ALL FALL DOWN
By Don Sakers

[05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]

Age is not always a bringer of intelligence‑at least where flesh and blood is concerned But what of the kind of life that is not flesh and blood? There is such life all around us and in greater quantity than we may ordinarily consider in our work. In fact, is this‑and possibly all other habitable planets‑the property
of its walking, talking, constructing inhabitants or of that other omnipresent form of being?

In the quiet night of this eternal wood, I lift my soul to the stars in the waves of the Inner Voice. I sing, as the Hlutr have sung since the beginnings of life. My roots are deep in the lush soil of this world that now, after the fashion of the Humans, we call Amny. My limbs rise high into the fresh, clear air, reaching for the dim radiance of the distant stars in lieu of the vanished sun. And I sing.

Answering voices come from the sky and beyond: a chorus of my brethren on a million worlds. Most of them are Hlutr, for we alone of all the races have mastered the mystery of the Inner Voice. In this way, as in our physical stature, we stand above all over creatures; in this way, we do our duty to the Universal Song. For how could there be a Song, without the Hlutr to sing...?

I sing, and this should be pleasure. I seek the communion of my race, the oneness that comes through the Inner Voice and lifts us all far beyond the various worlds we inhabit. The animal races, however mobile, are bound by their very nature, bound in space to one particular location; only the plants, seemingly sessile, have truly transcended all boundaries. This night, I sing, and in my song I seek to become one with the Universal Song.

This should be a pleasure. Yet too soon, before I am even begun, a discord intrudes. It begins faintly, a mere hint of the song gone wrong, and I turn my soul away from it in my attempt to fly the night. Yet the discord is still there, on the worlds of the Hlutr and in the empty spaces where only our dormant spores drift; in the oceans and the clouds, spoiling their wet happy melodies; in the soil and the turf, poisoning their deep restful peace.

It is the Humans.

I know, my brothers, that many of you do not agree with me. Many of you, I know, do not see them as I do, these sons and daughters of Terra with their machines and their Thrones and their ever-continuing raucous jabber. Most of you do not concern yourselves with the Humans. Many of you feel that they are not truly sapient, that they do not have enough sense of the Inner Voice to cause any discord in its melodies. You are wrong. I live in their midst, not a dozen Hlutr‑lengths from one of their cities, not eight hundred parsecs from one of their most populated worlds, and I know: this dissonance I feel comes from them.

Still more of you, my siblings, feel that the Humans are sapient and feel a special compassion for them, silly and weak as they are. You may remember our dealings with them, and our strange brother who left Amny and went to the world where the Humans live. I think of him always as "The Traveler," for he went places where Hlutr seldom go.

The last remnants of his carcass stand yet, in the clearing only a Hlut‑length or so from me. He had been specially‑bred for his mission, and he burned out his stunted life in a very short time. But his memory lives on, in all of us. It comes through our roots from the wet ground, it descends on us in the summer winds, and it echoes yet in the waves of the Inner Voice. We will never forget the Traveler . . . and I least of all. I was his Teacher; I bear some of the responsibility for his mission, for making him what he was. Sometimes, when I contemplate the grand sweep of time, I feel that he is near, and I can almost hear his whisper. It is a sad whisper, a lost sound as he entreats us on behalf of those strange folk he came to love‑-as if a Hlutr could truly love any of the Little Ones.

You remember our decision, in that time of judgment and the appeal of the Traveler. We spared Man, when we could have eliminated him from the Universal Song like the violent blight he some times seems. This was the will of the Hlutr, and this was my will too-‑and yet at times I wonder.

What did we know of Humans, then? Few enough of us had paid any attention to them. We had a few flashes of Inner Voice, the knowledge we gained from the poor children of Nephestal, and the ravings of our misshapen brother.

It is so different now. We have lived with Humans on ten thousand worlds, for twice a thousand of their years. There is still little exchange between our folk, but some of us Elders have watched Man carefully, have listened to the song of his soul. And while we have found beauty, ever have we also found discord.

And now the Humans disturb Hlutr meditation.

I live more slowly, allowing night to blossom into day, day to fade to night, and the planet to move forward in its orbit. Usually this helps, for Humans are ephemeral and their disturbance does not last long. They cannot live slower than their accustomed rate.

Now, though, I find no peace in living slowly. The Human cacophony builds rather than subsides, and with each swift‑passing day it grows worse. Soon all space cries with their boiling thoughts, their impertinent distress, their anguish. Soon the noise overwhelms the communion of the Hlutr, it stirs eddies in the waves of the Inner Voice, it brings violence to our quiet galaxy. Humans are screaming, Humans are dying, Humans are afraid‑-and worst of all, their little ones are crying.

I hear you wonder, my brothers and sisters: what is happening? You cast your thoughts outward, appealing . . . you who live on the worlds of Man open your senses, drinking in the sights and sounds of their tiny lives. Are they killing each other in yet another of their wars? Are they staining the stars with their blood, in a mad series of pogroms?

The answer comes, voiced by one of us who trembles at the magnitude of his news. A disease is taking Mankind, a disease that Human medical ability cannot reverse. In two short Human years, it has become a plague that engulfs half the galaxy and brings certain death to all it touches. Human lives are threatened, Human civilization totters, Human agony disturbs even the song of the Hlutr.

Is it any wonder that they cry?

And now the question comes, as I knew it would‑-whispered anonymously on the waves of the Inner Voice, spoken secretly to the winds of Amny, welling up from the soil with the memories of the Traveler: what should the Hlutr do?

I ask you, my brethren-‑why should the Hlutr do a thing?

Compassion, says the memory of the Traveler, the one who came to love these Humans.

In the name of compassion, then, should we turn away from Hlutr tradition? When have we ever stirred ourselves to prevent the deaths of any ephemerals? But a few seasons ago as the Hlutr count time, the great lizards roamed Amny; when the swamps dried up and the ice came, when diseases took them by their millions . . . did we interfere then? When the subtle, beautiful fishes died, leaving the oceans to the coarser beasts who succeeded them . . . did we put forth our power to save them?

Not just on Amny, but on a million worlds in all the long history of the Hlutr race-‑how often have we stood between ephemerals and their fates? And how often have our attempts met with defeat? The vanished Coruma, the lost children of Lavarren, the lovely singing trees of the Mehbis Cluster: all gone, forever.

You remember better than I, my brothers, my Elders. The Hlutr have watched many races die, watched with compassion; but we have not interfered. It is not our way. Should we do so now?

We have pled for interference before, you say. In ones and twos, some of you have asked for this or that race to be spared. Some of you have tried, in defiance of the will of the Hlutr-‑and all have failed.

Why should we try now?

There is among us here on Amny a youngster, barely a sapling; she stands near the old Human settlement, at the place where they still bring their disturbed children, their adults with defective brains. This we do for the Humans . . . we care for their insane and their defectives, we comfort them with soothing projections of the Inner Voice.

The sapling calls for us now. Her message comes through the First Language, on waves of color racing through the Hlutr grove; it comes in the gentle soughing of the Second Language, a muted sound like the distant sea. "Elders," she tells us, "a Human calls for you."

"For us?"

"He uses the old equipment, and speaks to me in pidgin First Language on luminous screens. He asks to address our Elders."

I tremble in the wind. Is there no end to Human audacity? First they shatter the peace of Hlutr meditation; now one of them demands an audience?

Compassion, Brother, the memory of the Traveler tells me.

Sooner or later I must deal with the Humans; I decide it will be now. "Send him," I tell the sapling.

Before the man arrives, he is heralded by the other Hlutr. Broad waves of contrasting color move through their leaves and across their trunks, and when he enters my glade he is accompanied by the swishing of a million Hlutr leaves.

He is a small creature, even for a Human; his sparse fur is ashen and his artificial hide a dirty white. He stops before my trunk, then raises equipment designed to generate lights that mock the First Language.

The memories of the Traveler have prepared me; I bend my lower limbs to the ground, and I vibrate their leaves in controlled patterns, far faster than usual. The technique is difficult even for an Elder like myself, with full control over my body. We use it to communicate with the lesser orders in their own familiar languages. I do not intend to set the Human at ease; rather, I wish to show him the abilities of the Hlutr from the very beginning.

"Who are you, Human?"

He bows. "I am Doctor Alex Saburo, of the Credixian Imperial Navy."

This tells me little. His name is a sound, nothing else. His title indicates one who is accorded knowledge and wisdom, as Humans know it. As for his affiliation, not even the Ancients of Nephestal are able to keep track of everchanging Human political systems.

"Why do you come before me?"

"To ask for help."

Up close, it is easy to read these creatures through the Inner Voice. The tenor of his emotions matches his voice: firmly controlled, yet aware that he stands in the presence of a vastly superior being.

Emotions, but their minds are not coherent enough to project thoughts. "Ask, then," I say.

"The Death," he said, spreading his upper limbs. "We can do nothing to stop it. It's infected half the Galaxy, and it's entered the Imperium. In another year it'll have spread to every Human world." His control wavers, and I glimpse emotional storms beneath the surface of this man's mind.

"So you come to the Hlutr for help. Why?"

"Where else would I turn, Your Greatness?"

"You may address me as 'Teacher."'

"Our medical science cannot cope with the plague, Teacher. I know that the Hlutr have the ability to modify the very genetic code itself; I know that your Elders have the intelligence to analyze the plague and perhaps stop it."

So the Universal Song mocks me, my brethren. I cannot evade the question that is whispered in the night: Should Hlutr help Humans?

I appeal to my own Elders for a decision, and they are strangely silent. It is I who began this thing, two millennia ago when I prepared the Traveler to judge Humanity, when I came before the Elders to say that we needed to know more of the children of Earth. Now it is I who must decide whether we will spare Mankind in this time of crisis.

Although the Traveler's memories beat strongly within me, how can I say yes? How can I throw off geological ages of Hlutr tradition, all for the sake of a brutish creature who thinks himself grand because he can disturb our meditations? How can I justify saving this people, when we have allowed so many others to perish?

The man is waiting for an answer; and suddenly, I have one for him. "You ask much of me, Doctor Alex Saburo. Perhaps too much." I tell him of our traditions. I tell him of the Coruma, the Lavarren, the Mehbis folk. I tell him that all living creatures‑-yes, even the Hlutr-‑meet death, that it is part of the Universal Song. In the end, my twigs ache from making such precise vibrations for so long.

"Teacher, I have heard that the Hlutr value life. Old tales tell of their compassion for all little Ones. For the sake of that compassion, won't you help us?"

"We are compassionate . . . but you do not know what you ask. You Humans occupy over twelve thousand worlds; within one year, all will be stricken with your Death. You ask that we create a defense, then that we sacrifice ourselves to spread that defense on all your planets. . . ?"

"The sacrifice would be great‑-but without it, my civilization, perhaps my entire race, will die."

"The sacrifice is greater than you think." I groped in the vast collective Hlutr memory for the Human words I needed. "You think we Hlutr can synthesize genetic material without effort. Know then, Doctor Alex Saburo, that when a Hlutr makes new DNA and RNA, that Hlut dies--violently, in a bursting that spreads the new material on all the winds. Even if we can save your people, to do so means that many times twelve thousand Hlutr must perish in agony."

A brief torrent of anger, quickly suppressed, flashes forth in the Inner Voice. "I had not thought," he says, "that the Hlutr were so selfish."

"We have our duty to the Universal Song. If that melody declares that Humans just pass away, we cannot gainsay it."

He is an odd creature, in whom passion and reason can coexist, each as forceful as the other. Now he touches my trunk, and the warmth of his hand surprises me and moves me in a way his words have not. "If you wish, Doctor Alex Saburo, the Hlutr can offer your people counsel. We can help you prepare for the Death, can make it easier for you to meet your end. We have done this for others."

"No." His denial is strong. "I thank you then, Elder, and I beg your permission to leave. There is little time."

That should be the end of it-‑yet it is not. "What will you do, Human?"

"I'll seek an answer. Somewhere, someone must have the knowledge that will help me to end the Death. As long as I can, I'll keep searching." He turns, and begins the slow walk away from my grove.

There is an outcry from some of my brethren, a gentle protest that falls from the stars like cold Autumn rain. From within me, where the memory of the Traveler lives, there is a stronger objection.

Brothers and sisters, how can I yield to you? How can I deny our traditions? You are but a few‑-and when the Hlutr act, they must act in agreement.

How, you ask me, can I ignore the pain?

"Wait, Alex Saburo."

If for nothing more than the sake of the Traveler, whose spirit gnaws at me, I make the Human an offer. "I will go with you."

"B‑but how? I will travel beyond this world, to planets where the Death has hit."

I do not know, my brethren, why I agree to do a thing that the Hlutr seldom do. Perhaps I, too, am overly fond of these Humans. Perhaps I want to find something in them that would be worth the death of a hundred thousand Hlutr. Perhaps I am simply reluctant to waste all the time I have spent studying them. "The Human children on yonder hill are mentally defective, yet they are strongly sensitive to the Hlutr Inner Voice. One of them shall become my operative-‑it shall accompany you, and I will see what it sees, hear what it hears, and communicate with you through its mouth. I will also sing with my brethren and my Elders, and perhaps . . . perhaps we will find a way to help you."

He is flabbergasted; both the power and the mercy of the Hlutr are beyond him. "Go back to the sanitarium," I tell him. "My operative will greet you there,"

"I . . . thank you, Teacher."

His words are echoed by the voice of the Traveler within: Thank you.

The body is awkward, soft, confining. Through its limited senses, I perceive a truncated world; vision spans merely one octave, and the threshold of hearing is far above the quiet susurrus of the Hlutr Second Language. The Human chemical senses show more promise, yet the body does not know how to properly interpret them.

There is no mind, no awareness of identity. If such ever existed, it is buried too deeply for even the Hlutr to find. Although it wears an animal body, the creature's soul is more like the lesser plants. It has life, it responds to its environment, but it has no volition. Until I animate it.

Motion, that is the most difficult thing. The Hlutr move slowly--swaying with the wind, making tiny ovals in sympathy with the yearly movement of the sun, pulsing our rhythms of growth and life with the music of the Inner Voice. We are not accustomed to the rush of animal motion, and it takes me a time to become comfortable as the new body walks.

I have not animated a body for Human millennia . . . not since I attended conferences of the Free Peoples of the Scattered Worlds in borrowed Avethellan form. Slowly, the process comes back to me, and I am more confident. The raucous Human voices do not sound so harsh, the claustrophobic Human rooms begin to seem less close.

While I am adjusting to the change, Alex Saburo leads me to a transport capsule, and in minutes I am in the Human city. Confusion and disharmony fill my senses, and I simply withdraw my attention from the body. I sing with the winds, I feel the happy touch of flying beasts upon my limbs, I dig my roots in the cool earth and inhale nutrients from the brisk air. In time, Saburo and my operative reach the spaceport; after a few moments of disorientation they have left the surface of Amny and are speeding out into the dark, peaceful gulfs of space.

Now at last I can return to the body, can begin to bring my Human operative completely under control. I concentrate, matching my time sense to the fast, inflexible Human metabolism. The world of my experience narrows in concentric circles, until I bid temporary farewell to grove, earth and winds and open my eyes on a small spacecraft lounge. I am upon a divan before a wall that mimics the sight of naked space; Saburo sits next to me, watching instruments in his lap. When I stir, he looks up.

"Teacher?" he asks.

"I am here, Saburo." My voice sounds hollow in Human ears.

"We'll be shifting into tachyon phase in a moment," he says. "We've been under way for just under two hours; it's almost ten hours since we left your grove."

I shake my head. The animal attitude toward time is very hard for Hlutr to grasp. Everything is impatience, everything is motion. We who count time by the movement of stars and the seasons of slow Hlutr life, we have difficulty binding ourselves to rigid Human concept of interval. "I have the Human body under control now," I assure him. "I long to experience your tachyon drive. It is a thing that Hlutr seldom endure: to travel nearly as fast as the waves of the Inner Voice can move."

"Will you be able to maintain communication with . . . your host?"

"I feel confident that I can do so. Our minds are much more flexible than you believe." Indeed, the change comes even as we talk; the Human ship twists in a direction totally unknown to Hlutr, but I do not lose contact with my operative. My awareness has taken root in the alien animal brain cells, and it will not be dislodged easily.

"What is our destination?"

Saburo sighs. "First, to Taglierre, to stop in at the Credixian Medical Association convention. I don't expect them to have any more leads than they did when I was there last week." He spreads his hands. "After that, I guess it's on to Eironea to consult with the Grand Library."

"I do not know these places."

"We're flying to Galactic West; from Amny, roughly in the direction of the constellation called Aurick's Tower." He touches a few keys on a panel, and the wall shows Amny's night sky. He points toward a particular grouping of stars. "Here."

Nodding comes almost as easily to me as the azure hue by which the Hlutr signal assent. We move in the direction of sad, bright Dorasc. Even now I hear the song of my brothers and sisters on Dorasc's starbright plains, and I sing with them. The song is distorted: in part because of the tremendous speed at which the vehicle moves, but in part also because of the wails of a billion Human voices. And somewhere, between here and distant Dorasc, the cry of a single Human child cuts across the harmony of the Inner Voice like thunder across a peaceful Summer afternoon.

Ere I have begun to probe the nature of that dreadful cry, the ship twists again, returning to normal space. Before my Human eye is the cool, white globe of Taglierre.

Scarce two sevens of Galactic Revolutions have passed since Hlutr seeds first came to Taglierre. In that time, the planet has grown steadily more inhospitable, slowly getting colder as it leaks its atmosphere to space. Human terraformers have arrested the process, and for now Taglierre has an air blanket two‑thirds as dense as Amny's and temperatures no worse than the deepest winter of my home. Yet Humans will not stay forever. Seventy times seventy Hlutr remain, proud and lonely in the tropics; within their lifetimes Taglierre will become a frozen ghost of a world.

As we jockey for an approach pattern, I greet these lofty brothers and sisters, who have the honor of presiding over the death of a world. They work their works well, as the generations progress . . . urging the Little Ones along, nudging them now and again when their normal evolution does not keep pace with Taglierre's dissipation. When their efforts are successful, life will survive on this globe; yet the struggle is a hard one. They sing me ritual greeting, but pay me little attention otherwise; the doings of Humans are their least concern.

Still, from their song and the eddies of the Inner Voice that lap the shores of this planet's waterless seas, I glimpse loneliness and despair in the once‑teeming Human cities, and I know that the Hlutr are not the only ones waiting for a world to die.

"Many of your people have left Taglierre," I say to Saburo.

Discarded memories in my host's brain tell me that Saburo's wrinkled face is sad. "The Death will be here soon‑within weeks, probably. Everyone who can leave, has. Only military ships can land safely; the poor fools will stampede themselves trying to steal anything else."

"Why do they not prohibit travel, thus containing the disease?"

"On Taglierre? They depend on trade for food and repair parts.

That world can't support a half‑billion people on its own." He runs a hand through his white hair. "We've done what we can. The Imperator ordered the boundaries closed a year ago‑so the Imperium escaped for a while." The ship cuts through air, leaving a brief flash like the trail of a meteorite visible to Hlutr below. "But we can't stop interstellar trade. The Death has entered the Imperium now, it's only a matter of weeks until . . ." He does not finish.

We settle to a desolate landing field, while cold sand blows across the empty plain.

These are Human Elders and wise ones? I came to Taglierre, my brothers and sisters, convinced that I would witness something like a council of Hlutr, all joined in the swaying and the song as they contemplate mysteries and seek for answers. Instead, I have fallen into a madhouse!

Listen to them, my fellows:

"The Death is a prion‑based disease; my simulations make an analogy with the treatment of Gerstman‑Straussler syndrome," says one of them, a tall and slender woman with hair the color of the Springtime sky. "Thus, your attempt to modify DNA‑based antiviritics shall fail no matter what starting point you use."

"My computers," says another from a communications screen, "assure me that there are no effective prophylactic measures. We can only treat the disease after it is manifest-‑and that treatment relies on massive doses of general‑series antiviritics."

"You are wrong," shouts a third, ludicrously holding up his computer display for all to see. "The analogy must be two classic toxic reactions. The only way to stop this scourge is to spread organisms capable of breaking down the toxin. I suggest that we allow our linked medicomps to write a simulation involving a gengineered variant of current antidote‑antibodies."

The meeting hall, although large, is mostly empty. The doctors--the Human Elders-‑sit or stand near the center, each of them without exception behind a computer terminal. Saburo and I sit with a few quiet visitors on one side of the chamber. On the other are the members of the press: frightened or confident, they do not understand what the doctors say, yet they feel that these idiots will find an answer. Billions of Humans watch the proceedings through their eyes and their instruments, billions who see the doctors as wise seekers of knowledge. Am I only one who recognizes them as fools?

No. For Saburo rises to speak.

"My God, you've been here for two months and you're still having the same arguments. Still linking your medicomps to your diagnostitrons and running simulation after simulation. I don't believe it."

The tall woman looks down her nose. "If it isn't Doctor Saburo. Or should I say, Lieutenant Saburo?"

"Brevet Colonel for the duration, Doctor Melus. I've never tried to hide my connection with the Navy."

"No." She smiles. "You just couldn't find any school or reputable hospital that would put up with you. So you think we're wasting our time?"

"I do. Simulations and computer analyses aren't going to stop the Death‑-"

"Oh, and I suppose you will? How? Your habit of playing about with corpses hasn't yielded any results, nor have your excursions into vivisection . . ."

"Legitimate experimentation, if you please."

"Have it your own way. I don't see any cure from your latest brainstorm of appealing to aliens, Lieutenant."

Saburo clenches his fists, but says nothing.

The woman dismisses him with a wave. "Here we have gathered in one room, the greatest expert databases in the Imperium and beyond. The Universities of Skapton, Prakis and Credix itself are tied into our network. We have the wisdom of the ancients, in the form of the programs they left us. This convention has brought together the greatest resources of medicine in recorded history‑-"

"And you'll still be running your simulations and consulting the ancients when the last of you drops dead from the Plague!" Saburo takes the arm of my operative, draws her toward the door. "Come on, I should have known better than to stop here."

As the door slams shut behind us, the Human doctors begin again their comparison of the results of mindless computer programs.

No wonder they are dying.

On the way to Eironea, we pass warships-‑Saburo tries to explain to me why Humans have been killing one another, but I cannot comprehend. We Hlutr are all one tribe, since the time of the Great Schisms more than a billion years ago . . . we do not fight among ourselves for territory, nor do we seek vain power. The Hlutr are united in the songs we sing and the Universal Song of which all are part; even when we disagree (as some of you, my brothers and sisters, disagree with me about helping the Humans), we do so without rancor, malice or violence.

And what need have the Hlutr to fight with the other orders? When they menace us, they are dealt with; otherwise, the Hlutr conquer as they have always conquered, in the slow yet inexorable fashion of the plant kingdom. Why should we fight?

"Your warships sit idle, Saburo. Why do they not fight?" For though ships from both sides challenge us as we pass, there is no hostility along a border that stretches for a kiloparsec in every direction.

He manipulates his keyboard, stares into a small screen, then shrugs. "The Death. They've declared a truce for the duration."

"Yours are a strange folk, Saburo."

Now he does a thing which convinces me that none of the Wise will ever understand Humans, a thing that makes me withdraw for a time to my quiet grove and the fresh dew of a misty Amny dawn.

He laughs.

In due time we come to Eironea, and reluctantly I return from Amny. Your attention is on me now, brothers and sisters, and on this strange journey which has become my mission. Some of you sing of our obligation to save the Humans; others sing that we must maintain the precious Hlutr detachment that has served us since the far-off days of the Pylistroph, when Life was but a dream in the Scattered Worlds.

And others . . . others breathe a different opinion, born of smothering hatred and cold revenge. These Hlutr rejoice at the Death, and would have us hurry it along so that Humans can be wiped out once and for all.

Have you forgotten, brethren, that once the Hlutr swore to aid Mankind in his quest for maturity, his fulfillment of his potential? Saburo may succeed, despite us‑Humanity may survive the Death without Hlutr aid. Will you then have us slay the survivors, cast this people out from the Universal Song? Would you have the Hlutr forsworn before the stars and the sacred melodies?

What the Hlutr do, we shall do in full agreement. Nay, my brothers and sisters: for now, Man will make his own destiny, and the Hlutr . . . the Hlutr will watch.

Our ship enters normal space, and we drop toward verdant Eironea. The Hlutr of this world, who live mainly in rich, wet tropical forests, sing me welcome and concern in the Inner Voice. Theirs is a song tinged with despair; the Death has come to Eironea, and Humans have died: seventy times itself four times and more of them. Ten times that many are near death, and their despondency shakes the planet. These Hlutr are fond of their Humans; they cry sadness to the unfeeling stars at the passing of their Little Ones.

We land on an untenanted field near one of their great cities, as the sun climbs slowly toward zenith and shadows pool beneath buildings. A drawn Human face appears on the wall: the commander of our ship.

"We're down, sir. If it's all the same to you . . . er . . . the crew has voted to remain shipboard. Your cabin connects directly to the main airlock; we'd appreciate it if you'd . . ."

Saburo raises a quivering hand. "I understand, Commander. Rest assured that we'll remain in our sealed area of the ship."

"Very good, sir." The face disappears.

With a heavy sigh, Saburo stands. "Come with me," he says.

"What is our destination?"

"The Library." His tread is heavy, his body stooped like a tree that has seen too many harsh winters.

I can do nothing but follow.

There in the empty streets of the city Shiau Shi on the planet Eironea, Saburo tells me what the Humans have done. Let me share this with you, brethren, for it is a marvelous thing.

Like the Daamin, the Kreen and the happy children of grand Avethell, Humans gathered together in one place all their knowledge of the Universal Song. This was in the days of their great Empire, fifteen hundred years ago. Once, every Human world, settlement or starship in the Galaxy could access this knowledge; today, only a few outposts remain in contact with the central Library. Eironea is one of them. Here, in the care of a devoted priesthood, the machinery is available to all who need it. Through the political upheavals of nearly seventy Human generations, Eironea has remained free, unconquered and neutral, guarding its precious treasure.

The network of transit capsules is not working, and no auto‑taxis answer Saburo's summons, so our ship gives birth to a small vehicle and we travel in this metal shell. Humans watch us as we pass, hidden in their buildings or behind directional signs and structural members; the few whom we catch in the open scurry for cover as soon as they see us.

The Temple of Knowledge soars above us as we disembark; Saburo makes his way to a row of waiting computer terminals; their screens remain dark.

I sense another Human presence behind us, and turn to see a pale, emaciated woman dressed in a tattered frock. Her long hair is the black of space, and her eyes hold Springtime green.

"If you're here to consult the Grand Library," she says in a thin voice, "I'm sorry, but you won't have any success."

"The machinery doesn't work?" Saburo asks.

"It works fine. There's no one at the other end to answer." She spreads her arms, a sapling opening to the sun. "The library staff was hit hard by the Death; we last heard from them months ago." Her lips form a weak smile. "Come on to my quarters, I'll give you some tea. We might as well be comfortable." She introduces herself as we follow. "I am Yee Bair. And you?"

"Doctor Alex Saburo. My companion is the Teacher. Do . . . did you work here?"

"At the Temple? Goodness, no. I was a frequent customer." She pauses to cough. "After the Death hit and the priests either died or moved away, I figured, why not move in? It's a lot nicer than my two-room flat, and I have plenty of time for my work."

Something sings in her, just the briefest flash of an incomplete melody in the Inner Voice. "Your work?" I ask.

"I'm an artist." She pauses before a closed door, presses her palm against it and it slides open. "Here, look."

Yee Bair makes pictures with light‑raw, vibrant pictures that distort reality as seen through Human eyes. Some of her works are tame, gentle scenes of towers, spaceports and lounging Human beings. Others feature scenes of the Death, and they breathe with the fear, anguish and defiance that radiate from Human worlds in these terrible times.

"You're a genius," Saburo says.

In spite of myself, I nod. "You give form and definition to a bit of the Universal Song. Your work ranks with the greatest of your people."

"These were early attempts," she says, pointing out the tame visions. "Before . . ." she does not finish, but busies herself with the tea.

This is the mystery, brothers and sisters, that we have faced before and will face again in a thousand different races. We, whose only artform is the substance of the Universal Song itself-‑we cannot capture its essence in the way that these Little Ones, these animals, can. We who are masters of creation are also its prisoners; we cannot step beyond it to create things that cannot be, to see things that cannot exist. We who never know the fullness of despair that these creatures feel, will also never know the urge that pushes them beyond despair's limits. The ecstasy and the pain of a Hlutr in the final death‑blast, imposing the will of our folk on the malleable genetics of reality‑-this is the closest we poor Hlutr can approach the emotion that Yee Bair feels whenever she picks up her lightwand.

Should the Hlutr cry then for Humans, as they face the terror of the Death‑-or should Humans cry for us?

Human pain rips across the Universal Song, and for a moment my Human brain aches with that plaintive cry. Somewhere, nearer than ever, a Human child is crying as none has ever cried before. Soon, no Hlutr will be able to ignore that cry.

Saburo gives a noiseless whistle of awe, and my attention is drawn to Yee Bair's current work.

She has given form to this child's cry that echoes from star to star.

It is a scene almost as the Hlutr might see it, a million colors overlaid one atop the other, a jagged slice of vision that oozes with raw pain. Human eyes and brain must study the picture to see what it represents, but I know even as I glance at it. A Human boy‑child wails, surrounded by the dead bodies of seven times seventy Human adults. Behind him, dimly seen, are the figures of other races who watch the Human tragedy: the wise Daamin, the sad sons of Metrin, the compassionate Iaranori who even now struggle to bring relief where they can . . . and the Hlutr, proud and tall in our distant sympathy. And beyond us, even the cold unfeeling stars rain tears of light on the child. The picture brings tears to my borrowed Human eyes, as the cry it represents could not.

The stars . . .

I touch Yee Bair's arm. "These are the stars of Eironea's sky, no?"

"Yes." Of course they are. How could one who is so attuned to the waves of the Inner Voice, avoid hearing that call of agonized loneliness? And hearing it, how could she not know from whence it came?

"Show me . . . show Saburo where those star-gropupings lie."

Why am I doing this thing? Brothers, sisters, what is the fate of one Human child to me? Some of you ask me that question, and I cannot but wonder with you. Yet others-‑the voice of the dead Traveler among them, he who knew Humans better than any of us--others sing to me that a Little One is in pain, and the HIutr must answer. If only to still the pain with a merciful stroke. This is our way, our purpose, our duty since the first Hlutr raised itself above the soil of forgotten Paka Tel.

Yee Bair describes the area of the sky, and Saburo relates it to galactic charts in his computer terminal. When he is done, he looks at me, his face filled with questions.

"Take us there, Saburo."

"Why?"

I ask myself the same thing, brethren, and receive no answer save that which I know already: a Little One is crying. "It is in the Universal Song," I tell Saburo, hoping that will content him. And it does.

We share tea with Yee Bair, then return to the ship. Saburo must be desperate, his last chance flown away in the empty halls of the Temple; he gives orders quickly, and soon we are climbing from green Eironea into the black of endless space.

On the way, Saburo coughs a few times, then turns away from me.

- - -

"Tell me of the Death. How does it come upon your people, and what do they feel when it strikes?"

Eironea is far behind, the crying Human child still lost in the star ahead of us. Saburo looks up from his computer and frowns.

"Sometimes it comes quickly, and death follows in a few days. In other cases it can take months to develop. The symptoms vary: coughing, headaches, difficult breathing, swelling in the joints--then pneumonia, vitamin deficiency, nerve dysfunction‑-if the patient lives long enough, total disruption of the immune system and advanced malnutrition."

"None escape?"

"Some who caught it nearly two years ago, at the beginning, are still alive . . . but still infected and still showing symptoms. We've never had a case of someone exposed to the disease who didn't catch it, or anyone who recovered from it once infected."

"And your science cannot prevent the spread?"

"That fool Melus was right about one thing-‑it's a prion‑-based disease. No DNA. We haven't even been able to isolate the infectious agent, much less counter it." His hands twist hopelessly in his lap. "As long as our doctors continue to play with computer programs left over from the ancients, we'll never make any progress."

I look out at the swiftly‑moving stars, and I listen to the eddies of the Inner Voice as it moves between the worlds. And I wonder. Where did this plague come from?

Some say that it is natural outgrowth of evolutionary systems that contain Humans. A variant of diseases known to Mankind even before he ventured off his home planet. This is indeed possible; Life's ingenuity knows no bounds, and other such diseases have developed in the long course of Galactic history.

Others say that the Death was artificially engineered as a weapon against these people--either by Humans themselves, or by one of the malevolent races of the Galactic Core. This theory, too, has its antecedents; this will not be the first time a promising race has died in biological suicide . . . or been victim of the Gathered Worlds.

Some even say‑-although not in words‑-that the Death was started by the Hlutr. I have sung the question in the Inner Voice, casting suspicions out into the starry night, but I have received no answer. No one admits, and yet . . .

One cannot but have suspicions. The Death is said to have started on Laxus, a planet not too far from the very Earth upon which these Humans sprang. The very Earth on which the last descendants of their own Hlutr choked to death on Human poisons. Often I have contemplated the infinitely sad story of the Redwoods, often I have wondered at their stunted lives: only a shadow of what they could be, what their distant ancestors had been; blind, dumb, all but deaf; hearing only the barest echoes of the Inner Voice, while all around them ranged the awesome and beautiful symphony of the Hlutr singing each to the others. The Redwoods were not Hlutr, at best they were only a kind of degenerate Hlutr kin, leftovers from a damaged line that had never been able to sing the Inner Voice. Their minds, what minds they had, must have been twisted beyond all recognition; their pitiful short lives must have been an agony.

And the Traveler within me whispers at these times: although they did not know it, did Humans do a merciful thing when they allowed the Redwoods to die?

And we Hlutr‑-what is the course of mercy for us? To allow death, or to deny it? Even if it is a death that some of us might have caused. . . ?

The ship shudders, and comes out of tachyon phase in the shadow of a huge banded gas giant.

"What now?" Saburo says.

The Commander answers, his face appearing ghostly over the magnificent view. "Refueling stop, sir. Settlement called Kef. Hope you don't mind‑-it's the only place on our charts that has a treaty with the Imperium."

"Carry on." Saburo turns to me. "I hope you don't mind."

"No." I reach out, calling for Hlutr‑-there are none in their planetary system, none for sevens of parsecs. We move, and a shrunken sun rises over the orange limb of the gas giant; light glitters briefly from a narrow ring of ice particles.

No brothers, no sisters-‑only the pulse of nearby Human life, a distant echo that might be some form of developing plant life on a rocky worldlet close to the sun . . . and the slow, incomprehensible hum that comes from the crystalline Talebba, a race whose existence Humans do not even suspect. The Talebba go their own way, living out their geological lifespans in planetary rings, asteroid belts and the clouds of primordial stuff that hide from stellar heat out where space is nearly flat and their own sun but another bright star. Now and again one of them dies, flaming, as it topples toward the inner system; occasionally one of these survives long enough to impact on a planet, and possibly create a new race of rocklike intelligences to succeed it.

I do not greet the Talebba of this system. To do so, I would have to live nearly as slowly as they do, and to them Galactic Years are like the days and nights to other creatures.

Saburo is consulting his computer; he grins. "Kef is a settlement in orbit around this gas giant, and something of a leader in local trade. I'm hoping they'll have charts that might help you locate whatever you're on the track of."

"I do not know." The Inner Voice is, for the moment, undisturbed. The song of the Hlutr sounds in lonely splendor, untouched by the cry of Humanity. The child is sleeping . . . or dead.

"There," he points, and Kef swings into view.

It is an untidy thing, a construct of glass, metal and light that resembles a bird's nest as much as it does a spaceship or Human city. Around the whole assembly is a ring of violent red, so bright that it hurts my Human eyes. Suddenly a loud klaxon rings, making both Saburo and me start.

"What is it?" Saburo says.

The Commander replies, "We're getting a transmission on the emergency band. I'll put it on your screen."

The Human face that greets us is gaunt and wild‑eyed. "Turn back," the man croaks through dry lips. "Docking permission is denied."

"We are a ship of the Credixian Navy, on a refueling stop‑"

"For your own sake, keep away. Do not pass our circle of quarantine. Don't you understand? We've all caught the Death. "

Saburo shakes his head. "We've already been exposed. We just need fuel, and a look at your charts."

"No." The face is sad, but hard with unbending determination as strong as Hlutr bark. "There's hydrogen enough in the atmosphere of the gas giant‑you're a military ship, you can refuel with ram-scoops. You can tie your navicomp into our central computer if you think our charts will be of any use to you. Just stay away."

"I don't understand. If you're already infected, how do you think we can make it worse?"

The man shakes his head. "By carrying this thing elsewhere. We all took a vow, destroyed our ships, set up the circle to warn others off." His eyes plead with Saburo as his hollow voice cannot. "We're ready to die . . . but we're not going to take the rest of the Galaxy with us. Go away, please‑-before you tempt us too far."

Saburo nods, touches the intercom. "Take us into a dive, Commander. We'll skim the atmosphere and then get on our way." He turns back to the man from Kef. "I understand. We're leaving. G‑gods be with you."

"Gods be with us all." The image fades, and red‑ringed Kef falls behind us until it is lost in the stars.

"The poor fools," the Commander says.

Tight‑lipped, Saburo shakes his head, but says nothing. Soon we are in tachyon phase again.

Certain of my brethren sing the courage of Kef in the Inner Voice, determined that such heroism should not be lost to the Universal Song. And who am I to deny them? More and more Hlutr join this song, more and more regard me and the progress of my journey; not just saplings and adults, but Elders as well. And now, for the first time, I feel the chill touch of the attention of the Eldest of all, from her vast island in the Secluded Realm. As yet, she pays only the slightest heed, just a hint of scrutiny.

This matter is becoming far more important, my brothers and sisters, than I ever intended.

Now, as if aware of the presence of so many Hlutr minds, the Human child shrieks again, splintering the mass concentration of the Inner Voice. For all that this cry tears at my soul, I welcome it: I am not too late to help.

If I can help at all . . .

In the end, I enlist the aid of the Hlutr of Telorbat and a dozen other worlds within a kiloparsec. That the Human child is somewhere within this volume of space there can be no doubt; no Hlut can mistake its anguished wail. At my direction, the Hlutr listen closely, then each tells me the direction from which the cry comes. I mark these on Saburo's master charts; we wait for a few hours, then we try again.

This is exactly the sort of work at which animal intelligences excel: the splitting of time and space into tiny bits, the measurement of direction and duration. With computers to do his calculation and Kef's star charts as a basis, Saburo manages to pinpoint the source to within a few billion cubic kilometers. The size of a planetary system, and in an empty volume far from any planet.  Are we mad to think we can locate the child?

No.

The emotion is unmistakable as the echo on a radar screen, and in Human hours we have located the center of the disturbance that called me from Amny seven thousand parsecs away. A lone Human starship floats powerless in starry space. Saburo is taken by a coughing fit, then gains control of himself. "Commander, take us in. Dock with that ship."

"They don't answer our challenges, sir. I think it's a ghost ship."

I shake my head. Something is alive aboard that dark hulk.

"Just follow my orders," Saburo says evenly. The commander shrugs, and turns to his control board.

Soon the ships are mated together, and Saburo and I stand before a closed hatch that leads to the mystery vessel. I do not know what to expect; seventy thousand times seventy Hlutr, and more, watch with me as the door slides back.

The sight, the smell, the sound we experience is something that no living being should ever face. Saburo, retching, falls back; even some of the Elders turn away from that terrible scene.

The ship‑‑a cargo vessel-‑is crammed with dead, decaying Human bodies. Most of them show the ravages of the Death: flat, empty stomachs, the agony of death, the trace of fluids on faces and chests. It is indeed a ghost ship, one inhabited by victims of the Death. Or so we think. Only when we blast into the sealed control room, only when we inspect the destroyed panels and recover the damaged log, do we find the truth. And when we find that horrible truth, it is my cry that echoes in the heavens and disturbs the Hlutr at their meditation.

We may never know the home planet of that charnel ship, for all references were carefully edited out of the log. Only the record of their deeds remained, as if they were actually proud of what they had done.

Over seventy times seventy times seventy Humans were put aboard the ship: more than four hundred thousand bodies. And more than half of them were still alive. The unknown rulers of that unknown world herded all the victims of the Death, along with their families and friends, along with the doctors who tried to treat them, along with the ministers who tried to comfort them-‑herded all into that vast cargo hold, then sealed them off and set them on a journey to nowhere. The controls were set to destroy themselves after a certain time in tachyon phase; after which, the ship dropped back into normal space and floated aimlessly, a macabre prison that offered no hope of escape.

There the tragedy did not end . . . for somewhere in this ship, a Human child still cries.

It-‑is Saburo who finds him, huddled in a curve of the hull with corpses pressed tight around him. The boy is naked, filthy and starved; he draws back with a scream when Saburo reaches for him.

"Let me." I step forward, and call on all the Hlutr to help me. All Human children are sensitive to the Inner Voice, this one more than most: we join in a song of reassurance, of peace, and the boy falls silent. I lift him, and Saburo leads the way back to our own ship.

His name is Ved, and he does not know where he comes from. As I probe his mind, I sense a good deal of damage; he builds walls against the terror he has experienced, and I am loath to disturb those walls. Later, in the care of Hlutr specialists on Amny, perhaps Ved can be brought back to full mental health; for now I am content to let him fall asleep to the Hlutr lullaby.

When I am sure that the boy will not wake, I face Saburo. For once, I feel something akin to animal rage . . . and I know that you, my brothers and sisters, feel this anger with me.

"You dare?" I challenge him. "You dare to crawl to the Hlutr and ask us to spare your race? To spare that?!" With one gesture, I indicate the charnel ship, the world that launched it, the people who committed this atrocity and all their brothers, sisters and cousins throughout the Galaxy. "Beg rather that we do not increase the virulence of the Death seventy‑times‑seventy‑fold, to give your people the agony they deserve."

Saburo coughs, falls into his chair, then raises defiant eyes. "Is this Hlutr compassion?"

"The Hlutr do not waste compassion on beasts who have proven unworthy of it. We do not grant compassion to creatures who are incapable of showing it."

"Do you think I'm not sickened by what I saw today? Do you think I don't want revenge on those who did it? By what right do you condemn all of us on the basis of some who commit atrocity?" He turns to the intercom. "Take us to Telorbat. I need a planet with medical facilities."

"Our right comes from our nature. Our place in the Universal Song. The power that we alone possess." He bends over Ved's sleeping form, and I catch his arm. "What are you doing?"

"In dwelling on his tragedy, you obviously haven't noticed the most important thing about this child. The fact that he's alive."

"He lives-‑which is the core of his tragedy."

"You still don't get it. Look at him. He hasn't caught the Death. "

My Human body shivers. "After days . . . weeks . . . of exposure . . ."

Saburo nods. "He's immune. And if I can figure out why, we might have a chance to end the Death yet."

And if you do, Saburo . . . will the Hlutr permit it?

In confusion, I withdraw to Amny and the song of the Hlutr, while our ship races toward Telorbat.

I think too much like a Human; my sojourn with them has affected me. For Galactic Revolutions have I stood faithfully in my grove, while the patterns of stars and the very face of Amny changed around me, and I have sung the will of the Universal Song. I have earned the title of Elder and the name of Teacher. I have sung in the councils of the Hlutr, and have even advised the Eldest of all. Yet these Humans make of me but a newborn seeding, a foolish sapling facing his first Winter snows.

My brothers and sisters, tell me what I should do.

You sing, and I listen.

You will counsel me, you will give me reasons and opinions . . . but you will not decide for me. Some of you think the Humans should be saved, others believe they should perish‑and still more of you think that we ought to ignore these children of Terra. Brethren, what am I to do?

Saburo, Ved and my operative arrive on Telorbat, and I am drawn to them once again.

It is the season of cold in the higher latitudes where the major Human city sits. You are there already, my fellows, rising snow-‑clad only a few kilometers from the city-‑for Ciudad Telorba rises like a vast pyramid from the midst of a great forest, and since Humans arrived on this world you have kept watch on them. I wonder, have you ever seen events like today's?

Saburo coughs, and even my operative is not spared the curse of the Death; my borrowed body is wracked with a choking fit, and when it is over I still find it hard to breathe. I begin to ease my awareness out of that fleshy prison, leaving the body to manage itself. I want nothing more than to return to Amny and be done with this sordid matter . . . yet I must see it through to a conclusion.

We are met by a robot on whose shoulders floats the image of a woman's head. She nods. "I am Gingiber Maur, undersecretary of state. We received your message, Doctor Saburo, and our foremost medical laboratory is yours. You will forgive me for not meeting you in person . . . ?" She seems a little embarrassed, yet Saburo pays her no mind.

"Yes, yes," he says, suppressing a cough. "Show me to the lab. I must examine the boy with proper instruments."

"We have few visitors from space," she tells us as we board an empty train and are whisked forth. "Have you come from afar?"

"From the Credixian Imperium, ultimately. Immediately, from a ship a few parsecs out from your sun."

She glances at Ved and my operative. "Tell me, you are escaping from the Death? This ship, was it infected?"

Ved quivers at this talk of the Death, and I broaden my awareness to sing him calm melodies of the Inner Voice. He is not yet sure who I am, but he responds to the song of the Hlutr.

Saburo nods, foaming with impatience. "We rescued the boy from a charnel ship-‑he was the only survivor. The sooner I get to your medical equipment, the sooner I'll be able to start figuring out why he lived."

"To be sure." The train slows, and the robot shows us through the door into a narrow corridor. As soon as we are through, the door slides shut. The robot stands before it, pointing toward the opposite end. "This way, if you please."

Saburo's eyes narrow. "This isn't a hospital. Where are we?"

The robot advances, and we have no choice but to fall back before it. Gingiber Maur's smile fades. "I am sorry, Doctor. Telorbat is under strict quarantine. We have no choice but to isolate those who have had contact with the Death." We are halfway down the corridor, now, and the far door begins to open. "As a medical man, I am sure you understand. You will be cared for; our prisons have a complete range of services."

"Prison?" Saburo echoed. Then the robot shoves us forward, and we tumble through the door.

Ved clings to my operative's hand, and I wrap an arm about him, all the while singing to quiet him. For we have surely walked into his worst nightmares.

A room the size of a spacecraft hangar is crowded with coughing, weeping Humans. Some are dead already, others are motionless upon mats and have only hours of life left. Some of the healthier ones are ministering to the others.

"Keep Ved back," Saburo tells me, and I am only too glad to comply. We stand in the middle of an open space, and I turn the boy's face to the wall while at the same time I hiss, "Saburo, what are we to do?"

"Don't worry. These people are paranoid, but they're stupid." He glances at an instrument clasped about his wrist. "My ship will be here in five minutes, and in another five we'll be blasted out of here."

"Unless they have ships to destroy yours."

"You won't find a working starship on this planet. Everyone who could leave, did. That's why the city's so empty. The ones who got left behind decided to set up this quarantine, but it won't help them." He bared his teeth in haughty animal aggression. "How's Ved?"

"Upset. We sing to calm him, and it seems to help."

"Good. Keep it up."

When Saburo's ship arrives, there is no doubt: a bright flash and a noise like thunder, then half a wall collapses in upon itself. Through smoke and dust, I see a moving wall of dark metal‑-the ship.

Saburo points and slaps my operative on the back. "Run!" he shouts.

By the time we reach the ship's hatch, twice seventy others have arrived as well. Some are too sick to move, yet they push themselves forward only to fall into the path of others. Their minds beat with terror and panic.

Saburo pushes through them roughly, then grabs Ved and my operative in firm hands and pulls us toward the ship as if through crashing surf. Human bodies press up against me, choking and vomiting, and I feel Ved's mind shake in counterpoint to his nervous body. The quiet melody of the Inner Voice pauses, then fragments as the boy's mental walls break and the full horror of his last few weeks comes smashing down on him.

He screams in an agony that paralyzes Hlutr on all nearby worlds. And I‑-who stand as close to that cry as I am to the soil of Amny-‑I stagger back, nearly driven from my perch in my Human operative's brain.

In that brain, in the confusion of the Inner Voice and Ved's pain, a miracle happens.

A personality submerged for a lifetime-‑the original identity of my operative-‑hears Ved's cry through the endless distance that she has driven between herself and reality. I feel her stir in that Human brain, and I am shocked to silence. Even the Hlutr could not reach her! Yet she comes forth, responding to a pain greater than her own.

Her name is Irisa, this Human whose body I have borrowed. She is almost as sensitive to the Inner Voice as is Ved, and she knows only that she must help him. Limbs move of their own volition, and Irisa lifts Ved, hugs him to herself. The ship's solid wall parts, and she carries him across the threshold to safety, followed by Saburo. The hatch closes, and the ship lifts off, soaring high above city and forest.

Rejoice with me, brothers and sisters of Telorbat. Give me your Inner Voices in song: for Irisa was lost, and has come back. For Ved, whose cry brought even the Hlutr out of their age‑old reveries, is delivered from his hell, Irisa, moved to mercy by his need, has saved him.

Riding high above that world, rooted unregarded in Irisa's brain, I sigh. When a poor creature such as this, so frightened of mere existence that she turns her back on it and chooses the cool depths of madness . . . when this poor beast can feel such mercy, dare a Teacher of the Hlutr feel less? These Humans are wild and terrible, yet there is within them a core of true beauty. An age ago as they count time, we Hlutr agreed to help them as we could, to find and develop that beauty. To guide them when they faltered on their road to truth. To aid the honest ones among them as they sought maturity. And now, as I watch the dawning of a consciousness even I had thought lost forever, I rearm that vow.

Behind me, I feel my own Elders, and theirs, perhaps up to Eldest herself, I feel them sway in agreement. You have learned, Little One, they seem to say.

Irisa knows what I require, and gladly she gives me the use of her body one last time. "Very well, Saburo," I say. "Bring Ved to me on Amny. We will find your cure to the Death. And the Hlutr shall administer it, though it cost the lives of many times twelve thousand of us."

Saburo nods, and the ship turns back toward home.

- - -

Ved and Irisa stand before me, in the peaceful night of Amny, and the gentle breeze brings me their alien scents. Saburo is weak, and must be carried on a litter; they settle him next to my trunk, where I can feel the fevered warmth of his body.

Help me, brothers and sisters. Sing with me, Elders. Time is short, and the problem very complex. You who know Humans, and you who are experts in animal biochemistry: sing with me.

The Hlutr sing in the Inner Voice, for now we are decided and there can be no hesitation. Those of us who study the problem, must live more quickly than is our wont‑-for the Death would require many seasons of Human study to yield its secrets. We Hlutr do not have their machines, their computers, their vast laboratories; we have far better, the massed minds of Hlutr themselves. This is our work, the work we are meant for, and as we unlock the mysteries of the Death, I feel the orange‑red flush of deepest happiness creep over my body.

Now we live still faster, and seasons of time to us are but minutes to the watching Humans. The song builds upon itself, reaching toward a shattering crescendo‑then there is the taste of victory, the rush of joy, and . . . silence.

I slow my rate of living, until once again I am in the time‑frame of Humans. Exhilarated, I have complete control over my entire body; my answer comes in a song that fills the whole glade.

"Saburo, it is done. We can make a counter‑virus for the Death. Hlutr will manufacture it, then spread it on all your twelve thousand worlds. In weeks, the Death will be over."

"Thank you, Teacher," he croaks. "W‑when will you begin?"

Before I can even frame the question in the Inner Voice, my Elders answer it. When you wish, Brother Hlutr.

"We will commence the cure at once." On all those twelve thousand worlds, many times twelve thousand Hlutr stand ready to give their lives in the final detonation that will assure survival for Mankind. The night is alive with their song, a mixed song of triumph and a twinge of regret.

One of us must be first.

To the memory of the Traveler within me, I say, "Are you happy with me, little brother?"

"I am happy with you," he seems to say. "Come, Teacher . . . join me and be remembered forever."

"Stand back," I tell the waiting Humans. The dissolution is catastrophic, as it spreads Hlutr‑substance on the winds and streams‑-but most of the force is directed upward. They need not withdraw too far. And I want Saburo near enough to catch full benefit of the cure.

Now I feel it build within me, as my Elders guide me in this final, most difficult task. The change comes like a building glow from the very center of my being, a welcome swell of warmth that lifts me toward the cool, eternal stars.

Hlutr have done their job well. The cure, I know, will work. There is a last surge in the song of Hlutr . . . my brothers and sisters, saluting me and this thing I do. Two faltering Human voices join this song; I look down and see Irisa and Ved standing hand‑in‑hand over Saburo. And ultimate peace rises from the soil to engulf me.

Content, I fly upward to meet the stars at last to take my place in the Universal Song.