The Adversary
Book 4 of the Saga of Pliocene Exile
by Julian May
Version 1.0

Synopsis

THE GALACTIC MILIEU AND THE
PLIOCENE EXILE

The Great Intervention of 2013 opened humanity's way to the
stars. By the year 2110, when the action of the first volume in
this saga began, Earthlings were fully accepted members of a
benevolent confederation of planet colonizers, the Coadunate
Galactic Milieu, who shared high technology and the capability
of performing advanced mental operations known as meta-
functions. Genes for the five principal metapsychic abilities—
farsensing, coercion, creativity, psychokinesis, and redaction, or
healing—had been part of human heredity from time immemo-
rial; but the mental powers were at first only rarely manifest,
remaining mostly latent until evolutionary pressure resulted in
increasing numbers of operant human metapsychics, being born
late in the twentieth century.

The five founding races of the Galactic Milieu had observed
the slow metapsychic development of humanity for tens of thous-
ands of years. But it was not until a small group of beleaguered
pioneer operants broadcast a desperate telepathic appeal that
the Milieu finally intervened in Earthly affairs. After some
debate, the galactic confederation decided to admit Earthlings
into the Milieu "in advance of their psychosocial maturation"
because of the vast mental potential of humanity, which might
eventually exceed that of any other race.

In the hectic years following the Great Intervention, the
mundane problems of humanity seemed all but solved. Poverty,
disease, and ignorance were wiped out. With the help of the
nonhumans, people from Earth colonized more than 700 new
planets that had already been surveyed and found suitable.

Earthlings also learned how to speed the development of
their metapsychic powers through special training and genetic

engineering. However, even though the number of humans with
operant metafunctions increased with each generation, in 2110
the majority of the population was still "normal"—that is,
possessing metafunctions that were either meagre to the point
of nullity or else latent, unusable because of psychological
barriers or other factors. Most of the day-to-day socioeconomic
activities of the Human Polity of the Milieu were carried on by
"normals," but human metapsychics did occupy privileged posi-
tions in government, in the sciences, and in other areas where
high mental powers were valuable to the Milieu as a whole.

At only one period between the Great Intervention and 2110
did it seem that the admission of humanity to the Milieu had
been a mistake: This was in 2083, during the brief Metapsychic
Rebellion. Instigated by a group of Earth-based humans led by
Marc Remillard, this attempted coup narrowly missed
destroying the entire Milieu organization. The Rebellion was
suppressed by loyalist humans, who included Marc's own
brother, Jack, and steps were taken to insure that such a disaster
never would occur again.

A hundred or so battered survivors of the Rebellion managed
to evade retribution by following Marc Remillard through a
unique escape hatch: a one-way time-gate leading into Earth's
Pliocene Epoch, six million years in the past. Eventually the
Rebels settled on Ocala Island, in a part of North America that
would one day be called Florida. Well equipped with sophisti-
cated Milieu gadgetry, they lived in isolation for twenty-seven
years while their leader made a futile search of the Pliocene
galaxy with his artificially enhanced farsenses, seeking another
planet inhabited by metapsychics with high technology. Marc
Remillard never gave up his dream of human domination of the
galaxy—not even when his old allies despaired and their children
openly opposed the plan.

In the Galactic Milieu, six million years into the future, the
crushing of the Metapsychic Rebellion signalled the start of a
new Golden Age for humanity. Human metapsychics achieved
Unity—assimilation into a near-mystical mental fellowship of
the Galactic Mind. Nonmetas on the planet Earth and its hund-
reds of interstellar colonies enjoyed unlimited lebensraum,
energy sufficiency, the challenge of settling and exploiting new
worlds, and citizenship in a splendid galaxy-wide civilization.

But even Golden Ages have their misfits: in this case, humans
who, for one reason or another, were temperamentally unsuited
to the rather structured social environment of the Milieu. These
malcontents chose to exile themselves by passing through the
time-gate that led to an Earth six million years younger.

The time-gate was discovered in 2034, during the heady years
of the scientific knowledge explosion subsequent to the Great
Intervention. But since the time-warp opened only backward
(anything attempting to return became six million years old and
usually crumbled to dust), and since it had a fixed focus (a point
in France's Rhone River Valley), its discoverer concluded that
it was a useless oddity without practical application.

After the death of the time-gate discoverer in 2041, his widow,
Madame Angelique Guderian, learned that her husband had
been mistaken. The fair numbers of malcontents in the develop-
ing Human Polity of the Milieu were willing to pay handsomely
to be transported to a simpler world without rules. Geologists
and paleontologists knew that the Pliocene Epoch was an idyllic
period just before the dawn of rational life on our planet.
Romantics and rugged individualists from almost all of Earth's
ethnic groups eventually discovered Madame's "underground
railroad" to the Pliocene, which operated out of a quaint French
inn located outside the metropolitan centre of Lyon.

From 2041 until 2106, the rejuvenated Madame Guderian
transported clients from the Milieu to the Pliocene Exile, a
presumed natural paradise. After suffering belated qualms of
conscience about the fate of the time-travellers, Madame herself
passed into the Pliocene, and operation of her clandestine
service was taken over by the Human Polity in a quasi-official
manner: The time-gate was a convenient glory hole for
dissidents.

By 2110, when the gate into the Pliocene Exile had been
operating for nearly seventy years, some 100,000 human time-
farers had passed through it into an unknown destiny.

On 25 August 2110, eight persons, making up that week's
"Group Green," were transported to Exile. These three women
and five men would play key roles in a drama that would affect
not only the Pliocene world, but ultimately that of the Milieu
itself.
Group Green discovered, as other time-travellers had before

them, that the natural paradise of Pliocene Europe was under
the control of a humanoid race from the Duat Galaxy, a star-
whirl many millions of light years away from our own part of
the universe. The exotics were also exiled, having been driven
from their home because of their barbarous battle-religion.

The dominant exotic faction, the Tanu, were tall and hand-
some. In spite of a thousand-year sojourn on Earth, there were
still less than 20,000 of them because their reproduction was
inhibited by solar radiation. Antagonistic to the Tanu and
outnumbering them by at least four to one were their ancient
foes, the Firvulag. Often called the Little People, these exotics
were mostly of short stature, although there were plenty of
human-sized and even gigantic individuals among them. They
reproduced quite well on Earth but were short-lived compared
to the Tanu.

Tanu and Firvulag constituted a dimorphic race—the former
metapsychically latent, and the latter possessed of operant
metafunctions, mostly limited in power. The Tanu, with their
higher technology, had long ago developed mind-amplifying
devices, called golden torcs, that raised them to operancy. Use
of the torcs had its price, however: A certain percentage of
Tanu children proved incompatible with it and died of the
"black-torc" syndrome, in spite of the efforts of the grieving
adults. These black-torc tragedies exacerbated the already
serious problem of low birthrate among the Tanu.

The Firvulag, tougher and cruder than their resplendent kin,
did not require torcs in order to exercise their metafunctions.
The leaders and great heroes among the Little People were the
mental equals of the Tanu; but most Firvulag were weaker.
Stubborn and conservative, for most of their stay on Earth they
had resisted the notion of acting in metaconcert—that is, using
a multimind operational mode. The Tanu had experimented
with this technique, although they never attained the efficiency
achieved by metapsychics in the Galactic Milieu.

For most of the thousand years that Tanu and Firvulag resided
on Pliocene Earth (which they called the Many-Coloured Land),
they were fairly evenly matched in the ritual wars fought as part
of their battle-religion. The greater finesse and technology of
the Tanu tended to counterbalance the superior numbers of the
ferociously obstinate Firvulag. The advent of time-travelling
humanity was to change the situation drastically.

Early on, the Tanu gained control of the fixed-focus time-gate
and took prisoner all the newly arrived humans, enslaving them.
The astounding discovery was made that human germ plasm
was compatible with that of the Tanu. The meaning behind this
paradox was immaterial to the Tanu; they were delighted to be
able to use their human slaves in breeding, since Tanu-human
hybrids tended to have unusual physical and mental strength.
The time-travellers also proved to be a valuable technological
resource, enhancing the rather decadent science establishment
of the Tanu by injecting the expertise of the greatly advanced
Galactic Milieu. It had been strictly forbidden for time-travellers
to carry sophisticated weaponry back to the Pliocene (a restric-
tion that was often honoured in the breach), and the Tanu were
conservative in the type of military hardware that they permitted
their human serfs to build. Nevertheless, it was human ingenuity
that eventually gave the Tanu almost complete ascendency over
the Firvulag—who never mated with humans and generally
despised them.

Most of the enslaved time-travellers actually lived quite well
under the benevolent overlordship of the Tanu. Rough work
was done by small ramapithecine apes who were, ironically, part
of the direct hominid line that would climax in Homo sapiens
six million years in the future. The ramas wore tiny grey torcs
that compelled obedience; they had been used in largely abortive
breeding experiments by the Tanu prior to the arrival of time-
travelling humans.

Certain human slaves were also fitted with the collarlike torcs.
Those who occupied positions of trust or were engaged in vital
pursuits wore grey torcs similar to those fitted to the ramas.
These did not amplify the mind, but did allow telepathic commu-
nication with the Tanu, who were also able to administer punish-
ment or reward through the device. Luckier humans, who
showed evidence of metapsychic latencies when tested, were
given silver torcs. These were similar to the golden collars worn
by the Tanu, making latent metafaculties operant. The silver
torcs contained control circuits, however, and disobedience
brought swift and excruciating punishment. Silver-torc humans
were accepted as conditional citizens of the Tanu kingdom, and
under certain circumstances the silvers might be granted golden
torcs and full freedom. For humans as well as for Tanu the
torcs were potentially hazardous. Occasionally an incompatible

human torc wearer would be driven insane or killed outright by
the device. Pathological reactions were especially likely among
humans without significant metapsychic latencies.

The eight members of Group Green were to be mind-tested by
Tanu overlords immediately upon their arrival in the Pliocene,
as were all time-travellers. Five of them were "normal," that is,
possessing latencies far below the threshold of potential oper-
ancy. These were Claude Majewski, an elderly paleontologist;
Sister Amerie Roccaro, a physician and burnt-out priest; Stein
Oleson, a herculean planet-crust driller; Richard Voorhees, a
disgraced starship captain; and Bryan Grenfell, an anthropolo-
gist who had followed his lover, Mercy Lamballe, into the
Pliocene.

The other three members of Group Green were anything but
"normal." Aiken Drum, a charming young criminal, showed
very strong latencies and was fitted with a silver torc. Felice
Landry, a disturbed young athlete, knew that she also possessed
extremely powerful latent metafaculties; but for reasons of her
own, she refused to cooperate with the Tanu overlords and was
able to postpone being tested.

The eighth and most unusual member of Group Green was
Elizabeth Orme. In the Milieu, she had been a fully operant
Grand Master metapsychics, an honoured teacher. Through a
brain trauma she had apparently lost her awesome powers of
farsensing and redaction and reverted to the "normal" state. In
despair at having been shut out of the metapsychic Unity she
had rejoiced in, Elizabeth elected to pass into the Pliocene.
There she would be among others like herself, since no operants
were allowed to undertake time-travel.

To her horror, Elizabeth discovered that the shock of
temporal translation had begun the restoration of her lost
powers. Convalescent, at first terrified and then consumed with
rage at the irony of her situation, Elizabeth heard the Tanu
overlord Creyn tell her that a "wonderful life" awaited her in
the Many-Coloured Land. As the only torcless operant, she
would be considered a unique treasure: The Tanu King himself
would be her consort . . .

That evening, two caravans set out from the Tanu Castle
Gateway. Group Green had been split in half. Bound north for
the city of Finiah on the Proto-Rhine was a sizeable mob of

normal humans destined to become ordinary slaves and brood
stock. These included Claude, Sister Amerie, Richard, and
Felice—who had confided to her friends that she planned not
only to escape, but also to "take" the entire Tanu race!

The southbound caravan was much smaller. En route to the
Tanu capital of Muriah in the Mediterranean Basin were the
Tanu overlord Creyn, Elizabeth, Aiken Drum, two other silver-
torced humans named Sukey Davies and Raimo Hakkinen, the
gigantic driller Stein, who had been fitted with a grey torc in
preparation for life as a gladiator, and the untorced anthropolo-
gist Bryan Grenfell, whose expertise was strangely valued by
the Tanu and who looked forward to finding his lost lover
somewhere in Muriah.

The caravan bound for Finiah was soon involved in a prisoner
revolt, engineered by the erstwhile professional athlete, Felice.
Abnormally strong, with powerful coercive latencies that let her
mind-control animals, Felice had smuggled a small steel dagger
past the searchers at Castle Gateway. Working with Richard,
the starship captain, and two men named Yoshimitsu and Tatsuji
who were costumed as samurai, Felice engineered the killing of
the female overlord Epone as well as the entire prisoner escort
of grey-torc human troops.

One group of freed prisoners elected to follow Basil
Wimborne, a mountain climber and former Oxford don, who
felt the best plan of escape lay beyond Lac de Bresse in the Jura
highlands. Claude, the old paleontologist, convinced his three
Group Green friends that they would be safer fleeing into the
heavily forested Vosges Mountains rather than risking a long
lake voyage to the Jura. A lone course was taken by the survi-
ving Japanese, Yoshimitsu, who headed north hoping to reach
the sea.

Claude, Richard, Amerie, and Felice fled deep into the
Vosges. Eventually they were contacted by a ragtag group of
free outlaw humans, fugitives from Tanu settlements, who called
themselves Lowlives. The Lowlife leader was none other than
Madame Angelique Guderian, former keeper of the time-gate
and the ultimate author of Pliocene humanity's degradation.
She wore a golden torc, the gift of the Firvulag, who had formed
a shaky alliance with the Lowlives against their mortal foe, the
Tanu.

A great manhunt had been mounted by the Tanu after the
prisoner revolt. Basil Wimborne and most of his contingent were
recaptured and sent to Finiah. Its city-lord, Velteyn, led a Flying
Hunt himself over the Vosges in search of the other escapees;
but they were safe with Madame and her Lowlives, listening
incredulously to the old woman's scheme for freeing humanity
from the Tanu yoke, which would utilize the rather reluctant
cooperation of the exotic Firvulag.

Hundreds of kilometres east of the Rhine River lay the so-
called Ship's Grave. There the titanic space-going organism who
had carried both Tanu and Firvulag from the Duat Galaxy to
our own had plunged to Earth, creating a huge crater. Tanu
and Firvulag passengers in the Ship, led by its spouse, a woman
named Brede, had escaped from the dying organism in small
flying machines before it impacted. Later the two groups of
exotics had left the flyers parked around the rim of the crater
after their two greatest heroes, Shining Lugonn of the Tanu and
Sharn the Atrocious of the Firvulag, fought a ritual battle in
honour of the defunct Ship. Ceremoniously entombed within
one of the flyers—which were presumed to be still at the crater
after a thousand years—was the body of Lugonn, together with
his laserlike weapon, the Spear.

Madame proposed to lead an expedition of Lowlives to the
Ship's Grave crater and retrieve this Spear for use against the
very Tanu who held it sacred. And if the flyers were still opera-
tional, as seemed likely, the expedition would attempt to bring
one back to participate in a joint Lowlife-Firvulag attack on
Finiah, a Tanu stronghold.

After many vicissitudes, this first phase of Madame Guder-
ian's great plan for the liberation of Pliocene humanity was
successful. The Tanu were forced to abandon Finiah, thus losing
their only barium mine, which had produced an element vital
in the making of all torcs. Felice, who showed increasing
symptoms of a severe psychosis, obtained a golden torc for
herself from the ruins of Finiah. The mental amplifier unlocked
the stupendous powers of coercion, psychokinesis, and creativity
that had been latent in her brain, and fuelled the girl's fierce
desire for revenge upon the Tanu.

The next phase of Madame's plan involved an infiltration of
the torc factory in the Tanu capital, Muriah, and a parallel

operation that had as its objective the permanent closing of the
time-gate.

Madame and ten other conspirators, including Felice, Claude,
Sister Amerie, and Basil Wimborne—who had been rescued
during the fall of Finiah—now set out on a long trip south. They
took with them the laserlike Spear of Lugonn. Its energies had
been totally discharged during the Finiah operation, but they
hoped that their clever Group Green companion, Aiken Drum,
would be able to recharge it when they appealed to him for
assistance down in the Tanu capital.

Aiken—together with Elizabeth, Bryan, Stein, and the other
privileged captives—had encountered an utterly different face
of the Many-Coloured Land upon their arrival in Muriah some
weeks past. They were presented to the Tanu aristocracy at a
lavish feast, where they were treated at first like honoured guests
instead of slaves.

Elizabeth was told by Thagdal, the King, that she would first
be initiated into Tanu ways by Brede Shipspouse, the enigmatic
guardian of both exotic races. When this was accomplished, she
and the King would found a new dynasty of torcless, fully
operant Tanu-human hybrids. (Queen Nontusvel seemed
entirely agreeable to this plan, in spite of the fact that her own
large brood of powerful adult children would undoubtedly be
overshadowed by Elizabeth's offspring.)

Bryan the anthropologist was ordered to make a study of the
impact of humanity upon the Tanu socioeconomy. King Thagdal
believed that human genes and human innovation had been a
boon to the Tanu, and he expected Bryan's survey to vindicate
his policy encouraging interbreeding and the adoption of certain
human inventions. A minority Tanu faction, headed by Nodonn
Battlemaster, the most powerful son of Nontusvel and heir
presumptive, maintained that the exotic culture was being
poisoned by human influences.

As the "welcoming" banquet progressed, it became clear that
a grim fate was in store for Stein Oleson, the brawny ex-driller
who had been befriended by the trickster youth, Aiken Drum.
Stein was put up for auction as a kind of gladiator; to save him
from certain death, Aiken himself impudently put in his own
bid for Stein. The Tanu throng was stunned when the head of

the Farsensor Guild, Mayvar Kingmaker, not only endorsed
Aiken's bid but also took him for her protege. Mayvar was well
aware that the young man, who wore a golden suit all covered
with pockets, possessed enormous latent mindpowers that were
only beginning to come fully operant as a result of the triggering
action of his silver torc.

Deeply shaken by a glimpse into Aiken's mind and by
Mayvar's embrace of the youth (she was not called "kingmaker"
for nothing), Thagdal accepted Aiken's bid for Stein. After a
period of training, Aiken would be obliged to rid the kingdom
of a certain Firvulag monster, Delbaeth.

In the weeks that followed, Aiken was tutored by Mayvar in
the exercise of his fast-developing metafunctions. He became
fully operant without a torc—although this fact was concealed
from the other Tanu by Mayvar. He successfully disposed of
Delbaeth and, with Stein as his henchman, became cautiously
allied with the human President of the Coercer Guild, Sebi-
Gomnol, who had plans of his own for advancing human domin-
ation of the Tanu kingdom.

The anthropologist Bryan Grenfell carried out his cultural
survey—but scarcely paid attention to the import of the growing
body of data, because he was once more under the spell of his
long-lost love, Mercy Lamballe. This woman had arrived in the
Pliocene shortly before Group Green. A latent metapsychic with
extraordinary creative powers, Mercy had become the latest
consort of the formidable Nodonn Battlemaster and was
completely converted to the Tanu cause. Nodonn and his siblings
of the Host of Nontusvel encouraged Mercy to entice Bryan, so
that the anthropologist's survey could be used against the King
and Gomnol.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth was under the protection of the
mysterious Brede Shipspouse, after having been subjected to
inept attacks by Nodonn and the Host, who saw her as a dynastic
threat. Safe inside Brede's room without doors, a sophisticated
force-field secure against physical and mental penetration, Eliz-
abeth confided her despair and hopelessness to the exotic
woman. The Shipspouse, maternally concerned with both the
Tanu and Firvulag races, perceived Elizabeth as one who might
lead them (as Brede apparently could not) out of their barbarous
battle-culture into a truly civilized society of the mind. Elizabeth
declined this role of spiritual motherhood. She did, however,

use her Milieu training to lift Brede into metapsychic operancy,
and the two briefly enjoyed a limited Unity. This was broken
when Brede insisted that she foresaw Elizabeth assuming the
guardian role, and the human woman violently rejected the
responsibility.

Around the beginning of October, the entire Many-Coloured
Land prepared for the annual ritual war, the Grand Combat,
by means of a month-long Truce. Up north, Madame Guderian
and her band of saboteurs made use of the peace to implement
their plans. Madame and Claude, the old paleontologist, went
into hiding close by the time-gate. They planned to wait until
the others—including Felice, Sister Amerie, Basil, and a Native
American leader named Peopeo Moxmox Burke—reached
Muriah and readied a strike against the torc factory inside
Coercer Guild headquarters. The attacks against time-gate and
factory would be made simultaneously.

Felice and the other southbound saboteurs at first hoped to
use the Spear to destroy the factory. They summoned Aiken
Drum to their hiding place and gave him the weapon, which he
promised to recharge and return to them. Actually, Aiken had
no intention of aiding his former compatriots. Encouraged by
both Mayvar and Gomnol, he aspired to become King of the
Many-Coloured Land by defeating Nodonn in the upcoming
Grand Combat. He warned his confederate Gomnol to protect
the torc factory against the saboteurs; then he flew north, disgu-
ised as a bird, in order to thwart Claude and Madame's attempt
to close the time-gate. In this he failed. Sacrificing themselves,
the elderly couple carried a warning back in time to the Milieu
authorities, and the time-gate operation was suspended.

The saboteurs infiltrating the torc factory were surprised by
a force of Tanu knights, members of the Host of Nontusvel,
who had been sent by Nodonn. Of the surviving humans, Felice
was turned over to Culluket the Interrogator for torture, while
Sister Amerie, Chief Burke, and Basil were thrown into a
dungeon to await death during the Grand Combat. The human
Lord Coercer, Gomnol, was mind-blasted to death by the Host
in a subterfuge, and the blame was put on Felice.

As the time of the Grand Combat approached, a number of
crises reached a critical stage. Aiken, deprived of his powerful

ally, Gomnol, found himself endangered by Stein. The big crust
driller had been imprisoned with Sukey, now his wife, and his
sanity was beginning to totter because of the unhealthy effect
of the grey torc he wore. There was a chance that Stein might
inadvertently reveal that Aiken conspired against the Tanu.

Resisting the temptation to kill his friend, Aiken asked
Mayvar to get Stein and Sukey out of Muriah, beyond range of
the Host's mental snooping. Mayvar agreed, then went to a
meeting of the clandestine Tanu Peace Faction. This group
hoped that Aiken would succeed in his bid for the kingship and
bring a new era of peace and civilization to the Many-Coloured
Land. Among the peacelovers was Minanonn the Heretic, once
Tanu Battlemaster, who had been forced into exile deep in the
Pyrenees.

Brede Shipspouse let Elizabeth leave the room without doors
when she saw that the human metapsychic was determined to
live a life free of responsibility. Elizabeth agreed to take Stein
and Sukey away with her in her three-place hot-air balloon. She
awaited arrival of the pair on a mountaintop above Muriah.
Creyn the redactor fetched them from prison—but he could not
help bringing Felice, too, whom he had found unconscious and
near death in an adjoining cell, in hope that Elizabeth would
give up her place in the balloon to the tortured young athlete.

Elizabeth was trapped by her own altruism, even though
convinced that the Shipspouse had planned this to forestall her
escape. Finally, Elizabeth sent Felice, Stein, and Sukey away in
the balloon, and she returned to the room without doors, where
she withdrew into a fiery mental cocoon that isolated her from
Brede and all other minds.

The time of the Grand Combat had come. Virtually the entire
population of Tanu and Firvulag—together with large numbers
of human slaves, assembled on the White Silver Plain below
Muriah for the ceremonies and the ritual war. Aiken was
appointed by Mayvar to be a leader in the Combat; he had
attracted many adherents among the Tanu and hybrid warriors.
In a preliminary contest, Mercy overcame Aluteyn Craftmaster
to become the new President of the Creator Guild.

Hundreds of kilometres west of the White Silver Plain, the
three escaping balloonists were enacting a drama that would
ultimately affect the fate of the unsuspecting combatants.

In his torture of Felice, Culluket the Interrogator had unwit-
tingly duplicated a drastic mind-altering technique that Elizabeth
had used on Brede to raise her to operancy; now Felice had
gone operant, too, and no longer needed a torc to exercise
her metapsychic powers. These powers—at least the destructive
aspects of psychokinesis and creativity—were greater than those
of any other person in the world. The girl's incipient psychosis
had similarly burgeoned under the torture; her thirst for revenge
against the Tanu was now inextricably merged with a darker
sadomasochistic element of her sick mind. Compelling Stein,
the former planet-crust driller, to help her, Felice began to blast
the narrow Gibraltar isthmus with bolts of psychoenergy. She
intended to admit the Atlantic waters into the nearby empty
basin of the Pliocene Mediterranean and drown the Grand
Combat participants.

As the madwoman smote the earth with her mindbolts, the
rocky barrier neared the breaking point. But Felice weakened
before the job was complete. In her extremity of hatred she
prayed for help from whatever powers of darkness might
exist—and the assistance came from somewhere. A final titanic
burst of psychoenergy opened the Gibraltar Gate and a cascade
of seawater thundered into the dry Mediterranean, heading
toward the White Silver Plain below the Tanu capital of Muriah.

Felice was flung from the balloon by the final concussion.
Quite insane, she assumed the shape of a monstrous raven.
Stein and Sukey soared away on the stormwinds and ultimately
landed in a remote part of France.

The prescient Brede Shipspouse knew about the catastrophe.
She appeared to Amerie, Basil, and Chief Burke in their prison
cell, healed them, and took them to a room within the Redactor
Guild complex, high on the Mount of Heroes above Muriah.
There Elizabeth lay in her self-induced coma. Brede instructed
the trio to guard Elizabeth, "the most important person in the
world," and to wait until the following morning, when they
would know what had to be done.

Meanwhile, the Grand Combat was reaching its climax. For the
first time in forty years, the Firvulag were holding their own. The
stubbornly conservative Little People had previously refused to
emulate human tactics, as the Tanu had done; but the Firvulag-
Lowlife victory at Finiah had opened the eyes of their generals,

Sharn and Ayfa, and inspired them to innovation. In the melee
phase of Combat scoring, the Firvulag were only slightly behind
the Tanu. The finale of the ritual war, in which individual cham-
pions met hand to hand, would decide the victor.

The rivalry between Aiken and Nodonn divided the loyalty of
the Tanu forces. At a war feast prior to the Heroic Encounters,
Nodonn tried to discredit Aiken by producing Bryan Grenfell
and the latter's adverse study of humanity's impact upon the
Many-Coloured Land. This aggravated the split between tradi-
tionalist Tanu and those loyal to Aiken. The Encounters were
won by Firvulag heroes in an upset. Only a victory by Aiken
over the ogrish Firvulag general, Pallol One-Eye, could save the
day for the Tanu. Aiken told Nodonn and the traditionalists
that he could lick the monster if he were allowed to fight in a
human way. This was finally permitted. Aiken conquered Pallol
and the Tanu were declared overall winners of the Grand
Combat.

Heartbroken and bitter over their narrow loss, most of the
Firvulag left the White Silver Plain. Only their royalty remained
for the award ceremony and its intriguing anticlimax, a duel
between Aiken and Nodonn for the battlemastership (and ultim-
ately the kingship) of the Tanu. Virtually the entire flower and
chivalry of the Tanu were gathered as witnesses. Brede herself
was there to see Mayvar Kingmaker bestow upon Aiken his
Tanu name: He was called Lugonn, after the Shining Hero who
had fallen at the Ship's Grave a thousand years before, and he
was invested with the sacred Spear, now recharged and ready
for use again. Nodonn took up a similar weapon, the Sword,
which had once belonged to a Firvulag hero.

The two rivals squared off and began their duel just as the
cataclysmic flood from the encroaching Atlantic swept over the
White Silver Plain.

The mind-cries of the thousands of drowning people roused
Elizabeth, and she and her three human companions looked out
upon devastated Muriah and a submerged White Silver Plain.
Not all of the combatants and spectators of the last Grand
Combat died, however. Most of the Firvulag, already en route
home in their boats, survived. Some Tanu were cast ashore by
the floodwave or managed to use their metapsychic powers to
save themselves. Humans and hybrids in fair numbers swam to
safety. Wounded Tanu knights who had retired to Redactor

House, together with many members of that guild who attended
them, were secure from the floodwaters. Aluteyn Craftsmaster
and a rabble of craven knights floated to safety aboard the vessel
in which they were to have been incinerated. Aiken Drum rode
the flood inside a ceremonial cauldron and later rescued Mercy.
But more than half of the glorious Tanu, who were especially
vulnerable to immersion, perished. Profoundly shocked and torn
from her self-centred despair, Elizabeth finally undertook the
guardian role that the dead Brede bequeathed to her, and coord-
inated the evacuation of Muriah with the help of Chief Burke,
Basil, Sister Amerie, and the powerful redactors Dionket and
Creyn.

The Postdiluvium saw an entirely new balance of power take
form in the Many-Coloured Land. Sharn and Ayfa became co-
monarchs of the Firvulag and inaugurated unprecedented
reforms, including the domestication of animals, the utilization
of contraband Milieu weapons, and experiments in metacon-
certed mind-offensives. The Firvulag throne patched up a long-
standing schism with the mutant Howlers, granted them the
franchise, and encouraged the Howler lord Sugoll to resettle the
abandoned Firvulag city of Nionel.

After leading the multiracial band of refugees from Muriah
to safety, Elizabeth retired to a stronghold on Black Crag in
southern France to meditate on her new role and its implica-
tions. Creyn the Redactor was among those who chose to attend
her. Dionket and certain peace-loving Tanu, Firvulag, and
humans went into the remote Pyrenees to join Minanonn the
Heretic.

Felice, now completely insane, lived in an eyrie on Mount
Mulhacen in southern Spain and frequently shape-shifted into
the form of a giant raven. Her cave contained an immense trove
of scavenged golden torcs and also the Spear of Lugonn, which
she had retrieved from the deepening New Sea. Felice was
obsessed with the idea of finding Culluket the Interrogator,
whom she called her "Beloved." She also felt persecuted by the
"devils" who had helped her breach the Gibraltar Gate.

Felice's devil voices were by no means imaginary. Far away
in North America lay the Ocala Island settlement of the Meta-
psychic Rebellion survivors. Twenty-seven years earlier, the
fleeing Rebels had forced their way into Madame Guderian's

establishment and passed through the time-gate into the
Pliocene, taking with them a great store of equipment. When
their leader, Marc Remillard, discovered that Europe was under
the control of exotics, he withdrew beyond the Atlantic. The
Tanu who tried to stop him were badly beaten in a skirmish,
and the incident was expunged from Tanu history.

For most of the intervening years, Marc Remillard had
devoted himself to his star-search, hoping to find another world
with advanced mentalities. His companions eventually dwindled
to forty-three, and there were now, in addition, thirty-two
mature children and a handful of third-generation youngsters
living on the island, vegetating or chafing in idleness according
to their individual temperaments.

For years the adult children of the Rebels had watched events
in the Many-Coloured Land as a respite from boredom, yearning
hopelessly for the sophisticated Milieu that their parents had
tried to dominate. When Felice sent out her telepathic appeal
at Gibraltar, the children prevailed upon Marc and the other
elders to join them in assisting her, linking in a metaconcert to
channel a psychocreative blast through Felice. Ever since the
Flood, ringleaders among the rebel children had been importu-
ning Felice telepathically, but she was terrified by the voice of
the "devils" and refused to respond. Marc and most of the
members of his generation dismissed the European catastrophe
as a moment's diversion, but their children believed that the
postdiluvial chaos in the Many-Coloured Land afforded them a
unique opportunity to escape from their dead-end existence in
the Pliocene.

In Europe, the rising star in the devastated Tanu kingdom was
none other than the incorrigible Aiken Drum, who now styled
himself Aiken-Lugonn Battlemaster and presided as usurper
over Nodonn's former city of Goriah in Brittany. Mercy, bowing
to expediency and believing that her beloved Nodonn was dead,
assisted Aiken in his bid to take over the vacant Tanu throne
and promised to marry him at the Grand Loving festivities in
May.

Many surviving Tanu—including most of the Tanu-human
hybrids—flocked to the banner of the metapowerful youth. The
conservatives rallied round Celadeyr of Afaliah, one of the few
surviving fullblooded battle heroes.

Culluket the Interrogator attached himself to Aiken as a sort
of Grand Vizier—not only because he perceived the human
upstart as the main chance, but also in hopes that Aiken could
protect him from the madwoman Felice, still searching relent-
lessly for her "Beloved."

During the winter rainy season, Firvulag forces began a system-
atic series of attacks upon outlying Tanu cities and Lowlife
villages—this in spite of an armistice that had been proclaimed
in the aftermath of the Flood. The Firvulag monarchs Sharn
and Ayfa blamed the raids on renegade Howlers and stoutly
maintained that they were in favour of Aiken's pacification
scheme. This involved the abolition of the Grand Combat (and
the other fighting between Firvulag and Tanu) and the substitu-
tion of a nonlethal "Grand Tourney" in its place. This would
be celebrated on the Firvulag Field of Gold outside
Nionel—traditional alternate to the Tanu White Silver Plain,
which had been disused for the forty years of Tanu supremacy
in the Combat. The Firvulag artisans crafted a new trophy, the
Singing Stone, to take the place of the Sword of Sharn,
presumed lost in the Flood.

In order to cement the new Tanu-Firvulag Entente, it was
planned that Firvulag royalty would for the first time attend the
Tanu Grand Loving festival in Goriah as honoured guests of
Aiken and Mercy. When certain Tanu nobles showed a reluc-
tance to attend this event, suspecting that Aiken would take the
occasion to proclaim himself king, the usurper gathered his
forces and undertook a "progress" in order to intimidate the
vacillators. The progress was ultimately successful, but stubborn
old Celadeyr of Afaliah capitulated only after Aiken defeated
him in a mental duel.

At about the same time that Aiken began his progress, early
in April, the Rebel children in Ocala finally managed to contact
Felice. They made extravagant promises to the madwoman and
she agreed to meet with them if they came to Europe. The
children planned to use Felice's awesome power for their own
ends—which ultimately included building a new time-warp
device that would give them access to the Milieu. Ringleaders
among the younger generation included Marc's son, Hagen,
and daughter, Cloud. The formidable Marc was at first utterly
opposed to the plan. A two-way time-gate, he said, would allow
Milieu authorities access to him. The children swore that they

would destroy the Pliocene gate after passing through, so that
their elders would remain secure. In an attempt to temporize,
Marc agreed to let Cloud, three other young people, and his
own contemporary Owen Blanchard sail to Europe to meet with
Felice. He forbade Hagen to go, telling his only son he was
needed to assist in the star-search. Hagen, who had long feared
and envied his powerful father, now actively hated Marc and
schemed to escape his dominance.

Back in Goriah, Mercy gave birth to Agraynel, her child by
King Thagdal, and mourned the loss of Nodonn. She agreed to
marry Aiken even though she did not love him and knew that
the young man's infatuation for her was deeply tinged with
fear—and even menace.

Unknown to Mercy, Nodonn was not dead. Cast up by the
flood upon the distant Isle of Kersic (Corsica-Sardinia), he was
rescued by Huldah, a simple-minded woman of Firvulag-human
ancestry, and her malevolent grandfather, Isak. After lying
unconscious for nearly five months, Nodonn awoke. He discov-
ered to his horror that he was paralysed and bereft of one hand,
and that Huldah had been using him as a helpless love object
while she tended him. With his telepathic calls muted by the
cave rock around him, Nodonn endured Huldah's devotion and
Isak's mockery.

Freeliving Lowlife humans, in the forests adjacent to the
Firvulag capital, High Vrazel, had set up iron-mining villages
shortly after the fall of Finiah. The "blood-metal" was poisonous
to both exotic races, and humans hoped to secure their own
independence by forging iron weapons. A metallurgical engi-
neer, Tony Wayland, who had enjoyed a privileged position in
Finiah under the Tanu, was forced by Lowlife captors to work in
the mines. He ran away, together with an eccentric companion,
Dougal, hoping to gain both sanctuary and restored privileges
from Aiken Drum. Instead, Tony and Dougal were taken by
Howlers to refurbished Nionel just in time for the Firvulag
Grand Loving.

In Goriah, Aiken returned from his progress exhausted in
mind and body. Securing a portable force-field to screen, himself
against attempts on his life, he showed Mercy an enormous
cache of contraband Milieu armament and other equipment that
Nodonn had secreted in the dungeon of the Castle of Glass. He

fully expected the visiting Firvulag nobles to attempt assassina-
tion during the upcoming Grand Loving.

On 27 April the boat bearing Cloud Remillard and her confeder-
ates arrived at the mouth of the Rio Genii in Spain. Vaughn
Jarrow, one of the Rebel children, infuriated Felice by killing
dolphins. She annihilated him and mortally wounded the boat's
skipper, Jillian Morgenthaler. Calmed by the elderly Rebel
Owen Blanchard, Felice nearly fell into a trap that would have
put her under control of the North Americans. She was saved
by a telepathic warning from Elizabeth, who urged her to come
to Black Crag for treatment of her mental illness.

Felice finally agreed and flew away in raven guise, leaving the
shaken Cloud, Owen, and Elaby Gathen wondering what to do
next. Marc was inaccessible, locked away in cerebroenergetic
equipment scrutinizing distant stars. It seemed obvious that the
only course left was to make a friendly approach to Aiken
Drum.

The usurper of Goriah was busy with other affairs, however.
As a preliminary to the Tanu celebration, he took King Sharn
on a Flying Hunt in which the Firvulag ruler barely escaped a
fierce plesiosaur. Sharn suspected (correctly) that Aiken had set
him up. Later, Sharn and his stalwarts did their metaconcerted
best to mind-blast Aiken but they were not yet skilled enough
to harm him.

The Grand Loving of Tanu shocked the straitlaced Firvulag
visitors. There were murmurings about an upcoming Nightfall
War—presumably a resumption of the ancient conflict of Tanu
and Firvulag in the Duat Galaxy, which had been interrupted
by Brede's offer of exile a thousand years ago.

On May Day, Aiken married Mercy. Having impressed or
intimidated the majority of Tanu, he proclaimed himself king
with the blessing of Elizabeth, and named a new High Table
that included both his friends and certain former enemies.
Among the latter were Celadeyr of Afaliah and Kuhal
Earthshaker, a blood-brother to Nodonn being nursed back to
health after rescue by Celadeyr.

Simultaneously, the Grand Loving of Firvulag took place in
the Howler city of Nionel. Humiliation of the Howler brides
was averted when they were chosen in the Bridal Dance by love-
starved Lowlife males, who could not see the true monstrous

shapes behind the attractive feminine illusions. Among the
bewitched were Tony and Dougal, who awoke the next morning
to find that they were wed to devoted she-goblins.

In the cave on Kersic, Huldah celebrated the Grand Loving
by dressing the paralysed Nodonn in his glass armour and embra-
cing him. Wicked old Isak spied on the couple. Nodonn's disgust
and fury were so intense that he regained his strength, thrust
away Huldah, and killed the wretched old man. He would have
slain the woman as well, but Isak had tauntingly ordered him
to "look inside" her before doing so.

Exerting his farsight, Nodonn discovered that Huldah was
pregnant with his son. Here in the cave, shielded from sublethal
solar radiation that had rendered him all but sterile for some
800 years, Nodonn had engendered the heir he had so long
desired. Sparing Huldah, he told her to care for the child when
it was born and wait for his instructions. Then he left the cave
and sent out a telepathic call to Mercy, informing her that he
was alive.

In Ocala, Hagen Remillard had finally worked up the courage
to defy his terrible father. While Marc continued his futile star-
search, Hagen and the rest of the Rebel children and grandchild-
ren fled the island, heading for Europe after disabling pursuit.
Marc "returned" on 16 May with a premonition of what had
happened four days previous. Some of his old cronies were in
favour of blasting the fleeing children, eliminating the threat of
a two-way time-gate once and for ail. Marc refused to consider
this and proposed another plan. In a week or so, when condi-
tions were favourable, the children would be forced off course
onto the African shore, giving their parents time to repair their
own damaged ships and go after them. In the meantime, Marc
had a plan to forestall any attempt by Cloud to deal independ-
ently with Aiken. With luck, he would be able to neutralize the
newly crowned King altogether . . .

Concealing his identity, Marc farspoke Aiken and revealed a
knowledge of the King's impending expedition into Spain. With
Felice undergoing redaction by Elizabeth, Aiken hoped to hunt
out the madwoman's lair and retrieve the invaluable Spear of
Lugonn—which was not only a useful weapon but also the
ancient authority symbol of Tanu kingship. Marc offered to

reveal the exact location of the lair and also pledged the mental
assistance of his people. No one knew when Felice would leave
Black Crag. If she caught Aiken attempting to rob her, he'd
need all the help he could get.

Aiken shrewdly deduced the identity of the unknown
farspeaker. Not trusting Marc, he was nevertheless eager to
use a sophisticated metaconcert program that the rebel leader
offered—provided that a fail-safe living "fuse" (in the person
of the luckless Culluket) was inserted in the multimind structure
to shield Aiken from Marc's direct mental influence.

Having concluded the agreement with Marc, Aiken set off for
Spain with an army of his strongest metapsychics, planning to
rendezvous with Cloud Remillard and her companions, and with
an auxiliary force led by the conservative Celadeyr of Afaliah.

Mercy accompanied Aiken. She forced Culluket to accom-
pany her on a secret flight to Celadeyr's camp and there broke
the news that Nodonn was alive. Celadeyr was overjoyed, as
was the convalescent Kuhal Earthshaker. Mercy had previously
not dared to broadcast the news telepathically because she
feared that Culluket, a powerful redactor who hated his brother
Nodonn, would betray her to Aiken. But now Culluket wryly
admitted he had undergone an about-face—since Aiken had
designated him willy-nilly for the "fuse" role, which was likely
to be fatal.

Mercy urged the others to abandon Aiken and fly with her to
distant Var-Mesk, where Nodonn was hiding. Aluteyn pointed
out that they had given Aiken their oath of fealty; it would be
dishonourable for them to desert their companions so late in
the game. No . . . they would have to go ahead with the raid
on Felice's lair. If they survived, then would be the time to rally
round Nodonn!

On 2 June, with Aiken's force poised for the rush to Mount
Mulhacen, Elizabeth made her culminating attempt to purge
Felice's mind of the pathological factors responsible for her
psychosis. Against the advice of the wiser Dionket, who had
been Lord Healer of the Tanu, she believed that once Felice
was sane, she would give up her megalomaniacal power fantasies
and become a tremendous force for good. At great personal
danger, Elizabeth accomplished the psychic drainage. Felice

awoke with her mind free of anomalies—only to laugh at Eliza-
beth's altruistic proposals and to fly happily from Black Crag
seeking her own pleasure.

Her first stop was the Lowlife Village of Hidden Springs.
There Sister Amerie, whom Felice loved, was celebrating a
solitary Mass in thanksgiving for a safe homecoming. Felice
demanded that the nun abandon her vocation and come away
with her. When Amerie refused, Felice exerted her psychic
force. Amerie was killed. Felice then coolly set her sights on
her other love, Culluket the Interrogator. Failing to find him in
a swift inspection of several Tanu cities, she headed for her lair
to spend the night.

She discovered the mountain hideaway buried under tons of
fallen rock—Aiken's work. Incandescent with fury, she went
after the despoiler and his fleeing force, who were in boats
racing down the Rio Genii. Aiken and his technicians were
working madly to fix the laserlike Spear, knowing it would
provide the margin of safety if Felice should attack.

Marc's enhanced farsight saw Felice approaching and he gave
warning. Aiken assumed the executive position in the metacon-
cert and expelled an immense blast of psychoenergy. (Large as
this blast was, it was safely below the potential maximum for
the structure. Aiken had discovered during his previous use of
the metaconcert, when he zapped Felice's lair, that attempting
to channel the full output through his bare brain would very
likely kill him. And this might be exactly what the wily Marc
had planned.)

As the reverberations of the blast against Felice died away,
Aiken heard Marc's farspoken voice say: I think you got her. A
split second later, the King's elation turned to stark terror. He
heard an agonized telepathic shout from Marc: GOD NO SHE
D-JUMPED! There was an unintelligible image, a pause, and
then the farspoken voice of Marc urging Aiken to hit Felice
again.

The metaconcert, with its thousands of linked minds, faltered,
then steadied. Something had gone terribly wrong—but Aiken
realized that if he didn't strike Felice with every bit of psycho-
energy at his disposal, she would surely destroy them all. In
desperation, he flung the entire load of psychoenergy at her.
The shock sent him falling into oblivion.

He awoke to discover Elizabeth, Dionket, and Creyn attending
him. He had nearly died, but they had saved him. In anticipation
of such a disaster, Elizabeth had asked Minanonn to fly her and
the other two redactors to Spain, where they had observed the
encounter with Felice and its aftermath.

Felice had vanished. The mental blast had triggered an enor-
mous rockfall into the river, burying part of Aiken's fleet and
altering the course of the Genii. Cull was gone, and the Crafts-
master, and Mercy, and some ninety others. The rest were
safe—and awaiting the recovery of their King.

It hardly seemed possible to Aiken that Mercy could be dead.
Her body had not been recovered. But there was the testimony
of Celadeyr, who claimed to have seen her die, and Mercy's
empty silver-and-emerald helmet. Still deathly weak, Aiken
returned to Goriah to recuperate. He attempted to farspeak
Marc Remillard in North America, but received no reply.

Some time passed. A force of Lowlives led by Basil Wimborne
travelled once again to the Ship's Grave crater. There they
rendered no less than twenty-nine of the exotic aircraft opera-
tional. The rest were destroyed. According to plan, twenty-
seven of the flyers were brought to a secret hiding place on the
slopes of Monte Rosa—which during Pliocene times exceeded
Mount Everest in height. Chief Burke hoped that this region
would be inaccessible to Aiken and the Firvulag alike.

The other two flyers brought the Lowlife expedition back to
the Vosges Mountains. They were concealed in the Vale of
Hyenas, not far from Nionel, where it was planned to adapt
them for defensive purposes.

In the small Tanu city of Var-Mesk on the shore of the New
Sea, Celadeyr of Afaliah finally met with Nodonn. He brought
with him Mercy—who, of course, was not dead at all. There
was a tender reunion between Nodonn and his former wife.
Since there was no time to heal Nodonn's missing hand, Mercy
furnished him with one made of silver to take the place of a
wooden prosthesis old Isak had carved, back on Kersic. Regret-
fully, Nodonn told Mercy that she would have to return to
Aiken while he himself accompanied Celadeyr to Afaliah and
set about gathering an opposition force of conservatives. It was
necessary that Mercy keep them informed of Aiken's
movements. Aiken was too metapowerful for any of the Tanu

to keep track of by means of ordinary farsensing. After a brief
happy interlude, the lovers parted.

Mercy came back to Aiken with a story of having had amnesia.
The King seemed to believe her; but he was much changed from
the fun-loving trickster who had come to the Many-Coloured
Land the previous August. There was a sombre air about him,
and he still had not fully recovered from the terrible effects of
the fight against Felice. Together, Aiken and Mercy supervised
preparations for the Grand Tourney, which would be held at
the end of October in place of the abolished Combat.

Meanwhile, in Afaliah, Nodonn and Celadeyr passed the word
to all traditionalist Tanu that the designated heir of the late King
Thagdal was alive and ready to challenge the human usurper.
Nodonn's brother Kuhal Earthshaker regained his strength
almost completely after an innovative Skin treatment shared
with Cloud Remillard. Cloud, attracted to Kuhal and now alone
in the Many-Coloured Land (her brother and the others were
slowly making their way north on land from their landing site
in western Africa), became converted to the traditionalist cause.
Nodonn had promised his cooperation in a temporary reopening
of the time-gate if the rebel children subsequently destroyed it
completely.

Marc's fate was still a mystery. He had not responded to
Cloud's attempts at farsensing nor had any of the other old
Rebels back in Ocala. Cloud concluded that her father must
have been attacked by Felice in an unusual metapsychic
manoeuvre, the dimensional-jump, or translocation. This was
essentially a mind-powered hyperspace trip—the kind of opera-
tion performed by Brede's Ship when it had transported the
exotics from the Duat galaxy to this one. D-jumping was a rare
but recognized metafaculty in the Galactic Milieu. Felice could
have tracked Marc along his farsense beam and done consider-
able harm. Cloud and Hagen suspected that Marc had survived,
since he was encased in the armour of the cerebroenergetic
equipment that provided artificial augmentation of his mind.
But once he left the armour's protection, his injuries would
surely require treatment in Ocala's regeneration tank. This
would explain why Marc had been incommunicado for nearly
three months . . .

Up north in the Howler city of Nionel, Tony Wayland the
metallurgist and his friend Dougal once more made plans to

join Aiken Drum. Abandoning their devoted goblin brides, the
pair set off through the jungle, only to stumble by accident into
the Vale of Hyenas, where they were captured by the Lowlives
working on the two exotic aircraft. As known deserters from
the Iron Villages and possible traitors, Tony and Dougal were
to be sent to Hidden Springs under guard, for trial by Chief
Burke. En route, the party was fallen upon by Firvulag regulars.
Dougal escaped, the escorting Lowlives were killed, and craven
Tony saved his life by babbling to the Firvulag about the aircraft.

Hustled off to High Vrazel, Tony repeated his tale to King
Sharn and Queen Ayfa. He was then turned over to an ogress,
the Dreadful Skathe, while the Firvulag monarchs pondered on
ways to use his intelligence. They were aware that Nodonn
was assembling forces down in Afaliah and that he had in his
possession the sacred Sword of Sharn, which had once been
wielded by the Firvulag King's own ancestor in the Nightfall War
and which would have to be in the possession of his successor in
any renewal of hostilities. Nodonn was as yet far too weak to
attack Aiken in Goriah—even using the Sword. After all, Aiken
had the Spear.

But if Nodonn had the advantage of aircraft . . .

Sharn and Ayfa decided to tell Nodonn about the two flyers
(which the Firvulag were incapable of using themselves) hidden
in the Vale of Hyenas, in exchange for the Sword—if and when
Nodonn conquered the usurper. Nodonn would be honour-
bound to carry out his part of the bargain, and there undoub-
tedly were, among Tanu First Comers, a few surviving pilots.

The proposal was made and accepted. On 24 August, four
Tanu and Cloud Remillard invaded the Vale of Hyenas,
subduing Basil and his crew. With one aircraft commanded by
Thufan Thunderhead, an experienced Tanu pilot, and the other
flown by Celadeyr, who had had a bit of flight training, Nodonn
led 400 Tanu knights in an air assault on Goriah.

Mercy knew they were coming. In order to prevent Aiken
from using the cache of Milieu arms against Nodonn, she
prevailed upon a human psychokinetic specialist, Sullivan-Tonn,
whose young wife, Olone, was infatuated with Aiken. Mercy
and Sullivan broke into the dungeon storage room, and she used
her creative power to disrupt the chamber's insulating lining,
embedding all of the equipment in a spongelike mass pervaded
with bubbles of poisonous gas.

Aiken confronted them as they fled from the dungeon. The
Nonborn King disposed of Sullivan, then took Mercy to their
bed for a final, fatal embrace. As she died, his brain assimilated
all the powers that had been hers.

In the small hours, Nodonn and his knights attacked the fore-
warned Aiken. The trickster brought down the aircraft, and one
planeload of invading Tanu perished. The 200 led by Nodonn
and Celadeyr and Kuhal Earthshaker attained the Castle of
Glass and engaged Aiken's forces in a pitched battle. Aiken had
been able to muster only a skeleton army of defenders, but
most of these were equipped with Milieu weapons such as laser
carbines and stun-guns. They gained the upper hand.

Nodonn came upon Mercy's body, now nothing but a form
composed of grey ash, still wearing its golden torc. At the same
moment that he told Mercy farewell, Nodonn heard Aiken's
voice commanding him to come out of the castle for their final
encounter.

Hovering in midair, the pair took up the duel that had been
interrupted by the Flood so many months ago. Nodonn was the
principal aggressor, blasting Aiken with the photon weapon as
well as with his mind's energies. Aiken seemed barely to defend
himself, hiding instead inside a psychocreative bubble. Those in
the castle left off their fighting to watch the fantastic conflict.

When it seemed that Aiken's force-shield was weakening,
Nodonn gambled everything on two final strokes that drained
the Sword. The little human disappeared in a blinding globe of
light. . . but when it dissipated, he was still there, unshielded,
alive, and ready to put an end to it. The witnesses had seen
Nodonn do his utmost. Now it was Aiken's turn.

Disdainfully, the power of the Nonborn King sent both Sword
and Spear hurtling away. Using only his mind, Aiken struck.
As Mercy had gone, so went Nodonn—his mind subsumed, his
body reduced to ash, his blackened silver hand falling toward
the sea, only to be caught up and borne aloft in triumph by
Aiken.

Across the Atlantic on Ocala Island, Marc Remillard had been

watching. Now he was prepared to put his own plans into action.

It was 25 August. Exactly one year before, Aiken and the

other members of Group Green had passed through the time-
gate into the Pliocene.

Now read the fourth and final volume of The Saga of Pliocene
Exile, which begins with a flashback to the time of the great
fight with Felice at the Rio Genii—and then picks up the main
thread of the chronicle immediately after Aiken's victory over
Nodonn.

PROLOGUE ONE

It had happened, just as Elizabeth had known it would; and
there was no metapsychic prolepsis involved in the foretelling,
only logic and inevitability, given those protagonists: Aiken
Drum, Felice Landry, and Marc Remillard.

The last reverberations of the great psychocreative blast had
dissipated. The four observers still hung high above Spain, out
of range, inside the protective bubble spun by the mind of
Minanonn the Heretic.

"Felice is surely dead," he observed.

"Her thoughts and her image are snuffed out." Creyn was
noncommittal.

"Which proves nothing," muttered Dionket Lord Healer.

Elizabeth's ranging farsenses, so much more powerful than
those of the three Tanu, could provide no positive reassurance
at that high altitude. Felice, if she lived, was buried beneath the
enormous landslide. "I think it's safe for us to descend," she
said. "We must take the risk. There are casualties needing
help ..."

A swift warning passed between Dionket and Minanonn:
Maintain your shield at maximum strength Brother!

The three exotic men and the human woman felt no flow of
air as they glided down through smoke-layered twilight. They
were isolated from the stench of the burning jungle, the steam
rising from the diverted Rio Genii, the dust still rolling up
from the rockfall that had pushed the river from its bed and
overwhelmed part of Aiken's flotilla.

"So many dead and wounded at the margin of the landslide,"
the Heretic mourned. "There lies Artigonn, my late sister's son.
And Aluteyn Craftsmaster, may Tana grant him peace! He
would not abjure the ancient battle-religion, even though his
heart rejected it."

"I see the King." Dionket's farsight showed a vision of Aiken
flung up on a gravel bank downstream, his body in its golden

suit stiffened, his heart stopped, and mind contracted to a
screaming nub.

"You and Creyn go to him," Elizabeth said. The four touched
down upon a great flat rock crusted with burnt vegetation, an
island amid foaming dirty water. "You'll be able to keep him
alive until I come. There are plenty of uninjured survivors. The
majority escaped harm, I think. Organize rescue parties for the
wounded. Minanonn and I will join you . . . after I find out
what happened to Felice." After I search this place where she
fell, a meteor self-consummate; and how my mind still shrinks
from the memory of her mind's last cry: agony and regret, to
be sure—but triumph?

"The monster is dead, as Minanonn said. And the Goddess
be thanked!" Creyn's face was crimson-lit by flames. "Let us
go, Lord Healer." Borne by Dionket's psychokinesis, the two
redactors vanished into the murk.

Elizabeth and Minannon stood on the charred ruin of the
islet, the protective sphere of psychoenergy now extinguished.
All around them half-submerged trees thrust from the water,
trailing broken lianas in the debris-laden current. A few were
still afire. In others, terrified monkeys and other jungle creatures
shrieked and hooted piteously.

Elizabeth's eyes were closed, her mind searching again, exert-
ing itself to the utmost in order to farsense underground. Drift-
ing bits of ash and soot settled onto her hair and jumpsuit.
Minanonn towered beside her, a bearded blond giant wearing
a tunic with a triskelion badge. Under one arm he carried a
cubic container that measured perhaps half a metre along the
edge. It was made of a dark exotic substance with fragile patterns
on its surface, filaments of red and silver that glowed in the
deepening night like wisps of interstellar gas. The box held the
powerful force-field projector that Brede Shipspouse had called
the room without doors.

Elizabeth searched.

A body clad in broken glass armour drifted past on the wreck
of a pneumatic barge. Somewhere in the rockfall on the right,
lost in lurid shadows, a partially buried warrior woman sent out
a telepathic plea for aid.

Soon Sister, the ex-Battlemaster reassured her. And his mind-
voice lifted to encourage others: Soon help will come.

Elizabeth searched.

Had Felice really been killed? Had she flashed into extinction
at the climax of the gigantomachy, taking Culluket with her?
Reconstitute the memory; dissect and analyse it. Resolve the
paradoxes by focusing on the critical moment of the girl's
rematerialization after the split-second leap to North America,
her dimensional translation. Aiken Drum, in the extreme of
desperation, had called up the full force of his metaconcert. In
replay, Elizabeth saw the slow crawl of psychoenergy vouchsafed
to the King by the thousands of linked minds—and the diabolical
augmentation by Marc just as the mental blast was about to pass
through the helpless conduit of Felice's Beloved.

Yes! Inexperienced though she was in the ways of offensive
metafunction, Elizabeth saw how the Angel of the Abyss had
planned this from the very beginning: the elimination of two
great minds that threatened his schemes, and the coincidental
death of the third, beneath contempt.

But Culluket, the unwilling mental fuse, was the key.

In memory Elizabeth saw Felice still poised within the synch-
ronicity of the translation threshold, not yet fully emerged from
her time-violating d-jump, seeing the mortal danger to her
Beloved. Knowing instinctively how to thwart it and what the
price would be.

The girl had inserted herself into the metaconcert structure,
invading the hapless conductor before his mind could disrupt.
She had taken into herself the soul-bursting volume of energy,
freely absorbing the entire quotient of destruction and thereby
being transformed into an incandescent new Duality.

The King, hanging senseless in the flashover, was cut free—his
body momentarily dead, his mind wrecked: Both were suscep-
tible of healing. Not so the body of Culluket the Interrogator
Beloved, which was gone beyond saving along with the mortal
form of Felice. Only their fused minds remained, bound together
in a tiny speck of matter transmuted from the psychic energies
by an indomitable will.

Deep under thousands of tons of steaming rock at a shallow
ford in the Rio Genii, a tiny thing like a ruby cylinder burned
whitely at the core . . .

"I've found Felice." Elizabeth opened her eyes, transmitted
the image to Minanonn. "And Cull, too."

Elizabeth! They live?

You might call it that. Or suspension. Or limbo.

Such a state beyond understanding.

Not myunderstanding! I have been. [Fiery cocoon image.]

Tana—! You humans. But Cull . . .

... is there of his freechoice. Lifeclinging.

Suffering withoutend!

Alive nonetheless in pseudoUnity.

Lovetravesty! Abomination!

Minanonn they are damned soulmates I tried to save her yes
how I tried and thought I had foolishpride but she will be her
own Centre and centripetency and refusing grace determined to
burn as are Cull & Marc & O God sometimes I think even
I. . .

Elizabeth your thoughts are riddles.

I know. Ignore them.

How can you compare yourself to others? I am simpleman
warrior enlightened unto peace but still child before you &
MarcAbaddon. If youtwo share sin it is one beyond myken. But
Cull! He was Thagdalson mybrother. I knew his temptation.
Unlike poor Aluteyn & somany others he knew truth but
mocked it aloof alone outside intheend bored to death afraid of
death personifying death.

Now doomed to crave it. Enclosing her fire.

I mourn my poor brother.

As I mourn Felice.

We can only pray and sing the Song for them.

Something else I must do with your help. [Image.]

Goddess! Surely no chance resuscitation?!

We dare not risk it.

... So this why you bring roomwithoutdoors!

Room programmed to my aura alone by Brede before her
death. Once activated it admits me and no other. Not Aiken
not even Marc. Understand! None must meddle with this terrible
Duality hoping to revive and use it! I must make for it a dark
temenos tabernaculum sanctuary inviolate where it will burn
unmolested.

How long?

God knows.

It will be ... secure within?

No energy no matter no mind can break into this forcefield
from outside. Room gravomagneticpowered enduring as long as
Earth. Or until I myself return to enter and deactivate.

Then Duality safe imprisoned.

Not quite.
?

You forget. Those inside room always free exit themselves.

But—how? Surely it never could! Look at thing Elizabeth.
Microscopic weakglowing at extinctionedge!

But refusing death.

Then we never free of threat?

Peace myfriend. I feel (perhaps Shipspouse would say know!)
that this thing will never again menace ManyColouredLand.

Yours the dangerous judgment Lady.

This time I have no doubts.

... If you leave roomwithoutdoors here you deprive yourself
of its protection. You will be vulnerable at Black Crag—

Enough Minanonn. Help me now. Use your psychokenetic
power to uncover the Duality for a moment so that I can erect
its tomb. Then we must hurry to Aiken—

Heal him and you heal nemesis.

Nevertheless I will. I owe him too much. He undertook the
job I shirked.

PROLOGUE TWO

The middle-aged man with the prominent jaw and the unobtru-
sive apparatus clamped to his skull tended to his simple gard-
ening chores. Inside the observatory, the other inhabitants of
Ocala Island were rallying round their ruined leader in a battle
that strained the very planetary aether. It was almost like the
good old days!

They had known better than to invite him to join them.

"Poor wand'ring one,"sang Alexis Manion in a plaintive tone.
"Dee-dah-dah d'hum-dum DAH-hah." He swept up a dead
palm warbler and deposited it into the wheeled cart that trundled

behind Mm, obedient to his irrepressible PK function. "Oh, yes,
I have surely strayed. I am a disgrace to villainy." Humming,
wearing the abstractly intoxicated smile of the docilated, he
shuffled along the path. The gardens around Marc Remillard's
star-search observatory simmered in late afternoon sun but there
was heavy shade beneath the macrophyllas. Their blossoms,
wide as dinnerplates against whorls of metre-long leaves, gave
off a cloying scent that overwhelmed the subtler perfume of the
granadilla vines. He tidied up a section of the white coquina
walk that was littered with zapped butterflies. (Common helicon-
ians, alas. Nothing suitable for his collection.) Then he tsked in
sympathy as he spied another victim of the observatory's robot
defences: a crumpled male golden egret, gorgeous in mating
plumage, that had fallen close to the building wall.

A thought slowly formed in Manion's electronically dulled
brain. He squinted up into the sun dazzle at the narrow parapet
around the open observatory dome, where the barrels of the X-
lasers protruded in a glittering chevaux de frise. Yes! There was
the female egret's body as well, caught in the angle of the
pendentive. Poor birdie lovers! Still, if one had to go ...

"And if you remain callous and obdurate, I," he carolled,
"shall perish as they did and you will know why." A mental
nudge sent the corpse tumbling down. He consigned it to the
bin. "Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die—"

Alex. Come at once.

"Oh, willow," he whispered, carefully closing the lid. "Tit-
willow—"

Quickly dammit!

"Titwillow."

The coercive power of Jordan Kramer, clutching at Manion's
mind, failed to get a grip on the docilated, preprogrammed
mush. There were telepathic epithets.

Manion smiled his sad idiot smile (so at odds with the set of
his jaw) and restored push broom and dustpan to their brackets
on the side of the cart. He took up a pair of clippers. Overhead,
the laser array lost its sparkle as the power was switched off. A
cormorant winged above the slowly closing dome with impunity
and soared out over Lake Serene. Manion waved at it, then
began to snip spent blooms from a cluster of pink laelias nestled
in the crotch of a gumbo-limbo tree. He started a new song:

My boy, you may take it from me,
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man's saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature's the worst!

Now people were rushing from the observatory into the
garden. There was a wild melange of farspoken thought:

It's that goddam docilator Steinbrenner go fetch him—
Right. Pat comealong help coldturkey letdown.

Affirm hurryhurry!

SHEWASHERERIGHTHEREYESMONSTERFELICEWAS
HEREODIDYOUSEEWASITILLUSIONOCHRISTNO
REALDIDN'TYOUSEE—

Laura you&Dorsey get tank ready Keoghs bring bodytrans-
porter.

Affirm/Affirm/Affirmaffirm.

GODBLANCHARDDIEDDIDYOUFEELITFUCKHIM
WHATABOUTMONSTERFELICEDIDSHEFUSEMARC
WHOTHEHELLKNOWSITWASADJUMPDJUMP
CHILDRENWHATABOUTTHEMARETHEYSAFESHUT
UPOGODISMARCDEADISFELICEDEADORDIDSHE
SUBSUMEMARCYOUFUCKINGIDIOTSSHUTUPONO
SHUTUPONOTHEGENESMENTALMANTHEGENES
MARCMARCSHUTUPSHUTUP—

SHUT UP!

DJUMPDJUMPSHECOULDHAVEFUSEDSUBSUMED    it
was a d-jump I tell you . . .

Silence!

Jordy you can't be certain.
It was a d-jump.

You don't dare divest until we confirm her excursion.
That's why they're bringing Manion you fool!

THE GENES. O GOD THE GENES.

Damn genes! The children!

GathenDalembertWarshawVanWyk STAY Everybodyelse GO.
Must know children can't push me out
damn Marc damn genes damn all of you . . .
Steinbrenner when you get Manion out docilator put Helayne
IN.

Affirm.

Oblivious, Alexis Manion pottered among the orchids. And
there came big Jeff Steinbrenner, archquack and babykiller, all
reeking with adrenalin overload! And pretty Pat Castellane, her
steel eyes weeping! Amazing. Manion sang out:

If you wish in the world to advance,
Your merits you're bound to enhance.
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet.
Or trust me, you haven't a chance!

The two of them pounced on Manion and tore off the docilator
headpiece. He staggered, convulsing, as the Florida landscape
melted into concentric expanding shells of colour. They held
him while his muscles bucked and spasmed. Pat's redactive
douche calmed while Jeff's numbed the recollection of anguish;
and at last his brain settled into its normal rhythm and he could
stand alone.

Trembling, with blood trickling down his chin from his bitten
tongue, he forced their hands away with his psychokinesis. The
social aspect of his mind was so tattered that he was unable to
contain the malicious satisfaction that welled up as he discovered
why they had come.

"Felice nailed him?" Manion began to laugh. Steinbrenner's
coercion lashed out to no effect. Docilated, Manion had been
barely biddable; free, he was a rock of intransigence. "Let the
bastard boil in his own devil-rig!"

"Alex, it's not just Marc!" Patricia cried. She took one of
Manion's hands. Her skin was icy in spite of the June heat.
"We're all in danger. And the children. The metaconcert
operation—we don't know what's happened. Owen Blanchard
is dead, and Ragnar Gathen's son and God knows how many
others in Europe. We don't know about Felice. Marc's data
input to the computer cut off at the moment of the d-jump—"

In spite of himself, Manion found his interest aroused. "Her
mind generated a real upsilon-field? Barebrained?"

"We think so. She seemed to appear right there in the obser-
vatory and . . . attack Marc in some way through the cerebro-
energetic equipment."

Manion chuckled. "Well, well. What a nasty surprise."

Patricia was drawing him along the white pathway toward the

observatory entrance. Some twenty of the veteran Rebels were
standing about exuding an emotional farrago to chill the blood.

Steinbrenner's thought was thunderous. Go to the lodge! Go
to your homes! Anywhere away from here. He's alive and we'll
have him safe in the regen tank as soon as Diarmid & Dierdre
get here with transport. NOW GET OUT.

With much mental murmuring, the people began to disperse.

Manion was lost in his own thoughts, animosity vanished in
the face of an intriguing problem. "A d-jump! Now when was
the last time we tried to confirm one at the IDFS? 2067? Yes
... an adolescent from one of the black worlds. Engong, was
it? But he only translated across two kilometres and we—"

Patricia interrupted. "You're going to have to confirm the
event with a retrospective dynamic-field analysis. Kramer can't
hack it and we must confirm Felice's excursion. Listen to me,
Alex!" Her anxiety flamed out at him. Her mind displayed the
terrible possibility. "We think Marc's still alive inside the CE
rig. But the scanner's nearly burnt out and we have no conscious
communication from him. We don't dare open the armour—"

Manion nodded. His smile was gone. "Until you confirm that
the person inside is Marc Remillard. Yes. An interesting point."

They entered the observatory at the same time that Peter
Dalembert and Ragnar Gathen were hustling Helayne Strang-
ford out. Steinbrenner handed over the docilator.

Helayne's powerful, crazed mind latched onto Manion.
"Don't help them, Alex! Let Marc die in that damned cerebro-
energetic enhancer of his! Then we'll be sure that the children
aren't—"

The voice fell abruptly silent. Patricia urged Manion inside.
It was dark with the dome closed, the temperature at least ten
degrees cooler. Only a handful of the senior Rebels remained.
In the centre of the chamber was the hydraulic lift cylinder with
the recliner carriage lowered. On it, gleaming under a small
spotlight but opaque to the mind's eye, was a mass of black
cerametal armour. Alexis Manion shrugged free of Castellane
and approached the sinister form.

"So you miscalculated again, did you?"

The display screen and the loudspeaker that normally
provided communication with the hidden CE operator remained
mute. Manion strolled to the vital-signs monitor and studied the
readouts, then looked over the offerings of the crippled brain-

scanner. There was no identifiable pattern to the subperceptual
emanations coming from the bulky mass of armour, only the
assurance that inside, someone or something was alive.

"Are you Marc Remillard in there?" Manion inquired archly.
"Or little Felice?"

"That's what you're going to find out for us, Alex," said
Jordan Kramer. He stood at the main console of the computer
with Van Wyk dithering behind him. The Keoghs had finally
arrived with the first-aid unit. Warshaw helped them to position
it next to the carriage.

"You'd trust me?" Manion swept the minds of his fellow
magnates with a mocking fillip. "Marc didn't. That's why he
zombied me."

Gerrit Van Wyk said, "We have to trust you, Alex. Analysing
this damn event is beyond my competence, or Jordy's. Only you
can tell us whether Felice jumped back to Europe after she
zapped Marc. If she's still here—if she subsumed Marc and we
open that rig and let her out—she could wipe out Ocala!"

Manion hummed "Here's a How-De-Do." He frowned as he
examined a screenful of dubious probability graphics promi-
nently labelled: EVENT UNCONFIRMED.

"Whoever is inside that armour," Patricia said, "is gravely
injured. If you force us to let Marc die, then I'm going to kill
you, too, Alex."

"Perhaps I'd be grateful, Pat."

Kramer held out the command mouthpiece. "We know you
care deeply about the children, Alex. Marc wants to save them,
but we don't know what his plans are. Without him, we have
only one option to prevent the reopening of the time-gate. An
ugly one."

Suppose I lie to you about the analysis?" Manion retorted.
"Let Felice cook our collective goose if she's in there? Then I'd
be certain that the kids get their chance."

The frustration and fury of the other ex-conspirators impinged
on the mental screen of the dynamic-field specialist. Uselessly.

Van Wyk's control, always precarious, began to falter. His
mind cried out: He might lie he might! He did before we never
twigged when he & kids planned damned Feliceploy firstplace—

Suddenly weary, Manion said, "Oh, shut up, Gerry." He took
the computer microphone from Kramer's hand and began to
speak rapidly.

The others fell back. Psychic tension drained away, leaving
dullness leavened by faint hope. As the multicoloured probabi-
lity edifices formed and reformed smoothly on the visual display,
Manion whistled "I Am the Captain of the Pinafore" through his
teeth. Finally he froze an elaborate construct and simultaneously
shot a blast of mathematical esoterica at the minds of Kramer
and Van Wyk.

"There you have it. Explicit enough even for you two Scheis-
sphysiker. A single dimensional translation confirmed, together
with the rubberband-effect withdrawal hypersnap. Your over-
modulated hell-load must have finished Felice off. Probably the
Little King as well. The PC equivalent was in the seven hun-
dreds, for Christ's sake."

"We had vague intraconcert perception of some kind of
mental fusion," Cordelia Warshaw insisted.

"Felice never fused to Marc," Manion stated. "For my
money, the damn girl's dead as mutton." He addressed himself
again to the command mouthpiece, erasing the analysis and
calling up a heavy artificial i-mode carrier. It was tuned to a
certain mental signature with a precision none of the others
could have achieved.

"You there in the armour! Do you hear me?"

The all but worthless scanner showed that someone inside the
black mass did.

"Tell these fools who you are. I've called up an EK ident.
All we need is one conscious thought sequence."

From the speaker came a crackling stutter. The visual
flickered. The analytical display said: ID UNCONFIRMED.

Patricia Castellane took the microphone. "Marc, it's Pat.
Communicate with us. Use either the mechanism or your
farsense. We must know whether your mind is still integral.
Please, Marc!"

The speaker rustled, a breath stirring dry leaves. The screen
said: ZH? JE? [PHONEME AMBIGUOUS]

And the analysis: ID UNCONFIRMED.

Dr. Warshaw, working at the backup terminal said, "We need
more than that."

"Marc, we want to help you," said Patricia. "Just speak to us."

A buzz fading to a hiss. ZH? JE? SS? [PHONEMES
AMBIGUOUS] ID UNCONFIRMED.

"Ask him for his name," said Warshaw.

As if speaking to a young child, Patricia asked, "Quel est ton
nom, cheri?"

JE SU? SOO? SU? JE SUIS = "I AM." [FRENCH-
AMERICAN DIALECT]

"Ton nom! Quel est ton nom, mon ange d'abime?"

JE SUIS LE TENEBREUX = "I AM THE DARK ONE."
[FIGURATE USAGE? CF. POEM 'EL DESDICHADO' BY
GERARD DE NERVAL (PSEUD. LABRUNIE, GERARD,
1808-1855).]

"Gotcha!" exclaimed the psychotactician. The metallic
accents hung in the air. On the screen the glowing words per-
sisted, and confirmation of the mental signature shone in the
lower righthand corner:

IMS POSITIVE: REMILLARD, MARC ALAIN KEN-
DALL 3-602-437-121-015M.

Gerrit Van Wyk was blubbering. Ragnar Gathen turned away,
expelling a great sigh. Diarmid Keogh and his mute sister
exchanged lightning thoughts with Steinbrenner and readied the
cephalic envelope of the emergency life-support equipment.

JE SUIS LE TENEBREUX LE VEUF L'lNCONSOLE LE
PRINCE D'AQUITAINE A LA TOUR ABOLIE ABOLIE
ABOLIE CYNDIA MY GOD CYNDIA DON'T—

Alexis Manion laughed. Patricia Castellane gave an inarticu-
late cry and dropped the command microphone. Pseudospeech
reverberated inside the dark-boned chamber:

MA SEULE ETOILE EST MORTE! CYNDIA . . . MON
LUTH CONSTELLE PORTE LE SOLEIL NOIR . . . J'AI
DEUX FOIS VAINQUEUR TRAVERSE L'ACHERON FOR
NOTHING. THE BITCH IS DEAD JACK. SHE'S RUINED
ME BUT SHE'S DEAD.

Diarmid Keogh's PK hastily scooped up the fallen
mouthpiece. He cut off the armour audio, letting the screen
continue its mad flickerings, and initiated the divestment
routine. The helmet hoist sent down its cables. Clamps latched
onto the massive blind casque. Its dogs clicked open and it
rotated a quarter turn. Liquid seeped from the juncture with
the body casing, then gushed out in a small flood. The dermal
lavage drainage had failed and Marc might be drowning.

Steinbrenner swore. "Activate the damned hoist! But easy.
God knows what's under there—"

Images!

They poured forth as the thought-opaque helmet lifted and
the operator's head was uncovered: sights and sounds and feel-
ings and smells and tastes, normal and distorted, concrete and
fragmentary, evanescent and smashing. Memories. Hallucina-
tions. Terrors. Ecstacies. The archetypal ragbag of the deep
unconscious: mental cacophony, nightmare broadcast fortissis-
simo, wide-open emotional stops shrillingblaringhissing above
bourdon thunder-bellow. The whole wrapped in a web of incan-
descent pain.

Marc stop! they all screamed, crushed by the hurricane.

There was silence.

The head above the cerametal collar lifted slightly. Deepset

grey eyes opened, showing enormous pupils. The silver-streaked

curls dripped greenish fluid onto the forehead, where it mingled

with blood from tiny wounds stitched by the withdrawn cerebral

- electrodes.

"They're all dead," he said in a normal voice. [Images: Snow
Christmas lights sleigh Dobbin Cantique de Noel brass plaque
Mount Washington dim in blizzard mad old man holding
longhaired cat.]

Patricia came closer. "Who is dead? Felice and Aiken
Drum?"

"Cyndia and Jack and Diamond." The familiar smile lifted
one side of his generous mouth. The bruised-looking eyelids
closed. [Images: Blue-white scintillating point of disaster. Mind-
whisper: It's finished BigBrother now you must magnify too like
it or not adieu dear Marc scent white pine fading gemlight crash
of Unity triumphant.]

"No significant trauma above the neck seal," Steinbrenner
was saying. "The carotid circulatory shunts are intact and the
helmet apparatus seems undamaged. Negative the cephen-
velope, ready the body bag. You getting any joy on the deep-
redact, Diarmid?"

"He seems to be sustaining his autonomic system consci-
ously." Keogh shook his head. "Very bad, Jeff. Dierdre says
there's metabolic evidence of severe external trauma to the
trunk and limbs. You know he's self-rejuvenating—able to
handle any ordinary injury. But this time the angiogenetic
programming is faltering from overload."

"We've got to get this body armour off," Steinbrenner said,
"and see just what—"

"Wait," said Marc distinctly. His eyes opened again. [Over-
whelming scent of pine.]

Steinbrenner and the two Keoghs froze.

"I'm sustaining refrigeration . . . lavage ... in lower-body
casing. When I exit the rig ... I must go switch-off to sustain
my vitals. No communication. But first I must tell you—"

"Let us help!" they all exclaimed.

"No. Listen. Our experiment was a ... qualified success.
Felice is gone. Unfortunately, Aiken Drum is not. He's badly
damaged. No doubt his healers will put him together again in
due course, as mine will me."

"But what happened to you?" Patricia cried.

[Images: Blazing female shape materializing in midair.
Armoured form high on its carriage wrapped in astral fire from
the neck down. Refrigeration and life-support labouring inside
the ultradense cerametal as the demonic power seeps through the
impermeable, attacks the inhumanly strengthened body within.
Femoral circulatory shunts and neuroceptors burned away, the
entire sustenance load shifted to the carotids. Ice-blood and chem-
ical amniotic fluid preserving internal organs, major skeletal units,
and musculature. Psychocreative torch of the frustrated monster-
mind playing over vulnerable body surface, burning away all
dermal elements to a depth of four millimetres, destroying hands
and feet and external genitalia utterly. Then, unable to complete
the Jackforming, forced to withdraw.]

The genes!

"Safe. Don't worry. Three months in the tank and I'll be as
good as I ever was."

The brain!

"I diverted my entire creative flux to my head the instant that
she struck. My brain was saved . . . most of it. Managed to
force her out of the armour. Episode . . . took less than half a
second. Fortunately, shock is delayed in such cases. I was able
to retain control of the metaconcert until we funnelled the final
blast. Then . . . diverted all energies to self-sustenance."

The eyes in their cavernous orbits glazed and the watchers
flinched from a new transmission of agony. Marc's mind
steadied. The old magnetism and reassurance flowed out to
touch each one of them with confident warmth.

"Don't worry! Even this disaster . . . this d-jump has been
valuable. I learned . . . but I'll show you when I wake up.

Meanwhile, get everything ready to go to Europe. Jordy and
Peter . . . I'm counting on you and your people to repair this
CE rig. Dismantle it ... power supply, computer, auxiliaries,
the spare suit of armour, everything! Salvage Kyllikki ... get
this equipment set up on board. Use the small sigmas so that
the children and Aiken Drum can't farsense you clearly. My
plan . . . destroy deep geological structure of time-gate site, thus
. . . interfere with geomagnetic input to tau-field. Old Guderian
himself wrote that this input was critical to the focus of the time-
warp. Advantage of this plan ... we need not confront the
children directly, nor Aiken Drum. And solution is permanent.
Can't say more now. Trust me."

"We do," said Patricia.

Again that smile [pine pine pine]. And pain.

Marc's farspeech was laughing, shouting. You aren't born yet
Mental Man I'm free of you!

Then he was speaking rationally, aloud, concentrating entirely
upon Patricia Castellane. "Keep a close watch on me while I'm
floating, Pat. We all know the regen tank has its quirks and
crotchets. I don't want to wake up with extra fingers or toes
... or anything else."

"I'll see to it," she whispered. "Now let me take you down.
Out of the pain."

Painpinepainpine.

[Images: Adolescent boy opening baby's blanket to see rosy
perfection. Mama he's all right Papa was wrong after all wasn't
he Yes dear wrong wrong wrong. Pine roses cancerous degener-
ation stink smoke guttering vigil candle consummatum est young
Jack.]

"Thank you, Pat. No, I must go alone. Au 'voir." The eyes
closed. The mental projections faded.

Marc Remillard had withdrawn into his abyss.

PART I

The Subsumption

CHAPTER ONE

Summer fog.

It leached all colour and substance from the world, leaving
only greys. Lead grey tombstone grey cobweb grey mouse grey
ash grey snot grey dust grey corpse grey. It was unheard-of that
there be fog at that time of the year, late August. So it had to
be still another portent—as dire a one as the death of the One-
Handed Warrior. There were many who said that the fog had
its origin in the supercooled ashes of the hero: each molecule
of his scattered body accreting water vapour, each tiny relic
drawing to itself the air's own tears to fashion this widespreading
shroud over the Many-Coloured Land.

(The less morbidly poetic decided that the fog was a meteoro-
logical freak, perhaps a belated consequent of the Flood refilling
the Empty Sea. Ah . . . but they had not been there in Goriah,
watching the duel at dawn from the battlements of the Castle
of Glass!)

The fog rolled over Armorica from the Strait of Redon to the
dense jungles of the Upper Laar, south beyond the Gulf of
Aquitaine and the marshes of Bordeaux. It brimmed the Paris
Basin swamps and the Hercynian Forest and flowed eastward
to the Vosges, the Jura, the very foothills of the High Helvet-
ides. By afternoon its south-moving front had poured through
the Cantabrian passes into central Koneyn. Paradoxically
growing in volume, it buried the low Sierra Morena, seeped into
the embayment of the Guadalquivir, and only halted at the
snow-dusted Betic crest, lapping the slopes of Veleta and Alca-
baba and blasted, empty Mulhacen.

Bland, energy sapping, it masked the sun and stifled sound
and left the vegetation dripping sadly. Forest animals hid.
Chilled birds and insects slept. The great herds of the Pliocene
steppes crowded together on the heights, nostrils quivering and
eyes wide and ears pricked, paralysed because their senses gave
no input but misty uncertainty.

It was the day the Nonborn King had his great victory. The
day Queen Mercy-Rosmar and Nodonn Battlemaster died.

In the aftermath, the King returned to his castle, carrying the
trophy.

The knights and retainers came rushing to meet him, exultant
and mind-shouting, eager to proclaim the triumph. But they fell
back dismayed when he dropped the silver hand in the courtyard
and stood there silent and empty-eyed, his mind guarded—yet
clearly changed in some terrible way, full to the bursting point
rather than drained, as might have been expected.

Those who were closest to him, the great heroes Bleyn and
Alberonn, prevailed on him to withdraw from the tumult. But
he would not go to his own bedchamber (it was not until much
later that they knew why), and so Bleyn said, "Let us take you
then to my apartments, where my lady Tirone Heartsinger will
attempt to help you with her healing power."

The King went with them and did not resist as they removed
his dulled glass armour and laid him on a cot in a secluded
retiring room. There were no bodily wounds; but even though
he maintained his mental shield, they were aware of how swollen
his psyche was, how it threatened to overflow and escape from
the small body that confined it.

"What has happened?" Tirone asked him, fearful and over-
awed. But he would not reply. She said, "If I am to help you,
High King, you must open to me at least a little, and tell me
what manner of strange disability afflicts you."

He only shook his head.

Tirone made a helpless gesture to her husband and Alberonn.
She said to the King, "Would you prefer that we leave you,
then? Is there nothing we can do?"

He spoke at last. "Not for me. But take care of our people and
oversee the mopping-up operations. I'll rest here. At twenty-one
hundred hours, I'll deal with the prisoners. Farspeak the other
High Table members and tell them to be ready."

"Surely that can wait," Alberonn protested.

"No," said the King.

The three of them prepared to go. Tirone said, "I will remain
outside in case you need me. The best thing you can do now is
sleep."

The Nonborn King smiled at her. "It would be best . . . but
the two of them won't let me."

They did not understand, but only touched him with reassur-

ance and loyal deference and then went away, thinking that he
was alone.

The relief column crept along the Great South Road above
Sayzorask, twenty wagons loaded with contraband Milieu
materiel, 200 Tanu knights, an equal number of humans belong-
ing to the King's Own Elite Golds, and 500 grey-torcs serving
in the capacity of men-at-arms, teamsters, lackeys, and logistics
personnel. The travellers without farsight (and this included
most of the human golds, who had received their torcs as honor-
ariums from the King, irrespective of any metapsychic latency)
had their vision limited to a little over two metres, a scant
chaliko length. Not that you had much of a chance of seeing
the fellows ahead of you, not with the caravan in extended order
the way it had been all morning, with each pair of riders or
wagon with its escort seeming to clump along in damp isolation.
The column was strung out to minimize problems with the pack
of guardian bear-dogs. Ever since they had departed Sayzorask
the wilful brutes had been acting up—spooking the stock by
getting underfoot, slavering and yowling and rolling their yellow
eyes and resisting attempts by the coercers to force them back
into their proper stations on the flank.

"Bad ions in the air," the gold-torc Yoshimitsu Watanabe
diagnosed. "The fog's made the amphicyons hypersensitive to
metapsychic vibes. I can almost feel something myself lurking
on the mental fringes ... I had a dog back in Colorado, a forty-
five-kilo Akita who used to go backpacking with me in the
Rockies. Acted like this sometimes when really foul weather
was moving in. Bezerko, you know? Primitive dogs, Akitas. I
learned to listen up good when old Inu told me to get out of
the high country."

"Hey—you think we're in for a storm, chief?" Sunny Jim
Quigley, driving a huge-wheeled Conestoga with the precious
infrared spotter and its power supply and auxiliary robotics,
was nothing but a hooded silhouette. Only his voice was clear,
amplified telepathically by his grey torc.

"Storm?" Yosh shrugged. "Who can say? My experience with
Pliocene climate is limited. You're the native."

"The Paris swamps were nothin' like this here," Jim said.
"Half a desert on these slopes 'bove the Rhone, jungle in the

bottoms. But it sure's hell got cold of a sudden. Could be the
rainy season'll come early."

"That's all we'd bloody well need," grunted Vilkas, who rode
a chaliko to the right of the wagon. "As if it hasn't been tough
enough .hauling this damn equipment all the way from Goriah
overland. By the time we get it to Bardelask, the damn spooks'll
be thicker on the ground than roaches in a garbage dump! I've
seen it all before and I know. The Firvulag plan to pick off the
little cities first. That's why they hit Burask—why they're sniping
at Bardelask and putting the blame on renegade Howlers. Once
the little cities fall, they'll make a move on vulnerable big ones
like Roniah. And His Exalted Shininess can't do a friggerty
thing about it!"

"Aw, Vilkas," Jim demurred. "The King's sending us, isn't
he? We get this IR spotterscope set up in Bardelask, ain'no
spook gone be able t' sneak up under illusion-cover. We got
'nuff good stuff in the other wagons t'fix Lady Armida's people
so's the Famorel mob won't dare poke snout outa the Alps.
Ain'at right, chief?"

"That's King Aiken-Lugonn's strategy." Yosh guided his
chaliko closer to the wagon, frowning. His golden torc was warm
beneath the clammy mastodon-hide plates of his nodowa, the
throat-piece of his ornate samurai-style armour. He could
"hear" the Tanu members of the column whispering anxiously
among themselves on their private mental wavelength, incom-
prehensible to the human golds. What was happening?

Vilkas was still beefing bitterly. "If the King is so worried
about Bardelask, why didn't he fly this junk to the city
himself—or have that fat sod Sullivan-Tonn do it—instead of
sending us on this three-week slog?"

"What good the spotterscope be, 'thout Yoshi-sama to set 'er
up?" Sunny Jim asked reasonably. "And the weapons 'thout
Lord Anket and Lord Raimo and the elites who know how fuse
'em? Shoo-oo!"

Yoshi beware! came Anket's mind-shout. Bear-dogs crazy!
Maybe sabrecats—maybe Foe—maybe Tanaknowswhat—

"Heads up!" the samurai cried to his companions, and at the
same moment Vilkas broke into vicious swearing as his chaliko
reared. Something big and black hurtled out of the soup. A
single amphicyon zigged to avoid the claws of Vilkas' chaliko
and disappeared under the bed of the high-wheeled wagon.

Another pair, whoofing and shambling, approached the wagon
from Yosh's side, intent on using the same shelter. A bedlam
of howls and snarling broke out. The four giraffids in the hitch
plunged and squealed. Beneath the lurching vehicle the bear-
dogs, weighing nearly 200 kilos each, thrashed and fought and
banged against the enormous wheels.

"Look out!" Jim yelled, hauling back on the reins. "We'll get
upset!"

Vilkas jabbed futilely at the furry bodies with the butt of his
long lance. His curses were lost in the tumult. Jim clung for his
life as the wagon heaved like a lifeboat on the high seas and the
valuable cargo thumped the side panels.

Two Tanu coercers and an operant human gold, their glass
armour glowing fuzzy blue in the swirling fog, galloped up on
their chalikos. But their mental efforts were unavailing in the
face of the bear-dogs' frenzy.

Move back! Yosh ordered. He unsheathed his Husqvarna and
now thumbed it to widest angle. The stun-gun sizzled, sweeping
the ground with its beam. There were throttled yelps and moans.
One massive shape lashed out in a final paroxysm, shattering
the right front wheel of the Conestoga.

Suddenly, it was very quiet.

A tall form, luminous violet, the trappings of his mount
shining with the same eerie light, materialized out of featureless
opacity. It was Ochal the Harper, grandson of the ruler of
Bardelask and leader of the relief column.

He silenced Yosh's attempts at explanation and the excuses
of the coercer knights. "I have found the source of the
madness—and the sense of unease that has plagued us all
morning." He pointed to the east. "Out there. On the opposite
bank of the Rhone. Behold!"

His powerful farsense projected a vision. For the shorter-
sighted people in the train, it was as if the mysterious fog had
abruptly become transparent, and the bottomland forest beyond
the river as well.

Pouring out of one of the steep tributary valleys that formed
corridors into the Alps came an army, arrogant in strength. It
quick-marched through the ghostly farseen jungle casting no
shadows, its members dark and numberless as a horde of preda-
tory ants, unidentifiable until Ochal's mental eye magnified them
and proved them to be Firvulag. They were some four kilome-

tres away, not generating illusion-camouflage as was their usual
custom, perhaps trusting in the fog to conceal them—or perhaps
not caring whether or not they were detected. They came, giants
and dwarfs and medium-sized warriors clad in obsidian battle-
dress, bearing their traditional arms and holding standards
draped with festoons of gilded skulls. As they marched they
hummed a war chant with notes far beyond the threshold of
audibility for Tanu or humans.

But the bear-dogs heard.

The track that the Firvulag army followed led straight into
the Rhone bottomland, intersecting the narrow east-bank trail
to Bardelask, not half a day's march upstream.

There were at least 8000 warriors.

"It's the main host of Mimee of Famorel," said Ochal, letting
the terrible picture fade. "Now the raids and the pretence of
Howler responsibility for the outrages committed against my
grandmother's city are at an end. The Little People violate the
Armistice openly! Doubtless the death of Nodonn Battlemaster
served to embolden them."

One of the Tanu coercers said "This is the opening offensive
in that conflict that certain of us feared to be inevitable. I cannot
speak its name! But we all know Celadeyr's prediction. Tana
have mercy!"

Ochal said, "I have already farspoken Lady Armida. My
kinfolk, although hopelessly outnumbered, will defend the city
to the end."

"Shoo!" breathed Jim. "Never saw so many spooks in my
life!"

"Compared to the army that hit Burask, it's a skeleton crew,"
Vilkas growled. "But it'll do. Bardelask's doomed—and the best
damn brewery in the Pliocene along with it! Now we'll drink
nothing but plonk and jungle juice."

Yosh sat slumped in the saddle. "Well, Ochal—our infrared
eyeball system and load of Milieu arms aren't worth a mousefart
to Bardy now."

The farsensor leader nodded grim agreement. He addressed
the entire column on the command mode:

Companions! There is no way we can reach my home city
before the Firvulag do. They would surely fall upon us as we
attempted to cross the Rhone to the Bardelask docks. I have
bespoken the King, pleading with him to allow us to die with

my Exalted Grandmother. But for strategic reasons, he has
forbidden it—

"God save Aiken Drum!" muttered Vilkas.

—so we must regroup, then return at once to Sayzorask. Our
King has told me that the futuristic equipment we carry must
be safeguarded from the Foe at all costs. We will wait in Sayzo-
rask for his orders . . .

"And with our luck," came Vilkas' sotto voce snarl, "we'll
end up marching on Famorel itself."

Ignoring him, Ochal addressed Yosh. "Have this wagon
repaired as quickly as possible while I inspect the rest of the
column. There's small chance of the Foe crossing the river to
engage us, but we must not present an overly tempting target
by lingering. They doubtless know that we're here—and they
may suspect what we carry."

Yosh gave the Tanu salute. Ochal the Harper beckoned
mentally to the waiting coercer knights, and the glowing purple
shape and the three blue ones faded away into the fog. Their
departure revealed how much darker it had become. Sunset was
less than an hour away and the miasma seemed thicker than
ever.

Yosh slipped the Husky back into its sheath. "Well, let's get
on with it. Unpack a spotlight, Vilkas, and we'll study the
damage."

As the Lithuanian complied, Jim slid cautiously down and
soothed the four helladotheria in the team. They stamped their
feet and swivelled their tufted ears. When the solar-powered
lantern went on, Jim hunkered down and inspected the broken
wheel. "Too bad we can't make our armour glow from mind-
power, like Lord Ochal an' the other op'rants. Be handy in a
sitch-ashun like this."

"You don't glow unless you got the power," said Vilkas.
"The psychoactive microbes sandwiched in the glass armour
laminations don't light up for grunts like you and me." He
paused, then added pointedly, "Or for golds like Lord Yoshim-
itsu, who aren't genuine latents."

"But who nevertheless earned their privileges," Yosh said.

"If the King had kept his promise, all of us humans would be
wearing gold!" The Lithuanian's voice was bitter.

Jim looked up at Vilkas and winked. "Hey—I like my grey
torc just fine. Specially on lonely nights!" To Yosh he said,

"Chief, we gone need a PK-head to lift this sumbitch wagon
outa the dirt. A human—not some Tanu 'ristocat who'll screw
up. And you'd best bespeak ol' Maggers to bring us a spare
wheel."

Yosh nodded. "Get the team unhitched. I'll ask Lord Raimo
to give us a hand."

He guided his chaliko back behind the wagon a few metres,
dismounted, and said, "Matte, Kiku. Good girl." The great
animal was like a dappled statue in the vaporous dusk. Standing
on tiptoe, Yosh opened a saddlebag and took out the kawa-
nawa, a stout rope joined to a set of wickedly sharp ganghooks.

Returning to the wagon, he summoned Vilkas and indicated
the stunned bear-dogs still bunched over the canted bed. "We'll
have to drag these brutes away and finish them off. One of those
hellads that Jim's uncoupling can do the hauling. But you'll have
to crawl under and make fast."

Vilkas groaned. His tans had been fresh that morning and his
bronze and green-glass cuirass and greaves freshly polished. For
an instant, he hesitated, a mutinous protest on the tip of his
tongue. And then he felt the faintest pulse of electricity in the
metal at his throat.

"Yes, Yoshi-sama."

"Thank you, Vilkas." Yosh turned away to deal with the
hellad while Vilkas dropped to his knees in the bloody dust and
crept under the Conestoga with the hook end of the rope. The
stunned and badly slashed brutes were all in a tangle. One had
voided with the shock of the stun-beam. Retching, Vilkas sank
the big barbs into the creature's shoulder.

"Ready?" Yosh sang out.

"Ready." Without the slave-torc's amplification, the Lithuan-
ian's reply would have been inaudible. Fortunately for him, his
samurai master was unable to decipher the deeper nuances of
the telepathic message.

Vilkas hauled himself out from under the wagon as the rope
tightened and the first amphicyon body began to move.
Standing, he cursed with revulsion. Bloody mud and excrement
stained his arms and legs.

Jim tried to sympathize. "Wot th' hey, guy—leastways we
ain' fightin' for our lives upriver at Bardy-Town. Things could
be lots worse."

"They will be. Just wait!"

Yosh reappeared out of the fog leading the draft hellad.
"Monku, monku, monku," he chided, handing the hooks back
to Vilkas. "That's enough bitching. Down you go again, my
man. I'll program extra goodies for you on the torc tonight to
compensate."

"Thank you, Yoshi-sama." Vilkas' manner was completely
civil. He ducked back under the wagon, took a firm grip on the
kawa-nawa, and drove the daggerlike points into the throat of
the next bear-dog.

CHAPTER TWO

The convoy of fourplex modular ATVs, its number reduced to
fifteen after the disaster with the freight hauler back in the Rif
Mountains, crept along in the brassy African sunset enveloped
in dust, ion-defiant midges, and anticipatory elation.

The Mediterranean rim was less than 90 kilometres away.
And the Great Waterfall.

For more than two months, ever since they had dared to
leave the camp on the Moroccan shore to which they had been
diverted by their elders, the runaway adult children of Ocala
Island had fled northeast by north toward that landmark that
had somehow become symbolic of their guilt and daring. They
had crossed more than 1500 kilometres of Pliocene
wilderness—swamps and jungles, waterless desert, and most
recently the Rif Range—and now rolled through the sere hills
and scrub thickets covering the upper extremity of the broken
Gibraltar Isthmus. Logic had told the expedition's leader, Hagen
Remillard, to bear farther east on a more direct course to the
flooded Mediterranean Basin, which they would have to cross
in order to rendezvous with Cloud in Afaliah. But logic faltered
before the irresistible glamour of the Waterfall. How could they
pass it by? They had shared in its creation when they joined
minds with their parents and helped mad Felice admit the
western ocean waters into the Empty Sea. To view it was a
psychological imperative.

The five youngsters of Ocala's meagre third generation, called

the Cubs, were even more eager than their parents. When a
towering column of vapour signalling the cascade finally ap-
peared on the horizon, the little ones dissolved into a frenzy of
fidgeting. It became evident that none of them would be able
to sleep that night without first beholding the marvel; so Hagen
decided to forgo the usual sunset bivouac and press on. There,
would be plenty of moonlight to illumine the scene.

Hagen regretted his impulse when Phil Overton caved in to
the winsome coercion of his four-year-old, Calinda, who had
been begging to sit with her father in the leading ATV. Broken-
hearted protests from the other Cubs, both vocal and excruciat-
ingly telepathic, were inevitable. In spite of Hagen's objections,
nothing would do but that all of the little ones transfer to the
command module. Diane Manion traded places with Nial Keogh
and swore to Hagen that she would use every erg of her redactive
metafunction to keep the Cubs under control, and the
complaisant Overton was demoted from navigator to assistant
babysitter. But the closer they came to the Waterfall, the more
disorderly the children became.

"Daddy, turn on the peep-sweep again!" Calinda pleaded.
"This time, I know we'll be able to scan the falls!"

"The peep-sweep! The peep-sweep!" chanted Joel Strangford
and Riki Teichmann, who were four-and-a-half and five. They
tussled with each other, trying to get closer to the cockpit's
terrain holo display, and shoved little Hope Dalembert to the
deck in the process. She began to wail.

"Meatheads!" The indictment of six-year-old Davey Warshaw
was pitying. "A TSL can't see a hole in the ground when there
are hills in the way."

"It can too! It can too!"

"Only if the refractive angle's right," Davey sneered. "And
it's not. You think the Gibraltar Gate's some little bitty thing
like a dry wadi or a sandpit that the peep can analog? Hah!"

"Then farsense it for us, Mr. Smarty!" Calinda demanded.

Although incapable of such a feat, Davey used his imagination
to conjure a vision that stunned the other Cubs to silence: a
planetary orb cleft like a gigantic melon, with a fountain of
water gushing into outer space.

Gently, Diana Manion emended the picture. "It's more likely
to look like this, dear."

All the Cubs squealed in disappointment.

"But that's just a little waterfall," Riki protested. "Like in
my Nana's book about the Old World. Niagara. Our waterfall's
bigger than any in the whole world that ever was!"

Calinda's lip thrust out. "Don't want to see a little waterfall.
Hagen—you said it would be humongous."

"Humongous," repeated little Hope Dalembert, through
tears.

"Phil, Phil, turn on the peep-sweep!" Joel cried, and the
others chimed in, swarming over the hapless Overton and crow-
ding Hagen at the command console until he fended them off
with his PK and uttered a simultaneous mental expostulation:

All of you be quiet!

Miraculously, they were.

Aloud, Hagen said, "Now listen, you Cubs. We're almost
there. I think I sense something! You might, too, if you just
pipe down for a damn minute ..."

The whine of the turbine as the ATV laboured toward the top
of a ridge. The crunch and snap of flattened brush. The hum of
the faltering environmental conditioner. Outside, an off-key
serenade of dwarf hyenas hidden in the dusk-purpled chaparral.

And then, a sound, that was no sound. An atmospheric stir-
ring so profound that it could not be detected by auditory nerves.

'Daddy, there's something in my throat," Calinda whispered.
"I taste a noise."

Phil swept her onto his lap before her apprehension could
grow, and Diane was swift to mind-comfort the three smaller
children. But Davey Warshaw, mature in wisdom, was jubilant.

"That's it! That's the Great Waterfall! Faster, Hagen—drive
faster!"

The son of Abaddon gave a short laugh and advanced the
throttle. An obstructing scrub oak threatened, and instead of
turning aside, he zapped it. The Cubs shrieked as they charged
ahead through swirling resinous steam and flying woodchips.
The solar-powered turbine of the ATV howled at the steepening
grade and climbed higher and higher toward the evening sky.

The peculiar subsonic vibration intensified to a singing in the
bone. Even the adults felt the large cartilages of their throats
thrill to its enormous note. Hope Dalembert whimpered and
hid her face in Diane's breast; but the four other Cubs, wide-
eyed, strained with ineffective juvenile farsight to discover what
lay ahead. The vehicle finally crested the ridge, bumped over

summit outcroppings, and slowed to a halt on a narrow wind-
swept plateau.

The ATV and the height on which it stood shivered in never-
ending thunder. The sound was not painful to the ear; the
frequency was too low, too nearly palpable. The adults and
children sat motionless for a long minute. Then Davey had the
hatch open and was clambering out, and Phil Overton took
Calinda and Joel while Diane kept tight hold on the hands of
Riki and Hope.

Hagen, left alone in the cockpit, took brief note of the stupen-
dous landform being plotted on the graphic display of the terrain
scanner. He remarked to the empty aether: "We're finally here,
Papa. It's your scene as much as Felice's and ours. Would you
like to commander my eyes?"

Nothing.

Hagen laughed. "Did she kill you, then? Did a raw-talent
crazy finish off the Milieu's challenger? What a tacky ending
that would be. Not at all what my Oedipal fantasy anticipated."

Nothing.

"You won't stop us from reopening the time-gate," he whis-
pered. "You let us get away from Ocala. you could have blasted
us, and you didn't. I know you, Papa! You don't dare stop us.
And it's not only the guilt—but the tempting elegance of the
wheel come full-circle that you won't be able to resist. . ."

Nothing.

Hagen stifled soliloquy and let thunder fill his skull. His hands
worked automatically to kill the vehicle systems and then he
went outside to join the others.

They were on a land's end beneath an indigo sky. The full
moon of late August was well risen above the eastern horizon.
On their left a wide sluiceway stretched toward the Atlantic,
and on the right was a monstrous chasm, the new Gulf of
Alboran, with its distant floor of starless black water. Joining
these two like a silver curtain stretching into infinite night, its
hem frothing in the sump of the world, was the grandest water-
fall Earth had ever known.

Hagen's instruments had mapped its dimensions: 9.7 kilome-
tres wide and 822 metres high, with a flow ever-increasing as
erosion widened and deepened the Gibraltar cut. The Great
Waterfall would live for less than a hundred years, for in that
time it would fill the entire Pliocene Mediterranean Basin.

One by one the other vehicles of the convoy reached the
plateau and came to a standstill. Their occupants alighted and
gathered near the cliff edge—twenty-eight men and women and
five little children. Normal speech was impossible and mental
converse seemed superfluous. It was enough to look, and to
memorize.

They might have stayed there for hours but at last the moon-
light dimmed and the breeze grew dank. A wall of heavy fog
pushed out from Europe and obliterated the spectacle.

Calinda Overton's small mind-voice said: I think it's over.

And Hagen said: Yes. The nice part is.

Many of the adults laughed then, to cover other emotions.
Those who were parents spoke of bedtime. Nial Keogh, ever
practical, pointed out the campsite he had taken note of while
the rest of them had thought only of racing ahead to see the
wonder. Mind-chattering in dull reaction, the children and
grandchildren of Rebellion straggled back to the ATVs. Only
Hagen stayed alone on the plateau with the command module,
after sending Phil and Diane and the Cubs off with the others.

He waited in the thickening fog until midnight, when farsen-
sing conditions were optimal, then groped cautiously northeast-
ward beyond the Betic Cordillera to the Tanu citadel of Afaliah.
When he was certain he had identified its concentration of life-
aura, he refined his thought-beam to the slenderest possible
needle, tuned it to the intimate mode of his sister, and called.

HAGEN: Do you hear?

CLOUD: Yes. Where are you.

HAGEN: [Image.]

CLOUD: !! So that's It! No wonder the Flood destroyed Muriah.

It seems incredible that mindpower alone was responsible.

Felice—

HAGEN: —and her devils!
CLOUD: Hagen, we had to.

HAGEN: You rationalize after the fact, Marcdaughter.
CLOUD: I thought you were going to have Diane work on that

damn Hamletesquerie. You're becoming a great bore.
HAGEN: You and Papa combined couldn't shrink me. Why expect

better of her?
CLOUD:   She  loves you,  stupid.   It helps  immeasurably in

redaction.

HAGEN: Ah, yes. I should have remembered you and your Tanu
darling—

CLOUD: Damn you and your can of cranial worms, brother.

HAGEN: Shall we postpone the pleasantries? What happened in
Goriah?

CLOUD: [Cinematic event replay.]

HAGEN: Total fiasco. So much for our projected alliance with
Nodonn! Nice for you that your lad Kuhal survived ... I
guess we revert to our original Aiken Drum scenario, then.
He won't be as easy to manipulate as Nodonn would have
been, but we'll probably muddle through. Who knows? The
kid might be having his own doubts by now about his future
as King of the Elves. He may just decide that our plan to
return to the Milieu has a subtle appeal—

CLOUD: Hagen, Papa's coming.

HAGEN: Oh, shit. When?

CLOUD: He was vague. He farspoke me this morning, after Aiken
won his duel with Nodonn. He had been watching.

HAGEN: He would.

CLOUD: He said he'd come to Europe just as soon as modifica-
tions of the cerebroenergetic enhancer were completed. He's
bringing it - and the master computer, and the X-laser array
from the observatory.

HAGEN: Good God—how?

CLOUD:   They raised Walter Saastamoinen's four-masted
schooner. That seventy-metre brute is big enough to carry
half the apparatus on Ocala.

HAGEN: Damn—I told Veikko he should have scuttled her in
deeper water or blown her up! Sentimental ass. Let me think
. . . she'd take at least a month to get here loaded.

CLOUD: Papa's furious that you started the overland trek.

HAGEN: Did he threaten any long-distance mind-blast?

CLOUD: No. He was very restrained. He just told me to warn
you not to attempt any contact with Aiken Drum—or else
face dire consequences.

HAGEN: ?? Strange that he didn't farspeak me himself . . .

CLOUD: The CE rig is down for reinstallation on the boat—

HAGEN: Hell, babe, he has plenty of watts to bespeak me in
broad daylight, with nothing but the ol' naked grey. Or—?
!!! [Image.]

CLOUD: We were right about Felice's d-jump. She rode down

his peripheral and scragged him horribly. Fire-flayed him from
the neck down—

HAGEN: [Hastily suppressed image.]

CLOUD: [Pain.] He's been floating in the regeneration tank since
June.

HAGEN: Cloudie, what if Felice did more than broil his bod?
What if she cooked his brain, too? What if he pasted himself
together again as well as he could—healed his worst body
injuries, but didn't dare stay in the soup long enough for a
complete neural refit? Hell—that could take eight, nine
months easy!

CLOUD: If his metafaculties are crippled, it would explain—

HAGEN: You bet your sweet life it would. He'd speak you rather
than me on i-mode because you're more farsensitive. Chances
are, he can't crank up anything approaching his normal arma-
mentarium! And if he's unable to handle a full-zorch creative
metaconcert, then there's no more danger of his nailing us
with a long-distance psychozap! Oh, Cloudie, baby—this
could be our big break! He's going to have to fight fair! Get
really close to us if he hopes to coerce or mind-blast. Let him
try, with Aiken Drum and his mob of exotics on our side—

CLOUD: When Papa farspoke me he said ... he said he would
do his best to worth things out for us. If we could only trust
him!

HAGEN: [Expletive.]

CLOUD: He should know that we wouldn't let the Milieu authori-
ties come back to the Pliocene for him.

HAGEN: Wouldn't we? ...

CLOUD: You—you—he loves us!

HAGEN: His bloody inhuman brand of love—! He loved Mama,
and we know what he did to her. Didn't you ever wonder
why?

CLOUD: This is all—

HAGEN: In the Ocala library. Ever notice that the computer
entries on the Metapsychic Rebellion are all baldfaced and
frank about most aspects of the conflict—except for the
bottom line, the goal of the whole damn thing! Why did they
have to fight, for God's sake? The Rebel objective: "The
fostering of Mental Man and the assurance that he will take
his rightful place in the Coadunate Milieu." What the hell
kind of war motivation is that?

CLOUD: Papa and his people wanted the Human Polity to
dominate—

HAGEN: Not that simple! There was something else. You have
to pick it up from hints in the other data entries. Subliminal
boojum hints as skittish as those things you almost, but not
quite, see out of the corner of your eye! Papa's Rebellion had
something to do with us. With human children. He planned
to do something so terrible that his own wife felt justified in
trying to murder him—and the Milieu declared war on him
after a hundred thousand years of unbroken peace.

CLOUD: It's over. Finished long ago.

HAGEN: Sister dear, it hasn't happened yet.

CLOUD: Stop it Hagen stop it! The important thing—the only
thing—is for us to get away! Away from him, away from this
miserable primitive world where our minds are all alone and
hopeless. We can't lose sight of that goal for any reason.

HAGEN: . . . Well?

CLOUD: We must take a chance and contact Aiken Drum. You
must come to Afaliah with all speed. It shouldn't take long,
now that you've reached the Mediterranean. Sail to the neck
of the Balearic Peninsula. There's a very good track called
the Aven Road that leads directly to Afaliah. Once you arrive,
we can arrange a meeting. Kuhal says ... he suggested to
me a certain bargaining factor that might assure Aiken's coop-
erating with us. We farspoke together just after Aiken
defeated Nodonn. Kuhal didn't want me to lose hope.

HAGEN: Well, what's his idea?

CLOUD: [Image.]

HAGEN: I'll be damned. Right there in Afaliah?

CLOUD: They're in the dungeon. There's no one left here to
contest my authority over them, so I've been squeezing all
day with the help of the local chief redactor. We've almost
got it.

HAGEN: Aiken Drum'll kiss our asses to get hold of this!

CLOUD: Don't talk like a fool. Even with this information as a
tradeoff, we'll have to be extremely careful dealing with him.
Aiken's dangerous, Hagen. Perhaps more dangerous now
than Papa.

HAGEN: Bullshit.

CLOUD: In the Goriah duel, Aiken stood up to everything that
Nodonn could throw at him—including that photon-cannon

Spear. But there was something else. As he killed Nodonn
and Queen Mercy, he subsumed their metapsychic complexus.

HAGEN: Say what?

CLOUD: [Image.] A very obscure phenomenon. I remember that
the Poltroyan entry in the computer mentioned it in connec-
tion with some ancestor-worship thing. It's very abstruse.
Never fully documented among humans. But it seems Aiken
did it. The whole Castle of Glass in Goriah is buzzing with
the news. How useful the powers will be to him remains to
be seen. Kuhal says some Tanu believe the subsumption may
kill Aiken.

HAGEN: Wishful thinking . . . Listen, Cloud, we'll have to get
his cooperation somehow. We can't fight him for the time-
gate site, and building the Guderian device will mean batting
about from one end of Europe to the other gathering raw
materials. To say nothing of conscripting Milieu-trained tech-
nicians to work out the trickier bits in building the thing. Our
only hope of success depends upon cultivating the goodwill
of this brain-gobbling little Dracula. Or coercing him into
helping us.

CLOUD: More than that depends on Aiken.

HAGEN: ?

CLOUD: Kuhal. He and the surviving invaders were taken.
They're imprisoned in Goriah now, incommunicado under a
sigma-field, charged with high treason. The penalty for that
is death.

CHAPTER THREE

"You are summoned to judgment," Commander Congreve
announced.

The 129 survivors of Nodonn's defeated little army came
together and formed a silent double file with Kuhal Earthshaker
and Celadeyr of Afaliah at the head. Having been warned by
the smirking human lackeys who brought them supper, the Tanu
knights were wearing their glass armour, cleaned up as well as
they could manage. They glowed in splendid defiance—creator

cyan and coercer sapphire and psychokinetic rose-gold, with the
few combatant farsensors in the company resembling statues
carved from shining amethyst.

A squad of Congreve's human troopers marched in carrying
covered baskets. At a mental command they passed down the
lines of prisoners, distributing sets of crystal chains. Each insur-
gent freely bound himself or herself with the symbol of submis-
sion to Tana, manacles about gauntleted wrists, the central snap-
link fastened to the golden torc.

"We are ready," said Kuhal. Magnificent in halide radiance,
he towered over the human commandant of the Goriah garrison.
He eyed the twenty-second-century weapon Congreve carried,
incongruous against his exotic parade armour. "And you will
not require that."

"The sacred chains bind us in honour," growled old Celadeyr.

Congreve's mental aspect was glacial. "So did your oath of
fealty to King Aiken-Lugonn, which you swore at the Grand
Loving! Follow me." He turned, lifting the Matsushita laser
carbine to a ceremonial port arms, and led the way from the
detention barracks into the outer ward of the Castle of Glass.

Fog swathed the heavily damaged facade. Even though it was
less than sixteen hours after the failed attack, much of the debris
had already been cleared away. Piles of translucent blocks and
the downed tools of workers indicated that repairs were in
progress. The faerie lighting of the towers was only a violet-and-
gold blur tonight, with the overall effect oddly mutilated since
the great spire of the castle had been blasted away by Nodonn.

The prisoners passed through the scorched ruin of the main
gate and into the central keep. Most of the corridors had been
cleaned up, and only an occasional melt-scar or boarded case-
ment remained as souvenirs of the desperate fighting that had
taken place.

The knights marched along bearing their chains proudly, their
metapsychic luminosity overwhelming the lesser light of the oil-
fuelled wall sconces. At length they came into the main audience
chamber of the Goriah citadel, which the usurper had caused
to be almost completely refurbished. The floor was tiled in gold
and midnight-purple. Pillars of twisted amber glass supported a
high vaulted ceiling spangled with tiny starlike lamps. The dais
was the only bright place in the room. Behind it shone the
precious-metal sunburst of Nodonn Battlemaster, retained by

the usurper because a solar disk had also been the traditional
heraldic cognizance of the first-coming Lugonn. But the orna-
mental sun-face was blank now, its apollonian smile gone along
with recollections of drifting ashes and a tarnished silver hand
tumbling out of the dawn sky.

In the place of honour stood a black-marble throne,
surrounded by twenty lesser seats, all empty. On the throne sat
a little human eating an apple: the Nonborn King of the Many-
Coloured Land. He had evidently just come in out of the mist,
for he wore a Tanu-style storm suit of golden leather still glis-
tening with beads of moisture. Its visored hood was thrown
back and the neck open. Aiken-Lugonn's throat was bare. He
required no artificial stimulus to mental operancy.

The prisoners came before the dais and waited while Congreve
made his brief telepathic announcement and then retired with
the guard detail to the shadows in the rear of the hall.

The King munched his apple and let his gaze rove over the
depleted battle-company. He had no metapsychic nimbus. In
fact, his appearance was peculiarly wan, with only his dark red
hair and brows and the eyes like little chunks of jet giving life
to his face.

Kuhal Earthshaker spoke to Celadeyr on the intimate mode:

So he lives Celo . . . Alas for the rumour that he choked in
the Devouring!

Not that one. But he does look psychodyspeptic.

Both Nodonn and Mercy-Rosmar—! To subsume either would
have been beyond the power of our mightiest legendary heroes.
What are we to make of a being who assimilates two such
minds? Perhaps it is the final confirmation that he is indeed the
Adversary.

I didn't need any confirmation. Only you younger ones
doubted.

Not true Celo. The Craftsmaster didn't believe it. Nor does
Lady Morna-Ia. I know that even my brother Nodonn himself
doubted as his end approached . . .

He believed.

He doubted. Who knew Nodonn as I did—unless perhaps my
lost mind-twin Fian Skybreaker? Nodonn was the eldest son of
my father Thagdal and mother Nontusvel and I served him for
three hundred and eighty-five years as Second Lord Psycho-
kinetic. Aiken Drum the Adversary—? Nonsense. Nodonn

hated and feared this parentless wariangle as a Lowlife upstart
and adventurer. But he never accepted him as the ultimate Foe.

Tchah! Even the Firvulag know the bastard for what he is!
Why do you think the Little People connived with us—showed
us the aircraft in return for our promise to return Sharn's Sword?
The Adversary's coming foreshadows the Nightfall War, and
they cannot fight the last battle without their sacred Sword. O
Kuhal believe! Nodonn never doubted. You are the doubter!
And I know why. That North American woman is to blame . . .
the one Boduragol paired you with in the healing—

Old fool. Were it not for Cloud I would still be half a mind.

You still are. The wrong half! All your Tanu instincts your
racial soul died with Fian—

Wretchedoldman STOP! Not you not anyone may fault my
courage in this doomed undertaking! Nor my loyalty to Nodonn
and our battle-religion. This matter of the Adversary is beside
the point as we stand here flagrant traitors brought to judgment.

... Ah yes. Your pardon Brother Earthshaker. I am a
defeated dotard and should bethink me of Tana's imminent
peace rather than some mythical apocalypse . . . But I have
seen fulfilled so many portents that puzzled us ancients by their
absence during that conflict at Void's Edge a thousand years
agone in the old Duat Galaxy. Now we have seen the engulfing
waters! The monstrous carrion-bird Morigel! The One-Handed
Warrior leading the battle-company against all custom! The
summer fog! So there remains only the last dread epiphany . . .
that baleful mindstar heralding the fall of Night . . . I tell you
Kuhal that soon the war will rage in which no warrior can tell
friend from foe. And finally there will be a tearing asunder of
the earth and high heaven as the Adversary triumphs.

Celo—

And he is here.

Aiken Drum had come to the front of the dais, nibbling the
last bits from his fruit. He flicked the apple core over his right
shoulder and it vanished. At the same moment a double-lever
steel boltcutter appeared in his right hand.

"Do you know what this is?" His voice was quiet. The deadly
blood-metal tool gleamed as he raised it high. "It's iron. You
Tanu thought that there was no way to remove a torc without
killing the wearer. Well, you were wrong. There are two
ways—and using this thing is one of them. When you cut off a

torc with an iron tool it hurts like the lues of hell. It may even
drive you mad. But most healthy adult Tanu live through it,
even though all of your wonderful metapsychic powers fall back
into latency . . . and you become as mentally impotent as the
lowest bareneck human."

The prisoners glowed more brightly.

Aiken's face was expressionless. He turned his back on them,
and then suddenly his telepathic voice clanged on the declama-
tory mode:

LET THE HIGH TABLE GATHER FOR THE
JUDGMENT.

Above certain of the twenty seats reserved for the Most
Exalted Ones, faces were materializing—the farsent simulacra
of the ruling council of the Many-Coloured Land: Morna-Ia
Kingmaker, Bleyn the Champion, Alberonn Mindeater and his
wife Eadnar, Condateyr Fulminator of Roniah, Sibel Longtress,
Neyal of Sasaran, the human Estella-Sirone of Darask, and
Lomnovel Brainburner of Sayzorask.

Celadeyr's intimate thought was aghast: So few!

And Kuhal's sardonic: Our own seats are empty Celo. And
likewise those of Thufan of Tarasiah and Diarmet of Geroniah
who perished when the aircraft fell. And the seat of poor
Moreyn Glasscrafter who poisoned himself with ferrous sulphate
when the usurper flamed victorious. And Queen Mercy's place!
And the seats of those who perished at the Rio Genii—Artigonn
and the Craftsmaster and my brother the Interrogator. Let me
see ... the Second Redactor's position was vacant. Who is the
missing twentieth? I have it. Armida the Formidable Lady of
Bardelask. No doubt she has more important matters to occupy
her.

Celo said: Nine present. A quorum. Enough to condemn.
Ylahayll the lot!

Aiken said: DELIBERATE! WHAT IS YOUR JUDGMENT
OF THIS COMPANY?

The nine spectral heads said: They are guilty of high treason.

WHAT IS THE PENALTY UNDER TANU LAW?

The heads: Confinement under Chain of Silence until the next
Grand Combat. Then life-offering to our compassionate Goddess
in the Great Retort.

The little man grinned. "Too bad," he said in his normal
voice. "I've abolished the Combat, as we all know. It's to be a

Grand Tourney this Hallowe'en. And cooking criminals in a
glass oven would spoil the tone of the festivities."

He turned to face the prisoners, hefting the boltcutter.

"We've heard the High Table opinion. Now I'm going to ask
you for yours! ... But first, a few relevant bits of data to help
your cogitation.

"One: Make no mistake—Nodonn Battlemaster is dead and
so is Queen Mercy-Rosmar. I've subsumed portions of their
mentalities. I'll leave it to your imaginations to decide just what
that means . . .

"Two: Sharn and Ayfa have not only broken the Armistice,
they're stomping on the bits. You've noticed that Armida the
Formidable didn't appear to judge you. Right this minute her
city of Bardelask is under attack by eight thousand Firvulag
regulars. Armida and her people are fighting for their lives and
they're going to lose. The relief force I sent didn't arrive in
time.

"Three: Condateyr's spies have information that Roniah will
be next on the hit-list. Unless we can keep the city secure until
the Truce starts a month from now, we are in very deep trouble
indeed! Because the late Lord Bormol of Roniah was a collector
of smuggled Milieu artifacts just like his equally defunct brother,
Osgeyr of Burask, and we all know what happened when Burask
fell. The Little People nicked a fair-sized cache of contraband
high-technology weapons that they're using right now to zap
down the walls of Bardelask. But if the Firvulag get their
gnomish hands on Bormol's stash it will be all hell out for noon,
dear enemies—because Condateyr says that his late leader's
illicit arms dump is ten times the size of Osgeyr's! If we can't
safeguard Roniah, we'll have to destroy the stuff to keep it away
from Sharn and Ayfa."

The radiance of the chained knights had undergone a chilled
diminution. Old Celadeyr's mouth was working furiously. "To
hell with anything that corrupts the battle's glory!" he shouted.
"Destroy the Lowlife gadgetry right now or you are no Tanu
king! Where's your sense of honour?"

Aiken said, "Perhaps you'd better ask King Sharn and Queen
Ayfa that question. And their viceroy, Mimee of Famorel, who's
investing Bardelask . . . While you're at it, make certain that
their idea of a Nightfall War is the same as yours."

The old hero's face inside his open helmet was as pale and

hard as limestone. His mental barrier trembled, preparing for
another explosive eruption.

Kuhal intervened. "Nodonn informed me that the greatest
store of futuristic weapons is right here in the souterrain of
the castle. Or did Queen Mercy-Rosmar succeed in destroying
them?"

"She merely rendered them unusable," Aiken said. "Nodonn
wasn't a traditionalist ass like Celo. He planned to use the Milieu
weapons himself later, putting down any human opposition to
his takeover. Right now, the entire storage area is buried in a
sticky mess of poison-filled foam. We've sent to Rocilan for a
Milieu-trained chemist. He's the best one in the Many-Coloured
Land, and you Tanu had him torced with silver and supervising
a bloody candy factory!" Aiken's golliwog grin was wry. "He's
not looking forward to his new job, even though I promised
him an instant promotion to gold."

"If what you say about the Firvulag is true," Kuhal ventured,
"we totter on the verge of ruin—"

"I totter," Aiken corrected. He gesticulated at the nine
projections of the High Table members. "They totter! The Tanu
High Kingdom that you cheese-brains say you love totters! But
you don't have to stick around for the debacle. Oh, no. You
can choose death if you like. Not next November in the damned
Retort, but tomorrow morning, quick and clean in front of the
Matsu carbines of Congreve's guard. By all tenets of Tanu law,
you stand condemned. But this is a new era, and I say that the
lot of you are going to pass judgment on yourselves . . . and
choose your own punishment."

Confused and astonished, the minds of the prisoners buzzed
on the intimate mode.

"There's something else you should know," Aiken said. "Eliz-
abeth farspoke me a piece of intelligence earlier this evening.
The human operant that we've known as Abaddon is ready to
leave North America. He's coming here."

"The starmind out of the western morning," said Celadeyr in
a dead voice.

Aiken was silent.

"You have told us that one of our options is clean death,"
Kuhal said. "And is that another?" He nodded at the steel
boltcutter in Aiken's hand. "Mental castration as the price of
liberty?"

"What good would you be to me then?" inquired the King
softly. "I only showed you the iron to ... encourage attitude
adjustment."

"Kuhal, nothing has changed—" Celadeyr began.

The Earthshaker interrupted. "I am your senior in rank, Celo,
even if your junior in years. I claim the right to be spokesman
for all of us." His mind encompassed those of the other chained
knights: Do you agree battle-companions?

We agree.

And you Celadeyr of Afaliah?

I—I yield to your authority.

Kuhal Earthshaker lifted his arms. The crystal links made two
glittering curves from his wrists to his throat. His form burned
with rose-gold luminescence.

"I pass judgment, then, upon this company. We are guilty of
breaking our oath of fealty. Guilty of supporting a Pretender.
Guilty of taking up arms against our lawful Sovereign. Our lives
are forfeit and you may do with us as you will, King Aiken-
Lugonn. But know that we now submit to you utterly and beg
mercy, and if you condescend, we pledge our minds and bodies
to your service without reservation. And thou, Tana,
witnesseth."

The little man sighed.

The glass chains fell to the floor with a musical clash.

"You're free." The King turned about, went to the black
throne, and sat himself down on the hard stone seat. He leaned
forward, and abruptly his coercive grip held Kuhal like a beetle
on a pin.

"Fine sentiments are all very well. But we Lowlives tend to
think that actions speak louder than words! I want proof of your
born-again righteousness. No weaseling, no horse trading, no
quid pro quo power brokering between you traditionalists and
me. Do you understand me, Earthshaker?"

"I understand, High King."

Aiken smiled. His coercion softened. "Then we'll get down
to serious business. Where have you hidden the rest of those
aircraft?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Gasping for breath, halting every fifty paces or so to rest his
swollen ankle and thudding heart, Brother Anatoly Gorchakov
O.F.M. made his way up the fogbound mountain.

What a pity that the bandits had taken his chaliko! Chalikos
never lost their way, no matter how dark the night or exiguous
the trail. With a mount he would have reached the lodge four
or five hours ago. He'd be dry, warm, and fed, perhaps even
beginning to lay the groundwork for the mission. But the
chaliko, a handsome animal that had been the gift of Lomnovel
of Sayzorask, had proved an irresistible temptation to the four
footpads back on the Great South Road. Anatoly's reasoned
plea that he needed the mount in order to carry on the Lord's
work was greeted with merry laughter—and four vitredur lances
prickling at his neck.

"Blessed are the poor," said the bandit chieftain with a
sententious grin. "We're just helping to keep you holy, padre.
Now hit the dirt."

Anatoly sighed and slid out of the high saddle. Thirty years
as a circuit rider in Pliocene Europe had made him sensitive to
the more obscure manifestations of the divine will. If he had to
travel the last 50 kilometres of his journey on foot, then fiat
voluntas tua. On the other hand . . .

"You'll never sell the beast, you know," he said. "White
chalikos are a reserved breed. You even try to ride him into a
town, the first grey-torc patrol you meet will tie your guts into
a bowknot."

"Cutch!" exclaimed a younger bandit who was missing two
front teeth.

Thinking he was being reviled with some ethnic obscenity,
Brother Anatoly snapped, "Watch your mouth, pizdosos."

The leader of the gang was all affability. "No, no, padre!
Cutch. Catechutannic acid, a dye you make from the bark of
spine-bushes. A swab-down with that'll turn this nag from
Exalted white to wild-chaliko brown slick as a whistle. By the

time we get him down to the Amalizan auction, his claws'll be
roughed up and the saddle marks blurred. And so he doesn't
act too tame for the stock inspector, we'll put a little ginger up
him at the last."

The gap-toothed ruffian giggled and explained this last strat-
agem in disgusting detail while the others rifled Anatoly's
baggage. They decided to let him keep the woollen habit and
sandals he was wearing, a pouch with hardtack and dry salami,
his small spare waterskin, and finally—after the friar's sternest
rebuke—the quartz-halogen lantern. This last was grudgingly
conceded when Anatoly told them that he was bound for the
Montagne Noire wilderness, where the high humidity made it
impossible to keep a night fire going and some source of light
was needed to ward off prowling man-eaters. In a final magnani-
mous gesture, the bandit chief cut Anatoly a sturdy hiking staff.
Thus minimally equipped, the friar continued on his way.

For the better part of three days he travelled through dense
rain forest along a boisterous little river. The only hostile wildlife
he encountered was a patriarchal sable antelope, which fortu-
nately stood its ground on the opposite bank of the river. With
increasing altitude, the jungle merged into conifer forest and
then opened onto long vistas of moorland split by rocky ridges.
Anatoly saw herds of ibex with massive horns like scimitars,
and sometimes he was followed by curious little chamois as he
toiled up the steepening trail.

When Black Crag itself finally came into view, jutting stark
among spruce-clad mountains, his heart lifted. There, if God
willed, he would fulfil the promise made more than four months
ago to the other priest, the troubled one who had been struck
by his own tough-mindedness when they met so briefly in the
refugee camp at Castle Gateway and together conceived the
mission . . .

. . . but now, lost in the fog, with night closing in, he asked
himself: "Was I an arrogant old osloyeb to think I might succeed
where she failed? What if I never even find the place? What if
I get there—and the bodyguard of Tanu mind-benders sends me
off with a flea in my ear?"

He had eaten his last scraps of food for breakfast. Hunger
and fatigue made him dizzy and he stumbled many times as
he traversed a rubble-strewn slope, which was devoid of any
semblance of shelter. The fog was metamorphosing into a chill

drizzle. His left ankle, which he had turned early in the after-
noon when the mist thickened abruptly, was now so puffed that
the strap of his sandal had disappeared into discoloured flesh.

Where could the damned trail be?

He switched on the lantern and cast about, the yellow beam
seeming almost semisolid in the murk. He prayed, "Archangel
Rafe, patron of travellers, help me spot that perishing
trailmarker!"

And there it was: three stacked rocks, light against the
graphitic shale and, as a bonus, a pile of old chaliko dung, sure
sign that some other wayfarer had passed this spot. Brother
Anatoly blessed the Lord, the marker, and the dung. His ankle
throbbed, he was benighted and hypothermic and famished
enough to eat shoe leather—but at least he was no longer lost.

Fastening the lantern to his cincture, he gripped the staff and
plodded on. The trail continued to rise, twisting among rock
slabs as black as ink. He came to a fork. Right or left? He
shrugged and turned right, onto the wider section of path. The
butter-coloured cone of lamplight shone on wet gravel, on
tumbled chunks of gneiss, on a treacherous slickensides incline,
and on ... nothing.

"Mat' chestnaya!" yelled the priest. He teetered and clung to
the staff, which skidded into a small fissure and wedged tight.
Just one more step would have taken him over the precipice
edge. Only the lantern's warning had saved him, and the bandit-
gift staff.

He rested on his knees, trembling in terror and relief. Cracked
shale pressed through his soaked robe like dull knives, but his
unrejuvenated old bones were so chilled that he felt hardly any
pain. Head bowed, he mumbled an Ave in the old tongue.
Somewhere down below, a mountain stream seethed and roared
and a wind was rising. He looked up and saw a nearly full moon
racing amid rags of cloud. The fog was dissipating—or perhaps
he had simply climbed high enough to top it—and in a few
minutes he had a clear view of a deep coombe threaded by a
silvery torrent. The opposite wall was in heavy shadow and
above it rose a ridge that culminated in a great moonlit eminence
shaped roughly like an old-fashioned papal tiara. Black Crag.

Anatoly climbed to his feet and lifted the lantern high. They
could probably see him! He was well out in the open, away
from any screening mass of rock, and the guardian farsensors

might have been watching him for hours as he picked his way
along the fog-shrouded slope. Perhaps they had even given the
warning.

In a voice raised only slightly against the wind, he said, "Good
evening! I am Brother Anatoly Severinovich Gorchakov of the
Order of Friars Minor. I've been sent with an important
message. May I come ahead?"

Was it only the wind—or were spectral metasenses plucking
at him, feeling him out? Was exotic scrutiny viewing him with
Olympian benevolence—or preparing to flick him off like some
intrusive gnat?

Was there no one up there at all, and was he simply a silly
old crank with a rumbling stomach and fast-dwindling strength?

He clutched staff and lantern and stood there swaying. Then
he saw it, farther into the ravine, on his side of the stream: a
tiny red light. And then a white one springing into being just
beyond it, and another red one, and then many others, alterna-
tely red and white, red and white—a dotted line leading towards
the head of the valley, undoubtedly illuminating the continua-
tion of the trail. Anatoly gasped. More lights were zigzagging
up the valley's far wall, pricking out a series of ascending switch-
backs that snaked to the very summit of the crag. And up there,
perched in lofty isolation and glowing like a basket of red-hot
coals was a great structure resembling an alpine chalet. The
lodge, just as Sister Roccaro had said.

Anatoly switched off his lantern. The last shreds of the
Summer Fog were gone and the mountainside lay luminous
under the moon. As suddenly as they had appeared, the
panorama of faerie lights and the enchanted dwelling on the
crag vanished. All that remained was a single little red beacon
not a dozen metres away that indicated the correct turning back
at the fork of the trail. Brother Anatoly limped toward it. Before
he reached the juncture the red light winked out and a white
one, farther along, came on.

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," he said. "Still, it may take me
a while. You'll keep the tea water hot, won't you? And perhaps
save me a sandwich?"

The white star shone steadily. Except for the wind sighing
among the rocks, it was very quiet.

"Here I come, then," said Brother Anatoly, and resumed his
interrupted journey.

Minds still linked, Elizabeth and Creyn returned from their
latest metapsychic range of Ocala Island. But instead of disenga-
ging, they waited, hands lightly clasped across the oak table, to
see if the thing would happen again. They were both turned
toward the western windows. The sky beyond the balcony railing
was now an extravagant blaze of stars, barely challenged by the
high-riding moon.

Creyn said: It manifests.

Elizabeth said: Yes. Just like the other two times. Perhaps a
bit more leisurely in the coalescence. More sure of itself.

Creyn said: It is a simulacrum isn't it?

Elizabeth said, Pray God yes friend. Let us attempt a finer
analysis.

A silhouette was materializing outside, blotting out the stars.
It was the figure of a tall human male, apparently no more than
seven metres away from them on the other side of the leaded
window panes. Their linked farsense concentrated into a lancet-
probe and explored with superlative delicacy. Were there actual
molecules present—or was the thing merely a psychocreative
simulacrum, a projected image no more substantial than the
holograms of a Tri-D or the "sendings" broadcast by the Tanu
and Firvulag? The probe was defeated by an aetheric pheno-
menon more subtle than a mental screen, a dynamic field mani-
festation unfamiliar to Elizabeth, more absorptive than
reflective.

Creyn said: He's bluffing. He must be.
  Elizabeth said: Psychological warfare. Softening up before the
real confrontation damn him.

The man on the balcony wore a dark and glistening garment
with a diagonal fastening, virtually skintight from neck to toe.
Obscure embellishments, apparently of a technical nature,
studded it in the region of the collarbone and the groin. The
neck and head were bare and the curly hair stood out oddly
from the scalp, almost like tendrils. The man's features were
unmistakable and he seemed to be looking at them.

To make certain that he heard, Elizabeth spoke on the
distance-spanning intimate mode:

Why not communicate with us Marc instead of playing games?

The image was not quite motionless. The hair stirred and one
corner of the mouth lifted by a millimetre. Tonight, unlike on
the previous two visitations, the body was haloed in a faintly

luminescent complex of mechanical gadgetry; around the head
was a brighter nimbus of half-visible components and a hint of
great flex-lines and cables trailing off into the night sky.

Creyn said: Obviously the cerebroenergetic apparatus is again
fully operational.

Elizabeth said: They must have been tinkering with it the first
two tries. Or perhaps his injuries forced him to utilize unfamiliar
neural circuits—

Did the head nod, ever so fractionally?

Can you hear us on shortrange conversational Marc?

The smile broadened.

Elizabeth said: Well that's a relief. We're quite tired out
from spying on you and your children and Aiken and Nodonn's
invaders and the Firvulag. It's been a very wearying thirty-six
hours . . . We missed you last night. Were you too engrossed
in watching the Great Duel to bother visiting us? . . . Whom
were you cheering for? It was quite a setback for your bewild-
ering offspring but no doubt they'll come up with a new scheme
in due course . . . What do they really want in Europe Marc?
It's obvious they have a deeper motive than simply snipping the
paternal apronstrings and seeking their fortune on barbarian
shores. I can't see you coming hotfoot after them for anything
as mundane as that . . . Your preparations must be nearly
complete for the voyage by now. Even with the sigma-fields
erected over the Kyllikki we can tell you've managed to stow a
remarkable quantity of materiel aboard her . . . Will you set
sail soon? . . . Quite a lot of mysterious whispering on the
intimate mode wafting up from Africa during the last few weeks.
What do you suppose the children are up to? . . .

The eyes of the phantom, sunken in deep orbits, blinked
slowly. His quirked smile had faded.

Elizabeth said: Marc you have no idea how you're complica-
ting my job as de facto dirigent of Pliocene Earth. I doubt that
Brede's plan for my godmothering her people took you and
your meddling young into account . . . I've told Aiken about
your travel preparations and he's quite upset. He takes his
kingly duties rather seriously and I suspect that he'll resist any
impertinencies with all his newly acquired might. Do you take
my meaning? No doubt you witnessed the two metafunctional
subsumptions he pulled off. I'm hard to impress these days—but
I must admit to a definite bogglement at that little ploy.

Were the eyes a trifle narrower, the mouth more tight?

Elizabeth said: I want to forestall any violent confrontation
between you and Aiken. Let me mediate. I could prevent disas-
trous miscalculations on both your parts . . . Aiken is no longer
the metaprodigal prankster you dealt with before you went into
the tank. He's changed vastly since June. In outlook as well as
in aggressive potential! He debugged the metaconcert program
you gave him and he's been drilling his golds in the technique.
These torc-augmented mentalities may be crude but they can
amount to a respectable potential when stacked. If Aiken
gathers enough people together and acquires full use of the
powers he subsumed he'll be more than a match for you . . .
Consider carefully before you act. Advise your hothead children
to do the same. We can have peace Marc! Won't you at least
talk to me about it? ...

The shape out on the balcony was dissolving into a star-
punctured wraith even as she persisted in her futile pleading.
She shifted from the short range to the distance-spanning mode,
calling Marc's name, then broke off. The vision shimmered and
disappeared without a trace.

The mental linkage between Elizabeth and Creyn severed.
She exclaimed, "Damn the man for his arrogance! Damn him!"
She lowered her head onto her arms and burst into tears.

Creyn the Redactor came to her and knelt beside her chair.
She found herself clinging to him while pent-up anxiety and
exasperation poured out of her; the old temptation to withdraw
loomed more ominously than ever before.

The Tanu's mind was discreetly closed. There was only his
enormous physical presence, the strong embracing arms, the
chest warm and superhumanly broad, the steady exotic
heartbeat.

When she stopped weeping, she said, "I'm a bloody idiot."

"The release is good for you. Very human. Very Tanu, too,
for that matter."

"I've done the best I could. When I woke up after the Flood
at Redactor House and took this job on, I really intended to do
my best. Back in the Milieu, the job of dirigent—planetary
overseer, that is—traditionally went to the person who didn't
want it. And God knows, that's me! But . . . I'm bungling it,
Creyn. Can't you see? All of you think that a Grand Master
Farsensor and Redactor should be a metapsychic wizard, and

all-wise demigoddess. But I was only a teacher back in the
Milieu, not a trained administrator or socioeconomic analyst.
How can I be the ombudsman and arbiter for a crazy mixed
bag of factions like this? . . . And now this wretched galactic
Napoleon coming at me from his North American Elba! . . .
Brede called me the most important woman in the world. What
arrant nonsense! Look at the terrible mistake I made with Felice.
I had no idea how to deal with a dangerous personality like her.
Aiken's successful intervention was entirely his own idea . . .
And soon he'll be coming here, wanting me to help reintegrate
his mind. The subsumption has given him a case of mental
indigestion that could lead to a breakdown if he doesn't get help
soon. What shall I do? If I integrate those faculties he stole, he
might turn into another Felice. If I let him fall apart, Marc or
his children will have a free hand! I don't know how to handle
situations as complex as this, Creyn. I'm wrong for the job.
A diligent in the Milieu has a vast support organization—the
enforcing arm of the Magistratum, all the resources of the Conci-
lium to advise, the Unity to strengthen and give solace. But I'm
all alone."

He said, It would help if you could love us.

She shrank from him. As always when he dared approach this
dangerous ground, the mental wall sprang up.

He said, You could learn to make a beginning with one who
loved you.

Creynmyfriend no I don't can't no ...

He spoke aloud. "It's the way of both our races to need the
beloved other. Not to strive alone. You know that I've loved you
almost from the first time we met in Castle Gateway. Neither of
us was a willing solitary then. It was the death of your Lawrence
as much as the apparent loss of your metafunctions that drove
you to exile. And I myself was widowed scarcely a year when
you came to us. I could only stand back then, watching you
being used, a pawn of the Great Ones. But later . . . when I
was able to serve you, to help on the exodus from Aven, to
assist you here at Black Crag ... in all my life I've never been
happier. My heart aches to share it with you."

The walls were high and adamant, but she had her arms tightly
around him. He said, "Listen to what your body says. Neither
Tanu nor human is mere disembodied mind. You knew love's
dual expression once, back in the Milieu with your husband,

and it helped you to love the thousands of children you taught.
Now you live in another world . . . but you can learn to love
again."

She spoke gently. "You're the dearest friend I have. I know
what you're offering, what you hope to do for me, even though
you know I don't love you in a sexual way. But it can't work—"

"It has for others, in your world as well as mine." His mind
tone reflected wistful self-mockery. "And we redactors aren't
without skill in such matters."

"Oh, my dear." Her head lifted and they drew apart. The
tears had started again; impulsively, she showed him a glimpse
of burning memory. "If it could only be so simple! But you said
it yourself: I did love once. If only I hadn't already known a
real marriage in the Unity ..."

"Is the gulf so great?" he cried. "Am I so far beneath you—so
inferior?"

She wept, completely sealed in.

He said, "You raised Brede to operancy, even started to
initiate her. Do the same for me. In time we could forge a Unity
of our own!" He was no longer holding her but standing upright,
a towering red-robed figure with rubies and moonstones gleam-
ing in his belt and a golden torc around his neck.

"Brede wasn't a Tanu." Elizabeth's voice was dull. Slowly
she rose from her chair and went to the fireplace where the logs
of stone pine had fallen apart and were fitfully aglow. Using the
hook of the poker, she pulled them back together, then worked
the leather bellows until a few small flames sprang up. "Brede
belonged to a more resilient race. In some ways more human
than yours; in other ways, less. She was incredibly old and this
gave her mind a monumental fund of endurance. And she was
the Shipspouse! Her mate left her a special legacy that engend-
ered the mind-expanding ordeal that we shared. Shared, Creyn!"

He nodded. "My own pain is not sufficient. . ."

"I don't know any way to strengthen you so that you could
survive the ascent to operancy. So that I could survive it with
you. Can you understand what I'm trying to tell you, my dear?
Look into me very carefully. What an adult latent like yourself
would have to go through in order to open those new mental
channels—"

"I'd suffer anything to make you love me!"

"You'd die. I'm incompetent! It's beyond me! I can't make

you operant any more than I can save poor Mary-Dedra's black-
torc baby. Don't you think I would set all your minds free if I
could? If I only could ..."

Somehow she was clinging to him again and they stood at the
eastern windows. He said: Don't give up Elizabeth. Don't be
tempted by the fire. Endure. If you can't love then be consoled
by the devotion of those who need you. Pray for a resolution.

Elizabeth laughed out loud. "Brede waited fourteen thousand
years to die. Will I have to wait six million?"

His long fingers touched her swollen eyelids, drying tears and
leaving coolness. "Turn your thoughts. Look at the stars and
compose yourself. Downstairs they're waiting for us, and have
been for hours."

"Poor Minanonn. I don't know what to tell him, either."

In spite of herself, she found her eyes drawn to the sky. "How
strange! That tight grouping of very small stars, down near the
horizon. I wonder if they could possibly be the Pleiades? It was
a funny little cluster four hundred light-years from my home
planet of Denali, and the same distance from the Old
World—from Earth. We colonists were very sentimental about
it."

"We and the Firvulag have a similar symbolic constellation
that we call the Trumpet. See there? Just above your Pleiades.
Our galaxy is so remote that it is invisible, even in the telescopes
brought by time travellers to this Many-Coloured Land. But we
know that Duat lies out beyond the mouthpiece star of the
Trumpet, uncounted light-years from Earth."

His arm was around her shoulder. He drew her toward the
alcove opposite the fireplace where the force-field projector
called the room without doors had formerly been installed. Now
the little niche was empty except for another pair of gifts from
the Shipspouse: a picture of a barred-spiral galaxy trailing two
great arms, and hovering in front of it, an abstract sculpture of
a female figure.

He said, "We trust—Minanonn and I and the rest of the
Peace Faction—that Tana is truly caring. That there is a greater
evolution than that of the physical universe, of body, of mind.
That there is an All toward which creation yearns, which each
generation perceives ever more clearly, and in doing so,
approaches. Those following the old battle-religion see the all
in All as achievable only in death and annihilation. Hence their

myth of the Nightfall War, which we thought would first engulf
our tiny breakaway group of Tanu and Firvulag, and later
destroy all the rest of the Duat worlds as well."

She said, "Brede spoke of it, and its being rooted in the
torcs. She told me how the ancestral Tanu introduced the torc
technology to the other Duat races, and how this was eventually
seen by her as a metapsychic catastrophe, dooming the Mind of
your galaxy to a dead end. And her intuitive insight was correct,
Creyn. The torc—any artificial mind enhancement that becomes
a permanent crutch—is an intrinsic bar to Unity. Marc Remillard
and his people proved that in the Milieu."

He said, "Those of us who trust believe that even this terrible
paradox, the dead end of the Duat Mind, fits somehow in the
greater pattern—and will be resolved."

Elizabeth turned her back on the statue and the star-whirl
and moved to the fire. She took up a bronze poker and jabbed
half-heartedly at the embers. A few sparks flew.

"I don't think Brede took that view. In the end, she came to
believe that the evolution of the Duat Mind could continue only
in your merging with the human race. I think she may have
envisioned some relict Pliocene population eventually mating
with primitive Homo sapiens—planting metapsychic seeds in the
huge, marvellous, empty Neanderthaler brains. Voila! Instant
Cro-Magnon. The really funny thing is, the modern type of
human did appear with suspicious suddenness, and leaped to
metapsychic operancy in a paltry fifty thousand years or so."

She thrust emphatically at the dying fire. The logs, reduced
almost entirely to charcoal, crumbled to bits. Her voice was flat
and her mind tightly sealed. "If this is what you'd call the
masterplan of a compassionate God, then your faith is more
cold-blooded than mine, Creyn. We humans will have climbed
to Unity using the doomed Mind of Duat as a stepping-stone.
Have you seen the army ants bridge a stream in the jungle?
Thousands of them link together and willingly drown so their
luckier fellows cross over without getting wet feet."

"Elizabeth, the people in Duat don't know."

"But I do." She carefully replaced the poker. "And I don't
think I can bear it. Not that, not any of it."

"You only toy with despair," he insisted.

"I know. Sister Amerie used to say that one twits the Holy
Spirit only at one's peril—but she couldn't quite break me of

the habit." Elizabeth smiled brightly. "Shall we go downstairs
and take care of our intelligence briefing?"

When the big door to the lodge's grand salon banged open, there
was instant uproar. Elizabeth and the Peace Faction conferees,
deeply engrossed in their mind-meld, were so taken aback that
they did nothing. That left the friar free to elude Mary-Dedra
and Godal the Steward and the other two Tanu retainers, who
had chased him up from the kitchen and who lacked the PK or
coercive ability that would have restrained the old man in the
first place. He barged right into the salon with the pursuers
shouting and clutching at him and uttering telepathic apologies
and belated pleas for help.

"Hold!" bellowed Minanonn, rising from the depths of the
sofa like fulminating Jupiter.

The entire quintet of intruders froze in mid cry.

"Who in the world—" Elizabeth began.

Minanonn released his coercive grip on the Black Crag
people, who pulled themselves together. The elderly human
male in the tattered Franciscan habit remained completely para-
lysed, balanced on one foot and with hands raised and clenched.
His eyes were alive and glittering.

"We'd welcomed him," said Mary-Dedra indignantly.
"Helped him to find the place, then dried him and gave him a
nice supper!"

"He seemed harmless enough," said Godal the Steward,
"until Dedra let slip that Elizabeth had come down at last to
meet with you Exalted Ones—"

"And at that, the silly old coot yelled something about his
mission," Mary-Dedra said, "and came charging up here before
we knew what we were about! Now, if you please, we'll be
chucking him out the front gate."

Dionket the Healer said, "First, we'd better hear what he
wants."

"Let him speak, Minnie," said Peredeyr Firstcomer.

"But keep a firm hold on the rest of him," said Meyn the
Unsleeping.

The friar, still immobile from the neck down, licked his lips
and cleared his throat. He fixed his eyes on Leilani-Tegveda
the Fairbrowed and said, "Am I addressing the Grand Master
Elizabeth Orme?"

"I am she," said a much less imposing woman who wore a
severe black gown.

The paralysed priest looked somewhat relieved. In spite of his
ludicrous posture, he spoke with dignity. "My name is Anatoly
Severinovich Gorchakov and I am a brother of the Order of
Friars Minor. Your friend Amerie Roccaro has sent me to be
your spiritual adviser."

Elizabeth stared at him, speechless.

"You can turn me loose now," Brother Anatoly told
Minanonn. "I'll go back peaceably to my supper and you can
get on with your conference." He said to Elizabeth, "I just
wanted you to know that I'll be waiting when you're ready for
me."

Minanonn looked at Elizabeth, who nodded.

The coercive grip faded. Anatoly lowered his foot, unclenched
his hands, and resettled his rope belt. He managed a rather
sketchy sign of the cross. "When you're ready," he repeated,
then turned and walked out the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

The very first visit of the ghastly houri to Tony Wayland had
come closest to being the final one.

Half-mad with fear and still befuddled by his interrogation at
the hands of Their Awful Majesties Sharn and Ayfa, Tony had
been certain that only torture and death awaited him. He was
astonished but not inclined to ask questions when the seductive
creature entered his cell in the dungeon at High Vrazel. Perhaps
she was there to provoke him with fresh treasons against
humanity; perhaps she was merely the Firvulag equivalent of a
last cigarette for the condemned. Whatever . . . she was lissome
and lubricious, more or less humanly proportioned, and
although her coal-black skin and scarlet hair and ecu betrayed
her exotic origins, he never would have suspected the truth. He
had already embraced her, and was well on the way to the point
of no return, when doom was averted in a most unlikely way.

Karbree the Worm, the giant who had captured him, came

tramping into the dungeon and hammered on the cell's wooden
door with both mailed fists, bellowing:	

"Skathe! I know you're in there, you snaggle-cunt rama-
fucker! Ha-ha! Bad luck for you, comrade! We're off to Goriah
right now."

This demonic charivari having deflated all Tony's amorous
aspirations, the houri leaped off him with a screech of rage and
cursed the laughing monster on the other side of the door.

"Don't blame me, sweeting," Karbree cooed. A slitted green
eye glinted in the door's peephole. "It was Sharn and Ayfa's
decision. They want emissaries on the spot as soon as possible
after Nodonn fries the brains of the Lowlife usurper. We're to
press him for the return of our sacred Sword before he manages
to think of some reason to repudiate the bargain he made with
us. The royals command that we leave High Vrazel within the
hour—so forget that unholy experiment of yours, and get your
ass armoured and hopping!"

The houri leaned over Tony, curtaining him in glorious hair.
Her hands caressed his pectorals. "Later, dear Tonee," she
whispered, letting one blood-red fingernail trace a line from his
sternum to his navel. He felt the cell whirl about him. She kissed
him with lips that tasted of strawberries, and for one split second
he believed she was his abandoned, goblin wife and cried:

"Rowane, don't go!"

Then the illusion vanished and he uttered a sob of horror.

Standing over him, her head grazing the stone ceiling, was
the appalling ogress official called the Dreadful Skathe. She
grinned, showing a mouthful of tusks like crooked ivory daggers.

"Pretty good, was I?" She chucked Tony under the chin. Her
fist was ham-sized, and the tickling finger had a talon that would
have done credit to a firebacked eagle. "Let's see now," the
monster mused. "I don't see any reason why we can't take you
with us. We'll be travelling fast and light on this fucking royal
mission, but you can ride pillion. We'll find our magic moment
somewhere along the way."

For more than two sleepless days, the Firvulag heroes and their
human supernumerary travelled west, halting only to exchange
ruined chalikos for fresh ones. Then news of Nodonn's defeat
reached them at Burask, and the original mission was aborted.
Hoping to resume her interrupted experiment, Skathe booked

an expensive suite at the best hotel in town, which had been
the local pleasure dome when Burask belonged to the Tanu.
But Tony only gave a woozy sneer when the houri reappeared,
said, "Not bloody likely," and collapsed and slept like a dead
man.

Skathe cursed human fragility roundly and reassumed her
gigantic shape. There were ways to rouse Tony, and other droll
experiments besides the amatory sort that he might be encour-
aged to participate in as a prelude to the ultimate diversion. But
no sooner had the ogress begun to rehearse the possibilities than
she felt her brain tingle. The fur-covered bed with Tony snoring
on it wavered and grew dim, and a vision of Queen Ayfa of the
Firvulag took its place.

Skathe, my Great Captain! came the farspoken voice of the
Monarch.

"I am here, Your Appalling Highness."

Up to your old vulgar tricks, I see—while princes perish and
worlds quake and omens and portents proliferate like hoobies in
a mulch pile! Well, you can forget about playing games. Momen-
tous deeds are pending—battles!—and you're going to be there.

"Your obedient vassal, Sovereign of the Heights and Depths."

That's better . . . I want you and the Worm to ride hell-for-
leather to Bardelask. With Nodonn dead and the Trickster slightly
the worse for wear, we have a perfect opportunity to launch a
decisive assault. The town's well softened by raids and ripe for
the kill. We've ordered Mimee of Famorel to march on it—and
you and the Worm are to hightail it on down there and act as
official observers. Sharn and I want an honest report, not one of
the Birdbrain's usual self-serving pieces of bombastic bullshit.
You know these male generals! Stuff their dispatches with endless
accounts of glorious derring-do, and stint the casualty reports
and unit efficiency ratings and loot inventories. This will be the
first field action for the Famorel host in more than fifty years.
They did well enough in the Last Grand Combat with the general
staff keeping a close eye on them—but I want to be certain that
they're fully committed to the new ways.

"Arms united, minds united!" Skathe interposed smartly,
quoting the new Firvulag victory slogan.

Save that bumf for the troops—not that they'll need much
encouragement, what with Bardelask's having the biggest brewery
in the Many-Coloured Land. . .

"Now that's what I call a strategic objective!"
You keep a clear head—and that goes for the Worm, too. Or
else! Just remember that we'll be counting on Famorel to guard
our south flank when we make our big move on Roniah next
month. This Bardelask action is just a piddling little skirmish,
but it's a perfect opportunity for performance evaluation. Do a
good job. Once the battle's won and you've sent your reports in,
I don't care how much beer guzzling or Lowlife futtering you
do. Now get moving—and Slitsal!

The warrior-ogress saluted the fading vision. "Slitsal, High
Queen!" Then she threw Tony over her shoulder and headed
for the hotel stables.

Ten hours later, the two Great Captains of the Firvulag and
their unconscious captive reached a certain derelict Tanu fort
on the River Saone, after having been slowed only slightly by
a thick fog that rolled in over the Cote d'Or. There, by prearran-
gement, they took delivery of a confiscated riverboat and its
detorced human pilot. The Firvulag regulars who had seen to
the procurement of the boat loaded the heroes' baggage while
Tony stood groggily on the fort deck wondering where he was.

The boat's skipper, a homely beanpole of a woman, proved
unexpectedly mettlesome in spite of her lost grey torc and the
fact that both her ankles were chained to a twenty-seven-kilo
anchor that she was obliged to hold in her arms. She spat at
Karbree's spurred feet when he told her that she was to take
them to Bardelask, and said, "Fat chance. Go take a flying
fuck."

The Worm's ophidian eyes crinkled in good humour. "Don't
be unreasonable, Lowlife. Your alternative is a melancholy
one—a diving lesson with that large piece of polymer-clad lead
preceding you to the bottom of the Saone."

"I might as well die now as later," she retorted. "Everyone
knows what happens to humans captured by you fiends. Rape,
dismemberment, and then watching bits of yourself being
gobbled up before your dying eyes. No thanks, ogre. You can
drown me now."

"You've listened to too many Tanu lies, dear," said Skathe.
She propelled Tony up the gangplank and eased him into a
comfortable seat. "Ask this chap. Nobody's eaten him"

"Not yet," said the woman.

Tony snapped wide-awake.

Skathe croaked merrily. "Just propaganda. Fairy tales. My,
what a lovely boat!"

Karbree drew himself up. His obsidian armour, inset with
hundreds of green beryls and chased with gold, gleamed splen-
didly in the swirling mist. "Do you know who we are, Lowlife?
Heroes of the Grand Combat! Peaceful emissaries of the
Firvulag Court!"

"You're spooks, and spooks eat people," the skipper insisted.
"At least, the giant ones do—and you qualify on that point with
knobs on, big buddy."

Karbree smote his breastplate with a ringing clang. "On my
honour as a member of the Gnomish Council—I, Karbree the
Worm, swear that you will be unharmed if you cooperate! Pilot
the three of us to Bardelask speedily, get us past the Tanu
marine patrol at Roniah and through the four stretches of rapids,
and we will set you free in your own boat when we arrive safe
at our destination."

The baggage was all stowed and dwarf troopers stood ready
at the bow and stern lines, Karbree smiled, held out a hand
to the skipper, and said, "Let me carry your anchor into the
wheelhouse."

The woman chewed her lower lip. "Well . . ."

"Such a well-kept craft," Skathe said. "She must be very fast.
How long will it take for us to make the trip, dear?"

"I can get you to Bardy-Town inside of twenty-six hours. Less
if this puke blows away and I can shoot the rapids at speed."

"Wonderful," said the ogress. "Let's be off."

"All right, it's a deal." The skipper marched up the gangplank
with Karbree solicitously bearing the anchor, and a few minutes
later they were on their way.

In the calm stretch of water below Roniah, when deepening
night and the fog transformed the plass-roofed boat into a gently
rocking womb, Tony dozed again and it seemed that the terrible
creature who held him in thrall was not a Firvulag she-warrior
at all, but his own Howler bride, Rowane.

"I didn't want to leave you," he mumbled. "It's just that I'm
not too strong these days. If only they hadn't robbed me of my
silver torc, it would have been all right. Forgive me for going
away. Forgive me ..."

She said, "But you didn't go, darling Tonee. You're right
here with me. You don't have to be afraid. Just love me the
way you used to do."

"I can't, without the torc. That's the trouble." But
Rowane—or was it the scarlet-haired houri?—was tantalizingly
insistent, and he was trying to remember a danger, and pushing
at her, and thrashing about on some couch that was much too
narrow, and when his sleep-drugged eyes opened and he finally
saw—"

"Aaugh!" he screamed, and threw a wild punch. He fell off
the slippery leather couch and landed flat on his face. Fortu-
nately, the deck of the pneumatic craft was quite resilient.

"Everything all right back there?" came the amused voice of
Karbree from the forward cabin.

"No!" said Skathe. "Mind your own business, Worm."

The houri lifted Tony and sat him back on the couch. The
only light was a greenish glow from some redundant instrumen-
tation in the stern. This had the unfortunate effect of turning
the succubus's hair from scarlet to muddy grey. Cuddling up to
him, she began to kiss the angle of his jaw and stroke his spine.

He flinched. "Please don't. I'd like my clothes back."

Her fingernails nipped his earlobe. The kisses skittered down
his chest like light-footed insects. "I'd like something else!"

But he was shivering and pulled away. "You have a lot to
learn about human men. You really can't make me, you know.
I have to be in the mood. Which at this moment I most emphati-
cally am not."

"Are you frightened, poor baby? There's no need to be. After
our little experiment, I promise to let you go. Just. . . cooperate
a little! Our people have always been very prejudiced against
alliances with you humans. But lately there have been
rumours—from the Howler women at Nionel who took human
mates—that you were something special."

In spite of himself, Tony felt a prideful chauvinistic stirring.
"There's a certain allure," he ventured primly, "in novelty."

"Exactly! So what's wrong? This body I'm wearing doesn't
appeal to you? Let me try another! You had a Howler wife, so
I thought you'd go for something kinky. But I could be a human
wench just as easily. Or ... since you were a silver-torc, how
about a domineering blonde with wraparound breasts—"

"Please!" Tony edged away.

The houri's expression became calculating. "What did you
mean, about not being strong enough since you lost the torc?
You're not burned out, are you?"

"Of course not! It's just—well, you see, when humans experi-
ence sex with you exotic women—that is, when we have the
torc, most of us are able to carry on—uh—more efficiently.
Whereas without it—and even with it, if one proves
incompatible—I mean, there's a danger—a certain inhibiting
factor takes over—"

"Ah-Aa!" said Skathe.

There was a meditative silence. Feeling about in the dark,
Tony found his pants and shirt. The houri made no move to stop
him, and he gratefully slipped into his clothes, simultaneously
slithering to the far end of the couch. The monster did not
follow, but she never took her eyes off him.

Finally she said, "You have no significant metapsychic
powers. Why did the Tanu give you a silver torc, then? For your
prowess in the pleasure dome?"

Tony bridled. "Certainly not. I was a very important person
in Finiah. As a metallurgical engineer, my professional skills
were highly valued. I was in charge of the entire barium extrac-
tion operation."

"Interesting. That mine was our principal target, you know.
Madame Guderian pointed out to us that without a barium
supply, the Tanu are unable to manufacture new torcs."

Tony had the distinct feeling that he might have said too
much. He hastened to add, "The mine's completely buried in
lava, you know. Not the remotest chance of its ever being
opened again. Not in a million years."

"Or six," said Skathe.

Tony kept very quiet. The houri's body was melting, length-
ening. The dreadful Skathe looked down at him and asked
quietly, "Why did you come through the time-gate, Tony?"

"Well ... it was very commonplace, really. My lover told
me she was leaving me for another chap, my immediate superior.
We three worked together in the same facility, you see, and
there was no question of their leaving. The situation became
quite unbearable."

"So you ran away."

"Actually, I tipped the pair of them into an eight-hundred-
meganewton forging press."

The monster's eyes bugged. "Te's titties!"

"It passed as an accident at the time, but I knew that the
Milieu's forensic redactors would catch up with me sooner or
later. It seemed the sensible thing to leg it."

Skathe patted Tony on the head. "You know, I like you."

"Then why not turn me loose? I'm never going to be any
good for your experiment. Aside from being scared to death of
you, I'm so tired that I could sleep for a week, and devilishly
hungry besides."

"Are you, by damn!" She exploded in great gusts of laughter
that brought Karbree to the compartment door. "Sling that
hamper of food and drink in here, Worm!" She tipped a wink
to Tony. "After you've eaten, get some rest. Strap into one of
the soft seats so you won't be bothered by the rapids. I've
got business to attend to down in Bardelask, but when that's
over—we'll see about letting you go."

Again, Tony dreamed. But this time it was about Finiah, flaming
and devastated, with bodies heaped in the streets and Firvulag
monstrosities gathering for their final assault on the palace gate,
and Lord Velteyn and his Flying Hunt poised in the smoke,
their brave battlecries ringing in his mind while he, Tony, hacked
his way through a horde of Lowlife invaders, wielding an aqua-
marine sword.

But he hadn't.

Even as the dream scenario unfolded, Tony knew it for false-
hood. He had never even suspected that Finiah was under attack
until the ragtag Hidden Springs troops broke into the pleasure
dome, dispatched his Tanu bedmate with an iron-studded mace,
and hustled him off to judgment. Dream-Tony, defying this
contradiction, fought on until the moment that the sleeper
opened his eyes to reality—to lurid smoke clouds rolling above
the boat's bubbletop roof, to martial shouts and screams faintly
heard, to the unmistakable battle-reek that smote his nostrils
and shocked him into alertness.

He was alone in the after cabin of the boat. It was moored
in the midst of papyrus plants so tall and densely crowded that
he could see no details of the region on either side. The view
forward was less restricted and he could see a dock area with
devastated buildings ablaze; and when the air cleared momenta-
rily he caught sight of a Tanu citadel with scorched walls and

broken towers and a single defiant blue beacon against the
lowering sky. Pulses of multicoloured light sparked fitfully
behind the fortress windows. There were random small explo-
sions that uncannily resembled heavy calibre rifle fire.

This, beyond a doubt, was Bardelask. And it seemed as
though the battle was nearly over. How long had he been asleep?

Wondering if the monsters had abandoned him, he began to
make his way forward. And then he heard indeterminate soft
noises and muttered speech coming from up there, and a sudden
burst of choked laughter. Tony stood stock-still.

"Marvellous. Terrific!" The voice was that of Karbree the
Worm.

"No turn-on like a good bit of warfare," Skathe agreed. "Just
enough to whet the old lower appetites."

Karbree giggled hideously. "Still say you should have taken
yours, too. Any which way."

"My turn's coming, cockie. I have my own style."

"You watched me, I get to watch you. Fair's fair."

"Shares on your leftovers, then," Skathe demanded.

The Worm growled, then waxed jovial. "Oh, why the hell
not? Here—try these toes." There came a distinct crunch.

Tony felt his guts transmute into a frigid lump. Fee fie ...
Tanu lies . . . fo fum . . . propaganda, on my honour as a
member of the Gnomish Council. . .

Somebody emitted a colossal belch. Somebody else vented a
replete sigh. The voices of the Firvulag seemed to recede to a
great distance.

"Great little battle, all right," said Karbree. "Discipline in
the ranks pretty well fell apart after the brewery was taken, but
you can't expect miracles."

Skathe murmured assent. "I'll give old Mimee the Bird high
marks for the main action, though. And I thought his special
forces did particularly well, considering the small number of
high-technology weapons we were able to send to Famorel."

A guffaw broke from the Worm. "And didn't the Exalted
Lady Armida look surprised when Anduvor Doubletarse put
that steel-jacketed bullet into her gizzard! Pity the body fell into
the main fermentation vat. Contaminated the whole batch."
The ogres chortled in reminiscence. There was a loud splash,
followed by a number of small ones. Tidying up time, no doubt.
Karbree uttered a huge yawn.

"Why not catch a little zizz?" Skathe said. "I've got a lot of
female-type preliminaries I want to enjoy before getting around
to my own main event. Tease my miminy-piminy poppet before
letting him have his little souvenir of Bardelask. Keep him
begging. Take my time in the buildup. But you'll be waked up
when the real fun starts—no fear!"

Energized at last by sheer panic, Tony spun wildly about and
staggered toward the stern. There was no way he could escape
overboard. Abaft the wheelhouse, the boat was still securely
roofed over, the plass panels held in place by stubborn little
clips. To hide then . . . but the big deck hatches wouldn't budge,
and the lockers were too small to hold him, and the pedestals
of the benches were already stuffed with marine paraphernalia.
It would be hopeless to hide in the head; the she-monster could
rip the door off its hinges in an instant. There remained only
the pile of baggage jumbled in the stern sheets—all manner of
bags and pouches and dispatch boxes and map cases, most
unstrapped and scattering their contents in a jumble on the
deck. He could burrow into the heap and—

"Tonee, are you awake?"

He froze, partially concealed behind an enormous leather
annourcase. The houri came slinking along the passage. He saw
her enter, sable-skinned, crowned with the flowing mane of
luscious scarlet, holding something aloft in one hand, something
that shone metallic by the light of the burning city.

"I've brought you a wonderful present, darling—just what
you needed! We're going to have the greatest fun with my little
experiment—"

She paused, frowning. "Tonee, are you going to be
tiresome?"

He shrank down, tried in desperation to creep into the capa-
cious leather box with its compartments and supportive loops,
and then felt, held in a kind of open scabbard, something
slender, hard, and longer than his arm. He drew it out, not
believing his eyes. The monsters had carried other arms, of
course, but this—

"Come out of there at once," she hissed, brandishing the gift
angrily. Tony saw at last what it was.

A torc. But not one of silver. It was gold.

He peeked over the top of the armour-case and grinned. "Just
fooling, luv!" His hands, out of sight, fumbled inexpertly. But

there had been that long-ago holiday on barbarous Assiniboia,
and these classic pieces were all of a type, after all.

The Dreadful Skathe chuckled, pranced toward him in a
parody of a nautch-dance, enticing as a black widow spider on
the verge of its fatal embrace. Tony came slowly to his feet,
keeping the thing pointed at the deck until the last possible
moment. Then as she held the torc high and safe, he swept up
the archaic Rigby .470 elephant rifle and shot her in the face.

The explosion and the fierce recoil sent him reeling. He saw
the ogress fall with the rear half of her skull blown away and
the bulkhead behind her suddenly turned to the colour of her
hair.

The other Firvulag came roaring down the passage, wearing
his illusory guise of a limbless winged dragon with saucer-sized
green eyes and fangs dripping venom. But the Rigby was a
double-barrelled weapon, and Karbree died as ignominiously as
the female hero had done.

Like a man still spellbound, Tony picked up the golden torc
and fastened it about his neck. He said to himself, "Rowane."

And then he heard the hissing and gurgling and realized he
had not got off scot-free after all. There was a price to be
paid when one banged about on a pneumatic boat with a high-
powered rifle—but it was, under the circumstances, reasonable
enough.

CHAPTER SIX

The protective sphere of psychocreative force carrying the King
and the chemist hung poised above the foamy mass that had
surged out of the subterranean storage area and partially filled
the stairwell. Embedded in the goop were countless plass-
sheathed packages and container pods.

"Rather like a devil's Nesselrode pudding," the chemist
observed. At his silver-torc initiation, the Tanu had dubbed him
Wex-Velitokal, which was only slightly less ungainly than his
original name of Ethelbert Anketell Milledge-Wexler; but the
exotic penchant for nicknames having come to the rescue, he

was now known to one and all as Bert Candyman, and had so
introduced himself to the King without the slightest trace of
embarrassment.

"Queen Mercy-Rosmar made this mess out of the wall insula-
tion," Aiken said. "Her purpose was to prevent me from using
any of these weapons or other contraband Milieu equipment
against Nodonn and his invaders—but not to ruin the materiel
beyond retrieval. She succeeded very well in the first instance.
The bubbles of that sticky foam are filled with poison gas. Any
ordinary human poking around in it is an instant goner. A Tanu
unshielded by creativity becomes a candidate for six weeks in
Skin."

"Can you filch a sample for me and pop it into here?" Bert
Candyman held out a device about the size of a pocket AV
recorder, with a tiny hopper open at the top. "This will analyse
the constituents for us in half a sec."

Aiken nodded. A small bubble materialized above the deadly
suds and scooped up a portion. It oozed through the superficies
of the greater sphere enveloping the two men and disappeared
into the analyser. Bert snapped the hopper shut and studied the
diminutive visual display.

"Beastly ingenious, Her Late Majesty. She simply unzipped
a fairly standard polyurethane molecule. Broke up the original
insulating material into its constituent tolylene diisocyanate and
poly(oxypropylene)triol. She heated this foul glop and injected
groundwater from the castle sumps, then diddled around a bit
further with the isocyanate to generate the hydrogen cyanide
gas."

"How do we get rid of it?"

"Well, a talented metapsychic creator might simply reverse
the process—"

The King's face was expressionless. "How else?"

"The likeliest solvent would be acetone. Effective, and harm-
less to the fluorocarbon thermoplastic of the equipment wrap-
pings. I don't suppose you have a few thousand litres stashed
away somewhere?"

Aiken laughed bitterly. "There's probably a gadget buried
down there that would make as much as we need in five
minutes—if we could only identify it. But the Queen destroyed
the inventory-control computer, so it's all one big high-tech grab

bag now. I probably wouldn't know an acetone cooker from a
robot bartender if you set the two pods in front of me."

"Ah. Well! We can make acetone from scratch, too, of course.
Not particularly difficult. Hardly on a par with my last
project—perfecting a pickling process that would yield a pecan
flavour in the walnuts we utilize in the brandied buttercream
chocolates—"

Aiken blinked. The chemist broke off his genial digression as
though a bullwhip had been snapped in front of his face.

"You make pryoligenous acid from hog-fuel—hardwood
chips, that is. Treat it with quicklime. Your stonemasons should
have plenty of that on hand. Then distill the slurry to make
calcium acetate. A modicum of further heating yields the
acetone by fractional distillation. A straightforward industrial
operation."

The two of them were wafting upward. "How long to make
what we'll need?" Aiken asked. Their feet touched stone and
the sphere of mental force flattened as it pushed the invisible
gas away from the tightly closed door.

"Give me carte blanche on supplies and personnel, and I'll
have the solvent ready in three weeks. The actual decontamina-
tion operation may take longer unless you have protective
clothing with oxygen apparatus for the workers. The acetone
wash will remove the foam, but there's still the cyanide to
contend with."

The small man in the golden leather storm-suit and the
chemist dressed in the elegant turquoise robes of the Greater
Guild emerged into the safe atmosphere of the castle's grand
foyer. The door to the deadly storage area clanged shut.

"You're not thinking like a metapsychic, Candyman," the
King chided, "but that's not surprising, since your own talents
run more to the intellectual than the physical." They walked
rapidly down a corridor, and Aiken continued. "You will have
at your service—and I mean, prepared to do whatever dirty
work this dirty job requires—a cadre of very special assistants.
They'll use their mindpower to build your apparatus, to prepare
the raw materials, to expedite things in whatever manner you
command. They'll protect themselves mentally while they swab
down the contaminated stuff—pod by pod, package by
package—so you needn't worry about safety gear. They can

protect you as well as themselves. What's more, they'll work
without sleeping for a week. It's easy, if you're a Tanu stalwart."

Aiken opened the door to a small antechamber. Several dozen
Tanu wearing knightly mufti waited there. As the King entered
they rose and placed right hands to their golden torcs in the
gesture of fealty. Their protective mental barriers were down.
All of them were either creators or psychokinetics, and their
status was such that the human chemist stepped back, overawed,
and would have abased himself in the customary manner of
silver-torcs if the King had not subliminally restrained him.

A slight smile twitched at the King's lips as he made introduc-
tions. "Here are Kuhal Earthshaker and Celadeyr of Afaliah
and certain of their followers. They'll be your principal helpers
on the job, but you can have as many others in addition as you
might require."

Bert Candyman could only nod wordlessly as the former High
Table members and the other noble Tanu made humble mental
obeisance to him. And then the King seemed to look into his
soul with devouring black eyes, and the torc at his throat wanned
and changed—and by the mind-whispers of the exotics Bert
knew that it had become free gold.

Aiken said, "You have seven days to produce that solvent and
decontaminate the Milieu weapons and other materiel. Work as
though the fate of the Many-Coloured Land depended upon
you."

"Does it?" the shaken chemist asked, and the perplexed Tanu
minds seemed to echo the question, and ready scores of others.

But those hot eyes held a warning, and the Tanu hesitated,
and a moment later the King was gone.

AIKEN: Ochal! How goes it?

OCHAL THE HARPER: Well enough, High King. We of the vanguard
are just crossing the River Galegaar, and we'll reach the
Calamosk shortly. There we will remount for the final sprint.
We should arrive in Afaliah less than ten hours from now.

AIKEN: Kaleidoscopic. Your advance party should get there
handily before the North Americans . . . But here's the bad
news. They had a stiff tailwind on the New Sea yesterday,
and Morna-Ia farsighted Hagen's ATVs approaching the Neck
of Aven just before midnight.

OCHAL: Tana's teeth, what rotten luck! The supply wagons and

the bulk of our forces can't get to Afaliah until more than
forty hours after us. If the futuristic vehicles of the North
Americans make a dash for the city up the Old Aven Road,
we're for it!

AIKEN: Quite possibly. I don't think we can trust Cloud Remil-
lard to honour her promise—not if she's backed up by her
brother and his bunch, armed to the teeth with Milieu
weapons. She says this crew of junior rebels has no ambition
to take over the Many-Coloured Land, but there's no way I
can get the truth of it until I brain-ream the lot of them in
person.

OCHAL: What shall we do then, High King?

AIKEN: Your advance party is too small and too lightly armed
to risk attempting a stand in Afaliah. Carry on as we
planned—be the courtly diplomatist until Cloud takes you to
meet Wimborne and the other prisoners. Then spring it on
her that you're taking them to Calamosk—and run. Without
her brother to back her up, and with Kuhal Earthshaker still
in my hands, Cloud won't dare use her aggressive redaction
on you.

OCHAL: You will have the reinforcements meet us in Calamosk?

AIKEN: I think the timing will jibe. It's quite likely that Hagen
Remillard will be tempted to follow you, and I don't doubt
that he has the firepower advantage. But my guess is that
these North American kids will recognize the stalemate and
hold back, rather than risk killing the Wimborne group in an
all-out blitz on Calamosk. That'll be my cue to talk sweet
reason with 'em!

OCHAL: You will bring your Flying Hunt to Koneyn, High
King?

AIKEN: In time. But count on seeing Me in Calamosk in two or
three days! Just remember that I'm relying on you, Harper.
Don't let anything happen to Basil's Bastards.

SHARN!

Aikenladdibuck! HowYOU? Longtimenothink!

Bloodybleatingbastard whatfuck BARDELASK?
Nownownownow . . . MimeeFamorelViceroy
ownhook distantHighVrazel beyondMycontrol
Armisticeviolator let oldgrievance vs. Armida
Formidable(maysherestGoddesspeaceful) overrule

royalpolicy just wait till Ayfa&I gethold

MimeeBirdbrainhotspur—
BAT SHIT.

Aiken! Lad! You don't seriously think We'd encourage

lawless excursions against You? Breaking our Royal

Word?
Bet yourballs I do.

... I swear on My Honour as Monarch of the Heights

and Depths Father of All Firvulag—
Put a bung in it! I know verywell what yourword worth
given humanbeing. [Colourful obscene image.] And don't
think not wiseto stunt you pulled fingering Lowlives&
aircraft for Nodonn!

Well ladomyheart there you got me cold ... I was

tempted beyondstrength thoughtofSWORD fell like

ripepompelmous into fiendBattlemastertrap—
Morelikely wholething youridea. Well you backed wrong-
starter KingScorpionGlitterguts and screwed self royally! I
had planned nicefriendly surprise GrandTourney but now—

No! You didn't! O Te damme to uttermostchasm!
—now    I'll    be    drawn&quartered&liverfriedwithonions
before I let you get perfidioushooks on Sword.

Lad . . . KingAikenLugonn . . . BrotherSovereign . . .

It was just a terrible MISUNDERSTANDING.
[Pitying laughter.]

No  really!   I'll  prove  it!  Force  Mimee  withdraw

Bardelask—

Dammit   Sharn   RoyalAssholeness  place   smoking  ruin
Armida&knights dead whatflaminggood withdrawal?

Well . . . reparations then.
Roniah.

?
Roniah soddinghypocrite. Call it off.

??

Abort your planned strike against Roniah with HighVrazel-
regulars scheduled lastweek September.

As Te is my Witness—
OKAY THE HUNT FLIES TONIGHT.

No wait I'll check perhaps Medor or Betularn or Fafnor

conspired circumvent authority—
Save yourdamnface anywhichway but hands off Roniah!

Checko. You just rest easy.
[Pained laughter.]

??? (!) Aiken we can be Mends. ManyColouredLand

bigenough for all. And about the Sword . . . You know

it's sacred to mypeople. It belonged myown sainted

greatgreatgrandsire SharnAtrocious. Give it back to us

Aiken. We'll keep the peace. I swear.
No   nnaldecision   until   postTourney.   Consider   Sword
security goodbehaviour.

Agreed! I knew you'd be a reasonable lad! I'll use

yourpromise

Swordgift keep hotheads inline let 'em save energy for

Tourney!

Great idea! Wait till you see wonderful SingingStone—
[Weariness.] Good night Sharn.

Good night Aiken.

Good night...

For the first time in nearly a week, Aiken came to the royal
apartments.

The golden doors were back on their hinges and there
remained no traces of the damage done by the invaders. He had
commanded that all things that had belonged to Queen Mercy-
Rosmar should be removed. And now as he passed through the
silent sitting room with its balcony overlooking the moonlit sea,
he noted that certain paintings and pieces of sculpture and
potted plants were gone, and the loom where she had woven
soft shawls from the wool of the sheep she herself had brought
to the Pliocene, and the water dish of her great white dog, and
the carved cabinet with the stoppered flasks of special herbs,
and a certain blue rug, and the embroidered cushions from the
rattan lounge seats. In her dressing room the closets gaped open
and empty. The vases held no flowers. Her jewel cases were
gone, and the cosmetics, and even the scent of her perfume.
Her chaise with its Milieu-style reading lamp had been removed,
and the cases with her page-books and plaques and the audio-
visual recordings of the medieval pageants and the operas and
the plays and the travelogues of Old Earth that she had shared
with him, a callow boy from a colonial planet, on the nights last
winter when the rains lashed the Castle of Glass and they
planned together how he would seize the throne . . .

She was gone. She remained. And the other as well.

Standing there in the empty dressing room he seemed
surrounded by leftover laughter. He burned. His brain and his
body seemed hideously swollen, straining the seams of the
golden storm-suit he had insisted on wearing even when the
Summer Fog was long gone. He found himself saying: If only
you'd loved me! Or if I hadn't! And remembering: "When I'm
gone, you'll find no other. Fatal Fool! How will you do it,
Amadan-na-Briona?"

He had done it as his instincts drove him, taking both of them
in a rage of fear and envy and terrible love, gorging himself on
the coveted power, the vitality.

It was the only way, his mind screamed.

He found himself standing in the royal bath, reflected in the
mirrored walls, a manikin in shining gold leather, reduplicated
to infinity. He put both hands to his ears, pressing the storm-
suit's hood tightly against his skull with all his superhuman
strength. The coarser agony swamped anguish. He cried, "You
belong to Me!"

And it was all right.

One little man staring at himself in a jewelled mirror. The
familiar onyx-and-gold bathroom, with the small fountain
playing in the cool end of the great sunken tub and the warm end
steaming invitingly. Baskets of heavy-scented yellow orchids. A
lumpish moon spying on him through the glazed skylight. Piles
of purple towels and his yellow-silk dressing gown and amethyst-
studded espadrilles. A pitcher of iced mead and a crystal
tumbler, just as his telepathic orders to the silver domestics had
specified.

It was all right.

He studied his reflected face, pale and woeful in the crested
hood. The lips were tight-shut in reaction to his involuntary
shout, the nose cruelly sharpened. He had thought that the fever
would manifest itself physically. He had worn the tough gilded
hide of the storm-suit to conceal his condition from the others:
the gross swelling, the incandescence. He knew that when he
took the suit off, the consequences of his gluttony and lust would
be shamefully manifest.

But it seemed to be all right.

He unfastened the hood, pulled it away. His head was sweat-
plastered, the dark auburn hair almost as black as his eyes. He

kicked off the boots, opened the wrists and ankles, threw away
the belt, finally unzipped the suit from throat to crotch and
stepped out of it. His body was wiry, corded with muscle, scan-
tily haired. There were faint pressure marks from the seams of the
tight suit but otherwise he was ordinary, and quiescent. What
he had been so afraid of finding was gone. If it had ever existed.

He gave a great shout of laughter and dived into the steaming
pool.

It was all right.

Later, as he sat on the balcony drinking mead and watching the
owls, Olone came. She was as tall as a young tree, with blonde
hair floating loose in the sea breeze, and she sent tentative
coercive emanations stealing into his mind, feather-touching the
erotic triggers.

"No," he told her.

"I'm sorry, my King." She was wearing a translucent gown
without a sash that fell from her shoulders like silvery water. "I
only thought to help you in your need."

"And what else?" he inquired softly. His own coercive-redac-
tive probe went into her so subtly that she was without suspicion,
intent on her artless manoeuvreing.

"I wanted to tell you how glad I am. That you won. That
both of the traitors are dead—and Tonn with them! I am yours
forever if you want me."

Aiken laughed very gently.

She stood proud before him, one hand resting on her
abdomen. "And I have conceived your child."

"So have sixty-seven other Tanu women. I'm the King."

"I thought you'd be pleased!" she cried.

He sipped his drink, gaze veiled, mind inspecting her proud
young ego. "I know what you thought, Oly. What you think.
When I believed that Mercy was dead, when I was drained and
weakened after the fight with Felice, you gave me great comfort
and helped heal me. I'm grateful for that, and I'm happy that
you carry one of my sons. But don't ever think you can manipu-
late Me, Coercive Sister."

Frantic mental walls crashed into place. She backed toward
the balcony door. "My King, forgive me—"

"Poor Oly. Your ambition is a futile one, and mortally dang-
erous. I've had enough of queens for now."

"I—I was foolish and presumptuous. Don't hurt me!"

He was reassuring. "Not if you accept that I've changed."

She hesitated. Her fear dissipated and her aspect softened as
she realized that he was not angry but amused, and sad. "Shall
I leave Goriah, then?"

"Of course not. And just because we don't share a bed, don't
think that I've lost my fondness for you. You're a marvellous
randy Tanu lass, and we'll share sweet houghmagandy anon.
But not now. You can give us a wee kiss, though!"

She burst out laughing and flew to him, and kissed him first
with caution and then with full passion. And he held her lightly
as she surrendered to ecstatic relief, and her mind confessed,
and he forgave. Later, she sat on the floor at his feet and said,
"Is it true? That you've swallowed the minds of Nodonn and
the Queen in the manner of the legendary heroes of our lost.
Duat world? And if you bedded me now, with the conquering
fire still investing your mind, then I'd be taken, too?"

He tried to explain. "Elizabeth says that what I did—and you
must believe that it was done without my conscious
volition—was to subsume the metapsychic attributes of Mercy
and Nodonn. I know nothing about your Duat legends. I
certainly didn't eat two people alive, and I didn't drain their
souls and imprison them inside my head—"

"—even though you were afraid that you had," Olone
whispered.

"Dear Oly. You're nobody's fool. Is my royal indisposition
the talk of the castle?"

"We know that you do not sleep. That you are deeply
troubled."

"Don't you think I have reason to be? You know how the
Firvulag have broken the peace accords."

"Will there be war?" She had both hands clenched tightly
against her belly.

"If there's a war, I'll win it."

Her eagerness was desperate. "Has—has the subsumption
made you very strong, then? So strong that Sharn and Ayfa will
not dare to come against us?"

Had it? Would the stolen powers be his to use?

Aye, there was the rub! Not yet, that was certain. The
subsumption had been an appalling trauma; he had not dared

to reveal the full extent of his dysfunction to anyone except
Elizabeth. Only she knew that he was able to perform only the
simplest metapsychic operations with reliable competence—that
he was barely able to fly, that he could not begin to generate
the psychokinetic power needed to lift his 400 mounted Hunt
knights, that he could no longer conjure up mighty bolts of
mental energy or create a laser-deflecting mindscreen. The new
powers he had taken over from Nodonn and Mercy were there
inside him, crowding and disrupting his own metafunctions. But
he was unable to energize them efficiently. The existing neural
pathways were inadequate. He would have to form new ones
capable of bearing the increased load, just as he had modified
other aspects of his cortical operation after the Felice affair,
incorporating the metaconcert program and the novel techniques
for aggression vouchsafed him by Abaddon. That had taken
time. So would the fullness of the subsumption—if he did not
go mad in the process, as Elizabeth had warned he might. In
the meantime, he would have to bluff and stall and cajole and
bamboozle. And hold fast to the Milieu armaments and seize
those ancient flying machines that Basil Wimborne and his crew
had hidden away in the Alps—

"I will never reveal your secret, my King. Rely on me."

"What?" Lost in his reverie, he had forgotten Olone and her
question, secure (he thought) behind the mental defences that
still retained most of their old effectiveness. But she had risen
and stood now before him, respiring compassion.
'"I will never tell."

She had guessed. Sensitive and anxious for their unborn child,
clever and self-serving and fearful and thoroughly in love with
him, Olone knew.

"Aiken, it's all right. You'll find a way. You must. You're
our King."

"Yes," he said desolately, and leaned back in the chair, and
closed his eyes and his mind, and waited until she went away.

Still later, he paced along the parapet, moving from block to
block of the castle, up the towers and across the flying bridges
and in and out of the partially repaired bastions—dark now,
with the periodic lights-out in effect. He greeted the night watch
as he prowled, and they reassured him that all was well. With

the inner demons coming alive in the predawn hours, he went
up into the great broken spire where the beacon had shone,
where he and Mercy had watched the meteors, in order to check
the rebuilding job. The workers had reached the penultimate
landing and would be topping off within another day or two.
He stood on the new floor of dusty glass blocks with the wind
whipping his silk robe and humming through the narrow embras-
ures. A large chunk of the western wall was still out and he had
a stunning view over the Strait of Redon.

What was he up to these days?

Had he set sail yet?

"And can I farsense you?" Aiken inquired softly. He could
mindspeak well enough over several hundred kilometres, and
this morning he had viewed the devastation of Bardelask quite
clearly. Farsensing, unlike the "muscle" metafaculties, was more
a matter of adroitness than strength. It even had its own auxiliary
neural circuitry integrating it with the physical senses, and this
was much less vulnerable than the faculties that functioned
holographically.

Why not give it a shot? It was night, the optimal time for
a long-distance effort, and he sure as hell knew the mental
signature!

He would simply observe. Not attempt communication.

Leaning against the half-finished wall, he put his head into an
embrasure that would provide the proper inclination. Then he
relaxed, let his mental vision range out, following the curvature
of Pliocene Earth, skimming lightly over the unobtrusive
Atlantic waters on wide beam. Lightly . . . lightly . . . diffused
and soft, minimally powered, skating above incipient pain . . .
range . . . range . . . range.

Ha. North America.

Now, very charily, close her up. Narrow the beam. Sweep
southward along the teeming lagoons of Georgia, cross Apala-
chee Channel, and find Ocala Island. See its dots of human life-
aura. And the one . . .

Pain. But concentrate the beam anyhow, scanning the south
end of the island and the big bay that Cloud Remillard had said
was shielded from the worst of the hurricane winds by the
scattered atolls of the Still-Vexed Bermoothes. There they
would moor the boat.

Severe pain. The big four-masted schooner Kyllikki, trig and

handy and utilitarian. Deep in the water. Loaded. Elizabeth
had said that they put a sigma-field umbrella over her at quay-
side, but there was none now. She rode at anchor in forty metres
of salt water, and no portable sigma could overcome such a
power drain.

Excruciating pain. Now seek him out. All the ex-Rebels were
on that ship, waiting for dawn. He was sitting alone on the
afterdeck under the midnight sky, wearing stagged white dunga-
rees and a black singlet.

Marc Remillard smiled at Aiken Drum. The vision of him
was dim, minuscule. But his voice sounded as though he was
there on the windy tower in Goriah.

"As you can see, we're ready to sail. It's quite a wrench, after
more than twenty-seven years. Some of us were very reluctant
to leave here."

Then why?

"Ah, I quite forgot!" The smile widened. "You don't really
have the full picture, do you? What our errant children told you
. . . well, we must make allowances. But it's time you knew the
truth, King Aiken-Lugonn. My son Hagen and daughter Cloud
and the rest of their contemporaries have come to Europe with
only one objective. To reopen the time-gate. From the Pliocene
side."

Not possible!

Marc's laugh was rueful. "From my point of view, I could
hope you were right. But I'm afraid that it's quite
possible—given the construction of a very intricate piece of
apparatus. Our rebellious young took with them complete
schematics for the Guderian device, together with certain manu-
facturing equipment and what specialized components they
could find here. They hope to prevail on you to provide Milieu-
trained technicians and raw materials, as well as access to the
time-gate site. For my part, I would suggest that you hold off
giving them your whole-hearted cooperation until you consider
the consequences most carefully."

Open . . . gate . . . RETURN. . .

"The children hope, as they quaintly put it, to 'return home'
to the Milieu. You can imagine my own thoughts on this
subject."

The sun was hovering just below the eastern hills of Armorica.
Its plasma-generated roar filled the aether, making farsensed

concentration hideously painful to Aiken's mind. The gulf was
widening, the vision fading beyond recall. He heard the voice
clearly until the end, however:

"Think about it, Aiken. An open time-gate leading back to
the Galactic Milieu—and, of course, its concomitant: the
reopening of the original gate leading from the Milieu to the
Pliocene. Do you want that, King Aiken-Lugonn? Do you want
to go home again?"

The wind whistled about the broken tower. Aiken's hand
throbbed as though it would burst. Blinded, he slid to his knees
and pressed his forehead against the cool glass blocks.

When the sun was full up and he heard the voices of the
approaching workers on the staircase below, he pulled himself
together. A saving cloak of invisibility was still within his
powers. He conjured the illusion and slipped back into his own
apartments. There he went to the closet where his old suit of
many pockets hung. He opened the compartment below the
right knee and took out a book-plaque that he had stowed away
in there one year and one week ago. It was entitled

THE GUDERIAN TAU-FIELD GENERATOR
Theory and Practical Application

"Do I want to go home?" he asked himself.
He sat down on the edge of the big round bed in the morning
sun and began reading page one.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was not so much the giant spiders themselves as their feeding
habits that finally caused Mr. Betsy to crack.

On the ninth day of their incarceration in the communal cell,
he awoke to the all too familiar tickle of one of the things
running over his hand. He mewled in revulsion and pulled
himself up in his straw nest, patting his wig back into place—and
then spotted the odious creature still lurking not half a metre
away, close by the snoring medievalist, Dougal. The spider
saw Betsy, too, for it reared up, twiddled its pedipalps with

conspicuous insolence, and emitted a crackling purr. It was coal-
black, and hairy and had a body the size of a peach.

"Disgusting brute!" Betsy hissed. He adjusted his crumpled
ruff. Dawnlight from the slot-window overlooking the gorge
weakly illuminated the dungeon's squalor. All about lay the
hunched or sprawled forms of the little band of technicians,
pilots, and adventurers known as Basil's Bastards, betrayed into
the hands of Nodonn Battlemaster by a mysterious operant
woman, robbed of the aircraft that were to have insured the
freedom of Lowlife humanity. Basil himself had been removed
from the cell days ago, presumably to be sent to the torturers.

Keeping a wary eye on the spider, Betsy bent to untie the
scarf that bound his farthingale skins tightly about his ankles.
He had learnt to sleep that way early on, since the cell was alive
with mice, the legitimate prey of the giant spiders. Betsy was
well aware—as had been generations of full-skirted women
before him—of the havoc the little mammals could wreak if they
ran up your legs. Perhaps he should have welcomed the presence
of the spiders, for the mice bit and the spiders didn't; but instead
he loathed them. They were too calculating, too agile in pursuit
of their victims, and the mice screeched in such a heart-rending
fashion when they were caught and whisked away to the lairs
up in the dungeon ceiling. After the predators had drunk their
fill of rodent bodily fluids, they dropped sad little web-wrapped
carcasses on the prisoners below.

Betsy, with his elaborate Elizabethan costume, was by far the
most vulnerable target.

And now this spider had the temerity to challenge him! He
threw a few bits of straw at it but it refused to retreat, standing
its ground near Dougal's bandaged ginger head. Betsy felt about
in the heavy shadows for a more substantial missile, but there
was nothing handy. The spider waved its legs mockingly. With
some effort, Betsy struggled to stand upright, and then saw to
his dismay that there was a long tear all along the side of the
hoopskirt, exposing the frame. Muttering darkly, he shook the
costume to settle it into place.

Three packaged mouse bodies dropped out of his petticoats
into the straw.

"You—you ugly monster!" the former rhocraft engineer
shrieked. He tore off a red-heeled brocade slipper and pitched
it overhand with all his strength. It missed the spider, which

sprang onto Dougal's face. The husky medievalist opened his
eyes and screamed blue murder, whacking at his beard with
open hands and kicking the straw in all directions. "Away, you
scullion, you rampallion, you fustilarian! Aaach—the whore-
son's fanged me!" 

The other twenty prisoners were coming awake in varying
degrees of alertness. As they tumbled from their pallets they
disturbed other questing arachnids, and it seemed as if the
dungeon was suddenly alive with the scuttling things. They ran
about like the disembodied hands of black demons, and wild-
eyed Dougal in his fake chainmail howled and sucked one thumb
and crashed to the floor with a doleful cry. "Then, venom, to
thy ... work," he whispered. His eyes closed.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed the appalled Betsy. The medievalist
writhed slightly.

"It got Dougal!" Clifford gasped. He pointed a trembling
finger at the surgeon, Magnus Bell. "And you said they were
harmless ..."

"But they are," Bell protested. He had knelt to take the
medievalist's pulse. "He's only hysterical."

All around them, the walls and floor seemed to crawl. But it
was a tangible enemy at last, not a mysterious human woman
who tricked and mind-blasted them, who clamped the grey torcs
of slavery around their necks and threw them into a Tanu
dungeon.

Phronsie Gillis' clarion contralto rang out. "What're we
waiting for, mates? Let's get the mothers!"

Basil's Bastards were galvanized. They locked onto the target
and roared into a counterattack. Betsy wielded his slipper.
Phronsie and Ookpik and Taffy Evans and Nirupam slammed
at the spiders with loose boots, wooden cups, and plates. Farhat
and Pongo Warburton stomped. Bengt hammered the creatures
with his bare fists. The zany technician Cisco Briscoe snapped his
belt like a whip, to sick-making effect. They cursed, whooped,
chased, and tripped over one another, all the while taking a
fearful toll of invertebrate life. Only a handful of the Bastards
were noncombatants: Miss Wang cowered against one wall,
trying not to throw up; Philippe the ultrafastidious curled his lip
and stood aloof; and the Tibetan physician Thongsa piped out
futile admonitions:

"I beg of you! Stop! Have respect! The life-form is physically

unprepossessing, but it serves a useful purpose in the local
ecology!"

"Bugger the ecology," croaked Stan Dziekonski, who had
captained a dreadnought in the Metapsychic Rebellion. He
jumped on a spider with both feet.

Dimitri Anastos knelt beside Magnus, holding the water
bucket while the medic swabbed Dougal's bite. "You're sure
he's not dying?"

"Asian!" groaned the knight. "Shall I abide in this dull world,
which in thy absence is no better than a sty?"

"Take it easy, big fella," Magnus said. "You'll live, all
right."

"Kill!" Mr. Betsy smote the arachnid foe right and left, using
his ichor-smeared slipper. "Kill!"

The dungeon door clanked, squalled, and flew open with
a resounding crash. Six gold-torc human troopers armed with
Husqvarna stun-guns marched in, followed by a brilliantly
glowing Tanu farsensor knight whose glass cuirass was embla-
zoned with a harp motif. In the corridor, brandishing naked
swords, were other stalwarts, who shone coercer blue and
psychokinetic rose-gold, as well as more nonoperant humans
carrying Milieu weapons.

The farsensor lifted a commanding hand. Constrained by their
grey torcs, Basil's Bastards were instantly mute and submissive.

The Tanu smiled on them. "I am Ochal the Harper, and I
bring you greetings and affirmations of goodwill from King
Aiken-Lugonn. Rejoice—for your unjust imprisonment is at an
end! We are here to take you away from this place and transport
you with the utmost speed to Calamosk, where the King himself
will meet with you. Follow us now to the courtyard, where your
leader, Basil Wimborne, awaits you." He turned and left the
cell.

Their minds released, the Bastards looked at one another in
numb disbelief. One of the Husky-toting troopers cocked a
thumb. "Come on, hop it! Or we might all end up in the soup."

The Bastards began to laugh. They put on their footgear,
gathered up their meagre possessions, and began to file out, the
able-bodied assisting the halt. Betsy was the last to leave, having
wiped his slippers as well as he could on the straw and resettled
his bedraggled wig. Two troopers of the rear guard stood on
either side of the dungeon door, grinning, and presented arms

as the reincarnation of Good Queen Bess the First swept grandly
past.

The door swung shut. When the metallic boom had died away
the great cell was utterly silent. Among the welter of black
bodies in the straw a few kicked brokenly, then were still.

After a time the mice crept out and discovered that the Jubilee
was upon them.

It was a dream, Hagen Remillard told himself. It had to be a
dream . . .

The linked ATVs bobbed at anchor in the Mediterranean
shallows south of Aven's neck, waiting for first light and the
land race to Afaliah. Hagen had taken the night watch, sure
that he wouldn't sleep after his sister told him of the gold-torc
force that would certainly arrive at the citadel ahead of him.
Would this advance guard of the Nonborn King present him
with some impossible ultimatum? Would it threaten the captive
pilots and technicians who might be so crucial to his plans?

Brooding over the contingencies kept Hagen alert throughout
most of the night. But around the dead hour, 0400, when human
vital energies burn lowest with the depletion of blood sugar,
even a metapsychic tended to falter. The mind's eye glazed and
looked inward to a world of shadows, to memories and fearful
imaginings concretized in nightmare . . .

Trudi takes his hand and leads him along an unfamiliar path
to a place where the soil is churned and raw and a new building
thrusts up huge against the morning sky, sparkling and
humming. He begins to whimper as they go inside and the
terrible ineffabilities threaten (he is only three and his metapsy-
chic receptors are untrained and clumsy), and the nurse says,
"Hush. It's all right. We must say 'Welcome back' to Papa."

The walk on a strange slick floor into dim coolness, and
grownups crowd tall about him, ignoring his weak telepathic
queries, mind-whispering of matters incomprehensible:

Starsearch. . . Lylmik?. . . MADNESS!. . . Goddam he did
it!

1700 lightyear scan first try!
And back with brains nonfried—

Can't believe he got rig work bloody jungle.

NevergetMEusefuckinghellrigMarcMad2yearsrecovernowstart
(Mover—

Get that imbecile out of here.

But how long a starsearch?
MADNESS! MADNESS!

We've got nothing but time sweetheart.

6,000,000 friggerty years.

It'll work . . . starsearch . . . rescue us! ... new beginning . . .
coadunation . . . coerce them or appeal altruismethic . . .

MADNESS!

Mental Man . . . we still may know Him!
The kid you booby.
Oh...

Let Hagen upfront to see.
Let him see!
Let him see!

MADNESS! LET THE CHILD SEE THE MADNESS THAT
BROUGHT US TO THIS EXILE! LET HIM SEE HIS OWN
FUTURE...

It was only a dream. A dream of an enormous captive thing,
a brain shucked from its body. Glad to be! Energized artificially,
scorning true Unity, glorying in loneness.

In the dream, Trudi lifted him to see the thing, and said, "It's
your Papa." The three-year-old-boy screamed and tried to run
away.

Only a dream. That was why he didn't try to run now as he saw
the thing again, outside the cockpit windscreen of the modular
combine. It seemed to be resting on the impeller access hatch,
between the twin housings of the sonic disruptors. A hulking
form, dully gleaming, having the rough shape of a man. Power-
cables and armoured hoses sprouted from its blind head and
melted into the greying sky.

In his dream, Hagen arose from his seat at the navigation
console, opened the cockpit door, and stepped outside. He
seemed to float toward the phantom CE rig on the foredeck,
and as he approached, it became transparent, and the operator
in his pressure-envelope coverall extended his arms, bending
down, and smiled at the frightened three-year-old.

"It's only me. It's only Papa."

But he held back, knowing he could not risk the embrace,
even in the dream aware that the real body of a man wearing
that armour would be refrigerated to a point near absolute zero,
almost completely divorced from the transcendent brain.

"I think I finally understand," Hagen said. "Jack was your
model. It wasn't possible for you to permanently modify your-
self. You were too old for a successful adaptation. But you were
determined to be more than Mental Man's brother."

"I would have been his father," Marc said. "And I would
have lived content, seeing you and the others command the stars
I gave you."

"No longer human."

"You would never have remembered."

"Go away!" the three-year-old cried. "Don't touch me. Don't
look at me!" The nurse held him and stopped him from running
away, but he buried his face in her long skirt and wept, refusing
to look again at his father. The others mind-whispered, and
then the walls closed gently about him, and he was lifted and
carried away . . .

He woke standing on the empty foredeck in the dawn breeze,
and went to look at the hatch where the illusion had stood.
There were two great circular indentations in the plass, as if it
had supported a tremendous weight.

Yosh wedged his face more firmly into the hooded viewer
of the infrared spotterscope and said, "Now we're finally cook-
ing." Servo motors whined and the machine and its operator
spun slowly in a 360-degree scan. "Terrific. Perfect emplace-
ment, up here in the beacon tower. Must have a coarse range
of seventy, eighty kloms, Calamosk being on a hill. Nearly
halfway to Afaliah clearview-wise before we smack into those
hills the other side of the Opaar. Oh, this baby was made for
steppes."

"How she do on the fine-tune, chief?" inquired Sunny Jim.
He and Vilkas were sitting in the shade and drinking beer after
having spent a sweaty two hours deploying the solar-collection
panels of the power supply.

"Working," Yosh muttered. Yes, here we go, sauntering
down the Great South Road at... four-one-three-one-two-pip-
six-one, a herd of hippies, taking to the freeway, the lazy scuts.
Good thing this Pliocene doesn't run to high-speed surface
transit. You'd need HIPPARION CROSSING warning signs every fifty
metres."

Vilkas set down his big covered stein, wiped his moustache
with the back of his hand, and sighed in a martyred fashion.

"Will we have to hook up the remote right away, or can it wait
until after chow?"

"What do you think?" Yosh grinned at his two ashigaru
briefly, then vanished again into the viewer. Vilkas groaned. In
a muffled voice, Yosh went on, "What's more, we're going to
have to string cables instead of slave-transmit, and cobble up
something to match the brain-directed board with this red
eyeball and the weapons batteries. Sorry, men. This piece of
junk must be forty years old if it's a day, and the zappers are
even older. You'd think some turkey would have smuggled in
more up-to-date stuff by now."

"Could be they did." Vilkas peered gloomily into his empty
stein. "But who's to know? The Tanu lords who had contraband
dumps kept mum about their collections. No swap meets or
comparing goodies. King Thagdal would have had their heads
on a pike if he found out they were holding out on him. All
important Milieu gadgetry coming through the time-gate was
supposed to be the property of the Crown. And things like guns
were supposed to be destroyed." He gave a bark of ironic
laughter.

"Lucky for us they wasn't!" Jim nodded at the newly installed
cluster of medium-sized laser weapons. "We'ns wouldn' have a
hope 'n hell 'gainst this North 'merican gang if all we fielded
was glass blades 'n' brainpower. Those zappers—shoo! Never
saw nothin' like this yere in the swamp!"

"They're junk," said Yosh flatly. "So antiquated, it's pitiful.
Supposed to have a range of ten kloms and they go plasmatic
at seven! God, what I wouldn't give for some modern field-
jacketed beam blasters—or even an old-time X-ray job."

Jim regarded him open-mouthed. "Shoo, boss—what a place
that 'ere Galactic Mil-yew must be!"

Yosh and Vilkas eyed each other. The robotics engineer
asked. "Were your parents time-travellers, Jim?"

"Gran'parents," said the young man. "We lived two whole
gen'rations free there in Stilt Town, after the Firvulag aban-
doned Nionel. Not even Howlers wanted the Paree Basin." He
giggled. "Which was fine by us!"

Vilkas was staring at his boots. "Would you go back to the
swamp if you had the chance, kid? Go home?"

"An' eat smews 'n' bulrush roots and hog-deer?" Jim snorted.
"Not this chile. You can keep ol' Paree." He snapped two

fingers against his grey torc, making the metal ring. "This is
livin'!"

"Jesus," said Vilkas softly.

Yosh was back inside the spotterscope, both hands manipula-
ting the controls. "Last test. Plug in one of those zappers and
let's see how she tracks on semiauto."

Jim went to pay out a thin cable from one of the weapons in
the tower battery while Vilkas cleared the orifice and powered
up. When the gun was mated to the scanning device, both grey
torcs said: Ready Yoshi-sama.

Servos tilted the spotter, putting Yosh comfortably onto his
back in the bucket seat. The electronically linked weapon
tracked along in parallel as Yosh searched the sky. "Close range.
That's what we got and that's what we'll use. Gonna zap me a
bird. Just one small bird. The Rocky Mountain Audubon
Society'd ride me out of town on a rail if they knew, but I
need a warm bod to target this sucker. And . . . and . . .
ah-ha! We got us a falcon conformation coming up on Cal-
City at range one-one-six-seven-pip-oh-four . . . chotto matte!
Dammit, he jinked! Definite falcon. Aureate. Male. Ready
again—

"Chief—don't!" Jim cried. "Don't shoot!"

Yosh looked out of the scope, forehead furrowed in annoy-
ance. "What the hell?"

"Them gold falcons—it's bad luck to kill 'em! You shoot one,
you get th' shit o' the worl' dump on you!"

"Oh, for God's sake," exclaimed Yosh.

"Please, chief," Jim begged.

Yosh gave him a disgusted grimace and returned to the
scanner. He swivelled round to the south, down near the bank
of the River Ybaar. "How about a goddam guinea hen in a
goddam mudwallow?"

"Zap away," said Jim cheerfully.

The laser spoke a truncated sizzling yelp. Yosh relaxed in his
seat and sighed. "So much for that. Unplug the gun, and we'll
get downstairs—" He froze as his golden torc transmitted a hail.

Yoshi do you hear?

(He did . . . and he knew that mind-voice.) I hear High King!

I'm coming. You have spotterscope ready?

Just finished but unremote and unconnex guns—

Nevermind that. Won't need after all. Stay tower. Wait Me.

Tell NOONEI come.

Yes High King.

Vilkas and Jim had been gathering up the tool kits and testing
gear. Neither had noticed Yosh's abstraction. The Lithuanian
said, "If we're going to hook this eye to the brain-board, we'll
have to cannibalize MP interfacers from something."

"Forget it," Yosh said. "The King's coming. There's a change
in plan." He was frowning as he reoriented the spotter to scan
the sky northeast of Calamosk. "He wants us to stay right here,
and tell no one else that he's on the way."

"Hey—great!" Jim cried. "He bringin' the Flyin' Hunt t' roust
out them oversea sumbitches?"

Yosh kept silent as he studied the scope readout. "He can't
be. I'd get a whacking body-read—and there's nothing out there.
Nothing!"

"A land force?" Vilkas ventured.

"How c'd he keep a lan' march secret?" scoffed Jim. "Course
he'd fly!"

"Oh, my God," said Yosh. He lifted a drained face from the
viewer and pressed the neutralization stud. Stiffly, he climbed
from the seat. His samurai armour, discarded for the installation
work, lay in a neat pile. A well-known telepathic signal set Jim
and Vilkas scurrying to assist him in donning it. They were
puzzled by the perspiration that had broken out on their master's
brow and the faint tremor in his cheek muscles. Through their
grey torcs they perceived a hint of the mental turmoil that Yosh
was doing his best to hide.

Artless Jim was solicitous. "Gee, boss—you feelin' all right?"

"I'm fine. But listen ... do you remember Clarty Jock telling
us how to hide our private thoughts if we were afraid some
Tanu with redactive powers was snooping in our minds?"

"I remember," said Vilkas. "Not that I needed him to tell
me."

" 'Think of a song, over 'n' over,' " Jim rehearsed obediently.
"I alms think o' one Gran'daddy useta sing:

We are the virgin mountaineers,
With lots of hair upon our ears—"

Yosh interrupted him. "When the King arrives, hide your
thoughts."

"But why, chief?"

Yosh settled his daisho and nodachi swords while Vilkas tied
on the collarlike nodowa (cut low to show the prestigious golden

torc) and Jim held out the elaborate helmet with its crescent-
moon horns. "Never mind why. You'll know when the King
gets here."

The three of them stood at attention, facing east. There was
a tiny speck in the cloudless afternoon sky, obviously
approaching, and Jim and Vilkas tensed. But then they saw that
it was only a bird, perhaps some kind of hawk, with yellow and
black feathers. It glided low over the tower and the long piece
of straw it clutched in its talons was clearly visible.

Look out, Yosh whispered telepathically to his minions.

The bird floated down. It was not a hawk but an aureate
falcon, and when it touched the parapet it changed into King
Aiken-Lugonn holding his great golden-glass Spear in one
gloved hand.

"Hi," said the King, pushing up the face-shield of his storm
suit. "You boys got the spotterscope ready?"

Yosh saluted and gestured wordlessly at the device. Jim
mumbled, "We are the virgin mountaineers!"

Aiken raised one quizzical eyebrow. "Never would have
guessed it." He turned his back on them and climbed into the
seat of the scanning device. "Don't bother with instructions.
I've used these things before." He looked south. "Yes . . . here
comes Ochal the Harper and his riders—and I presume the extra
bodies are the coveted Basil's Bastards." One finger rapped the
mode-select into ultimate range. "And zooming up behind them,
clearing the hills, we have fifteen all-terrain vehicles driving flat-
out."

Vilkas and Jim were staring at one another in mingled shock
and apprehension. Yosh stood calmly at the King's shoulder
and said, "How can we assist you?"

Aiken climbed out of the spotterscope and motioned for Yosh
to take his place. Jim was quick to catch the kabuto that his
master whipped from his head and flung away.

"I'm going to entrust the three of you with a state secret,"
Aiken said. His eyes were burning coals in a paper-white coun-
tenance. "I won't threaten you—but if you tell anyone what
kind of chicane I pull here this afternoon, there's a good chance
my throne will fall. And you along with it, of course."

"We are your slaves," said Yosh. Even in the embrace of the
big spotterscope, he managed a solemn bow. Vilkas and Jim
shuffled their feet and licked their lips.

Aiken said, "The North American vehicles are certain to
catch up with Ochal's group before they get within range of
Calamosk's defences. I realized this as I farsensed them while
flying in. So I'll have to do something."

"Hel—ever'body thought you'd bring the Flyin' Hunt!" Jim
said. Vilkas kicked him in the ankle.

"I couldn't carry the Hunt," Aiken told him quietly. "I barely
have strength enough to fly—and maintain the bird illusion. If
I overfly that enemy ATV column and attack it with the Spear,
I won't have enough watts left to generate a psychocreative
shield against their weapons. I have a portable sigma-field gener-
ator, but using it makes flying even more difficult, and chances
are that those North Americans have guns that will go through
a small sigma like an axe through a muskmelon. So I'm going
to try something different, and you'll help me with this scanner.
I'll ascend to a high altitude with the Spear. Very high. You,
Yosh, will zero in precisely fifty metres in front of the lead ATV
and farspeak the coordinates to me." He blinked, anticipating
the engineer's question. "No, I can't use my own farsense to
aim. I'm incapable of a precise focus at sixty kilometres. Besides,
I'll need what residual mind-wattage I have left to screw up their
scanners. I'll probably have to use the Spear more than once,
so you must be ready to refocus whenever I give the order. Is
that clear?"

"Yes, High King. It would be best if you could wait until the
target is within forty-five kilometres. The scanner may not be
reliable at extreme range."

"Good thinking. I'll hold off as long as I can."

Jim cried, "But what happened? Kee-rist, Y'r Maj'sty! How
we gone lick this bunch—how we gone lick the Firvulag - if you
got no powers left?"

Aiken smiled and tapped the crested hood of his golden suit.
"I still have my full quotient of low cunning, Jim boy. The
ordinary little grey cells that got me banished to the Pliocene in
the first place. Didn't you ever wonder why they threw me out
of the Milieu? Because I was a menace, that's why! There are
brains and there are brains. Mine may be a trifle shy of metapsy-
chic firepower at the moment, but not to worry. I'll recover
soon enough. Meanwhile, I'll find other ways to rise to the
occasion."

Cloud gripped the edge of the command console with taut
concentration. "We're going to catch them! Estimated conver-
gence eleven-point-four minutes!"

"Shall we man the sonic disruptors?" Phil Overton asked
Hagen.

"No, you idiot. When we get clear line of sight—no trees, no
bloody antelopes or anything stampeding in the way—we put
up the sigmas. Then deploy in echelon off-road and chase until
we're within stun range. Knock down their chalikos, close in
and deliver a low-power lullaby to the folks, then scoop 'em
up."

"We could hit the animals at longer range with the disruptors
or the zappers," Phil said.

"And maybe kill some pilot or technician our lives may
depend upon when Papa comes after us!" Hagen snapped. "No
disruptors, dammit, and no photon arms, either. Those are only
for use against troops from Calamosk."

"We'll have to leave slots in the sigmas to navigate and shoot
Huskies through," Nial Keogh said. "They could nail us if
they're sharp. Use psychozap in a bouncing ball-lightning
effect."

"We'll risk it," said Hagen. "You and the other heavy PK-
heads will have to watch out for metafoolery. Now farspeak the
others and advise them. We won't go echelon until the terrain's
suitable. I'm going to call for max speed to close the gap. Hang
onto your teeth."

The whining turbos rose to a howl. The fourplex vehicles
charged along the crudely graded track, bouncing and veering
and raising a monumental plume of dust. "Got 'em on the TSL
monitor," said Veikko Saastamoinen. "Closeup farsight, too.
They know we're here, but they don't look worried."

Hagen scowled. "Hear anything?"

"Screened six ways from Sunday. The torcers have a blanket
on the whole outfit. What I wouldn't give for your old man's
metaconcert program! Funnel a mind-blast through me, we
could drill every one of that bottle-armoured lot right between
the ears."

"The King's got that program," Cloud said, "in case you've
forgotten."

The fleeing chaliko riders were crossing a dry streambed and
racing through a narrow line of poplar trees on the opposite

bank. With the ATV safety governors on override, the vehicles
were careering along at a speed that threatened to send them
out of control.

"You've got to slow down!" Cloud exclaimed. "The others
are—"

From the sky came a brief green Sash. Dirt fountained up in
an opaque brown blossom and an explosion smote their brains
at the same time as a farspoken roar:

STOP YOUR VEHICLES. DO NOT ATTEMPT ERECT
SIGMAS OR I ZAP LEADER.

Veikko screamed and clapped both hands to his skull. Hagen
wrestled with the brakes and the vehicle slewed crazily off the
track into the stony veldt, rocking and ploughing furrows with
its deflectors as it tilted far onto its left side and nearly turned
turtle.

There was a second explosion born from an emerald fire-bar,
and this time the beam hit less than fifteen metres in front of
them. Hagen cursed as he brought the vehicle to a halt.

DO NOT MOVE. DO NOT ERECT SIGMAS OR I ZAP.

Nial Keogh was speaking calmly into the microphone of the
RF com, checking on the others. Veikko, his sensitive mind
overwhelmed by the volume of the vibrant mental shout, had
fallen to the cockpit floor and was curled in a fetal ball, clawlike
hands over his ears. The TSL display showed only multicoloured
snow.

Cloud and Hagen looked at each other with bleak comprehen-
sion. The first game of the match was over. But at least their
father was not the winner.

Cloud spoke on Aiken's intimate mode: We've stopped. May
I come out on the bridge and parley?

There was a third explosion behind the last vehicle of the
train, and godlike laughter.

YOU FOOLS. I'VE BEEN WATCHING YOU FOR
HOURS. I COULD HAVE FRIED YOUR BRAINS THE
MOMENT YOU SET FOOT ON MY MANY-COLOURED
LAND. AND YOU THINK YOU CAN PARLEY?

Cloud said: We have a proposition that may interest you. We
really intend no harm to your kingdom.

I KNOW YOUR PROPOSAL. I KNOW YOU HOPE TO
REOPEN THE TIME-GATE.

We will. . . pay for your help.

HOW?

Hagen's face was puzzled. He and Phil Overton had been
hurriedly conferring and now he covertly told his sister: Some-
thing funny that not psychocreativeblast but photoncannontype!

ANSWER ME! OR MY METAPSYCHIC POWER WILL
ANNIHILATE YOU!

"The Wizard of Oz," Phil Overton said. "But with a giga-
class zapper. Not quite a bluff—but we may have manoeuvreing
room."

Hagen said: I am Marc Remillard's son. We'll pay for your
cooperation by working with you to overcome our mutual
enemy—whom we know a great deal better than you do.
Without our help he will destroy you as he will probably destroy 
us.

HE TELLS ME YOU ARE THE ENEMY!

Hagen said: And has he told you that he's learned to d-jump?

There was a long silence. Finally the thunder-voice said:

WAIT WHERE YOU ARE FOR THREE HOURS. THEN
COME UP TO CALAMOSK WITH YOUR VEHICLE TOPS
OFF AND YOUR ARMAMENTS DEMOUNTED—AND
WE'LL ALL HAVE TEA.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Basil Wimborne and his crew of Bastards came again to the
citadel of Calamosk, which they had visited earlier that year
under far different circumstances. Then, during the worst of the
rainy season, Basil had served as one of the leaders of the
refugee army retreating from the flood-ravaged Aven Peninsula.
The little cadre that later became the Bastards had formed an
impromptu staff under himself, Chief Burke, Sister Amerie, and
Elizabeth. After the throng of displaced people had been driven
away from Afaliah by the implacable Celadeyr, they had
approached the smaller city anticipating an even ruder dismissal
by its arriviste human master, Sullivan-Tonn. Instead, they
found that Sullivan and his young Tanu fiancee had been freshly
ousted by Aluteyn Craftsmaster and a rabble of renegade

knights from the Great Retort. Calamosk was battered and
provision-short after the siege, but Aluteyn had given the refu-
gees whatever could be spared before advising them to press on
farther north to more prosperous regions.

Riding into Calamosk behind Ochal the Harper, Basil and his
Bastards noted certain changes. The colourwashed half-
timbered cottages that had once sheltered bareneck human
townsfolk were now nearly all empty. Weeds grew among the
street cobbles and there was abundant dust lying about, and
neglected heaps of animal droppings. The stone planters and
public gardens were untended and suffering from the summer
drought.

Because he had once worn a golden torc, Basil alone among
the contingent rescued from the dungeon was experienced
enough in the use of the mind-enhancer to speak telepathically
on the Tanu mode. He now asked Ochal:

What has happened? The city looks so shabby so unlike the
other Tanu cities I have seen since the Flood.

Ochal said: The ramas. Those who have not died have fled
into the wilderness. It is a result of the fighting the mental strife
the turmoil attending the Craftsmaster's takeover. Ramas are
peaceloving creatures with sensitive and fragile minds. Wearing
torcs they react to manifestations of extreme emotionality in
adverse ways fleeing the malign aetheric vibrations if possible
and suffering acute psychosomatic disorders if restrained. Not
only Calamosk but my own lamented Bardelask and even
Goriah itself have experienced this flight of the ramas. The High
King has naturally ordered that replacement apes be sent to the
capital. But Calamosk has had to initiate a complete new breed-
ing program.

Basil said: Hard luck for the local nobs needing domestics.

Ochal said: Many grey-torc humans are still faithful nay eager
to serve . . . and even numbers of barenecks.

Basil: Those who were too timid or too prudent to go the
Lowlife route—or too wise to rush up to Goriah hoping the
King would give them golden torcs!

Ochal: [Laughter.] That has been a problem in more cities
than Calamosk. King Aiken-Lugonn has had to depart consider-
ably from his original hope of offering instant citizenship to any
human who requested it.

Basil: Mm. His instincts were generous—

Ochal: But fortunately for the good order of the High
Kingdom they were overruled by his innate pragmatism. Ah!
. . . We arrive at last.

The caravan came into the forecourt of the central citadel,
where there were numerous torced humans of every station as
well as civilian and fully armed Tanu. None of the neglect
evident in the city's outer purlieus affected the castle environs.
Human servitors ran up to assist the dismounting of the new
arrivals, and Basil and his Bastards were attended every bit as
solicitously as their escort. The Elite Guard of human golds
stood by, however, their Milieu-style weapons at the ready.

Ochal said to Basil, "Here's a great honour for you—the City-
Lord himself comes down to bid you welcome."

Basil inclined his head respectfully as a Tanu creator wearing
a short tunic and aquamarine half-armour came sweeping up.
"Parthol Swiftfoot," said he, by way of introduction. He briefly
tapped the pleasure-circuitry of the Bastard's grey torcs, precipi-
tating a startled reaction among those who were metapsychically
unsophisticated. "My personal felicitations! King's most anxious
to meet you."

"And we, him," said Basil. Calm, he told his friends. Keep
calm!

"Suppose we clean you up a bit first, eh?" Parthol winked.
"Old Celo's dungeon—not exactly a health resort."

Basil managed a dry laugh. "You're very considerate, Lord
Parthol."

"Follow me! Nice surprise waiting!" And the Tanu was off,
with Basil and the others tumbling along in his wake (for a Tanu
stalwart can easily cover two metres at a stride). He pointed out
noteworthy improvements in the citadel defences instituted by
his predecessor, the late Aluteyn, as he led them through the
barbican, across the inner ward, and up an ornate white marble
ramp into the palatial keep.

"You were . . . one of the Craftsmaster's companions in
adversity?" Basil said breathlessly.

Parthol chortled. "Fellow jailbird, you mean! Quite right. Old
Thagdal slung me into the Retort for murder. Decapitated my
mother-in-law, Coventone Petrifactrix, on a Royal Hunt up in
the Dark Mountains. No one would believe I mistook her for a
Firvulag. Can't think why."

They passed down a series of marble staircases into the bowels

of the castle, where torches in silver holders illuminated corri-
dors paved in pink and black tiles. A certain anxiety radiated
from Basil and the Bastards at this descent. "Not the dungeon
this time!" Parthol reassured them. They came to a huge black
door with silver fittings, guarded by statuesque human females
in silver-lustre armour. Grinning expectantly, the City-Lord of
Calamosk gestured, causing the portal to open, and motioned
for the visitors to follow him inside.

The Bastards began whispering and elbowing one another.
Somebody unloosed an incredulous whistle. They had come into
a complex of vaulted and pillared connecting chambers that
seemed to combine features of a sumptuous Turkish bath with
the decor of a fin-de-siecle Hungarian whorehouse. There were
dripping crystal chandeliers, baroque divans in veil-curtained
alcoves, and a fantastic gilt-and-jasper steam room, the walls of
which were adorned with Paphian mosaics.

"Amusing, isn't it?" Parthol remarked to Basil. "Your
lamented compatriot Sullivan-Tonn had it installed during his
brief tenure and we decided to keep it. Ingenious race, you
humans—if those depictions are a fair sampling of your Old
World sexual mores."

Basil cleared his throat diffidently. "Some of the mosaics
have—uh—a folkloric derivation. The centaurs and the
mermaids, for example, and the—uh—more heroically propor-
tioned individuals."

"Oh? What a pity. Still, I'd wondered why we didn't get any
of those coming through the time-gate." He broadcast a brief
order on the command mode and a jolly-looking Polynesian
couple in flowered lava-lavas trotted in bearing trays of carna-
tions. They wore silver torcs, and as they passed the flowers
to the bemused Bastards, they seemed to radiate comfortable
reassurance.

"Salote and Malietoa will see to your comfort," Parthol said.
"We're a bit short-handed, so you'll have to scrub one another's
backs, but I think you'll enjoy your ablutions. Try the bubble
bath! That Sullivan thought of the damnedest things. And when
that's done, you can have fresh clothes. I'm proud to say that
Calamosk boasts a really first-rate tailoring moduplex—a
Halston 2100. Make any type of apparel you like."

Mr. Betsy, who had been savouring his carnation, let out a
great sigh of rapture.

Parthol beamed at the Elizabethan in the sadly dilapidated
finery. "We're a bit short of Milieu fabrics since the time-gate
closed—not much of a selection in nebulin or dacolite or
repelvel—but you'll find some very nice linen and fine cotton:
and I'm quite certain there's at least twenty ells of tourmaline
silk brocade left, and you might fancy silver lace for that collar
thingy of yours."

Phronsie Gillis smothered a wicked simper. "And I'll just
have me some silk knickers from the scraps!" Betsy ignored her.

Parthol Swiftfoot said to Basil, "I'll come to fetch you in a
couple of hours. You won't try to escape or hide or anything
tedious like that, will you? Not to put too fine a point on it—you
are all wearing grey torcs. We could track you down easily. At
least wait until you've heard what the High King has to say
before you begin plotting and scheming."

"Very well," said Basil. "We'll wait."

As the Bastards finished King Aiken-Lugonn's high tea, the
noncommittal chit-chat slowly faded to silence and all eyes
turned to the small figure of the monarch. He was sitting in
front of the unlit hearth of the presence room on a throne of
gilded oak; his guests had had to make do with tufted floor
cushions and most now lounged on these, leaving only a few of
the recalcitrantly suspicious and Mr. Betsy standing. The King
was wearing his golden storm-suit without the hood; a simple
circlet of black glass rested on his dark red hair. He drank
minted iced tea from a Waterford tumbler and then chewed the
cubes as the stillness grew and the Bastards stared.

"How many of you," the King said at last, "would like to go
back through the time-gate to the Galactic Milieu?"

Pandemonium.

Aiken smiled and raised a hand. An appalling blast of coer-
cion struck every mind dumb. "Sorry about that, but we don't
have much time to spare. More guests will be arriving very
shortly to join our little party. Among them will be the lady
who clapped you all into the Afaliah slammer after helping to
steal your aircraft—Cloud Remillard."

"Remillard!" exclaimed the minds and voices of the Bastards.

"I see that a bell has rung," the King remarked. His smile
was grim. "Yes, she's his daughter. Marc Remillard and his ex-
rebels have been living in North America for twenty-seven years,

mostly minding their own business. But not any longer. It seems
the rebels had children, and the kids decided that they'd had
enough of the old folks' domination, and so they packed up and
blew the homestead and came here. Cloud was first, with a
handful of others. Later her brother Hagen came with all the
rest of the second generation."

"Good God," said Basil. "It's incredible! Marc Remillard was
alleged to have perished in the Rebellion, together with his top
confederates."

Aiken shrugged. "Madame Guderian had a lot to answer for.
I don't know if she let 'em go through willingly, or if they
coerced her. Probably the latter. They brought contraband
galore."

"Oh, Your Majesty, never mind that!" cried little Miss Wang
passionately. "Tell us more about reopening the time-gate—and
going back!"

"Not possible," Dimitri Anastos told her. "It's a one-way
warp, Milieu to Pliocene."

"Not," said Aiken, "if you build a second Guderian tau-field
generator here. Which is what Marc Remillard's children and
their friends propose to do."

"To go home!" cried Miss Wang. "To undo the terrible error!
To leave this awful place and live once again in the tranquillity
of the Milieu—"

"Oh, I dunno," said Phronsie Gillis, pulling a dubious face.
"This exile has its hairy moments, but by and large I dig it. You
feel like boogying back, Bets?"

Mr. Betsy uttered a hollow chuckle. "Surely you jest."

"The Milieu is a benevolent despotism! To hell with it!" said
Pushface.

"Speak for yourself, joker," Chazz said. "I'd be at the head
of the queue for a return ticket."

"How many of you," Aiken asked, "would go back?"

Eleven hands rose—and then a twelfth, from an eagle-beaked
man who said, "Me too, King—if you and the friggerty Angel
of the Abyss are planning a little war."

Phronsie Gillis gave him a thunderous scowl. "Any war that
features ol' Marc the Paramount Badass Grand Master won't
be little, Nazir! More likely it'll be terminal to the Pliocene
Earth, and the Milieu'll end up never been born!"

"No, that can't happen," Dimitri interjected with pedantic

insistence. "Contrary to popular superstition, so-called alternate
universes or parallel space-time lattices are impossible. One
does not kill one's own grandfather and subsequently vanish!
No action here in the Pliocene can alter the primary reality of
which the Milieu—and all future events, for that matter—is a
manifestation. According to the universal field theory—"

"Stuff it, Dimitri," said Mr. Betsy.

A wrangle broke out, which Aiken cut off with another coer-
cive slap. "Those of you who would go. How many are able to
pilot the Tanu aircraft?"

Miss Wang, Phillipe, Bengt Sandvik, Farhat, Pongo
Warburton, and Clifford raised their hands.

"How many pilots would stay here?"

Hands went up from Mr. Betsy, Taffy Evans, Thongsa, Push-
face, and Stan Dziekonski.

The King fixed Mr. Betsy with a ruminative eye. "Just what
did you do back in the Galactic Milieu?"

Betsy drew himself up in an attitude of stubborn hauteur.
Basil quickly said, "Dr. Hudspeth was a researcher and test
pilot with Boeing's Commercial Rhocraft Division."

"I'll be gormed," murmured the Nonborn King. His gaze
roamed over the rest of the assembled crew and the adventurers
stiffened, feeling redactive probes invading their memories,
trying in vain to shut the mental windows that the grey torcs
had opened into their brains.

"An Oxford don who climbs mountains," Aiken mused wond-
eringly. "A third engineer on a tramp starfreighter ... a
surgeon who did one microtomy operation too many ... an
upsilon-field generator designer for G-Dyn Cumberland . . .
an egg-bus maintenance mechanic ... an Eskimo electronics
engineer ... too bad there's no metallurgist ..."

When the King withdrew his scrutiny, Basil said, "Sir, we
have been told that you bear us no ill will. Your deputy, Ochal
the Harper, described you as a just and worthy ruler—given a
few human eccentricities."

Aiken laughed.

Basil continued persistently. "You have tantalized us with
visions of a return to the Milieu and frightened us by suggesting
that the Pliocene might be the scene of a renewed Metapsychic
Rebellion. You have rummaged in our brains in a desultory
fashion, and I presume that you will interrogate us more strin-

gently in good time, in order to learn the location of the other
exotic flying machines—"

"Oh, I know that," Aiken said. "Cloud Remillard told me."

"Then tell us what you intend to do with us," the don
demanded. "Are we to remain enslaved? Are we mere pawns
in your dealings with the young rebels?"

Aiken leaned back in the throne of intricately carved and
gilded wood. It was a trophy, stolen centuries ago from the
Firvulag by some Tanu Hunt, and the back was surmounted by
a shining lion guardant with chrysoberyl eyes. Ignoring Basil's
questions, the King pointed to a man who stood apart from the
rest, whose dreaming face was framed by a ginger beard and
who wore a surtout of crimson over a chainmail shirt.

"You aren't one of Basil's Bastards," Aiken said. "Who are
you?"

"Only a madman," said Dougal, "seeking the saviour."

"Dougal's quite harmless," said Basil.

"Mad?" The King seemed puzzled. "Is that why I can't probe
your brain?"

"Perhaps," said Dougal. "Or there might be another reason."

Aiken lifted one eyebrow. "And would you like to go home
to the Galactic Milieu, Sir Dougal the Mad?"

"Sire—I am, as thou, at war 'twixt will and will not."

"Ah," said the King. He arose from the throne and went to
the long table where the food and drink were arrayed. He helped
himself to more iced tea from a faceted crystal urn and began
to poke through the plates of cakes, biscuits, and finger sand-
wiches. He said, "The adult children of Marc Remillard's rebels
have defied parental authority by coming to Europe. The elders
are on their way here via windjammer, hell-bent to stop the
kids from building the Guderian device."

"If it were done when 'tis done," said Dougal, "then 'twere
well it were done quickly."

Aiken blinked at him, then said, "Cloud and Hagen originally
intended to make a pact with Nodonn. Now, of course, they've
set their sights on Me. They want not only the exotic aircraft,
but the lot of you to fly and maintain them. The fleet is to be
used for toting them and their equipment about as they gather
materials for the time-warper. I understand some of the rarer
elements will have to be located through aerial surveys, then
mined and refined on the spot."

"And you intend to cooperate," Basil stated.

Aiken popped a square of shortbread into his mouth and
munched it up. "I have strategic reasons for doing so. And I
want you to help me to help these young rebels."

"It's Hobson's choice we have," Taffy complained, "collared
with these fuckin' torcs!"

Aiken sipped his tea with bowed head. "Alas, my friends—I
face a certain dilemma there. Try to appreciate my position. I
want this time-gate built and so do about half of you ... so you
say. But what if those who don't want to return to the Milieu
get sick and tired of the gate-building scheme and do a flit—or
perhaps scarper with some of the aircraft? That could jeopardize
the entire operation. We have too few pilots and ground-crew
folks as it is, and I'd hate to lose any of you." He smiled in a
winning fashion.

"You intend to keep us torced, then," said Basil.

"Until the time-gate's finished. But I promise that you won't
be coerced or punished through them if you behave reasonably.
Now how does that strike you?"

"We'll end up having to fight off that monster, Marc Remil-
lard!" Mr. Betsy cried. "When he arrives with his pack of
metapsychic felons, those of us piloting the aircraft will face
heaven knows what kind of mechanical and mental zappery!"

"We'll have weapons of our own, and we also have some
sigmas that can be installed on the ships," Aiken said. "And
there are such things as mental screens against mind-blasts."

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," the rhocraft engineer retorted.

Aiken grinned. "I keep forgetting. You don't know Me very
well." He set down the tea tumbler and strolled back to the
throne, where he struck a pose. "Let me give you a small
demonstration of what it takes to be King of the Many-Coloured
Land."

He stood quietly for a moment, eyes closed. Then the lids
lifted and his mind's fire seemed to look out through the deep
orbits. His hair stood out, lit by dancing sparks, and the glass
coronet shone with an inner fluorescence. A webwork of craw-
ling violet and amber lightnings poured down from his shoulders
to his feet, sheathing his body as though he had become a living
electrode. The web coalesced into a blazing nimbus, and about
his head was a veritable mane of golden flames, reflecting off
the gilt-wood carving of the lion above the throne. He lifted

both hands and held miniature suns, and seemed to grow in
stature until he towered incandescent against the ceiling beams
and threatened to ignite the Firvulag trophy banners hung there.
Waves of coercion and psychocreative force oscillated in the
room. The Bastards' minds seemed filled with crashing sonori-
ties. They were transfixed, enthralled by the apotheosis.

Only Dougal retained the power of movement. He reeled
forward and dropped to his knees. His face was contorted with
pain and joy and tears flowed down his cheeks. "It's you!" he
cried. "It's you!"

The brief flash of uncanny power shut off as though it had
been only inadvertently manifested. The little man in the golden
leather suit stood there, leaning casually against the throne, his
aspect quite normal.

"Not to brag," said Aiken, "but Marc Remillard may discover
a nasty surprise if he attempts to invade this continent.
Remember that his power during the Metapsychic Rebellion
rested in a vast assemblage of minds, which he directed in
aggressive metaconcert. Here in the Pliocene he's handicapped.
A lot of his old cronies are worn out. Others are unreliable—or
their metafunctions aren't suited to offence. It seems very likely
that if he comes against Me, he'll have to come alone. His
people will try to help him, but their efforts will be piddling
compared to the kind of fighting that went on during the Rebel-
lion. We can lick 'em—and we can build that gate! The job will
be easier if you help. Will you?"

Dougal had both hands pressed to the leonine charge embroi-
dered on his new surtout. Still weeping, he spoke in a low voice.
"Before, with your glory masked, I did not know you. None of
us did. But now I see you, Asian, came to save Narnia just as
I prayed. You will not abandon us to pass through the dread
doorway. You will not let the dream die—"

"Be quiet," said the King sharply; and although he withheld
his coercive power, the mad medievalist subsided, sinking down
with his face to the marble floor. Aiken stepped around him to
survey the others.

"Will you help me freely?" he asked, and his voice was stran-
gely dulled.

There was a brief pause. "Yes," said Basil at last. "Those of
us who would stay in the Pliocene will cooperate for the sake
of our friends who wish to leave."

Aiken sighed. "Thank you." Behind the Bastards, the doors
of the grand salon opened. Parthol Swiftfoot stood there, this
time attired in full armour that blazed blue-green in the dusk.
Beside him was Ochal the Harper. Their minds said:

You summoned us High King.

"These friends are to be conducted to rooms where they can
rest," Aiken said aloud. He turned to Basil. "Tomorrow, we'll
confer about an aircraft salvage expedition to the Alps. My
Deputy Lord Psychokinetic, Bleyn the Champion, will lead you.
You'll leave as soon as possible."

"As you like, sir," Basil inclined his head slightly and sent a
brief telepathic image to the others. Those who were still sitting
arose. The Bastards began to drift toward the doors.

Dougal roused and climbed to his feet. He pulled a linen
mouchoir out of one mailed sleeve and blew his nose. The
dreamy look was gone as he eyed the King and said, "If you
plan to whip up Guderian's Gazebo from scratch, Asian, take
my advice and get hold of my old master, Tony Wayland. I
mean, extruding that bloody niobium-dysprosium wire for the
tau-generator alone will call for world-class boffinry, to say
nothing of refining the stuff from ores. Tony ran the barium
works in Finiah . . . Really knows his metallic stuff, old Tony."

Aiken was urgent. "Where is he now?"

Dougal rolled his eyes heavenward. "Alas! He was nobbled
by wicked dwarfs in the Vosges woodland, and only I escaped
to tell the tale!"

Aiken shot a telepathic instruction to Parthol, who came up
and put a gently coercive hand on Dougal's shoulder and
suggested, "Why don't you come along and tell me all about
it?"

Dougal suffered himself to be guided toward the door, but as
it was closing, he said over his shoulder, "And thou, Asian, in
thine own hand bear the power to cancel his captivity ... a
parlous exchange, yet necessary, I ween." And he was gone.

Aiken shook his head and the expression he showed to Ochal
was almost helpless. "I suppose Parthol will make sense of it.
Creator ingenuity ... but dammit, Occy, there's something
uncanny about that big gomeril."

"I sensed it too, High King." Thinly veiled anxiety hovered
behind his social screen. "Is it well with you? We could have
the North Americans wait longer—"

"No. There isn't time. Dougal was right . . . 'twere well it
were done quickly."

"They have followed our instructions with complete docility
and await your pleasure. Would you believe that they've brought
five tiny toddlers along with them?"

"I'm ready to believe almost anything these days," Aiken
remarked. "You got the big sigma from Hagen Remillard
without any hassle?"

"Yoshi is supervising its installation up in the gallery right
now, High King."

"Good." Aiken strode to the throne and dropped into it.
"We want to be damn sure no unauthorized parties eavesdrop
on this next little confab."

"Do you have any other commands?"

Aiken waved a hand. "Just get some greys in here to spiffy
up the tea table, then bring on the Children of Rebellion."

Ochal saluted and would have withdrawn, but the King
suddenly said, "Do you remember the night I first came to
Muriah—King Thagdal's crazy feast, and the show-and-tell we
newcomers put on so you could bid for our services?"

"I remember, High King." Ochal's mouth twitched. "What a
wild affair that was! And now I see that it was your opening
move in the great game."

Aiken seemed to be staring into the far distance. "There was
a little human redactor woman, a silver, who sang. Do you
remember?"

"I hear her still in memory, Shining One."

Please, said Aiken.

And later, when the North Americans came apprehensively
into the sigma-sheltered salon to meet the terrible King of the
Many-Coloured Land, they saw a little man sitting on a large
lion-crested throne, and at his feet a faerie knight enarmed in
amethyst, singing and playing "All Through the Night" on a
jewel-starred harp.

When he was certain that the silver-torc castellan and his
minions were gone, Basil Wimborne went out onto the balcony
of his bedroom, located the Pliocene Polaris, and oriented
himself as best he could. The massif of the Flaming Mountains
lay between Calamosk and Black Crag and his farsensing ability,
even when he was wearing gold, had been only meagre. But

Elizabeth was a Grand Master, and there was a chance she
would hear his feeble grey call.

He closed his eyes, placed his fingers on the warm metal about
his neck, and channelled all his psychic energy into the hail:

ELIZABETH . . .

Basil! O mydear mydear we thought you dead.

CloudRemillard&Nodonn took Bastards&all in aircraft

Afaliah.

But you safe? And others?

Safe now yes. With Aiken Calamosk. You know RebelChil-

dren come?

Yes. And I know theirfather won't be far behind.

Aiken&Children plan use us&aircraft. We agreed.

But Basil. . . since you wear grey I presume the others
do also and you have been forced to cooperate. There
is danger. Aiken will make enemy of Marc by allying
with Children. You will be caught in metapsychic
quarrel. Better perhaps that I demand Aiken free
you—

Elizabeth don't you know?
?

Why Children come ally with Aiken?

... To escape parents flex muscles mingle other

mind—
To open time-gate from this side.

Elizabeth? . . . Elizabeth?

Yes Basil. How they plan do this?
Build Guderiandevice. They can if Aiken helps.

Marc will do utmost prevent it.

Children 5tons Milieu weapons + aircraft hope win. Aiken
says Marcweaker him.

My God

What do? WHAT? We giveup aircraft Lowlifefreedomhope
doomed—Elizabeth help us tell us what do!

I don't know Basil I must consider so many factors

now this be patient obey Aiken for now I'll contact

you via intimode thoughtbeam after I have time think

time think O God an open gate!
Elizabeth do one thing.

Yes Basil?

Tell PeopeoMoxmoxBurke HiddenSprings.

. . . Verywell. But there is little chance his people

can get to aircraft hidden Alps ahead Aikensponsored

group—

Nonono DON'T ask him try that! No. Tell him opengate.
Help him resolve inaction/dilemma/fear.

Peo fear? Peo?

Elizabeth you meditated BlackCrag long while we waited
hoping advice. None. Aircraftscheme seemed onlyhope
protect Lowlives Firvulag&Aiken freedomthreat. Peo
wanted use aircraft invade Roniah obtain Milieuweaponry
for deterrent. We almost ready to when Nodonn came.
Now . . . what now? What hope? Can you not advise?

Basil I don't know what Aiken plans or Marc. Firvulag

will continue brushfirewar pattern at least until Truce.

I cannot advise Peo anymore than you. Not yet.
Tell him opengate.

Open gate . . . You think Peo weary struggle would

return Milieu?
He might. Others certainly would now aircrafthope gone.

And you Basildear would you go?
I have not climbed my mountain.

Ah. Pliocene Everest. I remember
Peo must know opengate. All humans must. To decide.
Even you.

Forgive me Elizabeth. I will wait your call. Goodbye.
Goodbye Basil.

CHAPTER NINE

No breath of air stirred in the nursery, for even though the sun
had set, stagnant summer air still pressed upon the chalet like
a fat sweaty hand. Elizabeth, standing at the open window and
rapt in farsensing, was oblivious, her bare arms stiffly extended,
pale and sheened with moisture. As if to armour herself for the
ordeal, she had dressed in a beltless Tanu gown of black peau

de cygne with a yoke and pendant ribands of jewel-encrusted
scarlet: Brede's colours.

The waiting lengthened. Minanonn endured imperturbably,
lost in his own thoughts; but Brother Anatoly's indignation grew
along with his physical discomfort as the suffering baby wailed.
Finally Mary-Dedra lifted the child from his waterbed basket
and held him against her shoulder, rocking, torc to torc, sharing
the pain she could not diminish.

Anatoly could bear it no longer. He sprang up from his stool
in the corner of the room and went to Minanonn. "This is
monstrous," he whispered. "You're a coercer. Help that poor
woman and her child! At least take the baby down out of his
pain—"

"He must be fully alert for the procedure. Dedra
understands."

"Then get on with it!" the priest blurted. "What's Elizabeth
playing at, for heaven's sake? Call her back here!"

"She would not have responded to the farspoken summons if
it had not been important," Minanonn said. "Calm yourself and
remember your own duty."

Stung, Anatoly turned away from the exotic and hurried to
Mary-Dedra. It was she who had requested his presence at
the operation, not the aloof Grand Master, who had barely
acknowledged his existence since he had taken up residence in
the chalet eight days earlier. The former Maribeth Kelly-Dakin,
who had been a gold-torc protegee of Mayvar Kingmaker, now
served as executive housekeeper of Black Crag. As Anatoly laid
a hand on her hybrid baby's head, she managed to smile.

"I'm glad of the delay, Brother. It'll be even worse for poor
Brendan when Elizabeth and Minanonn start. That's why I
asked you to be here. For my sake."

Anatoly withdrew his hand from the child convulsively, as if
he had been burned. "But if he's a black-torc—" he started to
say, and then caught himself and expostulated, "Elizabeth and
the redactors should be doing their best to ease his pain—not
aggravate it with some hellish experiment! Dedra, how can you
let them do this?"

The woman closed her eyes and tears started from beneath
the lids. The child wailed in grating monotony, clinging to his
mother. He was beautiful, blond, and long-limbed; only the

unnatural flush about his extremities and the hot blisters beneath
his miniature golden torc betraying his impending fate. 

Dedra said, "You don't understand, Brother. Brendan
presents a unique opportunity for Elizabeth. Perhaps it's
providential—or at least synchronicitous!—that he should have
failed to adapt to the torc. The syndrome afflicts other babies,
too, you know. But all of the others except Brendan are pure-
blooded Tanu." Her eyes opened and held those of the old
priest. "You've been here in the Pliocene for a long time. Surely
you know about the problem."

"If they didn't torc the children in the first place, there'd be
no maladaptation!"

"And no metapsychic powers." Dedra's tear-streaked face
was amazingly ironic. "I never realized what the metas had
when I lived in the Milieu. When I came here, and the Tanu
tests showed I had strong latencies, and they said they were
giving me a torc—I was afraid. Now, I would rather die than
give it up."

"And this is the price," Anatoly said, nodding at the child.
"Was it worth it, Dedra?"

She lifted her chin. "Somewhere, millions of light-years away,
there's a whole galaxy full of torced people who think it's worth
it. Why don't you judge them, Brother?"

"I'm sorry I was so crude." He shrugged. "I was never much
of a theologian—just a poor fool of an apparatchik from Yakutsk
who decided in a rash moment to make the Pliocene my parish
. . . But tell me why you think little Brendan's case is a unique
opportunity."

"Hybrid children aren't supposed to go black-torc. Neither
are offspring of the Thagdal. Brendan's both"—her arms tight-
ened about the whimpering infant—"and you can see that he's
got the damned syndrome in spades. We don't know why. Eliz-
abeth tried to help Tanu black-torc babies when she lived in
Muriah, but she had no success. Her failure was as much due
to the exotic circuitry of their minds as to the complexity of the
problem. But my Brendan, with his hybrid mind, is more
familiar territory. Elizabeth has been mullocking about in him
ever since he came down with the sickness a month ago, trying
things."

Dedra's eyes shut again and fresh tears came. Brother Anatoly

looked at his sandalled feet and waited for her to compose
herself. Finally she said, "Poor Brendan is special in another
way. Most black-torc children die of the thing within two or
three weeks. My baby's tougher. Hybrids often are."

"Then there is hope?"

The baby wailed more loudly and Dedra swayed, rocking him.
She had turned toward Elizabeth, who stood still at the window,
facing the distant Pyrenees, pink with alpenglow above the haze-
blurred landscape of Haut Languedoc.

"My Brendan was so strong, so perfect," Dedra crooned.
"Never sick a day, all through the exodus from Aven when we
were cold and wet and half-starved and bedevilled by mosquitoes
and biting midges and Lord Celadeyr's heartless brutes. He was
a marvel, my Brendan! Walking at seven months, farspeaking
me no matter what part of the lodge I was in. If any baby can
survive black-torc, he will—and then perhaps others like him."
She kissed the blond curls nestling at her shoulder. The child's
crying had diminished to hiccoughing sobs. "If Brendan dies,
then at least we will have tried. The knowledge we gain will
have repaid his pain and mine."

"But, Dedra, he's too young to choose," Anatoly protested.

"I choose for him." She lay the child back on his waterbed,
took a soft cloth, and wiped his face. "It's my right. I know
what's best for my own child."

The priest shrank from the sudden cold sensation that clutched
his vitals. How many times, as an executive assistant in the
Siberian Primacy, had he heard this same argument put forth
by fellow clerics who sided with the elitists advocating forced
evolution, with the elder Remillards and the others who main-
tained that virtually any means—even potentially fatal or crip-
pling experimentation with immature minds—was justified if it
promoted the supereminence of metapsychic humanity. In those
days, human moralists had been divided on the question; but
there had been no doubts at all among the disapproving exotic
ethical arbiters of the Milieu. Three years after Anatoly set
off on his mission through the time-gate, he learned that the
controversy had culminated in the Metapsychic Rebellion.

Minanonn came out of the shadows and stood over the baby's
bed, stern and majestic in cerulean robes. He said to Mary-
Dedra, "What Brother Anatoly is saying to you echoes the
philosophy of my own Peace Faction. Difficult though it may

be, we must surrender ourselves to the divine will. The only
peace is that of Tana."

Dedra was scathing. "You don't believe I should simply let
Brendan die in peace! If you did, you wouldn't be helping
Elizabeth in this new procedure!"

"She asked me to help," said the former Battlemaster, "and
I do so willingly at this point, in the hope that the child may be
cured. But I would not abet you in continuing treatments that
would prolong his pain if there were not a good chance of
ultimate success. It is unjust to force an innocent to suffer so
terribly—even for his own good, or for the greater good of his
fellows."

"You should have been a Jesuit!" said Dedra to Minanonn.
And to Anatoly, "As for you, Brother, I asked you here to pray
for us, not to preach. So if you're going to, get busy!" The
baby, startled by her vehemence, began to cry again.

Anatoly heroically held his temper, lowered his head, and
muttered, "Lord God, bless this mother and her child and
relieve their suffering. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver
us from evil."

"Find a better prayer," Elizabeth said coldly, coming up
behind him. "You're too late with that one—both for Dedra
and for me." As the priest shrank back, white-faced, Elizabeth's
mind added covertly to Minanonn: And perhaps too late for the
Many-Coloured Land as well.

Minanonn said: Elizabeth . . . will you tell me what
portends?

Elizabeth said: I've talked to Basil and the King and done
some heavy scanning to confirm what they said. Aiken and the
young North Americans have agreed to work together in an
attempt to reopen the time-gate from the Pliocene side. Marc
Remillard is en route to Europe with his confederates determ-
ined to do his utmost to prevent it.

Minanonn said: Tana have mercy it could lead to Nightfall.

The old Franciscan priest was gaping at Elizabeth. She seemed
as beautiful and as inaccessible as an image of Athena, in her
flowing black silk dress and ruby-studded yoke. Her long hair,
unbound, had formed into loose curls in the high humidity.
Smiling slightly, she said aloud, "You came to pray for us,
Brother. Do so now. Show us how we should put our trust in
divine grace instead of ourselves."

And the priest thought: You ice-hearted bitch! No wonder
poor Amerie gave up on you . . .

He was about to stomp out of the room, abandoning them to
their inhuman machinations, when he felt a peculiar soothing
touch invading his mind. Torcless, he nevertheless knew that it
could only be Minanonn's own strength entering him, irresistible
as the tide, bearing him up and promising cooperation.
Somehow (the exotic seemed to say) we are akin. Both of us
are destined to influence this awful woman in a crucial way . . .

Well, so be it. And ne bzdi, Anatoly Severinovich!

He said, "There's an old prayer from the Sunday Missal that's
become a favourite of mine. It seems almost to have been
written with us Pliocene exiles in mind:

Eternal Father, reaching from end to end of the universe

and ordering all things with your mighty arm,

for you, time is the unfolding of truth that already is,

the unveiling of beauty that is yet to be.

Your Son, our Omega, has saved us in history

so that, transcending time, he might free us from death.

May his presence among us lead to the vision of limitless

truth and reveal to us the beauty of your love.

And now I'm going to leave you here to do what you think you
have to do. I think I'll wander down to the spring before it gets
too dark. It might be cooler there, and I think mushrooms may
be coming up. Can't resist those 'shrooms. It's the Siberian in
me."

He laid his hand on the baby's head and blessed him. Mary-
Dedra said, "May I come with you, Brother?"

"Suit yourself," said Anatoly, "but don't expect me to share."
He held the nursery door open and the two of them went out.

Elizabeth and Minanonn, linked, seemed to be suspended within
a vast glowing fabric, a vinelike tangle that penetrated as well
as surrounded them. The analog of the infant mind was multi-
dimensional, surreally coloured, athrob with sickly vitality.
Bursts of hectic energy zipped along the conjoined strands in
apparently random paths, like meteoric mice hurtling to and fro
in a maze of crystalline tubes.

Now press this way, Elizabeth directed Minanonn. Now that.
Good! And as I open here, where I must cauterize, dam back

the surge that will arise, lest it trigger an epileptic seizure,
aggravating the dysfunction . . .

And so the two manipulators worked, reaming and weaving,
forming fresh junctures and bypassing others, refashioning the
neural tapestry so that the errant mental energies might function
in harmony with other aspects of the baby's mind, rather than
ramping and warring to the death.

Strength. That had been the breakthrough. When Elizabeth
had previously attempted this procedure together with Dionket
and Creyn, fellow redactors, she had been hopelessly balked by
the intractability of the immature will. The baby "refused" to
learn the thought-revisions that might save him, his young mind
incapable of responding to subtlety. Nevertheless, Elizabeth had
remained confident that her redactive salvage program would
work, if only it could be imposed. And so she had gambled,
designing a new configuration that included a powerful
coercer—Minanonn—and sacrificing finesse for the cruder but
practicable technique utilizing main strength.

Together, they pounded and bored, spliced and cut. And it
worked. But it was taking too long.

She signalled a pause, for they had finally completed a section
of rechannelization in the cerebral commissures, the fibres
connecting the right and left hemispheres. It was an operation
that Elizabeth had adjudged critical, and if it succeeded it would
at least vindicate the basic design of the salvage program.

The two of them seemed to hover within a webwork shot with
speeding lights. Elizabeth directed Minanonn to hold off from
his damming function so that the new channels could be tested;
and then with her redaction precisely tuned, she stimulated a
certain region of the right cortex.

The entire mental hologram responded, swelling into a lattice
of glorious, consonant light. For one brief moment, the baby
owned a normal mind . . . and more. Then it was as before.

Elizabeth withdrew, dragging Minanonn with her.

"Did you see!" she gasped out loud.

"Almighty Tana—it was magnificent. But what was it?" He
had been lying on a couch with his head close to the baby's
basket while Elizabeth sat in a chair beside them. Now he pulled
himself up, trembling and so drenched in perspiration that the
blue silk of his robe clung to almost every contour of his hercu-
lean frame.

"My program," Elizabeth whispered. She reached out to the
baby, who whimpered fretfully and plucked at his torc with
swollen little fingers. At her touch he subsided and breathed
easily.

"It's working, then?" Minanonn asked. "We'll be able to cure
him?"

Elizabeth seemed frozen except for her hand, which caressed
the front fastening knob of the infant's torc. Minanonn repeated
his questions and she said, "I don't know if we'll be able to cure
him. We're working so slowly . . . it's taking a tremendous toll
of your coercive strength. But the program itself—" She lifted
her head and met his gaze. "Minanonn, just for an instant, the
baby went operant."

He stared, uncomprehending.

"That beautiful flash of harmonious function," she said. "He
was bypassing the old torc-generated neural circuitry
completely, using more than the fresh channels we'd opened.
He slipped into true operant metafunction."

The Heretic was sitting on the edge of the couch now, and as
he listened his fingers went to the gold at his own throat. "The
baby's mind functioned metapsychically without the torc? As
yours does, and that of the King?"

She nodded. "When I designed this salvage program, I natur-
ally based it upon human paradigms—metapsychic patterns
similar to those imposed upon the young children I taught back
in the Milieu. A certain percentage of human offspring are
potentially operant—but metafaculties almost never develop
optimally unless the young mind is trained. The process is rather
like learning to talk. Oral communication is an immensely
complicated business that we tend to take for granted, but a
child won't learn it unless his brain receives the proper input,
preferably at a very early age when volition is very strong.
Gaining full access to one's spectrum of metafunctions also
depends largely upon education—although under special circum-
stances the process can become virtually instinctive. There's a
lot we still don't know—especially about repressive factors that
tend to keep a person nonoperant in spite of strong latencies."

"As happened with Felice."

"And Aiken," she agreed. "The two of them eventually did
attain operancy, but by very different routes. Felice's painful
breakthrough was similar to the procedure I used on Brede

Shipspouse. But Aiken's ... As I said, there are things we
don't know. It seems that, occasionally, persons with exception-
ally great latencies can raise themselves by mental bootstraps to
the higher level. Certainly the pre-Intervention human metas
were almost all self-taught. But once our race was inducted into
the Milieu, we depended upon preceptive techniques taught to
us by the exotics. For example, we laid the groundwork for
childhood metapsychic education by telepathic interaction
between mother and fetus."

Minanonn uttered a weak laugh. "With our torcs, things are
much simpler!"

"Simplest doesn't equate with best." Her tone was sharp.
"Babies wouldn't need to learn to walk if you cut off their legs
and grafted their bodies to efficient motorized carts!"

His head dropped. "You're right, of course. I'm not thinking
too clearly." He scrubbed the sweat from his brow with the
back of one great hand. "Goddess, but I'm tired. Toward the
last, I was afraid I'd let you down. We finished that segment
just in time."

"You did very well," she reassured him. But even as she
spoke she slid an adroit lancet-probe into his mind, and was
shocked at the profundity of his fatigue. She herself was drained,
but the Tanu hero, unused to husbanding his strength during
prolonged and concentrated actions, seemed to have strained
his coercive faculty almost to the breaking point. The digital
clock on the nursery wall showed that they had been working
for nearly eight hours. It was past two in the morning. "You're
going to have to rest now," she told him. "What we did was
very hard work."

"You don't have to tell me that!" He rose shakily from the
couch and looked down on the child, who had drifted off to
sleep. "I feel as though I'd just fought a Grand Combat single-
handed. But he was the only antagonist."

"The minds of children are far less fragile than those of adults.
It's a survival thing."

He sighed, and managed a rueful smile. "Well, I'm game to
work him over again tomorrow night if you are."

"Minanonn—" She hesitated, then laid a hand on his enor-
mous forearm. "We'd better wait a while longer. Three days."

His blond brows shot up, and then his eyes brightened in
alarm and comprehension. "That bad, eh?"

She nodded. "It's not your fault. You're one of the finest
coercers I know. But the job is fiendishly difficult. The concen-
trated small-scale thrusting—"

Minanonn said to the baby, "Oh, you tough little beggar.
More than a match for a worn-out warrior like me." He moved
toward the door and asked Elizabeth, "Shall I tell Mary-Dedra
to come?"

"Not yet. I want to reexamine the redacted regions of the
child's brain first, while he's still quiet. Goodnight, Minanonn.
And thank you."

When he had gone she resumed her seat beside the little bed
and studied the commissures with her deep-seeing eye. The
baby's pain was temporarily in abeyance; but was he really
improved? His fever was still high and there were new blisters
forming in the neck area. Tough, Brendan might
be—nevertheless, he was still very likely doomed. The bludgeon
technique of mind alteration had been effective, but it was much
too slow.

If only Minanonn were stronger, Elizabeth lamented. She was
sure that the redactor-coercer configuration was the correct one
in this case. Strength. That was the key . . .

The baby slept. Strong little Brendan, whose unfolding mind
had fought the torc instead of adapting. Were the children who
succumbed always the fighters, always the ones hovering closest
to natural operancy? Aiken Drum in the fullness of young adult-
hood had resisted his torc and conquered it. How? But Aiken
would not know, being, as he was, a natural talent, inexperi-
enced in metapsychic analysis. And even though he was by far
the greatest coercer in Europe, she did not dare ask him to
assist her in the child's redaction. Aiken was too badly damaged
himself, too near dissolution.

She slumped back in the chair, brooding, and felt a welcome
cool breeze brush her bare shoulders. If only the wretched hot
weather would break and an honest thunderstorm recharge the
atmosphere with negative ions. Then she might be able to make
sense of it. Not only solve the problem of the black-torc babies
but the greater question as well, her own mountain of challenge,
erected by Brede.

The wind intensified and she let herself luxuriate in it,
reaching back to lift her hair. "Oh, that's wonderful," she
murmured.

"I'm glad you like it. I wish I could manage the storm for
you, but the range is too extreme."

She whirled about, galvanized by astonishment, then froze to
see Marc Remillard watching her from just outside the open
window. This time, the cross-sectional halo effect of the mind-
enhancing equipment was reduced to an indistinct shimmer and
his body, suspended in midair, seemed completely material. She
could see the play of muscle beneath the tight black pressure-
suit as he lifted his right hand, palm forward, in the familiar
Milieu metapsychic greeting that invited physical as well as
mental touch.

No! she cried in instinctive revulsion, leaping from the chair
and backing away.

A fresh wave of chill air emanated from him. He smiled sadly,
one side of his mouth lifted slightly higher than the other. The
hand dropped slowly to his side.

"You're really here," she stated, rather than asked.

"As you see, Grand Master."

"It's a genuine hyperspatial translation? By mind-power
alone?"

"The cerebroenergetic enhancer assists me in generating the
upsilon field, but I do the actual d-jump—and the return, of
course—under my own steam."

"I presume you learned the program from Felice. Did she
injure you seriously in the process?"

Instead of replying, he demanded, "Where is she? I've been
unable to farsense her aura, even with the CE rig augmenting
my search faculties to the maximum."

Elizabeth showed him the site of the girl's tomb alongside the
Rio Genii, the impervious globe of the room without doors
buried deep in the rockfall. "Felice is beyond your reach, Marc.
You'll have to look for another partner."

The shadowed eyes seemed to twinkle. "You've left yourself
vulnerable, Grand Master."

She stood straight. "Why don't you come inside and do your
worst? We've learned a few things in the Milieu since your
damned Rebellion! All metas learn self-defensive manoeuvres
to forestall the kind of coercive manipulation you and your
confederates used. And for Grand Masters, there's a last
recourse against mind violation that I'd almost welcome using
at this point."

"Perhaps I'd better stay where I am. For both our sakes. The
CE rig persists in following me through hyperspace like Mary's
little lamb. Unless your chalet has reinforced floors, I might
prove a perilous guest in more ways than one."

Fascinated in spite of herself, she asked, "Do you mean that
the machine will stay behind, once the translation program is
properly edited?"

"Oh, yes. And the coverall, too, if I wished." He made a
Gallic gesture. "However, I'll retain it to spare you the sight of
my scars."

"What do you want?" she asked, tiring of the verbal
fencing.

He nodded at the sleeping baby. "His problem interests me.
It's not unlike certain matters that once occupied me . . . au
temps perdu."

"I'm sure Brother Anatoly would agree."

He laughed. "You feel a certain affinity?"

"For another member of the Frankenstein Club? Oh, yes.
But I'm a comparative amateur in meddling with the course of
human evolution. I lack your self-assurance as well as your
paramount qualifications. Take this black-torc business—I'm
bungling it and the baby will likely die, but I can't help feeling
that it would be for the best. If I save Brendan and the others
like him, what future would they have in this poor damned
land? I don't need Brede's clairvoyance to foresee what's going
to happen when you get to Europe. There will be a war over
the time-gate site."

"Not if Aiken cooperates with me instead of with my son.
You could show Aiken where his best interests lie."

She laughed bitterly. "You're a fool if you think I can exert
that kind of influence. Aiken does as he pleases. If he's decided
to help your children escape from you, nothing I say or do will
deter him."

The hovering dark shape drifted nearer, sending a wash of
chill air ahead. Hastily, Elizabeth covered the baby.

"Your protestations of helplessness lack conviction," Marc
said. "Perhaps you have your own reasons for encouraging the
building of a Pliocene time-gate."

"And what about your motive for preventing it?" she
retorted. "Are you really so afraid that the Magistratum will
come after you? Or is it that you would prefer to see your

children dead rather than lose them to the Unity you couldn't

accept?"

"You misjudge me," he said. "I love them. Everything I've
done has been for them. For all human children. For Mental
Man crying to be born—"

"Let it be, Marc!" she cried. "It's over—it has been, for more
than twenty-seven years! Humanity chose the other way, not
yours!" A great weariness oppressed her and she felt her eyes
sting. The strong mental walls she had erected against the
commanding presence of the Milieu's challenger wavered, weak-
ened. She was vulnerable and he knew it—but he forbore. She
whispered, "Let your children go. The Milieu will welcome
them. Turn your ship around and return to North America. I'll
do my utmost to insure that the Pliocene side of the time-gate
is permanently closed, so that you and the other Rebels will be
left unmolested."

"How will you do that?" he asked. "By going back to the
Milieu yourself?"

She turned her head away. "Leave us alone, Marc. Don't
destroy our little world."

"Poor Grand Master. It's a difficult role you've chosen.
Almost as lonely as mine." The sound of his voice intensified
and she looked up, startled, to see that he was actually standing
on the broad sill of the window. There was no longer any trace
of ghostly machinery surrounding him. As in a dream, Elizabeth
watched him step down and walk slowly to the infant's wicker
bed, leaving wet footprints on the parquet floor. The exudation
of cold air was no longer apparent. He was fully materialized,
divorced from the mind-enhancing equipment. One gloved hand
gripped the rim of the baby basket and she heard the fibres
creak. His grey eyes beneath their heavy winged brows held
hers.

"Show me the program you're using in the child's redaction.
Quickly! I can't sustain this stasis for more than a few minutes."

Her mind had gone numb, beyond fear. She summoned the
program and displayed it.

"Very ingenious. Is it entirely your own construct?"

"No. Great chunks of it come from the preceptive courses I
used when teaching children at the Metapsychic Institute on
Denali."

"Redactive science has come a long way since my day ... I

would judge that this program of yours is fully capable of effec-
ting a cure."

"It's too slow." Her admission was starkly clinical. "At the
rate I was going with Minanonn, the procedure would take more
than twelve hundred hours. The baby would almost certainly
die before we could finish."

"All you need do is magnify the coercive loading. At that
minute focus, the child's mind can endure ten times the pressure
Minanonn delivers." He had gone into the small brain, scrutini-
zing, testing. The baby stirred and exhaled a soft cooing sound,
smiling in his sleep.

Elizabeth said, "I can only utilize a single auxiliary mind in
this configuration. Phasing in a coercive metaconcert is out of
the question."

"I was thinking of something quite different." Marc withdrew
his redactive faculty and took two steps backward. "We would
have to wait until Manion and Kramer and I solve the problem
of maintaining my translation in stasis—holding off the rubber-
band effect that tends to pull me back to the takeoff point of
the jump. We couldn't risk that happening in mid redaction.
Even with a maximum feed of coercion, it will still take more
than a hundred hours to finish the little chap off."

"Finish him?" Elizabeth's voice was a faltering whisper.

Marc's mind engaged hers on the intimate mode: Together
we could heal him completely. With certain emendations of your
program we might even raise him to permanent operancy.

"Work with you? But I could never—"

"You could never trust me?" The asymmetrical smile was
self-mocking. He tapped the side of his head and greenish drops
flew from his dripping hair to splatter the window frame. "I'm
barebrained at this end of the d-jump, Elizabeth. There would
be no danger to you if we use the program exactly as
formulated—coercer-inferior, with you retaining executive
function. You'd be quite safe from . . . diabolical influence."

He seemed to step outside into the night. The semitransparent
cerebroenergetic equipment reformed about his levitant body
and he began to recede rapidly; but his mental voice was distinct:

I want to do this. Let me help you.

She asked, "How long do you think it will take you to solve
the stasis problem?" And thought: Am I mad? Am I actually
taking his proposal seriously—willing to trust him?

He said: I'll need at least a week. Perhaps a bit longer. Can
you keep the child alive that long?

"Minanonn and I can continue the procedure. If no complica-
tions turn up, the baby should survive. I think ..."

And a fading ironic comment: Perhaps Brother Anatoly can
storm heaven.

Then the starry sky was empty and the infant wailed—hungry,
cold, and in need of changing.

CHAPTER TEN

The former Mr. Justice Burke, stripped to breechclout and
moccasins, knelt spraddle-legged in the canoe hidden in the
reeds and waited for the waterbuck to slosh a metre or so nearer,
within positive dub-shot range. This time he couldn't miss.

The sun above the marshland of the Upper Moselle valley
was a brass porthole into hell. Sweat trickled from beneath
Burke's headband into his eyes, blurring the approaching ante-
lope. He blinked slowly, breathed in shallow pants, held the
taut bowstring against his cheek. His kishkas were contorted in
a frightful ache; his skull pounded; his cramped hamstrings
added their pangs to the hangover's anguish. Then he saw that
the buckthorn arrowshaft was warped—and this final evidence of
incompetence wrung an unvoiced "Gevalt!" from his rebuking
aboriginal conscience. He shifted aim in a futile attempt to
compensate, and let fly.

The arrow nicked the waterbuck across the withers. The
animal leaped, floundering in hock-deep water. Partially chewed
plants drooled from its mouth. Peopeo Moxmox Burke of the
Wallawalla whipped another arrow into position and shot again,
wide of the mark. The antelope bounded off in a series of great
splashes. Frightened mallards took to the air ahead of it and a
pied swan, hooting, exploded up from a patch of sawgrass. Then
it was quiet again except for Burke's muttered curses.

He lowered the bow and let it drop onto the canoe bottom.
Taking up the paddle, he dug in deeply and sent the boat
shooting out of the natural blind into open water, heading for

the thin shade of a taxodium cypress. After he had moored to
one of the half-submerged knee-roots, he took a long drink from
his skin bota. Something seemed to twang behind his eyeballs.
He drank again and his sight cleared. Grunting, he worked
himself into a comfortable position and began to examine the
rest of the arrows.

Almost all of them were off true.

He picked up the bow. The laminations of yew wood were
separating as the cement succumbed to decay. The twisted sinew
of the bowstring was frayed and weak. Even the buckskin quiver
was spotted with mildew and gaping at the seams. Small wonder
that he hadn't managed to take a single antelope! The bow and
arrows, like the rest of his Native American paraphernalia, had
lain neglected on the shelf of his wigwam for long months during
his southern adventures. Since his return to Hidden Springs,
he had been too busy planning countermeasures against the
encroaching Firvulag to take time to hunt.

What in the world had been in his mind this morning,
prompting this primitivist folly?

He had flung himself out of Marialena Torrejon's bed,
abruptly awake, with the ringing declaration that there would
take place that night a great feast—an official celebration of the
great news!—and he himself, freeleader of the Lowlives, would
provide game for the entree.

"You want another party?" Marialena asked blearily, disen-
tangling her plump limbs from the linen sheets. "Hombre, que
te jodas! I've got a head like an exploding volcano after last
night—"

He only grinned owlishly. The village had gone into a frenzy
of jubilation when he announced that Nodonn's coup had failed
and Basil and the Bastards were safe. "But I didn't tell you all
of Elizabeth's news, bubeleh. I wanted to save it! We'll have a
really big feast—a monster barbecue, you hear me? I'll bring
you six antelope to roast. Afterwards I'll tell you and the rest
of the people the biggest news since the Flood!"

"Loco indio," she mumbled fondly. "No me importa dos
cojones." She came squirming toward him. "Look, it's nice and
cool now. You don't really want to go hunting. Lucien and the
kids can get game for your feast. Vamos a pichar, mi corazon,
mi porra de azucar—"

She made a grab for him, but he was already out the door of

her hut, buck-naked in the dawn (and still well shickered, if the
truth be told), aflame with atavistic masculine instincts that were,
at least for now, more imperative than sex. He stumbled to his
wigwam and got dressed—not in the chino cargo pants and
sturdy boots that had been his customary garb ever since the
exodus from Muriah, but in his old breechclout and moccasins.
When he rummaged about for hunting equipment he shoved
aside the modern plass-and-metal compound bow, deadly and
dependable, and the iron-tipped vitredur arrows that had slain
so many exotic antagonists. He took up instead the gear he had
chosen to carry through the time-gate many years earlier, when
he still cherished a dream of returning to tribal ways.

Peopeo Moxmox, noble savage and late Justice of the Wash-
ington State Supreme Court, sat in his canoe and laughed. The
craft was not made of bark but of decamole, that marvel of
Milieu technology, and he would deflate it and tuck it into a
waist-pouch when the day's comedy ended. He suddenly remem-
bered the tag good old Saul Mermelstein used to tease him with
when he was a fledgling lawyer in Salt Lake City: "Lo, the poor
Indian, whose soul proud science never taught to stray ..."
But he had, he had! And nowhere more than in the primeval
Pliocene.

He fingered the warped shaft of an arrow, turning it so that the
carefully chipped obsidian point glittered in the sun. Somewhere
back in the wigwam was a shaft straightener, a simple gadget
no primitive huntsman would be without. But on the other hand,
vitredur arrows were indestructible, with self-fletching and a
wide assortment of interchangeable heads. Some of them even
had built-in transponders for tracking wounded game and easy
retrieval.

Apple Injun!

"So why did I come out here today?" he inquired of the world
at large. "Why ask, Burke? You hopeless shmegeggeh!"

An unseen crocodilian choofed and a warbler sang. Two blue
butterflies twirled in a mating dance above the gleaming water.
He caught a whiff of vanilla essence in the still, hot air and
looked up to see a spray of exquisite tiny orchids growing from
a cleft in the bark of the cypress. Burke reached out and touched
it. He was very glad he had come, glad he had killed nothing.

After a while he consulted his wrist chronograph, a thing as
handsome (and nonaboriginal) as his golden torc. The time was

coming up on 1600 hours, and he had left a note for Denny
Johnson, asking to be met at the river trail with chalikos and
plenty of game bags for the antelopes . . .

Grinning, he untied the painter and stroked out into the
lagoon toward the mainstream of the Moselle. The swan
reappeared, majestic in black-and-white plumage, and glided
tamely after the canoe. As Burke left it behind and the ripples
of his wake subsided, the bird seemed poised in the centre of a
peat-dark mirror, superimposed upon a reflection of itself.
Clumps of emerald grasses topped by feathery plumes framed
it against the deeper green of the jungle. Staring back over
his shoulder, Burke caught his breath. He would remember
this—and so much more.

Then the canoe grounded on a mudbar. Setting aside the
paddle, he boosted the craft over into the river backwater, stood
up, and began to pole stoutly upstream. He hoped that Denny
himself would be waiting. There would be salutary jibes to
endure, but as they rode back to Hidden Springs he could break
the news about the time-gate. And they could discuss ways and
means for a Lowlife capture of Castle Gateway.

Lowlife prisoners from Iron Maiden and Haul Fourneaville
numbering sixty or seventy were armed and ready in their big
wooden cage. Their position was one of strength, partially shel-
tered behind granite outcroppings at the crest of the small ridge.
There was no way they could be surprised or outflanked, no
chance that the Firvulag might overwhelm them by resorting to
the traditional massed assault or bogeyman tactics. The Lowlife
miners, veterans of many a skirmish in the beleaguered Iron
Villages, would only be bested by mind-power.

Up in the royal observation post on a nearby height, King
Sharn chewed his lower lip as he watched the first company
of stalwart gnomes, led by Pingol the Horripilant, begin their
advance. Curses and catcalls came from the defending prisoners,
but they held their fire. Some experienced fighter must have
taken on the leadership, imparting a modicum of discipline to
the demoralized crew. Their yells subsided, then rose afresh as
a second and smaller contingent of Firvulag, warrior ogresses
under Fouletot Blackbreast, started up the ravine on the left
shoulder of the ridge. This route provided more shelter for the
attackers, but was considerably steeper. To Sharn and Ayfa,

watching the manoeuvres from their vantage point half a kilo-
metre away, the two assault forces looked like separate swarms
of jet-black beetles, serrated pikes and standards waving like
antennae under the blazing sun, creeping up on a gigantic
exposed picnic basket.

"I still think it was a mistake to arm the prisoners with iron,"
Sharn said. "Just one scratch, and it's curtains for our folks."

"They've got to get used to the hazard," Ayfa retorted brut-
ally. "Do you think Roniah will be defended with glass swords
and bronze battle-axes? By rights, those prisoners should have
stunners and laser carbines as well as arrows tipped with the
blood-metal. That's what our troops will be up against in a real
battle. Look what happened to Mimee's outfit at Bardelask."

"Hell, they won, didn't they?"

"Only because the Bardy-Town defenders were vastly
outnumbered and ran out of arrows. And if Aiken Drum's
supply train had arrived with the futuristic weaponry, it would
have been Goddess-Bless-Me-ere-I-Sleep!" The Queen frowned
at the Firvulag forces creeping up the hill. "Our lads and lasses
have to understand that mind-power is the only sure way to
victory. Concerted mind-power—not our usual higgledy-
piggledy uncoordinated individual efforts. That's why Betularn
White Hand set up these manoeuvres to give the Lowlives the
tactical advantage—and why he put gonzo youngsters like
Fouletot and Pingol in command of this first demonstration."

"Let's hope the prisoners put up a good fight," Sharn said,
shading his eyes to peer at the now silent cage. "Be a pity if
they funked out."

Ayfa snickered. "Betularn gave them his personal assurance
that if they managed to hold off our troops until sunset, we'd
set them free."

The King guffawed in appreciation of the jest. "Poor dolts!
They never seem to learn that the solemn word of a Firvulag
holds only when given to another Firvulag or a Tanu—not to a
Lowlife. I mean, how can you make a pact of honour with a
nonperson?"

"But they keep falling for it," Ayfa observed, shaking her
sable-helmed head in wonderment. "Even the biggest Lowlife
of them all!"

The King leaned forward in his seat, scowling. "Pingol's bunch
is getting too damn close to the cage. Why doesn't he call up

the defensive screen? Any minute now those prisoners—Te's
tushie!"

At the monarch's exclamation of dismay a hail of iron-tipped
missiles exploded from the cage and rained upon the frontal
assault force. There were scattered screeches and wails and a
tardy telepathic command. A sparkling barrier of mental energy
sprang raggedly into existence, flickering here and there as some
dwarf belatedly linked into the defensive metaconcert. The
Lowlives bellowed in derision and sent off salvo after salvo
of arrows. Most of Pingol's company held their ground and
concentrated on shoring up the mind-shield, which steadied into
a translucent bubble-section three or four metres high that
hovered just ahead of the forward ranks. Even at a distance,
Sharn and Ayfa could hear the sinister tinkle of iron points
striking this barrier and falling away.

Well done! the King broadcast, by way of encouragement. He
rose up and assumed his guise of a monstrous scorpion. A
handful of gnomes raised a pro forma cheer, but most of them
had all they could do to keep the great protective umbrella
erected. For others, motionless on the rocks in tumbled and
broken attitudes, the mental shelter had come too late.

"They didn't act together, and the screen's too widespread,"
Ayfa noted, glowering her disapproval. "And that turd-head
Pingol waited much too long before giving the command—"

"Here come the big girls!" Sharn exclaimed.

Fouletot's ogresses were swarming up the defile to the left of
the cage, a businesslike little screen protecting them in the steep
terrain. A dozen or so of the giant exotics, perhaps one-fifth of
the total force, fell back from the others and gathered into a
close formation. An instant later a gout of blue flame soared up
from their midst like a shot from a Roman candle. It arced high
above the ridge and fell onto the cage roof, where it sank slowly
through the heavy gridwork to the accompaniment of hideous
Lowlife screams. Coils of greasy smoke seeped out around the
rocks. After a brief pause, a furious shower of arrows descended
upon the ogresses. One fell, howling, and the survivors hastened
to expand their screen.

Downslope in front of the cage, the gnomish force was rede-
ploying. A desultory discharge of arrows fell on them, to be
mostly deflected by their mental screen. This was now much
more compact and efficient, generated by a semicircle of creative

stalwarts who slowly advanced up the hill. Only the occasional
missile penetrated, but these were sufficient to bring death with
the slightest wound. The humans inside the cage jeered and
screamed at the top of their lungs every time an exotic fell.

Now Pingol's fighters left off waving their halberds and skull-
draped standards and formed three bodies in close array behind
the moving shield. Suddenly three glowing balls of energy,
almost white beneath the harsh sun, flew up in cometlike trajec-
tories and converged upon the cage. The structure burst actively
into flame and the prisoners inside shrieked and leaped about,
batting at the blazing timbers with their garments and dousing
the more stubborn flames with their scant supply of drinking
water. The storm of arrows abated only slightly, and within
minutes was thicker than ever.

The smaller force of ogresses had attained a rocky platform,
a stratum of denser rock that capped the top of the ravine about
fifty metres below the end of the cage. The ledge was very
narrow, little more than a sharp lip strewn with slippery scree
from the precipitous slope above. Rather than attempting this,
they strung out in a cordon, maintaining the mind-screen
umbrella. At a farspoken signal, each warrior extended her
black glass-sword and opened a slit in the screen. From the
points of the weapons flowed individual corruscating rays that
united, just before striking the cage, into a thick, twisted flash
of lightning. It hit the cage squarely, and at the same time a
blast of thunder reached the ears of Sharn and Ayfa and caused
them to blink, so that they missed the beginning of Pingol's
charge—then shouted in delight at the sight of the gnomes, still
in their disciplined trifid formation preceded by the shielders,
racing up the hill and bombarding the cage with a fusillade of
small psychocreative bursts.

"Beautiful!" shouted Sharn, lashing about with his scorpion
tail. He knocked over the refreshment table, but neither he nor
the Queen seemed to notice that they were jumping up and
down in a mess of spilled beer, hooby mushrooms, Danish
cucumbers, slices of black melon, eel a la Flamande, and candied
malmignattes.

Ayfa cried: Smite the Lowlife bastards! Arms united, minds
united!

And the Firvulag soldiery responded: Yllahayl the Foe!

The thunderbolt generated by Fouletot Blackbreast and her

platoon had knocked that end of the cage to flinders at the same
time that it killed numbers of human defenders outright. The
survivors now began to scramble out onto the rocks, brandishing
their bows and arrows, long knives, and small tomahawks, ready
to engage the advancing Firvulag hand to hand. More fireballs
popped up from the dwarf attackers. The ogresses got off one
last streak of lightning, completing the demolition of the cage.
Then humans and exotics mingled in combat, the Lowlives
diving under shaky mental screens or shooting arrows in high
parabolas so that the missiles might strike the rear ranks of the
enemy. Discipline among the exotics wavered, then collapsed.
Both officers and troops forgot about working in metaconcert
and reverted to the traditional fighting form. They bawled out
the old battle cries, shape-shifted into monstrous apparitions,
and fell upon the outnumbered Lowlives. Dwarfs hacked and
flailed with serrated obsidian blades. Ogres thrust about, impa-
ling bodies with barbed lances—or even snatched up disarmed
humans to rend them limb from limb. The tumult reverberated
throughout the fastness of Grand Ballon mountain. Plumes of
smoke and steam rose as the odd stalwart remembered orders
and used mental energy to annihilate the foe.

Sharn and Ayfa, wearing their normal shapes and saying
nothing, watched. The blinding disk of the sun descended behind
the towers of High Vrazel and a cool wind swept away some of
the carnage stench. Carrion birds circled and began to descend.
Finally there settled over the rocky battleground a great stillness,
and in the minds of the King and Queen rang the simultaneous
farspoken voices of Pingol and Fouletot:

High King and High Queen—we proclaim a victory in Te's
name!

All the dwarfs and ogres and middling monsters came together
on the foreslope beneath the devastated cage, and with weapons
and standards raised on high, shouted: "Praise and glory to Te,
Goddess of Battles! And to Sharn and Ayfa, High King and
High Queen! And to the Great Captains Pingol and
Fouletot—and to all of us! Arms united! Minds united! Slitsal!
Slitsal! Slitsal!

Hearts full, the co-monarchs made the ritual response and
declared the manoeuvres at a triumphant end. After that they
stood for some time watching as the stretcher bearers and
healers and morticians and inspectors and talleymen and salvors

and the other homely technicians of war's aftermath did their
work. The mock battle had cost twenty-two Firvulag lives; only
three were wounded. Every last human prisoner had been slain.

Sharn said, "It was well done. The other captains will profit
by this demonstration to the death, and subsequent manoeuvres
can be bloodless."

"They'll jolly well have to be, now that the Iron Villages are
nearly abandoned," Ayfa said. "We're smack out of
prisoners—unless we want to unleash Monolokee the Scunner-
some on Fort Rusty."

"Not yet. Mopping up the Vosges Lowlives can wait until
Truce time. We'll have to concentrate on important business
during the next three weeks. There's the Tourney practice in
addition to the Nightfall preliminaries. And Roniah."

The Queen retrieved a golden goblet from the floor, tapped
a fresh keg of beer, and resumed her seat. "Still planning to
make a big deal of it? Full-scale assault, with Mimee and all?"

Sharn was still staring down at the battlefield, ham-sized fists
resting on his ceremonially armoured hips. "After seeing that
we can really use metaconcert—I'm inclined to change the plan.
Since Bardelask, the balance of terror has tipped nicely to our
side; we won't need to labour the point at Roniah. As for
Mimee, let him loot Bardelask and withdraw, so we seem to be
caving in to Aiken's demands. Meanwhile, we take a force of
stalwarts and infiltrate carefully along the east bank of the
Saone, then make a lightning stab at the citadel from the river
side after drifting down in decamole boats. Condateyr would
never dream that we'd attempt a water invasion. Too unpreced-
ented for the hidebound Little People! We whip in there fast as
weasels, hit 'em with mind-power and blood-metal and high-
tech zappers, raid the Milieu weapons cache—and streak out
with the loot before the garrison can even pull its socks up."
He turned around and grinned at his wife. "And if we strike
just before the Truce, Aiken won't have any comeback."

"But the kid will be pissed to the wide, and he'll know who
to blame—"

"True, but the High Table won't let him violate the Truce by
mounting a counterstrike. He's constrained by his adopted Tanu
ethics in dealing with us—but we're free to treat him like any
other Lowlife!"

Ayfa considered for a moment. "It would be easy to disguise

our people as Lowlives for the Roniah action. A little shape-
shifting wouldn't drain much energy from the offensive metacon-
cert. And the deception would be enhanced by our use of iron
and futuristic weapons. Of course, we'd have to carry away our
deaders and be careful not to leave any incriminating equipment
behind."

"I like it!" exclaimed Sharn. He picked up his own goblet,
gave it a perfunctory wipe with the brocade table-runner, and
held it out to Ayfa for filling. After taking a long pull, he studied
the jewel-eyed skull of the late Velteyn of Finiah and remarked,
"This chap here was really our first fruits of Nightfall, Ayfa. It
all began at Finiah, with that very first victory after so many
years of ignominy—and was well and truly launched during the
Last Grand Combat, even though we were robbed of our rightful
triumph. The first event lifted our hearts; the second confirmed
our resolution." He looked upon the orange-haired ogress tend-
erly. "I've commanded Mimee to send up the skull of Lady
Armida of Bardelask to make a new matching goblet for you."

She lowered her eyes, feeling a sentimental tear steal down
her cheek, and then could not help but say, "Before the rains
come, we might even have a whole set!"

Sharn roared in appreciation. The two royals toasted each
other and refilled the goblets. Sharn said, "Too bad Aiken's
such a shrimp. His skull's barely big enough for an eggcup."

"We can take turns at breakfast," said his wife. "By the
way—what did he want this morning?"

The King waved a dismissive paw. "Some drivel about repara-
tions for Bardelask, to be debited against the Grand Tourney
prizes. I agreed to everything he asked for. Why not? We can
take it all back after Nightfall! ... He came up with one matter
that was a puzzler, though. Do we know anything about a
Lowlife named Tony Wayland?"

"He was that chap the Worm captured. The one who spilled
the beans about the aircraft hidden in the Vale of Hyenas."

Sharn smacked the edge of the table. "That's right. I'd
forgotten. Well—Aiken wants us to give the creature back. He
claims this Tony is the bosom buddy of a great friend of his.
Even offered to knock off a goodly portion of the reparation if
we fork him over right away."

Ayfa scowled as she swirled the dregs of her beer, "Oh, he
did, did he? Something stinks here, vein of my heart. Skathe

took a fancy to Tony. When I sent her and Karbree down to
oversee the Bardelask operation, they carried the Lowlife along.
And they died, Skathe and the Worm, in a most mysterious
way . . ."

The King nodded. "Lowlife treachery written all over the
murders. Mimee was at a loss to account for it. The city was
already taken when the half-sunken boat and the bodies were
found. So you think this Tony might have—"

"Who knows?" The Queen's face within her lunetted helmet
wore a terrible expression. "Have Mimee keep an eye out for
him. Pass the word to the other Little People in the South. If
this Lowlife did kill my friend Skathe and the Worm, let's not
be in too much of a hurry to give him to the Tanu."

"Well," said the King, "Aiken didn't specify condition of
merchandise."

Ayfa leaped over and kissed his bearded cheek. "You always
understand."

"Always!" he repeated, catching the gleam in her eyes. He
set down his goblet on the table and gently detached hers from
her hand. Then the two monstrous armoured forms came
together, and the sun-gilded rocks echoed with the clashing
consummation.

Secure in his redoubt of peanut sacks, Tony Wayland watched
from the loft of a dockside warehouse as the looting of Bardelask
wound down to its fatal finale.

The last packtrains loaded with goods were gathering along
the quayside road. Gangs of human captives, half-dead after
almost a week of forced labour, now brought up the few
remaining treasures to be gleaned from the buildings along the
wharf: kegs of oil, alcohol, and dyestuffs, bales of rare leathers,
loaf sugar, silken cordage and fabric, coffee beans in jute sacks,
and cases of processed spices and precious strawberry jam.

Fortunately for Tony, the Firvulag did not care for peanuts.
And after eating little else for six days, he was getting thoroughly
sick of the worthy legume himself.

Through his golden torc, he could hear the dispirited telepa-
thic speech of the grey-torced prisoners. (Anyone torced with
gold or silver had been summarily slain.) From Tony's point of
view, there was good news. Instead of holding Bardelask and
using it as a base for harrying shipping on the Rhone, the

invaders had been ordered to withdraw. The leader of the
Famorel Host, a malignant gnome named Mimee whose illusory
aspect was that of a flightless roc, had exploded in a paroxysm
of avian rage at being deprived of this additional source of
booty, and had snapped off the heads of twenty-two helpless
greys before recovering his self-possession. Somewhat later,
Tony learned that Mimee had suffered a second fit of pique
when King Sharn cancelled Famorel's participation in a
projected assault on Roniah. This piece of intelligence helped
Tony make up his mind to travel north, not south, when it was
safe to leave his hiding place among the goobers.

Meanwhile, he used the time to get reacquainted with his
torc.

The golden collar that the late Skathe had given him contained
mind-expanding components precisely similar to those in the
silver torc he had worn in Finiah. Unlike the silver, however,
the golden torc had no slave-circuitry binding him to Tanu
control, nor the tracking device that would enable gold-torced
persons to locate him with minimal exertion of farsense.
Wearing gold, Tony was free—but once again possessed of the
wonderful powers that had made life so satisfying back in lost
Finiah.

The enhancement of his modest psychocreative faculty gave
him the ability to perform numerous small but useful energy-
manipulative acts. He could extract water from the air for drin-
king, and remove it from his clammy clothing when the river
mist enveloped his hiding place at night. He could roast the
peanuts in their shells. When it was safe, he could strike a small
light without recourse to a permamatch. He could zap fleas or
other tiny vermin that dared to infest his person. When the loft
grew stifling hot during the day, he could whistle up a cool
breeze. If he became bored, the magic collar provided autoerotic
amusement. It eased the pangs of physical fatigue, made injuries
unnoticeable, sent him into refreshing sleep in a trice, woke
him if any medium-to-large life-form approached within fifteen
metres of his hiding place, banished anxieties, and cleared his
head for fruitful planning. With it, he could speak, hear, and
dimly see with his metasenses over a range of some 300 kilome-
tres. (This last talent was none too common among silvers; but
Tony had had eleven years of practice.) Since Finiah was a bit
of a backwater, it had amused him to "collect" the mental

signatures of certain Tanu notables whom he met at social occa-
sions in the pleasure dome. Later, he would spy on them during
their peregrinations in the open air. To his regret, he could not
farsense through stone walls, but it had been diverting to see
what the exotics got up to al fresco. Hunts were the least of it!

Now, as Tony waited for the Firvulag to evacuate Bardelask,
he began to wonder which, if any, of his old silver-torc comrades
might have survived the destruction of Finiah. Where were they
now—old Yevgeny and Stendal, cocky Liem and stolid Tiny
Tim, luscious Lisette and Agnes Virgin-Martyr? Now he could
call them . . . and for an hour or so, he did. But the signatures
broadcast into the aether evoked not a single response. His
friends of yore were either detorced or dead, lost in the chaos
of changing times. He had no desire to farspeak his former
Tanu associates, not even those who had called themselves his
Creative Siblings. The exotics wouldn't care about him, a single
human outcast among thousands of others. They had troubles
of their own these days, poor devils—and not a few of them
human-caused.

There was Dougal. Mad but loyal, he had been some kind of
friend. But Dougal had worn no torc, and by now he was
probably maggot-meat in the Hercynian Forest, where Karbree
the Worm's patrol had ambushed them. No ... there was only
one living soul left in the Many-Coloured Land who might care
if Tony Wayland lived or died.

Or did she hate him by now? It would serve him right.

His eyes misted in self-pity and he leaned his head back
against the crunchy peanut-sack pillow. Outside the warehouse
were the noises of guttural Firvulag commands, whips cracking,
hellads and chalikos snorting and blowing, the jingle of harness,
the thump and thud of loading. It was hot and humid and
tedious—time to call upon the torc's solace.

Then he heard an exotic's rage-filled roar. A human shriek
bubbled and then stilled. Tony switched to the grey band and
heard:

Damndamndamn look at poorWerner!

Poor sod should know better use figureeight hitch loose load
like that bound spill—

But to pull his tongue out?

His fault for lipping Spook.

MaryMother he's bleeding death!

Sowhat? Weall be dead soon.

Lookoutlookout here come 3 Jabberwocks OChrist with
zappers—

Sickened, Tony shut them out. There was nothing he could
do to help the poor doomed bastards. Wails sounded outside,
and curses, and a certain word barked out loudly in the Firvulag
language. Then came sizzling chirps from Matsu carbines, one
note after another in precise rhythm, until the human babble
was stilled.

Tony let the torc's bright comfort cover him. He saw himself
crossing the Rhone in a stolen boat, travelling cautiously north
on the Great Road, surviving by his wits and the cachet of
mental gold. Once the Truce began, the track north of Roniah
would be mobbed with sports lovers of all three races, peacefully
heading up to the Grand Tourney. It would be safe to travel
openly then. He would go up the Saone trail, pass Firvulag-held
Burask (harmless in Truce Time), and finally voyage down the
Nonol to the only sanctuary left to him—the city with toadstool
domes that gleamed like El Dorado, the city hemmed with
meadows and linked to the tournament Field of Gold by a
rainbow bridge. The city of monsters, the city of friends. He
would go home to Nionel and Rowane.

Rapt in the fantasy, he held her and knew joy. Later he woke
to find that the sun had set and it was much cooler. Except for
the distant howls of hyenas and the squeaking of rats in the
warehouse, Bardelask was utterly silent.

Tony stood up, brushed peanut shells from his clothes, and
went confidently down the loft ladder. Outside on the quay he
found what he was afraid he would find. But there was also a
stout little wherry, complete with oars, tied up below the devas-
tated ship chandler's shop. After a brief foray for items that the
Firvulag had thought too insignificant for looting, Tony was
ready to cast off. The boat floated on the placid Ysaar and
there was no need to row. The current would carry him to the
confluence with the Rhone, less than a kilometre away, and he
could camp on the opposite bank of the larger river and start
out for home in the morning.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AIKEN: Greetings, Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH: Hello and congratulations! I see you're ready to
leave Calamosk with the all-terrain vehicles. You've been
very adroit in handling the young North Americans.

AIKEN: They've swallowed my bluff, if that's what you mean.
And for the moment, they're willing to accept my authority.
Hagen Remillard suspects something fishy might be going on,
but he can't quite put his finger on what it is.

ELIZABETH: He's tried to probe you?

AIKEN: That's his sister's gig ... but no, they've been discreet
so far. Still sniffing me out.

ELIZABETH: Are you heading directly back to Goriah now?

AIKEN: All of us except the expedition to the Alps. They'll split
from our caravan at the Amalizan crossroads. Sail across Lac
Provencal and then head into the mountains along the trail
behind Darask. They'll approach Monte Rosa via the Italian
back door. Bleyn's on his way down from Goriah to lead the
expedition and Ochal the Harper will be his second. I'm
sending seven of the fifteen fourplex ATVs, with ten of
Hagen's nontechnical people as drivers. Basil and his Bastards
will go, of course—all except one guy named Dimitri Anastos,
who's some kind of hotshot u-field engineer. Hagen thought
he might come in handy on the time-gate project. I'm filling
out the expedition with thirty-odd Tanu and elite golds, armed
to the teeth. Those aircraft are the family jewels, babe. Time-
gate or no time-gate, I'll be truly snookered if I don't get my
hands on them in time to counter Marc and the Firvulag. You
could help the expedition, if you would.

ELIZABETH: Routemaking?

AIKEN: Primarily. The Darask people say that nobody knows the
territory east of the Maritimes. To the north is Famorel, of
course. The expedition wants to avoid an encounter with
Mimee's forces at all costs. If you could keep an eye out,

steer them away from hostiles, show them the fastest routes
for the ATVs you'd save lives.

ELIZABETH: Of course. I'll be glad to.

AIKEN: [Relief.] I was afraid it might be against one of your
damn principles.

ELIZABETH: I can't assist you in aggression, Aiken. This is nothing
of the sort. Your acquisition of the aircraft may prevent war.

AIKEN: It better.

ELIZABETH: Will you begin work immediately on the Guderian
device?

AIKEN: I've got Alberonn and Lady Morna-Ia tracking down
likely technicians and other boffin types right now. They'll
assemble the personnel in Goriah. I wish I could hide the
project away in some secret spot where Marc wouldn't be
able to find it—but I wouldn't trust Hagen out of my sight,
and there are some other specimens among those young
rascals who make him look like Sir Galahad. Oh, we're getting
along famously.

ELIZABETH: Do you really think it will be possible to build the
tau-field generator?

AIKEN: These North Americans brought a hell of a lot of stuff
with them—components, manufacturing apparatus, gadgets
galore. And we'll probably find more useful items in the
Goriah store that Kuhal and Celo mopped up for me. They're
finishing the new inventory now. The most difficult raw mate-
rial will be some rare-earth element Hagen says we'll have to
mine in Fennoscandia. Even with an aerial survey, it'll be the
devil's own job to locate the ores. None of the Tanu are
familiar with that northern country.

ELIZABETH: You should enlist Sugoll's help.

AIKEN: ?

ELIZABETH: Numbers of his people lived in that region prior to
the Howler ingathering. Some may still remain. I know that
many mutants were keen miners of jewels and precious
metals. If you described these rare-earth minerals to them,
they might be able to expedite your survey.

AIKEN: Great idea. I'll farspeak Sugoll, spin him some yarn—

ELIZABETH: Tell him the truth. About everything.

AIKEN You don't think he'd ... oh, my God, no!

ELIZABETH: All peace loving persons in the Many-Coloured Land

must know about the time-gate. And have the option to
choose.

AIKEN: [Laughter.] Oh, Woman! I can just see it. Nine or ten
thousand hobgoblins pouring out of the gate into twenty-
second-century France! There goes the neighbourhood! The
Milieu would have to find a spare planet or something.

ELIZABETH: You could be dirigent.

AIKEN: Who said I was returning?

ELIZABETH: Aren't you? I took it for granted.

AIKEN: Take yourself for granted, sweets. The gate project is a
long, long shot at a murky target. I have plenty of other
troubles to keep me amused. Such as regaining my own sanity
and powers before that damned Abaddon lands in Europe.

ELIZABETH: Aiken ... I thought you knew about Marc's d-
jumping ability. [Image.] He came here. To Black Crag. He
doesn't have the faculty under control yet, but it won't be
long before he's able to teleport anywhere in the world.

AIKEN: Then Hagen was telling the truth. I hoped he had it
wrong—that Marc was only pulling some sophisticated biloca-
tion stunt with his augmented farsenses and creativity.

ELIZABETH: He materialized inside my chalet.

AIKEN: Jesus! Did he threaten you?

ELIZABETH: No.

AIKEN: I can give you a sigma generator. Hagen doesn't think
Marc will be able to d-jump through its force-field.

ELIZABETH: Thank you, but no. I must deal with Marc in my
own way.

AIKEN: You have a way? Nice! I wish I could say the same.
We've been hiding under Hagen's big SR-35 sigma for our
conferences here so Marc couldn't farpeep or join the
party—and I'll use the thing in Goriah to shield the Guderian
project. But the King can't live permanently inside a friggerty
silver fishbowl . . . When Marc gets his act together, he'll put
the screws on me proper. And I'm scared, sweets. When he
finds out about the gate project, he'll try to burn me—and
maybe succeed.

ELIZABETH: He's much weaker than he was before. Felice injured
both his body and his brain.

AIKEN: That's what Hagen and Cloud said. But they didn't know
how seriously his barebrain wattage had been diminished.

Even if he's ninety per cent wrecked, he's probably more than
a match for Me right now! . . . Not to mention the help he'll
get from them.

ELIZABETH: [Concern.] Them. You're not talking about the
Remillard children and their friends, or the older Rebels—

AIKEN: [Quiet laughter.]

ELIZABETH:   .... There's been no improvement in your
subsumption?

AIKEN: I'm losing ground, if anything.

ELIZABETH: Symptoms?

AIKEN: I haven't slept since the fight with Nodonn. Ten perishing
days. I can barely fly, let alone carry anything. My creativity
is shot except for illusion making. The redaction is just about
wiped out. I can still coerce. (Wouldn't you know?) I can
farsense, but it hurts like hell.

ELIZABETH: I never would have known. You have a very decep-
tive psychosurface.

AIKEN: [Desperate weariness.] You mean, dear lady, that I am
tricky. It may be my last bastion of survival. If I don't get
some help soon, I'll be stark raving mad before Truce.

ELIZABETH: Oh, Aiken.

AIKEN: Well? I'm ready. Say the word, and I'll come.

ELIZABETH: To Black Crag—?

AIKEN: Unless you've learned to deep-redact at distance. The
ATV train leaves Calamosk within the hour. It'll take us
less than two days to reach the Amalizan cutoff where we
rendezvous with Bleyn and split off the Alpine expedition.
Black Crag is only eight kloms from there as the golden falcon
flies. I think I can just about make it. Say—on the evening
of September fifth.

ELIZABETH: Aiken . . . I'm expecting Marc to return here. It
wouldn't be safe for you to come. Not even with the sigma.
He mustn't ... I don't dare . . .

AIKEN: [Anger + fear.] Maybe you think I'm joking about my
mental state! Well, I'm not. During the day when I'm busy
it's not so bad. But every night they get bigger, more out of
control. They're doing it that way so that last joke will be on
me. I won't just die, I'll die ridiculous!

ELIZABETH: I don't understand. You say you're experiencing
hallucinations now along with the metapsychic weakening and
the pain?

AIKEN: It's not a delusion! It's real [image] real grotesque I'm
so ashamed it can't be happening [image] not to Me and Mine
they're dead there's no way they can be doing it [image]
making me swell and burn and drain away again [image] and
again [image] not real or real it doesn't matter because it's
ruining me Me me ELIZABETH HELP ME!! [Supremely
obscene montage abruptly cut off.]

ELIZABETH: Yes. Of course I'll help. I'll come to you.

AIKEN: Come?

ELIZABETH: Be easy, "dear. I'll come. Minanonn will bring
me—and Dionket and Creyn as well. We'll help you.

AIKEN: Alone. Come alone. (Nobody must know! Nobody must
know!)

ELIZABETH: I'll need help, just as I did when I redacted you on
the Rio Genii, after the battle with Felice. Trust me.

AIKEN: You'll really come?

ELIZABETH: Yes. Now listen to me. We'll need a secure place.
We don't want to use the sigma. The thing is a virtual beacon
to a long-distance farsensor and Marc mustn't suspect that
I'm working on you.

AIKEN: (Nobody must know! Him above all! Humiliation! Ridi-
cule! A jest on the jester!)

ELIZABETH: There are more important reasons for secrecy. I
can only help you to set up a skeletal structure for your
reintegration. A mental framework for you to mount the
subsumed faculties on.

AIKEN: I won't be cured . . . ?

ELIZABETH: You'll be freed of distressing symptoms if the redac-
tion succeeds, able to reestablish your metafaculties by your-
self. You'll heal, just as you did after the Rio Genii. But you
don't want your enemies to know your weakness.

AIKEN: (Nobody must know the shame.)

ELIZABETH: Listen. I've asked Minanonn, and he says there's a
suitable place about twenty kilometres southwest of the trails
junction. [Image.] It's a disused Firvulag cave, abandoned
centuries ago when the Little People withdrew from southern
France.

AIKEN: Yes. I see. You want to meet me there?

ELIZABETH: Try to be inside the cave before sundown on the
fifth. Marc seems to do his d-jumping by night to minimize
solar interference with the upsilon-field.

AIKEN: They grow at night, too. Even if I sleep under the sigma.

ELIZABETH: You'll be better soon.

AIKEN: Are you sure?

ELIZABETH: No, I'm not. What you did—the subsumption—is
unprecedented. But I'm going to do my best to help you.

AIKEN: Please. Please. Try anything. Oh Elizabeth they're so
freakish so enormous and now It's bigger than all the rest of
my body controlling me punishing me making me Its slave
making me hate It because I used It I didn't know it would
happen didn't think why how I did it—

ELIZABETH: Tell yourself it's only a delusion. A dream. Not real.

AIKEN: Not happening to my body?

ELIZABETH: No, dear. Be easy. Wait for me in the cave. It will
be all right. (Please let it be.)

AIKEN: Yes. I told myself that.

ELIZABETH: Goodbye, Aiken. (Goodbye poor demigodling, poor
rampant Loki, poor priapic Fool, poor Mentu-Ra with the
fiery mentule, poor Ithyphallikos. Now we both know what a
terrible thing it is to live the myth of our own choosing.)

The storm, racing along the front of the Pyrenees, came into
view shortly after Minanonn carried Elizabeth, Dionket, and
Creyn over the valley of the Proto-Aude to the Great South
Road. Anvil-headed cloud cells formed a long rank from the
Gulf of Lions into the angry sunset. They were filmy white at
their stratospheric tops and purplish black below, tinged with
lurid brushstrokes of copper on their western flanks, where the
lowering sun still sulked. Lightning flickered in their hearts and
beneath the grey-curtained bases. A low rumble of thunder
became almost continuous as Minanonn bore his passengers
farther south.

"Don't worry," the former Battlemaster reassured Elizabeth.
"We'll be at the cave ahead of the rain."

"It will mean an end to this awful heat wave, at any rate,"
she said.

"Has it seriously distressed you?" Dionket asked in surprise.
"I found it pleasant myself. Reminiscent of Duat. We could
have used a bit more humidity, though, to make it genuinely
homelike."

"You First Comers!" Creyn said, amused. "Nostalgic for the
ancestral hellhole."

"Nonsense, lad," said Minanonn. "Duat was much more
comfortable than this planet. A soft haze to temper the sun's
glare, never these prolonged droughts for part of the year and
half drowning the rest. On Duat, the rains came fairly uniformly
all year round. And the temperature was rarely low enough to
chill, even at aphelion."

"He speaks of the Tanu motherlands, of course," Dionket
explained. "We lived in the equatorial regions and the Firvulag
at the poles, where the really high mountains were. Ghastly
country, that of the Foe. Constant winter."

"No changing seasons at all?" Elizabeth asked.

"None to speak of," said the Lord Healer. "Our planetary
axis had a minimal tilt."

"A stiff-necked world," Creyn observed, "like the peoples it
bred. Fortunately, the spawn of Duat's daughter-planets proved
more flexible. It was they who engendered the peaceful galactic
federation that rejected Duat's attempt—our attempt—to rein-
troduce the ancient battle-religion."

"Brede told me something of your history," Elizabeth said.
Her gaze was fixed on the looming line of thunderheads. "At
the time of your exile, were the Duat colonies the only planets
in your galaxy that had an interstellar socioeconomy?"

"The only planets," Dionket said, "but not the only people.
There were the Ships."

"The Ships." Elizabeth's voice was tinged with wonder. "They
seem incredible, even though I have Brede's glass model. How
could highly intelligent life-forms evolve in a void?"

"There is no void," said the Lord Healer. "The space between
the stars is pervaded by matter and energy. All of the organic
molecules necessary for the generation of life are present in the
clouds of dust that drift through the galaxies. This one, as well
as the star-whirl of Duat that is its sister."

Elizabeth was silent. The surrounding air had attained a
preternatural clarity. Even without exerting her farsensing eye,
she seemed able to detect each separate leaf on the jungle trees,
each tuft of dry grass between the ruts of the dusty road, each
pebble and grasshopper and rock-rose of the arid verge. She
finally said, "We had seven hundred and eighty-four human
planets in our Milieu, including Old Earth. How many worlds
were daughter-colonies of Duat at the time of your exile?"

"More than eleven thousand four hundred," Dionket replied.

"Even with the attrition from the Galactic Civil War, the total
population approached one hundred fifteen billion."

"Half that of our Milieu," Elizabeth mused, "and yet more
than adequate for coadunation of the Galactic Mind, if you had
not followed the dead end of the golden torcs."

"So you say."

Minanonn addressed Elizabeth with a certain bluff impa-
tience. "My mind is a simple one, suited to porter duties and
other tasks requiring more brawn than subtlety. Nevertheless, I
hope that someday you will explain to me exactly what this
'coadunation' might be—and why we Tanu are so deprived not
to have it! In our Peace Faction, we enjoy a fellowship that is
both consoling and stimulating. Can your Unity be so much
greater?"

"Perhaps you'll find out for yourselves," Elizabeth said
faintly. An image formed in her mind that made the three exotic
men gasp.

"A time-gate to the Milieu?" Dionket's question was
incredulous.

"And we might be permitted to pass through?" cried
Minanonn.

Elizabeth said, "If the device can be built—and operated
without danger to the Milieu itself—then all persons of goodwill
in the Many-Coloured Land will have the option of passing
through. You know how sceptical I have been about Brede's
calling me the 'most important woman in the world.' Well . . .
lately I've wondered whether she might have seen me in the
role of time-gate shepherdess. Certainly it would make more
sense than my merely serving as dirigent to a continent full of
barbarian hordes and exiled Milieu malcontents."

"You would go back?" Creyn asked. "Leading us?"

"If it seems right that I should." But the old uncertainty was
plain beneath the ambiguity.

"How will you know?" Creyn asked.

She said, "It's premature to think too deeply about it now.
Too many things could go wrong. The gate may never
reopen—we may find ourselves in the Nightfall War at last!—if
we can't help Aiken regain his mental strength."

Minanonn said, "We approach the caravan camp. Render us
invisible to casual surveillance, Lord Healer."

"It is done," said Dionket.

They flew over an area of prairie between two streams. Scat-
tered about were open groves of silverleaf poplar and ash. The
all-terrain vehicles of the North Americans were parked in a
tidy circle, surrounded by a more casual collection of Tanu
pavilions and tethered chalikos.

"I see Bleyn's forces have arrived," Minanonn remarked. He
asked Elizabeth, "Can you farsense the King's presence below?"

She exerted her metafaculty. "He's safely gone. Would you
like a closeup view of the newcomers?"

When the three assented she showed them a group gathered
beneath a large dining pavilion. Supper was being served. Two
long tables were separated from the others by a distinct psychic
veil. At the head of one sat a burly young man in his late
twenties who scowled as he listened to a slighter, foxy-faced
companion. "Hagen Remillard," Elizabeth noted. "Except for
the dark blond hair and a somewhat shorter stature, he bears a
rather strong physical resemblance to his father. The mental
resemblance is not so strong." She showed them Cloud, who
headed the second table, then panned the other twenty-seven
adults and the five little children.

"All of them are so young," Creyn said. "Are their minds
exceptional?"

Elizabeth said, "I know very little about them as yet, except
for what Aiken has told me about the Remillards. As to their
metafaculties—they're all fully operant, but only imperfectly
trained by their parents and the other ex-Rebels. Considering
their heritage, they probably represent a wide spectrum of talent
and strength. I wouldn't be surprised if the majority were quite
formidable. Let's not forget that they helped Felice to blast
open Gibraltar."

"And drown thousands of people," Minanonn added
tonelessly.

The exotics studied the innocent-appearing diners. A young
black man at Cloud's table was regaling his companions with a
funny story. Parents wiped the messy chins of children and
admonished breaches of etiquette. A plumpish brunette was
teased by her tablemates for taking two pieces of Calamosk
torte.

Dionket said, "And the Unity of your Milieu is a goal so
precious to them, that even such a terrible means seemed
justified?"

"Their nurture," Elizabeth said, "can hardly have been ideal,
from an ethical standpoint."

"If we are barbarians," Minanonn murmured, "what are
they?"

"Children," Elizabeth replied. "Adult children."

"And your Milieu," Dionket said. "Would it welcome these
youthful mass murderers?"

"It will accept any mind prepared to seek maturity—which
is always a very painful process with ample opportunity for
atonement. And the Milieu will know who strives sincerely and
who does not. There is no deceiving the Unity . . . not
anymore."

The campsite was falling behind them. They flew now over
foothills thickly clad with climax forest. To the west, the sky
had become wholly dark except for the lightning. Thunder had
swelled from a growl to a full tympanic rumble punctuated
with heavier booming peals. Irregular gusts of wind rippled the
treetops.

Minanonn pointed ahead and magnified the view for the
others. "The cave lies there, on the side of that hill. The
entrance is well concealed."

They descended into the wildly swaying jungle and landed on
a slope where a rill flowed over mossy rocks and tangled lianas
hung from huge sweetgum trees. The cleft in the rock was
unobtrusive. As they came to it on foot, they saw that the web
of a handsome black-and-yellow spider stretched across the cave
entrance like some gossamer gate. The Heretic lifted the crea-
ture with his PK and sent it scurrying into the undergrowth.
"The royal sentinel," he suggested with a wintry smile. "And
you will note that we have arrived before the rain."

They stepped into what seemed to be a blind-ended chamber,
clogged with rubble and dried leaves. But Minanonn led them
confidently into it, and at the rear they turned sharply into
darkness. Their guide raised two fingers and kindled a steady
yellow flame, lighting the way into a tortuous passage so low
and narrow that the Tanu men had to move at an awkward
crouch. As they descended, the tunnel widened and its walls
glistened with seepage. The air washed back and forth in sinister
rhythm and carried a metallic-oniony odour.

Finally they reached a cul-de-sac where the dark rock was
richly veined with red and orange minerals. Set into the wall

was a door of rotting wood. Faded Firvulag ideographs were
barely visible on a tarnished plaque mounted low, where
gnomish eyes might have conveniently read it.

Minanonn had to stoop. "Quicksilver Cave," he translated.
"This is the place." He cocked his massive head alertly.
"Listen!"

They strained their metafaculties, but it seemed that a psychic
void lay behind the crumbling planks. The only audible sounds
were water dripping and stones crunching underfoot.

Minanonn put his hand to the latch and slowly extinguished
his metapsychic torch. A flickering illumination shone through
cracks in the door.

"Keep up your guard, Coercive Brother," Dionket cautioned.

The door swung wide without a sound. They looked down a
shallow flight of steps into a pillared chamber hewn in living
rock. At its centre was a sunken area that seemed to be floored
with a mirror at least five metres square. Light streamed
obliquely out of an alcove on the right, throwing a shadow onto
an otherwise featureless grey wall.

The shadow of a monster.

It swayed back and forth so that its dimensions were
constantly changing and its true size was impossible to estimate.
The shadow was enormous. The body was humanoid but grotes-
quely thick, with a bloated belly, protruding buttocks, and
incongruously slender legs. It had immense breasts with pointed
nipples, which it seemed to be supporting with pipestem arms.
From the broad shoulders sprang three elongate necks that
intertwined like the bodies of pythons. The heads were less
easily distinguished. One seemed to be birdlike, a second
leonine, and the third reptilian, with multiple fangs and a forked
tongue.

"Great Goddess!" Creyn whispered. "What can it be? It's
not a Firvulag or a Howler throwing that shadow. We'd sense
their aura. What. . . what's it doing? Tana—is it growing some
monstrous tail?"

"No," said Dionket. "It's not a tail."

There was a sound, a soft animal cry from three disparate
throats, forced out in a series of grunts timed to the writhing of
the creature's body. The sound swelled in volume as the contor-
tions became more and more frenzied. Something columnar
thrust from the lower torso, stiff as a tree trunk and nearly

three times the breadth of the legs. The creature staggered,
overbalanced by the weight, and the thing grew to shoulder
height and above, throbbing, while the spidery hands tried in
vain to support it and the spine arched and the three heads
twisted and howled a demonic trio. The knees collapsed and the
shadow-body leaned backward over its heels, still pumping its
hips. The breasts jutted toward the chamber ceiling, as did the
overwhelming member, which seemed to have grown longer
than all the rest of the body. The animal cries were deafening
as the shadow organs attained their culmination, and then the
picture was obliterated in a triple gush of blazing white light. A
dwindling three-note moan echoed from pillar to pillar. The
shadow had vanished. The chamber was dark except for a fitful
golden glow emanating from the general direction of the original
bright light.

"A chimaera," said Elizabeth softly. "Come." And she
hurried down the steps.

Beware! cried Minanonn's mind, and he flung a mental shield
ahead of her. But she turned back and shook her head. The
giant coercer let his barrier fall. He and his fellows drew close
to form a protective cordon about Elizabeth as she went quickly
across the chamber, past the big sunken mirror, and into the
alcove on the right. There was complete silence except for their
footsteps. The aether was empty.

They entered the subsidiary chamber and found a meta-activ-
ated jewel-lantern, dim as a dying ember, standing on the floor.
Lying on his face in front of it was Aiken Drum. His body was
normal and so was his face, which was turned toward them. His
eyes were open and he breathed through slightly open lips.

He had been wearing his golden storm-suit. The strong leather
was split in every seam and lay in rags on his pallid skin.

Elizabeth knelt beside him, lifted the scraps of his crested
hood away, and touched his cheek. The faintest of smiles
appeared.

"You did come," he said. "Now it's going to be all right."

Aiken dreamed.

He stood on the mirror, which reached from horizon to
horizon, and above him was a brilliant night sky splashed with
the Sagittarius Arm of the Milky Way, as seen from his former
home planet of Dalriada. Looking down, he saw reflected stars,

his own naked body and wondering face, and peering over his
shoulders—

With a startled exclamation he looked up and behind him.
Nothing. Nobody. But when he looked down again the two
of them were back, austere and faintly disapproving in their
expressions.

A man and a woman he had never seen before. He dark-
haired, with snapping black eyes, a prominent nose, and a mouth
compressed to a tight line. She with dark red frizzy hair, a high
brow, and tiny regular features too stern to be beautiful.

"Where have you been?" he scolded them. They exchanged
glances, looked back at him with dubious, fractional smiles, then
vanished. Bitter reproach welled up in him. He heard some
small creature squalling, and the sing-song mockery of children,
and his own powerful adult voice shouting vicious obscenities.

Under his feet, the mirror undulated like mercury, became
fluid. He sank into it and found himself standing in the middle
of a rather ordinary landscape: short grass with a few scattered
flowers, the edge of a forest a stone's throw away . . .

He stopped to pick up a stone to throw. There was lettering
on the smooth white surface:

I was not, I came to be.
I was, I am not: That is all.
And who shall say more will lie.
I shall not be.

There was a whole line of the stones, half hidden in the grass.
He picked Up another, but there were no words on it. He
hesitated, put both stones back into place, and studied the lineup
uneasily. It seemed to mark a boundary, one that it might be
extremely dangerous to cross. Staring at the stones and his own
feet, he discovered that he was shod in his good old golden
boots with the stash compartments, and wearing the suit of many
pockets, each one containing some useful item for a prudent
wayfarer.

"Why the hell not?" he asked himself saucily, and stepped
over the boundary, confident once again.

He was swimming for his life.

Salt water filled his mouth and nose and strangled him. He
struggled upward toward a green light that steadily became more

golden, and burst onto the surface, coughing and choking, so
weak that he knew he would sink again in only a moment.

But something was bobbing nearby, drawing closer. He saw
it was a cauldron, a vessel of salvation, and he kicked feebly
and beat the water with his hands, and in that way swam a few
strokes and reached for one of the handgrips mounted below
the kettle rim.

A dragon reared up from inside and struck at him. Its fangs
narrowly missed his questing hand. A drop of flying venom
struck him in the left eye and he screamed with the burning
pain of it and sank back. Immediately the hurt was soothed,
and he let himself relax and drift in the warm darkening waters
... the waters that meant death.

No! he cried. Fury electrified him. Pain returned. Again he
broke through into the air and found himself floating beside the
golden Kral. But this time when Mercy darted at him, open-
mouthed, he seized her and squeezed the dragon's neck and
smashed the fangs against the rim again and again until the
reptile was broken and bloody. Then he climbed into the bowl,
safe.

Mayvar the Hag leaned over him and kissed the burnt blind
eye. It was healed. Then she took him into her lap to nurse
him, and the baby nestled down, content at last, and drank and
slept.

He was on a plain of sparkling salt, wearing his gold-lustre
armour.

The antagonist was nowhere to be seen. The coward! Where
was he hiding? Why didn't he come out and fight?

Gripping his photonic Spear, he searched the glaring flatland
through slitted eyes. A shadow raced toward him and he looked
up, into the sun.

The golden eagle stooped, talons ready, and plummeted
straight for his face. His visor was full open and he shrieked as
the claws raked his right eye and the bird shrilled in triumph.
He fell heavily onto his back. Blood was welling uncontrollably
and the sky was red, as was the relentless sun. He knew he
would lie there, half-blind and parched and stricken, until he
died. The eagle wheeled high out of reach and he roasted in his
armour under aloof and pitiless light, impotent.

But there was still the Spear.

With his last strength he lifted the glass lance, thumbed its

highest power setting, and triggered the shot full in the face of
the solar disk. Light drowned light. The patriarchal bird tumbled
from a sky gone suddenly indigo. When it struck the salt it was
a man in dulled glass armour, holding a broken Sword.

In mortal agony, Aiken inched toward the unmoving form of
the Battlemaster, feeling his own life ebbing through his torn
eyesocket. He stretched a trembling hand to the cracked helmet
of his enemy and opened it.

The face inside was that of Stein Oleson.

With his mind spinning, Aiken slumped over the chest of the
titanic knight. Beneath the glass cuirass with its sun-face blazon
a heart was still beating. Astonished, revitalized, Aiken pulled
himself up. He saw that the giant was smiling. His gauntleted
hand lifted, proffering the broken Sword in a gesture of fealty.
Aiken took it and felt life surge back into him. His sight cleared.
He leaned over the dying man and kissed him on the mouth.

It was deep night on the mirror.

From out of the quicksilver pool came the three-headed herm-
aphrodite, pulling itself onto the gleaming shore. The chimaera
was no longer a threatening monstrosity. Even though it was
still both male and female, the bodily distortions were gone and
the limbs well-filled and proportionate. It stood poised in the
starlight, graceful and tall. The central lion head was erect and
proud; the dragon and the eagle faced it, slightly bowed. The
radiance of the Sagittarius Arm gave it a reflection, not a
shadow, that extended across the mirror of the quicksilver pool.
Aiken saw that the reflection was himself.

"But what does it mean?" he exclaimed, rather testily.

"You are born," Elizabeth said.

He thought about that for a while. "On Dalriada, they called
me a psychopath."

"You were. A suffering soul. Incomplete. Lacking eros. A
freak and a cripple, almost inevitably damned. You were intelli-
gent and charming and utterly self-centred. It was impossible
for you to love anyone but yourself, even though you gave the
illusion of caring when it suited you."

"They were going to lock me away—or kill me!"

"You were a menace, a liability to a structured society. You
saved yourself by coming here. Your silver torc rechannelled
the aberrant psychic energies. You were reassured and began
to change when you saw you were able to exert genuine power."

'"In the Milieu, that would have been impossible."
"There, your ambition didn't fit. But this Many-Coloured
Land is a simpler world. You were even able to love here. And
you dared to do it unselfishly, twice. You reached a species of
mental integration. But that wasn't enough. Not for you! You
were drawn toward Mercy, and driven to challenge Nodonn.
You wanted to be more than a powerful, successful person: You
wanted to be King. And so, instinctively, you were drawn to
two extraordinary minds—and you subsumed their attributes in
an attempt to fulfil your ambition. Before the subsumption, you
knew you were inadequate."
"But I tricked them into believing that I wasn't!'
"Yes. But you couldn't fool yourself. Look at the illusory
bodies you wore: butterfly, dragonfly, nighthawk, golden falcon.
Each one more potent than the last but still winged, elusive,
flyaway. You were a counterfeit King, royal without being
noble."

"Cock of the rock."

"With the ambition to rule a world . . . This is why you
committed the act of surpassing chutzpah: in spite of the mortal
danger, subsuming those very metafaculties that might support
true kingship. You were like a man living in a fine large home
who nevertheless craves a palace. So one day your dream is
accomplished and all the necessary building materials are
delivered—"

"Burying and damn near destroying the original house! I see."
"Most of this redaction you've done yourself. Dionket and
Creyn and I helped you—I guided and they sustained—but the
psychic insights that now provide a solid foundation are your
own. Your palace is by no means complete, but now you have
the blueprints for construction and the means to assemble the
parts into a harmonious whole."
"How long is it going to take to finish?"
"It may take years, or happen in an instant."
"You better pray for the latter, babe, for all our sakes! . . .
One last thing, though, that I still don't understand. Why a
lion?"

"You'll have to discover for yourself what it signifies in your
own psyche, Aiken. It's obviously a kingly animal—but it has
no wings. Sometimes it destroys its own young—and sometimes
it defends the pride to the death."

"You mean, I can still blow it."

"You're a human being, dear, and you still have to face
up to many choices. You can undoubtedly fail. The Trickster
archetype is a strange one, not commonly personified. Perhaps
it's just as well! You see, the Trickster is a person we simultane-
ously admire and fear. We know that he can hit and
run—victimize us. But he also has the saving gift of laughter
that enables us to abide in the midst of life's pain. He takes our
pain onto himself, as a great psychologist once said. And that
may help you to understand where the lion image fits. If you
accept it as an integral part of your self, you can no longer be
fugitive Mercurius, dashing about as the spirit wills. You'll have
to relinquish some of the laughter and take pain in defending
the pride; perhaps even lay down your life."

"Ha! It's the hyenas that better look out!"

Elizabeth had to laugh. "Oh, my dear. Go get 'em, Hermes
Trismegistos—thrice-mighty leader."

"You can count on it," said the King.

THE END OF PART ONE

PART II

The Convergence

CHAPTER ONE

During the first four years of the Rebel's exile, when resolution
was still strong and optimism ran so high that some of the Ocala
settlers dared to have children, appropriate technology was all
the rage. There was really no necessity for roughing it, since
the former scientists, military specialists, and planetary adminis-
trators had brought a vast collection of Milieu equipment with
them. Nevertheless, low-tech achievement flourished as the
exiles worked to turn their island into a home. Once they had
recovered from their mental and physical wounds, most of the
Rebels set about to develop one or more frontier skills.

For Walter Saastamoinen, who had been Deputy Chief
Starfleet Operations (Strategy) under Ragnar Gathen, the voca-
tional choice was a foregone conclusion. He took up the trade
of his ancestors—shipbuilding. With the help of his former aide,
Roy Marchand, and a dozen others (plus the elegantly complete
data supplied by the computer library), Walter built a seventy-
metre four-masted sailing vessel that would become the principal
freighter for the colony, transporting everything from minerals
to Megahippus horses from the Antilles and the North and
South American mainland to Ocala's first settlement at the head
of Manchineel Bay.

She was named Kyllikki, after an enchantress in a Finnish
epic, and her lines followed those of the old Pacific timber
haulers, capacious but trim. She had a clipper bow figureheaded
with a blonde witch, a long platformed bowsprit, a sweeping
sheer, and a neatly tucked up counter stern. Her masts, the
trunks of great longleaf pines from the virgin forests of Georgia,
rose thirty-five metres above the black-mahogany deck and had
a sportive rake.

When it came time to rig her, Walter's companions, full of
romantic fancies about legendary windjammers, wanted to fit
her with a full suit of square sails. The master shipbuilder
pointed out that square-riggers required large crews, agile and
fearless enough to climb the shrouds and swarm about the yards

in all kinds of weather—not excluding the violent line squalls
and all too frequent hurricanes that infested Floridian waters.
A fore-and-aft rig, while not quite so speedy or spectacular,
could be worked from the deck, even by a gang of tyros. Further-
more, it lent itself to the installation of powered winches for
hoisting and hauling and fully automatic reefing devices. Practi-
cality and Walter's superior coercive faculty won out, and
Kyllikki became a four-poster gaff schooner navigable by a crew
of six.

When the charms of simple technology paled and Ocala
enjoyed a brief spurt of highly sophisticated manufacturing,
Kyllikki acquired a solar powered auxiliary engine that drove a
pair of retractable cycloidal impeller rotors, similar to those in
the all-terrain vehicles that the Rebels had originally brought
with them from the Milieu. The schooner travelled widely to
satisfy the need for exotic raw materials; she even served for a
time as a floating drill-platform and as a pumping station for
the big marine-ion concentrator. But then ambition declined
among the castaways as the years became decades and Marc's
star-search was perceived as fruitless by more and more of the
former Rebels. Kyllikki shared in the creeping malaise, being
converted into a party boat for bored degenerates. She chased
whales up the Mississippi Embayment, carried nostalgic fun
seekers to Pliocene New England, embarked on diving expedi-
tions along the Spanish Main, transported cargos of ferocious
fauna to the Zoo Island hunting preserve in the Bermoothes,
and took part in the disastrous Costa Rican Volcano-Teasing
Operation. Finally, and most memorably, the great schooner
carried a large party of Rebels and their adolescent children on
an epic tour of the Antarctic Islands. Walter's wife, Solange
Forester, had been one of the twenty-odd people who elected
to end their lives in the "clean white silence" of the glacier-
crowned south.

When Walter returned to Florida, he made his son Veikko a
present of Kyllikki and retreated into alcohol. But the young
man made scant use of the enormous toy, and when the Children
of Rebellion finally decided to flee Ocala, Veikko was secretly
relieved when Hagen ordered that the schooner be scuttled.
Veikko took her to Sun Key Hole, fully intending to sink her
in eighty fathoms. Then he thought of the cargo of memories
she still carried, the loving care that Walter still lavished on her

during his rare sober hours, and his maudlin protestations that
one day soon he would straighten out and take them all sailing
again. Veikko brought the ship back to Ocala and opened her
petcocks on the eastern side of Manchineel Bay, so that she lay
softly on coral sand in the shallows with her tall masts awash at
low tide.

It was from this inadequate grave that Marc Remillard had
her raised, refitted, and made ready for the punitive voyage to
Europe. Of all the motley sailing craft, sunken or still afloat,
that constituted Ocala's small fleet, only Kyllikki had a hold
deep enough to admit installation of Marc's cerebroenergetic
enhancer. She was a key factor in his plans, as was her master.

Walter, rehabilitated with cruel efficiency by Jeff Stein-
brenner, had wept as he piloted the schooner out of Manchineel
Bay for the last time, outward bound for the Gulf Stream and
the forbidden East Passage. His fellow Rebels were touched by
what they thought was a display of sentiment. No one dreamed
of intruding upon his mind at such a moment. If they had,
they would have heard his heart's cry to the fugitive younger
generation on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Walter's tele-
pathic powers were too weak to reach them, but he still had to
attempt a warning, coupled with bitter reproach:

If only you'd had the courage to kill the ship! If only you had
done what I now lack the guts to do! Then your dream might
have had a chance of success . . . But we're coming after you
now in Kyllikki. We'll stop you from opening the gate. Marc says
you children can be peaceably restrained, but most of us fear for
the worst. Run away, Veikko! Take Irena with you and whoever
else will listen. Hide! Beware! Because Kyllikki's coming and
she's carrying death.

The mental anguish of the ship's master went unnoticed by the
other forty-two people on board. For most of them, the first
week of the voyage was a time of respite and tranquillity, a
chance to recover from frantic weeks of preparation and the
final tearing up of roots. It was a time to deny fear and squelch
renewed doubts. Walter's crew kept busy with shakedown
routine while the passengers dozed on sun-drenched decks,
lounged in the stern watching flying fishes skitter in the creamy
wake, or perched in one of the crow's nests under a cobalt sky
while frigate-birds wheeled overhead and the full spread of

solar-panel sail thrummed in a smart breeze. During those brief
idyllic days, the tired old Rebels attempted to purge their minds
of all thought—leaving that to Marc and the ten surviving
magnates who were his intimates—and instead merged them-
selves with the entity who seemed more alive than any of them:
the tall ship running strong on a sparkling ocean.

On 7 September, when they were a little more than 400
kilometres southwest of Bermuda, the wind freshened and the
sky turned lead-grey. Kyllikki raced close-reefed through increa-
singly heavy seas and the passengers stayed below, paying little
attention to Walter's assurance that no really severe weather
was in the offing, only a chain of minor tropical disturbances. 
A mood of dejection prevailed as the schooner endured intervals
of nasty chop, through which she punched, hammering and
shaking. Then came thundersqualls—and shorter tempers.
When the sun condescended to shine, the sea heaved with great
queasy rollers while the veering wind blew fits and starts. The
prologue to genuine disaster was a near gale under dreary torn
scud, the remnant of a moribund hurricane, before which
Kyllikki plunged and ramped, more often than not hove down
nearly on her ear.

Those of the passengers who had not surrendered to seasick-
ness were rendered lethargic and irritable at the continued close
confinement, the unsettling motion, and above all, the noise.
Timbers creaked and groaned, winch motors squealed in the
adjustment of sail, marching breakers hissed along the hull, the
wind howled, the auxiliary engine powering the rotors cut in
and out as Ragnar and the engineers worked to isolate some
obscure malfunction, and the great ship's masts, spars, and
rigging vibrated in a hundred inharmonious notes. It seemed
that the magical barque of earlier days had suffered a sea change
into a floating torture chamber. As the dirty weather prolonged
itself into a fourth night, the barometer of morale aboard
Kyllikki reached its nadir.

Patricia Castellane found herself alone in the grand saloon,
whence all but she had fled. Supper, if she wanted it, would be
a scratch affair; both Alonzo Jarrow and Charisse Buckmaster
were prostrate with mal de mer and no one had volunteered to
take over their culinary duties. Patricia decided she was not
hungry. She tried to watch a Tri-D of Wagner's "Flying
Dutchman", but its stormy cadences only made her feel worse

So she turned the lamps low, huddled in a gyro-lounge reading
a classic thriller by Desmond Bagley, and sipped hot buttered
rum. The ship was heeled far to starboard, so that the below-
sheer portlights on that side of the saloon were fully underwater.
She could see phosphorescent froth swirling by on the other side
of the thick glass. The sight of it and the melange of noises were
so mesmerizing that she finally dozed off—only to start wide
awake as someone gripped her shoulder and an urgent telepathic
voice said:

Pat! Wake up—we need your help!

It was Cordelia Warshaw, looking like a soaked and bed-
raggled elderly child in stormgear three sizes too large for her.
With her was Steve Vanier, a former tactical analyst who was
Walter Saastamoinen's second mate. His mind was shut tight as
an oyster and his face bore a grimace of combined pain and
fury. He held his right wrist against his chest with his left hand.
A trickle of blood seeped down the front of his gloyello coat
and dripped into the fresh pool of water on the saloon carpet.

"It's Helayne Strangford," said Cordelia, thrusting a weather-
proof jacket and sou'wester hat at Patricia. "She had a knife,
and she got onto the bridge and attacked Steve at the helm."

"Must have had some drops squirrelled away after all, the
crazy bitch," said Steve. "Walter fought her off. She was raving
about saving the children. Wanted to wreck the ship."

"Oh, God," said Patricia.

Cordelia said, "Now she's climbed up to the Jiggermast crow's
nest and says she'll jump. You know what a strong coercer she
is. I don't think we'll be able to stop her. Tried to call the other
magnates to help but only Steinbrenner responded."

"Fat fucking good he is," Steve muttered. He had been
fumbling behind the bar and now downed a huge swallow of
vodka straight from the bottle. "Ah, Jesus—that helps."

"Call Marc!" said Patricia.

Cordelia uttered a trilling little laugh. "As usual, he's gone.
Before he learned to d-jump, it was only his mind that wand-
ered. Now he abandons us body and soul!"

Steve said, "Walter tried to raise Marc as soon as Strangford
broke in. Kramer said he's been on the hop for more than two
hours."

"I'll see what I can do," Patricia said.

"And you get to sick bay," Cordelia told Steve. "Wake those

damn Keoghs out of whatever seventh heaven they're floating
in. Tell them what Steinbrenner said about possible cut tendons
in your wrist."

Still cradling the bottle, the mate staggered into the forward
passage while the two women headed aft. All of the cabin doors
were shut and this part of the ship seemed deserted. Bracing
themselves against the excessive heel, they came to the modified
stern hold containing the accommodation for the CE rig and its
auxiliaries. The armoured door that provided sole access was
dogged shut from the opposite side. Patricia exerted her
farspeech to penetrate the metal.

Jordy! Gerrit! It's Pat. Let me in. Emergency!

Cordelia took a big torch from the pocket of her oilskin jacket
and banged on the door. A tentative glimmer of farsense stole
out after a few moments and flicked over them. Then there
were clicks and a grudging crack opened. Jordan Kramer peered
out, his face like a thundercloud.

"What the devil is it? Marc has gone extraplanetary and we're
at a tricky point in the stasis monitoring—"

Patricia shoved the mental image at him. "Helayne's broken
loose. We need Marc."

Kramer groaned. "Damn that woman to hell! If we didn't
need her input so badly for the offensive metaconcert, I'd say
let her jump!"

"Can you retrieve Marc?" Patricia persisted.

"Not a chance. He's independent now. The rubberband effect
is finally neutralized. There's no telling when he'll return. Why
don't you call out the other coercers and put together a
concert—"

"Mostly everyone seems to be seasick, asleep, or otherwise
switch-off," Cordelia said. "Those of us who were topside when
Helayne went berserk got almost zip response from a general
hail. Steinbrenner came, and Boom-Boom Laroche. Beside
them, there's Walter and Roy and Nannie Fox, who had the
watch with me and Steve—and now Pat."

Kramer looked harried. "Well, there's nothing Van Wyk or
I can do. We're neither of us coercers, and we have to monitor
the equipment." He started to close the door.

"Then give us Manion!" Patricia demanded. "If we take off
the docilator, his PK will probably be strong enough to override
her and scoop her in."

"Not on your life!" Kramer shouted. "We're keeping that
bastard right in here brain-wrapped until Marc is safely home.
Let him out—? God—You'd have two crazies on the loose
instead of just one!"

Knowing it was hopeless, Patricia pleaded, "Alex would want
to help Helayne. You know they used to be—"

"Oh, yes, I know very well," retorted the psychophysicist.
"And I know just what would happen after Manion got his old
flame fitted with his docilator. He'd skunk the lot of you, smash
the powerplant, and strand Marc in the grey limbo!" The door
slammed shut.

Wasting no more time, the two women turned and ran for
the after companionway. On deck, the rain had stopped and a
crescent moon was intermittently visible through broken clouds.
Kyllikki, on autopilot, drove along under minimal canvas. Black
waves with glowing crests leaped and stretched chaotically as
the wind died. Walter, Roy Marchand, and Nanomea Fox were
gathered at the foot of the jiggermast, which arose from the low
sterncastle structure. Standing away from them, clinging to the
rail, were Jeff Steinbrenner and Guy Laroche. Nanomea held a
spotlight on the wildly gyrating crow's nest. Roy carried a stun-
gun and Laroche had a laser carbine slung over his shoulder.

Cordelia said: Here's Pat. She was the only one who'd help.

Walter said: Helayne's still there ducked down out of sight in
bucket.

Patricia said: No chance stun?

Roy said: Masts grounded hellandgone besides her creativity
sufficient shield. Boom-Boom has zapper burn her if she
threatens—

Patricia said: Negative negative! We NEED Helayne! I direct
metaconcert okay?

The others said: Right.

Patricia said: Ready—COME IN.

Their minds meshed, following the lead of the one-time diri-
gent of Okanagon. The combined coercive faculty reached out
to the crazed mind aloft and enclosed it in a net of mental
energy. And tightened ...

They all screamed. An overpowering mind-thrust, like a
white-hot blade, split the metaconcert asunder. High in the air
a ghostly face leaned over the rim of the crow's nest bucket.
Helayne Strangford's telepathic laughter rang in their brains.

Patricia said: We want to help you Helayne. Please come
down.

LetHIMbegmewhydidn'tHEcomewhere'sHEhidingneverlet
HIMhurtchildren—

Patricia said: Marc doesn't want to hurt the children.

Othersdo! YOUsteeleyedmetagroupie! YOUcuteGrannyCor-
delia! YOUjeffbabykiller! YouwantkillchildrensoIkillYOU!

Patricia said: Come with me to Marc Helayne. He'll see that
nobody harms the children. He promised. You know you can
trust Marc.

Trust. . . ooh I did. We all did. In the Milieu during Rebellion
and even in defeat. Trusted Marc followed Marc loved Marc.
BUT HE LIED.

Patricia said: Marc doesn't lie.

HedoeshedoesHEDOES. Said he'd never leave us. NEVER.
BUT HE GOES.

Patricia said: Helayne he always comes back to us.

Heliessaysdestroyingtimegatesitepreventchildrenescape!
MustkillchildrenprotectHIMSELF.       Butlstoplknowhowstop.
KillYOU! KillHIM!

A knife flashed in the spotlight. Helayne clung to the upper
crosstrees and slowly climbed onto the rim of the bucket. Her
flowing silk pyjamas crackled in the wind like pennants.

FlydownkillyouALL!

Patricia said: You can't fly Helayne. If you jump you'll die.
Chris and Leila will feel guilty. Little Joel will cry for his Nana.
Don't jump. Come down and let us help you.

DarlingChris . . . darlingLeila . . . preciousJoel. HEwants-
killthembutlknowhowstop. Kill the other minds. Deprive devil-
angelexecutor of metaconcertcooperators make HIM helpless!
Weak! HUMAN! . . . And that's exactly what I have done you
know.

This last was delivered in a tone so matter-of fact and compla-
cent that the seven people at the foot of the mast were momenta-
rily taken aback. And then Steve Vanier came pounding up the
after companionway ladder and emerged on deck with his brain
bursting with horror. He shouted: "The Keoghs—both of them
stabbed to death in sick bay! And she must have gone into the
cabins that weren't locked—" Crimson images tumbled from his
mind. Helayne's manic laughter pealed in the cloud-wracked
sky.

Nanomea Fox kept the spotlight steady on the swaying figure.
Helayne called out in a crooning voice, "Walter! Come up,
dear. Help me. I promise I won't jump if you come." The force of
her coercion was an irresistible siren call. Walter, blank-faced,
started for the mast as Fox and Marchand stood helplessly by.

"No, Walter!" Patricia screamed. And then the mental
tentacle coiled about her own will, commanding her to climb,
and Roy, and . . .

Jeff Steinbrenner whipped the carbine from Laroche's para-
lysed hands and fired without aiming. There was a sizzling report
and a bloom of light like St. Elmo's fire. Something seemed to
take wing, uttering a final sound like a seabird's cry. Fragments
of wood and metal and severed rope rained onto the deck.

They all looked up at the broken, empty crow's nest, and
then braced themselves to go below.

As the dark armoured form materialized on its improvised
cradle, the docilated man sitting in the dark corner of the hold
finally broke his silence. "Commodore's gig approaching!
Bosun, your pipe! Mister Kramer, hoist the swallowtail of the
Rye Harbour Yacht Club!"

"Shut up, Alex," said Patricia Castellane, "or I'll phase in
the algetics at max, so help me God."

Alexis Manion subsided, but a sly smile played over his lips.
He got up from his chair and strolled closer as Gerrit Van
Wyk pulled the helmet hoist into position and Jordan Kramer
monitored the divestment.

When Marc was free of the armour he said, "The stasis held
perfectly for three hours thirty minutes. I think I've got it licked.
How did it look on this end?"

Kramer said, "Perfect. No sign of anomalous field-warp of
bilocation phenomena. We'll have Manion do an analysis in
depth, but it looked mighty good in overview. How far out did
you go?"

"Eighteen thousand six hundred and twenty-seven light-years.
To Poltroy. Testing my limits and indulging my curiosity."

"Was the translation still apparently instantaneous?" Van
Wyk asked.

"Yes," said Marc. "There doesn't seem to be any equivalent
of the subjective hours or day spent in the grey limbo by super-
luminal starship riders. I'd estimate I was in the hyperspatial

matrix thirty subjective seconds on each of the d-jumps. It takes
longer breaking through the superficies at each end, of course."

He stepped into the miniature shower cabinet and threw out
the pressure envelope coverall. The water sprayed hot, sending
steam clouds rising among the cable-draped oaken ship timbers.

"So you went to Poltroy, my beamish boy?" Alexis Manion
carolled.

"I'd forgotten that the place was mostly glacial during the
Pliocene," Marc said. "Fortunately, the locals took me for a
slumming god and lent me some furs, or I'd have had to stay in
the armour. It would have spoiled the experiment." Patricia
came up with a towel and a dressing gown. "I think I finally
have the d-jump program fully assimilated. I expect to work out
further refinements, but the technique is quite workable now. I
can take the armour with me as a safety precaution against a
hostile environment, or leave it suspended in the superficies out
of the way, or even send it back home to wait until I whistle,
cutting off entirely from the systems at this end of the warp."
He smiled, tying the belt of the robe. "It's the damnedest
feeling, going superluminal without a ship. But it was even
spookier actually visiting a world in the flesh that I farsaw on
the star-search."

Kramer asked, "Is there discomfort passing through the
hyperspatial boundary, as one experiences on a starship?"

Marc nodded. "I'm meshing with an upsilon-field. No matter
whether the thing is generated mechanically or metapsychically,
it still hurts to go through it. D-jumping does away with the
extended subspace vector—the subjective time-lag spent in the
grey limbo. But the pain factor seems to have its usual
component—geometric increase with the distance jumped. I was
nearly at my limit with the hop to Poltroy, but teleporting about
the Earth is no more uncomfortable than worrying a hangnail."

Alexis Manion cocked his head impishly and sang:

If this is true, it's jolly for you;

Your courage screw to bid us adieu!

And go and show both friend and foe

How much you dare! (I'm quite aware

It's your affair.) Yet I declare

I'd take your share. But I don't much care.

I don't much care ... I don't much care.

Marc surveyed him without rancour. "Let's get you out of
that docilator and put you to work, Alex. I want a detailed
study of this operation."

He slid his powerful redactive faculty into the mind of the
dynamic field specialist to prevent severe disorientation as the
mind-altering headset was removed. Manion winced, blinked,
then massaged his eyelids with his fingers. The underlying hatred
was there still, but it was masked almost immediately by a
peculiar elation.

He said, "We have a little surprise for you, Marc! While the
cat was away, the mad mouse played."

Patricia hurried to forestall him, running her own high-speed
reprise of the shambles. Manion glowed in perverse satisfaction
while Kramer and Van Wyk stood mutely by, confirming that
Helayne had indeed murdered fifteen people—including.
Kramer's wife, Audrey, and the former Concilium magnates
Dierdre and Diarmid Keogh and Peter Dalembert—before she
herself had been shot dead by Steinbrenner. A few others had
been wounded by the madwoman, Arkady O'Malley seriously.

"Bon dieu de merde," breathed Marc, his mind glaring
bright.

"You could apply for that job on Poltroy," Manion suggested
archly, "but the natives might prefer a less graphic job
description."

Marc stood motionless. His face had gone livid and his eyes
were those of Abaddon. Alex Manion's body was lifted into the
air and seized by a massive convulsion. His eyes bulged and
oozed blood from a dozen pinpoint haemorrhages. He uttered
an animal scream at the same time that his brain flooded the
aether with agony. Then he was sprawled on the planks, his
limbs racked with clonic spasms, half drowned in vomit, soiled
and stinking in his own voided excrement.

Marc looked down at him dispassionately. "Tu es un emmer-
deur, Alex. It's fortunate for you that I still have a sense of
humour. You aren't seriously damaged. Do the field analysis
tomorrow."

The gabbling pain-ridden thing collapsed, unconscious.
Without another glance, Marc took Patricia by the elbow,
steered her past the stricken Van Wyk and Kramer, and went
out to the after companionway.

"Just say the word," Patricia said as they climbed to his cabin

in the stern deckhouse, "And I'll deep-six that swine myself. It
wouldn't surprise me to find that he was the one who gave the
dope to Helayne, hoping that something like this would happen.
It was his poison that turned her against you in the first
place—and corrupted the children as well! Now we've lost the
Keoghs, our top redactors. And Peter—"

"Poor Keoghs," Marc mused. "Siegmund and Sieglinde. At
least they went in style! But whoever would have thought that
Peter Dalembert would die in his bed?" He opened the cabin
door and held it courteously.

"When we found him, his eyes were open. And his face"—she
projected the vision—"quite calm. A creator of his power should
have been able to shield himself from Helayne's knife. If he had
wanted to."

Marc went to the built-in cooking unit and activated it, then
opened a clothes locker. "I had counted on Peter's devotion to
Barry and Fumiko and little Hope to counterbalance his rather
blatant death wish." His smile was distant as he tossed under-
wear, jeans, and a jersey onto the bed. "Another of my miscal-
culations. Obviously, Peter thought that I'd be unable to stop
the children without harming them."

Patricia was silent.

"But you never did think much of the forebearance notion,
did you, Pat?"

"I'd follow any plan of yours. Do whatever you say. Always.
You know that. I don't give a damn about Mental Man any
more, Marc. Only you." You are my angel, too terrible to love,
condescending to share your life with me, to give me fierce joy
even when you have none. Why have you none? Your great
scheme is still feasible. We don't need Cloud and Hagen and
the other children as long as we have the genes and the brain.
As long as we have you, everliving!

"Faithful Pat." He was standing close to her, looking down
from his great height, and he had let the dressing gown fall. His
contours were still magnificent, but an intricate network of
keloid scars, the consequent of a too-brief sojourn in the regen-
eration tank covered his entire body below the neck. Only his
hands and genitals had been perfectly restored.

She came into his arms and their lips met, tasting salt and
honey, setting her whirling into the bright burning maelstrom
that had him as its inevitable beginning and end. In the wond-

rous way of master metapsychics there was no constraint of
gravity between them, no barrier posed by garments, no
awkwardness in the embrace. The ineffable pleasure spun her
to the brink of senselessness, lifted her as on a giant wave to
the ultimate conjunction. There the binary star would shine for
a small eternity, she in the shouting blaze of fulfilment, he, as
always, withdrawn into his abyss.

From the beginning, Marc had warned her that there would
be no love. She had willingly agreed, leaving him solitary at the
climax. But tonight his curtain had been only imperfectly woven.
She had caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the brilliant
corona of orgasmic release.

She lay alone on the bed, having surfaced into consciousness.
Recollection clamped her heart in ice. Had he been distracted
because of the terrible events that had taken place? Or had his
subconscious been compelled to give up the secret?

"Marc," she whispered. "Is it true?"

He was fully dressed, staring out the forward window of the
sterncastle. The sea had moderated and was star-stippled. The
sails had been hoisted by the winching mechanism and the great
schooner forged ahead.

He said, "You will tell no one. It could be disastrous to
morale. The children don't know, of course. No one did, except
the Keoghs—and Manion. Alex has his own reasons to keep
silent."

"How . . . how long?"

Since before the Rebellion since her death je suis le veuf a la
tour abolie.

"My God! But we thought that the Keoghs had—"

"After Cyndia's death, they restored me completely, just as
the tank restored me here." He was calm. "There is no organic
dysfunction, only nonviability. My late brother blamed it on a
sense of sin. I suspect rather a defect of the will, or the inevitable
trauma when falling from a great height." He regarded her
steadily from beneath winged brows. "The cure, if any, will be
spontaneous—induced by success. We still can succeed. Mental
Man will live if we prevent the children from passing through
that time-gate. Ideally, we need all of them. At the minimum,
my son."

"If you had only told Hagen! Or taken precautions—"

"Precautions were taken—and circumvented. I was too trust-

ing during our early years on Ocala. Later, trying to compensate
for my neglect, I was too stern with the children. Hagen is weak-
willed. Flawed. He knows it. My attempts to intimidate him
merely made him hate me. To reveal the truth . . . would give
him a weapon. It's a hellish mess, complicated even more by the
children's alliance with Aiken Drum. But we can still succeed. If
the time-gate doesn't open ... if I can prove to Hagen and
Cloud that I love them, that their destiny is with me ..."

Patricia rose slowly, pushing the light brown hair back from
her face, working to suppress the misgivings. "There are so few
of us left to help you. O'Malley may not survive, and Fitzpatrick
and Sherwoode aren't strong. If we discount those three, that
leaves only twenty-two for your offensive metaconcert. Six of
us magnates."

"We'll manage. We have plenty of conventional weapons to
counter Aiken Drum. And the d-jump capability."

"You can't take any weapon with you inside the armour."

He did not respond to that. She went to the cooking unit and
took out his meal, then poured cups of tea for both of them.
"Come and eat your supper while it's hot," she said, sitting
down at the table in front of the windows. "There's ham in
orange sauce, and even some of your favourite gamma pea
soup."

"I ordered it up thinking that I'd be celebrating a successful
long jump." He took a spoon and studied the steaming bowl.
"Just three pouches left after twenty-seven years. Habitant pea
soup in the Pliocene. A touch of New Hampshire aboard a
windjamming bateau ivre!" He shook his head slightly and
began to eat.

Patricia drank her tea without attempting to touch his
thoughts. After a time she began speaking in a low, urgent
voice. "I understand now why you opposed those of us who
wanted to counter the time-gate threat with force against the
children. You were never really afraid of retaliation from the
Milieu at all, were you?"

He made a dismissive gesture. "It was a smokescreen. A
necessary deception, I thought. Aimed primarily at the children,
and at the more dubiously loyal of our own generation."

"I thought so. So you could listen to all our bloodthirsty talk
about killing the children if necessary—even pretend to consider

the option—but all the while you knew you'd have to find
another way."

"I have," he said. "Destruction of the deep rock formations
around the site. It's simple and humane—"

"And Alex Manion says it can't possibly work."

"What?" Marc lay the spoon down. She felt the power of his
coercion engulf her. Willingly she threw open her memory to
show the complex mathematical equations exactly as the dyna-
mic-field specialist had shown them to her.

"Alex calls this the theory of the persistence of temporal
event nodes. In essence, you can't destroy the time-gate site
here in the Pliocene because we know it still exists six million
years from now, in the Milieu we all came from. Ergo, your
hope of demolishing the formations, upsetting the geomagnetic
factors in the tau-lattice, is futile. No paradoxes allowed. Reality
is. Past, present, future—"

"—and all held secure in the hand of God," he finished for
her, mouth lifted in the famous smile. "Once I believed it."

"I never did! And I don't want to believe it now." But Alexis
Manion does, and he was the best dynamic-field theorist in the
Milieu."

"Damn him to hell. . . Pat, do you know whether he's spoken
to any others about this—this theory?"

She lifted helpless hands. "I'm afraid there's no doubt of it.
He probably made use of every moment that he wasn't docil-
ated." She spoke with desperation. "Could Alex be mistaken?"

"No. But he could certainly lie," Marc's face was bleak. "I'll
find out tomorrow. But even if he's telling the truth as he sees
it, I'll keep that gate from opening!"

"But how?" she cried. "Marc, talk to us about this! Confide
in us, as you used to. We all feel lost! You've been so
absorbed—first in the star-search, now in this d-jump business.
We're loyal and we want to follow you but we don't see how
we can deal with this situation. We've waited so long and now
there are so few of us left ..." Help us! We have put all our
trust in you. Calm our fears. Say you won't d-jump to another
world and abandon us.

He reached across the table and took her hand. His skin was
warm, the fingers youthfully perfect, and the mental contact
invincibly reassuring.

"Abandon you? Never. I have something quite different in
mind. Right now, there are still urgent matters that I must attend
to. However, I promise to make myself available again—not just
to you magnates, but to everyone. We'll have regular confer-
ences, starting tomorrow. And I have good news. I'm gaining
the confidence of the masterclass woman, Elizabeth Orme. And
I've made a start on Aiken Drum, too. Now that the d-jump is
nearly perfected, I can begin pressuring him in earnest. Before
he knows it, we'll have Kyllikki moored in shallow water off
Breton Island opposite his castle. With our sigmas in place, the
ship will be an impregnable threat."

"The children have the big force-shield—the SR-35."

"And we have my battery of X-lasers that will cut through
any portable screen ever built! Aiken Drum will capitulate, I
tell you. And with him on our side, the children will be check-
mated. There are other ways to insure that the time-gate never
opens. We can destroy the laboratories, after giving warning so
that the children can evacuate them. If I wipe out the schematics
and certain irreplaceable pieces of manufacturing
apparatus—fleck-etchers, photonic alloying machines, mind-
controlled micromanipulators—no one will ever build the Gude-
rian device here in the Pliocene. Eventually the children will
come to their senses."

"Marc, they won't want to return to Ocala."

He laughed. "Let them spend a few years as subjects of
Aiken's barbarian kingdom, then! We can make d-jump visits
on holidays, provided we're in the neighbourhood of Earth, and
renew our invitation at intervals."

He showed her what was in his mind and she gasped.

"Is it feasible?" she cried. "You could carry us?"

"If I can generate an upsilon-field large enough to take myself
and three tons of armour plating through hyperspace, it should
only be a matter of practice before I'm able to encompass a
larger volume and greater mass. For short hops on Earth, I
doubt that the passengers would even require life support. Felice
didn't."

"But . . . you said we'd go extraplanetary."

"We have the spare CE rig armour I intended to use for
Hagen, and we can build more—or simply construct a space
capsule. Pat, don't you understand the implications? We don't
have to await rescue by another coadunate race. We'll rescue

ourselves!" His mood was abruptly serious. "But this is for the
future. I'll explain what I've been doing to all of you, tomorrow
at the conference. It's the end of our exile. We'll soon be able
to lay the groundwork for the coming of Mental Man. All of
us! And the children as well, when they realize the truth."

"Yes," she said. "Oh, yes."

She lifted his hand, which she still held, and brushed the back
of it with her lips. Then they sat together drinking tea, watching
pink dawn stain the eastern horizon. It was, Marc assured her,
a certain sign of fair weather ahead.

CHAPTER TWO

The final hem adjustment had been completed by Mooliane
Frog-Maid, and now Katlinel stood in the centre of the fitting
room modelling the finished creation. The place was crowded
with the little beings who had worked on the dress—portunes
and korrigans and nereides and nimble-fingered trows—and
these twittered anxiously as the head couturier, Bukin the Estim-
able, pursed his lips and strode around and around the Mistress
of Nionel. He prodded an errant lace ruffle here, straightened
a gilded wire there, leaned close to scrutinize a critical seam or
a suspect bit of beadwork. Finally he stepped back, cleared his
throat, and announced: "It will do. Bring the looking glass!"

All the goblin tailors and seamstresses squealed for joy and
clapped their hands, paws, or other tactile appendages. Two
sturdy kobold wenches hauled a three-way standing mirror into
position, and for the first time, Katlinel saw herself in the gown
she would wear as hostess of the first Grand Tourney.

It was cut from a stiff white fabric of a mysterious iridescence
that glimmered pink and yellow and pale green, like the interior
of a seashell. The low-cut bodice and long sleeves fitted closely,
as did the slender underskirt. Springing from the lowered waist
were wired, tapering panels that curved outward and then in
toward the knees, like the reflexed petals of a nacreous lily.
Beneath this was an overskirt of delicate golden lace, which
flared out below the petals in a bright fluted cone. Gold lace

also draped the pearly fabric of the sleeves and formed wide
cuffs. The head and decolletage of the Lady of the Howlers was
set off by a fantastic high collar, and she wore a delicate golden
face-frame. As a finishing touch, the entire ensemble was
adorned with crystal beads and briolettes, which reflected the
ever-changing hues of the fabric.

Katlinel turned slowly in front of the mirrors, a reduplicated
vision of aurora colours misted with gold. "The gown is magnifi-
cent," she said. "I've never seen anything so wonderful. Thank
you, dear friends—and especially you, Bukin." She bent down
and kissed the brownie designer on his corrugated pate. A flush
rose from his neck to the tips of his hairy ears.

"Gracious Mistress Katy," he said gruffly, "my career spans
three centuries. I have in that time conceived many a splendid
garment—for you know that our misbegotten folk have no peers
in the Many-Coloured Land in matters of personal adornment.
This creation, however, is my masterpiece—and that of all the
artisans gathered about you."

A pixie voice piped, "The pearl lame is unique!" And another
chimed in, "Fashioning that gold lace nearly drove us dotty!"

Bukin shuffled his feet. "This Grand Tourney will be the first
time in eight hundred and fifty-six years that our Howler nation
has participated in a joint event with our nonmutant brethren.
We want to do so proudly. And since we are especially proud
of you, we intend to glorify you before the assembled multitude.
Lady . . . you are a flower sprung from Tanu and human stock,
now blooming in a garden that must seem strange and bizarre.
But we rejoice to have you with us. You console us with your
beauty and kindness. By showing your loving devotion to our
Master, the most fearfully deformed of us all, you have brought
fresh hope to us. You have seen fit to thank us for this gift, but
we are the ones who should thank you."

"Thank you," sighed the monsters.

Then the outer door of the atelier was flung open and a green-
haired sprite shrieked, "He comes! Lord Sugoll comes to see
our Lady!"

Katlinel held out her arms as the Lord of the Mutants entered,
tall and terrible, trailed by the human geneticist, Gregory
Prentice Brown, who beamed as the lovers embraced.

"I thought to save these gifts until the Tourney Eve," Sugoll

said. "But I think it better to bestow them now, in the presence
of these devoted friends. Gregory! The casket."

Mopping and mowing like an excited tamarin, Greg-Donnet
Genetics Master held out a sizable silver-gilt box. Sugoll opened
it, and as the horde of goblin workers squealed and whistled in
astonishment, he removed a necklace of rare aurora-borealis
stones. Working dextrously with two tentacles, he fastened it
just beneath his wife's golden torc. A third tentacle plucked
forth a coronet set with the same strangely iridescent gems.
Katlinel took it and settled it on her elaborate coiffure.

"Now you are truly our queen," said Sugoll.

The mob of grotesques cheered and capered about. Greggy
made a leg, kissed Katlinel's hand, and murmured, "Smashing.
Truly smashing."

"Now," the Howler prince said to his folk, "I would ask you
to leave us for a time while I confer with my Lady and Lord
Greggy on matters of state."

"Lunch break—everybody out!" cried Bukin. "Scoot, you
imps and spunkies and tankeraboguses!" The mutant workers
fled helter-skelter, and in a moment Sugoll and his wife and
Greg-Donnet were alone. The geneticist pulled up two chairs
for Katlinel and himself, while the great abomination took his
ease on the fitting room floor.

"There are odd doings afoot," Sugoll said. "King Aiken-
Lugonn has requested Howler guides for an excursion into
Fennoscandia—seeking certain unusual ores."

"Whatever for?" Katlinel asked.

The little old geneticist giggled. "Precisely what we asked
ourselves, Katy dear! The minerals in question are gadolinite
and xenotime, sources of the so-called rare-earth elements. His
Puckish Majesty was very cagey at first about his need for these
peculiar substances. That his need was urgent became apparent
when Lord Sugoll showed no inclination to cooperate!"

"And why should I cooperate?" growled the mutant ruler.
"What's he done for us lately? Just seven weeks until the
Tourney, and he hasn't even sent us the first instalment of the
Tanu share of the expenses. The fribbling little pecht! Probably
blew his whole treasury on that shameless Grand Loving spec-
tacle in May . . ."

"Rare earths?" Katlinel, who had been a member of the

Creator Guild and a High Table sitter before her defection,
shook her bejewelled head in puzzlement. "I know little enough
chemistry, but sufficient to say that there is scant use for such
materials in Tanu technology."

"But not in that of the Milieu!" snapped Sugoll. "And when
I balked, the golden wirling finally had to come clean and tell
me why he wanted the stuff. He's building a time-gate machine!"

"Almighty Tana," whispered the Lady. "Not—a portal
leading into the future world?"

Greg-Donnet nodded with wry solemnity. "It seems he's
collected experts from all over the Many-Coloured Land, and
plans to reopen the gate that the redoubtable Madame Guderian
slammed shut. The potential for mischief making is formidable!"

"Naturally, given the facts, I pledged our full cooperation,"
Sugoll said.

Katlinel stared at him, taken aback.

Greggy said gently, "If the Howler people could pass through
the gate into the world I came from, there would be no doubt
that their deformed bodies could be remoulded, their genes
engineered to the Firvulag norm once again. I've tried a few
feeble experiments along those lines during my stay with
you—but my piddling attempts are as nothing beside the
scientific resources of the Milieu. Their scientists could do in a
few months what it might take me decades to accomplish on my
own here in the Pliocene."

"I can't believe that Aiken—" Katlinel broke off, shaking her
head. "He's devilishly clever, we all know that. But this doesn't
seem possible. He must be hatching some other scheme . . .
perhaps using this time-gate ploy to divert Sharn and Ayfa from
their warlike designs."

"If so," Sugoll put in, "then Teah send success to the Tanu
King! And all the more reason for us to cooperate. I have
delegated Kalipin to assist Aiken's expedition, since he has
had experience in dealing with Lowlives; and for the technical
matters, Ilmary and Koblerin the Knocker, who know more
about the minerals of the lands beyond the Amber Lakes than
any among us."

"Let us not raise false hopes among the people," Katlinel
pleaded.

"Don't worry," Greggy said. "I'll keep on with my own
experiments, just as before." He winked merrily. "Actually, the

Skin-tank device looks rather promising. I have several volun-
teers eager to try it."

"When does Aiken's expedition set out?" Katlinel asked.

"The first scouts should be here in a few days," said Sugoll.
"From Nionel they sail north to the Big Bend of the Seekol,
then cut across the Peneplain to the Anversian Sea."

"It'll take them months to find those minerals," Katlinel said.
"If they ever do. And as for constructing a time-gate
machine—it's just too incredible!"

"I'm afraid you're right," the geneticist sighed. "But if it did
turn out to be true ..." He grinned at Katlinel and her superla-
tively hideous spouse. "How I'd love to take the two of you on
a grand tour of the Galactic Milieu. You'd love it. Really, you
would."

Kuhal Earthshaker sat on a glass bench in a secluded part of
the castle garden, waiting until she should come. The evening
was alive with sound: chirping green bush crickets, a nightingale
warbling his heart out in anticipation of the fall mating season,
the chiming of small crystal bells festooning the trees, and as a
background to it all there were crowd sounds from the city's
Gyre of Commerce, which lay only a few hundred metres down
the hill, beyond the garden wall and a narrow greenbelt. During
the regime of Kuhal's elder brother, Nodonn Battlemaster,
evening markets had been forbidden; but the usurper changed
all that in his haste to curry favour with his compatriots, who
preferred to shop and carouse after the fierce Pliocene sun had
set. Now greys and barenecks wandered abroad freely at all
hours, disturbing the peace and making extra work for the rama
cleanup crews.

A sturdy crescent moon was rising. Fireflies winked in the
shrubbery surrounding the lily pool. Up in the Castle of Glass,
the jewel-coloured windows were ablaze and a full show of faerie
lights outlined the freshly repaired towers and battlements. The
King, having returned triumphant from Calamosk that after-
noon, was having a party to introduce the North Americans to
the High Table and to the flower and chivalry of Goriah. Kuhal
had put in a brief, obligatory appearance and managed to
arrange this rendezvous.

And now she was coming.

He rose from the bench as he felt her coolly questing thought.

She came out from among the willows, a strangely alien figure
in a futuristic diamante sheath of grey satin, her mind carefully
guarded.

Cloud, he said, opening to her.

Then they were standing together, not touching physically.
Her redactive probe, soft as a moth wing, worked swiftly behind
his eyes. She said aloud, "Well you're truly recovered at last.
Both hemispheres in fine fettle, all your metabilities restored,
your bereavement receded to memory, where it belongs. Fight-
ing a losing battle and working off your penance cleaning
Aiken's Augean stables seem to have agreed with you. I'd say
you were a normal man again."

"Only when you're with me," he said. "And it seems we've
been separated for ever."

"Less than three weeks!" she said, laughing and drawing back
from him. His face was shadowed and his fair hair tousled. For
the first time since the Grand Loving, he wore the rose-gold
robes of the Second Lord Psychokinetic.

"It hardly seems possible," he said. "So many terrible things
have happened."

"Well, your ordeal is over now, and you're reinstated at the
High Table—for services rendered." Her voice had gone flat
and the mental carapace hardened. "What do you intend to do
now?"

"Serve him," Kuhal replied, "as I vowed. He is sending me
to collect armaments for Roniah, and to secure Castle Gateway
in preparation for the new construction. It's a task fraught with
great responsibility."

"No doubt," she said shortly, turning away from him to look
out over the pond. "Good luck."

He was bewildered. "Cloud—what's wrong? I thought you
would rejoice at this meeting, as I have. Has my submission to
the King displeased you? Changed this between us?"

She was wearing a shawl of cobweb wool, which she now
pulled more closely about her shoulders, although the evening
was warm. "There's nothing between us, Kuhal—except perhaps
a little transference, which is rather common in redactor-patient
relationships ... So you're off to Roniah, are you? How soon?"

"The day after tomorrow. But the task need not take long,
and we can find ways to be together—"

"No," she said offhandedly, seeming to be absorbed in the

sight of a great white heron that had appeared among the water-
lilies, stalking froggy victims. "I don't think we'll see each other
again, now that you're well. I'll be staying here in Goriah,
helping to keep the recruited scientists in line. A number of
them are less than enthusiastic about the Guderian Project. But
we must complete the device as soon as possible and I'll have
no time for distractions. You really don't need me any more,
Kuhal—and I certainly don't need you."

He laughed, a low and quiet sound, and with the utmost
gentleness exerted his psychokinesis. She felt herself lifted a few
centimetres above the grass and rotated in midair to face him.
He had lowered himself to one knee so that their eyes could
meet, but there was no trace of subservience in him as he said,
"You lie to me, Cloud Remillard. You with your mind in hiding!
I know you do care for me, else you would not have had tears
in your eyes upon your presentation to the High Table this
evening—nor would you have agreed to meet me here."

"Put me down!" she exclaimed angrily. "You great barbarian
lout!" Her mind pummelled him, but she was unable to free
herself from the humiliating sustention, or to undermine his
coercion with her own. After a long moment he lowered her,
still smiling into her outraged face.

"You lie," he repeated. "Admit it."

The mind-screen trembled. Anger gave way to a more
complex emotion. "Perhaps I do care ... a little. But since I've
been back with my own people, I've had time to think. To
analyse our situation in the light of what . . . will happen."

"You mean, in light of your determination to pass into the
future world of the Galactic Milieu?"

She cried, "We're going to do it or die in the attempt! There's
no way you can understand what we've been through, how
desperate we are to escape!"

"I know you didn't hesitate to destroy most of my own race
when we seemed to stand in your way."

"Yes," she admitted, and the screen thinned to translucency,
showing the flush of guilt overlying resolution. "And you'll
never forget that. But that's only one part of it."

"I love you in spite of everything. We'll go together to the
Milieu."

She let slip a little choking cry. An image peered from her
brain, childishly comical, which she tried vainly to suppress.

"What," he enquired with bemused dignity, "is a basketball
player?"

She burst out laughing, and then wept and threw her arms
around him as he knelt. "It's a joke," she said miserably. "A
vicious, cruel joke. That damned Hagen . . . speculating on
what our life together might be—especially if we both went to
the Milieu."

"I don't understand," he said, holding her. But his mind sang.
She had lied!

"We're too different," she said, pulling away, and he saw a
persistent dark core of denial in the heart of the brightness.
"And for all his brutal attempts at humour, Hagen was basically
correct. Sooner or later we'd end up despising each other . . .
or worse."

"In Afaliah," he reminded her, "the physical differences were
nothing compared to the affinity of our minds."

She drew away, began to walk back the way she had come.
"When we were in Skin, we were two wounded creatures in
need. Licking each other's hurts. Both lonely. Both . . .
bereaved. It was natural that there be an attraction. Inevitable.
But now the need has passed. We're finished, Kuhal! I'm going
now."

He followed. She went more quickly, almost running, but his
exotic legs kept pace with her easily. They came into the
shadows of the trees where moonlight was as sparse as a flung
handful of coins. He seized her with both hands, looming like
some fearsome woodland spirit, and she shrank away from his
desperation. "Nothing you've said touches on the real reason
for your rejection of me! Why, Cloud? Why?"

She said, "Fian."

There was wonder in his voice as he asked, "You would deny
me because of my dead twin?"

"He was more than your brother!"

"He was the mind of my mind . . . and he is dead."

"I won't take his place," she said. "Never!" Her redactive
thrust caught him off guard, and when he recovered he was
standing alone with only the shawl in his hands.

The King wearied of his party, which if truth be told was not
much of a success. The young North Americans cared little for
dancing and drinking and the preliminaries to sweet houghma-

gandy, preferring to talk shop with the scientists and technicians
who had been assembled for the Guderian Project. Along about
midnight, when things should have just started getting a glow
on, the ballroom was half empty and the orchestra playing for
itself. Those guests who did remain were mostly human, engaged
in depressingly earnest conversation.

"The hell with this," Aiken muttered, and went slouching off
into the grand foyer and thence to the courtyard for a breath
of air. There he found Yosh Watanabe and Raimo Hakkinen
climbing into a waiting caleche.

"Going downtown?" the King inquired. "Can't say I blame
you. No fun upstairs at all." He sighed lugubriously.

"We'd planned to pub-crawl," Yosh said. "But first, we're
off to visit my neputa works. I've been out of town so long,
the crafters have probably managed to screw things up. Sneak
inspections keep people on their toes. Besides, the shop's right
next door to our favourite groggery, the Mermaid."

Aiken lifted a hand. "Ah. Well, have a good time, guys." He
began to turn away.

Raimo said impulsively, "Aik. Come along! Forget this king
shit for one friggerty night."

"I'll cramp your style."

"Just get rid of the royal threads," Raimo suggested.

"Like this?" Aiken asked. There was a subdued flash. His
magnificent golden outfit disappeared. He wore frayed khaki
shorts, calf-high reefwalkers with tabi toes, and a grubby yellow
t-shirt imprinted DALRIADA WINDSURFER RACING TEAM. His
distinctive physiognomy was hidden under a ratty straw
sombrero and he had a silver torc about his neck.

"Climb in, kid," Raimo said, "and we'll show you the big
city." He whipped up the hellad and they were off, clopping
over the great glass drawbridge and onto the winding road that
led through the castle park. Even before they emerged onto the
boulevard that had its terminus at the central Gyre of
Commerce, they heard the laughter and shouting of roisterers,
the cries of vendors, and strolling musicians playing flutes and
fiddles and electronic accordions.

The Gyre was so crowded that their carriage moved at a
snail's pace. Most of the pedestrians were human; but there were
plenty of Tanu strolling about as well, and Aiken recognized a
number of Most Exalteds who had pleaded urgent business as

an excuse for leaving his party early. All of the shops around
the periphery of the ring were open. The central area was
thronged with the colourful booths of freelance artisans and the
purveyors of novelties, flowers, Milieu jumble items, and other
ephemera.

"Something missing." Raimo frowned, thinking. Then he
snapped his fingers. "The Firvulag sellers! Remember, Yosh?
Before we left with the caravan for Bardy-Town, the Gyre had
plenty of spook vendors at the night market. The Armistice
brought 'em out of the woodwork, peddling their baubles and
bangles and funny mushrooms and weird booze. But they're
gone—!"

Yosh glanced at the King, who merely nodded, frowning.

"Ices! Raspberry ices!" a nasal voice was calling.

"That sounds good," Raimo remarked with enthusiasm.
"How about you guys?" He stood up tall on the driver's perch,
emitted an ear-splitting whistle, and held up three fingers. The
vendor grinned as a coin wafted toward him over the heads of
the mob. Presently Raimo's PK took hold of three cups piled
high with rosy slush, which made a safe journey to the caleche.
They rode on, nibbling at the concoction.

"Damn good," said the King, licking his lips. "We ought to
sponsor that joker at the Grand Tourney. Set him up with a
refreshment stand, lots of different flavours. A new snack item
like this would go over big with the fans."

"I'll see to it," Raimo said. "Old Guercio will be thrilled to
death."

He guided the hellad into a side street. Though less crowded
than the Gyre, it was still thick with pedestrians heading for the
famous Mermaid Tavern and other places of entertainment.
"The workshop's right here," Yosh said, bending down to pound
loudly on a courtyard door with his bronze-clad samurai fan.
Two ramas swung the portals wide and Raimo drove the caleche
inside. As the doors closed behind them the noise level dropped
by sixty decibels. The courtyard was dimly lit by two hanging
sconces of flaming oil.

"Nobody about this time of night, of course," Yosh remarked
as they piled out of the carriage. "But the monks'll usher us
in." His telepathic voice spoke expertly to the two small apes.
One hurried to unbar the door to a barnlike structure while

the second fetched a big twenty-second-century-vintage electric
lantern.

They entered the workroom, and Aiken exclaimed in surprise
at the sight of huge sheets of paper hanging from the walls and
ceiling, all elaborately painted with vivid, swirling figures locked
in mortal combat. "It looks like another kite factory!"

"Close, but no cigar," said the samurai warrior. "Neputa are
a kind of gigantic lantern, carried along in a traditional harvest
parade in the Japanese city of Hirosaki on Old Earth. I've
modified the design slightly, and we'll have ours rolling along
on wheeled floats. But they'll be gorgeous, believe me!"

He showed them a painting in preparation, laid out flat on
the clean floor. It was approximately fan-shaped in outline and
six metres high. The special paper had a design of graceful
flowering trees and a Tanu knight mounted on his chaliko
destrier. This had been rendered with bold strokes in black sumi
ink, giving an effect similar to the leading of stained glass. Next,
certain more delicate interior details were painted with hot wax;
these would remain translucent when textile dyes added colour
to the composition.

"Fairly decent brushwork," Yosh noted. He wandered about,
commenting on the completed paintings, which featured a
potpourri of Japanese, Tanu, and eclectic themes. "We can ship
these giant lanterns to the Field of Gold disassembled. When
the neputa are put together, you'll have two large pictures on
front and rear and smaller decorations along the sides. The
illumination comes from hundreds of candles suspended from
the inside framework in glass cups. When you get a parade of
sixty or seventy of these things circling a field to the music of
flutes and drums, it's a spectacle to remember." He winked at
the King. "And very economical."

"I love it!" Aiken exclaimed. "Let's go have a dram and
celebrate."

"What say we leave the carriage over here, out of the way?"
Raimo suggested. They followed the ramas out.

"Sounds good," said Aiken. He directed one of the apes to
unbar the main gate and the three men slipped out into the
street.

"Way!" somebody shouted. "Make way!" A squad of greys
in half-armour and livery of farsensor violet began pushing pede-

strians unceremoniously aside so that a Tanu grande dame
mounted on an enormous white chaliko could move along
without hindrance. "Way for a Most Exalted Personage!" the
captal barked, squashing Aiken back against the wall. Raimo
and Yosh, in their gold torcs, rated a slightly more courteous
degree of manhandling.

"Veil or not, mind-screen or not, I know that woman," Aiken
growled. "It's Morna-Ia—who said she was suffering from posi-
tive-ion migraine when she packed it in at twenty-three bells up
in the castle!"

"Well, it looks like she's catching the second show at the
Bijou," Raimo remarked, craning to see the noble lady's desti-
nation. "I wonder what's playing?"

"The Maltese Falcon," said a bareneck passerby. "Classic 2-
D. Black and white, but dynamite!" He vanished in the press.

And then, in the inexplicable way of street crowds, there
came a momentary lull. A corridor formed all the way to the
Gyre entrance nearly thirty metres away. Aiken saw the
raspberry ice vendor and his cart rolling slowly by, and then it
paused for a customer, a very tall human with curly grey hair,
dressed in the tan shirt and trousers and yellow neck scarf that
were the usual mufti of the elite guard. The shirt was a tight fit
across the man's shoulders, as though he had borrowed it from
a less husky friend. When he had paid for his ice, he sampled
it with evident enjoyment, glanced up the side street, nodded
in a friendly manner when he caught Aiken's eye, and then
disappeared into the teeming Gyre.

"Oh, my God," said the King.

"Chief," Yosh whispered. "Are you okay?" You look—"

Aiken took a deep breath, then pulled off his straw sombrero
and stamped it very thoroughly into the cobblestones.

"Aik—what the hell?" Raimo blurted.

"It's time to go to the Mermaid," Aiken told his friends
through gritted teeth, "and get very, very drunk."

He strode away, leaving Raimo and Yosh to eye each other,
shrug, and then tag along.

"How long," Elizabeth asked Marc, "do you plan to stay?"

"Five hours should give us a fair start." He glanced down at
the sleeping infant in the basket. "We'll have to see how he
reacts to the increased psychic pressure of the redaction. On my

next visit, I hope to spend more time with you. But tonight"—he
smiled reminiscently—"I made a little side trip before coming
to Black Crag. Your Many-Coloured Land is an interesting
place. I'd enjoy discussing it with you."

She eyed the wet coverall with its metallic function monitors
and shunt receptables in an uneasy manner, and then for the first
time noticed the line of puncture wounds above his eyebrows.
"There's blood on your forehead. Were you injured on your
little side trip?"

He waved a gloved hand airily. "From the brain-piercing
needles of the CE equipment. Mere mosquito bites. They'll self-
heal in a few minutes . . . Aren't you familiar with the workings
of cerebroenergetic enhancers, Grand Master?"

"They're outlawed in the Milieu now. Considered too
hazardous for the operator."

Marc only laughed.

Elizabeth said, rather stiffly. "Perhaps you would like some
more comfortable clothes."

"You're kind to offer. At my last port of call, I had to steal
some."

Her voice was casual. "Then you can't carry anything along
with you on the d-jump?"

"Not yet. But I'm working on it."

Without taking her eyes off him, Elizabeth went to the nursery
door and opened it. Outside in the corridor, sitting on a bench
and placidly telling his beads, was the rugged old Franciscan
friar. He looked up expectantly.

"Brother Anatoly," said Elizabeth. "May I present Marc
Remillard." Anatoly got to his feet, stowed his rosary, and
stared. Marc bowed slightly. Elizabeth continued. "Our visitor
is in need of a change of clothing, Brother. Perhaps you'll be
kind enough to find him something, then escort him back here.
Oh ... and we'll want you to attend the redactive session, if
you please."

Marc was amused. "Commendable prudence, Grand Master."

Her lips tightened. She withdrew back into the baby's room
and closed the door, leaving the two men together.

"You make her nervous," Anatoly observed amiably.

"And you? Or do you feel armoured against the demogorgon,
wearing your breastplate of justice and helmet of salvation?"

"I ought to be afraid of you," Anatoly admitted, beckoning

for Marc to follow, "but I'm too intrigued. I came to the
Pliocene three years before your famous Rebellion. When you
were still a Paramount Grand Master helping the Human Polity
dazzle the socks off the unsuspecting exotic members of the
Concilium, who hadn't quite figured us out yet. When you were
a hero—the champion of the Mental Man concept."

"And what am I now?" Marc asked pleasantly.

"You're about my size, I'd say. Suppose I lend you my sinfully
secular silk bathrobe and a pair of gardening dungarees? Next
time you visit, I'll have something ready you can call your own.
How about white tie and tails, or a Faustian wizard outfit?"

"What am I, Brother Anatoly?"

Stopped in his tracks by an irresistible coercive hold, the old
priest strained to look over his shoulder. "We're almost to my
room. Why not hold off on the mind-ream job until we get
there? Turning me inside out here in the hallway is a mite
uncivilized."

"As you like." The grip turned him loose and they moved
on. "What are you doing here on Black Crag, Brother?"

"I'm her confessor." The old man grinned ironically. "She
hasn't exactly made use of my priestly faculties as yet, but she
hasn't thrown me out, either. I've been waiting for you outside
that nursery every day from twenty-one hours until three, for
the past two and a half weeks—on her orders. D'you suppose
she expects me to exorcise you, or something?"

Marc laughed heartily. "You'll have your chance in a few
minutes."

They went up a small rear staircase. Anatoly said, "So you
two are going to intensify Brendan's redaction, eh? Do you
think the little fellow will make it?"

"One can only try."

The friar cast a shrewd glance at the figure in black that
followed him. "And I wonder why you do try."

Marc did not answer.

"Is the baby just an excuse?" Anatoly opened a door at the
top of the stairs. They came into a spacious suite under the
eaves of the chalet, with roof-high windows all along one side.
When they were inside with the door shut, Marc said: Now.

Anatoly gritted his teeth and stood stiff as a post with his eyes
screwed shut. "Make it fast, dammit."

He felt the coercive-redactive impulses lance into him, making

his scalp tingle and his closed eyes experience a neural fireworks
display. As the drain commenced he lost contact with reality.
Then he found himself standing quite relaxed in the middle of
the sitting room. There were shower noises coming from the
bathroom, where someone was whistling "Le veau d'or."
Anatoly hunted up the magnificent scarlet brocade robe and the
old faded pants and hung them on the door hook. Then he went
out onto the balcony and said the First Sorrowful Mystery under
the stars to steady his nerves. Gethsemane. Bloody sweat. What
if he does ask? All the Remillards were Catholics. If it's possible,
let this chalice pass. Does this man even know it was a sin?

"It was no sin, only a failure, Anatoly Severinovich. 'And
even if my troop fell thence vanquished, yet to have attempted
a lofty enterprise is still a trophy . . .' "

The priest turned around to face the challenger of the galaxy.
"Now that's really interesting. Forty-two years in Holy Orders,
you hear all the sins in the lexicon. But angelism—! Now there's
a genuine rarey." His eyes fell to the scars on Marc's chest.
"And are those another trophy of the lofty enterprise?"

"Not at all. Only the traces of a recent accident. They'll
disappear in a few months. My body is self-rejuvenating."

"So you can ignore the vultures nibbling at your liver, eh?
Still—it must be a terrible kind of security. Lonely in the long
run, too. Well ... if you ever need me, I'll be around. I told
her that, and the same goes for you."

Marc was expressionless. "Listen to me, Anatoly Severino-
vich. I can see that you mean well, and you're a kindly man.
But don't presume to meddle in my affairs."

"Don't tell me you're so far gone that you'd zap a poor old
priest just for praying for you?"

"Save your prayers for Elizabeth. I'm past the need. Now
let's get back downstairs." He turned and headed for the door,
with Anatoly coming after him.

"Nu, ne mudiy, my son! Your brother Jack would never let
you get away with saying that."

Marc paused. His voice was deadly calm. "For a man who
came to the Pliocene before my brother's . . . notoriety, you
seem oddly knowledgable about his mind-set."

"It's hearing all those confessions," sighed the friar. "You'd
be surprised, the kind of people who've gone time-travelling to
escape reality. Or maybe you wouldn't! I know a lot more about

you than my memories told you in the brain-ream, son." He
smiled encouragingly. "The loneliness, for instance. Is that the
real reason you've come here to Black Crag—hoping to find
another metapsychic who'll accept you as human instead of
failed angel?"

"A very interesting question," said Marc Remillard. "Let's
both try to find out the answer." Carrying his black overall, he
went out laughing.

CHAPTER THREE

   Praise be to Te, it was a banner year for giant slugs!

Purtsinigelee Specklebelly chortled in satisfaction as he lifted
the bark lid off the last tray of stale beer. It was crowded with
plump molluscs, amber with grey spots. Each slug was nearly
the size of the bananas the Lowlives grew at the plantations
down at Var-Mesk—and far more succulent and nourishing.
Every tray along the trapline this morning had been full of the
creatures. Drawn by the seductive aroma of hops, they crept
over the floor of the alpine valley rain forest and up the mossy
stumps upon which the trays rested. After drinking themselves
into a blissful stupor, the slugs tumbled into the beer and
drowned. It was an easy death and Purtsinigelee, who was a
peaceable dwarf, often reflected upon it philosophically as he
made his daily collections in the Gresson Vale. Later, after they
had been pickled and stored in small firkins, the slugs would
not only provide protein-rich food for his family when the winter
storms swept down from the Helvetides, but they would also be
a valuable trade item. The more sophisticated Firvulag in
western Famorel paid a hefty price for prime, season-end
molluscs like these. The delicacy might even find its way to the
banquet table of King Sharn and Queen Ayfa at this year's
Grand Tourney. Purtsinigelee hoped that would happen; he was
a stay-at-home sort himself, but it was nice to think that
some of his slugs would be relished in the highest social
circles ...

Humming a happy tune, he transferred the final creature to

the tote-skin slung over his shoulder. He strained the liquid in
the tray, topped it off with more stale beer, and replaced the
loose-fitting lid with care. Then he was off for home and lunch,
striding along the steep trail with the mist coiling about the
green, dripping rhododendron trees and the birds and oreopi-
thecine apes making a great racket down by the river.

After a time he emerged from the densely wooded gorge into
more open, rocky country. The fog burned away as the sun
mounted and it became a cool and splendid September morning.
The meadows were dotted with flowers, the sky was so intensely
blue that it made the eyes ache, and along the northern horizon
the stupendous front range of the Pennine Alps reared in
dazzling majesty. The Famorel Firvulag called them the Goddess
Mountains—not only because of their beauty, but also because
certain First Comers said that the snow-clad peaks resembled
the ancestral territory of the Little People on lost Duat. No
mountains on Pliocene Earth were more lofty.

Purtsinigelee's home, like that of many other isolated Firvulag
living in caveless terrain, was situated on a commanding height.
It sat just below the ridge that separated the Gresson Vale from
that of the River Ysez to the east. Pausing for a moment on the
trail, he spied the snug little cottage, shaped like a stone beehive,
nestled among pin oaks and wind-twisted pines at the edge of
a tiny tarn. And grouped around it—

He wailed in dismay and darted behind the shelter of a large
boulder. Machines! Merciful Te—there were some kind of alien
contraptions surrounding his home! He cautiously extended his
farsight and spotted fair numbers of people as well. Horror upon
horror! The Foe was upon him! He moaned out loud and let
the sack of slugs slip squishily to the ground.

"My poor Hobbino—and the children! Goddess preserve
them!"

Heart pounding, he crept out from behind the rock, keeping
down under a low-growing juniper. There appeared to be seven
machines, cartlike vehicles with eight fat wheels along each side.
They bristled with appendages of unfathomable function and
had many dirty windows that gleamed dully in the sunshine.
They were a little over twice his height and perhaps four times
as long. Not only Tanu knights in glass armour but also torced
and bareneck Lowlives were in evidence, strolling in and out of
the open front door of his cottage and lounging about the

grounds as though they owned the place, the vile miscreants!
Te alone knew what atrocities had been perpetrated.

Getting a grip on his palsied nerves, he ventured to call his
wife's name on the intimate mode. As he feared, there was no
answer. The house walls were thick, proof against all but the
most extraordinary telepathic penetration. He considered calling
to the children, but his two sons and three daughters were all
under ten years of age, totally unskilled at mental screening.
They would surely betray his presence to the Foe.

He lay there for some time, his senses whirling, clutching the
slug sack in anguished desperation. Then he made an effort to
pull himself together. What was the Foe doing here? Tanu never
ventured into remote Famorel. Once in a great while a pathetic
outlaw human might wander up from Var-Mesk, but none of
them lasted very long. Not with the likes of Tatsol Flamespitter
and Ryfa the Insatiable lurking among the Maritime Alps!
Because the region had always been secure, the Little People
had no garrisons. The only trained fighters lived close to the
viceregal capital, Famorel City, six days' journey to the
southwest.

Purtsinigelee cogitated as he had never done before. More
might be at stake here than the survival of his precious family!
From what he could make out, the expeditionary force
numbered at least fifty. Some of them carried gadgets that were
all too likely the futuristic Lowlife weapons that everyone was
buzzing about. It was necessary—obligatory!—that he pass along
this information via the farshout relay.

Using the utmost caution, he crept backward the way he had
come. It was only necessary to go a few hundred metres in order
to drop below the line of sight from the cottage. Once he was
safe from view he began to run. He reached a fork in the trail
and turned south, paralleling the ridge and the river, until he
had placed the farsense-proof bulk of Pimple Knob between
him and his invaded homestead.

He flopped down and caught his breath. His nearest neighbour
was Tamlin the Mephitic, a musk-oil processor who lived a day's
journey to the west. Because of the solitary nature of his trade
he was the most dedicated telepathic gossip in the entire pied-
mont. Old Tarn would see that the great hero Mimee himself
learned of this outrage. Gathering all his mental resources,
Purtsinigelee made the call. When he had finished he picked up

the sackful of slugs and trudged resolutely back to his cottage
without any effort of concealment.

He arrived to find the invaders gone. The only trace of them
was a lingering dust cloud along the northern crest. His wife
and children were quite safe, sitting numbly around the kitchen
table.

"What happened?" he cried.

"They said they're going to climb Big Goddess," Hobbino
told him. "They didn't hurt us. They wanted to buy provisions
before heading into the high country." She began to laugh rather
hysterically, then fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and took
out a chamois pouch. "Look!" She undid the strings and tipped a
glittering little pile of gemstones onto the homespun tablecloth.
"More than we could earn in five years!"

"They emptied the cellar," said the oldest boy. "Took every
last firkin and keg."

The youngest girl added solemnly, "But, Daddy—you should
have heard the naughty things they said when they opened a
keg and saw what they'd bought."

VEIKKO: Hagen.

HAGEN: Right here, keed. Hold on a sec while I freshen my
drink.

VEIKKO: Lucky sod. The only liquor we have left here is desig-
nated medicinal.

HAGEN: Stick to herb tea or you'll end like your old man.

VEIKKO: Better like mine than like yours, asshole.

HAGEN: All right, all right, you win that one hands down. Now
cool it and report. It's been too long.

VEIKKO: [Edited replay.]

HAGEN:   [Laugher.] I hope Irena's well fixed for escargot
recipes.

VEIKKO: Listen, given a choice of climbing that mountain or
staying here in base camp eating naked snails, I'll take the
creepies a la mode every time. You should eyeball this Monte
Rosa monster! It's not an isolated peak, it's a whole bloody
range—like the wall of the world's edge, dripping glaciers.
Who would've thought there'd be so much snow in the
Pliocene? And it just shoots up out of the Po Valley flats:
instant Alps—below sea level to nine thousand high inside of
sixty kilometres.

HAGEN: Give me a firm position on your camp.

VEIKKO: 45-50-31 north, 7-48-13 east, 4322.3 metres up. We
must be six kloms from the main summit as the crow flies.
Too friggerty bad we're not crows! I'm gasping like a beached
porpoise from altitude sickness. Andre fainted three times
this afternoon, and some of the King's Men look like they'd
like to. I think their torcs keep 'em going. But the Tanu
seem to feel fine, and Basil's Bastards are downright perky.
Wimborne calls this place Camp Bettaforca. There's snow but
we're cosy enough in the decamole huts except for the anoxia.
The Bastard quacks say we'll probably get acclimatized in a
few days.

HAGEN: Any fresh info on plans for the actual climb?

VEIKKO: The big conference is tomorrow. The climbing party
doesn't actually have to reach the top of the sucker, you
understand. Just kind of circle around to the other side where
the aircraft are parked. The idea is to melt one out, fly it back
here, then ferry up the rest of the folks and shuttle off to
Goriah. It shouldn't be too tough getting the birds opera-
tional. After all, they haven't been on the mountain all that
long—just since the end of July. The hard part is reaching
the aircraft with the first assault team. Wimborne will use a
kind of relay operation with support groups to get the prin-
cipal climbing party over the top.

HAGEN: None of our people are involved in the climbing, are
they?

VEIKKO: Well, Buckmaster and Collins volunteered. You know
them.

HAGEN: Goddam dipshits! Tell 'em to forget it! None of our
people risk their lives unless there's no alternative.

VEIKKO: Amen.

HAGEN: Who's slated for the principal assault team?

VEIKKO: Not sure. But they'll all be Bastards except for the boss
Tanu, Bleyn, and one of his exotic underlings. Going along
to make sure the Bastards don't nip off with the birds. You
should see the boots this guy Nirupam whipped up for the
climbing high pocketers: big enough to boil a chicken in! God,
I wish we had some chicken . . .

HAGEN: While this climbing is going on, the rest of you just sit
tight and wait?

VEIKKO: Seems like.

HAGEN: [Doubt.] Listen, Veik. I've got a bad feeling about those
Firvulag you contacted on the way up. The ones you bought
the slimies from.

VEIKKO: Yeah. You think they might have betrayed us to spook
HQ. But Elizabeth is supposed to be watching out for Little
People pulling a sneak on us, and she hasn't reported any
movement—

HAGEN: I wouldn't rely on her overmuch. These days, she's got
more interesting things to do than play wetnurse to your lot.
The lady has been entertaining Papa in her chalet!

VEIKKO: ?!

HAGEN: She admitted it to the King, cool as you please. She
says she's anxious to reconcile Marc with all of us ...

VEIKKO: Some hope! Any more sightings of your old man around
Goriah?

HAGEN: Not since the King spotted him sampling the night life
a week ago. But we're ready if he tries to attack the project.
The castle dungeon is carved from bedrock, so he can't jump
in, and all the access points are sigma-wrapped and guarded
by armed troops. Cloudie has the mind-idents of every person
authorized to enter the restricted area and checks them in
and out on the castle computer. Papa won't be able to pull a
simple masquerade. The really irreplaceable workers are
being guarded as carefully as the component store, so he can't
hit us that way.

VEIKKO: How's the materials search coming?

HAGEN: We managed to scare up a lot of good stuff. It looks like
the only real sticker is the one we anticipated all along—the
dysprosium-niobium wire for the microassembly in the tau-
generator mesh stacks. The Little King sent a scouting crew
off to the Northland hunting ore, but that could take months.
We need those aircraft, Veik. And not just for mineral scroun-
ging ... I tried to talk the King into flying out over the ocean
and blasting Kyllikki out of the water with his wonderful
psychocreative powers. But he turned the suggestion down
flat. No reason. I knew there was some trick to the way he
zapped us!

VEIKKO: Is Kyllikki still coming strong?

HAGEN: Sailing fair in the westerlies, about halfway between
Bermuda and the Azores. She'll be here in nineteen days at
the earliest.

VEIKKO: [Fear.] With the X-zappers charged and ready. We sure
better bring the birds home to Goriah before then.

HAGEN: How right you are. They're looking more essential
every day. For instance—with Papa on the loose, how could
we ever hope to carry the Guderian device to the gate site
without air transport?

VEIKKO: Tell the truth, I was surprised you didn't just build the
dingus there at Castle Gateway.

HAGEN: I pushed for it but the King vetoed. He wants us under
his thumb, of course. And Goriah is a superior manufacturing
locale from a security and logistics standpoint, aside from
being too close to the sea. The real problem with Castle
Gateway is that it's been pretty well abandoned since the
Flood. Last winter a Firvulag raiding party got in past the
skeleton guard force and did a lot of damage. The place is
being fixed up now, ostensibly as a kind of hostel for travellers
bound for the tournament that they're having up north at
the beginning of November. The King sent Cloud's Tanu
boyfriend off last week to oversee the Castle Gateway
rehabilitation.

VEIKKO: Hard luck for her.

HAGEN: Um. She says she and Kuhal are finished. But I notice
they still keep fairly regular head-skeds. No doubt having
serious discussions about the meaning of life and suchlike
dreckola.

VEIKKO: How's Diane?

HAGEN: Giving me a hard time, if you must know. Suddenly she
has qualms about the kind of reception we might get in the
Milieu. Because of Gibraltar. Because of ... who we are.
She's half convinced herself it would be better to stay here.

VEIKKO: God! After all we've been through?

HAGEN: And a way to go yet...

VEIKKO: She might be worrying about her father.

HAGEN: Alex can take care of himself. Now that Papa's started
d-jumping, he needs Manion more than ever. Still—have you
tried to farspeak Walter in Kyllikki recently?

VEIKKO: It wouldn't have been much use, with us camping in
valleys every night to keep out of easy farsense range of the
Firvulag. Would I try for Walter when I couldn't even raise
you?

HAGEN: Well, do it. Now that you're parked halfway up the

highest mountain on Earth, you might have a chance of
making contact.

VEIKKO: All right. If my brain cells haven't blunk out from
oxygen starvation. Anything specific you want to know?

HAGEN: Morale conditions aboard ship. Whether the magnates
still favour snuffing us. Whether Papa still leans toward the
steel-fist-in-velvet-glove approach. Hints on how he plans to
use the X-lasers. On his d-jumping itinerary and manoeuvring
with the King and Elizabeth . . . Would Walter tell you the
truth about any of that?

VEIKKO: Jeez, Hagen, I don't know. He wants us to get away
just as much as Alex does. But—

HAGEN: Uh-huh. I'd be more inclined to trust him if he wasn't
driving that schooner so efficiently,

VEIKKO: I'll try to farspeak him tonight. In the wee hours of the
morning, that is. He usually took the midwatch in the old
days. But don't get your hopes up. I'm not the farspeaker
Vaughn Jarrow was.

HAGEN: You're not the fucking idiot Vaughn was, either. Do
your best.

VEIKKO: One other thing.

HAGEN: ?

VEIKKO: Now that we're camped in an exposed position, we're
liable to be spotted by more than Firvulag . . . Hagen, what
if Marc shows up here? I know he can't carry any weapons.
But he wouldn't need to. If those mountain climbers are
mushing along in a tricky place, just one little push—

HAGEN: God, yes. At that conference tomorrow, warn Basil and
the others of the possibility.

VEIKKO: And?

HAGEN: Don't take any chances. If Papa comes onto that moun-
tain, kill him on sight.

Irena O'Malley carried a fresh load of steaming plates out of
the cook-hut, plopped them onto the buffet table, checked the
coffee urn, then decided to take a short break from her chores
to see how Veikko was getting along. She climbed the slope
above the camp to where he was sitting, alone on a flat rock in
the sunshine, among scattered patches of old snow. He was still
immured in misery, his slight body hunched in an untidy lotus
posture while he seemed to contemplate the precipitous fore-

slope, which reared above them like a petrified tsunami wave
crested with hanging glaciers. To the east was the huge Gresson
Icefall; and beyond it, the cloud-plumed summit of Monte Rosa.

"Headache still bad, sweetheart?" Irena inquired. Veikko
responded with a wan smile. She gestured at his nearly untou-
ched breakfast. "Didn't you care for the squiche?"

"It tasted great, Rena. Really. I'm just not hungry. Altitude,
maybe."

She knelt beside him among tufted alpine plants, a tall and
robust young woman with glossy black hair done up in no-
nonsense pigtails. Laying a solicitous hand on his shoulder, she
tried to slide her redaction into his mind, only to come up
against the same barrier of mysterious grief that had frustrated
her earlier attempt at comfort. "If you'd only let me in, I could
help! What is it with you this morning? And don't you try to
fob me off with rubbish about altitude sickness."

He bit his lip and refused to meet her eyes. As she put
her arms around him, he shed the last vestiges of self-control,
struggling like a trapped wild creature. "Tell me," she insisted.

He had shut his eyes, and now tears forced their way beneath
trembling lids. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But you'll have to know
sooner or later. They all will!"

"Veikko, tell me."

"Last night I finally managed to farspeak Walter on Kyllikki.
He told me—something terrible's happened. Helayne Strang-
ford went over the edge. Turned violent. Ten days ago,
she—she—Marc was away d-jumping and none of the others on
board suspected what she was up to. You know what a clever
screener she is. And—she killed people."

Irena's fingers dug into Veikko's shoulders. "Who?"

"Barry Dalembert's father. And the two Keoghs—not that
Nial will give a damn, that coldhearted swine!"

"Shh, baby . . . who else?" .

Veikko buried his head in her breast as his mind toiled the
list of casualties: Frieda Singer-Dow, mother of Chee-wu Chan;
Claire Shaunavon, mother of Matiwilda; Audrey Truax, mother
of Margaret and Rebecca Kramer; Isobel Layton and Alonzo
Jarrow, parents of Vaughn Jarrow; John .Horvath, father of
Imre; Abdulkadir Al-Mahmoud and Olivia Wylie, parents of
Jasmin Wylie; Eva Smuts, co-mother of Kane Fox-Laroche;
Ronald Inman; Everett Garrison; Gary Evans; and . . .

He was weeping now. "I'm sorry, Rena. Arky, too. He was
one of the injured ones. Streinbrenner did his best, but he's not
as skilled in surgery as the Keoghs were, and there's no regen
tank set up on Kyllikki. Arky died three days ago."

His mind opened at last and she melded, pouring psychic
balm on his supersensitive emotional structure, rocking him to
and fro while the equinoctial sun warmed the southern flank of
the mountain.

She said, "It's strange. I dreamed about Daddy—then. It was
a long dream, full of details. Probably a recapitulation of stories
he used to tell me when I was small, and the books and the Tri-
D cassettes we shared. In the dream, we travelled all over the
Milieu. We visited the human colonies of Volhynia and Hibernia
first to see how our ethnic kin were taming the wilderness, and
then we rested on the cosmop world of Riviera, the vacation
place. From there we toured exotic planets. We met funny little
Poltroyans and repulsive entities that dripped green, and tall
hermaphrodites with enormous yellow eyes—all coadunate
metapsychics, in spite of their odd appearance. We saw the
Krondaku, who aren't quite as scary in person as they look in
a holo; and had a kind of seance with the Lylmiks, and learned
that their race is so ancient that it might date from the previous
universe. Finally we came home to Old Earth, to New
Hampshire in America, where the O'Malleys and the Petrovi-
ches worked in the paper mills and had little farms early in
the twentieth century. We saw Mount Washington, where the
Intervention started, and the old Remillard house in Hanover.
Arky and I saw it all together: our grandparent's place, and
the schools and churches and stores and restaurants and other
landmarks of the real world . . . He was a nice old villain,
Veikko. He liked you, too, even though he tried hard not to
show it. He kept asking when we were going to have a child."

"Not here."

"I tried to explain. Why we couldn't believe in Marc or his
star-search any longer. But he refused to understand. Now he's
dead, and all those others."

Veikko wiped his face on his sleeve, found a comb and ran
it through stringy fair hair. His face was thoughtful. "Not too
many left now for Marc to manipulate, are there? Let's see. Six
magnates, not counting Manion. Those are the minds we really
have to worry about. Only Kramer and Warshaw have any

children left alive, and the old lady's hard-assed as they come
where loyalty to Marc's concerned. I'm not so certain about
Kramer. He might balk if it really came down to zorching Marge
and Becky along with the rest of us. Secondary grandmaster
minds . . . eighteen. Quinn Fitzpatrick and Allison Sherwoods
are weak sisters, but the others are concert-fit. And that big
stud Boom-Boom Laroche is worth a mind and a half in
anybody's roster."

"Surely Walter wouldn't—"

All persons please assemble immediately under the large
canopy.

"The conference." Veikko climbed to his feet. As they made
their way back to the small village of huts and parked vehicles,
he said. "Don't delude yourself about my father, Rena. Walter's
like a lot of other ex-Rebels. When he's outside of Marc's
aura and thinks for himself he can understand our position and
sympathize with us. But put him back within coercive range of
the Angel of the Abyss and he's caught in the old spell—just as
all of us were until Alexis Manion showed us how to escape."

"And paid for it," Irena added. After a minute she asked,
"Are you going to tell the others about the murders?"

"Not until I get Hagen's okay. Maybe not even then. Let him
break the news once we're all safe in Goriah. If ever."

They took their places on decamole benches facing an impro-
vised rostrum, where Basil Wimborne waited patiently until the
last stragglers were seated. Inevitably, the group was tripartite:
the ten North Americans, the twenty Bastards, and the King's
Men—twelve Tanu and twenty human golds—gathering
together in distinct cliques. Only Basil himself and the cheerful
little Bastard factotum, Nirupam, had circulated freely during
the journey from the Rhone Valley.

Now the former Oxford don tapped the lectern three times
and fixed his audience with a gaze of magisterial self-assurance.
The babble of thoughts and voices faded to silence.

"We have successfully completed the first leg of the expedi-
tion," Basil began. "Thanks to the skill of our drivers and the
good offices of the Grand Master Elizabeth, who surveyed our
route, we have managed to traverse the four hundred and
ninety-six kilometres between Darask and Camp Bettaforca
without misadventure. Our journey has taken fourteen days, a
most commendable pace under the circumstances. I have been

asked by the Deputy Lord Psychokinetic, Bleyn the Champion,
to convey to you all the warmest felicitations from King Aiken-
Lugonn, who has kept us all in his heart and farseeing eyes. His
Majesty is fully confident that the second phase of our operation
will proceed as successfully as the first."

This sentiment was delivered with a decidedly ironic tone.
Most of the Bastards responded with arch grins, while Bleyn
and the Tanu preserved a stately solemnity.

"The actual assault upon Monte Rosa involves, as most of
you know, my own team of—uh—Bastards. Those expedition
members remaining at the base camp will have other matters to
occupy their attention, however. Lord Bleyn was advised by
Elizabeth early this morning that a force of approximately two
hundred ogres and dwarfs has set out from Famorel City and is
marching north up the Ysaar Valley. We can only presume that
they will follow the river eastward, cross over the Little St.
Bernard pass into the Proto-Augusta Valley, and thence seek
to clobber us."

Exclamations of astonishment and dismay broke out. Lusk
Collins, the young North American ATV wrangler, said, "I
warned you to kill those Firvulag we got the slugs from."

"Sparing them was a calculated risk," Basil averred primly.
"Aside from humane considerations, may I remind you that
we were instructed to avoid bloodshed. Technically, a state of
armistice exists between the Tanu and Firvulag kingdoms."

"Remind the Famorel spooks, not us!" exclaimed Phronsie
Gillis. "So we fight. What the hell! How long before the little
hummers get here?"

"Elizabeth estimates six days," said Basil. "We are well
armed, and there should be sufficient time to—uh—dig in and
secure the position. Lord Ochal the Harper will coordinate the
defensive measures and I will not discuss them further at this
time. My province is the mountain, and I believe that it—not
the Famorel Firvulag—will prove to be our most formidable
opponent."

"Hear, hear," said Mr. Betsy.

Basil rummaged about in the pocket of his shirt and took out
a small piece of paper, scrutinizing it before resuming. "The
primary objective of this expedition is to secure the twenty-
seven rhocraft situated on the other side of Monte Rosa and
deliver them to the King at Goriah. I have been instructed to

be extremely judicious in the risk of our personnel—especially
the pilots. But risk is—er—inherent in the conquest of a peak
such as this one, especially since we have so few experienced
climbers and only improvised equipment. Needless to say, I plan
to take a primary role in the operation. Before coming to the
Pliocene, I arranged to have my body modified specifically
for—uh—high-altitude mountaineering ventures. And since it
was a whim of mine that led to the aircraft being parked on
Monte Rosa in the first place, it's only just that I participate in
the most hazardous phases of the retrieval. Unfortunately, I am
neither a pilot nor do I possess the technical expertise
to—er—fire up the engine of a craft that has been in cold storage
for two months. You must also understand that scaling a great
mountain such as Rosa is of necessity a team effort. Support
groups must set up a string of camps with equipment dumps so
that the ultimate assault can leapfrog to the top. I will lead both
the support and the assault teams."

"And love every miserable minute of it," drawled Mr. Betsy.
He looked more anachronistic than ever with a swansdown vest
and pompom balaclava topping off his Elizabethan finery.

Basil continued. "At my request. Lord Bleyn's caravan
brought from Goriah certain items such as power winches, rope
and cable, vitredur hammers and ice-axes, medical supplies, and
warm clothing. We have numbers of the excellent auberge-
furnished backpacks with their decamole shelters and ladders,
cooking gear and heaters, plus an adequate supply of concen-
trated food. Nirupam has been busy fashioning vitredur cram-
pons, as well as pitons, ice screws, and other—er—hardware.
We have no oxygen equipment; but I believe we can do the job
without it, since only the strongest of us will be climbing."

He turned to indicate the gleaming rampart of the mountain
behind him. "Monte Rosa rises 9082 metres above sea level.
Fortunately, it will not be necessary for us to scale the
summit—although I, personally, would sell my soul in order to
be permitted the attempt."

The Bastards smiled knowingly at one another while the rest
of the expedition regarded Basil with fascinated horror.

"What we will do is cross over the West Col, that saddle-
shaped region to the left of the peak. This lies at an approximate
altitude of only 7800 metres. Elizabeth has studied the potential
routes with her keen farsense and transmitted to me mental

pictures, from which I have roughly plotted our climb. Moving
out from Camp Bettaforca, we first cross that frozen expanse
you see immediately above us, which I have named the Gresson
Glacier. The ice is old, dirty and rotten; we shall have to be
very cautious. Upon reaching the escarpment with its hanging
glaciers, we must choose which icefall to ascend. Unfortunately,
we face Hobson's choice. The three falls on our left and the
easternmost fall are nearly vertical, as are the rocky walls. We
are left with the so-called Gresson Icefall, which ascends at a
relatively comfortable fifty degrees. I say relatively. The route
up this huge tumbled mass is very likely the most perilous section
of our climb. Once at the top, we begin to move westward.
Note the three massive ridges, like the tines of a monstrous
fork, upon the mountain's southwestern flank. We must cross
both the Middle Tine and the West Tine—and the pristine,
snow-clad glaciers between them—in order to gain the West
Col. A minimum of three advance camps will be set up along
the route. I have selected a support team of nine persons to
serve as—uh—Sherpas. The group includes Nirupam, who is a
genuine member of that ethnos, Stan, Phillipe, Derek, Cisco,
Chazz. Phronsie, Taffy, and Clifford. After they establish the
camps, their work will be done and they can retire to well-
deserved rest here at base."

"Just in time for the fight with the Firvulag," Stan Dziekonski
sighed.

Basil continued imperturbably. "The eight-person assault
group will be divided into two independent teams, travelling an
hour apart. Since they will be burdened with heat-beam equip-
ment and aircraft tools, they will make use of power winches
and preset anchors, hauling their gear and themselves up the
mountain wherever the terrain is compatible with
such—er—unsporting manoeuvres. Upon attaining the West
Col, the assault teams will proceed downhill to the aircraft site,
which lies at 5924 metres on the North Face."

Irena O'Malley asked, "Why two assault teams?"

"Attrition," said the don.

There was dead silence in the audience.

"We may hope," he continued, "that at least one complete
team will attain the objective. This would include an experienced
mountaineer as leader, a pilot, a technician, and—"

"A Tanu," put in Bleyn the Champion. "By order of the

King." His mental tone was entirely good-humoured. "Since
Lord Aronn and I are both psychokinetics, we might even prove
worth our keep."

Basil said, "The Number One assault team consists of myself,
Dr. Hudspeth, Ookpik, and Lord Bleyn. Number Two includes
Dr. Thongsa, who is pilot, mountaineer, and physician—"

"All rolled into one insufferable little scuzzbag," Phronsie
muttered, glowering at the Tibetan, who pretended not to
notice.

Basil swept on. "Nazir will serve as technician and Bengt as
principal pilot—"

"And enforcer!" Phronsie appended. "Any little slanty-eyed
folks start thinking again about running off with aircraft, ol'
Bengt's gonna whup their ass six ways from Shangri La."

"Lord Aronn will complete the second team," Basil said.
"Under ideal conditions, both teams will reach the aircraft and
we will have three pilots, not just one, available to fly ships
back here to Camp Bettaforca. Our ATV specialist, Mr. Collins,
assures me that the fourplex vehicles can be disassembled into
their original smaller modules for loading onto the aircraft. We
hope to evacuate the entire camp and transport it in toto to the
North Face. Even if—uh—Fata obstant and we have only a
single ship available for shuttle work, it will still be able to airlift
all personnel to safety in a single trip. Once the aircraft have
power, they are capable of concentrating an enriched atmos-
phere. Sensitive individuals will reside on board while a
sufficient number of ships are prepared for the first trip to
Goriah. Subsequently, only the technical personnel and their
Tanu supervisors will have to remain on the mountain to salvage
the remaining machines . . . The task we face is difficult. Some
of us may lose our lives in the attempt to retrieve these aircraft.
But we know, nevertheless, that they may be crucial not only
in the reopening of the time-gate but also in the defence of the
Many-Coloured Land against powerful enemies. At the risk of
belabouring a point, I will end by quoting a peculiarly apposite
verse from Kipling:

Something hidden. Go and find it.

Go and look behind the Ranges—

Something lost behind the Ranges.

Lost and waiting for you. Go!

If there are any questions I will now answer them."

"When do you plan for us Sherpas to start slogging?" Stan
asked.

Basil said, "Tomorrow Nirupam, Ookpik, and I will lay out
a route over the Gresson Glacier to the icefall. Support teams
will begin carrying supplies to a dump at the icefall foot on
Wednesday the twenty-fourth."

"And how long," enquired a worried-looking elite gold,
"before the birdies get home to the roost in Goriah?"

"We've got nineteen days," said Veikko distinctly, "whether
you realize it or not." And he told them about Kyllikki's estim-
ated time of arrival with the X-zappers, and when the uproar
over that had died down, he got around to mentioning the really
bad news about Marc.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mary-Dedra dried her little son's inflamed skin, then dusted him
with velvety spores by squeezing a dry puffball over his body.
He emerged for a moment from the terrible stupor and his mind
smiled. Like, he said.

The mother crooned to him through her golden torc: Soon
you will feel better much better soon Brendan. She said aloud
to Elizabeth: "Brother Anatoly suggested this substitute for
baby powder. He said it was an old Siberian remedy. The fungus
does seem to soothe the blisters better than salves."

The baby's eyes with their enlarged pupils fixed on Elizabeth.
The feeble glow of pleasure was snuffed out by apprehension.
Hurt me? Hurt again?

Elizabeth said: Yes Brendan. Hurt to make all hurt go away.
(And you must fear me, poor baby, not love the hurter, lest the
mind-circuits become confused and you mistake the pain for

joy.)

Dedra kept up her own flow of telepathic reassurance as she
wrapped the child in a light blanket. But when she handed him
to Elizabeth he broke into hopeless wails, and Dedra cried out,
overcome with guilt and reproach.

"We're very close," Elizabeth told the mother. "It could be
tonight."

"But he doesn't seem to be any better . . . You say the
treatment is going well, but I haven't seen any improvement.
Except in his communication with me, telling me how it hurts."

"I know. I'm sorry, but it's inevitable. If we keep him below
the pain threshold during the redaction, he won't be able to
assist us. But he is better, Dedra. Believe me. Unfortunately,
the modifications to the brain haven't yet manifested themselves
in the rest of his body. When they do, improvement will be
dramatic and abrupt. We're well into the multimodal thalamic
nuclei—a primary integrative area. The job is nearly done."

"Will you work all night again?"

"Yes." Elizabeth held the sobbing baby against her shoulder,
then triggered a massive release of endorphins so that Dedra
would at least see him smile before she left... in case this sight
of him was the one that would live in memory. "Dedra, there's
still a danger. As always."

The mother kissed her baby's head, feverish beneath gossa-
mer-fine curls. Love Brendan love.

Brendan loves Mother.

"I know how hard you've worked," Dedra said to Elizabeth.
"You and—that man. I'm grateful, whatever happens. Believe
me."

Elizabeth placed the quiet child into his basket. "You can
send Marc in now. Tell Brother Anatoly to wait outside with
you tonight. We can call him if we need him." For the Blessing
of Departure.

"Very well."

Dedra went out of the nursery and Elizabeth turned away
from the basket, going to the window to take a few breaths of
cool air. A harvest moon rode above the silvery undulations of
the Montagne Noire. The aether was apparently tranquil all
over Europe.

It seems, she thought, that the only dread and unease in the
world are here on my sad crag, and I am very much afraid. Not
of personal failure. Not even of facing Dedra's grief. I'm afraid
of him, and the energies he will channel through me into the
mind of this dying child. He has come here faithfully for the
past ten days. He has been a superlative assistant, never making
the slightest attempt to seize control or even question my direc-

tion. Even his socializing has been formal. And still I am threat-
ened . . .

"Good evening, Elizabeth."

She turned from the window and he was there, standing beside
the child's basket, as usual wearing the crimson silk robe that
Brother Anatoly had gladly relinquished.

"We'll attempt the finalization tonight," she said. "Since it
will be hard on all three of us, we'll go at it in brief stages and
give the child ample time for synaptic recuperation as we impose
the new circuitry. Are you ready?"

"In a moment." He held out a closed fist toward her, turned
it over and let the fingers open. In the palm of his hand was a
small white star. "I went exploring today and brought you a
souvenir."

In spite of herself, she reached out. It was a flower with a
central cluster of golden buttons, surrounded by fleshy bracts
clothed in fine white wool. She studied it in some perplexity.

He said, "Edelweiss. Shall we begin?"

Hold. Quickly halt that surge!

Done.

YesOgood see the holonet react burn it HARD yes enough.
Now brainstem input. (SleepBrendansleepbabysleepnow.)
Disengage easy . . . comeout Marc and rest.
They sat in their chairs on either side of the cot, heads bowed
as they caught their breath. As always, he recovered first and
went to the nearby tabouret for the carafe of fruit juice and
glasses. After he had poured, he bent down and picked up
something from the floor.
"You lost your flower," he said, smiling.
She took it from him and tucked it carefully into the breast
pocket of her jumpsuit so that the fuzzy asterism formed a
decoration. "My award for valour," she remarked. "If we
succeed tonight, I may cherish it for ever."
He lifted his glass to her and drank.

"In the Milieu," she said after a time, "the edelweiss plant
grew wild only in high mountains. In the Alps."

"It's the same in the Pliocene." He drained his glass and
poured another. "And a somewhat perilous memento, as it
turned out. Fortunately for me, young Jasmin Wylie is a wret-
ched shot with a Matsu carbine."

"You found the Monte Rosa expedition!"

"It wasn't difficult. I tried to be circumspect in my observa-
tions, but it's obvious that I was expected—and unwelcome. I
confess that I decamped without attempting to probe the marks-
woman's motivation. Did the shoot-to-kill order come from
Aiken Drum?"

"I—I'm afraid it was Hagen's decision. The King concurred,
however. He's determined to have the aircraft."

"Let him have them."

She was surprised. "Don't you intend to oppose the salvage 
operation?"

"Why should I? You must reassure Hagen and the King, tell
them that I don't intend to revisit Monte Rosa in the foreseeable
future." His shadowed eyes held an enigmatic glint. "Neverthe-
less, I'm glad to have been able to bring you the flower."

The realization was upon her with spine-chilling suddenness.
"You brought it back with you on the d-jump."

"My first effort. Completely enclosed in my gloved hand, of
course, which is almost cheating. But one must begin some-
where. Perhaps you'll pass the information along to my son."

Harderharderharder MORE thrust MORE energy Odamn/
DAMN.. .

Elizabethlinkcreative/coerciveafferentQUICKLY!
IseeyesNOW . . . okaythankGodalmostlosthim . . . Bring
up the brainstem input again. He's all right for moment
with bypass. (Sleepbabysleep). JesusGod let's get out . . .
They looked down at the small body, pale now against the
white white coverlet, the chest rising and falling almost imper-
ceptibly. "There's no more pain," Elizabeth whispered. "But
he almost slipped away from us, Marc. We went too far, pushed
too hard."
"But it worked."

"Yes," she said dully. They rested for a long time, not
speaking.

He said, "There's still the torc-circuitry cutoff—the moment
of truth. And then the boost to operancy."

She covered her face with her hands, deep in self-redaction.
When she lifted her head the lines of strain about her mouth
and brow were erased but desolation looked from her eyes. Her
voice was calm. "Marc, I can handle the abscission—but not the

boost. Your energies exceed my capacity in this conformation.
I'm too finely tuned in the redactive mode, and Brendan needs
brute thrust to break free of the latency."

"Let me take the executive, and we can do it."

Stark terror blended with rage fountained from her mind. "I
knew it! This is what you've been waiting for all along, isn't it?
The chance to take control of me!" Youwon'tyoucan'tdamnyou
neveragaincontrolGrandMastersprogrammedterminateultimate
violationprevented—

"No, Elizabeth. I would not take advantage of you. Please
trust me."

Her control reasserted itself. "I can't risk it. Brendan will be
a normal person without the torc, even though he remains latent.
We must settle for that."

Marc leaned over the basket. The long, perfect fingers of his
right hand caressed the top of the child's skull, palpating the
anterior fontanelle where the brain was protected only by fragile
skin, the bones not yet fully knit together. "He could have so
much more if you could only bring yourself to trust me."

"Aiken trusted you," she said. "You gave him a metaconcert
program to use against Felice, intending that it should kill both
of them."

"Nonsense."

"Do you know what frustrated your scheme? Let me show
you!" She projected the events that climaxed the fight at the
Rio Genii. "It was Felice herself who saved Aiken, in spite of
the cost to herself, so that her beloved Culluket wouldn't be
annihilated together with the King. When it was all over and
Aiken had recovered, he analysed your metaconcert program
and removed the mental booby trap. He can use it against you
now without danger to himself—and he will, if you try to stop
the reopening of the time-gate."

"My children must not pass into the Milieu. They don't realize
what they're doing."

"If you're concerned about your personal safety and that of
the other ex-rebels, we can give assurance that if you behave
peaceably—"

"There can be no assurance if my son leaves here—but that's
beside the point."

Elizabeth cried out, "All this is beside the point! The only
thing that matters here and now is this child. Will you work

with me in the coercer-inferior conformation to complete the
redaction, or won't you?"

He inclined his head slowly. One side of his mouth lifted in
that smile of peculiar sweetness. Compelling trust, offering to
light and rule.

"Follow me," she said, and they began again.

ComebabycomeBrendan. Let go. Come this way not that.

AFRAID.

Let go baby. Try the new way steep but better leading to
good things soon to be easy very easy.

NO. AFRAID.

(Now Marc push.)

NO [anguish] NO!

(HarderMarcharder burn behind him so he must use the
NewWay.) Seebabysee yes O yes come along now Brendan.
(Almost ready . . .) Just try baby try once only then (CUT
OFF!) yes.

[WONDER.]

I told you it would be good.

[WONDER.]

Yes baby yes.

[Joy. Release. Growth.]

Yes. (Wrap up the premotor cortex Marc while I hold. Ah.
Then it's done God done. He's latent but safe. Remove torc
. . .   whatareyouDOINGMarcwhatare—NO!!   STOP   STOP
ABADDON STOP DEVILBASTARD STOPSTOPSTOP—
Let me lead. You need not die. And so ...

[E C S T A S Y.]

... it is done. And so easily.
You—you let us go?

Poor Elizabeth. Of course.

Later, he said, "I'm profoundly sorry that I had to use force.
But it never again would have come so easily for him as it did
at that moment. He was ripe, ready; and I felt the end justified
the means. I knew you wouldn't suicide. Your unconscious
realized that I was no threat, even if your panicky conscious
tried to tell you otherwise."

"You devil," she said, nearly paralysed with revulsion.

"I'm only a man, as you are only a woman." His tone was

level, almost scolding. "And one, au fond, more comfortable in
the subordinate mode, as your late husband Lawrence undoub-
tedly realized. You might keep that in mind as you ponder your
personal predicament."

"No wonder your children hate you! And the Milieu . . ."

Wearily, he turned away, moving toward the window.
"Neither you nor the baby was harmed. And he's operant."

A syntactical probe gave her confirmation of the diagnosis.
The infant lay sleeping, his mind cycling in bright dreamlessness.
His skin was a normal rose-ivory colour; the only traces of the
fierce blistering were tiny bits of dry crust about the torcless
small throat.

Elizabeth sank back into her chair and let her eyes close,
fatigued to the uttermost depths of her soul. She heard Marc
say:

"Children . . . You and Lawrence thought your work was
more important, and learned your mistake too late. I never
intended to have natural children, either. Not after genetic engi-
neering of the normally sited human brain was proved impracti-
cable. Not with my heritage! The vicissitudes overcome by the
saintly Jack must have their place in the history texts of your
post-Rebellion Milieu. But I doubt whether you know the truth
about me and the others—Luc and Marie and poor damned
Madeleine, and the stillborn ones and the teratoid abortions,
and Matthieu, who would have killed me before birth if I hadn't
anticipated him and struck first. Oh, we were a little less than
the angels, we Remillards, if the truth be told. One saint and a
myriad of sinners! And all except the lucky one, chained to our
weak flesh, distracted by its needs, afflicted by the chemical
reactions we call emotion. And doomed like all the rest of
humankind to evolve only through endless, slow, pain-filled
generations—until I thought I had found the way to force evolu-
tion's hand. I foresaw a billion human minds released, free and
immortal: all of them my children. Engendering Mental Man
would have been fatherhood enough for me ..."

There was silence. She saw him standing in front of her,
dressed again in the familiar black, but with a golden circlet
fastened about one wrist. Brother Anatoly's brocade robe was
like a puddle of blood on the floor at his feet.

She said, "But you did father Hagen and Cloud."

"Cyndia wanted children, and I loved her."

"But you couldn't love them?"

"Of course I did. And do. I brought them to this place,
knowing they would grow up flawed, less than I, because it was
impossible to abandon all that I had left of my dreams. My
children still have the potential within them—and not only
Hagen and Cloud, but all the others as well. If they'll only
follow me."

"You don't understand at all why they want to escape you!"
Her voice was tense with loathing.

"Their vision is limited, like their minds."

"Marc—they simply want to be free!"

He said patiently, "When they were younger, they accepted
their destiny willingly. But there were problems on Ocala, attri-
tion among the weaker-minded of my old associates, and I was
away on the star-search too much of the time. The children
were seduced from the ideal, primarily by a man named Alexis
Manion, who had once been my closest friend."

"He's in the history texts, too. The one who attempted to
disprove the Unity concept."

Marc uttered a brief laugh. "You'll be interested to know that
he changed his mind."

"He discovered the truth, you mean! The Unity is the only
way humanity can continue to evolve naturally. You and your
followers were mistaken in thinking that it threatened individua-
lity. Evolution toward a Galactic Mind is an inevitable conse-
quent of intelligent life. Coadunation doesn't shackle our minds,
it sets them free! It's our nature to need others, to move toward
universal love. All the races of thinking entities realize this,
even those that are premetapsychic. That's why your children
seem to have instinctively perceived the truth of what Manion
told them. Why they reject your plan that seems such a logical
shortcut to perfection."

"It would work."

"It's too draconian, too devoid of any semblance of love. It
would have resulted in an isolation of humankind from the rest
of the Galactic Mind. Your scheme has a certain objective
grandeur, but its artificiality is just as much of a dead end as
the golden torcs of the Tanu."

"We could transcend the human condition," he insisted,
"giving every human mind what Jack had!"

What Jack had. Finally, Elizabeth understood.

For the first time, she reached out and took Marc's gloved
hand. "Don't you see? With Jack it was the other way around.
Your brother never embraced his inhumanity. Even though his
terrible mutation set him irrevocably apart, he insisted on belong-
ing with all the rest of us. You saw Mental Man as the ideal
human—but he was too wise to make that mistake. That's why
he had to oppose you, even though he loved you. Why he and
his wife laid down their lives to end your Rebellion."

"Leaving me widowed, immortal, and damned." He spoke
lightly, and his fingers transmitted a faint pressure to underline
the jest. Then their hands fell apart. The baby was awake and
cooing. "It's time I left, and time you took Brendan to his
mother."

He went to open the door for her. At the slight sound, Dedra
and the priest, who had been sleeping propped up against each
other on the bench, sprang to their feet. The mother burst into
tears, and Brother Anatoly prayed a thunderous blessing that
roused the entire household. As the corridor filled and jubilant
bedlam prevailed, Marc slipped back into the nursery.

A towering robed form waited for him. "My name is Creyn.
I am Elizabeth's friend and guardian. So the work with the child
is complete?"

"You saw," said Marc shortly. "And no harm was done to
Elizabeth. Stand away from that window so that I can go."

"You have raised Brendan to operancy. Now do the same for
me."

"God—you can't be serious!" The man in black levitated
and hovered, silhouetted against the dawnlit sky. A nimbus of
spectral machinery formed about his body. His hair stirred like
water-borne tendrils and he winced as a line of tiny dots stitched
across his shining brow.

"If the little one could survive the procedure, so could I,"
Creyn said. "I entreat you."

The transfixed head regarded him with blind eyes. You fool.
Do you know who I am?

"You are the Adversary, fated from all time to provoke our
people. I know what you did in your future world and I know
what you did here for the child. I also know what you must do
during the aeons between. Help me and I will help you."

I need no help.

"You do. I know where you are to go, and what the work is.

You do not. And my Guild is the custodian of the mitigator,
which not even the science of your Milieu possesses. Transform
my mind. Raise me to her level and I will give it to you, along
with the truth."

The new-risen sun glanced off the small golden torc clasped
about Marc Remillard's wrist. The molecules of his body were
attenuating into the upsilon-field and he had become as trans-
parent as water. He seemed about to speak but transmitted only
a wisp of perplexity, then disbelief.
Creyn said, "I do not lie. Perhaps we will talk next time."
The shadow shrugged and extinguished itself.

When his experience warned him that Elizabeth was on the
brink of some explosive reaction, Brother Anatoly took her
away from the celebration to the chalet's kitchen, all dim and
warm from the night baking and quite deserted.

"The child's healing is a great excuse for a party," the friar
said, "but you need peace and quiet now."

He made her sit down at the big trestle table while he prepared
a quick breakfast—scrambled eggs and duck's livers and new
bread with strawberry jam. As she ate, he encouraged her to
talk about the mental feat that she and Marc had accomplished,
even though her detailed explanation was all but incomprehen-
sible to him. Nevertheless, Anatoly was able to infer that Bren-
dan's cure was both gratifying and unprecedented. He also
strongly suspected that Elizabeth's own life had somehow been
at risk during the procedure, even though she refused to confirm
this.

"That aspect doesn't matter, Brother," Elizabeth said. "What
matters is that it's done—and done right. God! I can't tell you
how marvellous it feels to do the kind of work I was trained
for, preceptive redaction, instead of mucking around incompet-
ently the way I seem to have been doing ever since I came to
the Pliocene."

The friar was at the stove, making coffee. "I wouldn't call
Aiken Drum's personality integration an amateur effort."

"He accomplished most of his healing himself. All I did was
guide. But this child was another thing altogether. How can I
explain? It was teaching rather than operating! The kind of work
I did professionally back in the Milieu. The thing I'm good at.
Even Marc saw—" She trailed off, frowning at her plate.

"What did he see?" Anatoly asked.

She poked at her eggs, then put down her fork and began to
slather jam on a slice of bread. "Marc was good at preception,
too," she said, in a puzzled tone. "Whoever would have thought
it? A man like that. A world wrecker."

"Is that how you see him?" Anatoly found two big glass mugs
and filled them with the steaming brew. He pulled a silver flask
from under his scapular and laced Elizabeth's coffee with the
contents. "Martell Reserve du Fondateur. For heaven's sake
don't tell Mary-Dedra I've been treating it so cavalierly." He
thrust the cup at her. "Drink!"

Elizabeth laughed helplessly. "You're almost as impossible as
Marc." The fumes of the cognac brought tears to her eyes as
she drank. "How else would I look upon him, except as a fanatic
who would have destroyed the Unity? And all those people who
died because of his obsession—"

Anatoly said, "You must remember that I came to the
Pliocene before his Rebellion. I never knew him personally, of
course, but he was a public figure for many years, a magnetic
leader whose ideals were by no means self-evidently evil. He
was a great man, widely admired. The debacle came only when
he felt constrained to use force. And a great many good people
sided with his Rebellion—not merely the human chauvinists."

Elizabeth emptied her cup and sat back limply, eyes closed.
"I must admit, he was different . . . from what I expected.
After we had worked together, I found it hard to reconcile my
impressions of him with my pre-conceived notions."

The priest laughed. "How old were you at the time of the
Rebellion?"

"Seventeen."

"No wonder you thought of him as Satan incarnate."

Elizabeth's eyes opened. Her tone was bitter as she said,
"He's still proud as the devil—and determined to have his own
way." She told how Marc had taken over the final stages of the
redaction, forcing her into the subordinate mode of the mental
linkage. "He had me utterly within his power. He could have
killed me, could have kept me subservient. But he didn't. That's
even stranger than his original desire to assist me with the baby's
healing! Brother—what does he want?"

"God knows," said Anatoly. He emptied the last of the
cognac into Elizabeth's mug. "Drink."

She did, savouring the redolence that rose from the still warm
glass. "Marc has searched the stars for twenty-seven years,
trying to find a single planet with minds at the coadunate level.
But when I asked what he intended to do if he found such a
world ... he only laughed."

The friar shook his head. "I'm only a poor old Siberian priest
without a metafunction in my skull. How should I know what
motivates the likes of Marc Remillard ... or you?"

Elizabeth eyed him for a moment in silence. He was smiling
modestly into his half-empty coffee mug. "It's a shame," she
said at last, "that you never met an old friend of mine named
Claude Majewski. The pair of you would have got on famously.
He was another sly old codger with a wide streak of low
cunning."

"Funny, Sister Roccaro mentioned that, too." He gave the
brandy flask a futile shake, then capped it and put it back in
the pocket of his habit. "I certainly hope there's more of that
Martell hidden away in Black Crag cellars. Beats Lourdes water
all hollow. You want to go to confession?"

She started. "No!"

He lifted his hands, palms up, the little smile still in place.
"Easy does it. Just thought I'd ask." He headed for the kitchen
door. "Any time, though."

"Why don't you ask him?" she shot out.

"Oh, I did. Three or four days ago, after I'd stolen his
coverall, thinking it would prevent him from leaving the chalet
via his infernal machine."

"You what—"

Anatoly paused with his hand on the latch. "A futile gesture,
as it turned out. He doesn't need the coverall to d-jump. It's
only a monitoring convenience. So I gave it back to him."

"And your offer of spiritual assistance?"

The friar chuckled, went out the door, and shut it behind
him.

CHAPTER FIVE

"I beseech you to reconsider," Old Man Kawai said.

He stood on the stoop of Madame Guderian's cottage, holding
a tawny little cat in his arms. Three kittens tumbled groggily
about his feet. Occasionally one would essay a tentative growl
at the two riders on chalikos who loomed in the grey mist of
the dooryard.

"You are the one who should remember, Tadanori-san," said
Chief Burke. "Any day now, the Firvulag are likely to attack
Hidden Springs—no matter what Fitharn Pegleg says. He's
friendly, but he's only a single individual. And Fort Rusty was
the straw that broke the hippy's back. We simply can't trust the
Little People any longer. Sharn and Ayfa have lied too many
times."

"It was the Iron Villages that the Firvulag King and Queen
wanted to destroy," the elderly Japanese said. "Because they
constituted a threat. One that is now removed."

"Eighty-three died at Rusty," Denny Johnson said. "Couple
hundred more slaughtered in dribs and drabs over the months
we've been slowly forced out of the other iron settlements on
the Moselle—and at least that many Wounded or missing. This
neck of the woods is just too close to the hostiles, Old Man.
Ol' Sharn's been saying 'Hop frog' to us for a long time now.
We just finally clevered up and decided to jump! And you will
too, 'less you're ready to die. Nobody's asking you to go on the
Roniah raid. You can join the caravan heading for Nionel.
Lowlives are welcome there, bless the Howler's ugly hearts."

"I cannot go," Kawai said, stroking the cat. "I understand
why the rest of you wish to leave this place, but I must stay."

Burke leaned down from the saddle, proffering a Husqvarna
stun-gun. "At least take this for self-defence."

Kawai shook his head. "You will need every weapon for the
infiltration of Roniah. Besides, if the Firvulag know that I am
defenceless, why should they molest me—a half-blind octogena-
rian with a cottage full of cats? No, I will stay and be a caretaker

for this good home of ours that sheltered us for so many years.
I will tend the gardens, and keep the pathways free of grass,
and see to the watermill, and secure the buildings against the
encroachment of vermin. Some of the liberated livestock also
linger—goats and a few chickens, and the big gander that
Peppino could not entice into a pannier. I will feed them. And,
who knows? Perhaps some day, when the troubles have resolved
themselves, human beings may wish to return to Hidden
Springs."

"I'd stay, God knows," Denny Johnson said, "if I thought
we'd be left in peace. But you know what Fitharn said."

Kawai frowned. "You believe the tale of a coming Nightfall
War?"

"Old Man, I don't know what to believe any more. But one
thing's for damn sure: I didn't know when I was well off in the
Milieu singing for my supper at Covent Garden. They let me
go back through that time-gate, I don't care if I have to play
Iago in whiteface."

Kawai smothered a giggle in the cat's fur. "Well—umaku iku
yo ni, dear friend. Good luck!"

Johnson returned the sentiment, then said to Burke, "We
gotta ride now, Redskin, 'fore that caravan gets too far ahead
of us on the trail."

"You go along, Yellow-Eye, while I give a last bit of legal
advice to this stubborn old carp."

As the other rider melted into the mist, Chief Burke climbed
down out of the tall saddle and stood with his fists on his hips
before the diminutive Japanese. His scarred mahogany face was
impassive, but his voice broke as he said, "Don't do it. Please."

The old man sighed. "Her spirit is here, and I will be safe."

"She'd be the first to tell you what an idiot you are!"

The cat jumped from Kawai's arms and hastened to retrieve
one kitten, which had gone off to challenge a prowling toad.

"Listen to me, Peopeo Moxmox. I am proud of the life I lived
here in the Pliocene. A life close to nature, full of danger but
rich in simple satisfaction. I never yearned to be bushi as you
did, only to become a competent craftsman like my ancestors.
Here in this village I made looms and grinding machines and
paper and ceramic ware and shoes. I taught my homely skills to
others. In a time of need, I even helped to lead our Lowlife
people. It was all very good. Even the loss of Madame and

Amerie-chan and the others was bearable, taken in the context
of the wheel of endless change and eternal sameness. But I feel
very tired now, Peo. Even though you and I are very close
together in years, I have become truly old while you still retain
your vigour. So I will stay here, as I have a right to do. I will
pray that you and the others succeed in stealing weapons from
Roniah, since you have decided that they are necessary if you
are to negotiate with the King. I myself feel that you could use
more diplomatic means to insure safe passage through the time-
gate—but I can understand your wishing to have a power base
for bargaining. But this is not for me. Not anymore. My own
wheel has nearly turned full circle, and you must forgive me if
I am silly enough to want to stay here, in the place I am so
proud of."

"You aren't silly, Old Man." Burke bowed from the waist.
"Goodbye."

"I will not say sayonara to you, Peo, but rather, itte irasshai,
which means only 'farewell for now.' Please tell the people who
are going to Nionel to remember me and visit me here when
they can. And if you should change your mind about the time-
gate, your wigwam will be waiting for you. I shall put a new
roof on it before the rains come, and repair the hide-stretching
frames."

"Thank you," said Burke.

The old man bowed deeply, and when he straightened, Burke
was back in the saddle. The Chief lifted one hand, then spurred
the chaliko and galloped away down the streamside trail.

Kawai pursed his lips and gave the undulating whistle that
called Dejah and the kittens for their morning collation of fish
and goat's milk. He had a frugal breakfast of his own and spent
some time pottering about the cottage.

When the mist had burned away and shafts of sunlight stabbed
down through the pines he went outside to tidy up the rose
garden. The weeds had flourished and the mastodon-manured
bushes were in need of pruning. Many were coming into their
full bloom, filling the garden with perfume. After he had
laboured for nearly three hours he rested on a rustic bench and
watched the cat teach her kittens to stalk grasshoppers. Then
what to do? "I will bring her flowers!" he decided impulsively.
He selected a jar from those on the shelf of the garden shed
and filled it at the spring basin. Then he cut a bouquet of the

barely unfurled buds of Precious Platinum, lushly scented and
deep red. "Red for martyrs," he told the cat. "And they were
a favourite of Madame, as well."

In order to show proper respect, he went to put on clean
clothing, shutting the animals inside the cottage before he left
so they would not be a distraction. He walked slowly through
the deserted cluster of dwellings, crossed the central brook that
received the waters of the scores of hot and cold springs that
had given the village its name, and continued downstream for
half a kilometre along the main trail until he came to the burying
ground. A hiss of chagrin escaped him as he noticed how here,
too, just three weeks of neglect had allowed the jungle to begin
its invasion. Everyone had been too busy with leave-taking
preparations to give any thought to the dead.

"Restoring this will be my first priority!" he vowed.

All at once he stood very still, listening.

Over the birdsong and the chatter of a drey of giant squirrels
came another sound, deep and rhythmic, that seemed to
emanate from the soil under his feet like the earth's own heart-
beat. This was joined by a rolling murmur that intensified and
revealed itself to be a sonorous contrabasso chant, sung by
inhuman voices. Kawai had heard it before. It was the marching
song of the Firvulag.

He stepped back onto the main trail and looked toward the
foot of the canyon. His dim eyes perceived an inky shimmer,
shot through with barbaric flashes of coloured light. The drum-
beats throbbed and the deep musical humming began to rever-
berate off the narrowing walls of the gorge as the invaders
approached. Kawai saw effigy-topped standards hung with
golden blobs, squat marchers armed in obsidian, black-trapped
chalikos bearing the ogre officers.

Still holding the jar of red roses, he stood in the middle of
the trail and waited.

With dreamlike indifference, the goblin horde advanced. The
foot soldiers bore serrated pikes, peculiar new crossbows, and
lances tipped with a metal that could only be iron. As the four-
abreast column reached him it divided, flowing on either side
of him as though he were a rock in the middle of a dark stream.
The chant droned on. Not a single Firvulag took note of him.
He was rooted in the dust, too astonished to be afraid.

When the corps of mounted officers and cavalry reached him

they reined up. The infantry marched inexorably on toward the
village. Kawai stared at a single gigantic rider, clad from head
to toe in glittering plates of black glass that were ornamented
with spikes and knobs and jewelled excrescences. The massive
helmet bore a crest of milk-coloured crystalline horns. The left
gauntlet of the apparition was also of white glass. He carried an
enormous gem-crusted shield, and at his side hung a sheath,
from which protruded the handle of some formidable twenty-
second-century weapon. Halted behind the leading ogre were
two others of less splendid appearance, together with a dwarf
officer who looked rather ridiculous perched on the back of a
huge grey charger. The company of Firvulag cavalry flared out
on either side of Kawai and took up a stance. At an unspoken
command they drew laser carbines and solar-powered blasters
from saddle scabbards and trained them on the old man.

Kawai bowed gravely to the officers. "Good morning.
Welcome to Hidden Springs Canyon. Under terms of the Armis-
tice attested by King Sharn and Queen Ayfa, you are my
honoured guests."

He held out the bouquet of roses.

The Firvulag leader lifted the visor of his helmet, revealing a
grotesquely creased visage knit in a ferocious glower. "I am
Betularn of the White Hand, Champion and Great Captain and
First Comer and Scourge of the Foe!" he declaimed in a grating
bellow. "Pray to whatever puny gods you acknowledge,
Lowlife!"

"I have already done so, thank you," said Kawai, stepping
close to the monster's chaliko. "Your flowers, Lord Betularn."
He thrust up the roses, smiling and insistent.

There was a rumble from the other officers. The one with the
pouter-pigeon cuirass unhelmed and turned out to be a frizz-
haired female, who grinned broadly at her superior. "Well,
he's got you cold, White Hand—although how a Lowlife ever
tumbled to that obscure geis, Te only knows! Take them."

The white gauntlet claimed the flowers. Miraculously, the
weapons were lowered. The other two officers opened their
visors and looked down upon Kawai with bemusement. One of
them made a gesture to the mounted troopers, who trotted away
toward the village.

"So the gift of flowers has meaning among your people as
well as our own," the old man remarked suavely.

Betularn ignored that. He cocked his head as though listening,
then gave a grunt of surprise. "Gone?" he exclaimed. "What
do you mean—gone?" He peered down at the old man. "Where
are the rest of the Lowlives?"

Kawai composed his features in an expression of formal
regret. "Gomen nasai, Lord Betularn. They have all gone away.
You see, we have suffered so many misfortunes during the past
months. Marauding forces acting contrary to the wishes of your
Monarchs attacked our peaceful settlements, killing many
people. It was decided that these lands are too perilous for
human occupation. All of the Lowlives except myself have gone
to Nionel, to accept the hospitality so generously offered by
Lord Sugoll and his consort, Katlinel the Darkeyed."

"Well, that's one less tiff to distract our lads and lasses," the
female officer said. "On to the main event!"

"You shut up, Fouletot," snarled the Great Captain. He
asked Kawai, "When did your folks take off?"

"Oh, ages ago. They must be nearly to the Pliktol headwaters
by now."

Betularn chewed his grizzled moustaches and tugged at his
beard. "Damn . . . we'll have to sidetrack to check this out."

"It's only a week until Truce!" shrilled the dwarf officer.

"You shut up, Pingol!" roared Betularn.

"Remember our orders," the second male ogre said.

"You shut up too, Monolokee! Te blast me to a cinder—let
me think for a moment."

Kawai said softly, "I can offer you only meagre hospitality,
good neighbours. However, the spring house contains cold beer,
which might be refreshing after a hot ride, and I have a rather
large crock of strawberry jam."

Betularn fixed the smiling little human with a piercing eye.
"If this is a trick ..."

Kawai spread his hands in a protestation of submissiveness.
"I am all alone. Surely your forces have confirmed the fact by
now. Please—follow me. You are most welcome, I assure you."
He turned about and began to walk toward the village. Dear
Amerie-chan, he prayed, your roses accomplished half a miracle.
You wouldn't want to blow it now, would you, daughter?

Behind him, he heard monstrous laughter, the creak of
harness, the slow plop-plop of clawed feet in the dust. "That
damn beer better be cold," muttered Betularn.

"Oh, yes!" Kawai grinned over his shoulder. "Just come
along. It's not far."

"Are you certain that you want to go ahead with this?" Greg-
Donnet enquired.

The single blue eye in the centre of the Howler woman's
forehead was unblinking. "If I had looked like a human, he
would have loved me. My illusions were not good enough.
Having once worn a silver torc, he had insights superior to those
of the other Lowlife husbands."

She removed the last of her garments, handed them to the
female laboratory assistant, and stood shivering slightly beside
the expansive array of the tank apparatus and its directive
console. Her mutant body was slender, scaly, with a light pelt
like that of a blue fox growing about her shoulders and down
the midline of her thorax. "I am ready. What do I do now,
Melina?"

"Step into the tank," the technician said, "and we'll just wrap
you in the Skin. Then Dr. Prentice Brown and I will apply the
monitors and attach your life-support equipment. It will feel
like you're going to sleep. You'll never know when the tank
fills."

"Will I dream?" The question was fearful.

"Good dreams," Greggy reassured her. "Perhaps of him."

The little creature smiled. "I know there is a chance that I
will die, or emerge from the tank more deformed than ever.
But I do this thing gladly. If he should come before I wake, you
will tell him that, won't you?"

"Certainly," said Greggy. "Now in you go—and think positive
thoughts! It's very important to initiate your self-redactive
impulses voluntarily."

He and his assistant went to work, swiftly wrapping the mutant
woman in transparent membrane and attaching the ancillary
equipment. They closed the tank, did a final scan of her
functions, and let the great crystal container fill. The body
floated free and assumed a horizontal position, tethered by the
Medusa-cap that would soon begin feeding regenerative
commands into the sleeping brain.

Greg-Donnet touched his golden torc as he watched the chan-
ging readouts on the console. "Are you asleep, Iambic? Can
you hear me?"

Brainwaves cycled slowly on the monitoring screen. A single
word crossed the threshold of consciousness before the mutant's
mind surrendered to the Skin-tank and its healing oblivion:

Tonee.

CHAPTER SIX

The eight units of the brave new RATVC, freshly painted in
plum and gold, charged out of the surf and onto the sandy
Breton Island beach. From the whip antenna of the command
vehicle streamed the digitus impudicus banner of King Aiken-
Lugonn, who was himself at the controls. He was in a high
humour because, for a change, all the news was good. The
Alpine Expedition had mapped a route up the tricky Gresson
Icefall and had set up the first supply camp. The Famorel force
marching toward Monte Rosa, on the other hand, had been hit
by a fortuitous landslide in the Tarentaise, losing a day's march
and more than thirty troops. In Roniah, Kuhal Earthshaker
reported that the stockpile of Milieu-style arms was more exten-
sive than they had dared hope. He was packing the bulk of the
armoury for shipment to Goriah via the roundabout but safe
southern route. It was deemed unwise to risk shipping the
weapons directly along the Western Track, even during the
Truce. A heavy guard of Tanu stalwarts would bring them down
the Rhone, overland to Sasaran, and then via riverboat down
the Garonne, where the Royal Fleet could sail them to Goriah.
Feeling frisky, Aiken leaned on the ATV's klaxon and sent a
fanfare of oogahs ricocheting off the grassy dunes. Sandpipers
and godwits scattered and the King laughed. He was, along
with certain of his courtiers and fourteen of the young North
Americans, on his way to the formal opening of the Royal
Siderurgical Establishment up in the Breton highlands, which
was ready to go into full production at long last. The castle
caterers had packed an outstanding lunch, the ATVs rolled
smartly on a well-graded track made to accommodate heavy
traffic from the new forges, and the cobalt sky was piled with
cauliflower clouds.

"Much too nice a day," Aiken remarked to Dougal, "for a
coup. You probably imagined the whole thing, old son."

The counterfeit medievalist, who sat in the co-pilot's seat,
gave a great sigh. "Such welcome and unwelcome things at
once, 'tis hard to reconcile! It is the bright day that brings forth
the adder; and that craves wary walking . . . And if the wight
plans no harm, then why rides he with the Children of
Rebellion?"

"Vilkas goes where his boss goes," said the King reasonably.
"And Yosh is checking out the course-director robotics of
Hagen's ATV. Seems there's some kind of minor-glitch."

"I am but a poor lackwit," Dougal said, "but I have told you
truly what I heard this morning as the caitiff North Americans
assembled in the castle base-court. (They pay no attention to
me because I'm mad.) The import of their scheme was clear,
Sire. They know of your mental disability through information
supplied by the malefactory Lithuanian, and plan somehow to
use you treacherously this day."

The King's eyes were black glittering slots beneath the brim
of his golden hat. "Vilkas and Yosh and the other lad were
there in Calamosk when I pulled my trick. But what could be
Vilkas' motive for betraying me?"

"He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous! And he is of
a sour and grudging temperament, and bitter because he was
not torced with gold."

Alberonn Mindeater, who sat with his wife Eadnar in the
navigation seats at the rear of the cockpit, now leaned forward
radiating anxiety. "If treason is afoot, High King, we should
turn back to Goriah at once. You have none too many stalwart
minds accompanying you on this excursion, nor have you seen
fit to wear your mechanical screens."

"I find them stuffy," said Aiken. He revved the turbine as
the trail became a straightaway. Soon their ATV outdistanced
the other vehicles in the pack, tearing through the open wood-
land at nearly 90 kph. The windscreen ionizers had broken down
again, and the King squinted through the bug splatters, deep in
thought. When they came to the new suspension bridge over
the Proto-Oust he eased the throttle so that they crawled seda-
tely across. None of the other vehicles was in sight.

Aiken pulled to a stop and waited. The terrain-survey display
showed the smeltery buildings less than three kilometres ahead.

He said, "And you're certain they were cooking up something
for today, Dougie? Not just indulging in a bit of foolish lese-
majeste?"

"Foolery, Sire, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines
everywhere!" The zany underwent one of his lightning changes
of persona and added cogently, "Fourteen of those junior
Rebels along on this outing. Only Miss Cloud and the three
scientific whizzes stayed home. Plenty of brainpower there for
a nasty little coercive metaconcert. And I heard the foxy-faced
one, Nial Keogh, say that an iron foundry offered unique
opportunities."

Alberonn and Eadnar threw out simultaneous thoughts:
Bloodmetal in amplesupply! Your stalwartdefenders mostly
Tanu&vulnerable!

The other seven vehicles now approached the bridge, led by
the one bearing Hagen and his confederates. Aiken studied
it through his farsenses and perceived nothing but innocent
merriment within. The repair job on the autopilot had evidently
been accomplished, and now the North Americans were plying
Yosh, Vilkas, and Jim with jugs of the undistinguished but
plentiful muscadet wine that the commonalty of Goriah had
dubbed Poodle Pee.

Aiken zinged Yosh with a trenchant inquiry: Important.
Think! Could the glitch in robotics be deliberate fabrication
excuse get you & assistants into Hagen ATV instead of another?

Well hell Chief . . . it's possible. Why you ask?

Nevermind Yoshilad just keep alert for mischief.

"There's such divinity that doth hedge a king," Dougal
reassured Aiken, "that treason can but peep to what it would."

"You think so, do you?" Aiken bestowed a bleak grin on the
big ginger-beard who had become his court jester through an
uncanny sort of insinuation. "Your divinity better look slippy if
I have to fight Hagen and his gang as well as Marc Remillard!
Here I thought I had the young Rebs on my side—and now it
seems that they were just biding their time, waiting for the
chance to launch a royal screw. They've probably decided I'm
a burnt-out case after what Vilkas told them about the Calamosk
chicane."

"They should know better," Alberonn exclaimed, "having
seen you direct the metaconcert manoeuvres of our forces!"

"Ah, but a director doesn't have to be a personal hotshot,"

Aiken observed. "As long as he has the right program tucked
away in his noodle, mental strength isn't nearly as important as
adroitness and the ability to channel energies. I think Hagen
might be afraid that I'd be unable to handle Marc in a one-on-
one confrontation, without a concert to back me up. He's a
supercautious young prick, you know. He doesn't much care for
my freewheeling style—going blithely about without three
sigma-shells and a full suit of cerametal armour to safeguard my
royal ass from sneak attack. The kid could be worrying that his
old man might simply grab me. And use me."

The other ATVs rumbled over the span, one at a time.
Hagen's breezy thought addressed Aiken on the intimate mode:
Sir you left us all in the dust didn't you? You're a better driver
than any of us! Would you like us to form up for a parade entry
into the Establishment? I could even broadcast some snappy
bagpipe music over the loudhailer—

Aiken's thought was wry: Just follow Me.

"He would," Dougal said softly, as Aiken started up their
own vehicle. "He'd follow for expediency's sake, provided that
you demonstrate once and for all who is vassal and who is
King." And he tapped the lion's head embroidered in gold on
his knightly surtout.

Aiken cast a sidelong glance of surprise at the medievalist,
who wore no torc yet so often seemed to know his thoughts.
He noticed for the first time that the leonine charge now wore
a crown, and this tripped a half-forgotten memory from his
misspent youth on the planet Dalriada. But the thought slipped
away before the press of immediate matters and he said, "First
we must make absolutely certain that they're planning a coup.
It's never a good idea to waste your shots. Especially when you
don't have all that many in the old quiver."

The Iron Master of the new Royal Siderurgical Establishment
was a tough old bareneck named Axel, an early defector from
the Lowlife Iron Villages in the Vosges. With the King's carte
blanche on materials and personnel, the technician had organ-
ized a far more sophisticated setup on Breton Island—one that
was, moreover, secure from virtually any kind of attack short of
aerial bombardment. The mineworkings, which yielded siderite,
were entirely underground. Ore was removed with a minimum
of human labour by four compact mining machines liberated

from the Goriah contraband cache. The initial smelting was
done in an adjacent blast furnace equipped with a pair of huge
water-powered bellows.

After a brief stroll through the mine and a look at the roaring
furnace, Aiken and his party were taken to a catwalk about
fifteen metres above the main floor of the enormous smeltery
structure. There they watched molten pig iron steam spectacul-
arly from the crucible into a great bucket-shaped charging ladle.
This container was three times the height of the scurrying
workers, who attended it dressed in silvery reflective garb that
protected them from the heat and flying sparks. When it was
full, the ladle came trundling along a track to an even larger,
egg-shaped vessel with an open top, tilted on its side ready to
receive the unrefined liquid iron.

"We use metal straight from the crucible for arrows and lance
heads and other simple applications," Axel explained to the
King. "Or cast it into pigs for conversion into wrought iron in
the hammer shed next door. But that process is as noisy as the
bells of hell and not too interesting. I figured your Exalteds
would rather watch something livelier—so we're going to do the
first blow of the new Bessemer converter for you!"

The King said, "That should be fun."

"I wanted to build one of these up in Haut Furneauxville, but
our supervisor, Tony Wayland, overruled me." Axel grimaced.
"He wanted something sophisticated—as if we needed fancy
alloys or squeaky-pure iron for stabbing Firvulag! Wayland
never did get his electric furnace into operation. We couldn't
salvage the proper power supply from Finiah."

The king was listening intently. "This Wayland—in your
opinion, was he a topnotch metallurgist?"

The Iron Master's lip curled and he tipped his head toward
Dougal. "Better ask him. He was Wayland's keeper. All I know
is, we can process a hundred times as much steel in my Bessemer
converter as we would have been able to do in Wayland's electric
dipstick oven. You'll see!"

The charging ladle poured white-hot metal into the converter's
wide mouth. Alberonn remarked, "How the Firvulag Foe would
quail, could they but see this abundance of blood-metal being
refined to their destruction . . ."

"They will see it," Aiken declared, "because I'm going to
display some useful steel thingummies at the Grand Tourney,

just to let Sharn and Ayfa know that it didn't do them any good
to knock out the Lowlife Iron Villages. Then we'll find out if
the Little Folks are still keen to start the Nightfall War."

Axel peered down at the workers. One silvery form clasped
gloved hands above its hooded head in a sign of readiness. The
charging ladle rolled away and the great egg loaded with molten
iron began to tilt up on its trunnions. For a moment the mouth
faced directly at the group of observers and they shrank back
involuntarily from the view of the white, glowing interior. Then
the converter was vertical, and finally came to rest canted slightly
to the rear, so that the mouth could blow against a curved shield
that protected the building's wooden wall.

"Everybody gather round!" Axel cried, bubbling with show-
biz fervour. "I'll explain what's going to happen."

Aiken had been closely hemmed by Tanu members of his
entourage, and the North Americans and most of the human
retainers were scattered along the railing. The King suddenly
told the exotics, "Now, then, Exalted Brothers and Sisters!
Where's your sense of hospitality? Make a place for our North
American guests up here close to Me so that they can hear what
Axel has to say. And you, too, Yosh! Come over here and bring
your assistants. This steelworks is only partially automated, and
you might get some useful notions on how to improve
production."

The samurai gold-torc bowed. "As you command, Aiken-
sama." Sunny Jim pushed up eagerly to take a front position,
but Vilkas hung back with a different air.

"Come along, man," Aiken urged. "We're ready for the big
show. Don't you want a front seat? There's plenty of room
next to Hagen and Nial."

Young Remillard and his thirteen associates stood in a loose
group at the King's left. Axel beamed delightedly at them. A
human chauvinist to the core, the Iron Master was secretly
proud that these important young people were barenecks like
himself. They had listened with flattering attention to his little
lectures on the tour, and several were particularly impressed by
his surreptitious explanation of why blood-metal was the ulti-
mate weapon against both exotic races.

Now Axel addressed the gathering with growing excitement.
"The Bessemer converter is as simple as it is dramatic. You will
note that there is no means of externally heating the

chamber—and yet, within a few minutes, the temperature will
rise, converting certain impurities into glowing gases and others
into slag! We do this by forcing a mighty blast of air through
nozzles in the converter's bottom. It comes not from a simple
bellows but from a solar-powered compressor! The injected
oxygen causes carbon still trapped in the iron to ignite. The
converter contents boil like a volcano! Undesirable elements
belch forth in a display of fireworks that is as awesome as it is
efficient!" He hauled out a bandanna handkerchief and swabbed
his dripping face. "Any last questions before we let 'er rip?"

"Is there no hazard in the coddling of this devil's egg?"
Dougal asked sternly. "After all—you did say this was its maiden
blast-off."

"No danger, none at all," Axel insisted. "Lordy, we're fifty
metres away from the thing, and it's pointed the other way!"

"Let's get on with it," Hagen said. "We're not afraid. It
should be very interesting." He turned a cool blue eye on Aiken.
"What do you say, Your Majesty?"

"Carry on," said the King.

Axel leaned over the railing and gave the bandanna a vigorous
shake. One of the silver figures waved and hurried to a big
wheel valve in the pipes entering at the right trunnion. As he
hauled the thing open a hissing scream manifested itself and a
monstrous tongue of flame howled from the converter mouth.
Sparks erupted in a dazzling shower, bouncing off the protective
steel-ceramic shield on the rear wall. A wave of heat swept over
the onlookers. The entire building quivered to the foundations.
Multicoloured smoke roiled into the roof beams to escape
through ventilation slots.

"Just wait!" yelled Axel. "It gets better!"

The valve operator was admitting more compressed air. The
roaring heightened in pitch until the converter seemed to scream
in triumph. The smoke glowed a peculiar brownish scarlet and
elongated lances of incandescent gas thrust from it, flickering
purple and pink and orange. Drops of molten slag arced through
the air like meteorites. The silver-clad workers down on the
floor were jumping up and down ecstatically, while on the
catwalk, the group gathered about the King was engrossed in
the spectacle.

Slowly, the flame spurts became bright yellow. The smoke
cleared as the purification of the iron continued and silicon

burned. Unobtrusively, Hagen and his people edged away to
the left, with Vilkas trailing after. The Lithuanian in his festive
ashigaru outfit was openmouthed; his eyes darted back and forth
between the King and the fire-spitting egg across the building.
The North Americans stood shoulder to shoulder in a compact
knot ten metres away. Their eyes, amazingly, had closed.

The flames of the converter turned from orange to purest
white, spraying a diamond glitter and writhing like braided star-
stuff. Carbon burned now; the incandescent gases were at their
hottest, blasting the shield so that the firebrick cladding became
a shining bullseye.

The converter began to rotate on its trunnions.

Axel screamed, "No!"

The stupendous jet moved off the shield as the flask pivoted
and ignited the wall timbers in a split second. Down below,
workers scattered. One heroic figure could be seen wrestling
impotently with the air valve. Like a colossal blowtorch, the
flames roaring from the egg swept a scorching three-metre patch
across the entire roof and down the wall immediately behind
the King and his stunned retinue.

Then the open mouth blasted directly at them and they were
engulfed in white heat.

Vilkas gave a moan of terror. The catwalk was in flames and
the entire building filled with thick smoke. He began to run,
and reached the wooden stairway only to stumble and nearly
pitch headlong when a gust of smoke choked and nearly blinded
him. He sobbed out loud, clung to the railing, howled, "Help,
somebody, for God's sake!"

He heard the roar of the converter cut off. Then the snap of
burning timber rustled away to nothingness. There came a great
wind that drove the smoke upward, out of the roof vents, and
for a brief moment the embers of the quenched wood glowed
brightly again before subsiding into dead charcoal.

Vilkas pulled himself upright, tears streaming from his sting-
ing eyes. The great egg-shaped converter was motionless,
tipped at an approximate forty-five-degree angle with its mouth
aimed at the place where Aiken and his group were standing.
They were safe inside a shimmering globe of psychocreative
force that the King's mind had generated, gathered upon a
length of unscorched catwalk that apparently hung unsupported
in midair.

Gently, the bubble floated to the furnace-house floor. The
section of walk came to rest on the pounded earth as the sphere
evaporated.

Axel fell to his knees before Aiken and burst into tears. Vilkas
could hear the King's reaction very clearly through his grey torc.

"Don't fash yourself, guy. It wasn't your fault and we're not
hurt." The little man in the golden suit tilted his head to regard
the fourteen young North Americans, now motionless near the
end of the devastated mezzanine. "And it seems our overseas
chums also survived the disaster! That's kaleidoscopic. We'd be
hard put to build the time-gate and defend the Many-Coloured
Land from your dear parents without your help! Of course, if
some terrible accident deprived us of your company, we'd
manage to muddle through somehow. But working together
would see us all to our goals more handily ... Or don't you
agree, Hagen Remillard?"

"I agree, High King."

Not looking at the people up on the catwalk, Aiken strolled
over to the looming Bessemer converter and considered the
cooling dribblets of slag depending from the lip. "With a little
adjustment—and some new safety measures installed—this thing
will serve us well. Safety measures can be installed on people,
too. I'd really hate to do it, though, since some folks have such
an adverse reaction to torcs. I haven't the faintest idea whether
silver ones could be locked onto noncoadunate operants without
blowing the circuitry of the collars—or the brains. I'm not
anxious to experiment along those lines unless I've no alterna-
tive. Do you understand that, Hagen Remillard?"

"I understand, High King."

The King resumed his walk, waving a forgiving hand at the
workers, who had pulled off their silvery hoods and gathered in
an apprehensive little clutch. "Tush. Think nothing of it, lads
and lasses. All's well that ends well—as my crony Dougal would
say . . ." He spun about and faced his Tanu and human subjects.
"Nonetheless, there have been rumours floating around. It's
been said that my royal powers were weakened, that I was no
longer fit to be King of the Many-Coloured Land." His coercive
power settled over them like a bright net. "What do you say to
that?"

"Slonshal, Aiken-Lugonn!" they all cried.

The King was humming a ditty that might have been "Hail

to the Chief." He came up to Vilkas, who stood at the foot of
the catwalk stairs. "And here's another one who was lucky. Or
was he?"

Vilkas uttered a strangled groan. The furnace building seemed
to fade from view, then rush back to surround him with preterna-
tural clarity. Agony flooded his skull.

Aiken clucked in sympathy. "I hate to be so crude in the
mind-ream, but it's necessary to make sure. Ah. What a shame.
And it was all because you thought you deserved gold? You
poor gowk. If you'd got it, you'd only have found something
else to brood on—and perhaps another logical reason to betray
those who trusted you."

"Please, High King—" Vilkas began. And then he gave a
single shattering cry and seized his torc with fingers that crisped
and stank of broiled meat. The grey metal around Vilkas' neck
glowed like the yellow molten steel still smoking inside the
Bessemer converter. He fell to the earthen floor without making
another sound.

"You wanted gold," said the King, and turned away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tony Wayland poled his dinghy through the vast marsh below
the Lac de Bresse, trying to maintain a compass course that
would take him north to open water. He was having a sticky
time of it. The dank morning mist permitted only a few metres'
visibility, and the swamp was alive with leeches that were ready
to drink his blood if he happened to brush against their hiding
places among the dense, dripping reeds.

He had been moving northward for more than three weeks
since his escape from Bardelask, most of the time travelling on
foot along the Great South Road that paralleled the Rhone. He
had encountered no Firvulag at all in the West Bank country,
where the widely scattered Little People were secretive and
inclined to give the Foe-infested river corridor a wide berth.
The principal hazards Tony had suffered were vipers in the dry
campsites and wild boars in the bottomlands—and unexpected

perils from members of his own predatory species. He'd had a
very close call when a band of bareneck outlaws ambushed him
on a back trail as he tried to avoid a large fort. It had been
necessary to shoot two of the buggers before they gave him up
as a bad job.

Coming up on the metropolis of Roniah, Tony had run afoul
of a different sort of menace: the Royal Recruiting Service.
King Aiken-Lugonn was combing the bushes and byways for
personnel of every sort, intensifying his earlier efforts as war
with the Firvulag seemed more and more inevitable. Tempting
perquisites were offered to volunteers who would accept grey
torcs, and there were rumours that out-and-out conscription
among the displaced persons had already begun. Tony, of
course, wore gold. But the contrast between his Exalted neck-
ware and his shabby accoutrements was in itself cause for official
suspicion. He'd been careful to hide the torc with a neck cloth
on the few occasions that he was forced to purchase supplies or
mix with fellow travellers along the road.

The Recruiting Service had artfully spread its net on a treeless
savanna where the Great South Road ascended to bypass a
precipitous gorge of the Rhone. Up there on the windswept
heights, one could see for scores of kilometres in almost every
direction; any traveller who attempted to leave the main
thoroughfare could be spotted at once. Tony's first clue to immi-
nent danger was a cheery billboard:

WELCOME WAYFARERS!
THIRSTY? HUNGRY?
FREE FOOD & DRINK AHEAD!
HILLTOP HOUSE R.R.S.—6 KM

The afternoon when Tony hiked that stretch had been a hot
and dusty one, and he viewed the sign with elation. But then a
caravan of hellads pulling carts of chaliko fodder to Roniah
overtook him, and one of the teamsters gave Tony a lift. His
name was Wiggy and he was quick to explain the true nature
of the establishment they were approaching.

"Friggerty crimps' nest, that's wot it is! You watch your arse
there, pilgrim, or they'll have you grey-chokered and off to
Goriah as a raw ree-cruit in the King's Shitkicker Brigade."

The drivers, well known to the recruiting team and off limits
because of their gainful employment, nonetheless were accus-

tomed to pig out on the free refreshments every time they
passed. There was nothing Tony could do but face up to jeop-
ardy with a stout heart. He tramped inside with the rest and
soon they were sitting at long tables drinking cold beer or sangria
and munching on snack foods. It was obvious that the teamsters
were old acquaintances of the presiding captal and the squad of
soldiers who ran the place. Tony felt his innards churn as the
officer jokingly referred to him as a "live one" and promised
that Wiggy would receive a nice bounty should Tony sign up.

"Thanks awfully, but I've been sick," the metallurgist said.
"I'm not the type you're looking for at all. You want brave
people for the King's army." (The late Karbree's elephant rifle,
concealed in a rancid rawhide sheath, had been left outside in
the wagon with Tony's other duffle.)

The recruiting captal's eyes twinkled. "Plenty of other good
bunks available in the royal service! I can tell you're an educated
man—not spook fodder like the rest of this gang of helly-
patoots." The drivers, drinking and eating fast while the game
lasted, guffawed and elbowed one another. "If you've got a
technical skill, we could sign you up for the new Scientific Corps
that the Creator Guild is instituting. It's headed up by good old
Lord Celadeyr, a real Tanu gent if there ever was one. Loves
human beings just like a genuine mensch and passes out silver
torcs like carnival kickshaws to scientific mavens who cooperate
nicely."

"Well—uh—I'm more of a humanities student," Tony
mumbled.

"Brains is brains," said the genial captal. "You'd like it in
Goriah. All the women you want, good food and liquor, night
life—shoot, I'd go myself if I could."

He whipped out a parchment scroll crowded with fine print,
a ballpoint pen, and a handsome blue velvet bag that contained
something circular, lumpy, and about sixteen cents in diameter.

"Just sign here, guy, and you'll never regret it. We can have
you off to Goriah by express caravan tomorrow . . . after an
evening of fun and games in Roniah down the pike that you'll
never forget! What say?"

The teamsters sitting around the table with Tony and the
captal giggled like lunatics and all of them except Wiggy urged
him to sign. As a final inducement, the captal opened the bag
and dramatically took out a gleaming grey torc. The laughter

and joking were instantly quelled. The necks of all the drivers
were bare.

The captal pushed the torc across the table toward Tony. Its
knobbed catch was open. The twisted metal was hollow, incised
with small openings to ventilate the psychoelectronic
components inside.

"Take off your scarf," the captal suggested to Tony. "Just try
it on." He touched his own grey necklet. "These things are
wonderful. They do things for you, y'know? No more headaches
or sore feet or feeling blah or tired or scared. And that's not
the half of it. If your boss is a gold or a silver, he can program
pleasure for you through the torc. Give you a rush like you
never had from sex or dope or even buzz-heading. Make you
forget all your troubles in the wink of an eye, this magic collar
will. Sign."

Four large troopers materialized behind Tony's seat. He half
rose, then dropped back, with sweat streaming from his head
and soaking his neckerchief. "I—I'd rather not just now."

The teamsters downed the dregs in their tankards, snatched
up a last cookie or handful of nuts, and drifted toward the door.
Wiggy had a shamefaced look.

"Sign," urged the captal, his eyes locked onto those of the
panic-stricken metallurgist.

"Sign!" chorused the quartet of bruisers, grinning like wolves.

Tony tried to push his chair back. It wouldn't budge. The
captal had risen and taken up the torc. He came around to
Tony's side of the table, twisting the thing farther open on its
rotating hinge, poising it above Tony's head.

"Goddammit, no!"

Tony's mind triggered the pleasure-induction circuitry of the
recruiting team through his own golden torc, hitting their brains
with the maximum orgasmic load. All five of the soldiers
dropped to the floor as though they'd been poleaxed.

"Holy shit," breathed Tony's teamster friend. Several other
drivers peered over his shoulder and gaped.

Pushing the table back, Tony negotiated the bodies, faced the
teamsters, and ripped the scarf from his neck. There was a gasp.

"Enough is enough! Now I've got to get out of here. These
fellows won't remember a thing when they wake up ... I don't
think. But in case they do, I want to be far away." Tony

summoned his most imperious glare. "Will you drive me to
Roniah or won't you?"

Wiggy touched his forehead, smirking. "Your carriage awaits,
Exalted Lord."

Tony grabbed the grey torc and advanced upon the man with
it. "I have a good mind to collar you, to be quite sure that you
keep your word."

"No!" the teamster shrieked. "No!"

Tony gave a nasty little chuckle. "So you do know what
overindulgence in Tanu delights can do to a chap! Very well.
Just so we understand one another. Now let's get moving."

He was about to discard the torc when he thought the better
of it, replaced it in the velvet bag, and took it along.

That evening in Roniah, he sold the device on the black
market for enough money to buy a completely equipped chaliko,
a new outfit of clothes, a decamole boat and camp hut, and a
suspect but very flashy parure of rubies that would make an
appealing peace offering for Rowane. He had plenty of money
left to insure that he would travel the rest of the way to Nionel
in style, and the next morning he was on his way.

Once again, fickle fortune thumbed its nose at him. The
chaliko turned out to be a lemon that went permanently lame
40 kloms north of Roniah. If he returned to the city to complain
or procure a fresh mount, he stood a chance of being picked up
for committing mental mayhem upon the Royal Recruiters. He
was in the midst of country that teemed with hostile Firvulag,
many no doubt eager for a last hit before the Truce, which
began in five days. Northbound traffic had dwindled to military
trains and poor straggling refugees, bound like himself for the
Promised Land of Nionel. There seemed little chance for Tony
to hook a ride, but proceeding on foot in his expensive new
outfit would make him a sitting duck to human and exotic
marauders.

There remained the option of travel by water. The Saone at
this point was broad and sluggish, readily navigable by sailing
dinghy; or he could simply row along in the placid lagoons. He
tried this, and it worked. Progress was by no means rapid, but
once he was in the Lac de Bresse it would be clear sailing to
the trailhead of the Western Track—and then, on to Nionel! . . .

Thus Tony found himself poling through misty canebrakes

that 27th of September, ever alert for falling leeches. His farsight
was useless in the featureless swamp and he had to continuously
orient himself by means of his wrist navigation unit. He cursed
himself for not spending the extra money on a course director
with a bleeper earplug, back in the Roniah black market. But
who would have thought he'd need it? When he finally reached
an area with twisting creeks he gave a sigh of relief. It was the
end of the leeches, at any rate. Then the sun came out, and
with it mosquitoes and midges. He smeared himself with bug
repellant and endured.

Occasionally he passed small low-lying islets. As the time for
elevenses rolled around he beached the dinghy on one of these
and brewed up coffee under a taxodium all hung with moss. He
had a decamole table-and-bench combo that inflated in a jiffy
and a good selection of leftover pastries to eat. A pair of black-
and-red anhingas watched him from a nearby tree, craning their
snaky necks. A small aquatic rodent paddled in an adjacent
pool, leaving a languid wake. There were waterlilies. The sun
was warm and the bugs went away. Tony Wayland felt at peace.

Rowane...

With his eyes dreamily closed, he let his farspeech call to her.
She was more than 300 kilometres away, but perhaps yearning
would give strength to his feeble metafaculties. He said:

I'm coming back to you little bride. Your Tonee is on his way
with a new golden torc to keep his spirits up! From now on
there'll be no stopping us. Wait for me Rowane. Wait.

He dozed a bit—then woke to the sound of paddles chunking.

Who's there his mind called involuntarily. He started up from
the table, spilling cold coffee and scaring off a tiny harvest
mouse that had been foraging among the crumbs.

The reeds across the pool parted and a big decamole canoe
daubed with camouflage colours glided into view. It carried five
human men and a woman, all impressive physical specimens
and all armed to the teeth. Another war canoe was bow-to-stern
with the first and bore a second woman and three more men,
along with a number of freight packs. The bow oarsman in the
lead craft, an enormous Native American in jungle fatigues,
lifted a zapper and took aim just as Tony made up his mind to
try a dash to his dinghy.

"Stop right there," said Chief Burke.

Tony fell back with a sullen glower, hands high. The canoes

landed and the desperados disembarked. One of the women
began going through Tony's gear while the others loafed about,
vanished discreetly into the bushes, or tinkered with the coffee-
making apparatus. The rummaging woman, who was a stocky
Latin type with arcs of blue mascara above her large eyes, gave
a whoop of excitement when she uncovered the Rigby elephant
gun.

"Madre! Will you look at this cojonudo piece? Two
barrels—and a shot from just one would blow any of you poor
cagarrutas clean in half!"

Burke subjected his prisoner to a deep scrutiny. "Don't I
know you? What's your name?"

"Bill," said Tony, his eyes shifting. "Bill—Johnson."

A big black man standing behind the Indian laughed richly.
"Hey—could be my long-lost little brother! Wonder if he can
sing tenor?"

"His name's not Bill," the Latin woman called. She waved
something. "Not unless he's got a thing for yellow-silk boxer
shorts and a matching hanky with 'Tony' embroidered on them
in love-knots."

"You leave those alone, dammit!" Tony howled. He thanked
heaven that the rubies were in a hidden money belt.

The woman clucked at him in mock pity. "Ay! Hoy tiene
mala leche—no?" She held up a slender book-plaque. "This is
all we need right here, Peo. I thought the guy looked familiar."
She came over and handed the book to Denny Johnson, who
studied the title display.

"Technic of Metallurgy—presented to one Anthony Bryce
Wayland by the Alchymist Society of Manchester University."
Denny stepped forward ominously. "So! Our absconding straw-
boss from the Iron Villages. You all remember Tony Wayland,
who betrayed our people at the Vale of Hyenas! Shall we hang
him now—or wait till later so's not to spoil our lunch?"

Tony pulled aside the scarf he still wore at his throat. Gold
gleamed. "Don't touch me!" he cried, fingering the necklet. "I
can mind-burn you or zap you to death anytime I want to!" A
very small gout of psychoenergy flew from the extended fingers
of his other hand and zorched the damp moss in front of Chief
Burke's boots. "That's just a sample, Redskin! Now drop that
gun—and don't any of the rest of you get cute, or—"

Tony Tony Tony.

A sprightly little ring of flames danced about Tony's own feet.
Chief Burke unbuttoned the top of his green blouse and said:

As you can see I've got a golden torc too. And that means
I can see your metapsychic aura. It's very small. I might even
call it piss-poor ... or roughly equal to mine in the aggressive
metafunctions. Unless you want to chance a fast weenie roast
you lose your bluff.

"Oh, bloody hell," said Tony in disgust. "Hang me and have
done with it."

Burke shook his head. "You're more valuable to us alive.
The aether has been buzzing about you for several weeks. It
seems King Aiken-Lugonn is very anxious to make your
acquaintance."

Tony perked up, then caught a certain look in Burke's eye
and slumped again. "What have I done to him, for God's sake?
Sometimes it seems that everyone in the whole Many-Coloured
Land is out to nail my hide to the wall."

"You're trading-goods," Burke said succinctly. "That's all
you have to know." He turned to Denny Johnson, handing him
the photon gun. "He's your prisoner from now on, Yellow-
Eyes. Take damn good care of him if you ever expect to do
Baron Scarpia again at the Garden."

"Take him on the Roniah operation?!" Johnson exclaimed.
"Are you out of your tomahawking mind, Peo?"

"We don't have to invade Roniah looking for arms," Burke
said. "It's no longer necessary to use force to insure fair treat-
ment for Lowlies, or our own passage through the time-gate.
We'll go into Roniah openly and the King's High Table deputy,
Kuhal Earthshaker, will welcome us and give us whatever we
ask for."

"Because of him?" cried one man.

The Chief nodded. "Wayland is a turncoat and an informer
and an all-round consecrated twerp. But he's also our ticket
back to the Galactic Milieu."

The gathering of desperados murmured and whispered. The
Latin woman cried out, "But Orion Blue and Karolina and the
two others died because of this puto! And Basil's people were
betrayed! I say he must hang!"

"It's no use, Marialena," said Burke. "Tony Wayland's got
his reprieve right from the drumhead Supreme Court."

She shot a murderous glance at the metallurgist. "Well, you

don't get the shorts back," she hissed. Then she turned to the
others and declared, "Now I will make lunch."

MARC: Cloud. Daughter.

CLOUD: Papa! You shouldn't have come—there's danger—

MARC: I'm only present in simulacrum. Like the sendings of your
friend Kuhal. The garden is secluded, but Aiken Drum has
fed the scanners my mental signature. I know better than to
d-jump into the Castle of Glass.

CLOUD: You've been watching me as I come here?

MARC: Watching, not listening. Believe me.

CLOUD: . . . What do you want?

MARC: Your help. With Hagen.

CLOUD: It's too late.

MARC: I deserve to be rejected by both of you. I was negligent,
distracted by my work. Unfeeling toward you. Impatient with
his weakness. Harsh. The incident with the tarpon was unfor-
givable. But I want to ask his forgiveness. He can't help being
what he is, no more than I can. But he must understand that
I was not being capriciously cruel. It was misguided therapy.

CLOUD: It was a calculated act of violence. You know he's always
been afraid of you. You thought to break him, and instead
he gained strength for escape . . .

MARC: He mustn't, Cloud. I must have a chance to explain to
him—to both of you—why you mustn't go.

CLOUD: We won't let the Milieu authorities come back through
the gate—

MARC: I know. That was never a serious worry. There's a far
more important reason why you mustn't return to the Milieu.

CLOUD: What is it, Papa?

MARC: Let me meet with both of you, in person. I'll explain
everything.

CLOUD: I'm willing to trust you, but I'm afraid Hagen never will.
Tell me what you want to say to him. I'll transmit your
message.

MARC: It won't work that way. I have to talk to you face to
face—

CLOUD: To coerce us? Oh, Papa.

MARC: My dear, what I have to ask of you can never be gained
through coercion. That lasts only as long as the coercer's grip
holds. I need your free cooperation, your commitment—

CLOUD: Papa, it's too late! Years too late! We've made our

choice. To be free.
MARC: But that's just it. You wouldn't be free in the Milieu. Not

truly, any more than I was. You are my children, with my

heritage. There are things you don't understand . . . that I

had not intended to tell you until the star-search succeeded.

For your own peace of mind. But now you've forced my hand.
CLOUD: Papa, for God's sake! What?
MARC: I must tell you both. Face to face. Everything I've done

was for your good. You must believe it.
CLOUD: I—all I can do is tell Hagen what you've told me. But

he's afraid, Papa. And now ... so am I.
MARC: You need not be. Not with me. If you only have courage,

your future can be wonderful. I'll tell you everything if you'll

only meet with me.

CLOUD: I'll tell Hagen what you said. We'll talk about it.
MARC: Thank you, Cloud. I love you.
CLOUD: I love you, too, Papa, but—
MARC: Please.

MARC: Cloud?

CHAPTER EIGHT

As he vanished into the depths of the great crevasse, Basil's
thought maintained its usual laconic tone:

Falling. Everyone self-arrest.

Chazz, who was Number 2 on the rope, shouted an obscenity.
He fell on his face, ice-axe dangling impotently at the end of its
keeper-strap, and was dragged through harsh, granular snow
with arms and legs floundering. Derek, the Number 3, drove
his axe into hard white ice simultaneously with Nirupam, the
tail-man, just as Chazz reached the crack's edge. The rope went
taut with a muffled twung!

Nirupam said: How you Baz?

Basil said: Dangling upside down like a snared hare. A

moment while I shed my pack ... ah. Over we go. Good
heavens I just missed pranging into a rather bad shelf. Good
show on the arrest even if a bit tardy. Is Chazz in the hole too?

Chazz said: Right on the mothering lip.

Nirupam said: Please don't move anyone. Derek are you
belayed good and fast?

Derek said: I wouldn't bet on it.

An echoing yelp came from Chazz. and he screamed aloud:
"The damn rope's cutting into the crevasse edge like a knife
into cheese! I'm going over—"

Basil said: I shall cut my rope to ease the strain.

"Don't do it, Baz, don't!" the man above cried. The image
of Basil's body tumbling into a bottomless blue crystal chasm
flooded his mind and was broadcast by his grey torc to the
others.

Basil said: Easy my boy. I told you I was just above a shelf.
There. I'm down.

Nirupam said: Terrific. Everybody just hang cool or whatever
while I drop anchor. Soon as I unpack a bit of gear we'll get
the Death-Defying Baz & Chazz Rescue Act rolling.

Deep in his roofed canyon of blue ice, Basil moved cautiously
along the shelf a few metres so he was no longer directly beneath
the severed climbing rope, to which his pack remained clipped
by a lighter line. Showers of soft snow dribbled constantly from
overhead as Chazz was slowly winched back to safety. Then
abruptly, a chunk of snow as large as an ATV module cracked
from the lip and crashed onto the shelf, disintegrating into a
sugary cloud.

Basil said: Not to worry. I believe I'll try walking out.

The others exclaimed: What?

Basil said: The shelf rises and the crevasse is closing as I move
northward. Hello. The ice is warping up here and the snow
cover getting very thin. I believe—can you see me?

He had poked his arm up through the snow crust and waggled
it. A moment later his entire upper body was at the surface. He
laughed to see the expressions on the others as he traced a
curved path back to the winch-belay.

"Will you look at the man?" Derek exclaimed. "Cool as the
proverbial gherkin. My God—when I saw you drop out of sight
and Chazz go sliding after, I thought you were both on the way
to join poor Phillipe in Valhalla!"

Basil's pack came slithering over the snow, drawn in by the
solar-powered donkey engine. The classics professor and the
three technicians hunkered to enjoy a fast cup of tea and a bar
of chocolate algiprote.

"Crevasses needn't be lethal," Basil said, "as long as one
isn't injured in the fall—or, in the case of Phillipe, drowned in
meltwater. He was unlucky enough to fall into a moulin, a kind
of drainpipe crevasse in the rotten ice of the glacier snout. With
the tortuous nature of the fissure and the fast-moving water,
there was no helping him—not even with Lord Bleyn's
psychokinesis."

"My memory still retains his final mind-shouts," said Nirupam
softly.

"How ironic to die on the very first day of our support
operation."

Chazz was smearing his abraded face with ointment. "Sure
taught the rest of us grunts to stick to your flagged trail—even
to take a leak. Beats me how you and Basil and Ookpik can
tell where crevasses are hiding under the snow."

"We do miscalculate occasionally," observed the don. He
took a tiny monocular from his anorak and studied the Middle
Tine Ridge, toward which they had been trekking.

"Found us a fast route?" Nirupam inquired. "Time's getting
on. We'll have stonefall in the gullies as the sun heats the frosty
rock, and that ridge has some ugly-looking little snowfields that
might be thinking about going avalanche before supper."

"It's a straightforward slog across the rest of this glacial
tongue," Basil said, handing over the scope. "Just a small rand-
kluft moat where the ice falls away from the ridge wall. Then
we must pick and choose among the couloirs for the ascent. I
rather fancy the darkish one, shaded by that second spur. It
promises to hold tight longer than the others."

Nirupam squinched his Mongoloid features. "Hold tight, all
right. It looks like it hadn't had any sun since the Miocene!
Sharp and deep and probably black ice from top to bottom, as
tough as cured solicrete. Our ice-axes will bounce right off it.
Unless we melt steps with the blaster, we could be five hours
gaining the ridgetop. I'm for one of the more open chutes. We
can stay well to the shady side and keep alert. The third couloir
north of your buck beauty is steep enough to avalanche regul-
arly. It can't have much snow buildup. I'd try that first." He gave

Basil the glass and waited as the don considered the suggestion.
"Well? You like?"

Basil sighed. "Very well. I christen it Darjeeling Gutter in
your honour, if you will forgive the—er—ecumenical usage."

They finished their tea, repacked the equipment, roped up,
and were on their way.

Taking advantage of a brilliant waning moon and clear
weather, they had begun the day's trek at 0300 hours, departing
from the supply dump at the base of the Gresson Icefall when
that unstable jumble of seracs was at its most quiescent. Basil
and the experienced Indian climber each carried forty kilos and
Chazz and Derek took twenty-eight, and the bulk of that was
left at Camp 1, newly established at 5585 metres. At dawn they
had set off again to reconnoitre a route to Camp 2, taking
flagged wands, a bivouac kit, the winch, and plenty of rope.
Ideally, after they had gained the crest of Middle Tine via one
gully or another they would scout about until they located a
good spot for a "flywalk" winch-belay. Once the machinery and
ropes were permanently emplaced, other climbers could simply
latch on, signal the faithful donkey, and be drawn up the rocky
ridge flank with minimum effort.

The pioneering team, however, had to do it the hard way.

It was nearly 0930 when they reached the moatlike randkluft
that was the western edge of the Tine Glacier. Late in the
afternoon, the half-rock, half-ice corridor would be perilous
with running meltwater. But now it was frozen solid and almost
like a staircase to their crampon-shod feet. They ascended easily
to the base of Darjeeling Gutter, crossed the miniature bergsch-
rund where its cascading snows joined the main glacier, and
began to creep up the sixty-degree slope of dazzling white. They
bore as far to the left as possible in order to avoid the deadly
warming effect of the sun, trigger of rockfalls and avalanches.
It was about 900 metres to the top. Over most of that distance
the couloir was a constantly changing patchwork of hardened
snow, opaque and brittle ice formed by the daily thaw-and-
freeze cycle, tough "live ice" that resisted the glass fangs of
crampons and ice-axes, and rare patches of powder snow.

At first they moved briskly, but after an hour or so, Chazz
and Derek weakened. Only amateur climbers, they had to use
the easily learned but tiring crampon technique called front-
pointing—digging the horizontal toe-points of the crampons into

the ice as they hauled themselves along with the aid of their
axes. Basil and Nirupam, using the more efficient flat-footed
technique, found that they had to slow their pace
drastically—then begin to belay their fatigued rope-mates and
even cut steps over the worst stretches of live ice.

The sun climbed and the gully became a heat trap. They all
wore sun goggles but the light was blinding. Chunks of brittle
ice began to zoom down the chute. They were not large and
the climbers had hard hats, but the psychological effect was
harrowing.

Above the halfway point the slope eased and the two amateurs
regained their spirits. Lunch was a scratch affair taken hurriedly
on a small rock cleaver that split the snowslope. Chazz's scraped
face was aggravated by the strong sunlight and the flesh around
his eyes was swollen and raw. But it had become so warm
that the thought of even a lightweight silk mask-bandage was
intolerable, so he simply smeared on more antibiotic goo.

They had been climbing again for less than half an hour when
Basil's telepathic voice signalled a halt just above a tiny ledge.

He said: Niru oldman don't much like looks of this pitch.

Nirupam said: Getting late snow deep enough to be slabby.

Basil said: It could go.

Nirupam said: Alternative traverse couloir go up rock
southside. Hell scramble take us twice long we could still make
the Gutter work not even 1400 hours yet.

Basil said: Risky.

Nirupam said: You boss. But Chazz running on ballpower
small disaster you shrugged off back at crevasse got to him
maybe delayed shock on top sore face & nearly blind.

Basil said: Chazz oldman we're going to move you to
Number 3 on rope. It be safer for all incase I come cropper
leading.

Chazz said: Sorry to be the crock of the flock guys.

Derek said: Spare us bouillabaisse goodbuddy. Just switch
with me. Snap on safety lines? Okay. Easy! You stomp me with
tackety boots they hear my screech in basecamp!

Basil said: Please be very quiet all of you . . . even if stepped
on. The consequences of sudden noise this point could be
lamentable.

Chazz said: He means avalanche could be set off by your
bigmouth Derek.

Derek said: Or your clumsy feet.

Basil was looking down on the pair, who had unsnapped
their harnesses from the main rope. Both were manoeuvring
carefully on the tiny ledge of compacted snow, Chazz linked to
Derek by a light safety line and Derek ready to refasten them to
the rope as soon as the position switch had been accomplished.
Nirupam, the low man, was keeping a sharp eye on the two
amateurs, offering advice and encouragement. And then there
was a distant crackling sound. Nirupam caught sight of a small
wisp of white blurring the dazzle of the upper icefield. A jagged
blue line spread across the high face of the chute and opened
like a fanged mouth before disappearing behind a foaming cloud
of snow.

"She's coming down!" Nirupam yelled. "Hold! Hold!"

His cries were smothered in a musical rumble, as if someone
had trod upon the pedals of a great organ. A cascade of broken
thin crust came jangling and hissing ahead of the snowslide. The
climbers cringed, hugging the slope and drawing their heads
down between their shoulders. Basil whipped his tube-pointed
hammer from its holster and sank the second tool into the ice
with his left hand, clinging to axe and hammer with all his
strength as the avalanche rolled over them.

He said: Hold on boys hold!

Chazz's mind spoke first, incredulous, refusing to admit that
he was cartwheeling through opaque white air instead of clinging
to a slope by the tips of his toes and an insecurely anchored
axe. Derek was torn screaming from his place by a forty-kilo
slab of snow that slammed into him like a skating chunk of
sidewalk. He flailed out with his axe in a futile attempt at self-
arrest and cut the rope linking Nirupam to Basil. The Indian
mountaineer, struck by Derek's body, tumbled helplessly as the
strap of his dropped ice-axe banged about his ankles. The tool
was still tethered to his harness, but he could not haul it up
because his neck was broken and the motor nerves of his arms
refused to function.

The rushing snow passed Basil by. He dared to lift his head
and look down, in time to see the avalanche reach the base
of the couloir and make glittering puffballs as it buried the
bergschrund. Chazz spoke a last telepathic curse and Derek
simply said: Goodbye. Nirupam was serenely reciting a Buddhist
prayer as he expired from a severed spinal cord. Basil called

the names of all three men telepathically and out loud, and then
he hung there facing the ice and let tears course down his
weathered cheeks. It was sunny and very quiet.

After a while he summoned the long-range faculty of his
farspeech and bespoke Bleyn the Champion in Camp
Bettaforca. No, he said, he would not turn back. Since he still
carried the winch and cable, he would complete the climb up
the now avalanche-free slope and see to the installation of the
apparatus, so that Camp 2 might be set up easily by the next
support team. It would be a simple matter for him to return to
Camp 1 by nightfall by winching down and then following the
marked route across Tine Glacier.

Reluctantly, Bleyn agreed to this. And for some time he
watched the dogged human creep upward, and heard with his
mind's ear the tag that spun endlessly through Basil's mind, to
be broadcast inadvertently into the aether:

I, demens, et saevas curre per Alpes,
ut pueris placeas et declamatio fias.

The Tanu knew that Basil was quoting from a human poet
again, as he had done when delivering his orientation speech at
the start of the climb. The verse from Kipling had appealed to
Bleyn's native bravura; but this one, oddly enough, seemed to
come from Basil's own unconscious:

Go, madman, and hurry over the cruel Alps,
that you may delight small boys and inspire
feckless adulation.

Humans, thought Bleyn the Champion, were a paradoxical
lot.

CHAPTER NINE

Aiken was alone on his balcony in the Castle of Glass, watching
Kyllikki with his farsense. Although it was night in Goriah the
sun had just set in the region of the Atlantic just north of the
Azores where the great schooner ploughed along in a fair

breeze. Her solar-collector sails gleamed like bronze in the warm
light. She sailed on a flaming sea with the evening star over her
shoulder and deep night her destination.
Aiken called: Elizabeth.

Yes. How are you dear?

Cultivating lionheartedness. I've been watching Kyllikki
and drinking Laphroaig and stuffing myself with Scotch
eggs. There are three portable sigmas all charged and ready
to hang around my royal neck when I decide to go to sleep
and I can't help thinking how a beam from an X-zapper
could slice through those shields like a sgian dhu through
a goddam clootie dumpling ... I don't suppose you know
where Marc is?

No. When he left us on Wednesday after the baby's
cure he gave no indication when he'd return here. Shall
I do a scan of Goriah for you?
Please.

... All clear unless he's put up a mental umbrella.
Are you sure?

Aiken I can't farsearch for him as I would an ordinary
person. Once he pops through the superficies into
normal space he's free to disguise his aura or even wipe
it out so that not even a Grand Master can track him.
But I know he isn't able to carry anything large along
with him. Only small objects that would fit inside the
armour. Certainly not an X-ray laser. You're safe from
him wearing your sigmas. And I really don't think he'd
try to kill you . . . yet.

Not like his darling son Hagen you mean? Well that one's
cooled down nicely! All the same he won't get any rides in
those aircraft—granting Basil and the boys manage to bring
them back. Both Hagen and Cloud are staying with me on
tight leash until further notice. Let 'em work on the Gude-
rian device with old Celo breathing down their necks
watching for a false move.

How is the project coming?

Well enough I guess. They've taken apart half the gadgets
in my contraband store cannibalizing components and
materials.

Have you thought further about whether you'd return
to the Milieu?

All I can think about is confronting Marc. Get the damn

thing over and done with.

He'll pick his own time and place. Unless you do as I
suggested.

Meet him at your place? . . . Not on your life! He'd have

both of us right where he wanted us.

He had the chance to dominate me already when he
took over the executive during Brendan's redaction.
And he let me go. I don't think you understand Marc—

! YouthinkYOUdo?!

Better than you. I've worked with him and I've also
done a deep memoreview of some Rebellion history
materials that I studied a long time ago. Marc is a man
with his own strange code of honour. If he agreed to
confer with you on neutral ground with me as monitor
he'd do you no harm.

Ha! I'd wallop him without blinking a fewking eye—truce

or not!

No you won't. Not if you give your word to me. I know
you.

Damned if you do Woman! This matter of Marc toting

things around with him on the d-jump really tears it. When

he gets the program squared away what's to stop him from

plopping Kyllikki herself right down in the castle courtyard.
Listen to me Aiken. Try to understand. Once Marc
becomes capable of that sort of psychotransport he has
no motive left for opposing the reopening of the time-
gate. I want to get the two of you together to be sure
you realize this.

? . . . You mean the Milieu fuzz would be no threat to

Marc if he could hop all over the planet—with his geriatric

villains and their gear tucked under his metaphorical arm?
Exactly.

[Elation] Woman you could be right. [Dejection.] Oh-oh.

We're forgetting a complicating factor. Those bloody Rebel

kids. And I use the sanguine modifier with deliberate

precision.

Any resolution would have to involve them. Marc
doesn't want to let them go.

[Perplexity. Anger. Dichotomous potentialities. Fatigue.]
I  know dear.  Nothing can be done immediately

anyway. I'll be too busy watching the situation on
Monte Rosa and advising the people there.
You think the Famorel Firvulag will attack tomorrow then?
When the two assault teams try to take off on their big
push over the top?

It's only two days until Truce—and the Famorel Little
People are more traditional-minded than Sharn and
Ayfa. They'll quit fighting and go home at dawn on
October first.

I watched them creeping around the base of the mountain
today. Damn! If only I could do something! But I barely
managed to queer the Bessemer converter coup. The drain
left me too pooped to fly—although Hagen and his crowd
don't know that.

You'll regain your strength more quickly now that the
integration of your personality is proceeding. Even-
tually you'll be even stronger than before.
No doubt. If I live so long. But I've an uncanny feeling . . .
Do you know we're the only two Greenies left?

?Group Green?

All of them gone. Except the two of us. And now daft
Dougal blethering on about Asian and his noble sacrifice,
and the Tanu on my High Table deciding it's Marc Remil-
lard who's the Adversary that will set off the Nightfall War.
Then the only one left will be you.

Aiken dear. You've been drinking too much malt
whisky. You're maudlin—and you're wrong. Stein's
alive.

I've looked for him. Never found hide nor hair nor horned
helm.

. . . You are a bit squiffed. I'll show you him and Sukey
and little Thor if you promise me that you'll never try
to make contact with them or interfere with them in
any way.

They had a kid—? Aw. I promise. On my honour as
Nonborn King. Why should I drag them into my troubles?
But wait... are they happy?

Happy as can be.
[Sentimental satisfaction.] Then show me. Please.

Wait. There. [Image: River island half-moon rush-
lighted window reflection black water cypresses live oaks

cinnamons log house jetty clinkerbuilt dory crocodile
fence silvered garden plot thorn-guarded yard thatch
roof stick chimney. Open bead-screened summer room
work shed main cabin glass windows wide hearth
planked floor A MAN A WOMAN HOLDING A
CHILD.]

A boy named Thor you say? How old?

About two months now. He's a lovely strong child.

Sukey looks fine. Stein looks . . . older. How do they live?
He hunts and fishes and traps. Sometimes very rarely
he goes down the Garonne and sails to Rocilan to
trade. Sukey is starting to pester him to take her and
the child but he puts her off afraid she would want to
settle near the city. Near Tanu and other humans who
would find out.

How Stein helped Felice at Gibraltar?. . . Does that bother

him?

He remembers. He thinks it was necessary but he
remembers. It would be much worse if you were to
come back into his life. Stein must be let alone like a
healing wound. Look. [Image: Baby placed in cradle
cries Father takes him holds against massive deerskin-
vested shoulder pats tiny back expertly dips fingertip in
honeypot Baby suckles Father cuddles yellow-bearded
ferocity smiles.]

He makes a pretty good dad.
Your unconscious thought so.

... A weird thing that and one I never would have

anticipated.

The unconscious uses what it must.

And why Mayvar for my mother figure—and not you?
She was right. You loved her and him too power&
vulnerability stature&puniness maturejudgment&chil-
dishimpulse. In both. In you. Their child is father of
your man. You chose your parents and gave birth to
yourself.

I love you too!.

Sisterly. I'm the Ice Queen remember?

[Quiet laughter. Contemplation of slowly fading image.]

Funny, I haven't been interested in that sort of thing lately.
You will be. Don't worry about that.

Save my energy for the real problems! . . . One piece of
good news today amidst the encircling gloom: We've
located Tony Wayland that metallurgist we need for the
Guderian Project. Would you believe? Chief Burke and his
Lowlives nabbed the guy and offered to barter him to us!
All they want in return is free passage back to the Milieu
and a fair shake for their bandito buddies. Of course I
agreed. The Chief will be coming into Roniah tomorrow to
work out details of the swap with Kuhal Earthshaker at the
City-Lord's place.

Hm. I haven't been in touch with Peo since before
young Brendan's redaction. Strange that he should be
willing to deal with a fellow Lowlife as a commodity.
Tony was eager to be sold down the river. The alternative
was being hanged for high crimes and misdemeanours.

Good grief.
Good night Elizabeth.

Walter Saastamoinen came onto Kyllikki's bridge punctually at
midnight to relieve Patricia Castellane at the helm.

"All peaceful, I presume," he remarked, thumbing the key
pad of the course director and studying the replay of first-watch
performance events. "You're doing very well at manual for an
apprentice, Pat. The director only overruled you once in the
entire four-hour trick."

"It's a relief to be able to do something besides those miser-
able psych-up exercises," she said. "My metafunctions aren't
going to get much stronger through mental muscle flexing. More
likely weaker, with my dirigent formation. But try to tell Jeff
that." Her mouth was taut with resentment.

Walter moved to the wheel, disengaged the autopilot, and let
the soul of the great schooner come into him. Oh, you beauty!
"Sailing Kyllikki is good for what ails both of us. I wish we
could just keep going. Alter course to the south . . . touch in
along the coast of Africa . . . round the Cape of Good Hope
and go up into the Indian Ocean to see Pliocene Asia. Marc
would never let us range out, after the Antarctic tragedy. But
now there's no real reason why we shouldn't."

She was making them coffee at the dispenser and now handed
a mug to Walter, frowning slightly. "I don't understand you."

"The Milieu coppers aren't going to be able to nab us if Marc

succeeds with this new d-jump thing." He twiddled with the
atmospheric analog unit next to the binnacle. "As I understand
it, he should be able to take us all extraplanetary once he gets
the thing mastered. We could cruise around until he does. Forget
about fighting with the kids over the time-gate. Surely they'd
be willing to delay the opening until we got safely away."

"Would they?" Patricia's voice was flat. "I can think of at
least one who might not."

Walter ignored that. "I'm not sure I trust this little weather
analoger overmuch," he said, frowning. "It's wishy-washy about
the deep trough below Rockall. Doesn't want to commit itself
on trend. We may have to ask Marc to do a deep scan of
the system. If the storm drifts our way we could be in for an
uncomfortable couple of days that could be avoided with a
course change, given the proper trend data."

Patricia was not to be distracted. "You know Hagen hates
Marc. The boy is looking forward to setting the Magistratum on
his father! We'll have to use force to keep that time-gate closed.
Nothing else will suffice. Unless you convince the children of
their danger, Walter."

"I like sailing along the moonpath, don't you? It doesn't often
happen that it works out just right that way—but when it does,
it's magic."

She slammed her coffee cup down on the chart console. "Stick
your head in the sand, then! Keep dreaming that we can solve
this terrible mess with sweet reason and kindly intentions. But
Cordelia Warshaw and I know better—and it won't be long
before even Marc has to face the truth."

Walter's lips compressed into a hard line. He stared straight
ahead, adjusting the wheel with delicate movements.

Patricia said, "I was talking to Jordy about the teleportation
of external mass. In order for Marc to carry objects situated
outside his CE rig, he'll have to expand the upsilon-field gener-
ated by his mind. It means jacking up the input power to the
rig—putting a greater and greater stress on his brain. He can't
do it abruptly or he'll risk overload. Kramer's not even sure
that Marc has the capacity to encompass an area large enough
to be practicable. Then there are the passengers. Will they need
life-support gear for jumps on Earth? All we have is the spare
suit of CE armour, three more tons of mass for Marc to carry.
The testing will take time . . . But I hardly think Hagen or

Aiken Drum will delay opening the time-gate while Marc solves
his teleportation problems."

"We could ask them to," Walter said.

Patricia was at the wheelhouse door. "We will. With the X-
lasers behind us, and all the concerted coercion we can lash
together!" Then she was gone.

Walter tracked her briefly to make certain that she had retired
to her cabin, then scanned the rest of his shipmates. They were
all either asleep or occupied with their work—except two. Marc
was gone on the jump and Alexis Manion was unexpectedly at
large, wandering about the main deck, pausing from time to
time to swab at the brightwork with a polishing rag. He was
under the influence of the docilator. No one had thought to
send him to bed, and only the magnates had the requisite
command code. Subsidiary Grand Masters such as Walter were
forbidden to interfere with the potentially dangerous Manion.

"Poor devil," Walter muttered. The dim figure disappeared
behind the night-shrouded forward deckhouse. For some time
Walter brooded about Manion, whose crime had been revealing
to the children the truth about their elders. Then it was time to
farspeak Veikko, and Walter forgot the dynamic-field specialist
as he sent his mind ranging eastward to the Alps.

WALTER: Hey, boy.

VEIKKO: I'm here, Walter.

WALTER: How are things going?

VEIKKO: One of the climbers got a touch of pulmonary edema
and another has frostbitten feet. But we progress. Camp 3
was stocked today. The assault teams leave here for the big
push tomorrow. Basil is still on the mountain leading the
support group down, and by rights the assault party should
wait until he gets back. But we're expecting Firvulag
company, so they're jumping the gun. Basil delegated a
Tibetan medic named Thongsa to lead the other six assaulters
in a single group until they connect up with him. Then they'll
split into two smaller teams as originally planned and Basil
will lead them to the aircraft.

WALTER: Sounds like this Basil hasn't had much rest in the last
week.

VEIKKO: He's led just about every other support group. I can't
believe the guy is seventy-two. Rejuvenated, of course.

WALTER: That makes him a year younger than Marc. And a
couple of years older than me.

VEIKKO: Well, we all know bloody Marc's immortal. But you
look—I mean—

WALTER: The Ocala regen tank was getting a bit obsolete. I
didn't make much use of it. I'm sure this Basil is a product
of more sophisticated Milieu technology if he's the climbing
superman you say he is.

VEIKKO: It must be quite a place . . . the Milieu, I mean.

WALTER: You'll see.

VEIKKO: . . . Walter, are you sure you still want to try it?

WALTER: You kids have got to have your chance.

VEIKKO: Oh, God. But Marc might kill you.

WALTER: It's possible. But he might think twice. Suppose the
course director autopilot broke? It's not too tricky manoeu-
vring Kyllikki in fine weather. But given a storm—and there
might be one lurking out there—this big four-poster is a bitch-
kitty to steer manually.

VEIKKO: I remember the gale in the Ross Sea! ... So you think
that even if you—you think Marc won't dare—

WALTER: I'm going to try it, and hope that Marc won't kill me
when he finds out. But whatever happens, happens. I don't
know when my chance will come, but when it does, I'll grab
it. The things are locked up tight, but I'll figure some way to
neutralize them.

VEIKKO: Oh, Walter. Oh, Daddy.

WALTER: See that you and Irena don't get yourselves killed by the
damned goblins or whatever they are. If anything happened to
you, I don't think I could go through with this.

VEIKKO: We've got the base camp all dug in and there are plenty
of weapons. We'll be fine. But you—when—

WALTER: When I can. Don't worry. Call me tomorrow if possible.
Otherwise, on Tuesday.

VEIKKO: The Tanu with us say that the Firvulag will probably
quit when their sacred Truce begins at dawn on Wednesday.

WALTER: Well—that's something. Take care, son. Someone's
just come into the wheelhouse and I'll have to let you go.

VEIKKO: Good luck . . .

Walter thumbed the autopilot and turned smiling from the
wheel. "Hello, Alex. Come in."

"A wand'ring minstrel I," Manion sang, "a thing of shreds
and patches." He began to rub industriously at the port-frames
with his polishing rag.

Walter said distinctly: "Alex. Stop that. Come here and listen
to me."

The docilated man obediently lowered his cloth and stood
before Kyllikki's captain.

"You're the best PK-head of us all, Alex. And not too shabby
a coercer either. I wonder if you're strong enough to get past
the docilator. I wonder if your coercion can push down the
command-set if I give you the proper inspiration. Listen Alex!
I know how you and I can help the children! I need your help.
Do you understand?"

A broad smile spread slowly across the ravaged face. Manion
sang softly:

Am I alone, and unobserved? I am!
Then let me own I'm an aesthetic sham!

Walter grasped him by the arms. "Can you do it? Have you
been picking away at it from the inside? You know I can't turn
the docilator off."

Alex sang:

This air severe is but a mere veneer!

This cynic smile is but a wile of guile!

This costume chaste is but good taste misplaced!

"Good man! I want you to go down to the forward hold with
me—and break Marc's fancy lock."
Alex whispered:

With catlike tread upon our prey we steal;
In silence dread our cautious way we feel ...

"I'm going to sabotage the X-lasers, Alex, so that Marc can't
use them against the children. He'll still have the other weapons,
of course. But the kid's sigma-shields can turn them aside. And
there's a fair chance that our metaconcert potential has dwindled
at the same time that the Little King's has been growing. When
Marc finds out what we've done, he might kill us. But he needs
you badly, and nobody can sail this tub as well as I can—so
there's a chance. And if we make it to Europe, who knows what
might happen? Marc might even change his mind about using

force against the kids if the hell-zappers aren't an option
anymore."
Alex sang:

When a felon's not engaged in his employment

(his employment)
Or maturing his felonious little plans

(little plans),
His capacity for innocent enjoyment

(-cent enjoyment)
Is just as great as any honest man's.

With tremulous slowness, one eyelid dropped shut, then opened
again. Alexis Manion had definitely winked.

"Marc's out jumping and the rest of them are asleep or busy,"
Walter said. "Let's go do it right now, shall we?" He took the
physicist by the hand and led him away like a happy child.

CHAPTER TEN

Bets! Wake up guy! Wake up it's time to march!

Mr. Betsy stirred. A manicured hand crept from the interior
of his silk-and-swansdown sleeping bag and hooked over the
opening of his balaclava, which had ridden up to the vicinity of
his receding natural hairline. A finger pulled the pink knitted
helmet down so that a single green eye peered from the woollen
slot and read the illuminated digits on the inturned wrist chrono-
graph: 0216. The grey torc tingled, banishing sleep.

Mr. Betsy's telepathic voice was surly: Good grief Ookpik it
can't be starting time I just went to bed!

Bad news. Elizabeth sent word our Tanu farsensor that
Firvulag coming up fast on Bettaforca. Also Basil on mountain
says weather looking iffy. We can't wait until dawn to start
climb. Ten minutes.

Betsy said aloud, "Oh, friggerty fudge."

Ookpik said: And don't forget your gun.

Growling feebly, Betsy levered himself upright and hopped
across the hut like an acrobatic caterpillar enveloped in its

cocoon. He lit the hut lantern and knelt in front of the oven of
the cooking unit, where his boots and outer clothing had spent
the brief night toasting at fifty degrees Celsius. He checked the
outside temperature and was surprised to find it hovering just
above freezing. Right. Never mind the down pants and jacket
for now: on with the breathable grintlaskin wet-wind gear over
his layered woollies, snap on the boots, then the snow gaiters
and climbing harness. To extract the perspiration from his sleep-
ing bag, he stuffed it into the oven for a few moments and let
the busy little microwaves do their work. Then the bag and
down clothing went into his pack. He pulled on his mitts and
grabbed ice-axe and Weatherby Magnum blaster.

Six minutes. Mr. Betsy allowed himself a satisfied smirk as
he stepped out into the alpine night.

A warmish wind was blowing from the west and the fresh-
fallen snow of yesterday had gone slushy. The camp was blacked
out as a safety precaution, but Betsy saw dark shapes moving
among the huts of the gold-torc soldiery. A fuzzy half-moon lit
Monte Rosa with wan, greenish radiance. The massif was
crowned with an unusual double cloud formation, a smooth cap
curving over the highest elevation, surmounted by an elongate,
eastward-trailing plume.

After a quick visit to the latrine, Betsy came into the climbers'
staging hut. Ookpik was the only one there as yet, hunched on
a bench next to the grub buffeteria, drinking tea and nibbling
slugs Villeroy.

"I'm glad somebody in this outfit is quick on the aufges-
prungen," the Eskimo remarked wryly. "The rest of the team
are still stumbling around looking for their socks—and that
includes our redoubtable leader, Dr. Thongsa. Have some tea,
Bets. The French-fried slimies aren't too bad. You see that
cloud on the mountain?"

"Yes," said Betsy shortly. He dropped his gear and shucked
his mittens. "Lord Bleyn was doing his best to put a good face
on matters yesterday. I might have known we'd never get out
of here so easily! Those Firvulag must be able to conceal their
movements somehow if they've managed to come so close
without Elizabeth farseeing them. They weren't supposed to
arrive until late tomorrow. A night start over the glacier snout
in warm weather like this could be extremely hazardous."

Ookpik scrutinized a gasteropod fritter before popping it into

his mouth. "That's not the only waktoo hitting the fan, good
buddy. I farspoke Basil myself. Couldn't sleep."

Betsy ladled a big dollop of honey into his tea. "I thought
you couldn't broadcast more than a few hundred metres?"

"I've been practicing. You'd be surprised how sheer panic
jacks up the old cerebral output . . . Anyhow, Stan's worse."

"Oh, my."

"He's a rugged old walrus, but pulmonary edema's nothing
to fool around with. Getting him down to Camp Two eased his
condition a little, but he's still a bagger. Basil and Taffy will
have to hump him all the rest of the way on the decamole
sledge."

"How's poor dear Phronsie?"

"Her feet are responding to the torc-induced circulation
boost. She can walk, but not very fast. She wants Baz and Taffy
to leave her at Camp Two and press on down with Stan. She
says she thinks she could make it back here on her own, given
a couple days' rest. Or we could send a rescue team."

"If the Firvulag don't wipe out Bettaforca first," Betsy
muttered. "Rescue team—? The only climbers left down here
after we take off will be Cliff and Cisco Briscoe, and neither
one is very strong." He pulled a dubious face and replaced a
half-eaten slug on the platter. "Attrition is thinning the ranks
of Basil's Bastards rather rapidly. We really don't need a prema-
ture Firvulag attack and a storm on top of everything else."

The hut door opened, admitting three exotics and Kang Lee,
the gold-torc officer of the watch. The Tanu climbers Bleyn the
Champion and Aronn looked almost like outsized humans in
their alpine clothing; but Ochal the Harper was an eerie sight,
a white anorak and pants pulled over his brightly glowing
amethyst armour.

"The others are coming immediately," the farsensor said.
"We'll use this map for orientation rather than attempt a mind-
meld." He spread a large sheet of durofilm on the table in
the centre of the hut. More people came stomping in—Bengt,
Sandvik and Nazir of the second assault team, and the nonclimb-
ing physician, Magnus Bell. Last of all, smiling and impertur-
bable in the face of the others' coolness, came the little deputy
assault leader, Dr. Thongsa.

"Now let the briefing commence!" he ordered. Somebody
snickered.

Ochal's mailed finger traced a path across the map, leaving a
lingering bright mark on the plass. "It seems the Foe has done
the unexpected. With their forces diminished by the landslide
back in the Tarentaise, no one suspected that they would dare
to split what was left. Nevertheless, this is exactly what they
did. After crossing the Little St. Bernard Pass and marching
into the Proto-Augusta Valley, they arrived here." He indicated
a point on the river some forty kilometres east of the pass.
"About one hundred Firvulag continued to move east along the
Augusta in a straightforward manner to the Val d'Ayas, which
is their most logical corridor of access to Camp Bettaforca. This
was the force Elizabeth tracked."

"And the rest of them?" Ookpik asked.

"The force she did not perceive," Ochal resumed, "consisted
of some seventy of the more stalwart Foe, those able to exercise
strong shielding functions. After these troops broke away from
their fellows, they went through the steep gorges of the Valpel-
line, where even a Grand Master would have the utmost
difficulty farsensing them. They travelled northeast and then
east across very rugged terrain, then curved back southward.
They will fall upon us from the head of the Ayas instead of the
foot, probably attacking from that ridge to the northwest."

"The storm's coming in from that direction," Ookpik noted
brightly. "Might slow the bastards down."

"We must be off at once!" piped Thongsa, prodding the air
with his ice-axe spike. "Once we reach the glacier, the Firvulag
won't dare follow—and at least we'll be safe!"

An embarrassed silence greeted this gaffe.

Ochal said gently, "We think that the Foe are poised to attack
Camp Bettaforca, and our people are armed and ready. But
you must understand that another possibility exists. The Firvulag
nation were anciently born and bred in the high snowy moun-
tains of Duat, our native world. Even a thousand years in the
Many-Coloured Land will not have diminished their craftiness
in such terrain—and the Famorel Little People are even more
mountain-wise than their kinfolk of the northern realm. They
are keen farsensors. They undoubtedly know the locations of
our advance camps on Monte Rosa."

"Surely not!" wailed the Tibetan physician.

"The Firvulag objective," Bleyn the Champion reminded him,
"is to deny us the aircraft. Attacking Bettaforca with its strong

defences isn't nearly so tempting as going for us climbers.
Besides—the second force of Little People will be in a better
position to attack the base."

Thongsa's black eyes darted like terrified beetles in his flat
bronze face. "We must postpone the assault until the enemy is
defeated!"

Bleyn was implacable. "The Foe may win. The King
commands that we begin the high climb at once."

"But we may have to fight our way up the entire South Face!"
Thongsa cried.

"Now you have it straight, darling," said. Mr. Betsy comfort-
ably. He hoicked up his pack, fastened the buckles, and adjusted
the hood of his anorak over the pink pompoms of his balaclava.
"Shall we be off?"

"Wait!" exclaimed the Tibetan wildly. His voice was drowned
by the rumbling agreement of the others, who began putting on
their gear.

"Feel like guiding a rookie today, Bets?" asked Magnus Bell.
"I'm mooching along with you guys—part of the way, at
least—to cope with the sickees, help haul them back down.
Mountaineering-wise, I'm dumb but willing. In the tough
pitches, I expect to be dragged."

Thongsa was fairly hopping with fury. "This is madness! When
I agreed to lead the second assault team, I never anticipated it
would involve a running gun battle! I resign forthwith!"

"Go right ahead," said Aronn gloomily. He was a horse-faced
Tanu with an air of perennial disillusionment, not above using
his PK talent to cheat at craps. He had muscles like a bull
gigantopithecus. "You may back out of the leadership if you
choose, Lowlife, but your alpine expertise and piloting ability
are irreplaceable. You go with us if I must carry you by the
scruff of the neck."

"This is insupportable," Thongsa whimpered.

"Isn't it, though?" agreed Betsy. His dainty goateed face
thrust close to that of the rebellious pilot-physician. As other
hands lifted Thongsa's pack to his shoulders, Betsy latched it
on. "Think of the aircraft, darling. Think of the time-gate that
the aircraft will help to build! Think of yourself going through
that time-gate. Don't you want to go back to the Milieu?"

Tears stood in Thongsa's eyes. "I did not think so before.
But now ... yes. Yes! YES!"

They crept across the rotten ice of the Gresson Glacier, divided
into four-man parties and firmly roped in spite of the fact that
the trail was marked with flagged wands. All around them were
the sounds of running water and the squeaks and groans of
settling ice. At long intervals they heard thunderous crashes as
seracs calved from the four great icefalls. The moon had a ring
around it and the summit of Monte Rosa wore a spectral caul.

The two Tanu kept in constant telepathic communication with
the base camp at the same time that their farsense scanned the
expanse of ice for signs of the advancing Foe. But nothing
happened. For more than two hours, until the grey light of dawn
smudged the sky behind Rosa's right flank, they picked their
way across the glacier. Thongsa went first, probing with his
long-hafted axe, leading Nazir, Bengt, and Aronn. Then came
Ookpik leading Betsy, Magnus, and Bleyn the Champion. No
one fell into a crevasse. No one even lost his footing. The torcs
helped them to see in the dark. Thongsa's route finding was a
model of conservative ice travel: painstaking, safe, and very,
very slow.

They saw the storm sweeping toward them as they approached
the supply dump at the foot of the Gresson Ice fall. At the same
time Bleyn announced:

Elizabeth regrets that a combination of meteorological interfer-
ence thoughtresistant rock formations and Firvulag screening
makes it all but impossible for her to pinpoint the location of
the northern force of the Foe. The southern force is easily
farsensed 8 kilometres south of Bettaforca in the Ayas Valley
apparently bivouacked . . .

Sleet struck them. The aether rang with epithets as they
paused to seal shut the scabbards of their weapons and pull
down their hoods. Then they slogged on through the gloaming,
with Aronn's farsight helping Thongsa to locate the wands as
the storm intensified. Sometimes they were ankle-deep in
running water and their socks quickly became soaked. But it
was possible for the two Tanu overlords to step up circulation
in the extremities of the grey-torc wearers, so their wool-clad
feet remained warm, if slightly chafed.

Magnus said: All the same we're sure to get blisters unless
we dry out soon.

Bleyn said: I farsee the supply dump tents less than half a
league ahead.

Ookpik asked: How much is that in honest metres?

Aronn said: I know not but you puny-leggers will take at least
another hour to get there unless you crank it up.

Nazir said: Subhan'llah I think I'm sinking guys! . . . I am!

Thongsa said: Belay Bengt I am fast.

Bengt said: Got him.

Nazir said: Bloody hell I'm waist deep . . .

Thongsa said: Can you lift him Lord Aronn?

Aronn said: Upsy-pupsy little man.

As if he were on an elevator, the Arab technician levitated
from the mush-filled crevass that had threatened to swallow him.
The psychokinesis of both Aronn and Bleyn held him in midair,
then tilted him carefully to spill water from various parts of his
clothing.

Bleyn said: It storms too hard to do a proper job drying
you Nazir. I can banish discomfort until we reach the dump.
Satisfactory?

Nazir said: Carry on.

The sleet storm moderated somewhat with the coming of
dawn. Monte Rosa's snowfields slowly took on a sanguine tinge
and the sky turned to purplish crimson, strewn with fast-moving
little back clouds.

"I know it's 'red sky at morning, sailors take warning,' "
Magnus quoted. "Does that hold true for mountain weather as
well?"

"Probably," said Betsy, with cheerful pessimism. "Look
there! The wind's blowing open the mist ahead. I see the
icefall—and the tents."

The humans all cheered. The shelters of silver decamole were
virtually invisible against the ice, but they bore banners of stream-
ing orange silk, and seemed not more than 150 metres away.

"We will rest well, dry out, and prepare a substantial meal,"
Thongsa declared. "It's obvious that the Firvulag were more
prudent than we, doubtless spending the night in some cosy,
stormproof shelter. Come! Let us make haste!"

He strode forward with his axe held at a jaunty piolet-canne
and his glass crampons clinking against the water ice. The
photon beam that killed him instantly was undoubtedly a
mistake. Some impetuous Firvulag stalwart had bungled and
fired too soon from the tumble of broken white blocks to the
left of the tents. The ragged fusillade that followed was delivered

from extreme Matsu range, and was hopelessly fouled by a
sudden blatter of sleet that swept across the glacier.

"Get down!" Bleyn shouted. "Behind that ice ridge!"

They broke away from the flagged trail just in time. The storm
was giving its last gasp, and as the air cleared, the laser beams
zapped with increasing efficiency, chipping great hunks from the
ridge.

They unroped and wormed away eastward. The ridge, though
not very high, was adequate cover, leading them to an outcrop-
ping of verglas-sheathed granite, where they regrouped and
considered the situation.

It was now full light. They were more than 300 metres from
the tent site and somewhat farther from the hiding place of the
Firvulag. The Foe had concealed themselves in a pile of house-
sized seracs on the righthand margin of the icefall and now
commanded the only route up the mountain.

"Somebody using his noggin among that lot," Ookpik
observed. "Still, things could be worse."

"And would be," Betsy muttered, "if one spook hadn't got
itchy trigger finger."

"Is it the entire gang?" Nazir asked. "The seventy-odd sods
Ochal the Harper estimated?"

"I am counting," Bleyn said grimly. "At such close range, I
can pick them out, even if they are screened."

"Pity you didn't earlier," murmured Betsy.

"I was unforgivably careless," the Champion admitted. "Such
scrutiny requires intense concentration, and my attention was
divided. Even a High Table member may nod—Tana curse the
luck!"

"Things could be worse," Ookpik said again. He seemed
unaccountably excited as he extracted a monocular from his
pack with some difficulty and peered through it.

"What ho?" Bengt asked.

"They don't call it an icefall for nothing, cheechako," said
the Inuit engineer.

Aronn said, "It hasn't moved since we first came to the
mountain."

"Needed lubrication," said Ookpik.

"You'll have to hit the trigger point just right," Nazir said
dubiously. "I mean, we can't fart around for hours peppering
the fall, or the spooks will wise up."

"How can I estimate these angles if you keep yapping?"
Ookpik complained. Everyone was still for several minutes.
Then the Eskimo asked, "Any of you Tanu fly?"

"No," said Bleyn. "I have a mental block and Aronn has
never been able to assimilate the program."

"But you can move things at distance?"

"I'm not Kuhal Earthshaker, but I can fling about eight times
my weight. Aronn's good for half that much."

Ookpik did a rapid calculation. "Better than a ton. Ho-kay.
You could move something over on the icefall?"

"Well—" Bleyn hesitated. "We could try. But just tossing
about, mind you. No sustained lift. And we have to have a line
of sight on it."

The Eskimo's eyes were glittering. "Just give me a few more
minutes."

They relaxed behind the ice-covered rocks. Soggy footgear
was dried by Aronn's creative power. Betsy helped Nazir to
change his clothing. Magnus brewed hot chocolate. From time
to time the Firvulag opened fire on their position, but the only
result was the removal of most of the ice-rind on the north side
of the outcropping and minimal damage to the granite.

"I count sixty-eight of the Foe," Bleyn announced. "The
entire northern wing must be dug in behind those enormous
glacial blocks."

"They seem to be mostly Matsu-equipped," Betsy said. "I've
noted only two or three blasts of a different colour. Possibly
Mauser solar-powered. Nothing to match our Weatherbies and
Bosches."

"I found the spot," Ookpik said at last. "Perfect. A little
higher than I'd like, but what the hell—momentum's
momentum. So what if we have to scout a new route up the
fall? We can rest in the dump first, maybe give Basil a chance
to get down with poor Stan."

"We don't know that this will work," Betsy said grimly. "Let's
not plan too far ahead, darling."

Ookpik had the monocular to his eye. "Tune in on my optics,
everybody. See that serac shaped like a sideways Coke bottle?"

"What is a Coke bottle?" Aronn asked.

"That one," Ookpik clarified. When everyone had identified
the key ice-block, the engineer explained what had to be done.
They all took up their weapons and aimed carefully at a

designated point. "Remember, you two Exalteds," Ookpik told
the Tanu, "as we zap 'er, lift. We've got to send it tumbling
down, and then with any luck the whole lash-up will collapse.
Ready? . . ."

Fire.

Three green beams and four blue-white ones lanced out.
There was a bloom of steam and pulverized ice. The two psycho-
kinetics exerted their mental power. The serac shuddered but
stood fast.

"Rock it!" yelled Ookpik. "Fire again!"

The photon weapons sang. Bleyn and Aronn stood shoulder
to shoulder, their handsome faces distorted by the effort. The
cloud halfway up the icefall expanded. A grating sound reached
their ears. Aronn cried, "It's going over the edge!" And then
the trough of giant ice-blocks seemed to shimmer in the strength-
ening light. The farsenses of the Tanu locked onto the sight and
broadcast it to the grey torcs of the humans. They saw the face
of the looming frozen cascade heave and ripple. Blue-and-white
masses flew up and outward as if in slow motion, then tumbled
end over end with facets gleaming and projections fracturing
like cloudy glass. A stupendous roar filled the air. Loose snow,
shaken from the tumbling blocks, exploded in great clots, and
crystal whirlwinds sparkled at the fringes of the monstrous
avalanche.

In the aether, there were inhuman cries.

When it was over, the Gresson Icefall looked very little
changed, for one chunk of ice is not very different from another.
But the apron of the fall, which had been dirty grey, was now
pristine—and extended nearly halfway to the rocks where the
climbing party had taken refuge. The Firvulag redoubt was
buried beneath at least sixteen metres of icy rubble. The supply
dump tents were only buried ten metres deep.

Ookpik looked at the others with a resigned expression. "You
win a few, you lose a few. But I guess we'd better start climbing.
It's a long way up to Camp One."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shackled with glass gyves, sullen but resigned, Tony Wayland
stood beside Kuhal Earthshaker on the balcony of the Roniah
City-Lord's palace and addressed the King's simulacrum, which
appeared to be seated cross-legged in the limpid afternoon air
just the other side of the balustrade.

"Well, Your Majesty, you have to work the niobium in an
argon atmosphere, for starters. That's the biggest part of your
problem. As for alloying it with dysprosium, I'm afraid I haven't
the foggiest."

"But you could experiment?" Aiken leaned forward anxi-
ously, his hands braced on the knees of his golden pocket-suit.

"Oh, I suppose so." Tony's manner was barely civil. "Given
sufficient quantities of the stuff to work with. But you say you
don't have any of the pure element. Do you realize how difficult
it's going to be, extracting the Dy from ores? I mean, even when
you manage to coax the yttrium complex out of the crud, you'll
have a devil of a time sifting the Dy out in any kind of pure
state. I suppose you couldn't substitute some other paramagnetic
substance?"

"No," said Aiken. "We have a gadget called an ion concen-
trator that might help with your refining problem, however."

"It might," Tony snapped. "But the problem's yours, not
mine."

Kuhal Earthshaker cuffed the metallurgist lightly, sending him
to his knees. "Remember to whom you speak, Lowlife! Your
survival hangs by a thread!"

Tony only laughed. His golden torc and relatively fragile
psyche would protect him against the more subtle manifestations
of mental violence—as he knew very well from his years in
Finiah. "Go ahead and beat me!" he sneered. "Fat lot of good
I'll be to you if you crock up my cortex!"

Aiken nodded agreement. "It was always friendly persuasion
that kept you turning out the barium, wasn't it, Tony?"

"Damn right."

"I want to be your friend, too," said the King winningly. "I
won't have Lord Kuhal replace your golden torc with a grey or
silver one if you give me your word of honour to work with us
in a spirit of goodwill. I'm afraid you'll have to be kept under
house arrest for the duration of the project, but that's more for
your safety than anything else. You'll have free run of the Castle
of Glass outside of working hours and whatever goodies your
heart desires. When we get the Guderian device into operation,
you can ask for whatever reward you like."

"All I want," said Tony forlornly, "is to go home to my wife
in Nionel."

The King unfolded his limbs, stood up and stretched. "You
help us make this gimcrack wire that we need, and you could
be gazing into her loving eyes by Grand Tourney time."

"Eye," Tony corrected him. "Oh . . . very well. I'll give it
my best shot. You have my word."

"Send him out with the convoy tonight," Aiken ordered
Kuhal, and vanished.

The Earthshaker steered Tony toward the stairway. "We'll
leave the shackles on for safety's sake. They're not too uncom-
fortable. I wore them myself for a while."

"No shit?" said Tony listlessly. Glass links extended from
each wrist to a ring fastened about his torc. The chains were
more symbolic than confining; nevertheless the humiliation
quotient was sizeable. He brooded as they descended into the
lower regions of the palace and made their way to the courtyard,
where chalikos waited to take them to the Roniah docks.

"But at least I'm free of that band of Lowlife cutthroats who
caught me in the swamp," Tony remarked as he settled into the
saddle. "I presume they were showered with the royal favour."

Kuhal said, "The High King was pleased to grant their
requests. They asked for free passage back through the time-
gate, should it be reopened, and the opportunity to take with
them such of their fellows who also yearn to return to Elder
Earth."

"Huh!" Tony was contemptuous. "Good riddance, I say."

Kuhal flashed him a sudden smile. "I think the High King
shares your sentiment, Creative Brother."

A pang of remembrance went through the metallurgist's heart.
Creative Brother . . . The Tanu in Finiah had called him that,
and now this High Table member nonchalantly reaffirmed his

adoption. Tony thought: I might be temporarily declasse, but
at least I have great expectations!

"I really meant it when I said I'd cooperate," he said in a low
voice.

"I know." Kuhal was entirely amiable now. "And the know-
ledge gladdens me. I myself am one of those who would pass
through the time-gate into the Galactic Milieu."

"You!" Tony cried, incredulous.

"If you do your work well and quickly, many people will owe
you gratitude. There are portentous events in the offing that
you know not of, and your destiny may be crucial to that of
thousands."

Tony was struck dumb. They rode out of the palace grounds
and through the Tanu quarter of Roniah. The city was ruled
now by Condateyr Fulminator since the death of Bormol in the
Great Flood, and the population was somewhat diminished. But
for the most part, Roniah had scarcely been touched by the
turmoil visited upon so many other parts of the land. Ramas
scuttled about delivering packages, sweeping the cobbled
streets, and tending the flowerbeds. Fountains tinkled into silver
basins in the cool, tree-girt plazas. Roniah was not so baroquely
magnificent as the City of Lights had been, but it was splendid
enough, with its filigreed arches of frost-white marble, its
dazzling buildings with their stained-glass windows, and the
roofs of gold and blue tile punctuated by lacy spires.

Tony and Kuhal rode down to the esplanade. All around
them were the Tanu and human inhabitants of the city, strolling
or going about their business in the drowsy afternoon heat.

"I'd forgotten how nice a Tanu city could be," the metallurgist
said. "After Finiah fell, the Lowlives had me trapped up north
in the Iron Villages. God, it was squalid. I ran away."

"And came to Nionel?" inquired the Earthshaker.

Tony grinned. "Right at Grand Loving time. I never expected
to get married. And after I was, I couldn't bear to stay, even
though I loved Rowane. They'd cut off my silver torc and . . .
well, you know. But after I left and got into all sorts of trouble,
I realized that I had to be with Rowane again. I just had to. It's
very odd, really. We had very little in common. Rowane is a
Howler." He projected her astonishing mental image, all softly
haloed, and studied the reins of his chaliko. "Strange thing,
love. One doesn't pick and choose."

"I understand, Brother. Better than you know."

"I don't suppose—" Tony hesitated, then said, "Would the
King consider letting Rowane come to Goriah? If she'll forgive
me for deserting her, that is?"

The beautiful, melancholy face of the Tanu was full of regret.
"There must be an incentive for great tasks, Brother. The King
would say that Rowane is yours. But surely you will communi-
cate freely with her. Through your golden torc, your hearts may
meet across the leagues."

"I've tried," Tony said wretchedly. "But I wasn't torced when
we were together, and I guess I'm just not up to farspeech on
the Firvulag mode. I'm really not very good at it even with our
own people at long range."

"Then you might ask help from the Lady Katlinel."

Tony brightened. "Could you let me have her signature?"

"Willingly," said the Tanu. And he projected the image while
Tony laboured to commit it to memory, vowing to attempt
contact with the Lady of Nionel that very night.

In a mood of easy companionship, they rode along the river,
where there was a green pleasance with willows and flowering
shrubs. Human and exotic women were there with their gold-
torced children, and an ancient bareneck wandered about with
a hurdy-gurdy and a costumed monkey on a chain. Tony's mouth
tightened at the sight of the captive beast, but Kuhal's thought
slid into his mind:

Your only true freedom is with your adopted people. Soon
the shackles will be removed and everything will be better than
before. Only help them build the time-gate generator.

You really must be eager to go!

She will go and I must follow.

Oh. Well it's a funny place the Milieu. But good luck.

They were approaching the main dock area, which was
thronged with workers. Carts full of goods and hellad caravans
added to the congestion on the quays. The slips were nearly all
occupied by penumatic craft in the process of being off-loaded.

"Supplies for the Grand Tourney," Kuhal explained. "Fortu-
nately, the plantations of the upper Rhone have been spared
Firvulag depredation. Perhaps the Little People are shrewder
than we know and did not wish to risk a shortage of refreshments
at the games."

"So the King's really abolished the Combat, then?"

"There will still be ardent competition, and doubtless some
loss of life. But the scoring no longer is based upon heads
taken." He sighed. "The Peace Faction are most gratified and
have declared their intention to participate. Perhaps the events
will not be so tame as some traditionalists fear if Minanonn the
Heretic enters the jousts."

They came to a large pier that had been cordoned off from
the others. Some twenty large craft were being loaded by grey-
torc stevedores rather than ramas. Tanu knights in full glass
panoply bearing Milieu weapons stood guard on the boats and
near the piles of sealed crates that still remained on the dock.
Squads of greys in bronze half-armour patrolled the perimeter,
shooing away curious onlookers.

"You will sail down the Rhone, then go overland to Sasaran
and the River Baar," Kuhal said. "You may be interested to
know that you accompany a cargo that is perhaps the most
valuable ever to be shipped from this city. The Lord Sasaran
himself will escort you."

"Oh? Treasure?"

The Earthshaker shook his golden head. "It's better that you
do not know. But be assured that you and the cargo are both
extremely precious to King Aiken-Lugonn."

Kuhal rode up to a blue-crested captal of the guard and
saluted by placing his fist against the counterchanged Janus-face
emblem on his rose-gold tunic. "My compliments to the Most
Exalted Lord Neyal the Younger, and tell him to come collect
his passenger."

"At your service, Exalted Lords," the captal said. "His
baggage has already arrived and been put aboard." He helped
Tony to dismount and the metallurgist stood there uncertainly.

"Well, I'll say goodbye—" he began.

A loud hail, both vocal and telepathic, rang out from the far
end of the pier. Waving a clipboard and bounding toward them
broadcasting waves of geniality came Sasaran's City-Lord,
helmetless but otherwise attired in sapphire coercer harness all
chased with gold and amber zircons. Neyal was so tall and thin
that he could only be called gangling. His hair was like wheat
stubble.

"Shaker! I meant to see you when the caravan got in, but
they put me right to work on these Tana-forsaken boats!"

Neyal exchanged cordialities with his fellow High Tabler,

beamed on Tony like the Spirit of Harvest, and proffered a
gauntleted hand. Tony took it with some trepidation, but the
greeting proved to be discreet.

Kuhal said, "May I present our Creative Brother Wayland-
Velkonn, who wears the symbols of Tana's peace only until he
is given into the custody of the High King."

Again Tony experienced the feeling of deja vu. No one had
styled him with his honorific of Velkonn since the City of Lights
went up in flames so long ago ... or was it long?

"A year ago today," said Neyal, going sombre. "And as some
think, the prelude to Nightfall."

Kuhal's opaque blue eyes held warning. "Those who think so
should keep their thoughts to themselves."

Neyal shrugged. "Come aboard with us and hoist a jar," he
invited Kuhal. But the latter declined, saying he had to hurry
back to Castle Gateway.

"I was only summoned to Roniah to act as the King's nego-
tiator in securing the services of Lord Wayland-Velkonn," the
Earthshaker said. "With the Truce upon us, I must make sure
that the platform for the time-gate is completed inside Castle
Gateway before sports fans come north in great numbers for
the Tourney. All manner of spies are abroad these days, and
the King wants the site secured."

Tony looked surprised. "But surely you'll build the Guderian
device outside the castle, where the Milieu side of the warp
opened ..."

Kuhal said, "I would have thought so myself. But the King
sent to us one Dimitri Anastos—late of the outlaw cadre called
Basil's Bastards. This worthy seems to have spent his days in
the Milieu designing upsilon-field equipment, and he presumably
knows something about the theory of temporal plication as well.
At any rate, he cautioned us that our device would not work
unless there was no possibility of interference from the Milieu
device. Our gate must debouch into empty air on Elder Earth."

Tony looked wise. "Right. I see. Just as this end has you
materializing half a metre or so in midair above the open rocky
place fronting Castle Gateway."

"It seems," Kuhal added, "that the tau-field will operate more
or less anywhere within the environs of a certain futuristic city
in the Rhone Valley. The original machine was even moved
about by its inventor. But if one selects a site where

the—uh—shipment would materialize inside an obdurate mass
of matter, then the Guderian device simply will not work."

"Fail safe," Tony noted. "It would be depressing to emerge
from the warp into solid rock. Or even partially embedded in
the wall of a French provincial cottage."

Kuhal said, "This Anastos picked out a suitable spot inside
Castle Gateway. We're building a platform on it, to take into
account the way this region has risen slightly in the six million
years between now and then."

"You will be there at the games, won't you, Shaker?" Neyal
asked. "Our Sasaran lads are ready to put on a good show at
shinty, but we'll need cheering on."

"I'll be there," Kuhal said, "unless our friend does his work
very quickly. In which case I have a previous engagement."

Neyal laughed uncomprehendingly. "Well, see you anon. You
come right along, Velkonn. We'll be casting off straightaway."
He whacked his fist to the nine-pointed star on his cuirass in a
farewell salute and beckoned Tony to follow.

"I—I will do my best," the metallurgist said again to Kuhal.
"Good luck to you and your lady." He turned away and went
slowly down the pier, threading his way through bustling porters.
Lord Neyal was arguing with a truculent silver foreman, waving
his clipboard, and seemed to have forgotten about his passenger.
Tony sat on a mysterious crate for a while, unmolested and
unremarked. Finally the captal of the guard told him he was to
be quartered on the endmost boat, so he ambled on board. The
cabin with his baggage was tiny and drab, so he went out into
the open stern, which projected out toward the mainstream of
the Rhone. The inflated fabric formed a comfortable bench, and
it was pleasant to sit in the sun and watch the other river traffic.
Lord Neyal's promise of an imminent departure turned out to
be a typical Tanu piece of over optimism. An hour passed, then
two. Tony fell asleep.

He woke to an ironic telepathic voice:

Nu if it isn't the prize shlemiel!

He peered groggily about. At first he saw nothing but the
broad river, streaked with maroon and ochre from the sunset,
and the twinkling lamps along the curving esplanade, and the
big torcheres flaming in the twilight at the head of the pier.

Eh! Out on the water shmuck! Upstream 80 metres.

Tony strained to focus his farsense. His eyes made out a dark

narrow blob, some kind of rivercraft. His mind-sight, still muzzy
from sleep, sorted out a rough-hewn figure leaning on the
gunwale and watching him.

Tony said: Chief Burke.

Burke said: The same. I thought you'd be sold down the river
by now.

Tony said coolly: Any hour now. This bunch is about as
efficient as you Lowlives.

Burke said: Touche bubi. But you don't have anything to
worry about you know. I made sure Aiken Drum would treat
you right before I even agreed to bring you into Roniah. Not
that I could tell the rest of my people that.

Tony said: I hope you held out for more than a string of
wampum and a return ticket to Utopia Limited in exchange for
me.

Burke said: We also got this powerboat plus all the weaponry
we could carry. Now we're on our way to Nionel where the
rest of our Hidden Springs folks have gone to escape Firvulag
raiders.

Tony said: Nionel?

Burke said: Not many Lowlives left in the Vosges. Or
anywhere else in the Firvulag stamping grounds. Nionel is about
our only alternative to joining up with Aiken Drum . . . until
the time-gate reopens.

Tony said: Well ta-ta and don't bother to write.

Burke said: No hard feelings?

Tony said: Number 10 on Moh's Scale will suffice.

Burke said: Nasty nasty. And I was trying to be Kemosabe.

Tony said: Burke . . . my wife's in Nionel. I left her. I was
an ass. I'll try to contact her but if anything happens will you
tell her I'll try to come back somehow? This is what she looks
like. [Image.] Her name is Rowane.

Burke said: I'll tell her. She looks like a sweetminded little
lady. Shalom bubi. Keep out of trouble for a change.

Tony didn't bother to answer. He sat with his head down and
the world blotted out, sequestered in the golden solitude of his
torc. Two more hours passed. Lord Neyal's minions, having
finally finished the loading, were now obliged to hunt out the
riverboat crews among the taverns and knocking shops of the
waterfront. The guard on the pier was assiduously maintained.

Tony was roused from his reverie when something sharp

jabbed him in the breastbone. He opened his eyes with an
indignant squawk and saw a heavy-set man dressed in outlaw
rags at the other end of an iron-tipped lance.

"Keep your trap shut, Lowlife," said a harsh whisper. "If
you move or farspeak, I'll skewer you like a broiled lark."

Some kind of rude boarding ladder had been hooked over the
stern. The ruffian climbed up and was immediately followed by
a dozen or so comrades. Two had Matsu carbines and the rest
carried iron weapons.

"How many people on this tub?" enquired the leading rascal.

"I didn't see anyone but the knight guarding the gangplank,"
Tony replied. The spear shifted to his Adam's apple and began
to prick. "For God's sake believe me! I'm only a bloody
passenger. A prisoner!" He held up the glass chains. "Most of
the soldiers were out on the dock when I came aboard. That
was hours ago."

"Search the boat," ordered the spearman.

There were soft splashes out among the other moored vessels.
The moon was not yet up and the Rhone, swathed in mist, was
nearly pitch-black just a few metres off the sternrail. Sounds of
music and jollity arose from the region beyond the cordon, and
Roniah's faerie lights were all turned on, spangling the buildings
with amber and blue. It seemed likely that the city was prematu-
rely celebrating the Truce, and the departure of the convoy had
been postponed in spite of royal orders to the contrary.

Most of the boarding party had gone off to investigate the
inner reaches of Tony's boat. "You're making a big mistake,
you know," he hissed urgently. "You Lowlives don't have to
steal from the Tanu cities any more. There's an amnesty. I
suppose you're after weapons."

"Smart little nipper, isn't he, Pingol?" observed a hulking
villain armed with a zapper.

"Too damn smart." The iron lance drew a gentle semicircle
from one of Tony's ears to the other, snicking his golden torc
en route. "On the other hand, his metapsychic powers are pretty
pitiful, as any fool can plainly see, and he's a fucking coward
to boot. So why is he wearing gold? To say nothing of the
Goddess's holy fetters?"

The tall Matsu carrier leaned forward, face nearly concealed
by a great mop of greasy dark hair. The outlaw's breath made
Tony reel. "What's your name, squeak-poop?"

"I'm Lord Velkonn!"

The lance tip hovered in front of Tony's left eyeball and
the spearman spoke in tones of silken menace. "Your human
name."

The words tumbled from Tony's lips. "Tony Wayland. But
you shouldn't be doing this, I tell you! Chief Burke got a load
of arms in exchange for me. He's off to take them to your
people in Nionel. If you carry out this raid, the King might be
so pissed that he cancels your amnesty! As for me, they'll never
get the Guderian device built without my help, and if you harm
me, your Lowlife mates who want to return to the Milieu will
have your sweetbreads on toast!"

The tall invader drew back and exclaimed, "Tony Wayland?"

"Te in a tapdance, what're you all shat up over?" the
spearman growled to his companion. "Let's snuff this bloodless
turnip and—"

One of the outlaws who had gone forward came dashing to
report. "Captain Pingol! Captain Fouletot! Great tidings. There
was but a lone Tanu knight guarding the vessel within, and she
succumbed to our blood-metal. The other vessels at this pier
seem to be similarly neglected, although there are numerous
greys patrolling the esplanade. Shall I signal the other boarding
parties?"

"Deliver the command in person," said the spearman. "No
farspeech, lest the Foe overhear." His features now shone with
a foxfire luminosity and there was something curiously insub-
stantial about his form.

Tony took a shuddering breath. "You aren't Lowlives!"

The pair chuckled in malevolent unison.

The dwarfish bearer of good news added gleefully. "We
opened a crate in the cargo compartment. Praise be to Te, it
was as our spies foretold! The crate was full of Milieu
weapons!"

"Advise the Lord Betularn White Hand at once," said the
spearman. He and his compeer were changing before Tony's
horrified eyes, throwing off their Lowlife disguise and resuming
their natural shapes. One was a gnome and the other a female
ogre. Both wore the obsidian mail of officers in the battle-
company of King Sharn and Queen Ayfa.

"And also tell Betularn that we have in our power the
infamous Tony Wayland," said the ogress Fouletot, "the same

who murdered the Dreadful Skathe, my valiant kinswoman, and
the hero Karbree the Worm,"

The messenger saluted and clambered back over the stern, to
disappear in darkness.

"What are you going to do with me?" Tony asked faintly.

"Trade you to King Aiken-Lugonn for our sacred Sword,"
Pingol replied with a leer. "Eventually."

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Happy Nameday! Happy Nameday! Slitsal to young Smudger!"
The great hall in High Vrazel rocked with applause as the
seven-year-old eldest son of the Firvulag royal couple was led
onto the dais by his Sponsor-Brother, the hero Medor. To mark
his promotion from the estate of infant to that of youth, the
child was outfitted in a miniature suit of glittering jet armour,
adorned with green crystalline spikes and knobs. His helmet
was crested with an emerald wart-biter with wings aggressively
spread. He peeped from the open visor rather apprehensively
as the tumult died down and the mob strained forward in antici-
pation of his First Manifestation.

"Doesn't he look wonderful?" Ayfa whispered to her
husband, wiping away a tear. They were concealed behind a
stalagmite so that the sight of them in their regal paraphernalia
would not increase the child's nervousness. "Our firstborn! And
what a marvellous present for all of us on his Nameday . . ."
"Hush," said the King. "Medor's beginning."
"Battle-companions, stalwart youths, and infants!" declaimed
the hero. "We gather here tonight to celebrate the passage by
ordeal of one of our number from the state of noncombatant
dependency into the ranks of Warrior Youth! Here he takes his
first step along our sacred Way—the path to glory commanded
by our Goddess of Battles from time immemorial. As all fighting
candidates do, he will find the Way an arduous one. He will
spend his young strength in mind-bending study and martial-
arts training. He will serve his elders with a humble and loyal
heart. He will carry out the commands of his Sponsor-Brother

even to laying down his life ... so that in Te's good time he
may himself be admitted to the Battle-Company of the Firvulag
Nation!"

The crowd howled the ritual query: "Who is he? Who is he?"

Medor's towering black form and the lad's small one stood
with hands linked. "I knew him from his cradle days—as I knew
his father and his father's father before him. We have seen him
at play with his brothers and sisters in the coverts and byways
of High Vrazel. Of late, we have welcomed him to feasts
and ceremonies. Some of us have been his teachers and ordeal
coaches. Others have admonished him when infantile high spirits
temporarily distracted him from his duties."

The other children in the hall giggled. The adults clamoured:
"Who is he?"

"For six years we have called him by his baby name, Smudger.
But tonight he sets that aside forever, along with the other
insignia of infant dependency, and takes on his one, true name."
Medor stepped behind the boy and placed his hands on the
small shoulders. "With confidence and love, I call him: Sharn-
Ador! Stand forth and manifest!"

"Here it comes," Ayfa whispered tremulously. "O Goddess,
don't let him muff it."

Medor drew back, leaving the armoured boy alone at the
front of the platform. Sharn-Ador lifted his hands high and
began to shine with a pulsating green light. His body lost its
humanoid form and shape-shifted into the aspect of a translucent
emerald locust with rainbow-tinted wings and fierce, clashing
mandibles. He grew until he was quite as tall as the ogre behind
him.

The crowd roared: "Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal! Slitsal! And
then they fell silent as the psychoamplified voice of the boy
echoed through the cave.

"I stand before you as a youth. And to thank you for your
acclaim, I have the honour to announce a great triumph of our
Battle-Company! The hero Betularn of the White Hand and
his deputies, Fouletot Blackbreast, Pingol the Horripilant, and
Monolokee the Scunnersome have won a signal victory in the
Foe's city of Roniah!"

The audience gasped, then broke into a bedlam of shouts and
cheers. The illusory grasshopper bounded exuberantly up and
down, up and down, barely dodging the captive banners and

gilded skulls that dripped from the multicoloured rock forma-
tions of the cavern roofs. "We beat 'em! We beat 'em!" the
shape-shifted lad chirped. Then he settled back onto the dais,
recouped his dignity, and announced: "Not one hour ago, our
warriors attacked a superior force of bloodthirsty Tanu knights
and destroyed them utterly! And loot—! I mean, the spoils
of victory included a whacking big collection of crazy future
weapons!" Joyous bellows greeted this, but the child persisted:
"Wait, wait, that's not all! We also put the snatch on that
turdling butcher Tony Wayland! Right this minute, Fouletot and
Pingol are getting ready to zorch off the brute's arms and legs
and make him eat his own barbecued privities!"

Aaaaah! exulted the vengeful minds of the mob.

The child reassumed his own natural form and bowed modest-
ly. "And I don't mind saying, I don't think anyone ever had
such a terrific Nameday as me."

"Slitsal, Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal!"

"My baby!" cried Ayfa, going all misty-eyed.

But the King had gripped her arm suddenly. "Great
Goddess!" he barked. "Look there!"

The plaudits of the crowd gave way to expressions of stupefac-
tion. Young Sharn-Ador stood transfixed with dismay, staring
toward the unoccupied twin thrones at the rear of the dais,
before which a patch of scintillating golden fog now coalesced.

In the midst of it stood a small figure in a suit all covered
with pockets. A jewelled baldric and powerpack harness was
fastened about his shoulders and waist, and he had a great
diamond-bladed Sword in one hand. With the other he beckoned
to the paralysed child.

"I've got one more present for you, kid."

Sharn, Ayfa, and Medor rushed out onto the platform,
weapons raised and minds roaring fury. Serrated obsidian blades
smote the golden manikin—only to pass through thin air and
clang upon the flags of the platform, cutting the carpet to
ribbons. Aiken stood unharmed.

"Idiots," he said. "I'm a mental projection."

The two monarchs and their Great Captain fell back in confu-
sion. The spectators were mute and motionless. Little Sharn-
Ador piped up: "What present?"

Aiken brandished the Sword.

Oooooh, crooned the monster horde.

Aiken said, "I want Tony Wayland and you want the Sword.
We can do business—but only if Wayland is completely
unharmed. You'd better farspeak your flunkies in Roniah and
see to it."

King Sharn glowered, but his mind was simultaneously
communicating on the intimate mode.

Queen Ayfa said, "It may be true that the murderer Tony
Wayland is now in our custody. If so, we will consider turning
him over to you in exchange for our sacred Sword."

"And the ten boatloads of weapons you managed to get away
with," Aiken demanded, "before the patrols and Lord Neyal's
stalwarts got their asses in gear and chased your gang of sneak
thieves across the river."

"We know nothing about any boats or weapons," said Ayfa
blandly. "We have heard that Roniah was attacked tonight by
Lowlives. But the Firvulag Nation holds to the Armistice, as
always."

"So that's the line you're going to take, is it?" Aiken's simula-
crum twirled the heavy Sword, filling the mountain hall with
dancing prismatic lights.

"That's it, Aik," Sharn said. "You want Wayland, he's yours.
You fly the Sword personally to Betularn tomorrow, the first
day of the Truce. He'll meet you on the Northern Track two
leagues above Roniah. He's leading a peaceful exploration party
in the Hercynian Forest at the moment. That's where Wayland
was captured."

"Tony told Katlinel the Darkeyed another story," Aiken said.

"Lowlives are such liars," said the Firvulag King.

Ayfa said, "We only deal on a no-questions-asked basis.
Wayland for the Sword. Take it or leave it."

"Oh, I'll take it," said the little man. "Tomorrow then.
Around sunset. And no tricks, or you'll regret it."

Ayfa's face assumed an expression of cynical solicitude. "Are
you quite sure you feel up to flying all the way from Goriah
with that heavy Sword? We wouldn't want you to strain yourself,
dear."

"Your concern is touching," Aiken replied earnestly. "But I
guess if I can sustain an astral projection through a klom and a
half of solid rock, I'll be able to muddle through on the flit. See
you all at the Grand Tourney." The golden figure began to
shimmer, then abruptly resolidified, strode over to young Sharn-

Ador, and tapped him briefly on each pauldron with the flat of
the Sword. "Almost forgot. I hereby dub thee an honorary Tanu
knight. Stride boldly, Lord Ador the Wart-Biter! Come and see
me sometime, kid—and happy Nameday."

With that, the Tanu King disappeared.

The assembly of Firvulag all began to shout at once, some in
triumph, some in indignation at the brazen behaviour of the
regal Foe. The child in armour turned to his parents with a
shining face.

"Father! Mums! Did you see what he did?"

Ayfa and Sharn's eyes met above their son's head. "We saw,"
said the King bleakly. He knelt down, grasped the child, and
exclaimed: "You will repudiate the base accolade! Aiken Drum
is the Foe, destined to fall before my sacred Sword in the
Nightfall War, and you are a warrior youth, not to be distracted
from our glorious Way by idle gestures! Do you understand?
Say that you repudiate him!"

"I do," cried the child. "I do." And he turned and ran from
the dais with his visor down to hide his woe.

VEIKKO: Walter! Walter!

WALTER: . . . Oh, son. Are you all right? I tried to farspeak you
earlier but there was no reply, and I was so worried.

VEIKKO: We had a lot going on around here to keep us busy.
The Famorel Firvulag attacked Camp Bettaforca around 1900
hours. Another bunch of them ambushed the climbing team
this morning. One of the climbers was killed but the others
are all right. They've rendezvoused with Basil in Camp 1 and
plan to start out for the summit at first light.

WALTER: Never mind them! How are you and Irena? Your
thoughts are so weak—

VEIKKO: Well, it's nearly dawn here and Old Sol is starting to
hash me out. But I'm fine and so is Rena.

WALTER: Thank God. Tell me about it.

VEIKKO: [Event replay.] It was only bad at the start of their
attack, when they were using the tight metaconcert to shield
themselves and direct the psychoenergetic blasts. The elite
golds and the Tanu knights got the worst of that. Four humans
and one exotic killed. But then the spooks let mental discipline
slip and went one on one. Our people mowed them down like
sawgrass in a hurricane with the heavy blasters once they let

the multiple mind-screen slip. None of us kids was even
singed. The action was over at least two hours ago, but I was
feeling a bit rocky—reacting to the violence, I guess. It's taken
me this long to pull myself together so I could bespeak you.
I'm sorry you were worried.

WALTER: It's all right. Just so you're safe.

VEIKKO: We must have killed 60 or 70 Firvulag. The rest just
ran away.

WALTER: Any chance of further attacks?

VEIKKO: Our Tanu leader, Ochal, says the Firvulag won't fight
now that their Truce has began. We'll be safe from here on
in, I think.

WALTER: Wonderful.

VEIKKO: . . . Daddy? Did you do it?

WALTER: Yes. Alex Manion and I wrecked every one. We took
Boom-Boom's cutting torch from the shop and burned the
EM pulsars to slag. Melted down the spare parts, too. You
can tell the Little King that he won't have to worry about
being attacked with X-lasers. I just wish we could have got
the rest of the weapons. But they're stored too near the CE
rig's hold. Too many sensors about.

VEIKKO: Did—did Marc find out yet?

WALTER: Don't worry about it, son. I broke Kyllikki's autopilot
after we finished the job on the zappers. There's a whole
chain of storms brewing along our path. Marc's not about to
kill me and chance having the ship sink. Not with the CE rig's
powerplant on board.

VEIKKO: Marc could do worse than kill you. I still remember
how he turned Hagen into a fish and played him!

WALTER: He didn't really.

VEIKKO: So it was an illusion. But Hag still has the scar on his
mouth from the barb. Psychosomatic. That's even worse.

WALTER: You said that the climbing party is ready to leave Camp
1. How long before they can reach the aircraft?

VEIKKO: If everything goes well, about three days. I'll keep you
posted. Now . . . tell the others the great news . . . when I
think of the risk . . . worry . . . how you ...

WALTER: You're skipping out, son. Catch you later. I'm gone.

Walter Saastamoinen let his eyes come back into focus and flick
momentarily to the wind-trend readout, then to the marine

scanner. Ominous high cirrus clouds streaked the northern
horizon, but otherwise it was a beautiful sunny morning on the
North Atlantic.

"Congratulations on the survival of your son," Marc said.

Walter nodded. "I don't suppose you happened to d-jump in
on that little scene and help the kids out?"

"The base camp was adequately defended. They didn't
require my assistance. Earlier, I did help to precipitate an
avalanche down around the ears of the other Firvulag force—the
one menacing the climbing party."

"That was kind of you. I wonder why you bother, though?"

"It takes guts to tackle that mountain. I have a certain admir-
ation for those with unmitigated gall."

Walter smiled, watching the sea. "Is that why you let me
live?"

Marc did not reply.

"But you made an example of me, nonetheless. I'm curious.
Is there a reason why you chose . . . this particular form of
discipline?"

"We're on shipboard," Marc said, "and I was reminded
somehow of the tale of the Little Mermaid. She insisted upon
abandoning her own kind and paid a severe price for it—as you
have. The mermaid wanted legs rather than her fish's tail, and
her wish was granted. But whenever she walked, it seemed to
her that she trod upon invisible knives."

The bridge door opened and Steve Vanier came in. "Eight
bells and all's well! I relieve you at the helm, skipper. How're
you, Marc? Ready to take one of us along with you on the
jump?"

"Not quiet yet, Steve. I want to minimize the risk factor."

Vanier was studying the instrumentation. He frowned. "I see
George is down again."

Walter said, "I'm afraid so, Steve. Just maintain course on
manual."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Marc said, "Would you like me to give you a hand to your
cabin, Walter?"

"Appreciate it," Kyllikki's master said. Leaning heavily on
Marc, he limped toward the door. He was wearing only heavy
woollen socks on his feet, and he left a trail of dark stains on
the deck behind him.

At Vanier's horrified exclamation, he grinned and said, "Bit
by a goddam mermaid. Wake me if the wind tops thirty knots,
and don't bother asking Arne-Rolf to try fixing the autopilot.
When I break a thing, it stays broken.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Another storm struck Monte Rosa on the third day of the
principal assault. Fortunately, the climbers had been given
ample warning of its approach by Elizabeth, who tracked them
almost constantly with her farsight. Led by Basil, the seven-man
party pushed off from Camp 2 before dawn and moved up the
spur of Middle Tine in deceptively perfect weather. Aside from
the altitude sickness that had begun to afflict both Tanu, the
trek was uneventful. The climbers traversed the upper
Bettaforca Glacier as awesome cumulonimbus clouds reared
above the alabaster Breithorn to the west. Static electricity
charged the air, making the scalp crawl and the torc sing odd,
buzzing melodies as a counterpoint to the tympanic rumbles of
the approaching storm.

No sooner had they settled into the two decamole huts of
Camp 3 than a titanic lightning bolt, pink in the gathering murk,
blasted Monte Rosa's summit. The polycell structure of the
decamole was an excellent insulator—a fact they gave thanks
for during the next hour or so, when a pyrotechnic display of
stunning violence seemed to shake the massif to its roots. Then
hail rattled down, followed by thick snow, and the wind howled
up a hurricane.

But Camp 3 was nestled snugly in the lee of a rock cleaver at
7039 metres, and the seven people inside were safe and warm.
Farspoken reassurances from Ochal the Harper at base camp
told them that Taffy Evans and Magnus had finally brought Stan
and Phronsie to safety. The reduction in altitude had eased
Stan's edema, and Magnus seemed confident that the former
starfleet officer would recover in time to pilot a flyer back to
Goriah. Phronsie's frostbitten feet were responding to treat-
ment. Dr. Thongsa's body had been retrieved and interred in a

rock cairn. The assault party was encouraged to proceed with
all dispatch, since even the pickled slugs were running low in
Camp Bettaforca's commissary.

Late that night, when the storm had nearly blown itself out,
Elizabeth bespoke Bleyn the Champion in Camp 3.

ELIZABETH: Do you hear, Bleyn?

BLEYN: Yes, Elizabeth. I was not asleep, nor is Aronn. But the
humans fill the second hut with their snores so as to drown
out even the roar of the tempest.

ELIZABETH: [Mind-smile.] They are well, then?

BLEYN: Basil is a prodigy of strength. Ookpik, Bengt, and Nazir
are weary but fit. The one called Mr. Betsy complains vocifer-
ously at every opportunity but seems second only to Basil in
stamina.

ELIZABETH: And you Tanu?

BLEYN: [Malaise.] Both Aronn and I suffer greatly from head-
ache, shortness of breath, and muscle weakness. Basil thinks
our large exotic bodies have not acclimatized to the high
altitude as readily as those of the humans. We are trying to
consume additional fluids and redact one another through the
night.

ELIZABETH: [Concern.] Wouldn't sleep be more therapeutic?

BLEYN: You know that we Tanu naturally require less sleep than
your race. We are far more comfortable awake, when we can
maintain our respiration at a higher rate and alleviate the
effects of anoxia.

ELIZABETH: Well ... be careful. I understand that mountain
sickness can afflict the strong as well as the less rugged among
humans. This is doubtless true among Tanu as well.

BLEYN: Tomorrow we reach the high point of our journey. We
will endure ... Do you have the route selected for us? I have
the chart ready to mark.

ELIZABETH: [Image.] It seems that the snowy ridge above Camp
3 still provides your best access to the Col. After the storm
the snow will be deeper and you can expect soft and slow
going. Tell Basil there are dangerous cornices that have
formed within the saddle of the Col, so he can no longer
count upon using that route. You'll have to traverse the hard-
frozen snowfield at the foot of Rosa's West Face. It means

an additional climb, I'm afraid, but only about 400 metres
total gain.

BLEYN: to 8210! Goddess sustain us. The breath burns in my
lungs at the very thought.

ELIZABETH: But from then on, it's downhill all the way—and in
good weather. You should have clear blue skies for at least
three days.

BLEYN: Tana willing, there is a good chance we may even reach
the aircraft tomorrow. Did the storms bury them?

ELIZABETH: They're still quite visible. Only slightly hidden in
drifts.

BLEYN: Something hidden. Go and find it. Something lost behind
the Ranges . . . [laughter].

ELIZABETH: [Anxiety.]

BLEYN: No—it's only a silly poem that Basil quoted to us, a
human glorification of adventures such as this one. I find the
poem, and the attitude it celebrates, incomprehensible. Yet
of the five humans in our party, only Mr. Betsy has the
good sense to despise and abominate our travels through this
terrible place. The others are thrilled at the prospect of the
mountain's conquest! . . . Tell me, Elizabeth. Is it true that
in your future world, humans climb peaks such as this purely
for sport?

ELIZABETH: Quite true.

BLEYN: How will we ever understand your race!

ELIZABETH: If I told you, you would never believe it.

In the morning, Bleyn and Aronn felt better. Basil decided to
revert to their original climbing configuration of two parties.
He, Betsy, and Bleyn led the way, with Ookpik, Bengt, Nazir,
and Aronn following some fifteen minutes behind. The snow on
the ridge was knee-deep, and very soft after the early morning
sun went to work on it. Basil's team ploughed ahead breaking
trail for three tedious hours; then Ookpik's group had their
turn. In some places, the humans floundered nearly waist-deep,
but it was the long-legged Tanu who seemed most depleted by
the effort. Aronn, especially, had gone ashen-faced and sluggish.
He seemed confused by Ookpik's simplest orders and found it
difficult to keep up with the modest pace set by the humans in
the team.

By noon the climbers had nearly attained the elevation of the
West Col. Basil decreed a lunch halt in a sheltered snow hollow.

"Do you see that foggy glitter ahead?" He pointed up the
slope. "It's wind, blowing through the Col, and it means the
end of this beastly soft stuff. However, I'm afraid we'll have
to—er—lean into it a bit crossing the snowfield on the upper
slope. The traverse will be short, but possibly rather grim, until
we get down onto the northern flank and out of the venturi-
effect wind. What we need now is good hot food, and plenty to
drink. Soup and sweet tea. Dehydration is one of our deadliest
enemies now. It aggravates the fatigue and hypothermia and
mountain sickness and other stresses on our bodies."

"The worst stress I suffer is when I look into a mirror," Mr.
Betsy complained. "My poor nose and cheeks are sunburned to
a frazzle!"

Ookpik thrust a portable stove and a large decamole pot at
him. "Go melt snow and spare us the bitching and I'll let you
have some of my rhinoceros lard. It's only a little rancid."

"Ugh!" cried Betsy and flounced off.

Basil beckoned to Bleyn and led him apart from the others.
"I'm quite worried about Aronn. His condition seems to be
deteriorating."

"I have noted it." The Champion's eyes turned to his Guild
Brother, who sat apathetically in front of an infrared heating
unit, holding an untasted chocolate bar in one mittened hand.

"We'll have to go roped on the slope," Basil said. "There
may be some steep pitches of ice and the wind will be severe.
I'm afraid it's out of the question for Aronn to continue as tail-
man to Ookpik's team. If he should fall, his great weight would
tear the other three loose. They would slide down the slick
chute into the lap of the Col, perhaps more than a thousand
metres."

"Very likely," said the Tanu.

"I have seen other climbers with Aronn's symptoms," Basil
went on. "I must tell you that there is a chance of your friend
becoming irrational. He could panic, even become madly
euphoric and decide to throw away his ice-axe, or go dancing
about the slope. Will you be able to control him through your
golden torc?"

"I can coerce him, certainly. But Aronn is a stalwart psycho-
kinetic , and if he becomes crazed he may override my compulsion.

When persons of my race suffer mental disorder, it is redaction
and not coercion that they require—and my brain, impelled by
self-preservation, concentrates this faculty willy-nilly to my own
benefit. There is another problem. Even though I am normally
Aronn's coercive superior, his powers may at times exceed my
own when he is stimulated by aberrant mental impulses."

Basil said, "We cannot leave Aronn here and we cannot turn
back. Once we get across the Col, we can put him into a deca-
mole sledge for the downhill slog. But somehow, he's going to
have to make it across that snowfield. I propose that we transfer
Betsy to Ookpik's rope. You and I will be Aronn's ropemates.
We will lead the way, and I will provide—uh—bombproof belays
all the way."

"Aronn weighs near one hundred and eighty of your kilos.
Would this not put you at considerable hazard? I myself am
greatly weakened. I do not think I could sustain Aronn with my
psychokinesis. It would have to be done physically."

"We could put him between us—"

"And if all three of us should fall," Bleyn said starkly, "who
will lead the others to the aircraft? Ookpik, I will remind you,
is not nearly so experienced in alpine mountaineering as was
the late Thongsa. My orders from the King command me to
retrieve the aircraft at any cost."

"We will not abandon Aronn." Basil was firm.

"No," Bleyn agreed softly. "But you will lead the others in
a five-man team, and I and my Guild Brother will follow, roped
together. We will trust in Tana to sustain us. If we fall, it is her
will."

Basil said, "If you fall, we humans will come to the aircraft
with no Tanu overlord to compel us! How do you know we
won't abscond with a ship and fly to freedom? Neither you nor
the King could coerce us at long distance."

"There is no need to coerce you. I have said that humans are
impossible to understand—but I was wrong. I understand you
well enough, Basil, to know that you will do as you have
promised, whether or not Aronn or I survive."

The don gave a diffident nod. "That's all right, then. Shall
we get on with it?"

The wind screamed. Its chill factor, Basil estimated, was prob-
ably better than minus sixty Celsius. He felt his face congealing

inside the rime-coated fur ruff of his anorak hood. His fingers
grew more and more numb with the cutting of each step in the
tough white ice. He sank an ice screw, made fast, and said:
Belay on! Climb away.

Ookpik said: Climbing. He scuttled quickly across the freshly
cut footholds, then anchored himself in turn. Meanwhile Basil
was chopping, chopping, cramponing along, with Ookpik
belayed and braced against a possible fall of the leader. As the
line of slots extended across the steep slope, Bengt followed on
the rope, then Nazir, then Betsy; and ten metres or so in the
rear and dropping farther and farther behind came the two
Tanu.

Basil swung his axe in time to the rhythm of his labouring
heart. His lungs strained to extract oxygen from the thin, frigid
air and the pain drove him to greater effort. Faster. He worked
out to the end of the rope that Ookpik had secured, chopping
ice with as much speed as he dared; for speed was the only thing
that would bring them out of the screaming wind that was
freezing them slowly to death. Basil knew it and Bleyn the
Champion knew it. The others were too weak and miserable to
care.

Basil said: How Aronn doing Bleyn?

Bleyn said: Weak very weak halfstupefied but no mania Tana-
bethanked he responds my coercion.

Basil said: We angling down now. Steep steep pitch but near
end perhaps 200 metres farther to safe shelf. Do you all heart
Not far now!

A few minds responded with formless transmissions.

The wind screamed.

Basil cut steps.

The line of five small figures and two larger ones now slanted
downhill on the shining white slope above the Col. The air was
brilliantly clear. No cloud marred the azure sky. High above
them, Monte Rosa formed a monolith of heart-wrenching purity.
Almost all of her western face had been freshly plastered with
snow by the late storm and she stood pristine.

A virgin mountain! Basil thought. The virgin queen of moun-
tains, perhaps the highest Earth has ever borne. You will be
mine. You will.

He cut steps.

Suddenly they were again in a region of swirling light snow,

approaching a rock wall topped by a curling snow cornice. The
wind scream diminished to a howl, to a moan, to a sob. Basil
took a final step off the perilous forty-five degree slope onto
crunchy level ice, thinly snow-clad. The cornice overhung him
and looked as solid as white plascrete. Grey rocks coated with
transparent ice jutted from its base. By moving a couple of
metres farther on, Basil was able to see around the shoulder of
the outcropping down the North Face of the mountain.

The Inner Helvetides, the Pliocene Alps, fell away in serrated
waves to the horizon. From here, they would do down.

He said: Belay on! Come across! We've made it chaps!

There were feebly jubilant mind-shouts from the humans.
Ookpik appeared out of the sparkling surface blizzard, and then
Bengt, grinning broadly. Nazir moved with agonized care to
safety, breathing a prayer of thanks to Allah. Then there was
Betsy, whacking sturdily at the final step with his axe to improve
the crumbling foothold.

Basil called: Bleyn?

I am here.

Basil said. Come along. Can't be ten metres.

Bleyn said: I regret most deeply.

Through their torcs the humans saw an image: A great body
half-kneeling on a slanted, glaring whiteness. Cramponed feet
wedged insecurely into two small holes. Arms stretched
overhead gripping the shafts of implanted ice-axe and sharpnose
hammer. From the belt of the harness a taut rope. At its end,
five metres below, another form supine on the ice-slick, sliding
lower centimetre by centimetre as the sustaining hands of the
man above slipped from the shafts of his tools.

Basil cried: Mindstogetherall! COME BLEYN. HOLD.

They all wished it, compelled it: COME BLEYN. HOLD.

Bleyn's flexed knees stiffened against gravity, against the pull
of Aronn's dead weight. His nerveless hands gripped the tool
shafts. He forced himself up.

COME BLEYN. HOLD. HOLD.

Slowly, one arm bent, wrenching the poorly anchored axe
free. Chink! Bleyn swung, reembedding the pick. He held.

Basil said: Wraprock Ookpik belayme strong. HOLD BLEYN
I COME.

The others said: HOLD BLEYN HOLD.

Ookpik said: Belayrockfast. Gogogo.

Basil said: Climbing climbing. HOLD BLEYN.
Bleyn said: I regret most deeply. I cannot hold.
Ookpik said: Gotem Basil gotem? Fast? HOLDHOLDHOLD

Bleyn fell.

Basil screamed: Holdholdhold!

He fell.

The three bodies hurtled down the ice, gathering momentum,
then arrested with a crashing jar as they came to the end of
Basil's firmly clipped rope. The don lifted his bruised head and
grinned up at Ookpik. "They both seem to be unconscious," he
called, "but I've got them quite securely."

"And I've got your rope fast to the winch cable," said Mr.
Betsy in triumph. "Ready to haul whenever you are, darling."

Basil said: Oh God now you fucking idiot!

"Tsk tsk," Betsy chided, switching the mechanism on.

After they had rested and recovered a little, they began the
descent. It was cautious at first, with the two Tanu lashed to
sledges. But then they found a broad avalanche runnel that had
already dumped, and Basil said: "All aboard for the short cut!"
He showed the others what to do, each man according to his
expertise, and sent them skidding and otter-sliding and tobog-
ganing down more than a thousand metres of slope, whooping
and screeching. And when they were safe he came down himself
in a rooster-tailing glissade, schussbooming on the soles of his
boots and broadcasting a great mind-roar of joy into the aether
that reached not only Elizabeth and their colleagues on the
other side of the mountain, but even the King in faraway Goriah.

And Aiken said: Well done.

After a long interval, Basil said (this time via Elizabeth's
relay): Thank you sir.

Aiken said: I understand that Bleyn and Aronn had to be
carried down.

Basil said: They are recovering inside one of the reactivated
aircraft High King. Its environmental system is providing sea-
level oxygen concentration. They should be fully restored within
a day or two.

Aiken said: Good good. So you lit up a flyer without much
trouble?

Basil said: Several are easily accessible. Their powerplants

must be recharged with distilled water of course and there will
be labour involved in freeing some of them from the snowdrifts.
No serious problems are foreseen.

Aiken said: Kaleidoscopic! It's all right then . . .

Basil said: Yes.

Aiken said: Name your gratuity.

Basil said: One day's rest. Then while the others get on with
the ferrying and reactivation I wish to climb to the summit of
Monte Rosa. Alone. If I have not returned after three days you
will assume that I have perished in the attempt. No one must
risk his life or these aircraft in futile rescue manoeuvres. This
is the only personal request I make of you.

Aiken said: It is granted.

Phronsie Gillis set aside her book-plaque of Grey Lensman and
stared out of the flight-deck port of Old Number One at the
thickening blizzard. "Sweet chariot, just look at that snow. If
it's coming down like this on top of the mountain, poor Basil's
quickfrozen by now. He hasn't got a Chinaman's chance."

Miss Wang looked up from her feng-huang embroidery and
said plaintively, "I wish you would use less offensive
metaphors."

"Honey," Phronsie retorted, "I got insults for every race,
ethnic group, religious faith, and sexual orientation. Nothin'
personal."

Miss Wang hung her head and sniffled. "Basil was a good
leader. I shall miss him."

"We all will," said Stan Dziekonski. He slapped his cards on
the navigator's tank. "Gin."

The three other cardplayers tossed in their hands gloomily.
"Can't you catch anything with your farsight?" Ookpik
demanded of Bleyn.

The Champion shook his great blond head. "It's the storm.
If Elizabeth is frustrated in her attempts to locate Basil, how
shall I hope to succeed? And there is no response to our tele-
pathic calls."

"We have already waited longer than the specified time,"
Ochal the Harper told them. "We'll have to go."

"Damn the specified time!" Phronsie shouted, whacking the
console of Old Number One with her book. "You go off with
Stan and Ooky in Number Two, Lord Harper, and let us

hang on here another day. Bleyn won't mind—will you,
Champ?"

Bleyn said, "Both ships must go, Phronsie. We are the last,
and it was Basil himself who laid down the conditions."

"He did," said Miss Wang in a small miserable voice. She
wiped her nose on her sleeve, took the pilot's seat, and began
the preflight very slowly. "Phronsie, please take the power
readouts."

There was a collective exhalation of breath from the others.
Stan said, "Well, guess Ooky and Lord Harper and I better slog
back to Two."

"Yes," said Bleyn. "See you in Goriah."

The departing trio pulled up hoods, zipped anoraks, and
stuffed their hands into mittens. They shuffled back to the belly
hatch. When Miss Wang cracked it open, the blizzard moaned
a dirge.

"Rho-field generators looking good," said Phronsie. "Envi-
ronmentals go. Hatch secure."

Miss Wang stifled a sob. "R-power to the external web. Wings
back full. Ready for lift."

Phronsie spoke into the RF com. "You guys safe in Two,
come back?"

"Affirm," said Ookpik. "And Harper did another scan while
we were outside. Zip to the nth. But Basil's where he wanted
to be."

"Damn muffer could have planned it that way," Phronsie
growled. "It wouldn't surprise me one little bit ... Oh, for
God's sake, get us out of here, Wang!"

On the pinnacle of Monte Rosa, Basil sat secure in his snowcave
until the hurricane roar of the wind died away. Then he plied
his vitredur shovel and tunnelled out. The sky above was velvet
black, dusted with subtly coloured stars. A vast cloud deck
blanketed the world below 8000 metres. Off to the west, two
purplish streaks like dying meteorites arced out of sight behind
the Proto-Matterhorn.

Basil sat down on a compacted pile of snow, stretching his
legs with extreme caution. There were crackling sounds from
the left tibia and the right ankle. Stars not of the cosmos danced
momentarily before his eyes and he gasped out loud. The torn
knees of his grintlaskin outer pants and down trousers were

black with frozen blood. He had stumped up the last two or
three hundred metres after the fall. It had been rather easy,
actually; but the granular snow had torn his clothing like broken
glass, and he'd had to dig in precipitously before the blizzard
struck.

He swivelled slowly about, surveying his world. His breath
made frosty nebulae that drifted off into the void, one puff
following another at shorter and shorter intervals. The warning
band of constriction about his chest tightened with each filling
of his lungs. He was very happy.

The overwhelming cold lanced at his unprotected eyes and so
he closed them and felt immediately warmer. He said: "Vulgo
enim dicitur: iucundi acti labores."

Cicero, isn't it?

"Quite right. 'De Finibus.' "

The good fathers in New Hampshire had heavy going pounding
the Latin into us, but I think I can still manage: "It's commonly
said that accomplished labours are delightful." An appropriate
sentiment, but one I couldn't swear to myself.

Basil opened his eyes and saw a dark mass, very tall and
approximately man-shaped, standing on the snow in front of
him.

"Hello, there," said the don. "I suppose it is you? As opposed
to a hypothermic hallucination, that is."

The thing slid closer, seeming to exude a chill even more
profound than that of the high alpine night.

You must excuse me if I stay within my armour.

"Perfectly understandable. I presume you've been observing
my efforts."

Yours, especially.

"Ah. Well, I'm done now."

You propose to die here?

"There seems little alternative."

I could offer one.

"How very curious," Basil murmured. "Tell me about it."

I've been experimenting with my d-jumping faculty, learning
to carry things outside this armoured mechanism that encases my
body. It's a matter of mentally generating an upsilon-field, you
see.

"Like a superluminal starship?"

Exactly. I've raised my capacity to about 75 kilos of inert mass.

Now I'm ready to try teleporting something alive. I could use an
animal, of course.

Basil nodded judiciously. "Or you could use me."

There is considerable risk. I've not yet had the opportunity to
translate any living thing in the external field. You would be
riding outside the starship, as it were. In theory, it should work.

"What must I do?"

If you could manage to stand upright, and come as close as
possible to the apparatus without touching it.

Basil groped about and found the shovel. "I shall have to
balance on my broken ankle. The left leg is compounded. You'll
have to be quick at it, for I shan't last long."

Come.

He sank the blade into the snow and heaved. The pain came
in sickening waves and he cried out. Then he was standing,
wobbling slightly before the dead-black monstrosity.

"I'm ready," he said, and the grey limbo claimed both of
them.

THE END OF PART TWO

PART III

Nightfall

CHAPTER ONE

Rain deluged the Armorican night. Goriah, on the northwestern
horizon, was an indistinct blob of light all but lost amid the
lightning flashes. Secure inside a bubble of psychocreative force,
Elizabeth and Minanonn flew through the storm.

"It seems more like January than early October," Elizabeth
observed.

Minanonn said, "Four great tempests, one following the
other! The weather reflects the perverse spirit of the times. In
my stronghold in the Pyrenees, the snows have already sealed
the high passes. This has never happened so early in the season
during the five hundred and sixteen years of my banishment.
It's enough to make one believe in Nightfall! Our legends say
that the Terrible Winter precedes it."

"Then we should be safe from war until spring," Elizabeth
said.

"I wish that were so! But winter was an ambiguous term on
Duat. Because our planet has no axial tilt, the seasons are not
clearly defined. To us, therefore, winter is any prolonged period
of bad weather."

Elizabeth did not comment on this. Instead she asked, "Will
the mountain snows prevent members of the Peace Faction from
attending the games?"

"Those who could not resist the lure of Aiken's novelty left
last week, on the first day of the Truce. They are already in the
lowlands. I fear that most of them will have to spend the next
half-year there unless the weather moderates—and I blame
myself not a little for their predicament. If I had not accepted
the King's invitation to participate, my Peaceful Folk would not
have been so attracted to the spectacle."

Rather undiplomatically, Elizabeth asked, "Whatever
possessed you to accept?"

The Heretic uttered a rueful laugh. "I could rationalize the
decision, saying that thus I affirm Aiken-Lugonn's sublimation
of the ancient blood-letting of the Grand Combat. But why not

be honest? In my heart, I was fired by the prospect of once
again joining in on a whacking great row! My intellect may
abjure violence and contention—but the Battlemaster of old
still lurks within me, whether I will or no. Sometimes this drives
me to despair. But at other times, when I am more philoso-
phical, I bless Tana for having let me know myself as she must
know me ... while still steadfastly holding me in her loving
hand."

"Don't you ever curse yourself for giving in? For letting your
frailty get the better of you?"

The Heretic's face had a lambent glow in the stormy darkness.
"Tana did not make us perfect, it is said, for then there could
be no growth through triumph over pain and adversity, no
supervening transcendence. Not for the individual, and
especially not for the Galactic Mind."

"I was taught that," Elizabeth admitted. "Long ago. But the
idea easily slips away from one. Especially when we're forced
to confront suffering and evil. One becomes impatient with
mysteries, and despairs of waiting for good to come out of one's
own weakness."

They began to descend over Goriah. Minanonn showed a
momentarily youthful grin. "Nevertheless, I still plan to fight in
Aiken's Grand Tourney!"

The King himself came to greet them as they landed in the
courtyard of the Castle of Glass. Only guttering oil lamps and
torches lit the scene. In the shadowed area next to the garrison
buildings, more than twenty of the dark, birdlike aircraft stood
shrouded under high-slung canopies.

"Great to see you again in the flesh!" Aiken said to Elizabeth.
He stood on tiptoe and planted a light kiss on her cheek.
Minanonn rated only a sardonic tip of the royal hat. "What say
we go inside so I don't have to strain my meagre faculties
keeping the rain off us?"

"We wouldn't want you to exert yourself unduly," Minanonn
said. "You must conserve your strength for the Grand Tourney.
So far, the storms have bypassed Nionel, but if this unseasonable
rain continues, the Field of Gold may require metapsychic
roofing. In bygone days, Kuhal and his late twin, Fian Sky-
breaker, performed the sheltering office at the arena in Muriah.
But I fear that Kuhal's solitary effort would not prove adequate

to the task of covering the tournament grounds. The job would
fall to you, High King."

"Or you, Brother Heretic," the King retorted. "Kuhal's not
fighting in the lists. If you gave him a psychocreative hand, the
pair of you could umbrella the Field of Gold against a cyclone.
What d'you say? It's a peaceful enough manifestation of power."

"I'll think about it," said Minanonn, rather glumly. They
came into the castle portico, with its twisted pillars of bronze
metal and purple glass, and tall, gold-gleaming torcheres.

Elizabeth put a casual question. "Is that all the aircraft you
managed to salvage—twenty-one?"

"Observant, aren't you?" Aiken remarked. "No, we retrieved
all twenty-seven. I sent six off to Fennoscandia right away to
join the prospecting team." He eyed Elizabeth speculatively. "I
thought you'd know that already, All-Seeing One."

She shot him an irritated glance. "I have to rest sometime.
And after monitoring that assault on Monte Rosa—"

"Excuses, excuses," the King scolded waggishly. "Some
Pliocene dirigent you are."

"I'm not the dirigent!" she snapped. "Nobody appointed me
to the office. Not Brede—and certainly not you."

Aiken raised one eyebrow. "Most of us took your assumption
of the role for granted, lovie. Isn't it a bit late in the game to
tell us you never intended to play?"

"I—I never said I wouldn't do my best to help you. And the
others. But my position is only informal, advisory. I'm not
competent to direct, and I have no power. I don't want any—"

"Oh, lass." The King was grave. "Still flying high above us
all, are you? Looking down on all the scrambling Lowlives and
feckless faerie folk? . . . And do you have a bit of company
now? A kindred proud soul to share your noble melancholia?"

Elizabeth said, "Don't be a bloody idiot." Her mind-tone was
desperately weary.

"Where is he, anyway?" the King enquired. "I haven't been
able to farsee hide nor hair of him for nearly a week. And
with these storms one right after another, even the schooner's
dropped out of sight. I was thinking about sending one of the
flyers out to reconnoitre—in spite of the danger of it getting
zapped by Marc's shipmates. But now that you're here, we won't
have to risk lives. Will you come up to the tower with me right
now and do a fast scan?"

"It's not necessary," Elizabeth said. "I know where Marc is.
That's what I've come here to talk to you about. You and Hagen
and Cloud."

"Ah," said the King. "So that's the way the wind blows."
They were walking across the great entry hall. Even though it
was still early in the evening, there were few people about.
Only the patient grey-torc soldiers of the palace guard were
ubiquitous, still standing station in their gleaming bronze half-
armour and violet cloaks, but bearing Milieu-style weapons
instead of the traditional glass blades.

"Marc is at Black Crag," said Elizabeth. "I'm here at his
behest."

"So!" exclaimed the King. "Is he feeling more peaceable now
that the scales are tipping my way? It must have been quite a
blow to his plans, losing those X-lasers."

Elizabeth said, "Aiken, Marc brought Basil Wimborne to us
from the top of Monte Rosa. Via d-jump."

The King stopped dead in his tracks. "Christ!"

Elizabeth regarded him in silence. The flippant insouciance
had vanished.

"Is that what you came here to tell me?" Aiken demanded
of her. "That Marc's ready to close in, and we should abandon
the Guderian Project?"

"No," she said.

"What then?"

"Marc has a proposal for you and Hagen and Cloud. I'd like
to discuss it with the three of you together."

Minanonn said, "I think you'll be as safe with the King as
with me, Elizabeth. If you'll excuse me, I shall visit with the
Farsensing Lady Sibel Longtress. In times long gone she and I
shared many a diverting hour—debating the merits of peace."
He went off, leaving Elizabeth smiling.

"Quite the protector, isn't he?" Aiken's tone was sour.

"He approves of you and your reign thus far."

"Well, hoo-rah," the King drawled. "Pity he's not willing to
fight for his high principles! I need every stalwart mind I can
get these days. You know about my having to give Sharn and
Ayfa the Sword—and what that could mean."

She nodded. "The Firvulag couldn't initiate the Nightfall War
without their sacred weapon—and now they have it. You've
taken a big gamble."

His black eyes were snapping. "Maybe not." They stood at
the entry corridor to the castle's west wing, which was barred
by a great bronze grille and guarded by elite gold troopers
holding the leashes of spike-collared amphicyons. "I could call
Hagen and Cloud up to the royal presence chamber to meet
with us, but perhaps you'd fancy going down to them. I'll take
you on a fifty-pence tour of the Guderian Project
laboratories—and I wouldn't mind one bit if you told Marc just
how we were progressing."

She said, "I'd be very glad to take your tour. To tell you the
truth, I've been curious."

With a certain swagger, Aiken commanded the guards to
unbar the gate. Then he led the way, pointing out the various
security measures protecting the installation. Sensor systems
ringed the entire wing where the young North Americans and
the technical personnel resided. Elites were on duty inside, and
the parapets were patrolled by heavily armed greys and silvers,
programmed to report to their Tanu overlords any attempts to
break out or in. The precincts about the single stairwell giving
access to the modified dungeons, which had once held the
"general store" of contraband, and now housed the laboratories,
were guarded by Tanu stalwarts under the command of Celadeyr
of Afaliah. The foyer was hedged with booby traps, both mech-
anical and metapsychic, in addition to electromagnetic barriers
of increasingly lethal potential. If one managed to negotiate
these hazards, there still remained the last bastion: the great
SR-35 sigma-field, with its airlock that would only pass those
whose mental signatures were on file in the royal computer.

"You are on file now, sweets," Aiken told Elizabeth with a
wink. "But just for today."

The mirrorlike wall at the end of the airlock dissolved before
them at the King's gesture, and they entered the laboratory
anteroom. Elizabeth watched the dynamic field re-form behind
them and tapped the pseudoslippery interface with one finger-
nail. "So this is the impregnable sigma that Marc hoped to
breach with his X-lasers."

The King's jovial mien shaded off into grimness. "It is. The
kids brought it from Ocala. As long as we keep the project
under it, we'll be safe. Hagen says it's proof against a psycho-
energetic attack to the five-hundreth degree of magnitude. Felice
might have been able to mind-blast her way in here—but

Abaddon hasn't a prayer. Not with the handful of minds he can
muster in metaconcert these days."

"You can't use the Guderian device here in Goriah," Eliz-
abeth pointed out.

"No," the King conceded. "Bit of bad planning on my part,
that. I should have set up the labs at the Castle Gateway site in
the first place, and devil take the inconvenience. But it's no use
crying over spilt milk. The SR-35's no good for aerial operation,
but we'll work out something when the time comes to move.
You can tell that to Marc, as well as all the rest of it."

They passed through a seemingly endless series of small work-
rooms where components of the tau-generator were being
assembled and tested. Aiken knew what was going on in every
chamber and greeted the technicians and senior scientists and
their North American supervisors by name. The laboratories
were crowded and deceptively chaotic in appearance. Much of
the assembly was being done under micromanipulators, and to
the uninitiated observer it was rather unexciting. The chemical
engineering rooms were slightly more dramatic, full of burbling
gadgetry and elusive stenches as critical materials were cooked
up, then sent on to the manufacturing units.

In one of the larger workrooms of this type, Tony Wayland
accosted the King.

"I'll need at least three more diamonds," he said, "twelve
carats or better. Also an industrial laser that can drill holes five
to forty microns in diameter, a cerametal whisker grower, some
Canada balsam or an equivalent syn-resin, another bottle of
argon, and a new room-mate. That miserable Hewitt snores like
a sawmill."

"Anything else?" enquired the King mildly.

"Some news about my wife!"

"Lady Katlinel is making inquiries. There's some problem.
Your Howler in-laws are a bit miffed that you ran out on their
little girl, and are disinclined to cooperate. Lady Katy counsels
patience."

Tony threw up his hands and stomped away. The King and
Elizabeth moved on. When they were safely in the next room,
she said, "My redactive faculty detects a whiff of level-two
dysfunction in that man's psyche. I gather he's been through
some rough times. I shouldn't let him get too highly stressed if
I were you."

"He wants to work," Aiken said. "That's the best thing for
him now. It'll distract him from this business about his Howler
wife."

"I'd be glad to have Minanonn fly me to Nionel. Perhaps I
could mediate with the irate parents-in-law."

"Thanks, Elizabeth." Aiken was glum. "But I lied to poor
Tony back there—partly for selfish reasons and partly because
it seems the kindest thing to do at this point. You know Lord
Greg-Donnet, who was King Thagdal's Genetics Master?"

"The one they called Crazy Greggy . . ." She nodded.

"He went to Nionel with Katy when she married Sugoll,
and now he's pottering about with a scheme for alleviating the
deformities of the mutants. Talented man, Greggy, in spite of
his little quirks. Well—it seems he worked up an experimental
thingummy, a sort of cross between the healing Tanu Skin and
a Milieu-style regeneration tank. He thinks this Skin-tank might
help restore the really grotesque Howlers to a more normal
Firvulag appearance. He asked for a volunteer. Guess who he
got."

"Oh, dear," said Elizabeth.

The King said, "Tony's wife, Rowane, thought he dumped
her because she was a monster. Greggy's experiment looked
like a golden opportunity to her. So there she floats, switch-off,
for at least another four weeks, while Greggy and the Howler
equivalent of redactors remould her protoplasm. Rowane might
come out worse than before, she might die, or the experiment
could be a great success. But I think we're wise to stall
Tony."

"I agree. It's pathetic ..."

"Aren't we all?" said the King. He led the way into a sizeable
chamber where a skeletal glass structure stood upon a platform.
It was a latticed box strung about with metallic cables that
intertwined its vitreous members like multicoloured vine stems.
Many more of the flexible lines lay about on workbenches with
their innards exposed to the probing attention of the workers.
Monitors, testing equipment, and a confusion of installation
machinery crowded the platform.

"And there it is," Aiken announced. "The Guderian
device—more or less."

"I hadn't remembered it being so large," Elizabeth said.

"We expanded it a trifle. Our tame dynamic-field boffin,

Anastos, said it wouldn't hurt. That's him cursing out the fleck
installer. The scrawny dark-haired bareneck. And of course you
recognize the disapproving duo looking over his shoulder."

"I've farseen them. Is there some place we could speak in
private?"

Aiken led her into an unoccupied window-sided cubicle that
apparently served as a worker's lounge. There were soft seats
and a table, and a few spartan refreshment amenities. Then
he delivered a polite telepathic summons to Hagen and Cloud
Remillard. The brother and sister came into the lounge, closing
the door behind them. Their curiosity at the presence of the
untorced female visitor was imperfectly concealed. Both of them
wore white coveralls not much different from those of the other
workers. Their hair was the same reddish-gold colour, but other-
wise they were not particularly alike. Cloud had a high, rounded
Celtic forehead that appeared almost polished, and nearly invis-
ible brows. Her eyes were deep-set, of a piercing greenish blue,
and fringed with sooty lashes. Her skin was transparent, lightly
freckled, and her nose curved slightly, like a small, delicate
blade. Seeing her in the flesh, Elizabeth could strip away certain
characteristics inherited from Marc and perceive the ghostly
image of a woman long dead. Hagen Remillard had his father's
aquiline profile and powerful build, but there was something
raw, almost blurred about his features. His aura was one of
suppressed rage, without a trace of Marc's magnetic urbanity.
At the brief, hot touch of his mind, Elizabeth felt both pity and
apprehension. From Cloud, in contrast, came open empathy.
Then the mental walls shut down, and the pair of them stood
with empty smiles waiting upon the King's pleasure.

"May I present the Grand Master Redactor and Farsensor
Elizabeth Orme," Aiken said. "She is an honorary member
of my High Table and serves as de facto dirigent of Pliocene
Earth."

Hagen and Cloud responded formally. The King bade
everyone be seated and served them tea and biscuits with his
own royal hands while asking brief questions about this or that
aspect of the project. The young Remillards replied with terse
competence. They expressed hope that the geological expedition
would be successful in tracking down the critical ores.

"The aircraft should rendezvous with the land party
tomorrow," said the King. "Now those prospectors can comb

Fennoscandia properly, from the air, without having to
constantly keep on the lookout for trolls and Yotunag."

"Well, they'd better get a move on," Hagen said. "We've
managed to cannibalize the niobium we need from other devices,
but there's no way we'll get the rare-earth metal except through
ores. Half the damn gazebo cables have cores woven of niobium-
dysprosium wire."

"Once you have the wire, how long might it take to complete
the device?" Elizabeth asked.

Hagen gave her a penetrating look. "Thinking of joining the
exodus, Grand Master?"

Elizabeth flushed. She said levelly, "I had considered it, yes."

Hagen chuckled. "Then I hope you use your good offices to
stave off Marc—or I'm afraid our chances of re-entering the
Milieu are rather slim."

She looked at him in silence for a moment. "I'd forgotten
you were born there. . . But the others of the younger genera-
tion are all Pliocene natives?"

"And all at least three years younger than Hagen and I," said
Cloud. She gave her brother a reproving frown. "To answer
your question, it might take us a month or more to complete
the device, given the core wire. We have the most talented
scientists in the Many-Coloured Land at work here, with manu-
facturing equipment of every description. It's incredible what
some time-travellers thought to bring to the Pliocene! And, of
course, we ransacked Papa's store of materiel before we left
Ocala—"

Hagen interrupted her. "The Grand Master knows that,
Cloudie. She knows all about us."

There was a pregnant pause. Hagen faced Elizabeth defiantly.
"Would the Milieu let us in—knowing who we are?"

"Yes," said Elizabeth.

"Knowing what we helped Felice to do?" the young man
added softly.

"If you hope to be embraced by the Unity, you'll have to pay
your debt. The circumstances were extraordinary, but your act
was still a crime."

"Not against free human beings," Hagen said. "Against exotic
oppressors and their corrupt minions!"

"Nearly fifty thousand people perished in the Gibraltar
Flood," Elizabeth said. "Many of them were entirely innocent."

"We only intended to kill the exotics. It's not as though they
were human beings—"

"Both Tanu and Firvulag will contribute to the Homo sapiens
stem," Elizabeth said. "I have reluctantly come to the conclu-
sion that remnants of both groups persisted on Earth almost
into historic times, mating with human stock just as they have
mated with time-travellers here in the Pliocene. Our myths and
legends and the other heritage of the collective unconscious
confirm it."

"But that's impossible!" Cloud cried. "There are no fossils,
no other concrete evidence—"

Elizabeth was unperturbed by the shocked reaction of the
Remillards. She noted that Aiken seemed similarly equable.
"Have you any idea," she asked them, "how scanty the fossil
evidence is for the supposedly well known races of early homi-
nids? For Ramapithecus? For Homo erectus? For the Neander-
thaler race of sapiens? ... A pathetic handful of fragments for
the first. Only scattered skulls and broken bones for the second.
And fewer than eighty specimens of Neanderthal Man left of
the millions who must have walked Pleistocene Earth!"

"You'd think at least one specimen of Tanu or Firvulag would
have turned up," Hagen protested.

"Anomalies have been found," Elizabeth told him. "Many of
them. And not only skeletal remains. King Aiken-Lugonn's
computer library has admirable references that I've been able
to consult over the past few months. But since the atypical finds
didn't fit in with more acceptable data, they were dismissed.
Other explanations were put forth to account for the anomalies,
so as not to discompose the scientific establishment." A mischie-
vous expression came over her face. "It's one of the more
tempting motives one could have for returning to the Milieu.
To watch the cat among the paleontological pigeons."

Cloud was sombre as she returned to the serious matter at
hand. "But we would be punished for helping Felice."

"The world you wish to enter is very different from the one
Marc and his Rebels left. There's still crime and there's still
punishment. But for those who are genuinely sorry, the atone-
ment consists largely of reeducation and public service."

The brother and sister looked at Elizabeth dubiously. Aiken
said, "No statute of limitations? Extenuating circumstances?
Non compos mentis?"

"It would be up to the forensic redactors to determine indivi-
dual culpability," Elizabeth said.

"And they'd know?" asked Hagen.

"Oh, yes," the Grand Master replied.

"But after we—atoned," Cioud said. "Then they'd accept us
into the Unity?"

"I'm certain of it," said Elizabeth.

"There you are, kids!" Aiken vouchsafed the pair a bright
smile. "If we take our licks, we get to join the grownups. Still
think it would be worth it?"

Hagen was bland. "Do you, High King?"

"Who knows what I'll do?" Aiken replied airily. "You haven't
built the time-gate yet, and Night may not fall."

"And Papa may still figure out some way to use that brain-
roasting CE rig of his to blast us all to kingdom come," Hagen
said.

Elizabeth's concern embraced the three of them. "That's why
I came here tonight to speak to you. Marc's d-jump faculty now
includes the ability to transport significant quantities of matter
in a field generated outside of his cerebroenergetic enhancer.
He's transported a living man without harming him, and before
too long he'll be able to do considerably better than that."
Hagen barked a bitter obscenity and she held up a monitory
hand. "You know that Marc has always maintained his love for
you children. He also possesses no malice toward Aiken. He's
asked me to act as his emissary and mediator, so that we can
resolve the present crisis peaceably. He'd like you to meet with
him in my chalet on Black Crag."

"Not on your life!" Hagen exclaimed. "We told him once
before—he can farspeak any deal he has in mind. I'm not getting
within three air kloms or a twenty-power sigma of dear Papa.
No more coercing!"

"He gives his solemn word that he won't try it," Elizabeth
said. "And he let me probe him, so I know he spoke the truth.
In any case, if the King attends the meeting, his coercive ability
would be entirely sufficient to neutralize Marc's."

"I can believe that," Hagen muttered.

    Cloud said, "But nothing has really changed. Papa and his
confederates will never agree to our opening the time-gate."

Elizabeth said, "Marc asked me to tell you that he has some-
thing completely new to discuss with you. He said—and I confess

I have no idea what he means—he said it concerned the answer
to your old question about your genetic heritage."

"God—he said that?" Hagen's voice was hoarse. His mind
engaged that of his sister on the intimate mode and both Eliz-
abeth and the King perceived the agitation of the exchange.
Hagen and Cloud were desperately afraid—and at the same
time, fascinated.

"Elizabeth," the King asked, "do you know whether or not
Marc can use that CE device on more than one metafaculty at
a time?"

"I can answer that!" Hagen exclaimed. "God—can I! Papa
instructed me thoroughly enough in the damn thing's operation.
He was ready to chain me to a backup suit of armour he had
all ready when we escaped from Ocala—"

"Pull yourself together." The King's barely leashed coercion
hovered about the young man. "This is important!"

Hagen swallowed. "The rig can enhance only one
metafunction at a time. For instance, when Marc performs a d-
jump, the rig is locked onto his upsilon-field-generating faculty.
When he was doing the star-search, it enhanced his farsight."

"And when the bunch of you got together with Felice to zap
Gibraltar," Aiken interposed, "he was augmenting his
creativity?"

"That's it," Hagen agreed. "When he's phased into the
thing—when the needle-electrodes are in his brain and it goes
white-hot—he has only a single preprogrammed superfaculty.
The others are in peripheral mode. They're there, but only in
his usual barebrained order of magnitude. He'd have to jump
back to the directive computer if he wanted to switch."

"That's all right then," Aiken said, considerably relieved. "I
was afraid he could use the rig to mind-zorch us in Black Crag."

"Not possible." A twisted smile spread over Hagen's face.
"He won't be able to pull that off until he's capable of teleporting
the whole CE setup around with him—power supply, auxiliaries,
and all. Ten tons of junk."

"Then we've got time," Aiken said. "I say we go see what
Marc has to say. If he's barebrained, I'll take a chance."

"Could you burn him?" Hagen asked quietly.

"No!" cried Cloud.

Elizabeth said, "All of you must give me your solemn word

to keep the peace—and let me probe you redactively now and
at Black Crag to be sure you mean it."

"Agreed," said Cloud at once.

Hagen took a bit longer, but finally he nodded his head.

Elizabeth looked inquiringly at Aiken. He screwed up his
brow in a mock attitude of deep thought. "If I did mind-zorch
Marc—just supposing I could beat him in barebrain combat—it
would save all of us a lot of potential grief."

"I want your word," Elizabeth insisted. "And an open mind."

The shoebutton eyes sparkled wickedly. "I could promise. I
could believe it, so your redactive ream showed I told you true.
And I could change my mind. You just never know about Me!"

"Oh, yes I do," Elizabeth said.

The little man shrugged his golden shoulders. "When shall
we leave for Black Crag? Tomorrow? You can tell Minanonn
he'll have to carry us all. I'm not flying that far on my own
steam. I haven't been well."

Across Pliocene France in the Montagne Noire, where the latest
storm was still many hours away, Marc and Brother Anatoly sat
on the chalet balcony under the stars, drinking up the last of
the Martell cognac and discussing the theological aspects of
imputability and unconscious motivation. They were deeply
engrossed and Marc only excused himself once, to do a rapid
farscan of Kyllikki, to be sure she was bearing well to the north
of the new depression menacing the west coast of Armorica.
When he saw that the schooner was safe, following the course
he had given Walter Saastamoinen, he took up once again the
fascinating topic of his own damnation. It was piquant to serve
as Devil's Advocate to one's self.

CHAPTER TWO

The Firvulag King and his nominal vassal Sugoll rode out unat-
tended to the Field of Gold to await the arrival of Betularn with
the treasure. The day was gloriously sunny and hot.

Side by side, the two white chalikos trotted onto the new
Rainbow Bridge over the River Nonol. The former rickety
suspension structure had been replaced by a fine cantilevered
arch engineered by the Lowlife adoptees of Nionel. The bridge
was coloured like its namesake, topped with ornate bronze rail-
ings and lamp standards, and wide enough to accommodate
twenty chalikos abreast.

"Magnificent structure," Sharn commented heartily. The
Lord of the Howlers accepted the praise with his usual equani-
mity, bowing his handsome, bald-pated head. Sugoll wore a
flowing silver-tissue caftan over an illusory body that may or
may not have been humanoid. Sharn was dressed in kidskin
riding breeches of Lincoln green, jackboots with bejewelled high
heels and spurs, and a balloon-sleeved shirt of fawn-coloured
georgette, open to the navel to show off the regal chest-pelt and
ventilate the regal armpits.

When the two rulers reached the centre of the span, they
paused to pay tribute to the view. Behind them was Nionel, a
vision of El Dorado in the shimmering heat. Below rolled the
broad river, its right bank bordered by gargantuan ash trees and
spicy thickets of cinnamon, sour-orange, and willow. Ahead of
them lay the flowering steppe where the Grand Tourney would
be held, with its grandstands and fair buildings and other struc-
tures now almost completely refurbished by the industrious
goblin emigres. The Field itself was a brilliant green, powdered
with buttercups.

"I'm surprised to see the place looking so verdant," Sharn
said, "since the countryside hereabouts has escaped the storms
plagueing more southerly regions."

"The woodlands are indeed overdry," Sugoll said. "But we
have taken pains to conjure a sprinkle every third night so that
the Tourney grounds will be kept in good condition for the
festivities. By game time the entire flat will be blanketed with
sun-daisies, and golden rockroses will adorn the marge and the
campgrounds back among the tall trees."

"Conjure a sprinkle—?" Sharn was clearly nonplussed. "You
mean, make it rain?"

The mutant nodded innocently. "It's a small matter to herd
together suitable clouds if all the people put their minds to it
under proper leadership. Or haven't you found it so?"

"Uh," said Sharn.

"We would be remiss hosts indeed if a parched Field were all
we could offer for this first Grand Tourney."

Sharn was trying to suppress his astonishment. "Cousin, do
your people then make it their frequent custom to mesh minds?
To act in what the Lowlives would call metaconcert?"

Sugoll considered. "I don't suppose we do it any more
frequently than other folks. It does take organizing, after all.
We do weather modification when it's necessary, and certain
large construction projects like the bridge and the polishing of
the city domes when we first moved in ... and back in Meadow
Mountain, there was a certain amount of blasting. But that
never involved more than fifty or so of the folk at once, and
they didn't require my direction."

"When you direct their minds—do they accept your leadership
without question?"

Sugoll was puzzled. "Most certainly. Don't your people?"

Sharn sighed gustily. "Cousin, we must speak of this later, at
some length. In your long isolation from the mainstream of our
Firvulag race, you have suffered certain deprivations. But the
merciful Goddess has also blessed you with an extraordinary
recompense!"

"Well," said Sugoll modestly, "she did make us rich."

Sharn ground his teeth. "That, too. But I was really speaking
of your facility for mental teamwork. I must confess that my
nonmutant subjects have only recently begun to forsake their
independent bloody-mindedness in favour of cooperative
effort."

"You're fighters," Sugoll said bluntly. "We're not. We've had
to cooperate in order to survive."

Sharn spoke eagerly. "And now I invite you to cooperate
with the rest of us . . .in the most noble enterprise in the history
of the Many-Coloured Land! This inspection trip of mine was
only an excuse to come and tell you about it, to enlist you and
your people in the great venture!" With a sudden dramatic
gesture, he pointed up the river. "Look there! Here comes
Betularn, as I promised, and you'll never in a million years
guess what he's bringing—courtesy of the Shining Jackanapes
of Goriah!"

The Howler lord smiled in a noncommittal fashion. "While
we await the hero's arrival, perhaps you would care to take a
closer look at some of our renovations."

Together they rode off the bridge and along a broad, yellow-
sanded way to the enormous twin grandstands of carved lime-
stone. These had nearly fallen to ruin during the forty years of
disuse. Now mutant workers were everywhere, tuckpointing and
painting and redecorating. The structures were freshly decked
out in many shades of green, with honey-coloured pillars and
balustrades. Later there would be straw-filled amber cushions
for the spectators, and green-and-yellow striped awnings shading
the stands. The central royal enclosures had green serpentine
columns, staircases painted a vivid gamboge that led down to
stages at the sidelines, and quaintly peaked roofs with golden
tiles and effigy-topped spires. The crest adorning the Firvulag
loge combined King Sharn's crystal scorpion with Queen Ayfa's
horned moon. The Tanu spire bore a gilt representation of
Aiken's impudent finger.

Reminiscence mellowed the Firvulag monarch. "I'd forgotten
how nice and sturdy the structures were on our Field of Gold.
Much more impressive than the flimsy pavilions the Tanu used
to set up on the White Silver Plain—and a hell of a lot cooler,
too. You've done a spiffing job of renovation, Cousin. What're
those barricade things down around the award-presentation
stages?"

Sugoll explained some of the more novel games that would
be featured at the Tourney, and the safety precautions that the
new spirit of good-fellowship called for.

Sharn grinned, showing lustrous pointed teeth. "We'll get in
a few licks against the Foe just the same. The jousting and
steeplechase events have great possibilities for mayhem. And
the hurling, of course. Imagine the Foe resurrecting that old
romp! My father told me of hurley being played on Duat, and
with enemy heads."

"The Tanu call it shinty," Sugoll said. "We'll use a large
white ball with black spots as a substitute for the skull." He
glanced toward the river. "The great hero Betularn is about to
arrive. Shall we meet him?"

They rode down to the water's edge, where bleachers for the
boat races were still under construction. At the docks were
eighteen large inflatable craft, jammed to the gunwales with
armoured regulars and crated cargo. White Hand, caparisoned
in full obsidian harness and carrying a purple-leather box nearly
as long as he was tall, leaped from the lead boat and strode up

to Sharn. He dropped to one knee before the mounted Firvulag
King, proffering the great case. His visor was open and tears
streamed from his pouched eyes.

"Your Appalling Highness!" Betularn croaked. "Sovereign
Lord of the Heights and Depths, Monarch of the Infernal
Infinite, Father of All Firvulag, and Undoubted Co-Ruler of the
Known World—into your hands I commend our Sword."

Sharn vaulted from the saddle, seized the purple container,
and ripped off the lid. The huge diamond-bright weapon flashed
in the sunshine. The studs on its hilt were gems of several
colours. Its cable was neatly coiled, and the powerpack showed
full charge.

"Goddess!" cried Sharn. "At last!" He lifted the photon
weapon reverently. Betularn and all of the Firvulag still on the
boats stood at attention, mailed fists against their hearts. Sugoll
slowly dismounted, reassumed his natural appearance, and
squatted in enigmatic abomination as the nonmutants raised the
Firvulag Song.

When its last deep-noted echo had died away across the river,
Sharn said, "Gird me."

Betularn buckled on the jewelled harness and slung the
powerpack at the King's waist. Sharn's face wore an expression
of exultation. "Bid your troops to take their ease, White Hand,
and come walk with me and our mutant cousin." He thrust the
Sword into its belt loop and strolled off along the yellow pathway
leading to the grandstands. The torrid breeze of the expanse of
grassland had a redolence of spiced tea.

Betularn cast a disapproving eye on the Lord of the Howlers.
"Your long absence from our Firvulag Court has atrophied your
piety, Cousin Sugoll. One hopes your allegiance has not suffered
a similar decline."

"I am ever the Goddess's good servant," the Great Abomina-
tion rumbled, "and a faithful vassal to the High King."

"Now, White Hand," Sharn said amiably, "let's not have any
sniping on this historic occasion."

"I'm only zealous in defence of your honour," the old warrior
growled, "and you know my heart is loyal to you until earth be
torn asunder, and high heaven, and Nightfall follows upon the
cleansing flame!"

Somewhere out in the Field of Gold a meadowlark trilled. The
Firvulag King, the veteran general, and the Prince of Monsters

stepped off the blazing sandy path onto green coolness strewn
with buttercups.

"So it is true," Sugoll said.

"Yes," Sharn said. He clasped his hands behind his back and
watched his boots flatten the little yellow flowers as they walked.
"But you must not be dismayed by Betularn's overliteral inter-
pretation of the racial myth."

"I do not understand," said the Abomination.

"Neither do I!" White Hand's voice was rough with shock.
"Is it to be the war that ends the world, or not?"

Sharn held up a soothing hand, smiling as he kept his eyes
on the ground, then let his fingers rest on the control studs of
the Sword. "Let me explain to you both, as I'll explain to all
the Little People. Ayfa and I have done a careful study of the
sacred traditions since coming to the Throne. The signs and
portents and the business about the Adversary, and all the rest
of it. Our researchers have convinced us that the Nightfall War
doesn't have to be a conflict of mutual annihilation at all. The
traditions can be given a more positive interpretation, with the
rebirth of a new and more glorious world following the destruc-
tion of the old order—and a single race victorious over all. Us,
of course."

"What do you youngsters know of the old Way?" Betularn
cried. "Your idea is a travesty! Your Atrocious Great-Great-
Grandsire who fell immortal at the Ship's Grave must be puking
before the Seat of the Goddess to hear such blasphemy. Nightfall
is the end, everyone knows that. The end of everything!"

"It isn't," Sharn insisted, "for, whatever we do here, Duat
survives and all her daughter worlds—and would have done,
had Firvulag and Tanu fought to Nightfall at Void's Edge."

"Heresy!" spluttered Betularn. "No, it's worse! Casuistry!"

Sugoll said, "You maintain, Royal Cousin, that Nightfall's
taking place in the Many-Coloured Land would initiate the New
Heaven and New Earth of our traditions here—in space and
time—rather than on the higher plane of reality?"

"Precisely," said Sharn. "And we Firvulag as precursors of
the whole glorious affair! The Foe are in a fatally weak position,
diminished in numbers and strength. Their ruler is an alien
usurper who pads his puny battle-company with homesick fellow
Lowlives who can hardly wait to skip back through the time-
gate to their drab future world! We're stronger than ever before,

with a stock of high-technology weapons in addition to our new
metapsychic fighting tactics. And now we have the Sword."

He paused, drew the great glass blade from his belt, and held
it aloft with both hands. He said softly, "Night falls for the Foe,
but for us it will be a new dawn."

He thumbed the lowest stud, the power-setting for ritual
combat, and blasted the golden digitus impudicus emblem atop
the Tanu royal enclosure to a puff of glowing plasma.

"Goddess!" cried Betularn. His face mirrored the turmoil
taking place in his mind. "I was willing to put an end to it, to
bow to the omens. But now . . . Sharn-Mes, laddie, you've got
this old soldier snorled to a fare-thee-well. I just don't know
what to make of this."

"Trust me," urged Sharn. He turned to Sugoll. "And how
about you, Cousin Howler? Are you confused, too?"

"I think not."

Sharn winked. "Reserving judgment, though. Is that it?"

The terrible crested head made a slight gesture of affirmation.

Sharn flipped the caplock from the upper power-settings of
the Sword. "May I recall to both your minds that our sacred
weapon is a many-splendoured thing. The Golden Asaleny's got
himself a fleet of aircraft, which he thinks gives him an upper
hand in the arms race. But our Sword was designed not only
for rituals, but also for defence when we were getting our asses
harried from planet to planet back in the old galaxy."

A flock of pied swans winged westward from the river, and
Sharn, lips thinned in a foreboding smile, took fresh aim. "Shall
we see what effect the highest power-setting will produce? Yes,
let's!"

He thumbed the top stud.

Nothing happened.

Mouthing incredulous blasphemies, the King tried the other
three superior settings. None worked.

"That treacherous bastard! That conniving little trickster!"
Sharn punched the lowest stud. A green flash obliterated a single
swan. The rest of the flock scattered, terrified by the concussion.

"The Sword is still entirely adequate for its legitimate
purpose," Betularn noted austerely, "and its symbolic value is
unimpaired. The Foe has been extremely clever."

Sharn choked back his rage. "I suppose you're right. But to
be cheated in this flagrant way! It's—it's—"

"Typical of the times," said the Lord of the Howlers in a
calm, sad voice. He reassumed his humanoid shape. "The heat
becomes most oppressive, my liege. Shall we return to the peace
of Nionel?" Sugoll bowed slightly to Betularn. "I offer you and
your troops our hospitality as well, White Hand."

"My thanks," said the general, "but we may as well get on
with making camp here in the Field, in anticipation of the games.
I'll come by for supper after I get the lads and lasses squared
away."

Sugoll nodded. "Only a few guests are in the hostel buildings
as yet, but the facilities are quite ready for occupancy. Or have
you brought your own equipment?"

"Everything we could possibly need," Betularn replied, "plus
a little bit more."

WALTER: Do you hear, son?

VEIKKO: Dad! At last. Jeez, you're loud. You must be awfully
close.

WALTER: Less than 300 kilometres north of you there in Goriah,
up in the Gulf of Armorica.

VEIKKO: How?

WALTER: All those storms. We ran before 'em.

VEIKKO: You ran ... in Kyllikki? Oh, my God. You must be
out of your mind! Or were you doing your best to—

WALTER: What do you think?

VEIKKO: Marc didn't realize?

WALTER: He hasn't been here that often, and he's never voyaged
aboard Kyllikki before. Remember that back in the Rye
Harbour Yacht Club, the most boat he ever had under him
was a 20-metre Nicholson. Nice craft, but it doesn't clue you
to the whims of a four-poster schooner. Besides, I played it
straight, conned her the best I could. If we'd taken the plunge
it would have been kismet. Actually, Marc was rather gratified
at the turn of speed I managed. And our keeping inside the
storm track must have played hob with attempts to farsense
us.

VEIKKO: Nobody in Goriah has the faintest notion where you
are. Hagen was out of his mind. He got me to try farsensing
you. [Chuckle.] Somehow I just couldn't get a fix ... Then
he wanted to send a flyer to hunt and zap, but the King
nixed that. Something funny's going on, Walter. This morning

Cloud, Hagen, and the King took off with Elizabeth and some
hot-shot Tanu stooge of hers. Body-flying, for chrissake, when
we've got these perfectly good aircraft. Nobody here knows—

WALTER: It's Marc.

VEIKKO: ?

WALTER: His final appeal to you children.

VEIKKO: You mean, if Hagen doesn't agree to stop work on the
time-gate, it'll be no holds barred from now on?

WALTER: That's about the size of it. You realize, don't you, that
Marc has been the voice of sweet reason all along, refusing
to harm you if there was any possible alternative. Castellane
and Warshaw and most of the other magnates favoured hitting
you kids with the full load, at the first possible opportunity.

VEIKKO: You evened the odds for us, Walter. You and Manion.
I told Diane what her father did. She wasn't surprised. Hagen
was.

WALTER: He would be, poor devil.

VEIKKO: . . . What shall I do now? I can't target you for the
King, Dad. I can't.

WALTER: Now that we're near the mainland, it's going to be
tough for anybody to farsense us. Ragnar Gathen and Arne-
Rolf Lillestrom wired up a psychoelectronic fuzzer during the
voyage. Crude, but probably effective enough to defeat long-
range peeking. Has the King got any mechanical scanners?

VEIKKO: An IR with a range of about 70 kloms, and the aircraft
have some kind of ground-combers. Can't you get away?

WALTER: Don't worry about it.

VEIKKO: But I do ... You know I do.

WALTER: If Marc's proposing to tell Hagen and Cloud what I
think he is, you may find all our problems solved.

VEIKKO: ? !! . . . No matter what Marc promises, we're going
to build the Guderian device.

WALTER: Possibly.

VEIKKO: We're all agreed, Dad. Well . . . most of us. And the
King's on our side.

WALTER: Wait, just the same, until you hear the proposal.

VEIKKO: Walter, you're not switching to his side? God!

WALTER: I'm on your side, Veik. Always. Now listen. Don't try
to contact me again unless you do agree to Marc's proposal.
It'll be too dangerous for both of us. You're almost within
Castellane's tracking range now, and if she told Marc what

we were doing . . . Well, I still might be useful to you if I
stay alive. Dead, I'm only useful if I take Kyllikki with me.

VEIKKO: But what'll I—

WALTER: Wait. It can't be much longer. Goodbye, Veikko.

VEIKKO: Goodbye, Dad.

CHAPTER THREE

Basil opened his eyes to blurred obscurity. There was red illumi-
nation overall and superimposed upon it, subtly writhing, an
intricate branched pattern like veins. He heard the soft, regular
hiss of surf. He heard a muffled cardiac drumbeat: dum-dum
(skip) dum-dum (skip) dum-dum (skip). His memory furnished
a tune to fit—"Zwei Hertzen in Dreivierteltakt." He thought:
No, it's only one heart in three-quarter time. Mine. In an artifi-
cial womb. Constatne?

"Quite right, old friend."

A pale-coloured blob hovered above eye level. The haziness
was abruptly clarified as something crackling and transparent,
resembling plass membrane, was stripped away from his face.
He saw an El Greco angel wearing a golden torc. He said to it,
"Well, Creyn. Have I been in Skin?"

"For two days."

"I feel very comfortable," Basil said. The light brightened a
bit and took on a more normal spectrum. He was aware of other
Tanu standing in the shadowed recesses of the chamber. The
carved timbering, stucco walls and baroque window shutters
were certainly those of the Black Crag chalet. "So he brought
me here. How perfectly splendid!. . . But surely my bones can't
have knit already?

"We'll see." Creyn continued to unwrap him, stuffing the
used Skin membrane into a scarlet pouch. He said over his
shoulder, "Lord Healer, will you do the microscan?"

A taller Tanu, dressed like Creyn in red-and-white robes,
stepped closer. His eyes with their pinpoint pupils were faded
blue with glints of other colours, like certain opals. Except for

deep lines about the mouth, his face was youthful. He had hair
like fine-spun platinum.

"Remarkable," said Dionket at length. "The accelerated
tissue-repair program of the Adversary has restored the ankle
completely. The tibia still has some incomplete regeneration
about the medullary cavity but appears quite adequate for
normal load-bearing function."

Five Tanu minds intoned: Praise be to Tana.

Basil appended fervently: In saecula saeculorum!

He felt some kind of frame withdrawing support from his
body. Then he was standing on his own two feet and realized
he was stark naked. He stepped down from a sort of pedestal.

Creyn smiled at him. "Do you feel weak?"

"Not a bit of it, old chap. Just ravenously hungry."

Creyn helped him into a white-cotton robe and slippers.
"These healers who have helped you are Dionket, once Presi-
dent of our Guild of Redactors, Lord Peredeyr Firstcomer,
Meyn the Unsleeping, and Lady Brintil."

Basil said, "I thank you for your—er—professional ministra-
tions. I'm amazed that you could do the job so quickly. I thought
that Skin treatment for injuries such as this took considerably
longer."

"It usually does," Dionket said, "when traditional redactive
techniques are employed. But we used an experimental method
on you—a concerted, intensive operation involving five healers
rather than one."

"Mm," said Basil. "Glad I was able to take advantage of it."

Dionket and the three touched Basil's mind briefly through
his grey torc, then filed out. The don said to Creyn, "I must
also thank my rescuer for bringing me off Monte Rosa. I don't
suppose Remillard is still here?"

Creyn's face showed no expression. "He is. It was his modifi-
cation of the Skin program that we used to heal you."

"Judas priest! Then I owe him double thanks, don't I?" They
came out of the infirmary and mounted an open stairway that
led to the first floor of the lodge. "I don't mind telling you it
was a shocker, having him show up on the mountaintop, all
armoured like some archetypal god of the machine. I didn't see
anything of the man himself. The prospect of seeing him face
to face is a trifle unnerving . . . the challenger of the galaxy,

the metapsychic paragon who became the deepest-dyed villain
our race has ever known . . ."

"He eats mushroom omelettes and popcorn with Brother
Anatoly," Creyn said. "And puts his feet up on the hearth
fender to warm them on stormy nights like this. And forgets to
put the lid down on the toilet."

Basil laughed. "Point taken. One of us after all, eh?"

"No," said Creyn. "But I think he would like to be."

Basil paused at the head of the stairs. His eyes met those of
the Tanu who had become his friend on the long exodus from
drowned Muriah. "There were hints dropped by Bleyn the
Champion while we were on our expedition: that Remillard has
actually been working mind to mind with Elizabeth. Is it true?"

"Together, they cured the chalet housekeeper's baby of the
black-torc syndrome. More than that—they raised the little one
to full operancy. Torcless metafunction."

"Good God. And when Remillard brought me here—"

"The Adversary was intrigued when we proposed putting you
into our healing Skin. He had never seen the psychoactive
substance in use. When Dionket Lord Healer demonstrated our
customary redactive programme the Adversary conceived this
new technique, which he described as a spinoff from the more
elaborate procedure used on the infant. Elizabeth bade us follow
his instructions, saying he had been a paramount designer of
metaconcert programmes in your Galactic Milieu. The result
was your accelerated healing."

They came into a small sitting room where there was a fire.
Basil said, "That name you apply to Remillard: the Adversary.
Would you care to explain its significance?" He touched the
grey metal at his throat. "I catch odd mental overtones from
you, old chap. Just how deeply has Elizabeth become involved
with this bastard?"

"I'll tell you everything I know, as well as the conclusions
I've drawn and confided to no one . . . Basil, you and I have
both loved her without hope. We have seen her self-doubting
and tempted to despair, not knowing where her destiny lies.
Now she fears this Adversary, at the same time that she is drawn
inextricably into his orbit. We may be able to help her."

"For God's sake, how?"

Creyn helped him into a chair, drew up a footstool. "Rest here

for a while. I'll be back directly with some food for you—and
a golden torc."

Heavy rain sluiced against the French windows of the lodge's
grand salon. The slow-burning oak logs in the great fireplace
did little to dissipate the chill.

Marc said to Brother Anatoly, "They have arrived."

The lanky old friar arose from one of the settees and brushed
crumbs of tetraploid popcorn from his scapular. "Then I'll be
off to bed. You won't want me cluttering the family reunion. I
don't think I can wish you good luck."

"I wish you'd stay. You might find yourself coming to
appreciate my point of view." Marc knelt beside the wood rack,
selecting some billets of stone pine. "So might the children.
None of you have all the data. When you do, perhaps you'll
finally understand. Cloud and Hagen don't realize that they're
absolutely vital to the Mental Man concept. Neither do most of
my old associates who accompanied me to the Pliocene. If the
children had never been born, I would have been content to die
in my failed Rebellion and that would have been the end of
it. But they were born. Call it providence or synchronicity or
whatever. Now they have no choice but to fulfil their destiny."

"No choice?" Anatoly flared. "Ne kruti mne yaitsa, khui
morzhoviy! A choice is exactly what they do have!"

Marc fed the fire, smiling. "God, you have an ugly mouth,
priest."

"I know. It got me in trouble a lot back in Yakutsk. Lack of
charity, the besetting sin of my life ... It could be yours, too,
you Paramount Grand Master tinkling cymbal, if you persist in
treating your children like specimens in some breeding
experiment!"

"You have no notion of the importance of the Mental Man
concept."

"Maybe not. But I do understand human dignity—and your
children's right to a free choice."

"The birth of transcendent humanity is more important than
the rights of two individuals, no matter who they are! Hagen
and Cloud can't be permitted to withdraw. Not now, when I
finally have the means to bring the project to fruition."

"Then make them believe in you," Anatoly said. "Convince

them. Convince yourself! Prove that the Milieu's verdict on you
was a mistake."

The flames were building as the resinous wood caught. Marc
said, "The human race must fulfil its great potential. This can't
be evil!"

"So," said the friar in a voice ominously quiet. "Instead of
my reforming your erroneous conscience, you want to reform
mine! One poor old zalupa konskaya tells you it wasn't a sin
after all, that makes it all right? It's not me you have to justify
yourself to, Marc—it's Hagen and Cloud."

Firelight shadowed Abaddon's eyes. "You'd better pray that
I can, Anatoly. Because all I really require is their germ plasm."

There was a knock on the door.

Elizabeth's mind said: We've come.

Marc sprang to his feet and stood with his back to the fire, a
silhouette in a black polo-necked sweater and black cord trou-
sers. The salon's double doors opened. Four people were there,
all wearing Tanu storm-suits with the hoods thrown back. Eliz-
abeth stepped aside. Cloud and Hagen, both in white, stood
there together. Behind them was the King.

Cloud said, "Papa!" Marc opened his arms and she ran to
him. Their minds embraced and she kissed him, and he held
her bright-haired head against his chest until she stopped
weeping. Then she looked up at him with a plea naked in her
eyes, moved away, and waited for Hagen.

The young man stood a full four metres off, at the side of
Aiken Drum. His hands were still gloved, stiff at his sides. He
ignored his sister's invitation and Marc's, keeping his mind
tightly barricaded. He said, "I'll hear what you have to say,
Papa. That's all." The heavy raindrops clattered against the
windowpanes.

"Will you sit down?" Marc's voice was mild. "It won't take
long." He deliberately turned his back on them to poke up the
guttering fire.

There were three large settees grouped around a low table.
Brother Anatoly said, "Come on, son. You'll be safe. Who'd
connive at brainburning on a night like this, with popcorn and
mulled wine? Have some. I was just leaving." Touching Eliza-
beth's hand in passing, he started for the door.

Marc commanded, "Stay here."

The friar stopped dead, then went to a chair far back in the
shadows and sat down.

On the table by the fire, the crock of spiced wine steamed.
The corn puffs were also hot, and glistening with butter. Aiken,
all aglow in gilded leather, helped himself and said, "I don't
mind sharing a little snack with you, Remillard. I brought my
long spoon." He plumped down on the couch farthest from the
hearth. After hesitating, Hagen sat beside him. Cloud took the
seat near her father. Elizabeth sat alone on the lefthand couch.

"I said I would tell you children about your heredity," Marc
said without preamble. "You know my own body is self-rejuven-
ating. Except for my recalcitrant hair, my appearance hasn't
changed very much in thirty years. I'm a mutant, like all the
children of Paul Remillard and Teresa Kendall. The rejuvena-
ting character is genetically dominant, as are most mutations.
Both you, Cloud, and you, Hagen, are also virtually immortal."

"I knew it!" Hagen leapt to his feet. "But you wouldn't tell
us the truth before, would you, Papa? No—that would have
weakened your hold over us and diminished your stature in the
eyes of the others. You had to be unique! So you fobbed us off,
warned us not to have any kids of our own, hinted there was a
chance we carried horrible genes like Uncle Jack's—"

"What you were told," Marc interrupted, "and what you were
not told were for your own safety and peace of mind. You have
supravital alleles for self-rejuvenation and high metafunction
. . . and you have others. The infamous patchwork heritage of
the Remillards. You would have found out about the immorta-
lity eventually, of course."

"But what about the rest?" Cloud asked, bewildered. "Were
you afraid we wouldn't be able to bear knowing the truth?"

"You might have borne it," Marc told her. He was still facing
the fire. No one spoke for several minutes. Hagen subsided back
onto the couch.

Finally Elizabeth said, "Marc, you must tell them why they
were brought to the Pliocene."

"Because you are the parents of Mental Man," Marc said.

Hagen and Cloud sat as though turned to stone. Then Hagen
said, "You censored the library flecks back on Ocala, wiped out
all details of the real motive behind your Rebellion. All we had
were hints, and the fact that Mama tried to kill you herself to

prevent the plan's success. For God's sake, Papa—what was the
Mental Man project? What is it still?"

His mind showed them.

Overwhelmed by disbelief, they sat with mental barriers
fallen.

Elizabeth said to Aiken: Keep your guard up now if ever.

Aiken said: Lord Woman he's not coercing can't you see?

Marc still did not face them. He had his palms flat against the
mantelstone and his head bowed. Flames outlined him with a
burning corona. He said, "Until I conceived this project, long
before I met your mother, I looked upon my immortality as
nothing but the bitter jest of a whimsical evolution. Have you
ever thought what physical immortality really might mean? An
operant mind shackled to a weak, emotion-tossed human body!
It was more a curse than a blessing in a world populated by
fearful, short-lived fellow humans and self-righteous exotics
already suspicious of human genetic potential. Our whole family
had the trait—more or less. Much good it did us ... And
then Jack was born. The rest of us watched his very special
combination of sublethals run its course. It was terrible and it
was grand and it was the answer. He personified the ultimate
trend of human evolution: the disembodied brain capable of
wearing any material form it chose. Or none. But we discovered
that le bon dieu had played another cosmic joke. Poor Jack was
not immortal. The marvellous brain was doomed to break down
slowly. It would die in less than eighty years . . .Then I had
the revelation, the idea for Mental Man's artificial engendering.
Some members of my family and some magnates of the Conci-
lium who could appreciate the dream helped with the early
experimentation. We used my seed, since I represented the
culmination of the immortal strain, and female gametes from
the most genetically favoured women involved in the project. It
was all done artificially and in secret because of the controversy
the idea had provoked. We seemed to be succeeding. And then
difficulties began; there was sabotage, disloyalty. The debate
concerning the morality of the whole Mental Man concept
became an ideological battleground between the fearful and the
far-sighted. Was it beneficial to the Galactic Mind to permit the
acceleration of evolution by such radical means? Human think-
ers were divided. Exotics universally condemned us."

"And Mama," Cloud said.

"And Cyndia," Marc agreed. "Marriage and natural children
had never been part of my life-schema. All I wanted was to
father Mental Man in vitro and in cerebro. But there was
Cyndia. For a time, she even seemed to favour the project. You
see, she thought the developing nonborns would be allowed to
keep their bodies . . . She insisted that we have children of our
own, even though I told her of the family problems. Finally, I
couldn't deny her. You two were born, ostensibly perfect. But
I knew you would never be able to attain your full potential,
any more than I had, unless—"

"Unless you included us in the Mental Man project as well,"
Cloud said.

"And that's when she tried to kill you!" Hagen shouted,
surging up. Aiken's fingers closed about his wrist like steel bands
and he sank back with a groan. "And when Mama bungled it,
you killed her."

Marc turned toward them at last, calm and implacable.
"Cyndia's first intent was not to take my life. After the disaster
struck our secret laboratories in the early days of the Rebellion,
she thought that sterilizing me would be sufficient to put an end
to Mental Man, and to the war. She had a small sonic disruptor,
a very sophisticated device. She did what she set out to do and
narrowly missed killing me. My mind struck her down in self-
defence."

"Jesus," said Aiken. "Then all you had left were the kids."

"Oh, Papa," Cloud said in a dead voice. "That's why you
said it was necessary to bring us to the Pliocene when your
Rebellion failed. Why you want to keep us with you now."

Marc said, "The Milieu will not permit you to reproduce our
strain. You have the dangerous strengths and weaknesses of
both your parents. In my day, the Human Polity eugenicists
were more free and easy in such matters. It was fairly easy for
the powerful to circumvent the restrictions. But even Jack was
born illicitly, as you know. He should have been aborted, with
his overwhelming quotient of so-called lethal genes."

"And if he had been," Elizabeth said, "you would have won."

Marc only smiled his famous smile.

Hagen's thoughts were chaotic, imperfectly screened. "But
you could have been restored in the regen tank, back in the

Milieu or even here. God—you were restored here, after Felice
fire-flayed you! And your self-regenerating faculty—don't tell
me it balks at rehabilitating zapped gonads!"

"The body doesn't balk," Marc said. "Only the mind."

Taken aback, Hagen could only repeat, "The mind?"

Marc's steady gaze turned to Elizabeth. "Ask the Grand
Master why she receded into metapsychic latency after her acci-
dent, even though her brain was perfectly restored."

"We restore ourselves," she said to Hagen. "In any healing
process—whether ordinary or extraordinary, tank or Tanu Skin
or specialized autoregeneration—the restored body cells must be
reintegrated into the whole. Accepted and directed to function
through the subtle redactive processes of the mind."

"And ... you can't?" Cloud asked her father.

"No," said Marc.

"But, why?"

"Perhaps Brother Anatoly knows," said Marc lightly. "We've
been considering at some length the heart's sly subornation of
the intellect. What I should do, I do not! Je suis le veuf, without
a star left on my lute. For me, there is only the abyss . . . You
children must take up the engendering of Mental Man in a place
safe from the interference of jealous exotics and puny-minded
humans. But there's no need for a star-search any longer. We
don't have to wait to be rescued. Before too long I'll have the
ability to d-jump all of us anywhere in the galaxy. There are at
least three worlds I know of with high-technology civilizations
that could foster our project. None has true operant
metafunction or even superluminal transport as yet, but we
could deal with that easily enough once we took control of a
planet." Marc displayed a mental image.

"We." Hagen eyed his father with misgiving. "Then the other
children are still to be included somehow in the project, just as
you told us back on Ocala?"

"All who still accept the Mental Man ideology may join us.
An adequate pool of genes from operant human stock is essen-
tial to offset the sublethal alleles of the Remillards. My old
colleagues have known this all along. What they did not know
was that you two were the only sources left of the immortality
strain. They assumed—as I did—that I would be able to restore
my fertility eventually. Most of them still think I have done so.
It was the better part of prudence not to disillusion them during

the early years of our exile. The times were unsettled. I was well
able to take care of myself, but you children were vulnerable."

"I'm surprised," said Hagen caustically, "that you didn't bank
specimens of our germ plasm."

"I did. The Keoghs, who were our chief physicians and knew
the truth, took one ovary and one testis from you while you
were still very young children. The only other person who knew,
my closest friend and confidant, destroyed them at about the
same time that he began poisoning your minds against me."

"Manion!" cried Hagen, and he began to laugh uproariously.

"Why does Alex want us to go back to the Milieu, Papa?"
Cloud asked. Her brother's laughter choked off.

"He wants Mental Man—and you—subordinated to the
Unity. He's a deluded fool."

Hagen brushed this aside. "So you really do need us after all.
We're the priceless raw material for your Mental Man stud
farm—is that it?"

Marc cut him off. "You and Cloud will be the principal admin-
istrators of the project. It will be yours. I'll subdue the host
planet for you, give you every assistance. But the responsibility
would be yours. Think very carefully before you refuse it.
Nothing comparable awaits you in the Galactic Milieu. On the
contrary." And his mind displayed a panorama of alarming
scenarios that caused the two young people to gasp, then turn
incredulously to Elizabeth.

She shook her head. "I don't know. Certainly not the more
drastic hypothesis. The Milieu would never be so unjust. Ultima-
tely, your fate would probably depend upon you. Your mind-
set and response to the Unity—"

"You mean, we'd have to take our medicine," Hagen said,
"and swear to be good little neurons in the Galactic Brain."

"It's not like that!" Elizabeth protested. "The Unity is love
and fulfilment and an end to loneliness. Manion was right when
he told you you'd find peace with your own kind."

But Marc said, "There's no room in the Milieu for persons
whose dreams diverge from the norm—much less persons whose
mental potential exceeds the narrow course predetermined for
humanity by the exotic races. You are Remillards. You'd be a
threat. And unless you submitted to the domination of the Unity
you'd be dealt with ... as I was."

"And don't forget Me," said Aiken.

"I'd never do that," Marc replied smoothly. "Elizabeth told
me your history. In spite of your vast latent metabilities, the
Magistratum was prepared to dispose of you. I invited you to
be here at this meeting precisely because I saw you as my ally,
one who would plead my cause to Hagen and Cloud once you
understood the truth. I'm not afraid of having Milieu agents
come after me through the time-gate. Why should they bother?
The past is. They know I can never return. I stand condemned.
But you, High King . . . What kind of reception would you have
if you should go back to the Milieu? Are you ready to subordi-
nate your mind to the will of your inferiors in the Unity? And
if you stay here, and a two-way warp is established, are you
ready to welcome busybody reformers from the future, backed
by the enforcers of the Magistratum? Your rule is hardly a
model of enlightened democracy! And the third contingency:
closure of the gate after the disaffected have fled the Pliocene.
At the very least, you stand to lose many of your most talented
subjects. There are even uglier possibilities."

Aiken grinned. "Including the one that all this havering may
be moot, if the Firvulag are right and Gotterdammerung is about
to fall."

Suddenly the little man in gold was on his feet, holding
Hagen's wrist with his left hand and Cloud's with his right. All
three of them were inside a shining envelope of psychocreative
force.

Marc tensed. He stepped forward, his eyes alight with fury.
He said: It is not your decision to make!

"I've made it mine." Aiken was no longer smiling. "Do you
care to dispute the point?"

The aspect of Abaddon faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Marc shook his head with apparent unconcern.

Aiken drew Cloud and Hagen toward the tall French windows
that still streamed with rain. He said to Marc, "We'll think very
carefully about what you've said , and then we'll give you our
decision. But not now. We need time."

"You may have two days," Marc said coldly. "No longer."

The windows were flung open, admitting a howling blast of
wind-driven water. Aiken and the young Remillards were
abruptly hooded, unrecognizable, ready to fly. The King asked,
"Will you wait here at Black Crag for the answer?"

Marc said, "If I'm not here, Elizabeth will know how to find

me." His mind reached toward his masked son and daughter. I
know that what I've told you has been shocking. Frightening,
even. But all that will be taken care of in time. You'll understand
everything ... in time. Don't let Aiken stampede or coerce you.
You carry a priceless potential, an enormous responsibility. Let
me help you fulfil it. Don't turn away from me. Forgive me for
the mistakes, for hurting you. I only meant it for the best, I do
love both of you. Believe me ...

The golden figure and the two white ones vanished into the
storm. The window-doors slammed shut.

Marc and Elizabeth had completely forgotten Brother
Anatoly. He hauled himself up from his isolated seat with a
wheezy sigh and came sloshing through the puddles on the floor.
  At the fireside table he busied himself ladling out three cups of
the still-steaming mulled wine. He gave one to Marc and one
to Elizabeth, then stood muttering under his breath for a
moment. He said, "You're going to need all the help you can
get. Take it and drink it. You know what it is. For your good
and everybody's."

Elizabeth's eyes went wide with shock. "I can't! What do you
think you're doing?"

"Of course you can," said Anatoly comfortably. "Look at
him. Are you that much worse?"

Very carefully, Elizabeth set the cup of wine down on the
table. "Amerie must have been out of her mind to send you,"
she said, and then she rushed out of the room.

Marc raised a bemused brow over the rim of his cup.

Anatoly drank his, then took Elizabeth's. "I do believe she's
scandalized. She has terrible scruples, you know. And despair.
It's difficult to deal with. In her way, she's even prouder than
you. And unfortunately, damnation will always be a matter of
choice."

"I still don't concede guilt."

"You're an arrogant, invincibly ignorant bastard, and your
subconscious does concede, and ego te absolve." He finished
Elizabeth's wine and set down the empty cup. "This new thing,
on the other hand, is a different kettle of borscht. It's wrong
and you know it. No psychological bullshit about it, Remillard.
You force those kids or mutilate them again and you make your
own hell. For keeps, this time."

"I know," Marc said. "I'm trying to decide if it's worth it."

CHAPTER FOUR

The storm engulfed them, but before Hagen and Cloud could
articulate a single thought, the King's mind spoke irresistibly:

Sleep. Put it all aside now. All fear all anxiety all decision.
There is only the dark and the water and the wind. The world
sleeps invisible below and you on high are secure and guarded.
Sleep . . .

They awoke totally refreshed, seated side by side on a glass
bench in a starlit garden. The faint tinkle of tiny bells in the
trees and a partial glimpse of a tower delineated in yellow and
violet sparks told them that they were back in Goriah, in the
castle grounds.

Hagen pushed off his hood and looked at his wrist chrono-
meter. It was only a little after one in the morning. "My God,
it took that Tanu, Minanonn, nearly four hours to carry us
to Black Crag. The King's flown us back in less than ninety
minutes!"

"With a detour to Roniah," said a deep exotic voice from the
shadows.

Cloud was on her feet, straining her farsense. "Kuhal," she
whispered.

The Second Lord Psychokinetic stepped out onto the silver
lawn. There was a human woman with him.

Bewildered, Hagen managed to say, "Is that you, Diane?"

"The King sent us both," said the daughter of Alexis Manion.
"He said—and I quote—'It's been a long time since any of you
had a fun-break. Go downtown and play. Tomorrow you can
come back to the castle and we'll discuss the future.' "

"Did—he tell you where we'd been?" Hagen asked.

Kuhal said, "He told us everything. He said he had his
reasons."

Cloud nodded and spoke as if to herself. "We're not to be
allowed to keep it a secret."

A breeze blew up from the Gyre of Commerce, carrying the
eerie skirling of an electronic bagpipe. Kuhal drew Cloud aside.

"The King may not have realized, when he arranged this
meeting, but you and I had agreed to set a wall between us. He
knew we still farspoke one another over the leagues and shared
our heart's troubles. He saw that we were friends—"

"And mistook it for love," she said.

"It had always remained so, on my part."

Cloud moved away from his touch. "And so you have been
brought here to influence my decision. And Diane to sway
Hagen."

"I think you misjudge Aiken deeply. His motive was kindness,
not machination."

"Perhaps you're right."

They walked along the shrub-bordered path, leaving the other
couple behind at the lily pond. Mushroom-shaped glass lamps
lit the way to an obscure gate in the garden wall that opened
into the town greenbelt. Cloud kept her mind veiled. She still
had the storm-suit hood covering her hair and the taut skin
made her slender figure almost sexless, a glimmer of white
moving along beside a demigod in barbaric High Table vesture.

"Through all the turmoil of the last month," he said, "you
farspoke me from this very garden."

"Papa watched us," she said. "He says he didn't listen."

 "What matter if he did? The guilt owing to the Flood is his
as well as yours. He might have gained insight, as you did."

Cloud laughed, a sad, quiet sound. "Papa has enough guilt
of his own to make the Flood deaths seem irrelevant. I doubt
that he thinks of the event from a moral standpoint at all. We
children asked his help in an expediency, and he condescended.
But the crime was ours."

"You are sorry," Kuhal said.

"Most of us are," she admitted, "now. Now that we perceive
you as real people instead of inconvenient abstractions standing
in the way of our great undertaking. Yes, we're sorry . . . but
remorse isn't really enough, is it? Sterile brooding over the
wrongs we've committed doesn't help. Not when the wrongdoing
was so appalling."

His mind reached out in empathy, only to impinge on the
mental shield.

She said, "As we flew down to Black Crag, I mind-spoke at
some length with Minanonn the Heretic, asking him how he had
found peace after realizing the futility of the battle-religion. He

told me that a change of heart isn't really sufficient recompense
for a great sin. It has to be affirmed by some kind of repentant
action or the mind can't purge guilt, and if we try to deny this,
then the soul finds its own penance, as Papa's has tried to do.
But in his case, where he consciously rejects atonement, there
will never be any true peace . . . Hagen and I and the others
don't reject the idea of recompense, as Papa has. But we don't
know how to atone for what we did to your people."

"Your father has offered you one possible course of action,"
Kuhal said. "Mental Man could be a force for wisdom and
goodness in this galaxy."

Her mind-veil parted briefly, letting irony escape. "It
could—if Papa and Hagen weren't part of the scheme. But I
know my father better than anyone. He says that Hagen and I
would be the administrators—but he'd never let us be. Not
while he lived. And if my brother killed him—as he would,
inevitably—Mental Man would carry the mark of Cain, just like
all the rest of the human race."

"And mine," Kuhal said.

Her mind flashed a smile. "You do understand."

"We understand each other, Cloud. And I think you speak
of this now only to bolster your courage, for you know very
well what you must do, what decision you must make—and
convince your brother to share."

"Hagen's going to be terribly afraid, Kuhal. Back on Ocala,
when Alexis Manion first began to talk to us about the Unity
as an alternative to Papa's plan, Hagen was almost paralysed at
the very notion of defiance. As much as he feared Papa and
wanted to escape, the thought of confronting a Galactic Mind
in the Milieu—becoming a part of it—frightened him still more.
We're a self-centred lot, we Remillards. Jealous of our
individuality."

"Don't I know that!" The yearning insufficiency reached out
to her. The need. "And love does mean a surrender of some
part of the heart's sovereignty. But not subordination, Cloud.
Not in real love. And not in this Unity we must all join, either,
if it is as Elizabeth's mind shows it. Your father's rejection of
the Unity was part of his greater rejection of love in favour of
power."

"You're wrong! Papa does love us. And he loved Mama to

the point of unreason. He's passionately concerned with the
welfare of the human race—"

"In the abstract, perhaps. But not the untidy, bloody-minded
verity of real people."

She refused to respond to this.

Kuhal said, "I understand very well why your father was
called the Angel of the Abyss. The Goddess leads and teaches
her children, trying to bring them to maturity, and weeps over
their obtuseness. But Abaddon would force his offspring into
perfection."

Cloud's mind smiled. "You don't know how lucky you Tanu
are to have perceived deity as a goddess. Mothers are much
more inclined to let their children grow up at their own pace."

They came to the garden gate. The lights of the city twinkled
through the open woodland and they heard crowd noises. The
sound of music was much louder, the pipes wailing some restless
chase tune.

"Do you think you'll have much trouble convincing Hagen?"
Kuhal asked.

"I'll have most of the others on my side, with the principal
exception of Nial Keogh, who's a vicious little power seeker.
Some of them, like Diane Manion, are simply timid about going
to the Milieu and more inclined to accept the devil we know
rather than the one we don't. But I think I'll be able to handle
things. You'll help, won't you? Thanks to your advice, I was
able to do a pretty good job smoothing over the mess after that
stupid attack on the King's life at the iron foundry. No doubt
you'll be able to suggest some ploys for dealing with this situa-
tion as well."

"Politicking," he said whimsically. "Why shouldn't I know
the game? I've been at it for more than four hundred years."

She started, then laughed. "Yes. You have, haven't you? You
Tanu live so long. How long do you live, Kuhal?"

"It's been said that we seldom see three millennia out, the
perils of the battle-company being what they are, and the
shortage of Skin practitioners. I was most fortunate to have you
as my redactor."

"You began to love me even then," she accused him. "That's
what made your healing so effective. Boduragol said so."

"It was mutual."

"It wasn't! We simply have mental affinity. We're very close,
but that's not the same as love."

"It's a beginning," he suggested.

"You'll always be my dearest friend. But—"

"You don't wish me to follow you through the time-gate? My
presence would be an embarrassment to you? . . Very well. I
will stay here."

"No!" she cried. For the first time she let her barriers down.
"I don't really love you—but what would I do without you?"

His mind responded with a formless outcry, human in its joy
born of desolation. He held both her hands and she felt the
electric warmth of his life-force flow through their clasped fingers
and set every nerve ending in her body ablaze. Joined in a single
aura, the stately robed figure and the small white-clad one filled
the dark corner of the garden with rosy gold light. It lasted only
an instant. Then they walked hand in hand through the gate.

"But it solves everything, darling—don't you see?" Diane
Manion was desperately eager. "This way, there'd be no worry
about the Milieu treating us as criminals, no fear of being puni-
shed or possibly ostracized because of who we are . . . You say
Marc lied to you. But only about inconsequential things! The
really important matter—that all of us children should share in
the creation of a grand new race of ultrametapsychics—was
true! It's what Marc has said all along. What we learned from
Falemoana and Dr. Curtis and Trudi when we were little chil-
dren. But now your father's dream isn't far off in the future, or
dependent upon some altruistic race coming to fetch us off this
godforsaken planet. It's now! We can leave here and begin the
work! You and I can have an army of super-Cubs of our own,
Hagen! I wouldn't mind the other. I mean, it would be all test
tubes and artificial nurture, just like the nonborns in the Milieu
colonies, so I couldn't possibly be jealous. I'd be proud!
Darling—you are the key to this whole glorious idea—not
Cloud! If what you say is true, then your sister has only a single
ovary. Perhaps one hundred thousand gametes if they all proved
viable, which they wouldn't. But you—"

"Lucky me." Hagen laughed softly. "I'm a male, and I could
sire millions and millions. With banked sperm and a little tissue
culture, Mental Man could propagate for aeons even if I should
die. Accidentally."

He was standing at the shore of the garden pond, not looking
at her. The night-blooming water lilies gave off a pineapple
fragrance. Diane had been almost totally unaware of his mood,
so thick had been his mental screening. He had simply confirmed
the report that Aiken had given Diane about the meeting with
Marc, then asked her for her reaction. Now he had it.

"It's not as though we wouldn't have children of our own,"
she protested.

"And how will you feel when it comes time to take the babies'
bodies away?"

"Bodies . . . away?"

Hagen whirled about, seizing her by the arms, crushing them
through the light fabric of her Tanu gown. "That's pan of it,
you little fool! Not just for the artificially engendered
children—for all of them! They're to be bodiless, like my sainted
Uncle Jack, to force them to utilize their full mental potential.
Naked brains that conjure up psychocreative disguises to hide
their inhumanity! But better than Jack—oh, I'll hand Marc that!
They'll be immortal, and able to hook themselves into cerebro-
energetic enhancers whenever they please, without being incon-
venienced by primitive appendages such as arms or legs or hearts
or guts. Brains without faces! Without lips to kiss or hands to
touch each other. Neat, efficient brains with needle-electrodes
in them, glowing white-hot with great thoughts! What will they
think about, Diane? Will they dream? Will they find things to
laugh at? Will they love each other? Will they love us and thank
us for making them that way? Will they, Diane?"

His mind opened, showing a black thing roughly humanoid
in shape, self-contained, armoured against the world, divorced
from its unnecessary body, its ultrasenses prowling the galaxy
on a never-ending search for other minds like itself—and finding
none, resolving to make such minds. Don't cry, Hagen. Don't
be afraid. It's only Papa . . .

Hagen said, "He's got a second suit of armour there in
Kyllikki, ready for me."

Diane screamed.

He folded his arms around her then and held her to his breast.
The white antelope skin of the storm-suit was soft, warmed by
the living flesh inside, faintly redolent of wax and tanning com-
pound and human sweat. The face that looked down at her was
haggard, wet with tears, in need of a shave, the jaw trembling

with tension and still scarred on the left side with the psycho-
somatic stigma of the hook. A face that was almost Marc's.

"He won't let us go," Diane whispered in terror.

"With Aiken Drum on our side, we can give him a damn
good run for his money," Hagen said. "And if the old wolf
starts getting too close to the fleeing sleigh - well, I can always
make Marc a present of the other nut. Then he'd have his
Mental Man and we'd be free of him for ever."

She burst into tears, and then she was laughing with him, and
then the laughter was smothered in their kisses. He said, "Come
on, babe," and led her to the starproof shadow of a flowering
daphne. After they had coupled they lay on their sides, face to
face and body to body, clinging to one another. The turf was
dewy and none too soft and a chill breeze stole over the pond,
but still they lay together sharing warmth and breath.

"I wish we could have made Mental Man tonight," he said.
"Damn that implant."

"I'll ask Becky Kramer to take it out tomorrow."

"The kid will be born in the Milieu," Hagen said, "or we'll
just fly away, babe. The three of us. Okay?"

"Yes."

They held each other more tightly and let the mental images
drift from one mind to the other. Fears. Elizabeth's reassurance.
Dangers. The possible failure of the Guderian Project. Alexis
Manion's persistent reassurance last winter in Ocala that they
would only find fulfilment in the Unity ... as would their child.

"And it'll be immortal, like you," Diane whispered
tremulously.

"Self-rejuvenating," Hagen corrected her. "And in case
you're fearful of losing your endearing young charms, let me
remind you that some of the time-travellers in our lab went
through four refit jobs in tanks back in the Milieu, and would
likely have kept up the good work indefinitely if they hadn't
hankered for the primitive life here in the Pliocene."

Diane giggled. "Can't you imagine the consternation among
all those sensible stay-at-home Milieu folks when we pop
through the time-gate and tell them we have the grandson of
Mental Man in embryo?"

Hagen made an indelicate noise. "That'll be the first shock.
If this thing works out, we'll be lucky if the whole exile popula-

tion doesn't come along with us. Cloud and her faerie prince
aren't the half of it."

Diane was quiet for a long moment. "Hagen—she wouldn't
stay, would she? She says she doesn't love Kuhal. She wouldn't
be tempted to sacrifice herself for the rest of us, would she?"

"For Papa's sake, you mean? Don't kid yourself! In the first
place, you were all too right when you noted that in the Mental
Man game, the male of the species has natural advantages over
the female. Papa wants me. Why do you think he let Cloud go
to Europe with Elaby and the others, but kept me there in
Ocala? I'm to take his place."

"Cloud has the genes," Diane insisted. "Marc could use her."

"She wants Unity more than any of us! Cloud and Elaby were
the first ones to be convinced by Alex that rebellion was the
better part."

"But Elaby's dead, Hagen, and Cloud says she'll never fall in
love with anyone again and risk the pain—"

"My cerebral sister wouldn't know love if it bit her on the
ankle. No matter what she says, she and Kuhal will follow right
along with the rest of us ... and if you think our offspring will
rock the Milieu, what about a Tanu-Remillard cross?"

"We Manions have our hidden marvels, too. Let me show
you one."

There followed a good deal of laughter and other pleasantry.
But all too soon the stars dimmed and disappeared behind an
overcast. As the first drops of rain from the next storm fell upon
them, they helped each other to dress and had a last kiss. Then
Hagen spun a small psychocreative umbrella and they walked
under it back to the Castle of Glass, intending to give their
decision to the King.

Aiken was not at home.

Neither was the Guderian Project laboratory, its personnel,
the giant sigma-generator, or the twenty-one aircraft that had
been parked in the castle courtyard.

There was pain of translation and then he hung in the grey
limbo, not for a subjective instant as during his former d-jumps,
but for an excruciating quarter of an hour, since he was experi-
mentally transporting three tons of inert matter in addition to
his regular armour. He endured while the stubborn fabric of

space bent to his mind's command and the hyperspatial catenary
was executed: a nonline drawn through a nondimensional region
by a nonforce.

Imprisoned inside the refrigerated and ultrapressurized CE
rig, the supercharged brain was deprived of all normal and all
metasensory input. Hyperspace was without form and void. He
was fully conscious and self-possessed within its matrix, as
though he rode a superluminal starship; but there the analog
ended. If he had been on a ship he might have slept or read or
taken light exercise or eaten or amused himself in any number
of ways, trusting to the ship's crew and machinery to translate
him across more than 14,000 light-years of interstellar space.

Instead, he was the ship.

He had no artificial guidance system, no computerized route-
finder such as a starship captain had, no engine powered by
fusing nuclei to energize his passage. The equipment worn by
his brain served only to assist in puncturing the superficies. It
let him enter hyperspace via an upsilon-field gateway: but once
inside the grey limbo, there was only the mental program to
provide direction and impetus. It was a wondrous program,
purchased at great price, and its use was not for the fainthearted.
Seeming to move along an invisible cable hung between two
worlds, the d-jumper did not dare to relax his concentration for
an instant. His attention must not falter, must not be distracted
from the goal by a single vagrant thought. The goal alone was
life. If his mind relinquished it for the millionth part of a second,
he would be lost.

He held fast through the endless and horrific minutes,
knowing only the goal. It was a star: G3-1668 in his catalogue,
a sun he had never bothered to name. He farsensed it more
than seven years ago and rejected it because the people were
premetapsychic and apparently useless for his purposes. Now,
however, of the three star systems that were potential cradles
for Mental Man, he judged this one to be the most promising.
So he named the sun Goal, and filled his mind with it in order
to forget the events that must be taking place back on Earth

In time he reached the terminal superficies. His brain flared,
drawing heavily upon the cortical augmentation reserves to suck
in more energy. He spun the upsilon-field, thrust the three tons
of ballast rock through it, and then followed himself. He knew

hideous agony and uttered a cosmic groan. Then he hung in
space, surveying the scene with his mind's eye.

A yellow star lit half of a white-swirled blue marble. It was
the fourth planet of the Goal system, home of the indigenous
race. He studied it with his farsense for several hours, savouring
the respite from pain, then wished himself and his cargo to the
surface. This time the d-jump took less time than an eye-blink
and caused less discomfort than a plucked lash. The teleported
rocks, for whose sake he had risked his life, lay in an undistingui-
shed heap. Some of them were still crusted with frozen mud
from the Seine estuary.

Marc forgot them. He emerged from his armour, rendered
himself invisible, and walked among the unsuspecting exotic
people for two days.

They were bipeds, approximately humanoid in form and
approximately saurischian in derivation. They were intelligent,
peaceable, and had a birthrate that was probably too low ever
to admit of their attaining the "magic number" of ten thousand
million living minds, the normal minimum required for coaduna-
tion. The planet had an advanced technoeconomy that kept its
people prosperous and healthy. Its biomedical establishment
was sophisticated enough to support the Mental Man breeding
program. It was an attractive world, with an ecology as
congruous to human life as any colonial planet of the Milieu.
The people were a hardworking and worthy lot, with a psychoso-
cial index that would suggest rapid adaptation to a benevolent
despotism.

It was a world, he thought, that would do nicely. Here, under
his aegis, Mental Man would burgeon and flourish and expand
His bright dominion from star to star through the aeons to come,
the all-conquering and immortal Mind.

And in six million years, there would remain not a trace of
Him.

He could not pray for the desired outcome. It did not exist
and would hot. He wondered: Can I will it?

After two days of observation in the Goal star system,
depressed to the depths of his being, Marc d-jumped back to
Kyllikki. He farspoke Elizabeth on Black Crag and said:

Tell me.

She said: The children gave me their response and asked me
to relay it to you.

Very well.

[Image: Daughter and son stand before hilltop stone castle
rain lush grass path bordered white stones flat rock surface with
Square.]

Hagen: This is Castle Gateway Papa. We're standing on the
site of the time-gate leading from the Milieu to the Pliocene.
The gate we all came through. We've thought about your propo-
sition. Both of us. We've spoken to all the other children as
well and conferred with the King but the decision was ours.
We've decided to go back to the Galactic Milieu. Back to the
world that we were born in back to the mind-family that can
help us find peace. We'd never have that with you. Mental Man
could never be happy in the form you envision. Not unless each
mind was a saint like Uncle Jack was. And saints aren't that
common Papa! You aren't one and neither are Cloud and I.
We'll need a lot of help from our friends to make a success of
life and so will our children. That's who Mental Man really is
Papa . . . our children. They're going to be human beings like
their parents with bodies as well as minds. Not angels. They'll
be frightened by their immortality just as you are ... and we
are. But they'll be linked to billions of other minds who'll offer
love and support and good counsel. We think that will suffice.

Cloud: We can't go your way Papa. Your vision is flawed.
Deep in your heart I think you know it. There were so many
times you could have stopped us compelled us to submit to you
even killed us and taken the genes. And yet you didn't. Find
out why and perhaps you'll be able to resign yourself to letting
us go. Look far back into your past Papa! Understand why you
cast Mental Man in this inhuman mould and tried to force
yourself and your children to conform to it. I think we are
beginning to see the reasons why. Eventually we'll be able to
forgive you and you must do the same for us. We'll take good
care of your dream and see that it's nurtured in the Unity where
it belongs. It will all be for the best. Trust us Papa. . .

[Image: Son and daughter gesture walk up path rain falls on
louring stone castle barbican gate opens glimpse inner courtyard
people machinery weapons SILVER HEMISPHERE FLASHES
INTO BEING enveloping entire castle Golden Manikin appears.]

Aiken: I've moved the entire Guderian Project from Goriah
to Castle Gateway. One of my loyal subjects has hooked up the
big SR-35 sigma generator to a pair of SR-15s that I happened

to have stashed away—and now Cloud and Hagen are safe
inside the sigma-field with all the others. The psychoenergetic
equivalent of the stacked screens is over 900 now. You don't
have enough watts to break through even if you push your
creativity to the limit with the enhancer and mesh all your old
cronies into the metaconcert. There isn't a weapon in the
Pliocene that can puncture that silver bubble Marc. Not even
my photon Spear. Not even Felice could crack it! And the
only one who can activate its airlock now is Me . . . You're
checkmated Marc. Your children told me they'd rather die than
go your way. But they aren't going to die. I've taken them under
my protection. They're going to finish the Guderian device and
go through the time-gate into the Milieu. Right there inside
Castle Gateway under the sigma-umbrella if need be. The device
will work in there. Ask Alexis Manion if you don't believe
me. . . I don't want to fight you Marc. I want to resolve this
mess peacefully if I can and tend to some other urgent business.
But if you insist on attacking the Guderian Project be assured
that I'll defend it—and so will the minds that work in metacon-
cert with me. Thousands of them all meshed nicely now under
my command in the program you gave me down at the Rio
Genii. . . I know that the schooner carrying your CE-rig power
supply is somewhere in the Gulf of Armorica or the Seine Delta.
You've got her camouflaged with some kind of farsight buzzer.
But if you try to fight me I'll find Kyllikki one way or another
and I'll nail her and nail you . . . But wouldn't that be a tawdry
way to end it now? Wouldn't it be more your style—and
mine—to let the Truce prevail? Sail Kyllikki right up the Seine
all the way to the Field of Gold—white flag up and screens off.
You and your Rebels are invited to be my guests at the Grand
Tourney! Watch the games then kiss your kids goodbye and sail
on back to Florida. . . Think about it Marc. You have a lot of
things to think about. [Fading image.]

Elizabeth said: That's the entire message. Aiken's told you
the truth about Castle Gateway. He did move the Guderian
Project there—in a single evening. He's regained his strength
and integrated the powers of Nodonn and Mercy as well. Don't
challenge him Marc. You'll only destroy the Many-Coloured
Land to no purpose. Yield. Please!

Marc said: They've made their decision. Now I'll make mine.
It may take some time.

The farspoken voice died away, and all that was left in the
aether were reverberations from faraway lightning bolts and a
faint rustle of mental static.

Elizabeth sent her tightest farsight beam arrowing along the
path of Marc's communication. But at the extremity there was
only wind-riffled water where a great river met the sea, and
starless night.

In the stern hold of Kyllikki, Jordan Kramer and Gerrit Van
Wyk lifted the heavy casque from Marc's head, then helped him
from the body armour. The other surviving magnates were there
waiting: Cordelia Warshaw and Ragnar Gathen and Jeff Stein-
brenner and Patricia Castellane. Off in a corner on a stool, with
eyes strangely lucid in spite of the docilator, sat Alexis Manion.
They waited.

Marc said, "The children have declined my offer. As you
know now, there can be no Mental Man without them. Cloud
and Hagen and the others are at the time-gate site on the Rhone
River. Aiken Drum transferred the entire Guderian Project
there, and shielded it with a nine hundred power sigma. My son
and daughter have said they would prefer death to cooperation
with me in the engendering of Mental Man. They intend for
Him to be subordinated to the Milieu."

Alexis Manion smiled.

Patricia cried, "You can take their genes!"

"I don't know whether I can or not." He stood there in
the black pressure suit, soaked with the amniotic fluid of the
enhancer, blood from the electrode wounds flowing thinly down
his brow and cheeks. "At the moment, I can't think of any way
to break through their defences. I'm not even convinced I should
try." One side of his mouth lifted gently. "I find myself precari-
ously tempted to virtue."

"But, if you give it up—it's the end!" Patricia exclaimed.

Alexis Manion said distinctly:

Mon front est rouge encore du baiser de la reine.
J'ai reve dans la grotte ou nage la sirene . . .

Marc nodded in agreement. "And the siren still sings and
holds out the promise, and I'm addicted to the kiss of the
vampire-queen."

Patricia said, "You're exhausted. You should sleep. Later
you can consider what might be done."

The other magnates added a murmur of half-voiced thoughts.
All of them hid behind thick mental walls.

Marc said to Ragnar Gathen, "We'll sail up the river. I've
been told that it's navigable for several hundred kilometres.
How are the solar impellers holding up?"

"Very well," said the former starfleet strategist.

"Have Walter take us up at a modest cruise speed, then.
We're in no hurry. Maintain the camouflage—and be sure it's
dense enough to foil aerial surveillance as well as farsight
scan."

"We'll be secure enough," Gathen said, "unless one of the
King's people actually eyeballs us from the riverbank."

"We ought to make certain no stray thought betrays our
position," Patricia said, glancing at Manion.

"I'll count on you to take care of that," Marc said.

Cordelia Warshaw asked, "Do you have any further orders
for us?"

"Relax," Marc told them all, the famous smile overriding the
desolation in his eyes. "I myself intend to go fishing."

CHAPTER FIVE

During that Truce before Nightfall, it seemed that almost
everyone in the Many-Coloured Land was on the move.

The Tanu had always flocked to the games; but this autumn,
the King issued an extraordinary proclamation, commanding
that every human—even those who customarily remained at
home caretaking the cities and plantations and other establish-
ments—must attend the Grand Tourney. So they all came out
to enjoy the holiday, people torced in gold and silver and grey,
and the lowly bareneck serfs as well. The cities, with the excep-
tion of the capital and Roniah, which hosted the travellers,
were left almost deserted but for the faithful ramas. The King's
invitation was extended to outlaw humans, too, and they came

trickling out of the Spanish wilderness, the high Helvetides, and
the Jura. The royal word reached into the swamps of Bordeaux
and the Paris Basin and the haunted forests of darkest Albion.
Drawn as much by the prospect of fun and free food and drink
as by curiosity over the import of the King's decree, more
than 45,000 human beings set out for Nionel and the Field of
Gold—virtually all who resided in Pliocene Europe. Of them,
perhaps 1500 were operant golds and twice that number were
torced with the precious metal but lacking in significant mental
powers. There were 4200 silvers, some 8500 greys, and under
20,000 barenecks who had willingly accepted Tanu servitude.
The free Lowlives numbered about 8000, but more than half of
those were already residents of Nionel.

Tadanori Kawai was among the few who heard the King's
proclamation and politely demurred. He wished to husband his
failing strength, and there was considerable work to be done
preparing Hidden Springs for the rainy season.

Stein Oleson heard the proclamation and ignored it. His
Viking intuition told him what the Fimbulvetr presaged, and he
knew that the Field of Gold was no place for him or his family.

Huldah Henning, away on the Isle of Kersic, never knew of
the royal announcement at all, nor would she have accepted its
invitation. She was in her eighth month, and the tri-hybrid son
of Nodonn Battlemaster rode turbulently in her womb.

To his metapsychically operant subjects King Aiken-Lugonn
sent a more sombre message: Attend the Tourney, ready to
cooperate in metaconcert, or risk the Foe's conquest of our
land.

The response was one of overwhelming fealty. Every gold-
wearer in the kingdom who was not at the threshold of Tana's
Peace or in Skin set out obediently for Nionel: some 2400 pure-
blooded Tanu and less than 5000 hybrids. Together with the
operant human golds and silvers, the minds pledged to the
King's service in the event of Nightfall totalled just over 13,000.

Not counting the Howlers, there were more than 80,000
Firvulag.

On a day in mid-October, when the Roniah Fair was at its height
and the air quivered in thirty-five degree heat and thunderheads
skulked about the flanks of the steaming Mont-Dore volcano,
the fearsome prodigy appeared!

Travellers on the Great South Road craned their necks and
came to a standstill, peering into the dazzling afternoon sky.
Their minds and voices uttered cries of amazement, surprised
recognition; or near panic—according to whether the observer
was Tanu, human or Firvulag. Chalikos, hellads, and the motley
collection of hipparions and half-tamed antelopes that the Little
People rode or drove spooked as they caught sight of the thing.
The highway, the Roniah fairgrounds, and the adjacent
campsites were thrown into an uproar of plunging beasts,
laughing humans, bemused Tanu, and outraged Firvulag.

It looked at first like a dark, floating fish. It had stubby fins
and a needle nose and seemed to swim down through the heat-
thickened air with sinister deliberation, becoming more and
more enormous as it neared the earth. Purple strings of fire,
like a dimly glowing net, enshrouded it. (And revealed to the
former Milieu citizens that it had to be none other than a
rhocraft, albeit one of highly unorthodox configuration.) A
terrified dwarf shot a bolt of psychoenergy at the thing hovering
overhead, and his countrymen wailed aloud, fearful of
retribution.

All that happened was that a vent in the thing's belly opened.
It seemed to lay thousands upon thousands of buoyant yellow
eggs, cascading them over the crowd like a hen-salmon strewing
her redd. The aircraft glided to and fro, discharging its bounty;
and a different sort of cry arose from the throng when it became
clear that the spawn of the sky-fish was nothing more than
balloons. Each one, when popped, yielded candy or cold fruit
or a petit four or a liqueur-filled sugar shell. (Arid a few of
the Tanu whispered, "Mercy-Rosmar!" remembering her gentle
manifestation of power at the last Grand Combat.)

The cynosure of all eyes then lifted its pointed snout to the
zenith and hung stock-still in midair, not more than 150 metres
above the mobbed fairgrounds. It appeared to be gargantuan,
like a flanged broad arrow, black beneath the violet flickering.
From the open belly-hatch now came a flood of balloons like
lustrous grapes. They seemed to be self-animated, and darted
and swooped and soared in the sky like frenzied protozoa.

The aircraft proceeded to shoot them down. A blue-white ray
lanced from its nose, while green, red, and yellow beams spat
at a dozen different angles from the leading edges of the fins.
There were sharp detonations. The people screamed. Puffs of

multicoloured smoke dissolved to wraiths of perfume and a
shower of confetti glitter.

The upright dark thing began to change. Its stubby fins
expanded into wings and it tilted so that all the observers could
see a glowing golden emblem on its underside, the hand of King
Aiken-Lugonn. Then the emblem also changed. The impudent
digit gave way to a hand fully open and apaumy, with the fingers
together in the dignified gesture that most humans recognized
as the greeting between operant citizens of the Milieu.

The aircraft began to rise swiftly then, and there was applause
from the King's subjects and scattered mental cries of "Slon-
shal!" But then they all fell silent, for the ship emblazoned with
the golden hand took its place at the point of a V-formation of
others identical to itself that came gliding up from the south at
an altitude of several thousand metres. There were twenty-seven
flyers altogether, small against the sky like a flight of wild geese.
They stayed in view of the Roniah multitude for five minutes
before going full inertialess and vanishing in a thunderous sonic
boom.

Dougal, sitting in the copilot's seat, vented a bemused sigh. "I
might not this believe without the sensible and true avouch of
mine own eyes. . . Just how the devil did you manage that
caper, my liege?"

Aiken laughed. "Creativity, lad. Sleight of mind. An illusion
here, a genuine manifestation there, a scary black cerametal
machine that's all too real, and a spot of royal marksmanship
to dazzle 'em with science at the finale."

"Extremely gaudy," said Mr. Betsy, making a prissy face. He
lounged in the navigator's station of the flight deck, attired for
the occasion in a mauve flying suit all slashed with gold zippers,
a bouffant red wig, and a discreet little diadem with cabochon
amethysts. "A great bluff, that's what it was."

"I prefer to think of it as a show of strength," said the King.
He grinned over his shoulder at the Flight Instructor Royal.

Betsy said, "The eighteen pilot recruits were pushing their
luck just to carry off a straight and level flyby, and you know
it. We'll be doing well to whip them into a minimally competent
check-out state by Tourney time—much less teach them aerial
combat technique."

"I have every confidence in you," the King said. "Look how

well you taught Me!" He picked up the RF com and said to his
squadron, "Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Our
air show was a great success. Let's hope it heartened our friends
and discombobulated the Foe. You may now return to Goriah
base and take the rest of the day off."

Mr. Betsy adjusted the exotic sky-sweep scanner to watch the
departure. He sighed. "What an abysmally sloppy peel-away.
It's those wretched wings. Only a very decadent technology
would put wings on a rhocraft."

"Yet thus equipped," Dougal said, "they are the more fear-
some to the miscreant eye . . . and the wings are also a damn
good place to mount the secondary zapper arrays."

Mr. Betsy gave a scathing snort. "Guns, dear zany, are only
useful when you have competent gunners. May I remind you
that Stan and Taffy Evans are the only persons with the approp-
riate training, while the other six Bastard pilots and I are as
hopelessly noncombatant as the recruits. I doubt if any of us
could hit Mont-Dore at point-blank range—and Miss Wang goes
into hysterics at the mere thought of a fire fight."

"If the Firvulag host gets between her and the time-gate,"
Aiken noted dryly, "she may find her backbone stiffening." He
twiddled the controls and the sky outside the flyer turned from
cobalt to star-spangled black. "There's hope for you duffers,
though. Yosh Watanabe is putting together some robot target
locks for the weaponry. As long as the spooks don't mount a
Flying Hunt, the targeters should take most of the worry out of
air-to-ground zapmanship."

"Only one thing will do that," Betsy said. "Aircraft force-
shields that don't have to be neutralized at every salvo!"

"I'm sorry," the King said uncomfortably. "All we have left
are small sigmas. The weaponry we have available just isn't
compatible. You'll have to turn the shield off before firing. I'm
trying to work out a method of metapsychic shelter—assign
several creative stalwarts to each ship. But I'm afraid that if war
does come, I'll need every strong mind I can scrounge for my
own metaconcert. In an all-out attack, the Flying Corps may
have to do the best it can with conventional weapons and
screens."

"Blow, wind! Come, wrack!" Dougal declaimed. "At least
we'll die with harness on our back!"

"Why don't you stuff it, you anachronist booby?" Betsy

hissed. Then he seemed to notice for the first time that they were
high in the ionosphere. The expanse of the Northern Peneplain
spread out below like a brown and ochre map of low relief,
veined with dark green watercourses. "Where are you taking
us?" he asked the King petulantly. "I'm not really in the mood
for any joyrides."

"No joy," muttered the King. "Now that I can fly one of
these birds with medium incompetence, I thought I'd better
have a cautious look-see at the River Seine. It's been four days
since Marc got the bad news from Elizabeth, and still not a
squeak out of him. So it's time for an aerial survey."

"God's death!" snarled the incarnation of Good Queen Bess.
"What if the brute tries to zap us?"

"We're out of range of the 414 blasters. Hagen says that
there's nothing heavier on Kyllikki, now that the X-lasers are
out."

"Remillard could d-jump on board!"

"He doesn't know we're here. We're too high to see, and he's
got no reason to be farsensing up here. Now quit your chun-
tering, man, and get on that ground sweeper. Comb the river
starting at the estuary."

Grumbling bitterly, Betsy did as he was told.

The King relaxed in his seat, staring pensively at the daytime
stars. After a while he said to Dougal, "I hate to admit it, but
I've about given up trying to figure out what Marc Remillard
will do next. I guess I didn't really expect him to reply to my
invitation to the Grand Tourney. He's hardly about to abandon
his scheme after so many years, just because his kids run out
on him. Elizabeth said it was a long shot, though, that he might
pack it in. And I saw for myself that the guy really does love
his children."

"Love is not love," Dougal murmured, "when it is mingled
with regards that stand aloof from the entire point. As you
should know."

"I like enemies I can pin a label on," Aiken complained.
"Sharn and Ayfa! Nodonn! Even Gomnol, damn his dead eyes.
But Marc's a different breed. So bloody charming . . ."

"One may smile and smile and be a villain."

The King seemed to be talking to himself. "I can't let Remil-
lard put the wind up me. I've got to carry on with my royal
duties, even if it means he might nail me when I least expect it.

But if I could find where he's hiding . . ." He called out to
Betsy. "Any sign?"

"Negative," growled the counterfeit Elizabethan.

"The king's will," Dougal said, "is not his own. He may not,
as unvalued persons do, carve for himself, for on his choice
depends the safety and health of the whole state. So then, my
liege, be bloody, bold and resolute! Be lion-mettled, proud, and
take no care who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are—for
if 'tis true that doomsday's near, then die all, die merrily!"

He placed both hands upon the crowned lion blazon on his
knightly surcoat.

Aiken stared at the golden charge. "Perhaps I should have
taken the lion for my emblem instead of the hand." His brow
creased. "Dougie, I've seen it before. Back on Dalriada, when
I was just a juvenile delinquent disturbing the peace of the other
haggis-wallopers. What does the lion emblem mean?"

"It is Asian, of course," said the madman, "and an ancient
badge among our Scottish kinfolk as well, with its motto S
Rioghal Mo Dhream'—Royal Is My Race. It's the crest of Clan
Gregor."

Aiken drew in a sharp breath. "And that's your family
name?"

"No. I was born a Fletcher—a sept of the clan. But the one
I sought so long is a MacGregor unknowing. Father'd he is, and
yet he's fatherless." The mad knight smiled at the King.

Aiken sank back in the pilot's seat and began to laugh. "First
it's born and then it's rooted! Priceless!" He opened a leg
pocket, took out a white handkerchief, and wiped his face.
"Thanks Dougie, I needed that."

The medievalist said softly, "My liege, receive what cheer
you may. The night is long that never finds the day."

"If you can get control of yourself," came Betsy's acerbic
interruption, "you might care to take a goggle at this, Your
Majesty. I've scanned the entire river from the Gulf of Armorica
to its confluence with the Nonol just below Nionel. The only
remotely anomalous object I can pick up on this barbarian peep-
scope is here—a little over one hundred kilometres inland."

The King frowned at the display. "Jack up the magnification.
No, that only makes it fuzzier. And look how the damn thing
keeps hopping about, skipping up and down the river like a will-
o'-the-wisp."

"I told you it was anomalous," Betsy said. "It could be some
obscure gravomagnetic effect, or a glitch in the imaging circuitry.
After all, the poor scope's at least a thousand years old. On the
other hand—"

"You don't get this gremlin in any other part of the river?"

"No. We could descend to a lower altitude, of course, or
probe it with a detector beam or your farsense."

"I don't think we'll risk that," said the King. "If it is Kyllikki,
they might feel the tickle."

"The better part of valour is discretion," Dougal quoted.

"And I have a High Table meeting at Castle Gateway in an
hour," Aiken added. "If Marc wants to play coy, I'll let him.
For now."

There were other travellers abroad in the land besides those
headed for the tournament Field of Gold, and Mary-Dedra,
chatelaine of Black Crag Lodge, came to tell Elizabeth of the
latest batch.

"Six more got in just after lunch. On foot, without supplies,
and they'd sent back their escorts before setting out on the last
leg of the climb today. That's twenty-two all told. Nine humans,
the rest Tanu."

"But there's nothing we can do," Elizabeth exclaimed.
"Didn't you tell them that?"

"They're not taking no for an answer."

"Oh, dear. I suppose I'll have to deal with them myself."
Elizabeth pressed fingers against her aching temples, trying to
call up a self-redactive impulse. But she'd been at the farsensing
too long, hoping to discover where Marc and the schooner might
be concealed, and the fatigue and some perverse mental block
frustrated healing. She sent out a plea to Creyn on the intimate
mode, then said to Dedra: "You'd better bring them all up
here—without the children—I'll try to explain things as kindly
as possible."

The human farsensor nodded and left the suite. Elizabeth sat
in a chair by one of the large windows, which stood open to the
breeze coming out of the north. The heath had begun its second
bloom, brightening the dusty green slope with patches of
carmine and delicate pink. Brother Anatoly pottered in the
kitchen garden below, and cerulean doves cooed in the rafters
of the rambling chalet.

Creyn closed the door softly behind him. She sent him a
wordless appeal and he strode to her chair and spread his hands
over her head. The throbbing ceased.

"Thank you." She let her eyes close. The hands descended
to rest lightly on her hair as he stood behind her.

"Have you found anything?" he asked.

"Not a trace. Marc must be using some kind of artificial
screen. Not a sigma—that would stick out like a beacon—but
something absorptive that swallows my mental beam instead of
reflecting it. I never had much to do with such mechanisms back
in the Milieu so I don't have counterprogramming. Most of my
farsensing was communication, bespeaking other teachers and
exchanging information among the worlds of the Human Polity.
Hunter-searcher farsensors operated in an entirely different
sphere." Aware that she was babbling, she fell silent. After a
few moments had passed, she said, "Perhaps Marc's done the
unexpected after all. Gone away to another planet and taken
the others with him."

"I doubt it. He's been deprived of his life's objective—or he
will be if he accepts the rejection of his children. He will not
be satisfied until he discovers the new work that is to take the
place of the flawed dream. I would have told him—even given
him the mitigator program that would have made the work
possible. But I was a fool and tried to bargain with him."

Distracted, Elizabeth had no notion of what he was talking
about. In the courteous way of metapsychics, he opened the
deeper level of his mind in explanation, reprising the memory
of his last meeting with Marc. The request. The refusal.

Bewilderment clouded Elizabeth's comprehension. "A new
work for Marc?"

Creyn nodded. "The Goddess has been pleased to give me
the insight. But I was wrong not to pass it on to him freely. My
only excuse is that I was a man desperate."

"You wanted Marc to apply Brendan's redactive programme
to your mind?" She was incredulous. "But it would never work!
You're fully adult, burdened with the habitual thought-patterns
of years—centuries! Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. You thought . . .
but even if such a redaction were possible, it could never change
things between us."

"I know that now." He smiled reassuringly. "Another insight
vouchsafed by Tana, although tardily. And I had not then visual-

ized your own role in the work, nor appreciated the significance
of the inevitable duality. Again my emotions clouded my
thinking."

She frowned. "You're speaking riddles, Creyn. What work?"

He showed her.

"My God!" she cried. "Are you mad?" Horror and revulsion
poured from her mind before she sent her walls crashing into
place. She collected herself and said in a calm voice. "Your
deep disappointment has affected your judgment even more
seriously than you realize. I think you'll understand this yourself
in a little while. But I must ask you—I want you to promise—you
must never speak of this idea to anyone! Most especially not to
Marc. Please, Creyn. If you care at all about me, you must
promise."

His barriers lowered as a warrant of sincerity. "I promise. It's
enough that you know."

"The entire notion is futile. Besides, we both know quite well
what Marc will decide to do. As for the rest of it—" She shook
her head. "You've been infected by the Shipspouse's lunatic
prescience, not touched by Tana's wisdom."

"Perhaps." He turned away. "Forgive me if I insulted you.
But as a solution, it displayed an elegant inevitability—"

"Don't mention it again. God knows I have enough to worry
about."

There was a knock on the door, and Dedra's leading thought.
Elizabeth rose as the door opened and steeled herself to meet
the mothers of the black-torc babies.

CHAPTER SIX

Aiken came into the dark coolness of the Roniah City-Lord's
sanctum, where the High Table members had gathered. Of
those that had served the Thagdal there remained only Kuhal
Earthshaker, Bleyn the Champion, and Alberonn Mindeater.
Celadeyr, who had been raised to the Table on the battlefield
of the last Grand Combat and then attainted for his role in

Nodonn's treason, was now finally adjudged worthy of reinstate-
ment. He stood with the seven newly chosen Great Ones ready
to take the pledge of fealty.

AIKEN: It's fitting that the High Table should be complete at this 
first Grand Tourney celebration so that our High Kingdom
may present a unified face to the Foe. To this end I have
nominated a full slate of Great Ones . . .

ALL: [Surprised murmurs.] But two seats are unfilled!

AIKEN: A full slate, I say. But before receiving your oaths I
command your commemoration of those High Table Members
who have passed into Tana's Peace since our last convocation
at the Grand Loving: Aluteyn Craftsmaster, Second Lord
Creator; Artigonn of Amalizan, Second Lord Coercer;
Armida the Formidable of Bardelask.

ALL: To them be Tana's Peace.

AIKEN: And in compassion let us commend those who fell from
My favour and forfeited their seats through treason: Thufan
Thunderhead of Tarasiah; Diarmet of Geroniah; Moreyn
Glasscrafter of Var-Mesk.

ALL: To them also be Tana's Peace.

AIKEN: [Pain.] And the late Queen Mercy-Rosmar.

ALL: Peace to her.

AIKEN: And my most noble antagonist Nodonn Battlemaster.

ALL: Peace to him.

AIKEN: And finally, let us commend one who does not rest to
the mercy of the Goddess, that in her good time she may give
him peace: Culluket the Interrogator, Lord Redactor.

ALL: [Dread.] Tana grant him release. [The Song.]
(Silence.)

AIKEN: Now let the sitting Great Ones reaffirm fealty.

MORNA-IA KINGMAKER + SIBEL LONGTRESS + BLEYN THE CHAMPION
+ KUHAL EARTHSHAKER + CONDATEYR FULMINATOR + ALBERONN
MINDEATER + EADNAR OF ROCILAN + NEYAL OF SASARAN +
LOMNOVEL BRAINBURNER + ESTELLA-SIRONE OF DARASK: Slon-

shal to the Shining One, Aiken-Lugonn High King of our
Many-Coloured Land.

AIKEN: And to you Slonshal. . . Let the nominated Great Ones
here present pledge fealty. Celadeyr of Afaliah, Second Lord
Creator.

CELADEYR: I swear by the torc.

AIKEN: Boduragol of Afaliah, Lord Redactor, and Lady Credela,
Second Redactor.

BODURAGOL + CREDELA: We swear by the torc.

AIKEN: The city-lords Ochal the Harper of Bardelask, Parthol
Swiftfoot of Calamosk, Ferdiet the Courteous of Tarasiah,
Heymdol Buccinator of Geroniah, and Donal of Amalizan.

OCHAL + PARTHOL + FERDIET + HEYMDOL + DONAL: We swear

by the torc.

AIKEN: And now I will fill the last two seats.
(Speculation. Wonderment.)

AIKEN: We live in terrible and portentous times, greatly outnum-
bered by our ancient Foe and beset by outlandish menaces as
well. Yet we are not without friends, some of whom are
unable to publicly declare themselves. These friends have
given Me good counsel and deserve to sit among the Great
Ones by reason of the love they have for our land, the good-
will they bear toward its King, and their own sovereign
dignity. They must for now sit at our Table in secret. Let
them manifest themselves in simulacrum to take their pledge.
(Stupefaction.)

KATLINEL THE DARKEYED AND SUGOLL: We swear by the love we

bear one another and by our love for the land and its people
that we will uphold King Aiken-Lugonn in all noble-minded
endeavour. We vow our alliance in battle in the event of the
Nightfall War, and repudiate our erstwhile vassalage to the
Firvulag Throne. And thou, Teah, witnesseth.

AIKEN: Slonshal and Slitsal to one and all.
(Uproar)

AIKEN: Does anyone dispute My right to seat these two?
(Silence.)

AIKEN: Brothers and Sisters, desperate times call for desperate
remedies. Sugoll and Katy have told me how King Sharn
openly boasted of a scheme to touch off Nightfall at the climax
of the Tourney.

CELADEYR: I knew it! And they called me an antiquated death-
wisher!

AIKEN: Sharn has been drilling his stalwarts in metaconcert tech-
nique for months. And Ayfa's contribution is dinging the
brains of the stubborn ones who cling to the old individualistic
Way. The Little People have new tactics and new weapons.

They use cavalry and captured Milieu weapons—and even the
blood-metal, since they're not as sensitive to iron poisoning
as Tanu are.

DONAL OF AMALIZAN: But this is monstrous! Sharn and Ayfa
must be insane to think of precipitating Nightfall. They're
both young, with children, and Nightfall means the doom of
both our races!

CELADEYR: Only according to orthodox Tanu belief, son. The
Firvulag have convinced themselves that Nightfall will bring
victory to one faction: themselves. And there is a dim justifica-
tion for the notion in our sacred writings, given a fast and
loose interpretation.

KUHAL EARTHSHAKER: Trust the Firvulag to do just that.

OCHAL THE HARPER: We have confidence that the Shining One
will forestall Night!

AIKEN: I'm going to do my damnedest. We're outnumbered, but
we've got discipline in our metaconcert—and a much more
efficient program that yields more watts per mind. We've also
got the Spear, a good supply of sophisticated weapons, and
the Royal Flying Corps—which you saw in action this
afternoon.

(Admiration)

SUGOLL: Are all the flying machines armed, as was your flagship?

AIKEN: We're working on it. Refitting a rhocraft is tricky because
of the reticular field that covers the skin. With luck, most of
the fleet will be zapper-equipped by tournament time.

MORNA-IA KINGMAKER: Woe! O Goddess forfend! That I, a First
Comer, should live to see a renewal of those dread hostilities
from which Brede Shipspouse sought to save us!

CELADEYR: A pity we only have Elizabeth . . .

AIKEN: You have Me.

ALL: Yes.

SUGOLL: And there is also the time-gate.
(Consternation.)

CELADEYR: No true warrior of Tana's battle-company would turn
tail and flee the Foe!

AIKEN: There are worse perils than the Little People. [Image.]

KATLINEL THE DARKEYED: In my veins runs Tanu and human
blood, and my heart is linked to the Firvulag race of my
husband. Well do I recall the words of that spokesman for
peace, Dionket Lord Healer, when he bade Sugoll and me to

be a bridge. We will willingly undertake a mediation role,
and pursue it from now until the Grand Tourney. If Tana
wills, we may move the hearts of the Little People, dissuading
them from war. Night may not fall.

SUGOLL: But if it should, our people claim the option proffered
by King Aiken-Lugonn in exchange for our fealty: If doom
cannot be averted, our Howler and human subjects will seek
sanctuary in the Milieu.

CELADEYR: Galloping Goddess—what if the damn time-gate
device is finished before the Tourney?

AIKEN: Not fewkin' likely. There's a snag. I'm going to look into
it later today.

KUHAL EARTHSHAKER: Sisters and brothers, let us gratefully
accept the offer of the Lord and Lady of the Howlers to
mediate with the Firvulag, their kin. At the same time, let us
prepare for the worst, marshalling all stalwart torced minds
under the executive of the Shining One, following him without
hesitation or question. This has not been our Way in the past,
for we are a proud and stiff-necked people, loving turmoil
and glorying in contention. Now we must act in concert or
perish. And I remind the pious that if Night falls, it will be
the hand of the Adversary that brings it to pass rather than
Tanu or Firvulag. He is the true Foe.
(Silence.)

AIKEN: Thanks for meeting Me here today. I'll see you all in
Nionel, at the games.

Swollen by the heavy rains in the jungles to the south, the
River Nonol ran deep and swift beneath the Rainbow Bridge.
Upstream the watercourse was crowded with small boats,
carrying sports lovers of three races to the landing stages at the
Field of Gold. But the tiny dock at the foot of the bridge's right-
bank abutment pier was deserted except for a laden decamole
canoe that strained at its painter and two people standing in the
afternoon shadows beside it, their minds linked by the fellow-
ship of the golden torc. One was a splendidly dressed hybrid
woman, Tanu in every feature except for her brown eyes. The
other was a massive Native American with straggling iron-grey
hair, wearing only a breechclout, moccasins, and an elaborate
wrist navigation unit.
Misgiving tinged the hopeful mind-veneer of Katlinel the

Darkeyed. "I wish we had one of the sigma-field devices to give
you in addition to the weapons, Chief Burke."

He smiled, radiating ironic reassurance. "If it's really Marc
Remillard in that schooner I'm hunting, a little sigma-shield
would be about as much protection as a sheet of durofilm. Not
to worry, Lady Katy. Us Redskins are just naturally adept at
lurking and sneaking—and my training as a lawyer makes me
wilier than most. I'll take care that the gang on Kyllikki don't
spot me, assuming she is sailing up the Seine."

"The King thinks it most likely. He did an inconclusive scan
from his aircraft."

"I call it weird," Burke said, "that with all the high-powered
minds and contraband gadgetry at the King's disposal, he can't
track this boat except with a pair of tired old human eyeballs."

"Nevertheless, that seems to be the case. It does seem terribly
unfair that you must undertake this scouting mission now,
risking your life and perhaps your chance to pass through the
time-gate . . ."

Burke shrugged. "If Remillard has his way, there won't be
any gate. No—the King's arguments were very persuasive, and
he sure as hell picked the right man for the job. With the river
up the way it is, I should be able to comb the entire five hundred
odd kilometres between here and the sea in a week to ten days.
I'll farspeak the King on a regular sked all the way. If his
schooner's not there, I'll have had a nice excursion to liven up
my last days in the Pliocene."

"And if you find it—"

"I'm no Crazy Horse. All I do is report her position and haul
my tush on out of there full speed ahead. From the mouth of
the Seine to Goriah is about a week's journey by sea. A little
mazel, I won't even have to miss the Grand Tourney!"

He untied the line, jumped lightly into the canoe—which
barely rocked as he settled onto his haunches—and lifted his
paddle in salute.

"Tana guide you," said the Lady of the Howlers.

Burke lifted his instrument-equipped wrist. "And the Messrs.
Plain."

"Well, what's the hoo-ha?" the King asked Tony Wayland.

The metallurgist thrust a sealed bottle containing a silvery rod
under Aiken's nose. "This. It's taken the prospecting team all

this time to locate a suitable dysprosium ore, what with dodging
renegade Howlers and having the Norwegian locale turn out a
bummer. And now that they've settled in to refine thalenite
instead of the xenotime and we finally have an abundant source
of ore, the bloody idiots are sending down dreck like this."

"What's the problem?" The King controlled his impatience.

"Contaminated," said Hagen gloomily.

"Simply lousy with holmium," Tony said. "And any sort of
impurity in the dysprosium core screws up the resistivity factor
of the wire something chronic—I mean, quite badly."

"Is it the fault of the equipment, or what?" asked the King.

"The machinery we sent up should be able to do the job,"
Tony said. "They have a high-speed Ramsgate extractor for the
ion separation and a nice little electroliser for production of the
metal. I think they're skimping on quality control somewhere.
Perhaps in the beginning stages of the ore feed."

"I sent up Candyman, our industrial chemist," Hagen said,
"but he couldn't spot the problem. He's really an organic
specialist. The crew on the job are experienced mining engi-
neers. They ought to be able to—"

Tony glowered darkly. "You remember that I expressed
certain reservations about Yobbo Ruan and Trevarthen when I
first learned they'd been put in charge. They may have done
well enough mucking about the Amalizan gold mines, but rare-
earth refining demands finesse."

"The niobium-dysprosium wire is vital to the project," Hagen
said. "This fuck-up means delay at best, and failure if we can't
lick it."

The King studied the bottle with its pencil-sized ingot. "You
can't complete the purification process here in the labs at Castle
Gateway?"

Hagen said, "We'd have to take the extractor away from the
mining crew, and we only have the one. Since we need forty
kilos of the stuff, and the basic run-through will take three
weeks—"

"Oh, for shit's sake," said the King irritably. "You know
there's only one answer to this. Get properly refined metal
from Fennoscandia in the first place. Solve the problem at the
source."

Hagen nodded. "I want to be sure you appreciate the risk,
though. Some species of gigantic Howler lives up there.

Yotunag, they're called, and they're outside Sugoll's sway.
We've already lost Stosh Nowak and John-Henry King in raids
on the mining camp. I wanted your personal authorization
before we risk Tony. After all, you paid a high price for him."

"Coo!" cried the metallurgist in vast alarm. "Now wait just
a damn minute!"

The King fixed him with an icy gaze. "Could you see that the
refining is done properly if we send you to Fennoscandia?"

"I'm needed here!" Perspiration started out on Tony's fore-
head. "I'm at a critical stage in the setup of the cladding
device—the gizmo that'll actually make the wire!"

"Answer my question," Aiken demanded. "Could you get
the pure metal, or couldn't you?"

"Probably," Tony admitted sullenly.

"Right," said Aiken. "Start packing." He turned on his heel
and left the cubicle, with Hagen trailing after.

Hagen said, "One of my people, Chee-Wu Chan, will be able
to finish up the cladding device easily."

"Good," said the King. "As long as I'm here, I'll do a quick
inspection. See how you've settled in here at Gateway." The
door closed.

"Oh, bloody hell," Tony moaned. He clutched his golden
torc in both sweaty hands, seeking solace. "Here I go again."

In the cool of evening, the fisherman trolled for giant catfish
from a dinghy being towed far astern of Kyllikki. The catfish
were hardly the fighting fools that the Florida tarpon had been;
but they routinely weighed in at 200 kilos and measured better
than four metres in length. They were scrappy enough when
their stomachs were empty at the start of a night's feeding cruise,
and as a bonus, they were excellent eating.

Catfishing was a quiet occupation, which suited the fisherman
very well. With his small boat trailing out from under the
thoughtproof screen, he could let his unaugmented farsight
range about the Many-Coloured Land. There was also ample
time for contemplation of his personal quandary, away from the
increasing tensions aboard the schooner.

The matter had to be faced. Morale among his old associates
was deteriorating rapidly, as was inevitable once he let his own
resolution waver. Too many of the Rebels found it difficult to
recast the vision of Mental Man around Cloud and Hagen,

from the lonely outpost in Fennoscandia. It was a cry from the
heart that combined yearning for someone named Rowane with
sundry curses upon the rare-earth element dysprosium.

Abruptly, the thought was cut off.

And a great catfish swallowed Marc's hook and set the reel
screaming.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brother Anatoly picked the last of the Mangetout peas in the
Black Crag garden and Elizabeth sat on a bench beneath a
twisted stone pine, reweaving a hole in his brown-wool scapular.
They waited for Marc, who for reasons unspecified had asked
to be met outdoors, and quarrelled over the friar's scandalous
absolution of the arch-Rebel.

"Only a sentimental innocent would think that Marc Remil-
lard repented of the Metapsychic Rebellion," Elizabeth said.
"He'd do the same thing all over again without half a second's
thought."

"I keep forgetting what a great mind reader you are," Anatoly
said.

"And to absolve him when he didn't even confess—"

"Why do you think he made me stay there and listen to what
he told his children? You expect a man like that to go down on
his knees and say, 'Bless me, Brother'? So he did what his pride
allowed him to do, the poor khuy, and if you were any kind of
psychologist you'd know he's been sorry for twenty-seven years
without knowing it."

"Poppycock!" She jabbed at the fabric with the big needle
and narrowly missed impaling her finger. "You might as well
talk of reconciling Adolf Hitler or some other infamous
monster."

"Look who strains the quality of mercy—Miss Scrupulosity,
who wore out Amerie's ears and patience, the one who's afraid
to trust anybody but herself!" Anatoly popped a handful of crisp
pea pods into his mouth and chewed ferociously.

"We're not discussing me," she snapped, "we're talking about

a man who instigated an interplanetary war, who was responsible
for the deaths of four billion people and who nearly destroyed
the Milieu because of his twisted ambition. How you could even
think of offering him forgiveness—"

"Nu, the Prodigal Son would get a chilly welcome at your
place!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is a high-and-mighty pizda trying to put
limits on the pity of God."

"If you think," she said coldly, "that you can avoid lack of
charity by calling me vulgar names in Russian, let me remind
you that any metapsychic can—"

The words died in her throat. Anatoly whirled around to see
an apparition forming at the far end of the garden, where there
was a gravelled drying yard. Not one but two black cerametal
hulks materialized, their great mass pressing down the stones
with an ominous crunching sound. Behind them stood a large
computer console and a collection of instrumentation cabinets
that occupied most of the yard.

"Bozhye moi!" whispered the priest.

The righthand suit of armour seemed to go momentarily trans-
parent. Then Marc was standing outside it and the cerametal
was us substantial as before.

"Good morning, Elizabeth. Brother."

The friar offered a lame grin and a wave. Elizabeth simply
nodded.

Marc indicated the twin CE rigs and the auxiliaries. "The
other suit is empty. This is by way of a demonstration, to show
you of my progress in teleportation. I can't quite manage the
power-modules yet."

"Is this—demonstration the only reason you asked to meet
with me?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course not." Marc flashed his smile. "I've brought you
the adaptation of Brendan's program."

She gave a joyous shout, dropped the scapular and sewing
kit, and ran toward the black-clad figure. Then she suddenly
pulled up short and her arms fell back to her sides. Marc's smile
faded.

Anatoly hoisted the basket of peas, grabbed the fallen scap-
ular in passing, shot a disgusted "V'yperdka!" at Elizabeth, and
stomped off to the kitchen.

Elizabeth flushed. She said to Marc, "I'm sorry if I appeared
ungrateful."

"It's quite all right. I understand. And Anatoly is a churlish
old peasant, isn't he? If it's any consolation to you, he's called
me much worse names. It seems to be his customary spiritual
counselling technique: the tough crust over the creamed ham
pie ... He worries about you, Elizabeth."

The two of them sat down on the bench under the tree and
Marc drew off his gloves. The pressure suit was completely dry
and there was no trace of the usual brow wounds. His mind
bore an impress of profound excitement.

Elizabeth said, "When we didn't hear from you after a week
had gone by, I assumed the solution to the redactive problem
had eluded you."

"I'm sorry it took so long. I was distracted by other matters,
and the adaptation proved to be quite a challenge. I wanted to
shorten the time of the operation as well as spread it among
members of a manageable metaconcert. This is what I did."
And he displayed the construct.

"But it's so simple!" she exclaimed. "The way you've elided
the tedious backtracking and shoring manoeuvres. . . and incor-
porated the operancy resultant into the ongoing redactive trend.
Why didn't I think of that? Of course, every great solution
looks simple in retrospect, doesn't it? Marc—thank you. It's
magnificent."

The elegant mental edifice seemed to hover between them.
She enfolded it in her memory with meticulous care, and then
Marc rose.

"No doubt you noticed," he said, "that the metaconcert does
not include you."

She looked away. "That's for the best."

"Are you so very anxious to return to the Milieu?"

His voice and mind carried a warning flavour, and she
suddenly felt her heart go cold. "You're going to oppose us after
all! You've found some way to keep the gate from opening!"

His coercion compelled her to face him. "I must."

Her mental voice cried: Anatoly I told you so ...

He had taken her by the hand, and before she realized what
had happened they had walked together to the other end of the
garden. The noon sun was harsh and the two suits of armour,
enveloped in heat-shimmer, loomed facelessly over her.

She heard him say, "I could show you another world where
you would be truly needed. An educative work that would never
pall. Challenge without end."

"No, Marc." Her voice was steady. She pulled her hand away.

He said, "I'll win, one way or another. You must tell Anatoly
that the temptation was too great."

"Yes, I know," she said.

He took a step backward into blackness and in a moment the
gravelled yard was empty.

Jordan Kramer came onto Kyllikki's bridge with obvious reluc-
tance, closed the door behind him, then gave a curt exclamation
of surprise as he spotted Alex Manion standing behind the chart
table, out of casual view from the quarterdeck.

"Dammit, Walter—what's he doing here?"

"We both want to talk to you, Jordy," Saastamoinen said.

"I should be back in the stern hold with Gerry. Marc will be
back soon from Black Crag—"

"That's why we want to talk to you now. Time's running out."
He thumbed several studs of the autowinch unit. "Half a mo',
though. Little headwind coming up and we're sheet-heavy.
Liable to drag anchor. One disadvantage of solar-collection
sails."

Manion the docilator headpiece firmly in place, fixed intent
eyes on Kramer and said, "Marc . . . ordered . . . batteries . . .
recharged . . . max. He's . . . ready ... to ... flit."

"Jesus, he can override the docilator!" Kramer cried.

"But it's hard on him," Walter said. "Let him out, Jordy.
You've got the keying sequence."

"Are you out of your mind?" the shocked physicist asked.

Manion said, "You , . . are ... if ... you . . . think . . .
Marc . . . plans ... let ... kids . . . live." He drew a shud-
dering breath. Sweat poured from his head and stained his light
knit shirt. "Do . . . you . . . love . . . Marge . . . Becky . . .
more . . . than . . . Marc ... or ... not?"

"What have my children got to do with this?" Kramer had
gone white. "Walter—what the hell are you two up to?"

"Not just us, Jordy," said the skipper. "The whole damn
fo'c'sle gang. And now we want you and Gerry. Van Wyk
doesn't have any kids, but you can pressure him into cooper-
ating. With threats, if nothing else. Unhook Alex. He's not

going to attempt coercion. A coerced mind won't fit a
metaconcert."

"It's a goddam mutiny, isn't it?" Kramer said.

"Very astute deduction. Precipitated by Marc's order for the
express battery charge before he went jumping this morning.
He's made up his mind to go after the kids and force them to
submit—kill Hagen and Cloud if necessary, and any others that
stand in the way. He'll take Mental Man's genes from the dead
bodies of his own kids and coerce whatever survivors there are
into going away with him to the Goal world. He only needs
seven or eight live ones for an adequate reproductive pool."

"You can't know what his plans are!"

"The big power requirement can only be for one purpose,
Jordy. Marc is ready to teleport the entire CE complex off
Kyllikki, to some safe hiding place where he can make his moves
without having to worry about our fizzling loyalty. Do you think
he's been blind to the mood on shipboard during the last two
weeks? The only ones who are still committed to Marc and
Mental Man are Castellane, Warshaw, and Steinbrenner."

"You're not making me out a traitor," Kramer blustered.
Then his expression changed. "Do you mean to tell me that
Ragnar Gathen is in on this conspiracy?"

Manion said, "Elaby . . . was . . . among. . . first... to ...
accept. . . my . . . insights."

"And Ragnar's with us for the sake of his son's memory—and
for Cloud," Walter said, "just as you have to join us for the
sake of Becky and Marge. Marc's hatched some new scheme, I
tell you. Boom-Boom Laroche came to him in the library
studying the specs of the Guderian device. And he made a
casual remark to Ragnar two nights ago about farsnooping the
Firvulag at this tournament gathering upriver. Something to do
with the gnomes making droll, inefficient efforts at metaconcert.
Do you realize what implications that could have?"

Manion said, "Eighty . . . thousand . . . Firvulag."

Kramer's eyes darted from one man to the other. "This is all
pure speculation—"

Walter leaned closer, fury blazing from his weatherbeaten
face. "Listen to me, Jordy! Once Marc teleports the CE equip-
ment off the boat, we'll be helpless to stop him. We have to act
now—put together a mind-meld strong enough to overpower

Castellane and the other two, and then sabotage the power-
modules."

"Trap . . . Marc ... in ... grey . . . limbo."
The pair of them stood back, quietly waiting. Kramer had his
hand on the door latch. His teeth bit his lower lip and a
whirlwind of conflicting thoughts seeped through undermined
mental defences. "Let me think . . . God, you can't expect me
to make a decision like this right off the top of my head!" He
tugged at the door. It remained firmly closed.
Alex Manion sang:

What though the night may come too soon,
We've years and years of afternoon!

"We need you, Jordy," Walter said. "You're a magnate, the
last unit we need in the offensive combo. We can't hack it
without you, and it's got to be done right away."

A farspoken thought impinged upon all three of their minds,
a call from Gerry Van Wyk down in the stern hold, broadcast
with typical sloppiness on the declamatory rather than the inti-
mate mode:

Jordy get down here man. Marc's at superficies.

"Well?" Walter said to Kramer. "We're ready to act the very
next time he d-jumps. If you're with us."

Kramer took a deep breath. He came away from the door
and stood in front of Alexis Manion. With a complex signal he
keyed the docilator shutoff, then supported the surfacing mind
until it was in full control of its faculties.

The bridge door opened by itself. Walter said, "Thanks,
Jordy."

"Set it up," said Kramer, and hurried away.

Manion massaged his temples and blinked. He did not attempt
to remove the headpiece and his eyes were as mild and
unfocused as ever. "When it's safe," he said to Walter, "find
out from Jordy when Marc plans his next excursion. I'll see that
the others are ready."

Because the exhaust of the electroliser unit was outside the five-
metre diameter of the little sigma-shield, Tony Wayland and his
fellow captives, Kalipin the Howler and Alice Greatorex, a
middle-aged chemical engineer, could pass the time turning

dysprosium chloride into the pure element. Outside the force-
field, the mob of Yotunag ogres gnashed their bloody tusks
impotently and howled inaudible epithets.

"Eventually they'll get tired and go away," Kalipin predicted.
But he'd been saying that for nearly three hours now.

"When we miss the eighteen-hundred-hour sked, the King
will send help," said Alice.

Tony gave a hollow laugh. "If the battery on this puny sigma
doesn't go flat first! And with my luck—"

The timer on the electroliser pinged. Tony opened its small
hatch and removed a pencil-sized cylinder of metal with a pair
of forceps. Alice held out an open bottle. He slid the ingot
inside, tossed a deox packet after it, and snapped on the lid.

Alice numbered the bottle and set it with the other four.
"You guys realize this is our two-hundred-fifty-eighth slug of
Dy? Only fifty-five more of these little suckers and we can
pack up and leave beautiful Fennoscandia and its quaint native
peoples."

Outside, the devastated mining camp was dimly visible, as
through a one-way mirror. A fresh group of deformed monsters
came loping up from the direction of the diggings and joined
their mates in whacking at the slippery surface of the force-field
with granite hammer-axes.

"Persistent," Tony commented. "You think they could have
finally done for Amathon and the other Tanu trapped in the
tunnel?"

Kalipin screwed his illusory face into an expression of resigna-
tion. "My savage kinfolk usually stick to a job until they finish
it." He emptied the dross from the electroliser and began char-
ging it for the next batch. A faint tang of chlorine wafted about
their imprisoning hemisphere before slowly diffusing out
through the semipermeable field. "The feathers do resemble
those on the crest of Lord Amathon's helmet. Coercer blue.
And since he was the stoutest mind among those cornered in
the shaft, I fear for the worst. You might also note the fresh
stains on the hammers of the newly arrived Yotunag."

"I'd rather not, actually,'' Tony said. He turned on the little
electric furnace and sat back in his chair. Outside, flames licked
up in one corner of the ruined lab shed. After a few minutes
the display on the electroliser went dead. "Shit! There goes the
power line."

"Now you can be glad the sigma's on battery," Alice said
comfortably.

Kalipin watched the spreading fire with apprehension. "Will
we remain safe inside this shelter?"

Alice said, "Safe as in your mommie's lap, little friend. When
the lab floor burns through we'll settle down a bit, that's all."

The blaze was becoming quite brisk. Some of the Yotunag
hurled burning brands at the frustrating sigma bubble, to no
effect.

"Damn them," Tony muttered. "They can't see us. Why the
devil do they keep up the siege? For all they know, we've
skipped out from under."

"They farsense our presence," Kalipin sighed. "The force-
field is, as you noted, a rather puny one."

Alice fingered her golden torc with fatalistic good humour.
"But quite strong enough to keep us from farshouting out." She
checked the small sigma generator that sat in the middle of the
cluttered lab bench. "You guys interested in knowing how much
bumbershoot juice we have left?"

"No," growled Tony.

"I think the fire's accelerating the drain. It's going to be one
of those days, I'm afraid. . . And I was really looking forward
to going back to the Milieu and thumbing my nose at NAICE.
How about you, Wayland?"

Tony was unloading the electroliser, replacing the dysprosium
salts in their canister. He said dully, "I hoped to live here in
peace with my wife. She's in Nionel."

"Tough," Alice said. "Whoops—the floor's starting to go.
Hang on to the equipment."

The flames stretched high and the broken walls of the lab
building crashed all around them. As the conflagration dwindled
they had a clear view of the camp compound. The shuttle aircraft
that had landed shortly before the Yotunag onslaught was a
smouldering ruin. A few mutant bodies lay about, but there
was, ominously, no sign of human or Tanu remains.

Alice cuddled the small sigma generator solicitously while
Tony braced the electric furnace and Kalipin saw to the safety
of the bottled dysprosium. The lab bench bucked as the floor
subsided. Small tools and the chloride canister went flying. The
chairs fell over and a taboret dumped. The monsters outside,
sensing the disturbance, capered and yawped and smote the

crumbling floorboards with their hammers to accelerate the
process of disintegration; but the sigma held, and eventually
those inside stood on a stabilized wooden cutout, surrounded
by smoking debris.

"Fire doesn't seem to bother the ghoulies much," Alice
remarked to Kalipin.

The Howler shrugged. "Their feet are tougher than horn, and
it's said they commonly use wildfire to harry game here in the
northern wastes. The Yotunag are the most terrible of our
mutant brethren. Not even the Howlers of the Bohemian moun-
tains are so cruel and intractable. These creatures laughed to
scorn my Master Sugoll's invitation to join him at Nionel, and
they even dared to devour certain Ingatherers who attempted
to pass through their territory on the way south from the Amber
Lakes. Oh—Yotunag are rotten through and through! No doubt
about it. And as crafty as they are ferocious, as the stealth of
their attack today proves. It's not easy for Howlers to go invis-
ible, you know."

"Why the hell couldn't they leave us alone?" Tony whined.
"We weren't doing any harm."

Kalipin held up the handful of glass vials with the dysprosium.
"We were taking something from the earth. A commodity
useless to them, it's true, but one that was nevertheless their
property. Ilmary and Koblerin the Knocker and I tried to explain
to the man Trevarthen that we should pay for the stolen minerals
with gemstones valued by the Yotunag. But he refused to listen,
even when John-Henry and Stosh were ambushed and killed.
His response, and that of King Aiken-Lugonn, was to mount
more grey-torc guards with Milieu weapons around the camp.
Well—we saw what happened as a result of Trevarthen's bad
judgment."

"He's past caring now," Tony said, "along with all the rest
of them caught outside the sigma."

Alice studied the display on the force-field generator. "And
so will we all be—in about ten minutes, rough reckoning."

The monsters raged, circling amidst the smoke. There were
forty or fifty of them, waving bronze-bladed spears and hammer-
axes with stone heads the size of bed pillows. Great glee was
manifested when a squad of brutes laden with bulging leather
bags came shuffling over from the area of the diggings. The
bags, emptied on the ground, proved to be full of roasted

refreshments for the battle-company. The Yotunag fell to with
a will, from time to time flinging bones or other grisly leftovers
at the sigma bubble. Tony and Alice turned green and Kalipin
settled down to recommend his soul to Teah's mercy.

Then Alice exclaimed, "Hey—look over there!"

They saw blue-white flashes beyond the shell of the primary
refining shed. Two large trolls came rushing pell-mell around
the ruins, only to be downed by dazzling blasts that left them
incinerated skeletons.

"Sweet shit," Tony said. "There's somebody back there with
a Bosch 414 or some other heavy-duty blaster! Don't tell me
the Marines have landed—"

The besieging monsters all went charging off in the direction
of the renewed hostilities. Numbers of them went invisible. They
were met by a fusillade that nearly blinded the sigma captives
in spite of the screening effect of the dynamic field.

"See how our rescuer shoots even the invisible Foe!" Kalipin
cried. "Thanks be to the Goddess!"

It was true. Once the visible ogres had been zapped, the
hidden marksman set to work potting unseen targets. Inside of
five minutes the yard between the wrecked lab and the refining
shed was thick with calcined exotic bones and blackened metal
accoutrements.

The firing stopped.

The sigma-field fizzled and died as its battery was exhausted.

A tall human being came strolling into the open, carrying his
weapon jauntily over his shoulder and waving in an encouraging
fashion. Tony and Alice and Kalipin stepped off their wooden
island and ran to meet the rescuer, emanating farspoken cries
of relief and thanks.

"Think nothing of it," the man said. He raised a protective
visor from his deepset eyes and perched it on top of curly grey
hair. He wore a tight-fitting black coverall studded with metal
receptacles. "It was nervy of the creatures to anticipate me. I
should have kept a closer eye on things up here."

"Mother o' pearl!" Alice said softly. "It's Remillard himself!"

She and Tony made simultaneous attempts to farscream.
When that failed, they tried vainly to run. Only little Kalipin
confronted the challenger of the galaxy with resolution. "So. Do
you save us from the Foe only to destroy our minds, human?"

Marc laughed. Then his tone became adamantine. "I have no

time to waste. Your King will be making his regularly scheduled
evening call shortly. Where is the dysprosium?"

Tony was helpless under coercion. "Five rods, all we managed
to refine today, in Kalipin's pouch."

The Howler handed over the bottles without a word.

"And the concentrate?" Marc demanded. "And the ion
extractor?"

"There's one can of DyCl3 back where we were hiding under
the sigma. The rest in that undamaged building over in the trees.
The extractor's there, too."

Marc said to Alice and Kalipin, "Get the machine and the
salts and bring them here." Deprived of volition, they rushed
off. Marc asked Tony, "Are there any other high-tech extraction
devices available to the Guderian Project workers?"

"Not as far as I know," the metallurgist said listlessly. "You
scarper with that one, the project's had it. I couldn't care less."

Marc lifted a surprised eyebrow.

Tony licked his lips, looked about to be sure the others were
well out of earshot, then said, "Listen! I'm no ally of the King
or his bunch of North American fanatics. I was dragooned into
working on the project. Check my mind and you'll see I'm
telling the truth! All I want to do is get back to my wife in
Nionel. I-I don't suppose you'd consider letting me live?"

Marc said, "It seems the better part of prudence to deprive
Aiken of your unique talents. There are other ways of processing
lanthanons."

Tony's eyes misted over. "B-but it'll take months to sift out
the Dy by ordinary chemical techniques, and the King wouldn't
need me for that. All you have to do is destroy the ion extractor
and the accumulated concentrate, and the project is hopelessly
stalled—"

"I would rather keep my options on the matter open." Marc
smiled in satisfaction as he saw Alice and Kalipin emerge from
the building back in the trees. The Howler was trundling a
loaded wheelbarrow and the woman had her arms full of canis-
ters. "However, you needn't worry about me slaughtering you
out of hand. The dysprosium and its manufacturing equipment
will go back to my ship with me, via d-jump. And so will you."

Tony's world reeled. An enormous dark-coloured mass remi-
niscent of a deep-sea diving rig was materializing behind the
rebel leader. As if in a dream, Tony heard Kalipin and Alice

being ordered to stack the materials close to the suit of armour.
Then a voice in his own brain said:

Stand very still. It would be best if you held your breath and
closed your eyes although our translation through the grey limbo
will occupy only the merest fraction of a second.

Tony screamed: Don't! Don't take me! I don't want to die in
hyperspace! JesushelpmeOGodRowane ...

Zang

Tony felt the appalling pain attending penetration of the
superficies, familiar from many a superluminal voyage between
Milieu worlds. For the merest instant he felt frozen, suffocated,
on the verge of having every body cell explode.

Zung.

He sprawled on hands and knees, opened his eyes, and saw
Alice and Kalipin goggling in astonishment. A smoky Fenno-
scandian landscape. Scattered bones. Charred rubble. A tower-
ing suit of black armour with a Bosch blaster leaning against it.
Purloined equipment and containers and Tony and all—right
back where they had started from!

Zang.

GodGodGodnooooAAAAAGH! Ooh.

Zung.

Dusty stubble covered with soot and ash. A severed human
pinkie (not his) with two flies crawling on it. Babble from the
Howler and Alice's mind screeching for the King on the
distance-spanning farspeech mode. Much nearer, a sepulchral
metallic roar:

Quel putain de gachis what are they playing at back there?
. . . Rubberband effect . . . try it this time without external
load—

The armoured form disappeared, leaving Tony and the cargo
behind.

Trembling and sobbing, eyes screwed shut, he waited to be
snatched back into the grey limbo and the pain. But nothing
happened. He lifted his head and saw sweet old Alice, who
knelt beside him radiating a mishmash of horror and tentative
relief. She said, "I think he's gone, baby. But if he pops back
out of the hype, I'll cook him in his own can." She hefted the
Bosch. "I bespoke the King. He's sending a flyer with help."

Tony gently lowered his face to the ground and began taking
deep breaths.

Within the matrix of grey negation, the mind clung to the all-
important pseudolocus and concentrated on the far end of the
catenary. It terminated properly. He had not miscalculated
the curve nor the coefficient of penetration. He completed the
jump, attained the superficies, and willed the generation of
the upsilon-field that would form an aperture into the normal
universe.

Nothing. It would not open. There was no field.

Rubberband back! Attain the antiterminus will the u-field the
u-field the u-field!

Nothing. There was insufficient energy. The incandescent
brain felt itself cooling; emergency life-support modules oper-
ating independently of the enhancer circuitry and its transdimen-
sional power source kicked in, sustaining him. He would not
freeze, drown, smother, or decompress for at least five days,
until the armour's internal resources were drained.

Barebrained, he slid back along the catenary to the Kyllikki
end. The path seemed to glow faintly in the pervasive grey. He
poked and thrust at the stubborn interface but it would not
yield.

He was trapped in limbo.

The full moon rising above the sea of dry grass was almost like
another sun—swollen, slightly flattened at top and bottom, and
an awful reddish colour in the thick haze.

Chief Burke used his paddle for a rudder as the canoe swept
around a wide bend in the Seine, bearing north now instead of
east. The trees here were sparse and almost leafless from
drought. There were no land animals except the ubiquitous
crocodiles, and very few birds. He knew he would have to find
a safe campsite soon; but something urged him to continue on
for just a bit more, to come fully around the bend so he would
have a clear view of the waterway the next morning . . .

Then he saw it ahead, riding the bloody water: a huge argosy
with a full spread of gleaming golden sails, moored fore and aft
in midstream.

Cursing, he angled the canoe to the right bank, where a
partially undermined tree leaned branches into the water and
provided a thin screen. It had to be Kyllikki. He pulled out his
monocular and studied her. She was less than 200 metres away,

motionless in the evening calm. There was no hint of any mech-
anical or metapsychic barrier around her. The decks seemed
deserted.

Burke slipped the little scope back into its case, touched his
golden torc, and called:

Aiken. I've found her.

. . . Thanks Chief I'm on my way.

Inside the barricaded stern hold of the schooner, Patricia Castel-
lane's voice rose in a despairing scream.

"They've cut him off! He's trapped! Help me,
Jeff—Cordelia—give me everything you've got. They haven't
broken anything yet, only opened the CE main at the redundant
terminal in the power room. I can bridge it! Just feed me—feed
me to overload, dammit!—everything you've got. Marc, come
through! Marc!"

The hold that had gone pitch-black with the power failure
flared as three bodies appeared suddenly clothed in writhing
discharges of psychic lightning. A triple mind-shout knifed the
aether. Reactivated display panels and tell tales showed that the
equipment was on line again. A black phantasm flickered and
solidified on its customary wooden cradle.

From the loudspeaker of the computer clanged an inhuman
voice:

YOU IN THE POWER ROOM. STAND AWAY OR
DIE. I COMMAND RECLOSING OF CE POWER MAIN
NOW.

Jeff Steinbrenner and Cordelia Warshaw fell to the deck.
Patricia supported herself with difficulty against the computer
console and whispered, "It's all right. The power's back. You're
safe, Marc . . ."

A simulacrum of his face smiled at her from the blind black
helm. "Thank you, Pat. Dear Pat."

One hand was raised toward him. "Go. You'll have to teleport
everything away. All the others—turned against us. Escape,
Marc. Then it was worth it."

For the last time, the mind shone with a dirigent's creative-
coercive power; then all thinking was extinguished and her body
lay beside the two others on the rough oaken planks.

Marc's amplified voice echoed through the hull:

LEAVE THE POWER ROOM. ALL OF YOU.

Outside Kyllikki there was a tremendous sonic boom. The
schooner rocked.

He sucked in energy, heedless of the risk, absorbed a greater
input than he had ever attempted here in the Pliocene exile.
Yes! Fully powered, he spun the upsilon-field and made the
hyperspatial gateway enormous. His mind designated the pieces
of equipment to be translated: the entire CE complex, some
weapons, supplies, more than eleven tons of mass altogether.
How easy it was to lift! How nonchalantly he pushed the load
and himself through the gaping superficies—and slammed it shut
in the Golden Adversary's frustrated face.

Zang.

... A perfect place to hide, farseen weeks ago.

Zung.

The materialization down inside the deep, dry watercourse
would have been visible to the naked eye for less than a second.
Then the absorptive camouflaging mechanism that had formerly
sheltered Kyllikki clicked on, twisting the moonbeams to form
an illusion that, viewed from above, roofed the gully with appar-
ently solid ground.

After several hours the camouflager was turned off, and the
gulley seemed to be as barren of life as ever. But the little cave
where Madame Guderian and Claude Majewski had hidden was
now greatly enlarged to accommodate a new tenant. He came
out briefly after midnight and sat beneath the old acacia tree
that slouched at the canyon lip, looking at the force-field hemi-
sphere that shrouded Castle Gateway just up the slope to the
south. A few hares and other night-prowling creatures ventured
to creep up and inspect him—but they fled soon enough at the
cold, terrible touch of his mind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Minanonn the Heretic opened the door of the former feasting
hall of the chalet, which had been converted into a nursery for
the black-torc babies. The room was lit only by clusters of red

faerie lights. He saw a double row of small cots with ten redac-
tors seated on stools before them. The mothers were ranged
behind the infants, observing. Dionket stood at the side, direc-
ting the operation, faintly veiled in carmine luminescence. Basil
Wimborne played a quiet melody on his recorder and an aura
of healing pervaded the chamber.

It's going to work, Minannon thought. The new program is
beginning to help the poor little things even now, before the
coercive segment of the metaconcert is phased in. They'll be
cured, whole-minded again, inside of a week or so. And not
only that, they'll be operant: the first of the new generation
Brede the Shipspouse had foreseen.

They must not be left to perish in Nightfall! Fortunately, the
King's suggestion provides the perfect solution . . .

Minannon waited. He caught sight of Elizabeth seated in
a dark corner, her mind detached, her face covered by her
hands—unneeded. Then the preliminary session came to a close;
the young minds were awash in soothing endorphins and the
pain was in abeyance. Basil absently mind-sang the human
lullaby as he played his flute.

Joy will come to us at morning,
Life with sunrise hope adorning,
Though sad dreams may give dread warning,
All through the night.

The last notes of the song died away. Dionket and the redactor
company looked at one another and smiled, and then the healers
rose and filed out. Minanonn's urgent summons brought the
Lord Healer and Elizabeth to him, and they left the chalet by
a side door and went into the twilit rock garden where the full
moon was just rising above the hills.

"There have been important developments," the Heretic said.
"I didn't want to interrupt the work. Here is a message sent to
me by the King within the last half hour." He displayed the
picture of the portentous events that had taken place on the
Upper Seine.

Elizabeth's mind darkened in dismay. "Then Marc's at large
with his mind-enhancing equipment!"

"But deprived of his base of operation and his confederates,"
Dionket said. "Surely that's encouraging news. Even with his
infernal machine, the Adversary is unable to break into Castle

Gateway. And the King will surely take precautions against any
renewed attempt against the dysprosium miners."

Elizabeth frowned. "I wonder if the Guderian Project is
vulnerable to any other indirect attacks?"

"The King declared it was not," Minanonn said. "Save for
the one critical element, the workers have all the raw materials
and manufacturing equipment safe in Castle Gateway. A few
more days will see the completion of the Fennoscandian opera-
tion. According to the King, the time-gate device should be
completed sometime during Grand Tourney week."

"How appropriate." Elizabeth's mind was once again
curtained and unfathomable. "The Field of Gold isn't too
convenient to Castle Gateway—but of course there are the
aircraft ..."

The three of them came to an ornamental grotto, a shallow
cave with a spring trickling out of it, surrounded by ferns and
night-fragrant plantings of damewort and mignonette. An oil
lantern dangling from a tree cast warm light on the surrounding
rocks and a pair of rustic benches. They sat down.

Dionket said, "Brother Heretic, you hold something back
from us. What was the rest of the King's message?"

The former Battlemaster's attitude was one of dejection. His
massive shoulders slumped and he picked up pebbles from the
pathway and tossed them into the little stream. "The King
captured the Adversary's large sailing ship. He interrogated
the twenty-two surviving North Americans aboard, those who
mutinied against Remillard. A certain Rebel named Manion
believes that the next phase of the Adversary's scheme may
involve the Firvulag. As participants in an offensive metaconcert
led by Remillard."

Dionket burst out laughing. "The idea is ludicrous! The Foe
would never permit any human to direct them—much less him."

"I call to your mind certain sacred traditions," Minanonn
reported. "The Adversary is no mere observer in Nightfall."

His confidence shaken, the Lord Healer said, "But the Little
People aren't fools! Subordinating themselves to Remillard in
an Organic Mind setup would be to risk permanent mental
slavery. As it is, Sharn and Ayfa command a mind-force that
may very well be superior to Aiken's. They require no assistance
from this human interloper—"

"Not if the Firvulag really know how to make metaconcert

work," Elizabeth said in a low voice. "If they can put the
structure together so that the whole is greater than the sum
of the small parts—the comparatively weak individual mind-
units—and keep the thing working efficiently under their direc-
tion. But we've already had plenty of hints that Firvulag mastery
of the orchestration technique is far from complete. They tend
to fall apart, go every mind for itself, when they're backed into
a corner. That was the point Sugoll and Katlinel hoped to pound
home in their conciliation efforts, warning Sharn and Ayfa that
they'd never be able to match Aiken's disciplined and efficient
counterforce. But if Marc comes along promising to reorganize
the Firvulag metaconcert in return for their helping to break the
Castle Gateway defences. . ."

"This is what the King fears," Minanonn said. "All the Adver-
sary need do is bide his time. Make his offer known. Suggest
ways that the royal pair might work with him while still maintain-
ing independence. Wait for the inevitable flaws in Firvulag
mental cooperation to manifest themselves. In time, Sharn and
Ayfa will find his temptation to be irresistible."

"Irresistible," Elizabeth repeated. She stared at her hands, at
the small diamond ring that had been the symbol of her protec-
tion back in the Milieu. Lawrence had worn its twin. Now the
stone's sparkle was forlorn in the lamplight.

"What are we going to do?" Dionket asked.

"Flee," said Minanonn flatly.

"To the Milieu?" Elizabeth laughed. "Mark's collusion with
those eighty thousand Firvulag minds will dispose of that option,
I assure you. He won't even need the Little People on the scene
at Castle Gateway. He can channel the psychoenergy from a
distance—from Nionel—just as he did when he smashed
Gibraltar and put down Felice."

"I didn't contemplate fleeing through the time-gate, Eliz-
abeth," the Heretic said. "I asked the King, in the name of the
Peace Faction, for the great ship Kyllikki. He agreed to give it
to us, subject to his removing most of the armament. A prize
crew of Tanu stalwarts and armed humans are taking it at full
speed back down the Seine. It will be provisioned at Goriah for
a return voyage across the ocean to the Blessed Isles. The
surviving North Americans have asserted that they will coop-
erate fully and accept the Peace Faction's governance."

Elizabeth was speechless.

Dionket slowly raised both hands. "The Isles! Of course. The
sanctuary of our ancient legends ... the Land of Youth! We
can complete the work on the black-torc infants in the week
remaining before the Tourney, and take them with us!"

Minanonn said, "Our Peaceful Folk can be diverted from
Nionel to Goriah, travelling the Western Track and then boating
down the Laar. There is still time. I will petition the King for
a flying machine to evacuate those confined to the Pyrenees by
the snows. And we here on Black Crag—"

Elizabeth finished ironically, "Can slip away quietly, while
Aiken fights the Nightfall War and Marc Remillard destroys his
own children."

"The King thought the plan a most excellent one," Minanonn
protested. "He told me he would be heartened, knowing that
you and the children and the Peaceful Folk would be preserved
against the fall of Night. If anyone can save this poor Many-
Coloured Land, he can. Nevertheless, he seeks to repay what
he considers to be his debt to us three, in gratitude for saving
his life at the Rio Genii and his sanity at Quicksilver Cave."

"I'm not going with you on Kyllikki," Elizabeth said.

"But you must!" Dionket exclaimed. "We'll need your help
to raise the newly operant young ones to their full potential."

She had shut herself away from them. "Lord Healer, I don't
have the courage to begin all over again in your Fortunate Isles.
I've had enough of exile. I'll teach you and Creyn as much of
the preceptorial material as I can—the educational shortcuts,
the special mind-expanding techniques that you can't infer or
deduce yourselves. The children won't grow up Milieu-adept,
but they'll do well enough. And with Marc's adaptation of Bren-
dan's program, you'll be able to modify the brain of each newly
born baby so that the torcs will never be needed again."

"But we need you!" Dionket exclaimed.

"You don't," she retorted. "Why won't you understand? Is
it because you refuse to? Must I show you my self naked before
you'll accept what I tell you and let me be?"

Minanonn said, "Elizabeth, we love you and want you with
us!"

"So does Aiken," she said. "I've decided to stand by him, to
give him whatever help I can in the war."

"He hasn't asked this of you," Dionket said. "This doom-

seeking choice of yours is born of despair, not love for your
friend."

"And what if it is?" she shot back. "It's my life, isn't it? I've
tried to do my best for all of you—God knows I have. But I
can't bear any more! I want to help Aiken precisely because he
hasn't begged me to. He knows I'm not some maternal abstrac-
tion, some all-wise personification of your Goddess sent to light
and guard and rule and guide. I'm just his friend. And I'm going
to sit beside him at the games and forget about Nightfall for a
few days, and not think about anybody but myself!"

"Elizabeth, reconsider," Minanonn begged her. "You could
be such a great help to us. It would be satisfying work—"

"Oh, yes?" she said quietly; and before they realized what
was happening her barriers had fallen to show the cocoon of
fire. "I've tried that, friends. Done my very best—just as I
promised you when I left Redactor House in Muriah after the
Flood. A little of what I accomplished lifted me, but the fire
was always just out of sight, waiting for the pendulum to swing
to the failure side again. You wanted me to be Brede, but I was
only a misfit—just as out of place here in the Many-Coloured
Land as Marc Remillard was in the Galactic Milieu." And like
me he could have done so much good his dream his power his
immortality all wasted why wasn't he Jack why was I separated
from Lawrence why am I too weak alone why is he too determ-
ined to be strong alone why if God lives does he let the misfit
minds suffer so misunderstand themselves so refuse touch refuse
love why was I afraid even knowing he was sorry reaching
gratified by Brendan why couldn't I have touched him even at
the last told him the answer his real work (Creyn knew!) helped
him find it in spite of fearing now it's too late he's lost I'm lost
let it pass let it all pass let me go friends if you care let me go
let me fly away . . .

"Don't!" they both cried. But she had run off down the
garden path into the night and her mental admonition not to
follow seemed to hang in the air, written in anguish.

"So Creyn was right after all," said Minanonn. "How very
singular."

Dionket sighed. "I've had a hard day, and tomorrow will be
even worse when I have to phase in you and the rest of the
coercers. Don't worry about Elizabeth. She won't do anything

rash tonight. I'm going to bed. Take my advice and do the
same."

The two of them went back into the chalet. Somewhere a
flute was playing.

CHAPTER NINE

It was almost dawn. The First Day of the Grand Tourney was
about to begin.

"I can't do it!" she protested to the Genetics Master. "I'm
not worthy of such an honour."

But he said, "Don't be an idiot, girl. You're my guest—and
my triumph—and you'll ride at my side and you'll love it."

And she did. And here they were, passing through the western
gate of Nionel under the ritual overcast of the pearly sunrise,
all in a great procession heading for the Rainbow Bridge.

Sugoll, as host of the games, led the way riding a white chaliko
and wearing milk-coloured armour chased with silver. Behind
him came Katlinel in her auroral gown; and riding on her right
hand were Sharn and Ayfa in jewel-lavished obsidian mail, and
on her left Aiken-Lugonn the Shining One with Elizabeth, who
wore Brede's black-and-scarlet robes and glittering mask. After
the royalty, flanked by marching Howlers wearing their most
attractive illusory bodies and carrying chains of flowers, rode
the members of the High Table and the Gnomish Council in
alternating double files. They were followed by the Howler
Great Ones (and she and Greg-Donnet in the midst of them!)
and the high nobility of the dimorphic race ranged four-and-
four abreast, knights and noncombatants in colourful array. The
rest of the Howler commons marched solemnly in the rear,
carrying green branches and flower sheaves bound onto ribbon-
topped poles. There were no skull-topped effigy standards in
evidence, no martial battle-pennons, no unsheathed arms.

The air was alive with a deep humming, the Firvulag common-
alty in the packed grandstand across the river voicing their
traditional overture to the Opening of the Sky. In previous
years, on the salt flats of the Tanu-dominated Grand Combat,

the sound had been bitter and mind prickling. But here was no
sterile expanse of seabottom but rather a green meadow, and
thousands of birds sang their dawn chorus in a cheerful descant
to the portentous drone. Even the Firvulag nobles found them-
selves smiling as they crossed the Nonol and entered the Field
of Gold, that scene of past glories, and noted that the Little
People jammed their grandstand and overflowed onto the side-
lines, whereas the other seating structure that accommodated
Tanu and humanity was only three-quarters filled.

"How strangely bright everything looks!" she exclaimed to
Greg-Donnet. "And so clear! It seems I can see every little
flower in the festoons borne by our folk, and every gem adorning
the armour of the Great Ones, and every decoration on every
banner topping the two grandstands!"

"Binocular vision, my dear. Two eyes are much better than
one. And, of course, you're happy."

The Royals were mounting the central dais before the twin
stands, taking a position facing the eastern range of hills behind
Nionel.

"I'm happy—and thankful to you, Greggy," she said. And
then she peeped sidelong from beneath the ruby-studded bridal
headdress. "Am I really beautiful now?"

Greg-Donnet kissed his fingertips in an extravagant gesture.
"More than that. You're splendid."

Her mind still held a shadow of uncertainty. "Oh, Greggy,
if only my Tonee were here to see. How will I bear the wait-
ing?"

"Just a few days," he soothed her. "The King told me that
Tony's job will be finished soon. He'll be able to join you before
the end of the Tourney. . . Now watch the Kings open the
sky together. This is something new, to symbolize the bogus
Armistice." He gave a sad giggle. "A nice sentiment, at any
rate."

The small figure in golden armour and the gigantic one in
sharply faceted black lifted Spear and Sword. The photon
weapons sent emerald beams slanting skyward and the clouds
parted as they had for countless millennia on lost Duat and for
a thousand years on Pliocene Earth. As the entire assembly
exerted its creativity, the mist rolled away and a shaft of sunlight
shone upon the two monarchs. Tanu and Firvulag and Howler
and human voices combined in the Song.

There is a land that shines through life and time,
A comely land through the length of the world's age,
And many-coloured blossoms fall on it,
From the old trees where the birds are singing,

Every colour glows there, delight is commonplace,

Music abounds on the Field of Gold,
On the Sweet-Scented Field of the Many-Coloured Land,
On the Field of Gold to the north.

There is no weeping, no treachery, no grief,
There is no sickness, no weakness, no death.
There are riches, treasures of many colours,
Sweet music to hear, the best of wine to drink.
Golden chariots contend on the Plain of Sports,
Many-coloured steeds run in days of lasting weather.
The host range over the Field of Sports,
It is beautiful and not weak their game is.

There will come at sunrise a star of morning,
Lighting up the land, riding the wave-beaten plain,
Stirring the sea until it turns to blood,
Raising the armies before the Singing Stone.

The Stone sings a Song to the host;

The music magnifies as all sing together.
Neither death nor the ebbing of the tide
Will come to those of the Many-Coloured Land.

Elizabeth said to Aiken, "The words were different."

He said, "Morna-Ia Kingmaker said they were the ones we
should sing this year." He gave her an enigmatic smile.
"Look—here come the Firvulag artisans with the new trophy,
the Singing Stone. Carved from a single huge aquamarine.
Rumour hath it that the thing is already programmed to
the aura of Sharn and Ayfa. How do you like that for impu-
dence?"

They were sitting in the Tanu royal enclosure watching the
preliminary events. A lavish breakfast buffet had been spread
and most of the High Table members and their guests were
partaking heartily. The King only nibbled an unbuttered crois-
sant. Elizabeth, whose lower face was still hidden by Brede's
heavily gem-encrusted respirator, ate nothing.

She said, "The line in the Song about a 'star of morning' hit
a trifle too close to the bone for my taste."

Aiken shrugged. "Marc's probably out there in the mob right
this minute laughing himself sick at that cutesy-poo Firvulag
folkdance routine going on around the Singing Stone. Florida
was never like this."

"I don't suppose he tried to contact you?"

"About making a deal?" Aiken shook his head. "I'll give him
credit for that much class. Not a peep. No ultimatum about
me opening the Gateway sigma in exchange for his cancelling
Gotterdammerung."

"He knows you wouldn't betray the children once you placed
them under your protection. He seems to have his own notion
of honour."

"Not that it wouldn't be a simple solution to this crock of
shit," Aiken said brutally. Tearing a chunk from the pastry, he
chewed it in silence for a minute. "All I can do is hope that
Hagen and his crew finish the Guderian device before Marc
talks the Firvulag around. Once the kids are through to the
Milieu, our homegrown Lucifer is euchred. I'll take my chances
fighting Nightfall with the Firvulag just as long as Marc isn't
leading them in metaconcert."

She said, "Whatever happens—I want to help you. You know
I'm blocked against aggressive action, but there's still my farsen-
sing function, and I can heal—"

She broke off, tears spilling from her eyes. The little man in
the gold-lustre armour took both her hands in his own. "Why
won't you go on Kyllikki?"

She looked away, shaking her head, trying to free her hands.
The King only gripped her more tightly.

"I don't want you here, Elizabeth. I want you safe. Kyllikki
sails from Goriah tomorrow night. I'm going to fly you there
and put you aboard with the others."

"No! I want to stay here and help you . . . and if there's a
chance of the time-gate opening—"

"So you'd go back to the Milieu if you could?"

"Wouldn't you?" she demanded hotly, her eyes glaring at him
above the diamond mask.

He released her suddenly and she fell back in her chair. There
was a roar from the crowd and a storm of laughter and applause.
With the pompous formalities concluded, a troupe of Firvulag

comedians were putting on a turn, making perilous mock of the
Singing Stone and the upcoming factional rivalry for it. Almost
everyone in the Tanu royal enclosure was watching the fun.
Nobody paid any attention to Aiken and Elizabeth.

He answered her question. "I'm the King and this is my land
and I'll stay here until I die."

"Let me help you," she begged. "I want to very much,
Aiken."

"All right." His agreement was abrupt. "If you'll take off the
mask."

"No," she said stubbornly. "These people want me to
symbolize Brede, and so I'm going to do it in full fig. Two-
faced, just like her."

"Take it off." His black eyes were irresistible fonts of coer-
cion. "Do you think I don't know what's in your mind? You
don't want to be Brede, you want to be Saint Illusio the Martyr!
And I'm a little slow on the uptake, so I've just begun to figure
out why. But you're not going to get away with it, lass. You'll
be no good to me playing weird little games: metapsychic hide-
and-seek. If you're with me, it's going to be on my terms. Do
you understand?"

"Yes." She reached up and unfastened the straps of the
jewelled respirator, lowered it, and smiled at him in obvious
relief. "It was getting very hot," she admitted. "I don't know
what possessed me. It just seemed to be an appropriate gesture.
Comforting. I suppose I was subconsciously hiding."

"That's right." He poured iced wine into a crystal goblet and
held it out to her. "And when you discover what you're hiding
from, you'll be home free. Now drink this and relax. I'll see
you later. It's time for me to be off and get things ready for our
own half of the preliminary fun and games."

There were 900 knights in the precision-riding manoeuvre team,
and they came proudly onto the field in Guild formations, led
by the golden-armoured King on his unique black steed. The
chalikos of the company had their coats dyed in heraldic colours
and were trapped in gem-studded garniture. Unicorn spikes
adorned the mounts' chamfrons and they trailed gauzy lappets
of gold or silver to match the floating capes and banner-topped
lances carried by the riders. Following Aiken-Lugonn in the
place of honour were the violet-and-gold knights of the

Farsensor Guild; though few in number, they had been the first
to take the King to kin. Then came the combatant redactors in
ruby and silver; and the more numerous psychokinetics blazing
rosy gold; and the bold sapphire chivalry of the Coercer Guild;
and finally the creators wearing lustrous and changeable sea-
hues—cyan and beryl and olivine and deepest ultramarine glass
armour. The Shining One took up a position in the middle of
the display ground, and the riders manoeuvred about him to the
music of curling glass horns and thunderous kettledrums. The
gorgeous clawed beasts marched and countermarched and
wheeled and curvetted. They performed flashy caracoles and
leaps, dancing in ever-changing patterns of colour about the
motionless King. Flowers bloomed, rainbow stars exploded and
were metamorphosed into abstract swirling designs, and the
Tanu and human spectators cheered and ooh'd at each fresh
display of equestrian virtuosity.

"Very pretty," sneered King Sharn, "if not particularly
impressive from a martial arts point of view." He quaffed the
beer in his skull-cup with a mighty gulp and gestured to a dwarf
servitor for a refill. "Freshen your lime squash, too, Cousin?"

"No, thank you, Awful King," Sugoll said.

"Tarting up the chalikos with those dye-jobs is a fairly recent
innovation you may not have seen before, Cousin. Lowlife golds
introduced it at the Muriah games about thirty years ago, when
they'd helped the Foe cement their domination of the Grand
Combat. But you folks never bothered much with the ritual
fighting, did you?"

"It was the reason we originally separated from the main
body of Firvulag in my grandsire's day, and retreated to the
hinterlands. The annual slaughter of the Combat had begun to
seem meaningless to us."

In a low voice, Sharn said, "Don't mention it to the farts on
my Gnomish Council—but Ayfa and I felt the same. War's good
for one thing: putting yourself on top!"

"As it happens," Sugoll said, "I did attend the games in
Muriah once. Last year, and incognito. I had been told that
human scientists in thrall to the Tanu might have the technology
to alleviate the deformities of my people. Thanks be to Teah
the All-Merciful, this has proved to be true."

Sharn tipped a wink at the mutant. "If little Rowane turns
out to be a typical refit job, you'll have to beat off Firvulag

swains from your girlies with a stick at next year's Grand Loving!
I suppose you'll be candidate for the Skin-tank yourself, now,
eh?"

"I will be the last, as is fitting."

Sharn studied the foam in his goblet. "Oh. Well, of course.
But you know, after we win the Nightfall War, we'll have lots
more of the Skin you can use. And we'll save the noncombatant
redactors to help with your healing if they promise to behave."

Sugoll's illusory eyes regarded the King calmly. "As Teah
wills."

"We need you on our side in Nightfall, Cousin. Are you with
us?"

"I must do as the Goddess prompts me."

Sharn leaned forward. His face had become ominous in the
ornate black-glass helm. "She wills that we conquer,
Cousin—and you'd better consider carefully if you think other-
wise! Oh, I know what your Lady's been up to. Working on
Ayfa, bad-mouthing Firvulag prospects in the war, saying we
won't be able to hold our shit together when the Golden
Futterbug comes against us in metaconcert . . . Well, I'm
bighearted, and I'll make allowances for Katy. She's a Tanu-
human hybrid, after all, and probably a secret Peace Faction
member to boot. But you've got a Firvulag soul, Cousin, no
matter what shape your body is. You belong with us!"

Sugoll said, "We are all children of the Goddess, all of one
blood in the great mystery, folk of Duat and folk of Earth fated
to share each other's destiny."

"Bosh!" cried Sharn. "Boondock mysticism! While you lot
were off in the wilderness thinking noble thoughts, the Tanu
crushed our spirits with the help of their human minions. Now
it's our turn! We've got the advantage and we're going to win!"

"Look," said the Howler Lord, pointing out onto the tourna-
ment field. "Aiken-Lugonn directs the finale of his
demonstration."

"A Flying Hunt," Sharn growled. "It figures."

The Firvulag monarch and the mutant stood side by side
watching. Out on the golden sand, the small figure on the black
chaliko was the centre of a vortex of iridescence. The jewel-
coloured knights on their faerie chargers were rising in a great
spiral above him, mounting high into the clear blue sky as the
blaring horns and the drums rolled to a crescendo.

"Nine hundred knights," Sharn said bitterly, "and he's hois-
ting them all himself, too, not phasing in a metaconcert."

"Aircraft are approaching," Sugoll noted.

Twenty-six dark flyers with the openhanded golden blazon
arranged themselves in a vast diamond pattern above the
inverted cone of levitant knights. The rhocraft descended verti-
cally until they floated a scant two hundred metres above the
grandstands. The crawling purple network of the forcefields
negating gravity's pull could be seen clearly, enveloping the
birdlike shapes.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

The small golden manikin dismounted from his chaliko and
stood with his arms raised high. The spiralling knights halted as
though frozen in the bright transparent air. The spectators
uttered a low sound, then were utterly silent.

The rho-fields clothing the fleet of aircraft winked out—and
still the dark birds hung in the sky.

"Great Goddess," whispered Sharn.

Softly, the horns sang the Song of the Stone. Then it was
finished, and the ships were cloaked again in violet fire and
wafted away like a drift of leaves. The Flying Hunt reversed its
spiral, swiftly returned to earth, formed ranks, and marched
away to a quick beat of drums.

"Are you still confident of victory, Awful King?" Sugoll asked
in a mild voice.

The ogre took a hasty swallow of beer. The dwarf with the
pitcher came trotting up, a hesitant expression on his apple-
cheeked face. "Majesty, I don't like bothering you ... but he
won't go away."

"Who?" snarled the King. "What're you blithering about,
Hofgarn?"

"A Lowlife requests audience, sire. A strapping sort of rogue
with a very insolent mariner who styles himself Star of Morning.
He seems to think you're expecting him."

"I believe," Sharn said very slowly, "that I am." He turned
to Sugoll. "Thank you for attending us, Cousin. I hope to see
you after lunch, at the animal races, and at the Goblinade
celebration tonight, together with your gracious Lady. You have
my permission to withdraw."

The mutant arose, bowed his head, and moved away to join
the others at the front end of the enclosure. Sharn beckoned

for more beer in a peremptory manner. He took off his heavy
glass helmet, ran fingers combwise through his sweaty hair, and
said to the dwarf, "Bring the Lowlife to me now, Hofgarn. And
see that we're not disturbed."

Late that evening, after Minanonn had farspoken the base at
Goriah telling Commander Congreve that the healing of the
black-torc children had finally been accomplished, a single
aircraft came to evacuate Black Crag. It stood in the garden,
long-legged beneath a gibbous Halloween moon, flight deck
inclined like the head of a bemused crane, while the excited
mothers carried their babies aboard. They were followed by the
small teams of redactors and coercers of the Peace Faction,
dead-tired but radiating profound satisfaction, and the chalet
staff, and the few other residents who had stayed behind after
Elizabeth's entourage went away to Nionel. Basil supervised the
loading of the last pieces of baggage while Minanonn went
through the shut-up lodge on a final tour of inspection.

When the Heretic returned to the garden he found Creyn and
Brother Anatoly waiting with Basil at the foot of the boarding
ladder. Mr. Betsy stuck his bewigged head out of the bellyhatch
and said, "Step lively! I can't wait all night. I've missed half of
the Firvulag barbecue at the Field of Gold as it is, twiddling my
thumbs while you finished mind-scrubbing these urchins."

Creyn said to Minanonn, "We know that you plan to body-
fly to the Grand Tourney, then join Kyllikki later when she is
at sea. Anatoly and Basil and I wish to accompany you."

"I asked that pigheaded durachoka to take me with her," the
old Franciscan muttered. "Told her I wouldn't harass her. But
she went off and left me." He grinned slyly. "As it turned out,
it was providential."

Betsy called down waspishly, "Are you coming or aren't you?"

Minanonn lifted a great hand. "Off you go. We four seem to
have other business to take care of."

Betsy sniffed. "Stand clear, then." The ladder withdrew and
the hatch slammed shut. The two Tanu and the two humans
moved back as the aircraft powered up and acquired its eerie
coating of reticulated light. Wisps of acrid smoke came from the
charred areas around the landing-strut pads. The bird seemed
to lift its head and look skyward. A moment later it lofted
straight up into darkness.

The garden was quiet except for a single chirping cricket and
the wind in the pines. Minanonn said, "I'm going to the games
because I'm an unregenerate old thrill seeker. Somehow. I
suspect you three have a rather different motive."

"We love Elizabeth," Creyn said, "and we want to save her
from herself. And perhaps forestall the war in the process."

Minanonn's aura of good humour vanished. "Redactive
Brother, I won't see her badgered—no matter what noble inten-
tions you may have!"

"We won't say a word to her," Anatoly declared. "It's Remil-
lard we're after. We want to track him down—he's bound to be
here—and make one last appeal to his better judgment." The
priest's eyes flicked to Creyn. "Based on new information
received."

"Are you out of your minds?" the former Battlemaster
exclaimed.

Creyn was patient. "The three of us probably know Remillard
as well as any people in Black Crag—excepting Elizabeth. We're
not afraid of him."

"And what we hope to tell him," Basil said, "is hardly likely
to provoke—er—adversarious wrath. On the contrary. It just
may compel a change of heart."

"For the love of Tana, what is it?" Minanonn asked.

Anatoly lifted his shoulders in Slavic declension. Once again
he indicated Creyn, whose mind was closely shuttered. "We
can't tell you unless Elizabeth releases this poor besotted
lozhn'iy from a rash promise he made."

"But obviously," Minanonn said to Anatoly and Basil, "you
two share the secret."

The priest waved a bony forefinger. "Creyn told Basil before
he made his promise to Elizabeth. As for me—"

The redactor said, "I sought counsel from Brother Anatoly
to ease my conscience when it seemed that larger considerations
outweighed the promise Elizabeth extracted from me. His
judgment—and we three have pondered it at length—is that
I have an obligation to give this information to the Adver-
sary."

"All's fair in love and war," mumbled the old Franciscan,
"and this is both, dai Bog!"

Minanonn looked from the redactor to the friar to the alpinist
with growing exasperation. "If I were not a man of peace, I'd

coerce the three of you to quivering jellyfish and get to the
bottom of this."

"Just take us to the Grand Tourney," Basil said. "We'll find
Remillard somehow."

Anatoly said, "Both Creyn and Basil know his mental signa-
ture, and I'll get by with Siberian guile. They'll finger him and
I'll make the overture."

"And he'll kill you," Minanonn said, "as easy as squashing
flies!"

"He's not a demon out of your Tanu legends," Anatoly told
him. "He's only a man. He wore my clothes and worked with
me in my garden. We talked . . . about some of the damnedest
things. I tell you there's a chance we can change his mind."

The Heretic regarded them bleakly. "You're a trio of lunatics,
but I'm going to have to give you the benefit of the doubt. Let's
fly. It's a long way to Nionel."

CHAPTER TEN

On the Second Day, the rivalry between Tanu and Firvulag
sharpened and bookies had a field day among the human sports
fans, who threw their money away like there was no tomorrow.
Inconspicuous among the throng, the tall man in the white duck
pants and black shirt spent the morning watching coracle races
on the river (won handily by the Firvulag), the kite fights (a
draw), and the first round of the enduro chariot races (top
points to Kuhal Earthshaker's team). The man smiled as he
caught sight of Cloud up in the royal enclosure, disguised as a
Warrior Maid in coercer harness, cheering her hero down the
stretch.

In the afternoon there were hammer throws and caber-tossing
events, dominated by the thicker-thewed Little People; and a
stylized free-for-all between the ogresses and the female Tanu
knights, fought on foot, which saw the first Grand Tourney
fatalities.

After wandering through the refreshment pavilion the man

returned to the riverside bleachers to watch more water sports.
The windsurfer races, although billed as one of the minor events,
attracted an unusually large cheering section of gorgeous Tanu
ladies, who applauded madly when the Deputy Marshal of Sport
introduced a silver-torc contestant named Niccolo MacGregor.
This personage, with all the panache of a bantam rooster, demol-
ished the dwarfish opposition and finished the winning heat
handstanding on his surfboard while the exotic women showered
his rig with yellow rosebuds.

"It's the King, of course," said a voice at the tall man's elbow.
He turned slightly and saw a lanky old friar in a brown-wool
habit sitting next to him on the bench, nibbling a tournedos
Rossini.

"That looks good," Marc said.

"Vendor's just around the rear of the stand. Be glad to get
you one." Anatoly jingled a shabby purse hanging from his
cincture. "I'm flush. Made a killing at the chariot races."

"Thank you—but no."

The priest smacked his lips. "Got real truffles and foie-gras
on it. Fantastic! Sure you don't want one?"

"Quite sure." Marc sat at ease, watching the pseudo-Niccolo
being carried off in triumph by a squad of statuesque beauties
in pastel chiffon. "So the King participates in the games, does
he?"

"Not officially—and not using his metapsychic powers, of
course. Nobody's supposed to use mental strength until the big
tug-of-war on Day Four and the no-holds-barred hurley game
that climaxes the Tourney."

"Not even in the jousting?"

"Especially not in the jousting."

"Will the King he a contestant tomorrow?"

"It's rumoured he'll enter the pogo-stick leap. To help
promote the peaceful uses of iron, you see."

"And will he go anonymously into the lists?"

Anatoly's eyes twinkled. "I guess we'll just have to be there
tomorrow and see. Coming to the Japanese lantern parade and
the Ground-Star Ball tonight?"

"Unless other matters demand my attention."

Anatoly finished the tidbit and licked his fingers. Out on the
river, course attendants were setting up a large ring of white

floats. The Deputy Marshal announced the next contest, some-
thing called a kelpie randan. The priest said, "So the Firvulag
King turned down your offer, eh?"

Marc gave him a sharp look. The tip of a coercive-redactive
probe stroked Anatoly's brain, making his cheeks bulge and
sweat start out on the back of his neck.

"Did Elizabeth send you here to spy?" Abaddon inquired
softly.

"She doesn't even know I'm at the games, dammit! Don't
ream me—I'm only the advance man. The one you have to talk
to is Creyn, waiting down back of the bleachers with Basil. He'd
welcome your turning his mind inside out. He has important
information for you."

The probe retracted minimally. The coercive hold tightened.
A roar went up from the crowd as a team of grotesque Howlers
prepared to face a human squad of the King's Elites in a wild
variant of water polo. Marc was on his feet, herding Anatoly
toward the exit steps.

"You seem to be telling the truth. Brother. I believe I'll listen
to what our friend Creyn has to say. And on the way out,
perhaps we can do business with that tournedos vendor after
all."

The royal flagship, with Aiken at the controls, landed close to
the perimeter of the silver hemisphere and seemed to contem-
plate its distorted reflection in the gaudy sunset light. Bleyn and
Alberonn, armed with big actinic blasters, stood by as the
twenty-two metapsychic Rebels who had mutinied against their
leader came down the aircraft ladder, followed by the King.
Aiken transmitted an indecipherable mental command and an
airlock door opened in the surface of the force-field. He watched
the others pass through, then came after and resealed the barrier
behind him.

The Children of Rebellion were waiting there in the barbican
of Castle Gateway, ready to say goodbye to their parents for
the last time.

WALTER: Veikko! Son . . . you look fine, and Irena, too. God,

this is wonderful. I can't believe it's happening.
VEIKKO: You're limping.
WALTER: It's nothing. The Tanu redactors say they'll be able to

fix me up. But you—Have you kids really done it? Really

built the Guderian device?

IRENA: It's not quite finished, Walter. Perhaps by tomorrow.
VEIKKO: The cables need to have their micro-guts tuned up a

skosh, that's all. There are problems with the core-mesh of

superfine cladded wire, the damn stuff that's given us hell all

along. But once the technical people get it squared away we

power up, do a fast test, then just. . . go.
IRENA: Hagen and Cloud will be first, of course, because of

Marc. Once they pass through the gate, the rest of us should

be safe.
VEIKKO: Cloud pulled a fast one today. Her Tanu lover, rather.

He told the King he wouldn't do his thing in the big chariot

race unless Cloudie was there watching. Boy, was Aiken

Drum pissed! But he finally caved in and took her with him

to the royal enclosure and guarded her like a hawk.
IRENA: Kuhal won the race, too.
WALTER: I guess you kids know about this Peace Faction going

to resettle Ocala. And why they're leaving Europe . . .
VEIKKO: The Nightfall War may never happen, Dad. Cloud got

the latest poop from Kuhal. The King and Queen of the

Firvulag don't trust Marc to direct them in metaconcert. They

think they can lick Aiken and his Tanu army on their own.

And maybe they're right.

IRENA: We're all so glad you'll be safe. Whatever happens to us.
WALTER: You'll get away! I know you will! You're so close!
VEIKKO: Sure we will. Good guys always win. And I guess we're

good guys . . . [Doubt.]
IRENA: If we get to the Milieu, we'll make up for everything

somehow. Some of us have been thinking about it. Planning—
WALTER: I hope you can. God, I hope so.
VEIKKO: We're scared.

WALTER: So am I. But it's different now, isn't it?
VEIKKO: We stood up to him—us kids, and you, too. We'll see

that they know in the Milieu, Walter. Especially about you

and Alexis Manion—
AIKEN: Come.
WALTER: It's time. Kyllikki sails on the evening tide. Good luck,

you two.
VEIKKO: Bon voyage, Walter. Wherever.

Elizabeth danced with the King, not knowing or caring what the
music was, content to let him lead her, resting in his strength.

The enormous paper neputas were ranged in a circle about
the dancing ground, softly gleaming. Their sides showed every
sort of scene, every sort of creature and being characteristic of
the Many-Coloured Land, ironically executed in classic Japanese
style in translucent coloured paints. Behind the great lanterns
were the ancient trees of the bottomland forest, where a myriad
of yellow, green and pink fireflies had been gathered by some
Howler art to evoke the theme of the Ground-Star Ball. Over-
head, the real stars of Pliocene November flamed more palely
as the tardy moon rose. The constellation of the Trumpet, hiding
the Duat Galaxy behind its mouthpiece star, was at the zenith.

Aiken said to Elizabeth, "You're happier. I'm glad."

"It's good being with you again, dear."

"Funny," he said, "the way I feel about you. No sex at all.
Not brotherly, either. I don't know what to call it. You want
me to control you and I want to do it. Like a father and a very
little girl."

"Hermes Psychopompos," she said lightly. "The soul guide.
A very rare archetype indeed. I presume my subconscious knows
what it needs."

"I'm not really the one, though, am I? But I wish—I wish
you could be my Queen. I could love you and never be afraid."

"You'll find her someday, Aiken. You're very young."

"But growing up fast," he said, laughing.

Their minds disengaged and for a while, they simply let the
dance own them. It was, Elizabeth realized to her surprise,
almost a foreshadowing of Unity . . . And then he said:

"I want you to trust me. Let me into the hidden part of you
for just a moment. Let me look behind the real mask you've
always worn. Will you?"

She stiffened in his arms and there was a fearful chilling.
"Why?"

The mind spoke, enclosing her, vast and familiar and strong:
Trust me. Let me look. For your sake and for all of us. Please.

I can't—

Please. I must know the truth.

There's fire—

I know. Poor Elizabeth. You're so proud and afraid. If you'd
only learn to trust.

Brother Anatoly wants me to trust God—

Just trust Me. Let me come. There ...

She was suspended in silence, all alone. The blackness around
her was not mental. She knew that somehow. It was a remote
part of the physical universe, intergalactic space, void of stars,
without even a wisp of glowing gas. There was only a single
object for her mind to fasten on, one respite from everlasting
Night.

A pinwheel of bluish-white sparkling haze, tiny and exquisite.
A whirlpool of suns isolated from other clusters of galaxies. A
barred spiral she might reach out and touch, and move.

She opened her eyes.

She was dancing with Marc Remillard.

"Creyn broke his promise," she said. "He was not to tell you.
The vision is his, not mine. Impossible."

"I agree. And yet—appealing. If only I were not committed
to my own challenge, and so close to realizing it again. The
years have been bitter, Elizabeth. I can't resist trying."

"I know." She did not dare look at him again. He was not
dressed in exotic finery as the King had been but wore almost
archaic tropical formal wear, a black dinner jacket and a ruffled
shirt. She let her head rest on his breast, submitted to his lead,
but without surrendering as she had to the King.

"You have three very persistent and brave friends,
Elizabeth."

"I told them not to come here. They have no right to interfere.
And Creyn promised!"

"He told me more than his Duat vision," Marc said. "Creyn
told me that you loved me, Elizabeth—and so did Aiken. Is it
true?"

"It's impossible," she said, from behind the flames.

"I think so, too, but your friends are more stubborn. Basil
has climbed the mountain and Creyn has helped make black-
torc children whole and operant and Anatoly—experienced a
temporary triumph at my expense. As I said, they're stubborn.
They'd like to think nothing is impossible."

"We know better, Marc."

"Yes," he said, and they danced in blackness unrelieved.
Then it was Aiken who held her under trees starred by fireflies,
and the music slowed at last and stopped.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shortly after dawn on the Third Day, with the King and his
entire High Table and Elizabeth standing by as observers, the
haggard workers on the Guderian Project gathered in the inner
courtyard of Castle Gateway for the initial power-up of the tau-
generator. Even the five tiny children of the North Americans
were present, drowsy and solemn-faced, but more interested in
the spectacularly costumed Tanu Exalted Ones than in the
device that might transport them to the Galactic Milieu.

The apparatus was somewhat larger than the original machine
built by Theo Guderian. It still bore an uncanny resemblance
to an old-fashioned latticework pergola or gazebo draped in
vines. In order to compensate for the rise in terrain that would
occur over the six-million-year time span, the device stood on
scaffolding slightly over two metres in height. Its frame was of
transparent glassy material; at each joint was a nodular
component of black, having obscure scintillations dimly visible
within. The "vines", actually heavy cables of multicoloured
alloys, emerged from the bare ground under the platform and
crept in and out of the lattice. At a point fifteen centimetres
above the gazebo roof the cables seemed to vanish, then reap-
pear in a mysterious fashion to twine down again through the
rear framework.

"What are you going to send off first?" Aiken asked Hagen.

The young man held out a small box carved from rock crystal,
lifting its lid to show a thin wafer of metal with a blue-black
tarnish.

"Potassium. After it makes the round trip, we run it through
an ordinary kay-ay dater to be sure it's picked up twelve million
years. According to theory, the focus of the time-gate is fixed.
If the machine works at all, it should take its cargo to the
grounds of l'Auberge du Portail on the synchronous Milieu date
of 2 November 2111, then whisk it back here as the tau-field
recycles."

"Right," said the King. "Let's get on with it." He reached

out and took the hand of Elizabeth, who was standing beside
him, her face lacking expression and her mind inaccessible.

Hagen mounted the scaffold steps. One of his associates
handed him an ordinary four-legged wooden stool, which he
positioned in the precise centre of the gazebo. He placed the
crystal box on the stool and then withdrew to the front row
of spectators, to stand with Diane Manion, Cloud, and Kuhal
Earthshaker. He said to a young woman seated at the control
console, "Do it, Matiwilda."

She said, "Going away."

There was no sound as the Guderian device was activated.
The power-drain was so minimal that the spotlights positioned
around the castle yard never faltered in brilliance. The gazebo
seemed to shimmer; then its interior was hidden, as though
mirror panels had suddenly sprung up inside.

"I know the translation's supposed to be instantaneous,"
Aiken said, "but just give it a minute."

The two hundred people watching held their breath.

"All right," said the King at last.

Matiwilda threw the switch and the mirror effect winked out.
In a cometlike leap, Aiken was on the platform squatting before
the entrance to the booth. Inside were two truncated pieces of
wooden stool fallen to each side of an ash-covered crystal box.

"Suffering Christ!" the King said. "The tau-field only formed
a beam yea-wide! Will you look at this, Hagen?"

Cursing, young Remillard rushed onto the platform. The
other onlookers buzzed and groaned and set out a hodgepodge
of telepathic execration.

"Anastos, get up here!" Hagen bellowed.

A swarthy man with an authoritative air pushed out of the
crowd. After inspecting the gazebo he went to confer with the
woman at the control console. Somewhere a childish voice
piped, "Does that mean we can't go, Daddy?"

Aiken handed down the crystal box to Bert Candyman, who
was standing by with the radio-dating analyser. The chemist
pried open the container gingerly, disclosing a circle of dirty
white powder. He offered the King a crooked smile. "Well, it's
been somewhere. Your Majesty!"

More technicians came onto the platform to inspect the fiasco,
then chaffer earnestly with Hagen, the King, or the dynamic-
field engineer Dimitri Anastos. Cloud Remillard and Kuhal

Earthshaker watched Candyman do his analysis. The King
demanded the immediate presence of Tony Wayland via a mind-
rocking summons on the declamatory farspeech mode. The
metallurgist, wearing a haunted look, was drawn into the
consultation.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour of wrangling, there was
an abrupt resolution. All the technical personnel retired from
the platform, leaving only the King standing beside the gazebo.
He held the two chunks of the stool in one upraised hand and
the empty crystal box in the other. His mind commanded:

Silence.

A child whimpered. Somebody coughed and somebody else
stifled a sob.

"It's only a temporary setback," Aiken informed them.
"Here's the good news: Bert says that the potassium wafer
travelling in this little box checked in with an approximate age
of eleven point seven eight plus-or-minus zero point two million
years. That's as close as damn-all to being right on the proverbial
time button. We have a gate to the Milieu."

Everybody gasped, then there were feeble cheers.

The King flourished the remnants of the doubly guillotined
stool. "But it's a very small gate—so far. Instead of filling the
entire gazebo, the tau-field is being generated in a narrow slice
a little over a handspan wide. It's a glitch, but we think we
know what's causing it. It's probably a single cable with a faulty
core, and it'll be unzipped and put through bench-testing
immediately."

Resigned groans. A child asked, "Can we go tomorrow,
King?" Tense laughter.

"I hope so, Riki," Aiken said. He looked over his shoulder
for a moment at the gleaming latticework machine before tossing
away the bits of wood and stowing the empty crystal box in the
hip pocket of his golden suit. He walked to the platform edge.
The royal forefinger pointed uncompromisingly at Tony
Wayland, who stood stiff at the foot of the steps. The metallur-
gist gaped in horror as the King transmitted a mental image to
him on the intimate mode. Aiken said softly, "Eighty thousand
Firvulag, Tony—plus the Angel of the Abyss. You will do your
very best with that core, won't you?"

Clutching his torc, Tony Wayland managed to nod.

He d-jumped directly into the shadowed inner recesses of the
nearly deserted Firvulag royal enclosure. The only one who
saw him materialize was young Sharn-Ador, banished for an
obligatory nap in the middle of the hot afternoon.

"Father! Mother! The Foe!" screamed the boy, tumbling from
his camp bed and scrabbling among the pieces of his discarded
juvenile armour for his ceremonial sword.

Sharn and Ayfa came charging back, minds exuding meta-
phorical fire and brimstone. But they burst out laughing together
as they identified the intruder.

The Queen reached down to hug her son. "It's only our
Low—our human friend, Smudger. He's no Foeman. No danger
to us. Go back to sleep."

Wide-eyed, the child gushed profound suspicion from his
mind. "But he came out of thin air! Not from being invisible—he
really came!"

Marc Remillard laughed.

"It's one of the things he can do," King Sharn said drily.
"Now obey your mother, or you don't get to watch the Assent
Encounters."

The royal pair led Marc to the chairs at the front of the
box. Sugoll was there, and the revered dwarfish artisan couple
Finoderee and Mabino Dreamspinner, who were noncombatant
members of the Gnomish Council; but all the rest of the Firvulag
nobility were down in the lists, either getting ready to enter the
High Affray themselves or giving support and encouragement
to those who were.

"Too bad you didn't come earlier, Remillard," Sharn said
heartily. He directed his guest to a seat and signalled Hofgarn to
replenish the food and drink. "You missed some lively jousts."

"Seventeen Foe fairly maimed and a dozen clobbered on
points," dear old Mabino cackled. "The tally's tipping our way
at last."

Ayfa poured sangria for Marc herself and offered it with a
gracious smile. Out on the Field of Gold there was a flourish of
trumpets. The stentorian mind-voice of Heymdol Buccinator,
Marshal of Sport, announced the upcoming contest and the rules
of scoring.

"This may be fun," the Queen said. "The participants must
hack off the helmet-crests of the opposition to make points. I
wouldn't be surprised if there were low blows."

Lady Mabino tittered.

Sugoll, wearing his illusion of a handsome bald-headed
humanoid, said, "Perhaps our guest, like so many humans, finds
mayhem repugnant."

"I've been responsible for my share," Marc noted, drinking
deeply of the spiced wine punch. "Even in the Galactic Milieu,
we humans were a rough-and-ready lot—to the scandal of more
civilized races ... As it happened, I was off visiting a very
civilized world just this morning, testing a gift someone gave
me yesterday."

Sharn and Ayfa concealed their stupefaction, but the two
noble dwarfs gaped unashamed. Finoderee squeaked, "Te's
teeth—you mean you flew to another planet, Lowlife?"

Marc gave a brief mental explanation of the d-jumping
metafaculty. "And since I was recently given a mitigator
program—a technique that does away with most of the pain that
usually accompanies the crossing into hyperspace—I was eager
to test it on a long-distance hop. I went to a world that I call
Goal, fourteen thousand light-years distant."

"Goddess," whispered the Queen.

"The mitigator worked perfectly," Marc said. "I was given it
by a Tanu. An attempt at bribery. He said that it was a part of
the Firvulag mental heritage as well, a legacy of Brede's Ship
that brought all of you to Earth a thousand years ago."

"That was before our time," Sharn said.

Wizened Finoderee bobbed his head, lost in introspection.
"We remember, though—don't we, Mama?" Mabino's lips
trembled.

Marc said, "The Goal world is the place where I hope to take
my children . . . after you join me in subduing our mutual Foe,
who keeps them captive in Castle Gateway."

Sharn knit his brows, pursed his mouth, and formed a steeple
with enormous, spatulate fingers. He did not meet the hypnotic
grey eyes of the Adversary. "I'm still taking that matter under
advisement, Remillard. You know, we're very impressed by
you. Perhaps a trifle too impressed—ha ha! We Little Folk
are only a simple barbarian nation, though, and all this high
technology of yours is a radical pill to swallow."

"Our idea of wild innovation," said Ayfa, "is using domestic
animals for transport."

"And captured Milieu weaponry for... self-defence," Sugoll
put in blandly.

Marc seemed unperturbed. "Our alliance could be very
profitable to you. In return for a single act of cooperation,
I would make you a gift of a highly sophisticated offensive
metaconcert program five times more efficient than any you
could engineer by yourselves. Your creative potential would
be over the thousandth order of magnitude with the proper
direction."

Old Finoderee gave a bark of confident laughter. "With eighty
thousand of us linked for the zap, Aiken Drum will know he's
been hit with more than chopped liver."

"We do appreciate your offer," Sharn said, deeply earnest.
"And we're thinking it over very carefully."

Marc's smile tightened. "There may not be much time left. If
Aiken's scientists at Castle Gateway reopen the time-gate,
there'll surely be a fresh influx of human time-travellers from
the Galactic Milieu. They could bring additional armaments to
Aiken. There may even be operant metapsychics coming
through who could oppose us mentally."

"It's a serious matter," Sharn agreed. "And I don't mean to
doubt your word. But there have been rumours that this time-
gate device is going to be used as an escape hatch by the Golden
Pismire. If he hauled his shining little scut out of here, it would
suit us fine."

"If the time-gate opens," Abaddon said, "it will finish you."

"And you," Sugoll appended. He leaned over the rail of the
enclosure, watching the melee that was taking place on the
yellow sands. "The Tanu look to have the advantage. That last
charge a travers by the human fighters under the Bottle Knight
wiped the floor with Pingoll's dwarves."

Marc's mouth lifted in bemusement. "The Bottle Knight?"

Sugoll pointed out a bizarre combatant riding a greyish zebra-
striped hipparion. Instead of the usual glowing glass armour he
was harnessed in a species of scale-mail that appeared to be
pieced together from the bottoms of variously coloured bottles.
His limbs were encased in rough-cut cylindrical sections, crudely
joined with wire. His helmet looked like nothing more than a
sawn-off carboy, with a tuft of broom-straw stuck in the neck
for a crest and a snoutish visor made from a wine-magnum

riveted to the facial region. The Bottle Knight carried a very
long glass lance of no-nonsense design and a slick tilting targe
with a peephole and a righthand aperture to accommodate the
lance during the pass. This Bottle Knight, Sugoll informed Marc,
although torced in mere silver and of unimpressive stature, had
cut a wide swath through the four earlier jousting matches.
Following the rules, he challenged only the dwarfish or human-
sized Firvulag. And he always won.

"We think he's the King," Ayfa stated. "Look what a runt
he is. And who else would have the effrontery to come onto
the field in such an outlandish getup?"

"Aargh!" Finoderee groaned. "He's taken out Shopiltee
Bloodguzzler!"

"He doesn't fight fair," Lady Mabino whined. "He should be
cutting off the crests with a sword—not unhorsing our lads and
lasses and yanking the crests out by the roots!"

"There's nothing in the rules against it," Sharn growled
through gritted teeth.

"Look at that scoreboard," Ayfa wailed. "We're ahead in the
stalwart category, But that little puke-ort's killing us in the
lightweight division. And since we fielded twice as many gnomes
as ogres—"

"Yaaak!" mourned Finoderee. "He got Mimee of Famorel."

"Sweet Te on toast," cried the disgusted Sharn. Glass carnices
blew a musical blast, ending the match. The Tanu grandstand
exploded as the semifinal totals were posted on Yosh Watan-
abe's huge electronic display board.

"Close," Queen Ayfa muttered. "Too damn close. The Foe
have a whisker's worth of an advantage, but they're sure to run
away with the game in the Assent Encounters."

"What are those?" Marc inquired.

Sugoll said, "Bravura performances by the champions of the
previous matches. They may be challenged individually by any
fighter in the appropriate category."

"They're carrying Mimee off," the Queen moaned. "That
wretched Lowlife mountebank snapped poor Famorel's left clav-
icle like a lark's wishbone. None of our other gnomes will dare
face the Bottle Knight."

"May only full-blooded Firvulag enter the lists under your
banner?" Marc asked.

The King and Queen stared at him.

Sugoll said, "Technically, any human subject of my city,
Nionel, also qualifies as a Little Person. However we are a
peaceable folk—both Howler and human citizens alike—and as
hosts of the Grand Tourney we have refrained from most of the
contests in order to attend to the duties of hospitality."

Marc stood with hands on hips, looking down on the pag-
eantry in the arena with a rakehelly grin. "I don't suppose you'd
nominate me an honorary citizen of Nionel, would you, Lord
Sugoll?"

"Damn right he will!" Sharn cried. Then his enthusiasm
faltered like a half-inflated balloon. "Do you think you could
lick him? No metapsychic powers allowed. But you do look
pretty well built—"

"Big-game fishing. And this jousting seems fairly simple. One
merely calculates the appropriate vectors and kinetic reactions.
I presume the contestants may mind-control their mounts."

"Oh, yes," said Sugoll. "That's permissible." He indicated a
neat stack of translucent glass, lustrous as moonstone and silver-
chased. "If you wish, you may use my armour and steed."

Still smiling, Marc bowed. "A la bonne heure."

"And I'll be your squire!" the Firvulag King enthused. "Let's
go sign you up! You'll need a fictitious name, of course."

"Jack Diamond will do," said the Adversary.

Marc dismounted from his blowing, foam-stained charger, threw
down his buckler and lance, and pulled the brave tuft of broom-
straw from the ridiculous helmet of the fallen Bottle Knight.
The Firvulag spectators filled the air with jubilant cacophony.

Aiken doffed his headpiece, sketched a sardonic salute, and
said, "Well smote, White Knight. God, what a klop! I feel like
I've been in a head-on collision with an impacting asteroid."

Marc raised his visor. "Applied mathematics." He held out a
gauntleted hand and courteously hauled his vanquished
opponent upright. "I'm afraid the temptation was irresistible."

"I hoped it would be," the King replied.

Marc's right eyebrow rose a millimetre.

Aiken said, "You see, I had to fight in the jousts. Morale.
However, it would never do for Me to get physically creamed
by one of the Foe, would it? But a big hulking human is some-
thing else." The Trickster's eyes glittered. He gestured at the
eruptive horde of gnomish fans who cheered the victorious

Firvulag chivalry. "See how happy and confident you've made
them feel? They're on top of the world. Invincible! Positive they
can whip us Tanu to a fare-thee-well without hardly trying. And
without help from talented but possible perfidious Lowlives."

Abaddon sighed. "Very clever." He retrieved his borrowed
equipment and remounted to join the winners' parade. "But the
time-gate is still closed, isn't it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

"What events are scheduled for tomorrow?"

"The biggie is the tug-of-war," Aiken said. "With minds. No
chance for hanky-panky. We'll have to play it straight. At least
I will."

"Then the advantage is still to the ungodly," Marc said.
"Tomorrow then." He lifted high his lance, with the crest of
the Bottle Knight spitted at the tip, and rode away.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The rumour mill had been grinding among bareneck and grey-
torc attendees ever since the Grand Tourney began, with two
topics uppermost in the minds of the unprivileged human atten-
dees: the possibility of imminent war, and the possibility of a
time-warping escape hatch to the Milieu. It was not until the
start of the Fourth Day that the hearsay, innuendo, fear, and
suspicion began to find anchorage in undeniable fact.

Item: Twenty-five rhocraft of the Royal Flying Corps took up
permanent hover station 4000 metres above the Field of Gold.
(Fresh rumour: a hotshot grey scanner technician maintained
that the ships' guns were trained smack on the Firvulag
grandstand!)

Item: The encampment of Little People among the trees on
the north side of the field, which had welcomed Lowlife visitors
during the first three days of the Tourney, was now cordoned
off by smiling but resolute ogres. (Fresh rumour: Howlers as
well as humans were being denied entrance because of their
dubious loyalty to the Firvulag cause!)

Item: King Aiken-Lugonn was absent from the royal enclosure

after the first round of duels in the Heroic Manifestation of
Power. His lack of regal courtesy did not prevent Bleyn,
Alberonn, and Celadeyr of Afaliah from scoring signal victories
over Galbor Redcap, Tetrol Bonecrusher, and Betularn of the
White Hand, thus putting the Tanu far out in front in the point
scoring. (Fresh rumours: A keen-eyed ex-navigator among the
barenecks insisted he had got a fix on the departing flagship of
Aiken-Lugonn, and that its vector was a veritable beeline for
Castle Gateway! The time-gate was about to open! The time-
gate device was hopelessly glitched! The King was getting ready
to flit to the Milieu! There was not now nor had there ever been
a Guderian Project working on a new time-gate!)

Item: The Howlers had "withdrawn with the greatest reluc-
tance" from participation in the crucial tug-of-war game sched-
uled for that afternoon, pleading the press of duties in over-
seeing the equipment that would be required for the culminating
sporting event of the Tourney. (Fresh rumours: The Firvulag
royals were livid with rage at the defection! Human citizens of
Nionel hinted at the secret pact between Sugoll and Aiken-
Lugonn that pledged the mutant minds to the Tanu cause! The
Hurley/Shinty Game to be played on the Fifth Day was nothing
more nor less than an exotic version of Gaelic-Rules
Football—and any civilized sports fan knew that such contests
invariably degenerated into bloody free-for-alls! It was going to
be the Nightfall opener!)

Item: The reclusive mystery woman, Elizabeth Orme, sat in
the royal box at the side of an unknown human. (Fresh rumour:
The fellow was none other than Marc Remillard, instigator of
the Metapsychic Rebellion, the fabled Adversary in the flesh!)

The morning's events reached their climax, the final match of the
Heroic Manifestations of Power. The Howler field attendants
pumped up the bellows, making the fountains of fire stretch
sky high, and pour forth commingled black and rose-coloured
smoke. The monstrous iron chevaux-de-frise in the midst of the
flames glowed white-hot. Glass trumpets sounded a fanfare,
kettledrums thundered, and then the Marshal of Sport made his
amazing announcement:

"The Tanu hero Kuhal Earthshaker, scheduled to contend in
this final Manifestation against the Firvulag Battlemaster Medor,
has withdrawn."

A mighty roar of disappointment arose from the Tanu parti-
sans. The Little People cheered roundly and the bookmakers
scrambled in a frenzy to cope with the last-minute scratch.

The Marshal declared: "By consent of the Committee of
Referees, Lord Kuhal's place will be taken by Minanonn the
Proud, also called Heretic, former Battlemaster of the Tanu."

Now tumultuous jubilation seized the Tanu and human specta-
tors while the Firvulag hooted, hummed derisively, and shape-
shifted into obscene illusory forms to express their vexation.
The points at stake in the contest were sufficient to return the
overall advantage to the Little People if Medor should win—and
he had been an odds-on favourite over Kuhal because of the
latter's status as a precariously healed invalid. Now, however,
Medor faced not a convalescent but one who had been the
premier metapsychic warrior of his race before retiring to volun-
tary exile.

The smoke from the central pyre changed. Blue and green
smoke gushed up together with the clouds of rose-red and black.
The two heroes entered the field. Medor was armed in plates
of jet studded with orange diamonds and wicked topaz spikes.
Minanonn wore a magnificent panoply embodying his triple
coercive, creative and psychokinetic metafunctions. The triske-
lion was chased in gold upon his massive cuirass and a golden-
winged dolphin crowned his helm. The Firvulag champion and
the Tanu took up positions on opposite sides of the surging
bonfire. Howler officials handed each contender one end of a
stout chain of pyrostatic glass, which passed through the centre
of the flaming fountain and the incandescent iron hedgehogs
that lurked at its heart. Then the Marshal signalled, the crowd
howled, and the finale in the Manifestations of Power began.

In the Tanu grandstand, the two of them watched with
unseeing eyes and minds distracted.

She said: It was thus between Lawrence and me.

He said: This is the way it was with me and Cyndia.

They agreed: Such perfect soul-consonance may surely be ach-
ieved but once and any attempt at reprise is doomed to futility.
If this is true even among the small-minded how much more
invidious an effort between the grandmasterly. And thrice hope-
less when both are proud and untrustful.

Exerting both metapsychic power and physical strength,
Minanonn and Medor hauled at each other. At first their pull

on the chain was steady. The Firvulag hero found himself
dragged closer and closer to the inferno and the two bristling
contraptions of blazing blood-metal within it. The Tanu and the
humans in the audience whooped in anticipation of a quick
victory. But guileful Medor suddenly let himself be yanked
wholly into the flames. The crowd shrieked. Minanonn had to
shift balance in order to regain purchase lost when the chain
fell unexpectedly slack.

Medor gave a mighty leap backwards at the same time that
his mind slickened the sand with ectoplasmic ichor. The Tanu
hero staggered and slid. His own creativity strove to cancel the
manifestation of his rival. Medor hauled back with savage,
abrupt jerks, intent on preventing Minanonn from regaining a
fair grip on the slithering chain. (If the Heretic let it slip out
of hand, the match was lost.) Inexorably, the former Tanu
Battlemaster was drawn into the fountain of fire. Now his meta-
psychic strength was divided between shielding his body from the
terrible heat and pulling back before Medor managed to bring
him up against the white-hot spikes of poisonous iron.

The two humans never noticed.

She said: We lived and loved in Unity. We worked hard formed
the strong young minds laid secure foundations for mature
function. It was so good. He fulfilled me.

He said: I spawned the inhuman thousands and steered the
great scheme and she seemed to relate in loving concurrence. And
for love of her I begat the Children of her body and sowed the
seed of love's death.

They agreed: Such memories form an insuperable rampart
between us.

Minanonn flattened the flames. He clutched the tag-end of
the glass chain and gave a herculean wrench. Medor was pulled
off his feet. The Heretic grasped the chain more securely and
let the fire rise up around him, as it also did around his antag-
onist. Medor uttered a farspoken howl, which was echoed by
his countrymen in the stand. Both heroes were totally engulfed,
but it was Minanonn who stood firm and the Firvulag who was
hauled closer and closer to the glowing metal points.

The man and woman were oblivious.

She said: We feared even amid happiness knowing that life
would not be worth living if we were separated. Surely a loving
God would know this and take us together. We trusted. In the

crash I lost my metafaculties and the Unity. He was killed. I died
the worse death.

He said: In the very act of love she betrayed me. Murdering
Mental Man she wept and said she did it for love of me and all
humanity. He is dead in me forever and only the Children can
resurrect Him.

They disagreed.

Minanonn, holding the chain fast in preparation for the fatal
pull, cried out with mind and voice: "Yield, Medor Battle-
master! Yield or impale yourself on scorching blood-metal,
gaining Tana's peace but the obloquy of the Little People as
you deprive them of a great leader."

Medor let the chain slip from his hands.

The flames died. Minanonn stood in discoloured, soot-filthy
armour, holding the entire length of glass chain above his half-
melted helmet crest. The Tanu throng cried his name again and
again and gave him a shattering accolade of slonshal.

The two up in the royal enclosure were aware only of
themselves.

She said: Your vision that you cling to so obstinately is evil.
This is not merely my judgment or Anatoly's. After twenty-seven
years the consensus of the Galactic Mind was unanimous. If you
can't see that Cyndia was right and you were wrong you're just
what Anatoly called you: arrogant and invincibly ignorant but
still wrong wrong wrong.

He said: And what about you? At least my flaw is grand
while yours is merely pathetic. You evade responsibility deny
commitment out of simple cowardice. You pretend to noble
despair when you are merely whimpering and self-righteous. You
condemn my ignorance and arrogance when your own is equally
great. . . and you say you can never love and you lie lie lie.

She said: What does a heartless monster like you know about
love?

  He said: Let me look into your mind. Then say you don't love
me.

She said: Never! It's impossible.

He said: Then so is the rehabilitation of the Duat Mind.

They agreed.

"Well, Medor?" bellowed the Firvulag King.
Aides, trainers, and hangers-on fled from the dressing room

of the defeated champion as they felt the scourge of Sharn's
wrath. But when he was all alone with his Battlemaster the
monarch doffed his robes, helped slather soothing ointment on
Medor's blisters, and sprayed them with a painkilling Milieu
medicament that was said to be nearly as efficacious as Tanu
Skin.

"I did my best," the woebegone general said. "But I knew I
was cooked as soon as Heymdol announced that the Foe were
entering the Heretic as a ringer. No one but Pallol One-Eye was
in Minnie's class." After a moment, he appended diplomatically,
"Except you yourself, of course, High King."

Sharn mouthed curses through clenched teeth. "We're not
out of the woods yet, either. I lodged protests with the stewards;
but there's no valid reason for keeping Minanonn or any other
Peace Faction member out of the games, assuming their precious
consciences tell them that the Grand Tourney isn't ritual warfare
but just good clean fun. The Heretic's banishment was a matter
of politics. If Aiken wants to accept him on the Tanu team,
there's not a damn thing we can do to prevent it."

"Is Minanonn participating in the tug-of-war metaconcert this
afternoon, then?"

"I think it's a foregone conclusion," said the King. He helped
Medor into a fresh suit of padding and new armour. "But cheer
up, old son. In the tug, it's strictly minds, not muscles, that'll
cut the mustard. And there's still only thirteen thousand of
them—and eighty thousand of us."

Both Elizabeth and Marc saw the flagship land on a hastily
roped-off area just behind the Tanu grandstand. Not long after-
ward the King came to the royal enclosure seeking Elizabeth. He
was accompanied by Creyn, Basil Wimborne, Peopeo Moxmox
Burke, and Brother Anatoly.

"I'm afraid you'll have to miss the rest of the games, lass,"
Aiken told her. "We're taking you for a little ride."

She jumped up from her seat. "It's—it's ready?"

The King only said, "Come along."

Marc lounged back with an unconcerned smile. He was
wearing, with considerable style, the smart plum-and-ochre
dress uniform of the King's Own Elite Guard, complete with
golden torc and commander's insignia. He said, "The time-gate
is not yet operative, Elizabeth. The King is merely anticipating.

Or possibly thinking wishfully. If the Guderian device were in
working order, the entire Many-Coloured Land would know it."

Aiken only repeated darkly, "Come along."

"You'll hurry back, I hope," Marc said. "Your heroes missed
you during the Heroic Manifestations."

"But won all the same," Aiken snapped. "And now we're
leading in the point scoring."

"It wouldn't do for you to miss the tug-of-war, though. Not
even for ... strategic reasons. Your subjects would never stand
for it. I'm really looking forward to seeing how your metaconcert
technique stacks up against Sharn and Ayfa's."

"Planning to enter the tussle on the Firvulag side again?"
Aiken inquired sweetly.

"I wouldn't dream of it. You taught me my lesson very
effectively."

The King herded Elizabeth and the others to the exit. He said
over his shoulder, "Nothing personal, Marc—but when I get
back I'd better find you gone. We've about come to the end of
the line in this friendly enemies routine. Fair warning."

Marc nodded. "En garde, then, Little King." And to Eliz-
abeth: "Au revoir."

The true disparity between the Tanu and Firvulag numbers
became evident as preparations for the mental tug-of-war neared
completion. Emptied of all nonmetafunctional humans, the
Tanu grandstand had ominous expanses of empty seats, but the
accommodation of the Firvulag was jammed to overflowing.

Greggy and Rowane had been banished from the royal enclo-
sure of the Little People along with the rest of the nonparticipant
Howlers. But rather than joining Sugoll and Katlinel on the
sidelines, they sneaked down to the booth between the stands
that housed the control room of the Staging and Properties staff.

"Rank do hath its privileges," the Genetics Master crowed to
his awed protegee. "And down here, we'll see not only the
dragons but also the monitoring panels showing which minds
are faltering and ready to drop out of the metaconcert."

"Ooo!" said Rowane.

Out on the Field of Gold an astonishing contrivance had been
erected in place of the morning's fiery fountain. Its base was an
artificial hill as wide as the paired grandstands and fifteen

metres high, it was roughly conical in shape, with large cavelike
apertures on the right and left flanks and a summit crater.

The sham mountain harboured monstrous twin serpents.

The one on the righthand Firvulag side was glistening black
with fangs and eyes as red as carbuncles. Its opposite number
had golden scales, and eyes and teeth of bright amethyst. The
heads of the snakes protruded from their respective lairs with
jaws agape. It seemed that somewhere in the depths of the
mountain their bodies met, entwined, then reared upward from
the central crater mouth to form a great knot high in the air.
From this sky-knot the tails of the serpents curved down in
identical arcs, the black tail apparently being swallowed by the
golden serpent and the golden tail by the black. The overall
effect given by the huge stage prop was that of an enormous
wheel, half golden and half black, mounted in an upright posi-
tion and partially embedded in the base of imitation rock.

"I call it the double Ourobouros," the senior of the two
human technicians in charge of the spectacle informed Greggy
and Rowane. "But old Lars, over there at the grandstand ground-
ing monitors, likes Siamese Mithgarthsormr better."

"Will you explain its functioning, Master Baghdanian?"
Rowane requested. "You must pardon my simplicity, but I am
not quite able to grasp how such a device is to be used in a
metapsychic tug-of-war."

"I'm all at sea, too!" Greggy giggled. "My golden torc's
honorary, you know. But I must say, the gadget is madly
impressive."

"Wait till you see the electrostatics in action," Lars offered
with a grim smile. "I just wish the voltage was high enough to
fry these exotic sonsabitches insteada just making their brains
twinge."

Baghdanian gave his colleague a resigned look. "Just ignore
Lars' xenophobia, folks, and observe instead the displays in
front of him that monitor the Tanu and Firvulag grandstands.
Red lights for Little People, amber for the Tanu and human
torcers. Intensity of light roughly proportional to cerebral
wattage."

"The twinkling yellow jobbie on the Tanu display is our
Shining Hope, Aiken-Lugonn himself," Lars said.

The senior man listened to some message coming through his

comset headpiece. He thumbed a few switchpads, checked out
something or other, and said, "We'd better make this quick,
folks. We're almost ready to start. Okay ... all the people in
both grandstands are incorporated into the game's electrical
circuitry just as long as they keep their seats. They stand up,
that means they resign the game. Got that?"

"Mm," said Greggy, suppressing a snicker. "Fundamental
antagonism!"

"You know about mindpower, metafunction having electro-
magnetic components?" the technician asked rather dubiously.

Greggy sighed. "In my less irrational moments I am a doctor
of medicine, of genetic science, of philosophy, and of humane
letters (honorary)."

"Right," said Baghdanian. "Now just take a careful look at
the snake setup out there. What we've really got is a gigantic
ring, standing up like a skinny ferris wheel. The tails of the
snakes going into the mouths make a complete circle through
the inside of the mountain and also through the knot up top.
The central twisty-twiney part just disguises the frame that
supports this big scaly ring made of electroconductive material."

"The whole ring's not conductive," Lars interrupted.

Baghdanian gave him another look. "As I was about to say,
the conductivity of the ring is broken by insulating
material—glass—in two places: up inside the knot where you
can't see it, and just inside the jaws of the two snakeheads. The
entire arc section through the central mountain is nonconductive
at the moment. But! If the ring rotates—say, to our right—it'll
look like the black Firvulag serpent has let the golden tail of
the Tanu serpent slip out of its mouth. At the same time, of
course, the Firvulag serpent's bod would go deeper and deeper
into the gold snake's mouth."

"But really into the mountain." Greggy nodded sagely.

The technician's eyes had an odd glint. "Inside the hill, we
have multiple arrays of Van de Graafs—electrostatic generators
similar to the ones in the old Frankenstein movies. If your
snake's tail gets gulped just a little, you'll feel a small mental
shock. But the farther that tail goes down the enemy gullet, the
more intense the mind-zap."

"Merciful heavens!" Greggy exclaimed.

Baghdanian said, "Notice the large jewelled cuffs that clasp
the tail of each snake about three metres away from the enemy

teeth. We call those bracelets. Those are the places where the
minds have the grip—and pull. The more powerfully your team
hauls away on the tail bracelet of your snake, the deeper the
tail of the other team will be swallowed."

"And the more agonizing it is for the opponent to hold on,"
Lars added.

Greggy shuddered. "What a perfectly beastly piece of
ingenuity!"

Baghdanian gave a modest shrug. "Twenty-two years in the
special-effects department of Industrial Light and Magic."

"How is the winner known?" Rowane asked.

"The guys who get their bracelet devoured," Lars said, "not
only lose, but end up with skulls full of half-fried neurons."

Baghdanian wore an abstracted look as he listened to his
comset, watched a digital clock, and monitored the occasionally
flickering patterns on the Tanu and Firvulag grandstand moni-
tors. "Two minutes."

"Start praying," Lars told Greggy and Rowane. "If the
Firvulag lose big, maybe they'll call off the Nightfall War. Then
us humans will be free to go home through the time-gate and
forget we ever saw this crazy place!"

"Not all humans want to leave," Rowane protested uneasily.
"Some hate the future world and have loving ties to this one."

"Don't you believe it," Lars scoffed. "Show any sane human
being a time-gate leading back to the Milieu, he'd take a
running jump. Even King Golden Britches himself! Stands to
reason." He pointed rudely at Greggy. "Wouldn't you go?"

"Well—er—" the geneticist mumbled.

"My Tonee wouldn't go!" Rowane cried. "He wouldn't!"

The chief technician said, "ESGs on full. FX crew stand
by with pyrotechnic intro. Music track go! Tanu metaconcert
established. Firvulag ditto. On your mark ... get a grip . . .
heave ho!"

Out on the Field of Gold, the colossal twin serpents seemed to
coil amid a thicket of bramble-branched lightnings. The maws
of the fabulous reptiles belched luminous clouds of green smoke
that rose up into the low-hanging overcast that now made an
eerie roof over the tournament ground. Another ten centimetres
of black tail went down the golden weasand.
"Hold, Tanu, hold!" yelled the sidelines crowd, humans and

Howlers together. The mutants no longer bothered to pretend
that they were on the side of their Firvulag cousins.

Up in the enclosure of King Aiken-Lugonn, the combined
aura of the triumphing Great Ones was a solar flare, the subordi-
nate minds sleeving it in a golden swarm of blazing bees. This
astral arm appeared to grip the bracelet of the Tanu serpent
and haul firmly upwards.

The Firvulag royal enclosure was deep in a nimbus of scarlet
anguish. Its dense cluster of supporting mentalities pulsed in
irregular rhythm, slowing and then quickening, and flaring up
here and there in nervous coruscations of vermilion and angry
white. The Firvulag astral arm was much larger than that of the
Tanu, but its colour shone dull carmine.

"The Little People falter," Katlinel observed to her husband.
Her face was troubled, in contrast to the jubilant Howler
subjects that capered about.

Sugoll said, "It is as we expected. Having lost the initial
advantage when Aiken phased in his unexpected subsumed
faculties, they are on the verge of panic. The pain unnerves
them and metaconcert is still too unfamiliar a discipline for them
to have confidence in their superior potential . . . Hark! Can
you hear the desperate confabulation taking place on the racial
submode? They fear they are done for. But Queen Ayfa
proposes a bold plan. She will take half the linkage and transfer
to the Tanu bracelet and push, while Sharn's force continues to
pull."

"Firvulag have ever been dubious about following female
generals," Katlinel remarked. "I wonder—"

The spectators screeched. The Firvulag astral arm split
suddenly into two. But the Tanu responded with violent, wren-
ching tugs that had the Firvulag bracelet sliding to within a bare
half metre of the golden serpent's amethyst fangs. The secondary
Firvulag arm groped impotently for the base of the Tanu
bracelet.

"The blunderers!" Sugoll cried. "The increase in the pain
burden causes them to lose heart. Many of Queen Ayfa's force
desert her, rushing to help Sharn pull the black serpent's tail
away from the rival's punishing jaws! The Queen's ploy is
ruined. She retires in disorder."

The second astral arm commanded by luckless Ayfa petered
away into falling sparks and the Queen hastened to reestablish

the mind-link with her consort. All over the Firvulag grandstand,
gnomish minds were giving up the struggle. Tiny red embers
winked out as people climbed to their feet and resigned.

Aiken and his team made a flooding sunburst. With a last
mighty movement, the golden arm pulled the tail of the black
serpent through the Tanu worm's jaws. The dark-jewelled
bracelet disappeared behind glittering purple fangs. A final enor-
mous bow of lightning haloed the twin serpentine bodies. Then
the black snake seemed to catch fire, devoured in yellow flames.
Its head withdrew into the mountain. Its twisted body writhed,
disentangling itself from its victorious antagonist. The burning
black snake fell to ashes and only a golden circle was left, poised
on the artificial mountain base like some huge, upstanding Tanu
torc.

"Your people will need some hours to recover their strength,"
Marc said to Sharn and Ayfa. "We can use it productively. My
metaconcert program will not be too difficult for you to
assimilate if you both subordinate yourselves to my coercive
function and let me force-feed the data."

"Submit to you?" Sharn exclaimed in horror. "I knew it! You
intend to enslave us!"

"What good even the Nightfall victory," Ayfa wept, "if in the
end, the Adversary rules over all?"

"Fools," said Abaddon. "Haven't I told you that I have no
interest in this miserable world? Once your minds help me to
break into Castle Gateway, I'll set you free—and good riddance!
No strings attached. You'll have my metaconcert program,
the ability to exert firm control over the undisciplined brains of
your rabble. And I'll have what I want . . . secure on a world
fourteen thousand light-years away from you. Now choose!"

The co-monarchs stared numbly at the dark armoured mass
that lurked at the back of the now-deserted royal enclosure.
The thing's inhuman mind opened to them, showing a tantalizing
glimpse of complexity, beckoning.

Together, they passed into the abyss.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was past 0400. Only Cloud's redactive faculty now sustained
Tony Wayland as he made continuous manual adjustments to
the faulty cladding device that spun gossamer-fine niobium-
dysprosium wire.

"You're doing fine, Tony," Cloud said. "Only another five
hundred metres to go. You can do it—"

The cladder's spec-variance alarm went off. He croaked,
"God—not again!"

Respool. Cut off the strand at the slub and clear the aperture.
Make microscopic adjustments to the fouled vaporizing
chamber. Smear more balsam sealant on the leaking nipple
gasket.

"Work, damn you, work!" he shouted. The watchers standing
about the messy cubicle in the Castle Gateway cloister had
blank faces and barricaded minds. Cloud. The thunder-browed
redskin, Chief Burke. Kuhal Earthshaker. The incompetent
amateur engineer, Chee-Wu Chan, whose screw-up had
produced the faulty batch of wire in the first place. "Work!"

Finger the restart. Set tolerance: ±0.005u,. Feed. Go!

He moaned, "Now stay there, you perishing fucker." Cloud
caressed his fatigue-poisoned senses. A vision of sweet Rowane
seemed to float just beyond the labouring machine, slender
scaled arms outstretched, single eye weeping tender tears.

Chee-Wu caught a fresh bobbin as the machine spat it out,
and rushed it away to the core-spinning team. Hagen Remillard
stuck his head into the cubicle and said to his sister, "Aiken's
deep-sight has spotted an anomaly just outside the castle,
standing on the old time-gate site. Impermeable, two hundred
and thirty cents high, mass congruent with Papa's CE rig."

"We can't hurry this," Cloud said. "Go flog the other
workers."

"We're going to stack all the small sigmas that the King
brought with him around the inner ward," Hagen said, "get
everybody under the umbrella up next to the Guderian device

and the fix-it benches. We'll activate just as soon as you finish
the last spool of wire. With luck, there'll be enough time left to
complete the last cable repair."

Tony gave a manic chuckle. "Some hope! You have Jonah
himself jinxing your escape, kid! Disaster tracks old Tony
Wayland like hyenas trailing a wounded buck. You're not going
to get away from your father. None of us have a chance! The
black Night's closing in and the demon horde is ready to
strike—"

The cladder ejected the final spool of wire.

"Grab Tony!" Hagen told Kuhal Earthshaker. "Everybody
out into the courtyard!"

"We'll try a psychocreative shield," Aiken told the crowd
gathered about the gazebo platform. "It might give us a last-
second edge after he cracks the big dome and the improvised
sigma-stack. But I can't go the limit defending the time-gate.
The war that's coming up has to be my first priority. You
understand that, don't you?"

Hagen and Cloud gave a simultaneous mental assent. They
stood, together with Kuhal Earthshaker and Diane Manion,
inside the gazebo of the Guderian device. Every person in the
silent assembly knew that once Marc Remillard's children were
beyond his reach, the battle would be over. But if Hagen and
Cloud failed to escape . . .

Elizabeth said to them: You have fully assimilated the extre-
mity defence?

Cloud said: Yes. And we'll use it. Papa won't take us
alive.

Hagen said: I wish there was some way we could destroy our
bodies!

Aiken said: He'll be able to stop that—if it reaches that point.
I'm sorry. Elizabeth's snuff sequence is your last bastion.

Kuhal and Diane said: And we are in tandem.

Elizabeth said: Fortunate ones. In the Milieu such consolation
would be refused for the greater good of the Unity.

Anatoly said: "And rightly! Poor children. But God under-
stands lovers and forgives. Those who refuse to love are another
matter."

Elizabeth cried: How can you hear us? How dare you?

"He hears through my mind's ear," replied the King. And he

said to her on the intimate mode: Death is not the children's
last defender Elizabeth. You are.

Outside the castle the armoured shape stood ready in starless
dark. Its body was set aside, suspended from life-process in
refrigerated stasis. Its brain blazed as the needle electrodes
charged it with energies too great for unsupported flesh and
blood to bear. It was fully empowered in the aggressive psycho-
creative faculty. Far away in Nionel, the obedient cells of the
Organic Mind, 80,000 strong awaited its command.

It struck the dome offeree capping Castle Gateway. The great
sigma drained away into bedrock via a hundred metapsychic
grounding channels. There was a profound roaring noise and
the earth heaved. As the low-hanging clouds reflected the blue-
white corona of the conquering Adversary, Castle Gateway
rocked, broken by the tremors that shook the plateau, and
crumbled slowly into piles of rubble. At its heart was a lesser
silver hemisphere, steadfast in the midst of destruction.

The incandescent brain laughed as it transposed its energies
to the d-jumping function and teleported into the dusty ruins.
Then it struck again, hammering the stacked lesser sigmas and
the internal metapsychic shield generated by the King. The
shelter attenuated like frost melting from a windowpane.

The brain perceived the two familiar minds, caught them as
they hovered on the brink, forestalling their suicide, claiming
them.

Now, it cried. Now!

The armoured black form gave way to the body of a living
man. Dismissing both his Firvulag minions and the artificial
energies of the enhancer, he stood on the platform in front of
the Guderian device, looking at his paralysed son and daughter.
One side of his mouth was lifted in a gentle smile. Then he
turned to Elizabeth. She knelt on cracked flagstones next to
the control console, surrounded on three sides by motionless
workers. Aiken lay unconscious in front of her.

"As you see," Marc said, "I've won. You knew I would."

Elizabeth lifted the King's head and smoothed his dishevelled
hair. "Another ten or fifteen seconds and they would have been
gone. The machine is ready. If only Aiken had let me operate
the controls." She was very calm. "I should plead with you,
Marc."

"Open to me instead."

Her eyes widened. He only nodded. Aiken's heart beat again
and the currents in his brain had the steady cycle of dreamless
sleep. She kissed his brow and laid him softly on the stones.
Then she stood facing Marc. "Very well."

Her mental walls dissolved. There was no fear, no submission,
only a passage of free entry and a dropping of a fiery mask.

Marc said, "Ah." He stepped to the control console over
Aiken's body, activated the tau-generator, and sent the four
people inside the gazebo through the grey limbo, into Madame
Guderian's rose garden in the hills above Lyon, in the France
of the Galactic Milieu.

Dawn came to the Field of Gold, and the squad of Howler
referees staggered as they held up the huge leather ball filled
with sand. It was white with black markings, and in the fitful
overcast of the lurid sunrise it looked like a misshapen skull all
smeared with blood.

The Marshal of Sport intoned: "Grand Tourney contestants!
This event, called variously hurley or shinty, marks the culmina-
tion of this first year's games. As you know, the winner in this
contest will also be proclaimed victorious in the Tourney as a
whole, and be awarded the Singing Stone. The game will be
fought in a single ten-hour match, beginning as the sun lifts
above the horizon and concluding as it sets. The playing ground
is the entire Field of Gold, sixteen square kilometres. The
Firvulag own the north goalposts and the Tanu own the south.
Both physical and metapsychic prowess may be employed, but
no weapons. The team with the greatest number of goals wins.
There are no other rules or restraints. . . Now let the team
captains salute their noble opponents."

A bedlam of cheering greeted Sharn and Ayfa, marching out
to the face-off circle at the head of their phalanx of stalwarts.
Then the Tanu Great Ones sallied forth—leaderless.

Heymdol Buccinator proclaimed: "Inasmuch as King Aiken-
Lugonn is presently unable to take the field, the Tanu team will
be captained by Bleyn the Champion."

Groans arose from the human and Howler spectators and
delighted catcalls from the ebon host of Little People, who now
rushed helter-skelter onto the sandy expanse in front of the
grandstands like a swarm of glossy black beetles. Suddenly there

was a flash of amber light and an earsplitting sonic boom that
made the ground tremble. A flyer emblazoned with an open
hand hovered above the Rainbow Bridge. From its open belly-
hatch plummeted a sizzling little golden comet.

Bleyn said: "I gladly yield the captaincy of the Tanu team to
King Aiken-Lugonn!" And the mind-shouts of the humans and
mutants drowned out the Firvulag's furious hoots.

Landing, Aiken strutted to the face-off circle and raised the
visor of his golden helmet. "Morning, Ayfa. Morning, Sharn.
Ready for our little bash?"

"You should be dead!" they cried.

The Shining One lifted his bejewelled pauldrons in a rueful
gesture. "The Adversary had other games to play. Are you two
ready to get on with this one?"

The ogrish mates grinned then, showing white pointed tusks.
Sharn remarked, "So Remillard's gone, eh? Well, he left us a
nice souvenir that we'll take great pleasure in demonstrating to
you."

"You might call it a winning game plan," Ayfa added. "And
you're going to be quite impressed with the postgame festivities,
too!"

Aiken held up one plated finger. "Let me make just one little
announcement." And his mind-voice rolled and echoed over
the Field of Gold, silencing the tumultuous audience and the
impatient teams.

I speak to the humans, Aiken said, and to those other persons
of goodwill who seek to live in a world of peace. The time-gate
leading to the Galactic Milieu is now open.

Sensation! Sharn and Ayfa gaped at each other,
thunderstruck.

All throughout this Fifth Day of the Grand Tourney my aircraft
will shuttle back and forth between here and the time-gate site.
They will transport any who wish to go. You may take with you
only what can be carried in one arm and nothing that belongs to
Me. I myself intend to stay and rule this Many-Coloured Land
as High King after seating Myself in triumph upon the Singing
Stone at the end to today's play. I invite those who love this place
to stay also.

"Lowlife!" Sharn raged. "Upstart jackanapes!" screeched
Ayfa.

The titanic ball rose into the air, impelled by the psychokinesis

of Sugoll, Katlinel, and the Howlers. When it reached an alti-
tude of about forty metres, the Marshal of Sport commanded:
"Play ball!"

Crash! The heavy spheroid fell to earth. The opposing teams
surged forward, the audience shrieked, and the final contest of
the Grand Tourney began.

Ten persons per trip, twenty trips per hour.

After the young North Americans had been translated, and
those of the Guderian Project who wanted to return to the
Milieu, the time-gate exodus settled down into a fairly routine
operation, organized and supervised by Chief Burke, Basil, and
those of the Bastards who weren't doing pilot shuttle duty. The
commandant of the Roniah garrison, a cheerful little Walloon
PK-head named LeCocq, helped maintain order with a small
force of loyal greys.

Tony Wayland was caught trying to sneak off to Nionel on a
returning aircraft. Burke frogmarched him back to the gazebo
and gave him into the charge of an armed guard, with orders
that Tony was to stay with the skeleton staff of gazebo techni-
cians who had agreed to stand by in case the apparatus broke
down again.

"But the King promised I could go to my wife!" Tony
protested.

Burke picked him up by the scruff and dangled him nose to
nose. "I still remember the Vale of Hyenas, White Eyes, and
for two bits I'd give you a roundtrip in that time-machine and
use your ashes to polish my tomahawk! Now sit there with the
others and wait, dammit!"

Tony waited.

The next morning, the aircraft coming from Nionel were only
half-full, carrying only the most homesick of the Pliocene exiles,
those who had yearned for years to return to Elder Earth. As
long as King Aiken-Lugonn and the Tanu put up a good scrap
in the hurley-burley, there seemed no need to rush into making
the big decision.

Then, some time early in the afternoon, Sharn and Ayfa
finally sorted out the fine points of Marc Remillard's metacon-
cert program and began to use it efficiently. Not only did the
Firvulag come up from behind in the scoring, but they began to
inflict serious injury upon members of the Tanu team, singling

out stalwarts such as Celadeyr of Afaliah, Lomnovel Brain-
burner, and Parthol Swiftfoot, who had been especially skilled
ball carriers. The three were savagely red-dogged and had to be
retired to Skin.

With the tide of fortune turning toward the Little People, the
mood of the human spectators darkened. They recalled the
rumours of impending war—no mere brushfire action such as
had taken place at Burask and Bardelask, but a conflict that
might involve the entire continent. Pondering their sombre
options, the Lowlives watched rampaging waves of Tanu and
Firvulag surge about the devastated turf of the Tourney field
like a living maelstrom. Nightmare illusions were everywhere.
The aether throbbed with a hellish din. Mind-bolts, nauseating
psychic eructations, and quasi-material missiles were flung in all
directions. Frenzied ogres sought to tear their outnumbered
Tanu opponents to pieces. Herds of stampeding dwarves
stomped fallen torced humans into the bloody dust. Tanu redac-
tors and the scuttling little cadres of Firvulag nurses could scar-
cely haul away the injured without being mortally endangered
themselves.

The tally of Firvulag goals mounted more and more rapidly.
By 1400 hours the Little People led 50-33. An hour later their
lead had increased to 87-36. The sky grew ever more lowering
and oppressive, charged with noxious positive ions, ozone, and
a distinct odour of sulphur in addition to the hash of sinister
vibes.

Fresh rumours flew about the thinning crowd of spectators:
Mont-Dore was erupting! (But only in a minor fashion.) Thun-
derstorms had ignited grassfires on the tinder-dry prairies to the
west! (But the nearest conflagration was twenty kloms away.)
The time-warper was running out of steam! (Bullshit. The thing
drew most of its energy from telluric currents in the planetary
crust itself. Its power-drain would be very low.) King Aiken-
Lugonn was ready to throw in the towel! (Oh, yes? Well, there
were still forty-five minutes left to play—and anything could
happen when the Shining One was part of the fracas!)

AIKEN: Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH: Yes, dear.

AIKEN: Gads! I'm surprised to find you still here, babe . . . You
decided not to waft away after all?

ELIZABETH: Marc and I are discussing things.

AIKEN: I had a sneaking suspicion you might be ... Babe, that
metaconcert program he gave the Firvulag is killing us. We're
going to lose this ball game—and the Little People haven't
even begun to focus their full mental potential on us. I think
they're holding back the terminal zorch for the clincher—the
signal for Nightfall.

ELIZABETH: Oh, Aiken. But if it becomes plain that the assault
is of lethal intent, you'll be free to use your weapons and your
aircraft—

AIKEN: By then, we may be goners. Or I may be—which amounts
to the same thing. If I were Sharn and Ayfa, I'd funnel the
entire psychocreative load at Me just before old Heymdol
blows the Last Trump.

ELIZABETH: Marc—can't you do something?

MARC: I promised the Firvulag that I would never use my destruc-
tive potential against them.

ELIZABETH: The metaconcert then—!

MARC: I can't rescind it, nor is it susceptible of sabotage. I played
fair with the Little People as I did with both of you.

AIKEN: I was afraid you might have. Well ... I guess that's
that. Thanks for the memories, you two. Think about Me as
you work out your little penances for the next six million
years.

MARC: Just a moment. Are you restricted as to your garb in this
game?

AIKEN: ? We wear our usual Grand Combat regalia, but I
suppose anything goes. What's this got to do with the fending
of Ragnarok?

MARC: I'll show you.

All but hidden in smoky haze, the sun dropped toward the
western forest horizon. But the game was rocketing madly in
the opposite direction, toward the Rainbow Bridge and Nionel.
Aiken Drum and his depleted band of defenders, englobed in
a mental shield, were running away with the ball.

Outraged gnomes and ogres trampled through the concession
stands, blasted aside the flimsy riverside bleachers, poured in a
demonic torrent through empty picnic areas and pleasances, and
charged the Tanu stalwarts blocking the approach to the bridge.
The spectrum colours of the great arch had a preternaturally

brilliant glow. A single low-angled beam of sunlight broke the
cloud cover and illuminated gold-domed Nionel.

Out in the middle of the span was the King's protective
bubble—and on top of its flexible surface bounced the enormous
ball, insolently inaccessible in spite of the combined mental
power of the Firvulag seeking vainly to snatch it away.

"Pull it down!" Ayfa entreated her husband. "What's wrong
with us? How can that little scoundrel be countering our
concerted effort like this?"

"He's getting help!" Sharn gasped. "From somewhere on the
other side of the river. Te's Tonsils—it's the Howlers lending
him their minds!"

"Perfidious misbegottens!" raged the Queen. "There's
nothing for it, Sharn. We'll have to hit him with everything
we've got. Right now. Before the Last Trump."

"We'll burst the ball—lose the game by default!"

"And win the Nightfall War, you great blockhead!" she
screamed. "Order the offensive metaconcert in its ultimate
configuration as the Adversary taught us. Now!"

"Wife, wife, our Sacred Way forbids—"

"Do you want to lose? If we cannot take him suddenly, before
the game's end, the aircraft with their Milieu armaments will
come at us from all directions! Will we have the skill to fend
them off—and cope with Aiken Drum at the same time? Call
up the offensive!"

Sharn did as he was told.

In the middle of the Rainbow Bridge, Aiken felt the psychic
tension begin to mount, perceived the terrible coherence of the
Foe-mind gathering back on the Field of Gold.

He said to his people: Slonshal to Us! It was a grand game
after all.

Then he saw the two black armoured forms materializing
inside his mental bubble, side by side on the deck of the bridge.
From the righthand CE rig came Marc Remillard, shimmering
through the impermeable cerametal as though it were the insub-
stantial projection of a Tri-D. The other suit of armour abruptly
split open and the blind helm lifted to show that it was empty.

"Hurry!" Marc told him. "Get inside. The coverall isn't neces-
sary and your own armour will fit within the shell. I'll not oppose
them directly, but I'm willing to show you how to use the

cerebroenergetic enhancer yourself. There will be pain. Pay no
attention. Now hurry!"

Without thinking, Aiken dived for the gaping lefthand rig.
Marc's simulacrum had vanished back inside the other. As the
body halves closed over him, Aiken levitated to keep his head
above the neck seal. Something deep inside the armour stabbed
him on both sides of the groin. He felt his legs growing cold,
his entire body numbing, disappearing. . .

It's only the femoral circulatory shunt and the start of the
refrigeration. Are you keeping your protective bubble up?

Yes. Aagh! It hit my jugular!

Carotid arteries. The primary shunt. Here comes the helmet.
Don't panic. Have your people holdfast as best they can. You'll
be out of it for the next few seconds.

Descending darkness. Clang! Liquid rising, filling mouth,
nose. I'll drown! I won't . . . I'm cold, not breathing.
God—no—lasers drilling my skull—my mind sees the crown of
needles plunge into the helpless brain, sprout filaments, hurt me
as the energies pour in—Marc make it stopOstopOstopOGod-
makeitstop no no ... ??? Jesus.

Can you see now? Farsense?

Yes. O yes. YES!

Find the enemy executive. Your farsenses will stay in peripheral
mode. As normal. You're power-phased only for psychocreative
metafunction. Now quickly—this is the way to augment the faculty
with the enhancer. Let me monitor . . . merde alors you are a
strong little bugger aren't you? Christ they're winding up to strike!
Have you the fix on Shorn and Ayfa? Hurry for the love of God
Aiken hit them hit them now forgetmetaconcertBoyhitthem
yourselfyourownpowerhithit—

He did.

Oh, it was so good. He hit, and the Foe burned. The
encroaching Night was thrust back by the intensity of the fire.
Was the game over? Had the horn blown? Was the sun down?
He didn't know. The Rainbow Bridge seemed to be tumbling
down, and golden onion domes and lacy spires. He was aware
of minds fleeing and minds dying and minds whirling like sparks
in a hurricane all around the central fire of the Shining One.
Let my Brain shine on! This is the way it should be. This is the
way I win, I conquer it all, engulf it in my furnace and feed
upon it!

Never let it stop.

It stops now. And just in time I think . . .

Aiken woke. He was lying on smouldering turf, wearing a
stained and soggy suit of armour-padding. Big Dougal sat beside
him, raising his head and proffering a cup of lukewarm muddy-
tasting water. It was extremely dark except for a full red glow
all along the northern skyline.

"The wildfire is past, my liege. How fare you?"

Aiken tried to sit up. A pang of agony shot through his head
and he saw multicoloured stars. Then he got hold of himself
and managed a puny beam of farsight. He and Dougal seemed
to be the only ones alive in the midst of a scorched plain strewn
with bodies. "No!" he whispered. "No no no!"

"Take heart, Asian. Many of our people live. They are
beyond the blasted bridge, receiving aid from those who lately
fled. It was said that you had perished in the dire combustion
but I knew it was not so. I sought you out and found you, and
now we will go to a small boat I have waiting, and thence to an
aircraft that will carry you home."

"Sharn . . . Ayfa . . ."

"They are dead, and more than half their host. The rest fled
before the wildfire that your mind enkindled, into the north and
the west and the southern jungle. But none dared cross the
Nonol to our sanctuary, and none dared dispute when the depar-
ting Adversary named you High King."

"Gone. Marc's gone." Suddenly, Aiken had to grin. "Oh,
that was a narrow escape! Small wonder those rigs are outlawed
in the Galactic Milieu."

Dougal had with him an oil lantern that had long ago burnt
out. With feebly reviving creativity Aiken engendered a wee
faerie light to sit in it and cast a meagre radiance to show the
way. Arm in arm they limped toward the river. Their progress
was very slow. Gradually the eastern sky acquired a tentative
grey sheen, silhouetting the broken masses of the twin grand-
stands and the blackened snags of trees down by the shore.
Wraiths of smoke drifted here and there, given substance when
the lantern light caught them.

Then they saw something else—a harder, brighter gleam in
the midst of a great tumble of Firvulag bodies. They came close
and discovered a thing like a backless throne, exquisitely carved

from translucent greenish stone and ornamented with silvery
metal. Its cushion had been burnt to ashes, but otherwise the
Singing Stone was unharmed.

Dougal lifted the lantern high and marvelled. "Would you
seat yourself upon it, High King?"

Aiken uttered a weary laugh. "Maybe some other time." He
turned away from the trophy and let his farsight range, mourning
the lost splendour, the wasted lives. And now to begin all over
again for the third time! Could he do it? Did he even want to
try? Or should he simply turn his back on the entire mess and
follow the ones who had surrendered, returning to the security
of Elder Earth?

There was a definite tinge of dawn in the east. "Who knows
what I'll do?" Aiken said to Dougal. "It looks like the Night is
almost over. Let's go find that boat of yours and see what's on
the other side of the river."

Tony Wayland had managed to escape the vigilance of Chief
Burke when the terrible news from the Field of Gold reached
the time-gate site. Wild with fear for Rowane, he secreted
himself on a shuttlecraft returning to Nionel. He spent the
remaining hours of the night searching futilely among the
huddled mutants who dozed in small groups around dead
campfires in the eastern meadow. It was not until the sun was
full risen that he found Greggy beside a tiny brook, leaning
against the trunk of a willow tree, the head of a sleeping woman
in his lap.

The Genetics Master giggled softly. "Well, well! Back at last,
are you? We'd given you up, you know. Poor Rowane cried
herself to sleep."

Tony demanded, "Where's my wife? What have you done
with her?"

"Why, she's here," Greggy said slyly. He let one fingertip
caress the eyelids of the little beauty who nestled against him.
The eyes opened. Saw Tony. He stood there as dumb as a stick
of wood as she rose and stood in front of him, lips trembling,
hands clasped together. "It's really her," Greggy said. "She
went through my new Skin-tank. The very first case. I'm so
proud."

She said in a low voice, "I hope you like me. I hope you'll
stay now."

"I loved you the way you were," he said brokenly, and then
he touched his golden torc. "I loved you too much. I wasn't
strong enough then. But now I have my torc and it'll be all
right. Rowane."

"But you do like me as I am now?" she pleaded.

"I love you. You're beautiful. The most beautiful thing I've
ever seen. But it wouldn't have mattered if you'd stayed the
same, Rowane. Believe me."

"Not everything about me is changed," she whispered, and
then gave a little teasing laugh. Tony gulped, but only held her
tighter. She said, "I wonder if the baby will take after you—or
me?"

Looking over her shoulder, stunned, Tony saw Greg-Donnet
Genetics Master wink at him. "Don't fret, son. Don't give it a
second thought."

Deep in the Paris Basin swamps, a boy woke as the paddles
splashed and the inflated craft pushed through rattling reeds to
an open pool. He saw the kindly face of Lady Mabino Dream-
spinner looking down at him. When he struggled upright he
caught sight of old Finoderee snoring back in the stern and two
rugged dwarves in obsidian half-armour stretching and scrat-
ching mosquito bites and taking long swigs from a drinking skin.

"Mother? Father?" the boy called. And then the memories
returned and he gasped with the renewal of terror and cried,
"Where are they? And my brothers and sisters? What's
happened?"

Mabino bestowed a reproving look on him. "Behave yourself,
Sharn-Ador. You aren't an infant but a Warrior Youth. We
believe your siblings are safe enough with Galbor's wife,
Habetrot. But since she's not very adept at farspeech, we'll—"

"Where are my Mother and Father?" the boy asked in a tight
voice.

"They are secure in Te's Peace, having travelled the Warrior's
Way. We are very proud of them. Now you may weep for a
short time, as is fitting."

Later, he lifted his reddened face and looked across the sunlit
marsh. Mallards were swimming there, and immature greylag
geese, and one enormous cob swan who dominated the others.
"He is their king," the child said, dashing away his tears. He
watched the black-and-white bird cruise about with neck proudly

curved and wings lifted above his back. "I'll be a king, too,
some day! Did you save my armour and sword?"

The stalwart dwarves guffawed and bent again to the paddles.
Mabino tightened her mouth in pretended disapproval. "It's in
the back of the boat. But don't go crawling over Papa Finoderee
and wake him. He's just managed to drop off to sleep after a
very bad night."

"Yes, my Lady," said Sharn-Ador. He settled back against
the boat's pneumatic gunwale and watched the swan until it had
vanished from sight astern.

The Heretic seemed to fly out of the heart of the rising sun and
along the wake of the great schooner, to land on the afterdeck,
where Alexis Manion greeted him without surprise.

They introduced themselves. Alex said, "I've tracked you for
three hours. Welcome to Kyllikki."

"Farsensed me into the sun?" Minanonn let his astonishment
show. "That's no mean feat. You must be a power to reckon
with."

Alex chuckled. "I was, but that's ancient history."

"Funny, you could say the same for me."

The man who had been Marc Remillard's closest confidant
during the Metapsychic Rebellion looked up at the former Tanu
Battlemaster. "You like coffee, high pockets?"

"Don't mind if I do, shrimp. You Lowlives are a hopelessly
corrupting influence."

"It seems to me I've heard that line before." Alex turned
around and beckoned. "Right this way to the galley and let's
talk. Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can. When the women
and children wake up, this damn ship turns into a floating
circus."

Basil Wimborne looked at Chief Burke and Chief Burke looked
at Commander LeCocq, who shrugged.

"That's the last?" Burke said, without believing it. "The very
last one?"

"So it seems," the officer said.

"How many?" Basil enquired. "I lost count after the third
day."

"A total of eleven thousand, three hundred and thirty-two,"
LeCocq replied. "Rather less than we anticipated. And only a

handful of Howlers and Tanu." He allowed himself a superior
smile. "Most of the returning humans were bareneck, of
course."

"Which leaves the two of us," said Burke. He looked up at
the gazebo, which was now sheltered beneath a striped tent fly.

Over at the control console, Phronsie Gillis yawned. "Anyone
got a ticket to ride better hop it. It's been a long, long trick and
I'm ready for some rest and recuperation. Especially the latter."

Basil studied the Guderian device, frowning thoughtfully. "I
could write a most amazing book if I went back."

Burke said, "I suppose young Mermelstein would take me
into the old law firm in Salt Lake City."

Basil said, "But Commander LeCocq says there are some
really remarkable peaks in the inner Pyrenees. One or two may
exceed eight thousand metres."

Burke said, "But who needs the last of the Wallawallas
shmoozing around the office, boring the pants off of everybody
with fantastic stories that couldn't possibly have happened? And
the kid doesn't even speak Yiddish."

"Shut it down, Phronsie," said Basil. "It looks as though we'll
stay after all."

"Shall we see if Mr. Betsy's willing to fly the lot of us down
to Roniah to my place for high tea?" Commander LeCocq
suggested.

Phronsie flicked off the power on the Guderian device,
extracted the electromagnetically encoded glass key, and handed
it to the officer. "Hell, I think ol' Bets will be tickled pink at
the suggestion!" She thought for a minute. "Pink—or maybe
puce."

He said: We approach the superfices for the last time.

She said: Thank God. Seven of these giant steps and each
one worse than the last even with the mitigator . . . how Brede's
Ship ever managed the entire journey in a single leap is beyond
my comprehension.

He said: Not mine. Brede's Ship was attempting to avoid
capture. Under the circumstances one is inspired.

She said: The Ship ... it knew all along. About Earth and
its people. It may have been instinctive for it to seek a world
with compatible germ plasm and a similar metapsychic pattern
but perhaps it really knew.

He said: Anatoly would say it was led. But his philosophy
is rather simplistic. Appealing though and definitely anxiety-
calming.

She said: Anxiety? You?

He said: Even me. As your friend Creyn noted the challenge
rather exceeds that of my Mental Man vision: reorientation of
an entire Galactic Mind condemned to a dead end of mental
evolution because of the golden torcs. It should occupy our
attention for some time.

She said: Will we have it? Time?

He said: I trust so. Both of us.

She said: You're leaning toward the simplistic.

He said: Jack often remarked on it. But the mind-set of one's
youth is not rejected with impunity. We were both taught to
trust. Shall we Elizabeth?

She said: Yes. Yes Marc ...

He said: Come then. I'll support you as we make the penetra-
tion. Have courage. It's the last step.

She said: The first I think.

They emerged, and the Duat Galaxy swirled around
them—smaller than the Milky Way, but still enfolding more
than eleven thousand Duat daughterworlds in its far-flung starry
arms. The two suits of black armour hung in space and the
enclosed brains saw a nearby expanse of nebulosity that glowed
red and royal blue from the double star forming within its heart.
Those two stars were still without planets, mindless. But in
every direction lay suns with living worlds, of a number too
great to count.

"Listen!" Elizabeth cried. "It's not true Unity, but they're
close, Marc. Really very close. Perhaps it won't be so hard after
all."

"It will be hard, but we'll manage."

He called.

The star-strewn sky was suddenly alive with enormous crystal-
line creatures and the aether rang with Song.

THE END OF

THE ADVERSARY

Thus concludes The Saga of Pliocene Exile.

There are others,

most notably the Milieu Trilogy, which tells
the root-tales leading to this one,

in books titled

JACK THE BODILESS, DIAMOND MASK, AND MAGNIFICAT.
Gaudete.

Appendices

Appendix

SOME ASPECTS OF HYPERSPATIAL
TRANSLATION AND D-JUMPING

In the Galactic Milieu, superluminal transport, or faster-than-
light travel, is accomplished through the "warping" of normal
space by means of an upsilon-field, one of the primary manifesta-
tions of reality. The field can be mechanically generated by a
device called a superluminal translator (u-field generator, etc.)
or—very rarely—by a metapsychic individual possessed of the
"teleportation" faculty.

In a typical trip, a starship generates a u-field to break through
the superficies (boundary) between normal space and the hyper-
spatial matrix. The latter is also called simply hyperspace, the
"hype," subspace, the matrix, or the grey limbo. Sentient crea-
tures experience varying degrees of pain during translation.

Once into the hyperspatial matrix, the starship's navigation
equipment programmes a hyperspatial catenary, or subspace
vector (vulgarly called "limbo track", "slice of the hype", etc.).
For a period of subjective time, the ship and its riders can be
said to move along the catenary. Their position at any specified
subjective moment is called the pseudolocus. Ships are quite
capable of halting within the matrix or changing the catenary
(with certain limitations) en route. When the catenary is fully
described, the starship has effectively reached its destination
and once again breaks through the superficies into normal space.
A power breakdown during the hyperspatial portion of the trip
strands the ship in the matrix. Similarly, a person attempting a
d-jump might be stranded if his concentration failed to maintain
the correct vector, "visualizing" the intended goal. The rubber-
band effect is a complex phenomenon that must be neutralized,
either mechanically or through mental programming, if the star-

ship or d-jumper is not to be pulled back to the point of origin
at the completion of the translation.

Starships utilize superluminal translators of varying power.
For slower-than-light, or subluminal transport—and invariably
within the atmosphere of inhabited plants—the ships switch to
inertialess drive, made possible by rho-field generators operating
on gravomagnetic principles.*

The upsilon-field is not usually generated within a planetary
atmosphere. The "large aperture" u-field necessary to admit
a starship into hyperspace generates collateral electromagnetic
phenomena, especially ionization, that may constitute a nuisance
or even an endangerment to civilized entities and their delicate
contraptions. The much smaller u-field generated by the d-
jumping individual mind would have a negligible effect upon
the environment unless large numbers of people engaged in the
activity. Since the faculty is so rare, the contingency is moot.

When a starship captain undertakes a voyage he must consider
(a) How far am I going? (b) How fast do I want to get there?
(c) How much pain am I, or my passengers and crew, willing
to tolerate in the process?

A "slow" translation, or deep catenary, takes the longest
subjective time to accomplish and causes the least amount of
pain in the breakthrough. A "fast" translation, or tight catenary,
(called also the "fast track," "tight leash," etc.) gets one to the
destination more quickly, but at the expense of wear and tear
on the nervous system. Hotdog spacers who habitually schuss
must make use of medications or other anodynes to deal with
the severe pain. Such stout hearts refer to slow-track travellers
as bunny-hoppers.	—

On very long trips, the ordinary passenger-carrying starship
would reach its destination via a series of slow jumps. The
displacement factor (df. "speed," "warp factor," "push," etc.)
along the hyperspatial catenary deemed acceptable to nonpro-
fessional space travellers is about forty df. This is equivalent to
forty light-years traversed, per subjective day spent in hyper-
space. Thus the CSS Queen Elizabeth III might take two subjec-

* The rho-field is still another primary manifestation of reality, which
according to Milieu theoreticians consists of twenty-one "fields", or
dimensional lattices, that interact to generate space, time, matter,
energy, life, and mind.

tive (and actual, to the Larger Reality outside the hype) days
to travel to a star system eighty light-years distant—or three
hundred days to travel twelve thousand light-years. At each
incremental jump, the riders would suffer pain.

Individuals have differing tolerances to the pain of translation.
Exotics generally have a higher threshold than humans. (The
stolid Krondaku withstand 370 df, considered about the upper
limit for Milieu races.) Richard Voorhees took 250 df for 136
days on his longest schuss, to Hercules Cluster (M13 or
NGC6205 in contemporary catalogues). When he travelled to
Orissa many years later, he was pushing his luck to endure 110
df for 17 days in succession.

Obviously, both the time-elapse factor and the pain factor
limit the range of superluminal transport. In the Milieu, the
exotic races have already mapped and explored most of our
Milky Way Galaxy (with the exception of the perilous Hub);
and with more than 1000 potentially colonizable planets located
within 20,000 light-years of Earth, there is little practical incen-
tive for extremely long-range translations. Extragalactic travel
is virtually proscribed. The Andromeda Galaxy, our closest
neighbour, is 2.2 million light-years distance; it would take the
hardiest human starship voyager some twenty-four years to get
there—and another twenty-four years to get back. Even in an
era of multiple rejuvenations, such a trip would have little appeal
except to the incorrigibly wanderlustful. A few souls have tried
it with uncertain results.

The exotic beings known as ships, one of whom, Brede's
mate, brought the Tanu and Firvulag from the remote Duat
Galaxy to Pliocene Earth, have an extraordinary high df endur-
ance. The Ships use a mitigator, a special mental programme
that makes bearable the horrific pain of ultraluminal, or "very
high speed," translation. Ships teach their passengers, who
travel within their bodies in a capsule the size of a conventional
starship, how to generate individual mitigator programmes of
their own. This means that flight within the Duat Galaxy would
be all but pain-free for Ship passengers. In addition, the Ship is
able to d-jump routinely at very tight catenaries. Most points in
its galaxy are reached in minutes, or at the most, a few hours.
The d-jump is a single movement, never a series of shorter hops
such as those taken by "slow" starships. It should be noted that
Brede's Ship fatally strained itself in making the jump from

Duat to the Milky Way Galaxy, 270 million light-years distant.
Even the most highly talented minds have their limitations.

In making his d-jumps, Marc operates almost exactly like
Brede's Ship. His short jaunts about Earth are virtually instan-
taneous and do not involve more than a split second of subjective
time spent in the grey limbo. (The process of breaking through
the superficies at either end can take considerably longer,
however.) As he d-jumps about the Milky Way, Marc is
protected by the armour of the cerebroenergetic enhancer,
which holds all portions of his body except the hyperenergized
brain in the equivalent of suspended animation. The pain factor
remains approximately what it would be in mechanical transla-
tion via starship. He stated that he had just about reached his
normal-function limit in making the jump to Poltroy. This would
put his personal df threshold somewhere in the 18,000 range.

The mitigator is theoretically applicable to ordinary starship
travel, provided the riders were metapsychics trained in use of
the programme. Extremely powerful superluminal translators
would be required to "push" the craft to ultralight catenaries.
There seems no reason why ultraluminal starships could not be
built. Milieu models are limited in range by the fragility of the
minds carried, not by any mechanical factor.