After a moment the rain started again, in a new torrent.

  Glawen asked Chilke: “What happened in the shed that was so peculiar?”

  “I live a very peculiar life,” said Chilke. “If you think of it like this, the business in the shed is just a typical incident, even though the average man might be astounded.”

  “What happened?”

  “First, a Yip in a black uniform took the bag from my head. I saw a table with some documents arranged in a neat pile. The Yip told me to sit down, which I did.

  “It seems that I was under surveillance from a lens across the room. A voice came from the speaker ‘You are Eustace Chilke, native to Big Prairie on Earth?’

  “I said, yes, that was the case, and to whom was I talking?

  “The voice said: ‘Your single concern at the moment must be the set of documents you see in front of you. Sign them where indicated.’

  “The voice was harsh and distorted, and not at all friendly. I said: ‘I suppose it is pointless to complain of the outrage represented by this kidnapping.’

  “The voice said: ‘Eustace Chilke, you have been brought here for good and sufficient reason. Sign the documents and be quick about it!’

  “I said: ‘It sounds like Madame Zigonie talking, but not in a kindly voice. Where is the money you owe me for six months work?’

  “The voice said: ‘Sign the papers at once, or it will be the worse for you.’

  “I looked the papers over. The first deeded all my property, without exception or reservation, to Simonetta Zigonie. The second was a letter to whom it might concern authorizing the delivery of my property to the bearer. The third, which I liked the least, was my will, bequeathing everything I owned to my friend Simonetta Zigonie. I tried to protest. ‘I’d like to think things over, if you don’t mind. I suggest that we go back to Araminta Station and settle the matter like ladies and gentlemen.’

  “‘Sign the papers,’ said the voice, ‘if you value your life!’

  “I saw that there was no reasoning with the woman. I said: ‘I’ll sign if you like, but it’s all a great puzzle, since I own little more than the shirt on my back.’

  “‘What of the articles you inherited from your grandfather?’

  “’They don’t amount to much. The stuffed moose is a bit shabby. There is a small rock collection, with bits of gravel from a hundred planets, a few oddments of bric-a-brac including some purple vases, and probably more junk of the same sort out in the barn. I seem to remember a rather nice stuffed owl with a mouse in its beak.”

  “‘What else?’

  “That’s hard to say, since the barn has been so thoroughly burgled that I almost feel ashamed offering the stuff to you.’

  “‘Let us have no more delay. Sign the papers, and be quick about it.’

  “I signed the three documents. The voice then said: ‘Eustace Chilke, you have saved your life, which henceforth shall be spent repenting your fleering and cavalier attitudes, and your disregard for the sensitivities of those who might have wished to befriend you.’

  “I decided that Madame Zigonie was referring to my stand-offish conduct at Shadow Valley Ranch. I told her I didn’t mind apologizing if it would do any good, but she said that it was too late for that, and what must be, must be. I was taken out and dropped into the doghole, where I instantly got busy repenting. I assure you I was glad to hear your voice.”

  Glawen asked: “You have no idea what she is looking for?”

  “It must be that some of Grandpa Swaner’s belongings have more value than I supposed. I wish he had let me know while he was still alive.”

  “Someone must know something. Who could it be?”

  “Hmf. Hard to say. He dealt with lots of strange people — junk dealers, thieves, antiquarians, book dealers. I remember one chap in particular, who was Grandpa’s friend, colleague, rival and accomplice, all at the same time. I think they were both members of the Naturalist Society. He traded Grandpa a set of exotic bird feathers and three Pandango soul masks for a parcel of old books and papers. If anyone knew Grandpa’s affairs inside-out, it would be this chap.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I couldn’t say. He got into trouble over some illicit tomb-robbing and fled off-planet to evade the authorities.”

  Glawen, chancing to look over his shoulder, saw the pale glimmer of Kathcar’s face, much closer than he had realized. It was evident that Kathcar had been listening to the conversion.


  The rain returned in another drumming downpour, and persisted until a hint of wet gray light indicated the coming of dawn.

  Light seeped into the sky, and the length and breadth of the prison strip became visible. The four men departed the tree hut and started downhill through the dripping jungle. Glawen went first, followed by Chilke, both with guns at the ready. Presently they arrived at the gully, to find it hip deep in running water, which could not be waded because of the presence of water-snappers. Glawen selected a tall tree, sheared its trunk with energy from his gun and dropped it across the gully to create a slippery bridge.

  The men found the crawler as Glawen had left it; they clambered aboard and headed down the slope slowly to avoid sliding out of control. Almost at once they were attacked by a splay-legged creature twenty feet long, with eight clashing mandibles and tail curled forward that it might project a noxious fluid at its prey. Chilke killed it even as it aimed its tail, and the creature fell to the side, mandibles gnashing and the tail waving back and forth, discharging a dark fluid into the air.

  A few moments later Glawen halted the crawler, the better to select a route and in the silence an ominous sound could be heard through the underbrush. Scharde gave a croak of alarm; Glawen looked up to see a triangular head six feet across, split into a gaping fanged maw, descending through the foliage at the end of a long arching neck. Glawen fired his gun by reflex, destroying the head. A moment later something bulky toppled and crashed into the jungle.

  As best he could Glawen guided the crawler downhill the way he had come. The slope at last began to flatten and the jungle foliage became thin. The vehicle began to splash through water where the river had overflowed the slime. A tribe of mud-walkers watched from across the swamp, hooting and screaming. The water deepened; the crawler began to lose contact with the slime and float on the swirling water.

  Glawen halted the crawler. He turned to his three companions and pointed to a clump of vegetation. “This is where I left, the flyer, tied to a tree in that clump yonder. The tree must have broken away last night in the storm and carried the flyer away.”

  “That is bad news,” said Chilke. He looked eastward along the face of the swollen river. “I see lots of snags and dead trees, but no flyer.”

  Kathcar gave a hollow groan. “We were better off at the prison.”

  “You, perhaps, were better off,” said Glawen. “Go on back if you like.”

  Kathcar said no more.

  Chilke spoke ruminatively: “With a few tools and a few materials I could contrive a radio. But there are neither on the crawler.”

  “It is disaster!” lamented Kathcar. “Sheer disaster!”

  “Not just yet,” said Scharde.

  “How can you say differently?”

  “I notice that the current moves about three miles an hour, no more. If the tree fell in the middle of the night — let us say, six hours ago — it will have drifted eighteen miles or less. The crawler can move five or six miles an hour on the water. So if we set off now, we should overtake the tree and the attached flyer in three or four hours.”

  Without further words Glawen started up the crawler and set off downstream.

  The crawler floated across a wilderness of water, through a swelter of heat and glare reflected from the surface, humidity which seemed to stifle the breath and make every movement an effort of monumental proportion. As Syrene rose, the heat and glare became actively painful. Glawen and Chilke rigged an awning using branches and foliage salvaged from the stream, after first shaking away the insects and small serpents watch might be clinging to the leaves. The awning provided a large measure of relief. From time to time great heads or ocular process rose from the water with evident intent to attack; constant vigilance was necessary to avoid sudden overwhelming disaster.

  For three hours the crawler churned down the river, passing by dozens of snags, dead trees, rafts of detritus, floating reed tussocks. Despite earnest and anxious search, the Skyrie failed to show itself. Kathcar at last asked: “And what if we go another two hours and still don’t find the flyer?”

  “Then we start thinking very carefully,” said Chilke.

  “I have already been thinking carefully,” said Kathcar sourly. I do not believe thinking is helpful in this case.”

  The river widened; Glawen steered a course keeping the left shore always within range of vision, with the main sweep of the river to the right.

  Another hour passed. Ahead appeared a spot of white: the Skyrie. Glawen heaved a great sigh and sank down on the bench, feeling an extraordinary emotion mixed of lassitude, euphoria and an almost tearful gratitude for the favorable workings of Destiny. Scharde put his arm around Glawen’s shoulders. “I cannot find words for what is in my mind.”

  “Don’t be too grateful too fast,” said Chilke. “It looks like we have pirates aboard the craft.”

  “Mud-walkers!” said Glawen.

  The crawler approached the flyer. The tree to which it had been moored apparently had been caught in an eddy and swung into a bank of muck, where it lodged. A tribe of mud-walkers, fascinated by the curious floating object, had run across mud and water and climbed through tangles of debris to approach the craft. At the moment they were prodding at the bag of animal segments Glawen had left on deck, and pushed it into the river.

  A vagrant breeze wafted the odor to the crawler, prompting an exclamation from Chilke. “What in the world is that?”

  “The odor is from a bag of bad-smelling animal pieces,” said Glawen, “which I left on the deck to keep mud-walkers off.” He went to the front of the crawler and waved his arms. “Go away! Get off! Go!”

  In response the mud-walkers screamed in fury and threw mud-balls at the crawler. Glawen aimed his gun at the tree and blasted away a great branch. With startled outcries the mud-walkers ran off across the mud, spindly legs pumping furiously, knees held high. At a safe distance they halted and attempted another barrage of mud-balls, without success.

  The four men climbed aboard the flyer. Glawen threw buckets of water down the deck hoping to allay the lingering stink of the sacked animal parts and to wash overbroad the litter left by the mud-walkers. The crawler was hauled aboard and made secure. “Goodbye, Vertes River,” said Glawen. “I have had all I want of you. He went to the controls, took the flyer aloft and flew down river at a low altitude.

  At dusk the four dined on the provisions Glawen had stowed aboard. The river broadened and spilled into the ocean. Lorca and Sing disappeared and the Skyrie flew across the Western Ocean through the starlight.

  Glawen spoke to Kathcar “I am still not clear in my mind as to why you were brought to Shattorak. You must have done something to annoy Smonny, since Titus Pompo himself apparently counts for little.”

  Kathcar said coldly: “The matter is over and done with, and I do not wish to go into it any further.”

  “Nevertheless, we are all interested, and there is ample time for you to go into full detail.”

  “That may be,” said Kathcar. “Still, the affair is personal and private.”

  Scharde said gently: “Under the circumstances, I don’t think you can expect to keep affairs of this sort private. It is much too close to all of us, and we are justifiably interested in what you can tell us.”

  Chilke said: “I must point out to you that both Scharde and Glawen are Bureau B personnel, and their questions have an official tinge to them. As for me, I want to find out how best to make Smonny pay, and also Namour and Benjamie and anyone else who thought that I might not resent being dropped into a doghole.”

  “I resent it as well,” said Scharde. “I am working to keep my rage under control.”

  “Everything considered,” said Glawen, “you had better explain to us what we want to know.”

  Kathcar was mulishly silent. Glawen prompted him. “You are a member of the LPF faction at Stroma. How did you become acquainted with Smonny Clattuc, or Madame Zigonie - or whatever else she may call herself?”

  “It is noth
ing to marvel at,” said Kathcar with great dignity. “The LPF is concerned with conditions at Yipton, and wishes to bring Cadwal into modern times, and out of the sleep of centuries.”

  “So. You traveled to Yipton?”

  “Naturally. I wished to observe the factual state of conditions.”

  “You went alone?”

  Kathcar again became testy. “What possible difference does it make with whom I went?”

  “Identify these persons, and allow us to be the judge.”

  “I went with a deputation from Stroma.”

  “Who was in the deputation?”

  “Several members of the LPF”.

  “Was Dame Clytie one of them?”

  Kathcar was silent a long ten seconds. Then he made a furious gesture of frustration. “If you must know, yes!”

  “And Julian?”

  “Naturally,” said Kathcar with a sniff. “Julian is energetic and insistent. I have even heard him described as a bit bumptious, though perhaps I should not characterize him in this fashion.”

  “We are discreet, and will not report your condemnation to Julian,” said Scharde with a grin. “So what happened at Yipton?”

  “You must understand that, while the LPF uniformly and unanimously agrees on the need for progressivism, there are several concepts as to which direction the changes must go. Dame Clytie speaks for one of these philosophies and I represent another, and our conferences are not always harmonious.”

  Glawen asked: “How do your views differ?”

  “It is mainly a matter of emphasis. I favor a carefully structured leadership organization for the new Cadwal and I have designed the system in careful detail. Dame Clytie, I fear, is a bit impractical and imagines a new society of happy peasants, singing at their toil, dancing and playing tambourines up and down the village commons every night. Everyone will be story-teller or musician; everyone will take joy in producing beautiful artifacts. How is the new community to be governed? Dame Clytie endorses a concept where everyone, young and old, male and female, dolt and sage, all alike are supposed to debate issues at conclaves, then agree by glad hurrahs and vocal acclamations. In short, Dame Clytie opts for a democracy in its purest, most basic and amorphous form.”