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



contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
 
 
 
REEFS
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
 
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / October 1981
All rights reserved.
 
Copyright  1981 by Kevin O'Donnell, Jr.
 
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other 
means, without permission.
 
ISBN: 0-425-05059-9
 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



To Kevin and Ellen O'Donnell,
who gave me the courage to risk this fine madness
by the gambles on life they have taken themselves,
I dedicate this book with love,
appreciation, and enduring gratitude.
 
I would like to thank some of the people who are coming to know McGill Feighan 
almost as well as I know him, and whose insights have helped me to tell his 
story better: Mary Kittredge, Mark J. McGarry, Joel Rosenberg, Victoria 
Schochet, Cherry Weiner, and last but really first, my wife, Kim Tchang.
Chapter I
^ 


As McGill Feighan materialized on the marble-topped Flop Table, he said, 
"Dammit, Greystein, love hurts!"
"Puppy love always does," said his roommate, then bent back over the keyscreen 
at the far end of the living room.
"No, it's"
Every light in the penthouse flashed; a siren keened wild and shrill. The 
apartment computer boomed: "Intruder. Intra"
The blast of sound almost knocked Feighan off the table. Covering his ears, he 
said, "Hey!"
Marion Jefferson Greystein purpled. "Oscar, cue: shut up; do it now!" The siren 
cut off. Greystein's energy tunic still flared angrily. "Sorry, McGill; there's 
a bug in my program. Hold on just a minute." He spoke into the microphone: 
"Oscar, query: do you recognize the second person here; answer it now."
Wondering if he had just been declared persona non grata by a machine, 
yetFeighan glanced at the ceiling grille that hid Oscar's speaker.
"The second person here is McGill Feighan."
Feighan said, "Then why"
Greystein held up a finger. "Oscar, update: McGill Feighan is authorized always; 
file it now." The lights blinked off. Greystein sighed, pushed himself away from 
the keyscreen, and spun his chair around. "I am truly sorry about the cacaphony, 
McGill; I've been putting a watchdog program into Oscar and hadn't gotten around 
to listing the people who shouldn't trigger it." Standing, he stretched. "Now, 
what were you saying?"
"Why a watchdog?" Feighan crossed the room in two huge strides, and sprawled on 
the onyx force couch. It wheezed as it accepted his ninety-five kilograms, then 
lenghtened to accommodate his meter-point-nine frame. "Aren't there enough 
guards around for your peace of mind?"
"Not any more." Though nearly Feighan's height, he was sapling slender; he had 
curly brown hair and a two-bump nose. Against a skin paled by too many hours in 
electronics labs, his dark eyes stuck out like smudges on rice paper. "The NYPD 
called today; they've removed the guards and the surveillance cameras because, 
they say, you're out of danger."
"They're probably right. Word must have gotten around by now that nobody wants 
me dead any more."
"How do you know?"
"Aw, Greystein, the only thing I'm in danger of is a broken heart." He crossed 
his hands under his head, and lifted his feet to the far arm of the sofa. "Or 
marriage, I'm not sure which, yet." Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and 
sighed it back out. "Jesus, love's hell."
"McGill, McGill, my young daffodil, what in the world can a nineteen-year-old 
possibly know about love?"
"Hear the ancient impart his wisdom." Feighan snickered. "Tell me, oh venerable 
twenty-two-year-old, all your arcane lore." He laughed, but was too depressed to 
make it sound real.
"I'm not kidding." Blinking in the dazzle of April sun through the window-wall, 
he said, "Hey! Look at this."
Feighan craned his neck to see outside without getting up.
Beyond the window hovered a balloon five meters in diameter. It was green and 
purple, and a propeller held it steady against the gusts of New York City.
"Yeah?" said Feighan. "So what?"
"So have you ever seen a Ua'litscha tourist before?"
"What?" He looked again. "It's a balloon, probably broke loose from Central 
Park."
"McGill, those colors aren't the plastic's, they're the gases."
"Huh?"
"The Ua'litscha are sentient gases or gaseous life forms, or whatever. And this 
one," he said, his tone sharpening, "is taking pictures of us. Oscar, cue: 
polarize windows; do it now."
The windows opaqued; two floor lamps snapped into brilliance.
"Greystein! If you wanted to live underground, you could have said 
soManhattan's got lots of basementsI wouldn't have rented a 124th story 
penthouse if I'd known you had this thing about sunlight."
"What else did you have to spend your money on? When you've got ten million in a 
trust fund, don't begrudge us a little luxury. Besides, I hate having my picture 
taken by strangers; they never get my best profile. You want a drink?"
"Sure, a beer."
"Oscar, cue: pour two beers; do it now."
Behind the bar, glass clinked; pressurized liquid hissed.
"I got some new mugs today," said Greystein, sauntering over. "From Inta 
LeinaCanopus XIV?incredible world, McGill, you'd enjoy it. I special ordered 
these last week, and picked them up at lunch today. Remind me to teach you the 
route sometime."
"You're not supposed to make interstellar Flings for personal reasons."
"So who'd tell on me?" He winked.
"They're going to catch you one of these days, Greystein, and when they do, 
they'll figure out that you gimmicked the indoctrination machinesand then where 
will you be?" A sudden thought alarmed him. "Jesus, where will I be?"
"With me," said the other teleport, "somewhere else." He tapped the latch on the 
bar. "I don't care what the FNC wants, I won't be brainwashed like the rest." 
The wood-grain panel slid up to display two cut glass steins of beer, each with 
exactly three centimeters of head. He brought one to Feighan, and held the other 
before his eye. "Look at it real closely."
Feighan did. His own face, brown-eyed, square-jawed, and Roman-nosed, stared 
back at him. He shrugged. "So?"
"Turn it around, look at the other side."
He did. This time, no face: just tousled black hair that tumbled over ears and 
down a neck that widened into broad shoulders "Hey!"
"Neat, huh?"
"Yeah, but how?"
"I'll be damned if I knowthe Inta Leinans sell glassware, not trade secrets." 
He wiped his lips. "Now. Tell Uncle Greystein: who are you in love with?"
Feighan blushed. Given his earlier comments, he felt like a fool when he had to 
say, "Well there's two of them."
"A polygamist yet!"
"No, I mean" Uncomfortable, he fingered the facets of the stein. He was 
reluctant to explain how he felt, even to himself. Wasn't it enough that he did 
feel? Did he have to analyze it like a math problem, setting limits and deriving 
exact quantities for each variable? He wasn't that kind of person. He would 
never repress his emotionshe expressed them whenever appropriatebut he'd grown 
up believing that to stress the emotional at the expense of the intellectual was 
undignified. Uncivilized, even. "Never mind."
"I'm not letting you off that easy. Come on. How can you be in real love with 
two women at onceand who are they?"
"Ah" He brushed his hair back up his high forehead. He liked Greystein, and 
wanted to impress him, but first he had to overcome instincts which said that 
discussing an emotion would etch it too clearly in his consciousness. That, he 
didn't like. It gave his feelings too much importance, too much authority over 
him. And he'd be damned if he'd let his heart rule his head. "You know."
"No," said his roommate, "I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
He surrendered. "It's different for each of them. See, one's Gina Maccari"
"The telepath? She's nice, for a Minder."
"To put it mildly. So easy to talk toand smart? Like you wouldn't believe. 
She's comfortable, makes you feel she really cares about what you're saying, 
what you're thinking the thing is, the other's Nadia Liang."
Greystein's dark eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding."
"No! I mean, she's just so" He knew the feel of the adjective, but not its 
sound.
"Sexy?"
"Yeah" What he could more truthfully have said was that Nadia Liang was so 
pretty that looking at her hurtthat when she smiled he wanted to genuflectthat 
aching happiness paralyzed his voice any time he came within five meters of 
herbut those are not the things you say to your roommate, not when you wish to 
appear worldly and sophisticated. So he looked into his beer, all bubbly amber, 
and said again, "Yeah."
"The Snow Queen of the North American Consortium herself" Greystein made a 
face, then snorted. "I asked her out last year; she saidnot outright, but 
between the linesshe said if she didn't have time for the Senator from Texas 
and the Governor of New York, why should she make time for me? Think you can get 
into her pants?"
He jerked upright. "Hey, she's not"
"That kind, I know, I know." Greystein grinned, apparently pleased at disturbing 
his roommate. "This isn't history's most liberated age, but she is that kind. 
Under the right conditions, everybody is. You're playing the old idealization 
gameput her on a pedestal, pretend she's better than human Tell you what would 
make you a lot more at ease with her, McGill my acolyte, is if you could bring 
yourself to visualize her taking a shit."
"Hey!" He balled his left fist and started to get up.
"I'm sorry, McGill. I also take pins to parties for the balloons. I didn't mean 
to hurt your feelings, and I'm not saying she's a teletagger, but"
From the ceiling grille came: *Ding*
Greystein held up a hand. "Lemme check this. Oscar, report: reason for signal; 
say it now."
"The incubator calipers have expanded past notification point."
"Fantastic!" He bounced to his feet. "McGill, it's your egg! C'mon!"
"Huh?" He set down his beer and swung off the couch. "What do you mean?"
Greystein disappeared into the bedroom on the left; his voice came through the 
door: "That egg from the Flinger on Throngorn II, what's her name?"
"Sahaang," he said, sibilating it properly. "What about it?" He entered his 
bedroom and found his roommate staring at the display case which, months 
earlier, he had mounted on a dial-studded stand. Inside rested a cream-colored 
egg almost as big as a football: its soft, leathery skin was stretching and 
sagging. "Is it hatching?"
"I don't know. You said she said that it would be ready when it got to be about 
the size of your headso I instructed the incubator to measure it every eight 
hoursand you heard Oscar, it's now just a tad bigger than your skull. If what's 
her name"
"Sahaang."
"is right, then it should be sometime soon." He flicked a knob; from a speaker 
in the incubator's base pounded a muffled thumping. "Fetal heartbeat," he said. 
"Sounds okay, though I haven't the faintest idea of how it should sound, so 
don't put any faith in my diagnosis. And this" He spun another dial. "detects 
unusual motion, so we'll have some warning when it starts tearing at its shell, 
and you'll be able to get back here in time." Straightening up, he turned back 
to Feighan. "Oscar's been programmed to page youwherever you arewhen the 
system picks up hatching sounds. Keep it informed of where you're going to be 
for the next few days. All right?"
"Sure, thanks." He beamed. "This is fantastic, Greystein. How come you haven't 
been transferred to the Computer Section at Flinger Network Control?"
"I would have been," the other said, "but I flunked their testaccidentally on 
purpose, if you know what I mean. I don't want to spend the rest of my life at 
the Hub. A year or two, yes; I'd like that, because if I could access their 
files, I think I could find the Far Being Retzglaran for you"
"You know I'm not interested in the Far Being any more," said Feighan calmly.
"Oh, sure,"
He met his roommate's gaze levelly. "It's over, Greystein. Done with."
The other shrugged. "As you like itand in that case, I wouldn't want to spend 
more than a week at a time at the Hub."
"I know what you meanwho needs New York squared?" He dropped onto the bed, laid 
his right ankle on his left knee, and jiggled his foot. "Ah about this program. 
How do I tell Oscar where I'm going to be?"
"Simplicity itself. Just say, 'Oscar, update: McGill Feighan will be at X 
location from Y o'clock to Z o'clock; file it now.' Simple?"
"Yeah, sure. Thanks." The phone rang; he flopped across the bed to pick it up. 
"F&G Incorporated, Feighan speaking."
"Mr. Feighan?" The electronic secretary sounded courteous yet impersonal, like 
an engraved invitation.
"Yes."
"Please hold for Ms. Nadia Liang; thank you!" The line clicked into a silence 
that lengthened even as Feighan's nerves tightened. Nadia! What could she 
maybe no, probably not, but Confusion, elation, and fright so filled him that 
when a low, husky voice asked, "McGill?" he could say only, "Uh-huh." And even 
on that his vocal cords threatened to knot.
"Are you all right?"
Humiliated by his awkwardness, he winced, and gave thanks for the unpopularity 
of vision phones. His cheeks burned. "Oh, sure, I'm I'm fine."
"Could you come down to my office right away, please?"
"Sure!" He winced again. Dammit, think before you speak don't sound so easy. 
"Ah how come?"
"I've been going through the files" She spoke so softly and expressively that 
it felt like she'd said, I've been falling in love with you. "and there are a 
few items I believe we should discuss."
"I'm on my way," he said. "Ah your office is the one with the purple force 
chairs in the reception room?"
"That's the one."
He was breathing hard. "Be there in a minute." He cradled the receiver so 
carefully, so lovingly, that it could have been an antique. Then he leaped off 
the bed. His Talent pulsed with eagerness to perform. "Gotta go, see you"
"Wait!" Greystein held up his hands. "First, cue Oscar."
"Oh." He scratched his temple. "Oscar, update: McGill Feighan will be in Nadia 
Liang's office from now until" He shrugged helplessly at the computer's 
programmer.
"Till further notice; file it now," said Greystein crisply. "Nadia Liang, huh?"
"Uh-huh. I'll see you"
"Just a minute."
"What?" Impatience hyped him with adrenaline, which clenched and unclenched his 
hands. He couldn't bear to wait a second longer.
"Why's she want you?"
"I don't know, something about my personnel file."
"Hmm." He made it sound very skeptical. "Look, McGill you haven't had much 
experience with women, have you?"
"No, but" At Greystein's glance, he reined in his haste. "You know I haven't 
ever had time. I always avoided teletaggerswho needs a woman who's only after 
your tunic? and as for ah, normal women well, what with the Academy and then 
Throngorn and all, I just, ah I never got any practice. But now"
"Things are going to change, right?"
"Yeah, that's right. Things are going to change. Why?" He sounded defensive even 
to himself, but didn't care. The pressure of his desire to Fling filled him like 
wind in sails, and he wanted to cast off. "Shouldn't they?"
"I'm not saying that, not at all. What I'm saying is simply that you should be 
very, very careful with Ms. Nadia Liang, that's all."
"Why? She's a"
"A shark, McGill. A beautiful, sexy, seductive shark. Be very careful what you 
say to her, that's all. All right?"
"Yeah, all right. Now can I go?"
"Of course." He waved a negligent hand and stepped out of the bedroom. "See you 
later."
Closing his eyes, Feighan visualized his destination: the orange rug, the purple 
force chairs, the framed print of a horse and rider on the wall above the 
secretary's desk. At the same time he formed and held an image of himself: tall 
and broad in his sparkling tunic, white pants, and black boots. As the two 
pictures became juxtaposed, he knew, on a level beneath the conscious, how to 
transport the latter to the former.
It was a simple matter, really, just a little *pop* through the fabric of space 
and time, no momentum to adjust because the object and its destination were so 
close, then
*PI
it started, the Fling, the teleporting, in darkness grew Feighan till his 
elbows rubbed infinity while simultaneously he collapsed upon himself like the 
remnants of a nova falling into a black hole
and for an instant that time didn't rule he was both the universe and the 
smallest portion thereof
and stress began to shred his body, pulling half of it one way and half the 
other, and the pain had no ending because in teleportation there was no time, no 
space
then before it had even begun, his largeness shrank and his smallness grew until 
they overlapped and the stress faded to let his body knit itself back together 
and
NG* 
The Fling had ended. He stood on an orange rug, before a secretary's desk behind 
which hung a framed print of a horse and rider. "Hi," he said to the 
computer-generated simulacrum, "I'm McGill Feighan; Ms. Liang asked me to stop 
by."
The simulacrum, a creature of light and magnets enlivened by the same technology 
that had spun the Flingers' tunics, had neither face nor definite form. Like a 
technicolor shadow, it glittered and flowed. "Please go in," it said in its 
sweet but artificial tones. A relay snicked; beside the print, a door swung on 
hitherto-invisible hinges.
"Thank you." He went inblinkedand shielded his eyes.
Nadia Liang's office stretched six meters wide by ten deep. A window-wall filled 
the long side, and through it splashed a river of sunlight. The ceiling glowed 
like burning ice; its runoff dropped in a blinding lumen-fall.
The brilliance laved the plants she loved: trees in tubs and lilies in water and 
cacti in pots. A three-meter tall dracaena fragrans screened the doorway from 
the desk. To the right prickled a giant saguaro; to the left drooped a willow. 
Palms fronded and lemons ripened and on her desk at the window, a 
hundred-year-old jade bronzed its silver-dollar leaves in the sun. The air 
smelled humid, fertile. Flora and fixtures must have cost thousands, but the 
North American Consortium's administrators took good care of themselves.
Squinting, he edged past a rubber plant, and awakened a host of butterflies. 
Beyond it sat two people in lawn chairs. Nadia Liang rose to greet him. The 
fragile olive haze of a dizygotheca elegantissima blurred the other's face.
"Hello, McGill," said Liang in her throaty voice. Some ten years older than he, 
she had deer-soft eyes and a compact body. Her reddish-brown hair fell to a 
centimeter above her bare shoulders, then curled briefly. When she extended her 
hand, she moved like snowflakes on a gentle wind.
"H-h-hi." He released her cool, dry fingers quicklynot because he wanted to, 
but because he was embarrassed by how sweaty his own were. "What, ah what is it 
you wanted?" Jesus, Feighan, he thought, you're a social oaf. Shape up. He hoped 
his turmoil didn't show on his face.
"I believe you know Gina Maccari?" With that same littleness, she indicated the 
woman in the other chair.
"G-gina?" His poise crumpled like a rain-soaked cardboard box. "Oh, yeah, sure. 
Hi, Gina." He wanted to die. He had no idea why the two women had invited him to 
their get-together, but it couldn't be good. Maybe they've been comparing notes, 
now they're gonna tell me to get lost or something And even as he thought it, 
he knew it couldn't be, since he hadn't let either know how he felt about heror 
about the other. "Ah nice office you've got here, Ms. Liang."
"McGill!" Her laughter rang like joyous bells. "Don't be so formal; call me 
Nadia. I'm only an Administrative Assistant to the Director, not a Senior 
Flinger. Please, have a seat."
She pointed to a chair next to Gina's; when he dropped into it, it slithered 
back and thunked against the dizygotheca's pot. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I" 
Flustered, he half-turned to see if he'd broken anything.
"It's all right," said Liang, easing into her own chair. "The plant's fine."
"Well, I ah"
Maccari laid a hand on his. "McGill, relax." A short, stocky woman, she smiled 
reassuringly. Strands of black hair framed her good-natured face. Concern 
softened her voice, and her hand squeezed Feighan's. "I know you Flingers get 
nervous around Minders, but don't worryI'm not nosy, and telepathy isn't a toy. 
Really."
Relieved that she hadn't mentioned the true cause of his consternationbut then, 
no one had ever suspected the Staff Telepath of misusing her Talenthe began, 
"No, Gina, that's not it, I" and choked himself off. He couldn't tell heror 
Nadia!why he was nervous, so he sank back into his chair and hoped his cheeks 
would stay cool. They flushed anyway.
Liang cleared her throat; even that mundane sound delighted him. "McGill, the 
reason I've asked you here is to review what seems to be a dominant theme in 
your life: your involvement with the Far Being Retzglaran."
"Oh, that, I"
"Please." She raised a finger. "The NAC needs to know that it can rely on your 
loyalty, that you're not in any way indebted to or allied with an alien which 
does not have formal relations with the Flinger Network. Gina is here to probe"
"Wrong word," snapped the telepath.
The hostility that crackled between the two made Feighan even more 
uncomfortable.
Yet the administrator took the rebuke gracefully. "My apologies. Would you 
explain, then?"
Maccari turned to Feighan. "Here's the story, McGill. I'm going to monitor your 
responsesnot probe youjust listen to your answers while I Mind your totality. 
As long as your words jibe with your feelings, I won't do a thing more. Promise. 
If there's a conflict, though, I'll point it out. If it continues, thenand only 
then," she said, with a quick sharp eye for Liang, "will I probe. And before I 
do that, I'll warn you. Do you understand? 'Cause I want this perfectly clear at 
the beginning."
"No, I, ah" He squirmed on the webbing of the chair. "I think I see what you 
mean."
"Do I have your permission?"
That surprised him. "Can I stop you?"
"Yes." She brushed back her hair. "Oh, you couldn't block me if I wanted to get 
in. But, if you won't give me permission to monitor you, I'll leave."
A butterfly fluttered between them. He watched it disappear into a weeping-fig 
before he said, "I do understand. Please, stay. Monitor all you like."
"Thank you." She inclined her head to Nadia. "Go ahead."
"To commence," said the Administrative Assistant, "please summarize your 
involvement with the Far Being Retzglaran."
"Summarize?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Yes."
He shrugged. "Okay. There's been none."
Liang's face jerked up. For a moment her eyes flashed hard as flint, then they 
switched their focus from Feighan to Maccari. "Gina?"
"Absolute truth," said the Minder.
"But your dossier says"
"The gastropod?" The word tasted bad.
"Yes."
"That." Weary, he sagged back; his sigh defined rue. "Briefly: when I was born, 
an alien tourista giant gastropod traveling on a forged passchipbroke into the 
hospital and seized me. At first people thought it was a terrorist, then that it 
had gone crazy or something, especially when it wouldn't communicate. Three days 
later, it gave me back and escaped. Before it left, it claimed to be acting on 
orders from the Far Being Retzglaranbut last year, it came back to Earth to 
die. Right before it collapsed, it confessed that the whole thing had been its 
idea of a practical joke." With his right fist, he thumped the chair arm. 
"Dammit, anyway."
"What causes you to say that?" Her voice was gentle.
"What?" He was too upset to keep his voice down, even though Liang recoiled from 
his vehemence. "Because it screwed up my whole life, that's why! When I was a 
kid, all I did was worry about why the Far Being had ordered it to do that. 
Instead of playing floatball or collecting planetcards or or dating, I was 
trying to find out why. And nobody knew. I" From the north of his soul whistled 
a winter wind. Hunching forward, he cupped his hands and blew into them. "I 
shaped my whole identity around this thing, like an orphan who thinks his real 
father's a millionaire or something, you know? I used to fantasize that the Far 
Being had picked me for a reason, and itit warped me! I'm just starting to I 
don't know, live a normal life, be a normal person" She opened her mouth; 
quickly he said, "There's more. See, I wasn't the only one who believed what the 
gastropod had said. The Organization did, tooand tried to capture me, make me 
work for them. I, ah" Sorrow swelled up in him, tightening his throat and 
blocking his tongue. He clenched his teeth, blinked hard, then coughed. "They 
tried to kidnap me a buncha timescaught me twice, but the first time they had 
to swap me back for one of their own people, and the second time I was rescued. 
So they murdered my parents. They destroyed my favorite teacher. On Throngorn 
II, they killed my best friend." He spread his hands wide, and looked into 
Liang's concerned brown eyes. Inside, where he now recalled all the things he'd 
tried so hard to forget, everything hurt. "And it was all because of a joke. A 
malicious, stupid joke." He dropped his hands, and then his head.
Liang glanced at Maccari, who nodded. The administrator spoke in a voice as 
soothing as balm: "I'm sorry. There were discrepancies in the records, and I 
thought to clear them up. I didn't intend to force you to relive your pain."
Still staring at the backs of his hands, Feighan ordered the words to come out 
smoothly. "That's okay. I, ah I mean, it's history. It happened. I have to 
accept the fact that it happened, get used to it, till it" He cleared his 
throat. "Anyway, is there, ah"
"More?" She smiled, and the smile held such warmth, such sympathy, that it 
replaced his pain with something equally filling, something almost paralyzing in 
its sweet intensity. "No, that covers all my questions. Thank you very much." 
She rose from her chair like smoke off a fire. "And I am sorry."
He stood, too, as did Maccari. "No, it's okay." And it was okay, because even 
though he hadn't told it for that reason, his story had touched her. It had 
shown her that McGill Feighan was more than a callow nineteen-year-old with a 
Talent; it had revealed his depths, complexitiestragedies. And, with a flash of 
triumph that he hoped didn't show, he suspected that it might have made him 
attractive to her. "I'd better be going."
The Minder patted his arm. "Do you have time for a cup of coffee?"
"Ah" He hesitatedhe didn't want Liang to think he was committed in any way to 
Maccaribut the telepath was fun to be with. "Sure. Where?"
"The cafeteria downstairs?"
"Want to Fling?"
She shook her head. Something like fear flickered through her eyes. "Let's 
walk."
"Sure." He turned back to Liang. "Nadia, I'll, ah, see you around?"
"You can depend on it." And her smile said even more.
 
On the outskirts of Rome, in a quietly luxurious apartment that he shared with 
seventeen cats, there lived a man who had once stalked McGill Feighan. He sat 
before a computer screen and read:
 
PREREQUISITES TO OPERATION RECOVERY
&#8730;   1. Discontinuation of police protection and surveillance
     2. Relaxation of subject's wariness
    3. Installation near subject of decoys, lures, strike team and other 
operatives.
 
Next to the second and the third he placed a check. He smiled. And rose.
Chapter II
 ^ 


In the basement cafeteria of the Flinger Building, Feighan and Maccari, relaxed 
and joking, drifted toward a secluded corner. The Minder had the gift of putting 
him at ease, and he loved her for it. He could have hugged her, she made him 
feel so appreciated? Maybe that was her secretshe convinced him that she 
enjoyed him as he was, that he didn't have to distort his reality to please her. 
It stood her in sharp contrast to Liang, whose air pressured him to excel, and 
insinuated that one whiff of mediocrity, one brief rough edge, would mark him 
flawed, unfit for her presence.
He winked across the small, square table while it filled their cups. She drank 
her coffee black; he took his with cream and three sugars.
"You'll get fat that way," she said.
He chuckled, finished stirring, and tapped his spoon on the cup rim. "Uh-uh. I 
put the sugar in to keep from getting thin."
"I'm jealous. Why?" Snapping a paper napkin out of the slot, she began to fold 
it origami-style.
"Nice," he said, as it formed into a leering vulture. "I don't know why. My 
system just, ah I've got a fast metabolism or something, I guess. When I went 
to work here, I dropped like thirty pounds in the first couple monthsFlinging's 
more strenuous than it looks."
"So's Minding." She penned eyes onto the vulture's face, then set it to roost on 
the charge box. "But it doesn't seem to slim me any."
"Doesn't do it to the other Flingers, eitherjust me. The doctor told me, 
milkshakes and double helpings and lots of sugar in my coffee. So I do. Makes it 
taste like syrup, though." He scowled into his cup.
She said, "McGill" and stopped.
He quirked his brows. "Huh?"
"There was" Her capable hands folded, twisted, and pinched another napkin into 
a free-standing question mark. "There was something odd about that 'review' in 
Nadia's officeI was Minding her, too, sort of off the side of my brain, and 
she didn't feel right."
"Wait a minute," he said sharply, suspecting he might have strayed into a 
private feud. "If you've got something against Nadia"
"McGill, I'm not saying anything against Nadia." She paused for a breath, and 
scanned his face. "I'm saying that the whole scene felt like an excuse for 
something totally different I couldn't probe herI mean, I could have, but I 
wouldn't. I won't, you know that; it's wrong to probe without permission, except 
in emergencies but are you in trouble or anything?"
That took him aback. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
"No, not that I, ah not that I know of." Gently, he twirled the paper question 
mark. "Why?"
"I mean like, are you having trouble on the job or anything?"
"Monitor my answer." He touched her fingers with the tips of his own. "No. I am 
not in any kind of trouble. I'm not having any trouble on the job, or" He 
didn't want to continue, but she would sense the reservation and doubt him if he 
didn't. "or anywhere but in my social life."
"Your social life?" She smiled.
"I mean," he said hastily, "it's not an easy jobat the end of the day I'm 
exhausted, and grumpy, and always frustrated, you know? To be stuck here sending 
other people to places I'd like to visit myself of course, the worst part is 
the boredom."
"You, too?" she asked softly.
"Oh, Lord. VisualizeconcentrateholdknowFling adjust" He drained his 
coffee, ordered another cup from the table, and pushed his thumb into the charge 
box. It prickled; the vulture wobbled. Then he remembered his manners. "Would 
you like some more?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine." She rested her chin on her clasped hands. "I wish I 
could travel the job isn't what you expected?"
"Oh, no way." Stirring in sugar, he said, "I figured, hell, it's a high paying 
job, classy uniform" He brushed the glowing fields of his tunic with his 
knuckles. "tremendous prestige, I figured, it had to be perfect. And I've got a 
need to Fling, too, you know? The Talent wants to be used; it insists on it. I 
take a day or two off, this incredible pressure builds inside, and only Flinging 
can bleed it away but nobody ever told me how boring it would be. Even a bus 
driver can look out the window and see the scenery changeme, I'm stuck in a 
tiny white cubicle all day long, concentrating on pictures in my head." Glum, he 
licked the spoon. "You have the same problem?"
"You know it." Her shoulders drooped.
"But telepathy"
"Can be a real kick, if you misuse it, but that's immoral. I refuse. And that's 
more than ethics, it's survival, too. Once a month, maybe, I probefor a couple 
of seconds. The rest of the time, I just sit there waiting for speech not to 
match feelings and let me tell you, McGill, you think Flinging is boring? At 
least it's activemy job is 99.9% passive." She took another napkin and creased 
it into an upright Y. "A tuning fork, that's all I am. It's making me wealthy, 
but God, it's boring."
"Your days last forever?"
"Owwlonger."
"Your free time?"
She snapped her fingers.
"Me, too." He sipped at the sugary coffee, and marveled again that he felt so 
much more comfortable with Maccari than with Liang. It's their looks, he 
thought. Nadia's gorgeous, so she's got all those guys waiting, and you've got 
to compete. But with Gina, you don't have to try so hard.. .the thought twisted 
away and he was too at his ease to pursue it. "What was that you said about 
survival?"
"Pardon?"
"You just said, ah, not ethics but survival. What'd you mean?"
"Oh." Her fourth napkin of the afternoon puffed into an acorn. "Every Talent has 
its anti-Talent. You Flingers have your Anchors; we have our Amps."
Since an Anchor immobilized a Flinger, he said, "They garble thoughts or 
something?"
"It's short for Amplifiers." In front of the charge box, beneath the vulture's 
laugh, she arrayed her three napkin sculptures: the tuning fork, the acorn, and 
the question mark. "See, some people, they think so loudly that probing them is 
like switching on a one hundred decibel noise source. If you monitor them for a 
while before you go in, you sense it, so you can put on 'mental earplugs'but if 
you just sneak in quick, like a lot of Minders do" She shrugged. "Some days you 
can get out in time; others you overload. They say it's like having your brain 
burn downbut the fire, the pain, it never dies out. Just keeps on burning. 
People it happens to most go crazy on the spot. The rest kill themselves." She 
looked up. He sensed that she saw, not him, but lost friends. "One Minder in 
three overloads, sooner or later."
"Jesus," he breathed. "That's why you're careful, huh?"
"That's the physical reason why." She glanced at the time numerals on the far 
wall. "I should get home, start dinner."
It was a perfect opening for him to dart through: "How'd you like to go out for 
dinner?"
"With you?"
That startled himand hurt. He couldn't keep it off his face.
"Dammit," she said. "That came out wrong. McGill, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it 
the way it sounded. What I meant was" She opened her mouth then closed it, 
thought a moment, and tried again. "I was surprised that you asked me instead of 
Nadia."
"Was I that obvious?" He was tempted to Fling away.
"Let's say you could use more practice." She touched his hand. "Look, I'm a 
Minderand when someone's as conscious of what he's thinking as you were in her 
office, it's like he's talking out loud. Your thoughts are shouting at me and I 
can't help but hear. Like right nowyou're wishing you could melt into a puddle 
and let the sun dry you up."
"But I like you, too" It sounded lame; he could have kicked himself. "I mean"
"I know what you mean." She chuckled, and patted his wrist. "Really."
"Well" The atmosphere had changeda new tension charged itbut still he wanted 
to be with her. "Will you go out with me?"
She nodded to the origami works beneath the vulture. "Read the rebus; there's my 
answer."
He frowned. "Tuning fork, acorn, question mark this is definitely unfair, you 
know, giving me a riddle instead of a reply tuning Oh! 'Y nut?' " He grinned, 
and relaxed. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"What kind of food do you like?"
"Chinese?"
"Great. Stand up and hold your hat." Rising, he closed his eyes
*PING*
They stood on a glossy parquet floor. "Hong Kong." He smiled. "I own a small 
condo here."
"Eerie." She shook her head to clear it. "But great! First time I've ever Flung 
I thought after a hard day's work you were bored with Flinging."
"Not when I'm traveling myself." He led her into the corridor. "There's a superb 
restaurant just up the hill, you'll love it."
"But" She stopped, and her face opened into an expression of awe. "God, the 
space this gives you!"
"Flinging's the freest prison going." Elevators and halls emptied them into a 
crowded, noisy street. It was six in the morning, Hong Kong time, and the 
towering buildings of Victoria blocked the dawn sun, but no one seemed to 
notice. Energy throbbed in the air; vitality and eagerness pulsed loud. He took 
her arm. They climbed the sloping sidewalk, and the crowds swirled open to let 
them pass through. Cars beeped, then hissed off on cushions of air; children 
chattered their ways to school. The sea scented the street. "Here it is," he 
said, gesturing to a dirty, cracked door with three ideograms on it.
"Are they open this early?"
"Twenty-four hours a day." He held the door for her, then followed her in.
A beaming maitre d' in a white coat approached, a sheaf of menus in his arm. 
"Mr. Feighan," he said, in a flawless Oxford accent. "How very good to see you 
again." He bowed slightly.
"Mr. Li," he said, returning the bow, "this is Ms. Maccari."
This bow dipped deeper. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Maccari. 
Please." He gestured to the interior. "The usual?"
"Gina," asked Feighan, "how'd you like to picnic on the Great Wall of China?"
She seemed bewildered and enchanted both. "I'd love it!"
"Let's do that today, Mr. Li."
"Very good, sir. This way, please." He motioned them down a narrow, 
mahogany-paneled corridor, the fourth door of which opened inwards.
Maccari entered first. "McGill!" She spun round and around; her eyes got bigger 
and bigger.
He stepped onto the ancient stones and looked north, into Mongolia. The blue and 
cloudless sky hummed with clarity, like lightly tapped crystal. A gentle breeze 
blew across their faces, rippling the cloth on their picnic table. In the 
distance circled a hawk, but nowhere else did anything move. "You like?"
"It's fantastic!" She turned again slowly, looking at everything. "But how?"
"Holograms, fans, some mild hypno-sonics" He pointed to a white line on the 
stones. "Don't cross that, though, 'cause you'll run into a wall of the room, 
and that will spoil the whole effect."
She laughed, and sat at the table. "One question."
"Sure." He sat across from her. The tablecloth went transparent so they could 
read the menu that glowed below. He pressed the green button for tea. "What?"
"Doesn't the NAC frown on unauthorized Flinging?"
"Yeah, but they don't check up on us." They don't have to, he thought. The 
rest're so brainwashed they'd never dream of a personal Fling Remembering he 
sat across from a telepath, he brought up their full teacups and tried to blank 
his mind. "Of course, if somebody reported me"
"Hey!" Her dark eyebrows drew together. "What do you think I am?"
"Sorry they have these rules and regulations, telling us how we can use our 
Talents and how we can't, but Jesus, it's mine, not theirs." For the second time 
that day, he felt obliged to define for another a truth which he'd been content 
to leave as a feeling. "Look, this this power isn't a tool the NAC owns but 
pays me to use. And it's not a possession I can lay on a shelf when my shift is 
over, like a computer. It's mine like my arm is mine, you know? More sothe 
Talent is such an essential part of what I am that you couldn't take it away 
without destroying me." He thought he saw sympathy in her eyes, and felt better. 
"You do know what I mean, don't you."
She nodded. "I have a Talent, too, remember?"
"Yeah" The scent of jasmine rose from his cup, but the tea was still too hot. 
"The way it is with me, I respect myself, and want to keep it that way. I don't 
plan to misuse my power I mean, what I want is to use it as a 'force for good,' 
naive and idealistic as that sounds but since this is me we're talking about, 
since the Talent is inherent in me and not in the NAC, I will be the judge of 
'good' and 'bad' usesnot the NAC. Whew!" He slumped in his chair. "Sorry about 
the sermon; it sort of got away from me."
"That's okay, McGill." She touched the back of his knuckles. "Believe me, I know 
just how you feelsay" She tapped her foot on the stones of the Wall. "Why an 
illusion instead of the real thing? You could have Flung us there, right?"
"Oh, yeah, no problem. Just that the real one's unbelievably crowdedand the 
restaurants are lousy." Anxiously, he looked from the holo-scenes to her face. 
"If you'd rather go there, though, I can"
"No, McGill, this is fine." She turned her head slowly, and her eyes circled 
with the hawk. "I take it back. It's wonderful. And I'm starving."
 
They couldn't finish the shark's fin soup, not after four plates of dim sum and 
a heaping platter of beef lo mein. He offered her the last fried prawn, but she 
shook her head. "I'd explode," she said. "And isn't it getting sort of late?"
"Oh." He hated to see the evening end. "Would you like to leave?"
"Please."
He needed to see a place before he could Fling to it, so since he'd never 
visited her apartmenthe had to teleport them to an intersection he knew nearby. 
A wind chilled the New York night, and scuffed their feet with candy wrappers. 
"McGill," she said, as they walked to her building's door, "remind me never to 
go to dinner with you again."
"Why?" he asked, trying to conceal his hurt.
"Hey, I was teasing! I was going to say, I'll have to diet for a week, just to 
take off what tonight put on." She slipped her hand into his. "It was a lovely, 
scrumptious feast, and I enjoyed it thoroughly."
The switch from depression to elation left him dizzy. "I'm I'm glad. I had a 
good time, too."
"I know." She winced. The words had obviously slipped out.
"I'm thinking that loudly?"
She pushed back her hair. "That, and" She exhaled noisily. "This is tricky to 
explain. I haven't been snooping, but I don't know how it is with Flingers, but 
with Minders, tension triggers the Talent You too, huh? Why'm I tense?" She 
laughed, with a catch and a quiver. "I'm attracted to you. I like you, but 
you're not sure about this aspect of me, and you're getting more unsure by the 
minute. So I'm nervous, and you're nervous about me so you think more loudly and 
my Talent reacts and maybe the best way to put it is, the feedback cycles make 
me more attuned to you. You come through more clearly. Like right now. You're 
scared. So'm I, sorta. But you're standing here on this sidewalk trying not to 
wish you knew what to do, not to hope I'll ask you up, not to wonder how to get 
me to invite you without being crude about itnot even in your mind because you 
know I hear younot to get a hard-on because you're afraid that'll show, too" A 
taxi whistled past, leaking air through a torn skirt.
Numbed by his openness to her, he stood like a statue, unable to answer.
"Well, I'm standing here deciding I want you and wondering if you smell me and 
if you do, do I smell bad?" She opened the door. "Come up for a drink."
In the elevator he triedquietlyto think of something to say, and
Gina broke in: "You don't need to scrabble around for some way to impress me. 
I'm already impressed. Don't worry." The elevator stopped, and she strode out, 
calling him to follow with a toss of her head. "And stop worrying about should 
you try to kiss meI do expect it; I'm in my twenties and it won't put me off, 
even if this is our first date listen to me jabber." The lock on her apartment 
read her thumbprint and hummed a moment.
He stood behind her. A wisp of perfume floated up; he inhaled deeply. .
"I'm glad you like it," she said, as the door opened itself. "And look, if it's 
any consolation, your nearness disturbs me, so we're evenI'm sorry to keep 
picking the thoughts out of your head like that, but I'm reading you so clearly 
I wouldn't feel right if I didn't tell you what I knewand just to keep things 
balanced," she added, flicking on the light, "I'm being painfully honest and 
open about what I'm feeling, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Uh-huh." He stepped into the low-ceilinged living room with its bookshelf walls 
and deep soft couch. His arms felt stiff and awkward, like they had forgotten 
how to hang naturally.
"You're really scared," she said, peering straight into his eyes. "Relax, I 
won't bite sure, it's the telepathy, my hitting you with it like this, you feel 
naked with nowhere to run. Look, if you'd rather call it a night, I wouldn't be 
hurt, really. I understand how you're feeling."
He shook his head, but couldn't get his throat to cooperate.
She came up very close to him, and slipped her arms around his waist. "It's 
okay," she whispered, "relax don't worry that it's your first kiss, I won't 
hold it against you." She giggled. "I'll hold me against you hey, you're 
shaking inside and out, you're more scared than before relax, no matter what 
you think, I won't get mad or disgusted and no, I don't think you're dumb or 
naive or any of that." She tilted her face up, and swiftly, gently, brushed her 
lips against his. "See, that wasn't so bad. I liked it, and you did too, even if 
your knees did wobble I'm sorry I frighten you, and I don't care that those 
wild fantasies are flitting through your mind oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, but don't 
be ashamed, I have my own and besides, yours are going by too quick to 
comprehend" Cupping her hand behind his head, she pulled his mouth down for a 
long and lingering kiss.
Blinking, he swallowed hard, but still could not talk. His knees felt ready to 
give way. He had to hug her tightly to keep his hands from quivering.
"I terrify you, don't I? I'm sorry. If you'd like to leave of course I'm not 
asking you to, I want you, don't you know that? No, I don't finish up every date 
this way again no, I'm not a virgindon't be silly, why should I look down on 
you for that? Kiss me again, and re-la-a-ax," she breathed. As she raised her 
face to his, her right hand moved to the front of his pants and touched him, 
then began to rub. He tensed in her arms. She whispered, "Don't worry, don't" 
but at the last instant shouted, "Don't you DARE" 
*PI
"FLING US"
"Oh, Jesus!" he wailed.
NG*
While he trod waterdark, cold waterhe called, "Gina?"
"FEIGHAN!WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO
ME?"
Hating himself, he swam towards her. "I'm coming."
"WHERE ARE WE?"
"Ah" He sputtered on a mouthful of salty water. " Long Island Sound, I think"
 
Milford Hommroummy stroked the cat in his lap. A woman's voice came from the 
telephone amplifier: "The fish are running."
"Bait the hook and troll," he said. "But do not try to land it. Not yet. Let the 
line run freelet the hook sink deep."
The woman sounded hesitant when she said: "Perhaps another lure?"
"Ah? Then you prefer to work off your, ahm, debt at the house in Marseilles, 
then."
"No!" After a silence she said, "I'll I'll do it."
"I rather thought you would." He flicked a switch and dismissed her.
Chapter III
 ^ 


"You've got to be kidding!" said Greystein the next morning, as the two walked 
the white corridors to their Flinger Rooms.
"Double fumbles I don't kid about." He wore glumness like a yoke; even his tunic 
was subdued. "Bad enough I klutzed up socially, but Jesus, to do it 
professionally, too warn me if you see Gina coming; I can't face her."
"What did you do then?" He paused at his door.
Feighan scrunched his shoulders, embarrassed by the memory. "I Flung us back to 
her place, apologized maybe a million times, dripped all over her rugs, then got 
out of there before I could screw anything else up. What would you have done?"
Tapping his forefinger against his front teeth, Greystein gave that question his 
full attention. "Was she mad?" he asked at last.
"For a genius you ask real dumb questions."
"Flowers," said the other abruptly. "Tons of flowers, with a very small note 
saying, 'Mea culpa.' "
"Huh?"
"Mea culpait's Latinmeans, uh 'it's all my fault.' "
Four musical notes chimed in the hallway. Through his depression, like wind 
through a screen, Feighan's Talent pushed to be used. "I better go," he said.
"Don't forget the flowers," called Greystein.
"She'd probably burn 'em." The door thunked shut behind him.
The cubicle was small and sterile white. The NAC said the color reduced the risk 
of distraction; the Flingers claimed the NAC Supply Officer had no 
imaginationand a brother in the paint business. Feighan himself thought a 
jealous environmental psychologist had helped design the building: only someone 
who hated teleports could have condemned them to such an Arctic ambience.
One step took him to the desk by the window overlooking the Fling Booth. He sat, 
and gazed down into a similar but larger chamber, where a red box rode a massive 
crate across the tiles. It floated to a halt in the mathematical center of the 
room. The magnetic pallet beneath them tilted one end to dump its load, then 
rose and glided out the freight door to the right. The left-hand door opened to 
admit two women, each slinging an oxygen mask and a mini-tank over her shoulder. 
Their heels rang on the floor as they walked to the crate. The thinner woman, a 
foreshortened blonde with thigh-boots, waved at Feighan. The microphone picked 
up her voice: "We're ready."
He activated his own mike. "Sit on the crate, please."
They obeyed.
The computer screen that formed his desktop flashed, "921."
"Ladies, you're three kilos overweight."
The taller raised her dark head. "We weighed in at 911 this morning."
He checked his screen. "You're sharing your Fling with ten kilos of tea," he 
said, "and you have" He asked the machine for the countdown. "one hundred 
twenty-three seconds to make adjustments."
"But we booked"
"Ladies, McDougel Imports and Exports has a daily contract. They get priority, 
as I'm sure you were told when you made your reservations. Now, you gonna dump 
the excess baggage, or miss your chance to go to" The upper left of the screen 
greenlettered their destination. "Delurc?"
"But"
"One hundred five seconds left, and counting," he said, snapping off his mike. 
Gusts of need-to-Fling thrummed the kite-string of his self-restraint. He 
watched the digits dance towards zero.
Below, the two women gesticulated to each other and at him, then sat on the 
crate, tore off their boots, and threw them into the corner. The screen 
flickered: "919."
He went back on the air. "One more kilo, ladies."
"Dammit," said the blonde. Adding, "You owe me for this, Allie," she slipped out 
of her coat. "How's that?"
"917.9. Well done. Thirty seconds, mark!" He closed his eyes, visualized the 
Flop Booth on Delurc, and imagined the uncountable tons of water that pressed 
down on that Booth's roof. Good, he had it, it felt right keeping the image 
vibrant in his mind, he stared at the women and the boxes, checked the 
computer14 seconds stared and visualized and felt the way open up, knew how to 
send the one to the other, then 3, 2, I
*PING*
They vanished, but his duty endured. Still holding the images, he bled the 
momentum off the women and the cargo, dumping it all into the Energy Dimension, 
that glittery place that wasn't anywhere but paralleled everywhere, then drew 
from that dimension just enough impetus to match them with Delurc, so that when 
they materialized in that Booth ten dozen parsecs away, their velocity would be 
in all respects identical to that of the planet's surface. No muss, no fuss, no 
bother, he thought.
And opened his eyes. The countdown clock promised him 4:59 to rest until the 
next Fling; he punched a button and the screen gave him a crossword puzzle to 
take his mind off the remounting pressure.
On 8 Across the door opened. "Hello, McGill," said a throaty voice.
He spun "Nadia!" and leaped to his feet.
"I'm sorry to intrude on your this way"
"It's no intrusion, really, please, have a seat." Waving to his chair, he 
clenched his jaws to keep himself from babbling on.
"I can't interrupt your work," she said with mock severity. "I'm just looking 
for Gina."
He colored, and wondered if she knew. "I haven't seen her, ah today."
"Well, when you do"
"I don't think I will."
"Oh?" She studied him with open curiosity. "This evening, then?"
"No, I, ah" He shook his head and wished he weren't stumbling over his own 
tongue. "No."
"Poor Gina." She dazzled him with her smile, and made for the door. As it 
closed, she whispered, "And lucky me."
Couldn'ta been, he thought, resuming his seat and noting automatically that he 
had three minutes to the next Fling. Musta been something else. It was silly to 
think that Nadia Liang could have saiduh-uh. He fidgeted with his fingers: 
interlocking them, pulling on them, cracking his knuckles. But what if she did 
say it?
Though sure he had heard right, he couldn't convince himself that Liang had 
meant it the way it sounded. A woman wooed by holostars and politicians doesn't 
develop a sudden crush on a nineteen-year-old. It would worry him if she did, 
because he would suspect that she really wanted his Talent or his tunic. No, 
not thatGreystein said she's no teletagger, and he'd know did she why did 
she could she have meant Calling back the crossword puzzle, he ordered himself 
not to dream.
And promptly disobeyed himself
The breeze stroked the tree leaves, the light, bright leaves of spring. Sunlight 
washed the world with gold, and warmed them as they walked through a park that 
had no people, no borders. Her hand was firm and cool in his; it pulled him to a 
halt so she could raise her eyes and murmur, "I love you"
He shook himself back to reality and sent a pair of blue-shelled diplomats to 
Delurc. He'd been assigned that run for the whole week; each load he dispatched 
made him think, make a fortune there with my fantasies. The Delularge aquatic 
beings whose language no Terran had ever masteredcouldn't dream. Their brains 
could outcalculate anything going, could manipulate more variables than 
Greystein's favorite computer could even remember, but they had no souls. Or 
something. Probability theory they mastered before speech, but hunches came to 
them not at all. Emotions, yes; non sequiturs, no. Perhaps the most rigidly 
logical form of intelligence in the known Universe, they could not dream.
So they bought dreams, instead.
Yeah, thought Feighan, I could really clean up with these
The first four-hour shift of the day continued in that slow, halting vein. He 
was eager to leave, to manufacture an excuse for running into Liang, but he had 
forty-eight Flings to make before his four-off, and the brass got upset over 
unFlung bookings. They had a point, of courseas they often did, since they in 
their own human ways were nearly as logical as the Delu. The Flinger Network 
held a mortgage on Earth. When the FNC had "discovered" the planet and 
incorporated it into the Network, it had charged five billion Flinger Network 
Credits for the privilege: it had to recoup its exploration costs somehow. It 
then loaned Earth another billion FNC's to cover the initial payments on the 
loan.
To repay it, the eight consortia of the world had FNC permission to charge up to 
50 FNC'sroughly $750 USa Fling, destination irrelevant. They operated on a 
very thin profit margin, which accounted for their irritation when a Flinger 
didn't do his full ninety-six Flings nine days out of ten.
So Feighan, though he ached to be elsewhere, had to stay on duty for the entire 
four hours, and teleport loads to Delurc every five minutes. It bored hell out 
of him, though as the shift wore on it did diminish the constant pressure of a 
Talent that, like a beaver's teeth, had to be worn down frequently to remain 
manageable. Having to return from his four-off without having seen Liang didn't 
improve his mood any, either.
I could take it easier if the damn NAC didn't spend so much money, he thought. 
But no, they gotta have wall-to-wall carpeting, and deputies to the assistants 
to the undersecretaries big ol' bureaucracy developing there, and we gotta earn 
the money to pay for it.
At last he was done for the day. Rising with a yawn, he stretched, and 
considered strolling down to Liang's office. Lessee, I could say I was, ah, 
looking forno, what about, ah, checking to see if the files have my address 
right but he couldn't imagine a likely sounding excuse. Nor could he just walk 
in and say hi; that would be too admit it; it's too scary.
He stepped into the corridor, leaned against the wall, and nodded to his relief 
when she arrived. A thin, fluttery woman who bore sixty-some years with an 
eternal air of preoccupation, she nodded back and slipped inside without a word.
Alone, though public, he smiled. Funny. I spend nineteen years figuring out how 
to deal with the fear of people who were trying to hurt me, and I learn how, and 
I could go up against The Organization tomorrow and not be afraid, but when it 
comes to something I want An image of fawn-dark eyes flooded through him, 
racing his pulse and tightening his throat. then I'm so scared I can't talk 
straight better go home.
*PING*
"Greystein!" He hopped off the Flop Table. "Grey"
"He's out for the evening," said a familiar husky voice.
He wobbled, then caught himself and turned, stiff with injured dignity. Someone 
was pulling his No! There on the onyx force couch sat Nadia Liang, smooth legs 
crossed and a smile on her oval face. His savoir faire lost itself in fog, a 
victim of panic's amnesia. "N-Nadia," he croaked.
"Your roommate let me in before he left; he also cleared me withOscar, is it?" 
She extended an alabaster hand. "It's nice to see you, too."
His Talent tensed for a Fling farther, wilder, than the one the night before; he 
sensed it, and fought to reassert his mastery. Never again, he told it. Once is 
an accident; twice is self-sabotage. It resisted briefly before subsiding to 
quease-making billows.
Then he took the hand, unsure of whether to shake it or kiss it. She solved the 
problem by clasping his wrist and hauling herself to her feet. "I'm sorry," he 
said. "I"
"That's all right." She smoothed her dress across her hips. Cut of iridescent 
flo-silk, a gossamer from Querithag VIII, it invited stares of admiration in a 
quiet, well-bred manner. Slit to mid-thigh and plunging at the neckline, it 
glittered like Feighan's tunic, and interfered with his breathing.
"Ah" He looked down at her from his meter-point-nine, then pulled his gaze away 
from her cleavage. She stood too close. The scent of her reddish brown hair 
numbed him. He didn't know how to deal with her. "Ah would you like a drink?"
Her eyes fastened on his. "Later." Her hands ran over his shoulders and behind 
his neck. Pressing against him, she lifted her face. "Kiss me," she whispered.
Talent firmly tethered, he exhaled his tension. Her lips warmed his; her tongue 
eased between them; her breath brushed his cheek. I don't believe this! It felt 
so good to hold her that he swore to himself he'd never let go. Yet it couldn't 
be happeningshe'd turned down millionaires, Governors, Senatorsher breasts 
pushed on his chest and the fog drifted back to his brain. He couldn't 
understandit didn't make sensehe had to ask why she had settled on him. And he 
would. Just as soon as they finished
When they broke for breath, he murmured, "Nadia, tell me"
The doorbell rang.
"Oh, no!" She pulled away with a grace that doubled his desire for her. "Don't 
invite them in, McGill. Say you're contagious, leaving, anything. For me?"
He had to steady himself before he could find his voice. "Sure." He stepped 
across the room, feet sinking into the plush carpet. "And if they won't go, 
I'll, ah, help them along."
"Good man," she purred.
He thumbed open the door and leaned against the jamb. On the other side stood a 
plump, black-haired woman with wrinkled eyes and a pursed mouth. "Yes?"
"McGill Feighan?"
"Yes."
She flashed a badge. "Iona T. Reed, US Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs." 
She lowered her head, ducked under his shoulder, and entered the apartment. "I 
have it on good authority that you're harboring an eetie here."
Flabbergasted, he said, "Me?" His concentration had focused in such a different 
direction that the copper-haired woman's question provoked only bafflement. He 
flapped his hand at Liang. "Just her, and she's, I mean, does she look"
"An egg." Reed triggered her comp-clip and read the words on its smooth face: "A 
Rhanghan" She pronounced it Rangun. "egg, from Throngorn II." Shutting off the 
clipboard, she said, "Well?"
"Oh, that." The confusion cleared away and he relaxed. Embarrassed by his own 
incomprehension, yet amused, too, he gave a short, sharp laugh. "Yes, I do." He 
gestured to the bedroom. "In there. It's a present from"
"You will have to surrender it." Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she dusted 
off her hands. "Bring it here."
"Surrender it?" He cocked his head while he stared at her impassive features. 
"Why?"
"It is the law. USDEA Regulation Num"
"You've got no right." He squared his shoulders.
"She does, McGill," said Liang.
He whirled. "Why? Sahaang gave me the egg herselfit's her child, not the 
government's, and if she wants"
Liang's upheld hand gradually silenced him. "I'm sure that on her planet it's 
perfectly legal. You're on Earth, though, remember? If the government's banned 
the importation of these animals for ecological reasons"
"Animals?" He took a step toward her. "Nadia, the Rhanghan are intelligent 
beingswe have diplomatic relations with them!"
Her brows lifted. "Oh. I hadn't realized. That does make a differencedoes it 
not, Reed?"
The Amerind shook her head. "Not to me. The law says no American shall possess 
an extraterrestrial life form. He does. Therefore, I confiscate it in the name 
of the USDEA."
"But I don't own it!" He raised his arms high in frustration. He wanted to grab 
the ceiling and pull it down on Reed's stupid head. "I'm like like a guardian, 
a foster father, not an owner."
"Oh?" One obsidian eye unslitted fractionally. "Let me see the papers."
"What papers?"
"The adoption papers, duly certified by the appropriate Probate Court." At 
Feighan's dismay, she released a very small smile. "You don't have them?"
"No, I've never"
"Then surrender the egg."
"But"
Liang broke in: "Let me handle this." Patting Feighan on the shoulder, she 
nudged him towards a chair. "Sit down, relax." Then she confronted Reed. "My 
name is Nadia Liang, Administrative Assistant to the Director of the North 
American Consortium. I fully understand that you are doing your duty as you 
perceive it, and honestly, I don't blame you in the least. Here, however, we 
have a special situation. Mr. Feighan was granted custody of the egg by its 
parent"
"Ms. Liang, I must impound it!" She slapped her clipboard angrily. "Now!"
Liang's ivory cheeks froze, and her eyes sparked. "Ms. Reed," she said, as 
smoothly as a dagger slices flesh, "depending on your behavior tonight, you will 
find on your desk tomorrow morning either a waiver of this regulation for Mr. 
Feighanduly authorized by your superiors, all of themor you will find your 
dismissal notice."
Reed's jaw hardened. "You could not"
"I can guarantee that no USDEA representative will be Flung anywhere at all if 
you persist, and I think your superiors will believe me."
"But"
"Postpone the seizure until morning. Play it safe, Ms. Reed."
The bureaucrat scratched the surface of her comp-clip while she thought. "He 
could move it tonight," she said.
"Seal the roomif it's broken when you return" She shrugged.
Reed's grudging nod set her black hair to swinging back and forth. "Very well," 
she said, "but I want his word that he will not remove the egg from my 
jurisdiction."
Liang turned to the Flinger. "McGill?"
As if in a dream, he heard himself say, "Oh, sure. We'll leave it." He watched 
them cross to the door and affix a self-sticking computer chip to the jamb. He 
wanted very much to laughto point out that he and Greystein could enter the 
bedroom without disturbing the seal in the slightestbut he decided not to 
antagonize the government woman any more than he already had. He sat immobile 
until she'd left, then rose. "Thanks, Nadia." He stepped towards her, and opened 
his arms. "Now, where were"
"Sorry, McGill." She side-stepped his hug. "Pulling strings without making 
enemies is a time-consuming art, and I must start now." She touched his cheek. 
"Don't worry that you'll lose the egg, though. Everything will work out for the 
best." She picked her coat off the sofa, and draped it over her shoulders. 
"Could you Fling me back to my office?"
He tried to master his disappointment. "Sure." Through waves of hurt that he 
knew to be immature, but couldn't suppress, he 
concentratedvisualizedfeltknew
*PING*
And he was alone, scuffing the carpet. "Damn her!" He was not sure to which 
woman he referred. The quiet apartment swallowed his curse; its stillness 
intensified his loneliness. "And I never got a chance to ask" He dropped into 
his chair, and kicked moodily at the coffee table until he finally fell asleep.
 
At nine o'clock the next morning, Reed arrivedtore the seal off the bedroom 
doorand stomped away, all without a word.
At ten, the egg began to hatch.
 
"Neat!" he marveled to Greystein.
Their heads almost touched as they stared through the glass wall of the 
incubator. Beyond their reflections rocked the egg. No longer a perfect ovoid, 
it deformed and distorted in response to the struggles of the creature within. 
One minute it stood cylindrical; the next, it flattened into a thick pancake.
"It is," murmured his roommate, "truly one of the most fascinating sights it's 
ever been my fortune to observe. I've seen chickens hatch, and tadpoles, and 
snakes, and once even an alligator, but never have I witnessed the birth of an 
alien-American."
The computer's peripherals amplified a sound like rubber ripping. A minute hole 
appeared in the shell, and through it poked a tiny clawpoint. "It's coming!" 
said Feighan.
"What are you betting, boy or girl?"
Taken aback, he blinked. "I you know, I never stopped to wonder." He realized 
then that what he'd been hoping for was Sahaang herself, with all her wisdom and 
humor. He shook his head at his own naivet. Then, slapping his knee, he 
chuckled. "You know something else? I'll have no way of telling which it is."
An entire foot tore through the shell, and dangled limply, wetly, in the open.
Greystein stood. "Take it to Sahaang; she'll know. I better goit's supposed to 
imprint you, not me. You're positive it can eat worms?"
"Sahaang said it can, and I ate the food there without any trouble."
"Why is that?"
"Greystein, I don't knowit's bound to happen once in a while, I supposebut 
right now I have other things to worry about."
"I better go."
"Going to watch on the monitor?"
"You think I'd miss something like this?"
He laughed again, a victim of irrepressible good spirits, but couldn't peel his 
gaze from the hatching egg. "I'll see you later, then."
"Uh-huh." The door hissed shut.
Everything began to happen quickly. Another foot crowded through the opening, 
widening it slightly, so a third could fit in, then a fourth. The speakers 
*br-r-ripped!* as two hands appeared. They strained, and separated, and a 
toothy, triangular snout emerged. It yawned and hissed, then with a shimmery 
slither the entire infant wriggled out of the limp shell, and rolled its 
half-meter length on the floor of the incubator. Except that it lay on its back, 
it reminded Feighan of a cat stretching. Its tail whisked from side to side, 
curling a bit at the tip. Its tiny scales glistened with newness and with 
perfection.
"Hi," whispered the Flinger, tugging a worm out of the box on the table. His 
breath fogged the incubator's glass.
The Rhanghan flipped right side up with a dexterity remarkable in one so newly 
born. Tail whipping, it turned to face Feighan.
Thirty-three of its fifty centimeters paralleled the ground, from the tip of its 
barbed tail to just forward of its stubby front legs. Then its body curved 
upwards, through a stomach plate that would harden into armor with age, past a 
scaly torso that would broaden as its muscles grew, to the flat slab of bone 
that crowned its head. Close-spaced teeth clicked and gleamed like bayonets on 
parade. Nictitating membranes traversed its green eyes. Six fingers flexed on 
each miniature hand. Fins flopped down its backbone, from its shoulders to its 
restless tailin time they would stiffen into knife-blades. Its tongue flicked 
the air boldly: despite ten thousand generations of sapience, the Rhanghan had 
lost none of their predatory instincts. They emerged from their shells agile 
enough to fight, and hungry enough to kill.
Feighan undogged the front panel of the incubator. Saurian eyes followed his 
every move, and seemed, impossibly, to understand what they saw.
"Pleased to meet you," he said, reaching in to offer a wriggling worm.
It hissed.
"Now, now."
It snapped up the night crawler, and swallowed it whole.
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" He slid his left hand under its belly and 
grasped its torso with his right. Then he lifted it "You must weigh five kilos, 
kid" and, ignoring its waving feet, brought it close to his face so it could 
imprint him, so it would know him as its "parent" for ever after.
"Hi," he breathed.
It nipped his nose.
Greystein's delighted laughter cut through the wall.
"Ow!" Holding the child at arm's length while he rubbed his nose on his biceps, 
he said, "Sahaang never said you'd do that, kid. What's the matter with you?"
Its feet stopped waving. Bending forward, it wrapped its arms about his wrist, 
and laid its snout along his forearm. Despite its awkward posture, it seemed 
blissfully content. Slowly, all its eyelids closed.
The door opened. Greystein came in, still chuckling. "How's your proboscis?"
"More prominent than ever, thanks." He rubbed it again. "Is it bleeding?"
"No." Staying carefully out of range, he peered at the baby Rhanghan. "Cute 
little thingor ugly, depending on your frame of reference, I suppose, but to my 
eyes, it's beautiful."
"To mine too." He stroked the infant's neck with a fingertip.
"So you're off to Throngorn?"
"That I am."
Greystein stepped backhis Talent would feel a pull when Feighan Flung himself, 
a pull that lessened in proportion to the distance between them. "Remember, your 
shift starts in two hours. And don't forget the cigars!"
"With friends like you, how could I?" He winked, brought the sleeping infant 
close to his chest, and
*PING*
and stood in a stone-walled lobby whose flat ceilings hung four meters above 
the floor. He headed toward the far end, toward a heavy wooden door further 
laden with intricate intertwinings of bas-relief. Shouldering it open, he 
stepped into a long, wide corridor whose distant end cupped pale light. He took 
care to tromp his heels on the stone floorboth of Throngorn's intelligent 
species had martial habits, quick reactions, and a distaste for intruders.
The corridor let into the Flinger Building's dining room; before entering, 
Feighan checked his tunic. It sparkled as it reflected his joy. Cradling the 
baby in his left arm, he held up his right hand, palm open. Then, slowly, he 
stepped inside.
Eight heads snapped about to stare at him. Five were reptilian; three, big-eared 
mammalian. Every Flinger present wore an oversized automatic pistol.
"Greetings," Feighan called out.
One of the mammals unfolded himself from his chair. Just over three meters tall, 
he had hairy arms that dangled almost to his knees. Fur covered his broad chest. 
His chocolate eyes echoed the hugeness of his pink-lined ears; protruding from 
his back were furled "wings" which, outstretched, would each measure four or 
five square meters. The mammalsthe Timiliused them as natural capes in winter. 
"Greetings, Guildsbrother," he said. "You honor this ramshackle hut with your 
presence. How may we serve?"
Feighan let out his breath. With a slight bow, he completed the ritual: "This 
great mansion honors me by offering me its hospitality. Nojono!"
The other broke into an ear-waggling grin. "Sun Spearer!" he bellowed. "Or shall 
we call you McGill Feighan?"
"Whichever comes more naturally to the tongue, my friend." On his last visit, 
he'd used the alias "Sun Spearer" to hide himself from The Organization, but 
Sahaang had learned his true name. Apparently she'd told it to her co-director. 
"It is good to see you again, Nojono."
"No better than it is for us to see you, Sun Spearer." He peered closely at 
Feighan's burden. "What? Do they infest your world as well as ours?"
"It is Sahaang's child," he responded, "and it is she whom I've come to see." He 
always succumbed to the formal cadences of Throngornian; it wasn't a language in 
which one could relax. "Does she stay in the Building?"
One Rhanghan slid away from the table on the other side of the room. Hissing, "I 
will fetch her, warmblood," it disappeared down another corridor.
Nojono studied the infant. "Never have I seen a baby lizard," he said. Hands on 
his knees, he stooped over, then grunted. "Just as gruesome as the old ones. Are 
you here to return it?"
"No." He was spared elaboration when the door swung in. "Ah! Sahaang."
"Sso, McGill," she rasped, approaching in the heavy-footed yet graceful manner 
of the Rhanghan female. "It has hatched."
He grinned in delight. "Yes! And that's why I've come. I, all" Suddenly 
embarrassed, he scratched his head with his free hand. "We were curious as to 
its sex."
Sahaang's magenta tongue whipped the air. "Let me examine it." Her six-fingered 
hands pried it off his forearm, then turned it belly-up and spread its hind 
legs. The child awoke. Its head swiveled to inspect the one who held it, but it 
lay still, as if it knew it was safe. "We are less exhibitionistic than you 
mammals," said Sahaang, in her deep gravelly voice. Her gentle fingers probed 
the infant's groin. "Aaah a son."
"Really? How can you" He choked the question off and flushed. "That's 
wonderful!" he said, recovering his poise and exuberance.
"Not necessarily," she retorted, handing him back the boy. "Males make better 
guardians, but they are more reluctant to attack than we females." Her eyelids 
slowly nictitated. "Fortunately for you, young warmblood, they tend to be 
slightly smaller, as well." She herself measured some four and a half meters 
from head to tail; the difference would mean less to Feighan than to her. "Sso," 
she said, "have you fulfilled your quest on Delurc?"
"Oh." Abruptly sober, he pursed his lips. "You hadn't heard, then."
"What?"
"The gastropod was not the Far Being's." Swiftly, he related the tale of its 
revelation and subsequent death. "There is no quest."
"You mammals." She waggled her snout from side to side. "Always so sure of 
yourselves. Be less so."
"Why?"
She scrutinized him for a long time before replying, "Each life is a quest, 
McGill F-feighan. Each being seeks something a prize, a peak, an answer. Your 
search is far from over."
"But"
"I am on duty; I must go." She whirled with surprising agility, then over her 
shoulder added, "May fortune be with you, McGill. Visit when you can." Tail 
swishing, she headed for her Booth.
Feighan watched her go, wondering what she knew that he didn'tand aware that 
she'd never tell him if she thought he should learn it on his own. It frustrated 
him, but he had learned to trust her.
"Will you stay for supper?" boomed a voice behind his back.
He turned. "Oh, Nojonoyou startled me. No, I'm sorry I would like to, very 
much, but I must report for work. However, I thank you." He bowed, and made 
ready to leave.
"You're certain," said the Timili, with a gesture to the baby, "that you don't 
want its neck wrung?"
"Positive." He smiled.
"Then here." Nojono thrust a fist-sized woven reed container at him. Inside 
something skittered and chirped like a cricket, or a katydid. "Genuine lizard 
food, lest it never know the tastes of Throngorn."
He took the box and concealed his astonishment. A Timili doing a favor for a 
Rhanghan? Then he remembered an autumn day in a chalk cliff cave when Sahaang 
had saved a Timili's life, and he bowed again. "Thank you."
"Cast safe," said Nojono, ambling back to his table.
*PING*
Expecting afternoon sun, he materialized in darkness. He tensed. The infant 
hissed. He scanned the room: his own bedside clock read 1:00 PM. Puzzled, he 
glanced toward the windowthen relaxed at its polarized opacity. Oscar must have 
glitched out again. With an amused snort, he reached an elbow for the light 
switch. He missed.
A voice, low and throaty, said, "Leave them off, McGill. Join me."
"N-Nadia?"
"It's not Iona T. Reed."
"No, no, I just where are you?"
"In bed. Waiting for you."
His blood boiled and froze in the same instant. Dizzy with surprise, he swayed 
and tried to speak. His throat constricted; his heart pounded; he opened and 
closed his mouth twice. Even his third try emerged inanely: "But I'm on duty in 
a few minutes." It sounded so teen-awkward that he was afraid she'd laugh.
She didn't. "I re-arranged your schedule, darling. You've got six hours. Now 
come here." Sheets rustled in the dark. A soft hand patted a pillow.
He snatched up his nerve before it could desert. "Nadia wh-why are you doing 
this? That's not a complaint," he said hastily, already terrified that he was 
fumbling away the person he most wanted to catch. "But for a year now we've only 
been nodding acquaintances, then all of a sudden we're I mean well, this." His 
arm fanned the darkness as he gestured to the bed. "I love it, but" He trailed 
off thinking, Jesus, I've screwed up again!
Yet her voice caressed him. "Too fast and too strong?"
He managed a wry, "Too unexpected."
"But I've wanted you since we met!"
The bug-cage *thunked* on the carpet.
"What was that?"
"Ah I dropped something." Please don't let her change her mind! "Since we met?"
"Yes, but all those guards and surveillance cameras, I just couldn't"
"I know exactly what you mean"
"But now I don't feel so you do understand, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Come here."
Anticipation weakened his kneesas did the fear he had yet to quell. This is 
crazy, my pulse musta hit 200 by now and I'm shaking all over... Carefully, he 
set the Rhanghan on his desk, then moved across the darkened room. Stumbling on 
a footstool, he threw out his hand to catch his balance. His fingers brushed the 
mattressand warm skin. Bare warm skin. God! His tunic flashed wildly, and 
splashed the spectrum across her smile.
"You're still dressed." Rolling to her knees, she reached for his belt.
"Well" He couldn't believe how good it felt to have her unzip his pants. When 
her knuckles grazed his stomach, he gasped, and half-giggled.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm t-t-ticklish." He wasn't. He was nervous. Yet he couldn't tell that to the 
night-draped woman whose breasts rounded out of shadows and who nibbled on her 
tongue while she eased his pants to his knees. He giggled again as her cool hand 
stroked the outside of his thigh.
"Do the rest yourself." She settled back and lay supine, one knee slightly bent. 
"Hurry!"
As he tore them off, his pants caught on his boot heels. "Damn." Blushing, he 
pulled off his boots and freed his legs and rolled toward her, wondering, What 
do I do, kiss her, I touch her I'm gonna bustforeplay, supposed to have 
foreplay, but I don't know how to do that so he wrapped her in his arms and 
kissed her. She kissed back with head and lips and tongue, with soft noises of 
pleasure and strong arms that held him close. His nervousness fell away, behind. 
Eagerness drove him now, eagerness and instinct and hunger.
She touched him. In sounds that weren't words she marveled at his manliness.
He touched her, and had never felt anything so good in all his life.
"OWWW!" She leaped to her feet and towered above him, a night-blurred pillar of 
ivory.
"God, I'm sorry!" He sat up. "What's the matter, what'd I do?" His face burned 
brighter than his tunic. He wanted to crawl into the closet, shut the door, and 
die there. Feighan, you fool! "Nadia, I'm sor"
"Something bit me!" Then, in a gentler voice, she said, "It wasn't you, 
McGillyou didn't do a thing wrongbut something bit me."
A warm scaliness nuzzled his arm. "I think I know what it was." Sighing, he 
picked up the Rhanghan.
"What?" She rubbed her backside.
The motion thrust into his face something he tried not to look at. Which he knew 
was silly, since he'd been about to but on the one hand he'd been raised not to 
look, and on the other he had probably ruined everything anyway, so he turned 
his head away and said, "The Rhanghan."
"The eetie bit me?" Her tone trembled with astonished outrage. "The eetie I 
saved from Reed?"
"Yeah I didn't put him away. Sorry." Dejected, he rose, and fumbled through the 
darkness; his tunic now shone as dimly as the clock face. Once he found the 
incubator, he detached the saurian from his forearm and slid him inside, saying, 
"In you go hush" as it hissed "can't go around biting people, so" He closed 
the panel and dogged it shut. "There. Done. Ah do you want first-aid spray or a 
bandage or anything?"
"No." And her voice, though briefly resentful, softened with forgiveness, 
lowered, invited: "Come. It's you I want."
His spirits soared; his tunic aurora'd. He bounded over and fell into her arms. 
Her lips burned away the last of his doubts, like the sun does morning fog. She 
moaned, and stroked him.
His blood surged. Exhilarated and hungry, he feasted on her warmth, her 
softness; she pulled his mouth back to hers and said, "Now."
Heartbeat thundering in his ears, he rolled atop her, careful of his weight. Her 
fingers, so cool and firm that they brought on shivers of delight, slid down his 
back, counting off his vertebrae. Then her hands cupped his cheeks and impelled 
him forward while she said, "Now, McGill, now!"
The excitement was more than he could bear. He felt one spasm of premonition 
"Oh, no" before, poised above her, he exploded. He could neither believe it nor 
control it. He spent his strength upon her belly and felt no pleasure, only 
shame. "Oh, Jesus, Nadia, I'm sorry, I"
She made a sound, then said, "That's all right. If you could get me a towel?"
"A towel? Sure, anything, just" He sat up; beneath him, the mattress shook. 
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No!" She giggled. "Yes, I'm laughing, but not at you, never at you." Sheets 
around her, she sat up, too. She hugged him, and rested her head on his bare 
shoulder. Her hair tickled his neck. "It's just that the whole universe seems to 
be coming between us: first the government interferes, then a baby lizard 
interrupts, and now the male physiology gets impatientI have to laugh, lover, 
because it keeps me from crying."
"Don't do that," he said anxiously. "I guess it is funny, sort of"
Her fingertip doodled on his hip. "We could try again." She let the last word 
rise in a half-lilt, half-question.
He squirmed. He trapped her hand under his, and held it. Far from rekindling his 
ardor, it had extinguished it. And that, too, made him feel less a man. "Ah, I 
don't know if, I mean I can't could we make it tomorrow night?"
"I don't know," she said slowly.
He listened to her voice for injured feelings, but heard none.
"I have about two weeks worth of paperwork to get done by Friday," she said. 
"Tell you what, you call me in the morning and we'll see what we can work out. 
Okay?" She kissed his ear, and rubbed her nose against his cheek. "We'll work 
something out. I promise."
He was relieved, but already scared: what if I do it again?
And as though she could read his mind, she said, "Listen, McGillwhat happened 
tonightdon't let it bother you. It happens once in a while. That's all there is 
to it. I don't think any less of you, and I don't want you to think I do. Okay?"
"Thank you," he said. "I love you."
"And I love you, McGill Feighandon't you forget it."
 
The chessboard on the disp-screen extended into three dimensions. Figures filled 
its squares, but Milford Hommroummy frowned. He touched his phone, and waited 
for his call to be answered.
"Yes?" said his agent.
"In regard to the fish"
"I told you not to call me at work."
His caterpillar eyebrows lifted. He said nothing. A silent minute passed.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I I spoke without thinking."
"Ah." He blinked. "A hooked fish must be landed carefully. Netting is preferable 
to gaffing, but netting requires peace, quiet, and privacy. Arrange a better 
location than New York. And do report soon." He touched his phone again, laced 
his fingers across his stomach, and moved a key piece on the board. "Yes," he 
murmured, "yes, that will do nicely."
Chapter IV
 ^ 


Seven mornings later, Oscar drew back the curtains. "Get up, Mr. Feighan," it 
said, depolarizing the windows. Morning sun flooded the room.
Lifting his head from the warmth of his pillow, he blinked. It's my day off, 
why
The speaker clanged like a dented cowbell. "Get up, Mr. Fei"
"Oscar, cue: shut up; do it now." Cocooned in sheets, he yawned, and scratched 
his nose. "Oscar, query: did I override today's SleepLate Program; answer it"
Then his memory cleared and he sat up straight. Outside, a Rehmal rode the 
thermals of the city; the guidebook it studied fluttered pages in the breeze. 
"Oscar, never mind; drop it now." For he had canceled the program that, one day 
in ten, let him reward himself with drowsy dawdling. And for a reason so good 
that he didn't want to waste a second more.
He bounced out of bed and strode for the bathroom. With hurried care he washed, 
smoothed medicine over a pimple, brushed his black hairthen, tugging on his 
clothes, he said, "Oscar, cue: pour one coffee, cream three sugars; plate two 
raspberry doughnuts; do it now."
"Yes, sir."
He entered the kitchen to a fanfare of chiming china. Taking the cup and saucer 
from the server, he sat by the transparent force table and flicked on the holo.
The theme music of his favorite advenchacom percolated out of the hidden 
speakers. A long-jawed face with lively blue eyes filled the north corner of the 
room: Aimer Chantscamp, hero of "Hub Sales, Inc." The camera pulled back to show 
him at his desk, placating a thin-necked Ookinza. The alien held in its 
feelerbeard the monogrammed keychip that opened Chantscamp's warehouse. Its 
voice bubbled like a waterpipe: "The keys in exchange for the coordinates."
"What coordinates?" said Feighan, wishing he hadn't lost track of the plot.
But he'd lost all track of everything, it seemed. Nadia Liang had occupied his 
entire weekbecause he couldn't see her even once. "I have ten megabytes of 
files to scan," she'd said over the phone, "so I'll talk to you later."
He'd thought she was putting him off, that he had offended her to the point 
where she wanted never to see him again. For most of the week he had brooded, 
agonized by longing and by self-loathing. Then she had called back, two nights 
earlier, and said, "I'm free for the weekend if?"
"I've got the day off and"
"Can you pick me up in my office at 8:30 that morning?"
"Can I ever!" And so for two days he had floated through joy and through dreams, 
dreams in which Nadia was more delighted than he that she had given him a second 
chance
Greystein's sleep-frizzed head came around the corner. "Hiya, McGill." He yawned 
so widely that his jaws cracked aloud. "If you're not watching that dim-witted 
travelogue, how about turning it off?" Tying his bathrobe with a tasseled blue 
sash, he trudged to the table and drew up a chair. "Up sort of early on your day 
off, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I am, but ah" He grinned. "I'm picking Nadia up in ten minutes; we're 
going to the Moon. Hunting star pearls." He swallowed the last doughnut chunk 
and licked his fingers.
Morning still reddened Greystein's eyes. "I wish you wouldn't call them star 
pearls; they're just obsidian drops, no stars involved in at all."
"I know that, but star pearls sound a lot more romantic than volcanic glass 
dropletscome on, Greystein, where's your spirit of enchantment?"
"I can't stand pre-dawn cheeriness."
"The sun's been up for hours!"
"Not in my room, it hasn't." He squinted at Feighan's coffee cup as if it were 
something new. "God, I hate mornings She's really got you, hasn't she?"
"Huh? What's the matter, you jealous? Oh. Can you babysit the Rhanghan today? 
There's a jar of Japanese beetles next to the incubator."
"Sure. But don't you think you ought to name him? He's what, a week old now?"
"Geez, has it been that long?" Briefly, guilt clouded his moodI shouldn't be 
neglecting the kid like thatbut as he ticked the days off on his fingers, he 
thought of where he'd be in just a few minutes, and gave way to a sheepish 
smile. "Yeah, it has beenjust I've been so busy"
Greystein raised his eyebrows.
"All right, distracted, then a name, how's 'Sam' strike you?"
"Sam?"
"Uh-huh."
"Kind of dull but it's not dumb, or cutesy, either."
"Then we'll go with that." He stood, and drained his cup. "Gotta Fling, my 
friend. Nadia awaits."
*PING*
"Good morning, McGill." She sat behind her desk, riffling through hardcopy 
printouts. She had said the screen strained her eyes. "Sorry, but the budget is 
taking a bit longer than I'd expected. I should be done in a moment, though."
"No rush." That he felt no urgency surprised him, because just being near Liang 
made him nervous, and eager to mask his shyness by saying or doing something 
distracting. Wondering about this, he took the armchair beneath the schefflera, 
and rubbed a glossy leaf between thumb and forefinger. It struck him as odd that 
to sit quiet and passive could content him, if it let him watch the woman he 
loved. Then he thought, But in a way, this is almost betterI get to be with 
her, but since she's busy I don't have to try to impress her, and there's no 
chance I'll Breaking that train of thought with a wince, he understood why he 
wasn't in a hurry to leave: the sooner they did, the sooner he'd have to prove 
himself. And if Nadia scared him, the thought of a repeat performance terrified 
him.
"Done," she said a minute later. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear; she 
looked tired, worried.
He stood. "Ready?"
"If you're sure you want to go."
"Of course I am!"
She moved up to him. "Then let's go."
*PING*
They stood on a platform carpeted in immaculate red-and-black wool; over their 
heads arched the dome of the Hotel Luna's lobby, polarized where sunlight fell 
on it. The nearest wall was fifty meters away, but wandering rows of date palms 
and yuccas broke the room into more intimate areas, each furnished with 
well-padded airchairs and coffee tables waxed to luminescence.
The uniformed Flop Attendant bowed, and with a sweep of her arm motioned them 
toward Reception, a twenty-meter-long counter carved from a waist-high 
outcropping of native crystal. Behind reception soared the convex arc of the 
tower itself, one hundred forty-three stories of metallo-glassine brilliance. It 
winked down on them like a giant's mirror.
"I should think this air's too dry for the plants' health," she said.
"Water's expensive up hereand aren't they desert plants anyway?"
She shrugged, and they walked on. An Occleftian skittered by on its many legs, 
leaving behind a whiff of must and library paste. A few ancient but 
impeccably-dressed Terran men broke off their conference with an Aronya sales 
rep to stare at them: her for her beauty and him, apparently, to discover how he 
had won her. The scrutiny delighted him, and he strutted to the desk as best he 
could in the low gravity.
"A suite, please," he told the attentive clerk. "We'll go up later. At the 
moment, we'd like two pressure suits." When the clerk slid the thumbplate toward 
him, he printed it without reading the charges. He meant the nonchalance to 
impress Liangbut genuinely did not care what the visit cost. Between the yield 
off his trust fund and his NAC salary, Feighan had never been able to spend more 
than he made.
The clerk held up a finger; a bellboy popped out of the floor. "Escort our 
guests to the tour lock." His computer chimed a mellow tone. "Mr. Feighan, your 
suite is 143-A; the thumb-lock is now keyed to your print. If the lady would 
like" He offered her the plate.
"Thank you," said Liang, pressing down on it. "143-A, you said?"
"Yes, Ma'am." He inclined his head the degree her style demanded.
"Very good. Shall we go, McGill?" Again taking his arm, she waved the bellboy 
ahead of them.
This is class, he thought, as a waiter bearing a tray of champagne glasses 
paused to let them pass. Even the one-sixth gravity enhanced the ethereality of 
their surroundings. Floating in every sense of the word, he relished the luxury 
and the chance to shower it on Nadia Liang.
At the tour lock, the bellboy surrendered them to a middle-aged woman with 
penetrating brown eyes and grease-stained hands. "Going outside, eh?"
Feighan nodded.
"Well, here are your units." She reached under the counter and pulled out two 
back packs. Each massed about ten kilograms, had shoulder and waist straps, and 
was about the size of an attach case. "Got your air, heat, power, and field 
generator in here. Put 'em on, but don't turn 'em on, not yet. Got to put your 
headsets on, first." She handed a plastic bag to each of them. "That's the 
speaker, wear it like an earmuff. The mike goes on like a collar. These are 
tuned to each other and to my base station." She gestured to a console built 
into the rear wall of her office. "Don't get romantic, 'cause my computer's got 
a dirty mind and it might be listening in. Not that romance is possible in these 
suits anyway." She chuckled dryly. "Now, you wanna raise me in case of emergency 
or something, call 'Luna Base!' and my machine'll switch you through to me. I 
wanna talk to you, I'll just cut in on your frequency. Got that?"
Feighan nodded again, and loosened the throat strap.
"All right. Now, when you turn on that switchnot yet," she said, as he reached 
for it, "the generator throws out a force field that'll retain your air and your 
temperature. It'll mold itself roughly to your physical contours, leave a couple 
of centimeters between it and your skin, means your feet won't touch ground, but 
from the way you two are grabbing at each other, that's nothing new for you. 
Pressure sensor keeps you from turning it off outside, so don't worry about 
that. You got to blow your nose, do it now, 'cause you won't be able to out 
there. Or play touchy-touch, either, but if you've got a room here there's time 
enough for that later." She looked from one to the other. "Any questions?"
"Yeah," said Feighan, "how long's the power supply good for?"
She slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. "That's what I get for being 
cute, I forget to tell you something important. I'm sorry. You got an hour. The 
computer'll buzz you anyway."
"Safety factor?" he asked.
"There is one, but I'm not going to tell you how long it is, 'cause that might 
tempt you to run overtime. Get yourself back when the computer buzzes, and 
you'll be all right."
"Fine." He glanced at Liang. "Nadia, are you ready?"
She dazzled him with her smile. "Let's go!"
They flicked their switches simultaneously. Around each formed a sparkly shimmer 
akin to Feighan's tunic, but impermeable. It flexed freely at all joints; the 
life support package hummed to itself.
"Into the lock with you," crackled the earphone, while the brown-eyed woman 
pointed to a retracting panel in the side of the dome.
Feighan gestured for Liang to go first, and stepped in after her. The panel 
dropped down; the pressure meter counted towards zero as pumps inhaled the 
chamber's air. A bell tolled in their ear speakers, and the outer lock door 
cycled open.
Sunlight slashed in harsh and blinding. Their suits polarized a fraction of a 
second too late. "McGill, I can't see!" Panic tautened Liang's voice.
He touched her shoulder reassuringlyor tried to, but the force fields met and 
would not deform. He could come no closer than five centimeters. "Don't worry, 
your eyes'll adjust in a second. We can wait here."
"Oh, I thought I was"
"No, just contracted pupils." He smiled to himself. The apprentice had taught 
the master, and that felt good.
When their visual darkness lifted, they stepped outside, shuffling so the low 
gravity wouldn't bounce them off the lock's ceiling. Behind them, the door swung 
shut. Vacuum stilled its motor's voice, but vibrations quivered the ground.
Ahead sprawled a rocky field that jabbed at them with knife-edged shadows. It 
was noon on the moon. The sun hung slightly to the south, a ball of fire in a 
black field scattered with crystals. Beneath Sol, gauze swathed a blue sphere: 
Terra.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"Yeah." No word was grand enough to match the view.
Though he'd seen it before, he was still stunned by its majestyits silenceits 
implacability. The sight dwarfed Man in space and time. Here, more so than 
anywhere he'd been, the machinery of the universe displayed itself with 
distance-referents so vast that a mortal mind couldn't grasp their size. And 
clock-rocks kept time through the gradual pitting of the ancient boulders, while 
dust pools measured millennia in millimeters. Standing there, he felt very 
small, and very brief. He cleared his throat. "Let's look for some star pearls, 
okay?"
"Are they really here, or is that just a lure for tourists?"
"No, they're here. Most are pretty small, but there was a volcano around 
somewhere a billion years ago or so and" He shrugged. The glowing force-suit 
exaggerated the movement of his shoulders. "Don't get your hopes too high."
"I won't." She laughed, softly. "They look like black marbles, right?"
"Only the round onesbut the teardrops are rarer."
"I'm going to hunt over here." She pointed west, and bounded into the air. 
"Wheeh!"
For an hour they used the hunt as an excuse to cavort on a rocky, sun-bathed 
plain. They played tag and leap-frog and follow-the-leader: children's games, 
really, but to that eternal landscape they were younger than children, and so it 
made them feel. It had a dignity so firm and overpowering that they couldn't 
approach it as equals; they had to come a-skipping and a-giggling because 
anything more pretentious would be beneath its notice.
As Liang did handstands on a flat-topped boulder, Feighan watched and wondered. 
Her sleek agility aroused his hungers; he wanted to press that firm body against 
his, to have those soft round limbs envelop his. And yet her face, her smile, 
her laughthese were more girlish than her figure, more innocentmore fragile. 
He wanted to take that vulnerable part of her and cherish it, shield it. He was 
torn. With the lights out, she was Sexat a distance, she was Lovebut here, 
close yet unreachable, she became both, turning child-eyes on his lust, and 
blowing sultry kisses at his respect.
Cupping a pile of pebbles in his palmthe force-suit fingers wouldn't close 
well; they got in each other's wayhe said, "The hour's almost uplet's go 
back."
"The computer'll buzz."
"Yeah, but"
"You're thinking of something other than the time, aren't you?" She walked past 
himvery closelyswinging her hips and tilting her head. "Do you like what you 
see, big boy?"
Speechless, he could only make a sound at the base of his tongue, a growlish 
sort of noise that vented his feelings even if it failed to articulate them.
Pleased with her effect on him, she smiled, and almost purred. "Then let's go." 
She pitched her voice lower and throatier than usual. "I can't wait, either."
Minutes later, arms around each other, they tumbled into the living room of the 
suite. He hugged and kissed herkicked the door shut with his footbut when he 
reached for the throat of her blouse she said, "I have to shower."
Famished, he couldn't believe the chef thought dinner should simmer a little 
longer. "You don't need a shower." He tightened his grip.
"I'm all sticky." Her forearms pushed him away. "I'll be quick, though. Just 
wait here." She headed toward the bathroom, leaving in her wake the sound of 
snaps unsnapping. "Have a drink or something while I bathe."
He paced, instead, up and down the blue carpet of the sitting room. Something 
seemed wrong, but he didn't know what.
"Sit, sir!" said two velvet-covered force chairs.
"Get out of my way before I shut you off."
They scuttled back to the walls and huddled against them in silence.
The viewwall overlooked the plain; he went to it and peered down. Below, a pair 
of technicolor pressure suits held hands against the intimidation of immensity.
He put his own hand into his pocket, and rubbed the glassy stones he'd 
collected. He hoped that at least one was unflawed. Nadia needed a ringhis 
ringand could it be set with a star pearl they'd found together, it would have 
more meaning.
For he had made up his mind: he wanted to marry this woman, this beauty, this 
remarkable creature with her magnificent brain and voice that goose-bumped his 
skin. He had to marry her, on whatever termsif he couldn't bear being parted 
from her while she showered, how could he stand a life without her?
"McGill!" she called, as though she'd heard his thoughts.
He pushed open the bathroom door. Steam wisped out at him, coating his face with 
moist warmth, like a tongue-licking from a puppy. "Yes?"
"How'd you like to scrub my back?"
He laughed because it was the silliest damn question he had ever heard; his 
heart spiraled up into bliss. This time would be different. This time he would 
prove himself. "I am on my way!" He leaped through the door, and
And night crushed his skull.
 
The Flinger's tunic glowed feebly against the bathroom tiles. Behind him stood 
Liang, her right sleeve damp from the shower. "I've kept my part of the 
bargain," she said'
Milford Hommroummy nodded, then stepped aside to let his assistants pick Feighan 
up and carry him out to the stretcher that whooshed patiently in the sitting 
room. "So you have," he said, "but I hope you realize that Sr. Abecasis died 
only after a most revealing conversation."
Paling, she touched her fingers to the wall. "The news called it a hit-and-run."
"But it was," said Hommroummy. "It was, indeed. He thought, you see, that we had 
set him freerather than up." His shoulders lifted delicately, then receded. 
"You must understand, my dear, that we have done you two favors; you have 
returned but one."
She sagged. "What do you want, Hommroummy?"
"For the moment, nothing. Later" He moved his head a fraction of an inch. "we 
shall see."
Her jaw quivered, then firmed. "No. I won't"
"We have the knife, you know. Your fingerprints, your father's bloodmost 
convincing, as evidence."
The life went out of her. "I should have killed Abecasis myself."
"Oh, no, my dearyou simply should have brought us all your business." He 
snapped his fingers; an Ookinza snaked its head around the door frame. 
"CaltzymaFling Ms. Liang to New York City, please. And then you may go homewe 
shall proceed on foot."
The alien bobbed its feeler-bearded head. Liang disappeared. A second later, so 
did Caltzyma. And from the sitting room someone called, "He's waking up!"
Chapter V
 ^ 


He had drooled on the pillow and his cheek was damp. Wincing, he tried to lift 
his head, but a horde of leprechauns beat it back down with cobbling hammers.
"Honest," someone said, "we thought he'd stay out for hours."
His eyelids parted painfully, like they had been glued together. He moaned. The 
world did a slow somersault, suspending him for thirty seconds from the ceiling 
of his hotel suite. Then cold hard hands seized his arm and peeled up his shirt 
sleeve.
He forced his eyes all the way open, and found his face mirrored in irises so 
cold and gleaming that they could have been star pearls. The man was almost 
bald, except for a fringe of bristles once black, now greying. Eyebrows thicker 
than most mustaches provided an air of good humor that the machine-hard planes 
of the lower face dispelled. He was nearly seventy, but his presence had the 
impact of a much younger man's. He held a hypodermic injector.
Though groggy and sore, Feighan reacted instinctively: he tried to Fling himself 
home. He visualized, felt, knew, Fl and buried his face in the old man's vest. 
What the hell happened? he thought.
Bony fingers plucked at his wrist. Somebody shouted, "Don't shoot; seize him!" 
Feet pounded on the thick carpet.
He threw a punch blindly. The old man grunted, doubled over his shoulder, and 
jabbed for him with the hypo. Feighan jerked his head up; the top of his skull 
cracked the old man's chin. While phosphenes flashed in Feighan's eyes, the old 
man fell backward. Metal tumbled in a glittering arc: the hypo! It hit the 
carpet. He lunged.
Fingernails scraped his neck. Choking, he slipped the grip and jumped onto the 
injector. It crunched. And a squat, bearded man jammed a gun into his mouth.
He froze. Gagging, he lifted his arms slowly and held them above his head. His 
front tooth throbbed; it felt broken. An acrid, greasy taste swirled on his 
tongue. The bearded man asked, "Can I shoot him, Mr. Hommroummy?"
"Don't be an ass," said the old man, picking himself off the floor. "We want him 
alive."
The gunman retreated.
Hommroummy, Feighan thought, Hommroummy, where he searched through the 
pain-filled recesses of his memory, drawing blank after blank until his every 
muscle tensed. "The Organization! You're the one who"
"Exactly." He smiled, but it gleamed as coldly as his gaze.
God, I gotta get out of here He thought of his room, triggered his Talent, 
prepared again to Fling, and What's going on? "Anchors?"
Hommroummy nodded. "Four of them." He pointed to the corners of the room, to the 
four wary men who aimed their guns at Feighan. Natural anti-teleports, they 
negated his Talent. By superimposing their locations on his destination-image, 
they made it impossible for him to Fling away. He was equidistant from all four. 
Any attempt to teleport would return him to exactly that place. "You're my 
prisoner, Feighan."
"But why?" He almost wailed it. Though he'd been The Organization's quarry for 
most of his childhood, their interest in him should have ended. Having them 
seize him again was like bumping into an enemy he'd buried himself. "Why?"
"Because of your association with the Far Being Retzglaran, of course."
"Oh, God." He let his head hang. "Didn't you hear about the gastropod?"
"Of course we heard." Hommroummy stepped away, a private joke toying with the 
corners of his mouth.
"Then you knowit had nothing to do with the Far Being it was just a sick 
prankster."
Keeping a safe distance between himself and the Flinger, Hommroummy chuckled. 
"The gastropod that died was not the one that ingested you."
He stiffened, replayed that statement in his mind, and still couldn't make sense 
of it. "What?"
"It was one of our employeesold and ailingwe sent it down to make the 
statement and die. We estimated that the ploy would reduce the amount of, er, 
attention you were receivingdid the governments believe you had no connection 
with the Far Being, they would be interested in you only as a Flinger. We have 
waited these months for them to relax their surveillanceas they have. And for 
you to relax your guardas you have."
"I can't believe this!" All his assumptions turned topsy-turvy, as they had such 
a short time ago, when he'd heard the gastropod had died. I am special, he 
thought. I am! But that means "What do you want from me? You've had me before, 
you know I don't remember the gastropod, that I don't know a thing about the Far 
Being, that I haven't got" Memory choked him off. He would have lunged at 
Hommroummy if the Anchors' guns hadn't been trained on him. "Nadia," he rasped. 
"What have you done to her?"
"Put her to sleep," snapped Hommroummy. "She will awaken in her New York office 
and not remember any of this. If you cooperate."
He stared at his captor. The promise seemed false. Unless He frowned, thinking 
it through. Though relieved that she would be out of danger, he couldn't help 
wondering "She set me up, didn't she?"
Hommroummy's eyes narrowed. "Of course not."
"She' must have; nobody else could have! But why bother? Why did you"
"We're going to examine you." Hommroummy examined his prisoner like a shark its 
dinner. Though his words were as flat and grey as rocks, menace hid under each. 
"Oh, not here we haven't the equipmentor the time."
"This is crazy! What can you find"
"We don't know," he said quietly, spacing his words with deliberate, chilling 
precision. "But if there is anything to discover, we shall."
"Look." He still hoped he could talk his way out of it. "You know I'm not going 
to work for you, not unless you mess up my brain, in which case my Talent goes, 
too. And I've been studied by expertswhat could you possibly learn?"
"A clue to the Far Being Retzglaran, of course."
"We're back to that, huh?"
"Rather." Again he permitted himself that private smile. "What do you know of 
it?"
He shrugged. "Just what the books say: that it's immortal, close to omnipotent, 
nobody's ever encountered it, it does most of its work through subordinateslike 
the gastropodand I don't know. The rumors claim it's playing some sort of 
incredible game, and using the universe as its checkerboard."
"Very succinct," approved Hommroummy. "Of course, there's a one-word formulation 
that describes it equally well."
"What's that?"
"God."
"Oh." He pursed his lips, and thought about it. Seemed accurate enough, if not 
what the churches taught "But why is The Organization interested in in an 
almost-mythical, godlike creature?"
"It is not mythical," said Hommroummy. "It might even be a force for Good. 
Certainly it has thwarted us on a number of occasions. It constitutes a subject 
The Organization should investigate thoroughlya parasite must learn the manners 
and habits of its host, yes? We have become the foremost anticulture in the 
galaxy, but if the dominant culture has coalesced, consciously or not, around a 
living, breathing deity that can reach across parsecs to juggle an infant's 
fate" The scalpels of his eyes probed Feighan's face. "We must be prepared."
The Flinger read his future in those words. The Organization would vivisect him 
to expose the knowledge it wanted. Sick at heart, he jammed his hands into his 
pockets, and fingered the stones that might have yielded a ring for Nadia Liang.
Nadia. He didn't want to believe that she'd come into his life only to betray 
him. Even now he wanted to think that she had cared, that.. .Maybe that's why 
she wouldn't see me last week; why this morning she asked if I really wanted to 
go off with her they must have had something on her, like a gun pointed at her 
head but if they aimed a gun at her she should have wish I had a gun, blow 
hell outta these bastards, just a simple little gun?
He froze. Carefully he scanned Hommroummy's angular face for gathering 
suspicion. Blank. Good.
For McGill Feighan had a gun, or at least two things that would function as one: 
His Talent. And his pebbles.
He'd never even heard of the method, much less tried it before. Success would 
exhaust him because he couldn't rest between its four stages. Failure the 
Anchors would kill him.
But he had no choice.
And he'd rather die there than on an Organization operating table.
His right index finger pressed a chunk of rock against the outside of his pants 
pocket. Mentally he drew a line between it and the Anchor in the far right 
corner. Perfect. Nothing in the way. He took a breath: a deep one.
"NO!" Snapping his head to the left, he gestured with his left arm to the man in 
that corner. The others reflexively followed his feint.
And while they squinted in puzzlement at the confused accusee, Feighan reached 
into the Energy Dimension. Chaos roared at him; he scooped from the cauldron 
enough force to hurl ten grams two kilometers per second. He poured it into the 
pebble in his pocket. It plucked at the fabric of his pants just long enough to 
burn through it. Whipping to its target, it pierced the Anchor's heart.
For a full two seconds the man stood silent and straight, bewilderment on his 
bearded face. Then, slowly, his jaw dropped and his tongue writhedbut no sound 
came out, not yet, even while his knees unhinged and he pitched forward. Low-g 
let him down like a leaf. Not until his face hit the floor did he grunt.
Feighan heard rather than saw that, for he had shifted, and brought a second 
rock to bear on the Anchor in the back right corner. Excluding all the world but 
hazy impressionsOrgmen in two corners and a meter away, corpse-gawking; God I'm 
tired already!he reached, and injected, and began to turn again even as a hole 
charred the second man's sweater.
The third gasped. "Charlie!" He raised his left hand, his weaponless hand, and 
took half a step towards his collapsing comrade. When his weight came down on 
his foot, a tunnel burst through his brainhe drifted to the carpet in 
loose-jointed slow motion.
A battery sucked almost dry, Feighan couldn't keep the last thug in focus. 
Clumsily, he positioned another pebble, and swayed back and forth while he shook 
his Talent out of its stupor and plunged once more into the Energy Dimension.
"It's him!" The fourth raised his automatic. A perfectionist, that gunman was: 
he brought up his left hand to assume the police stance, and he braced himself 
with spread legs, and the barrel of his gun welled so large in Feighan's vision
that, giggly with exhaustion, he boomed a small stone right down that barrel at 
four kps, and the whole damn thing blew up in the Anchor's face.
"An' now f'you." He staggered about to confront Hommroummy.
The suite door shimmied in the breeze from the ventilators, and stillness 
claimed the corridor beyond.
"Damn," he said, and just had time to Fl
*PING*
ing 
himself back to the bedroom of his New York apartment before a pile-driver of 
exhaustion hammered him into unconsciousness.
He awoke in darkness. The clock read 09:17. Remnants of a headache scuttled 
inside his skull. He groaned, rubbed his eyes, and pushed himself into a sitting 
position.
A hand brushed his thigh.
He was startled, first, and then suspicious, and then"Oscar, cue: depolarize 
windows; do it now."then, as the sun streamed in and he blinked, turning his 
head, he gave way to anger. To fury.
For Nadia Liang lay beside him, and her clothes littered the floor.
"You bitch!" Focusing on her pale cheeks and closed eyes, he thought, What does 
she think I? She sets me up and then comes back and crawls into my bed? I mean, 
how dumb does she think I am?
He remembered one of the plants in her office. He touched the back of his head, 
still sore from Hommroummy's club, and studied the face she'd used to mask her 
secrets, and thought about her ivory body, undoubtedly nude he checked the 
floor, Yeah, her underwear's there, the whore and he let fly with his idea 
because he had to have revenge of some sort, and the only alternative to 
dropping her naked atop a giant saguaro cactus was to shake her awake and beat 
the living daylights out of her, and the notion of doing that disgusted him.
So he concentrated on her face, and he visualized, he felt, he knew, he
*PING*
Flung her to her office, but even as he automatically adjusted the momentum he 
could feel it was wrong. The kinetic energies were far too small for a
The bulge in the sheets had not flattened out.
Nothing lay on the pillow but a rusty smear.
He threw back the covers and "Oh sweet Jesus." Nadia Liang's nude body sprawled 
beside him: headless. Involuntarily, he touched her. Her arm fell off. 
Ittheyhad been severed at the shoulders; her legs, at the hips. Above her 
breasts her executioner had incised the word: failure.
He gulped. And blinked. And tried to edge away from the mutilated corpse, but 
his muscles would not work. Paralyzed, he could not even turn his head. His 
breath rasped harsh and ragged. He gulped again and his guts came up, bitter and 
acid as the tears that broke from his eyes. Vomit splashed the sheets, her 
belly, her "Oh Jesus God!" He moaned and retched again and finally managed to 
scramble away.
Vision blurred, mouth foul, he turned his back on the horror in his bed. He had 
to hug himself to control his shivering. What do I do? Oh my God, my God, what 
do I do now? He reached for the phone, for the police, then yanked his hand back 
as if from a snake. No, Jesus, they'll think I a lover's quarrel, everybody 
knew we oh my God. He took a step towards the door. Greystein, he'll know what 
to but stopped himself again. This no, I can't he'd think no, he wouldn't, 
but what
He saw a solution. A kind of calm came over him. Wiping his eyes, sniffing, he 
turned. The whole bed couldn't weigh more than a hundred kilos, headboard 
included. He'd just he had to he walked around to the far side and picked up 
her clothes, trying not to feel their silkiness, nor to smell their faint 
perfume. He held them a moment, unsure of what exactly to do with them, then 
finally just tossed them onto the corpse because they'd burn his hands if he 
touched them a second longer.
Then he concentratedvisualizedfeltknew
And put the bed and its burden in the heart of the Sun.
He sagged against his desk, tired already, knowing he had a full day of Flinging 
ahead of him and wishing he could go AWOL. Wishing he could hide from the world. 
Wishing he didn't have to do that one last thing
Again he dried his eyes. He wiped his mouth on a handkerchief. Drawing a breath 
that was closer to a sob, he
*PING*
Flung himself to Liang's office. As he pushed past the rubber plant, the 
butterflies burst out of it in a cloud of jerky color that spread and shredded 
and disappeared.
He came up to the giant saguaro, two and a half meters tall with branches that 
looked like human arms. It stood in a clay pot half a meter in diameter; coarse 
soil and colored sand filled the pot.
The head of Nadia Liang lay against the trunk of the cactus.
A long, unbloodied scratch marred the smoothness of her left cheek. Her jaw had 
dropped open. A bumblebee sat on her tongue.
He sent it all to the sun, pot and plant and bee and
He shuddered, then, and wept some more, and bowed his head. Lord, I I don't 
know anything, anything at all, but I thought I loved her and she loved me and 
and I hated her just a few minutes ago, before I knew she oh Lord my God, why 
did they do this to her? Why?
The door mechanism clicked. Someone was coming. He jerked his head up and *PING* 
Flung himself back to his bedroom.
And that door opened, too. A tail swished on the carpet as Sam scampered over to 
be scratched.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't my old roomie McGill," said a bright, familiar 
voice. "You look like you've been partied hard and put away wet, my friend; is 
Nadia Liang that luscious creature proving too much to handle? For if she is, 
just say the word, McGill my young daffodil, and I will move in to share the 
burden. What the hell happened to your bed?"
Feighan wanted to scream, but didn't dare. He had to act normally. He couldn't 
let anybody know. Anybody. Ever. "It's The Organizationthey're after me again." 
He picked up Sam and shuffled to the bathroom. Only then did he notice the 
streak of blood on his index finger.
"So what happened?"
"I threw the damn bed out, all right?"
Greystein waved a hand. "I meant with The Organization."
"Look," he said wearily, "if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about 
it, all right?"
Greystein paused for a full second. "No. It's not all right with me, my young 
roommate-cum-landlord. It might not have occurred to you, yet, but it is already 
obvious to me that if The Organization is trying for you again, I might be 
exposed to situations with which I could most likely cope if I knew what had 
happened. Now. Tell Uncle Greystein. What happened?"
He peered into the mirror. Puffy, bloodshot eyes stared back. "You're right." 
Briefly, he described his capture and his escapebut did not mention his 
awakening. He did not even want to think about that.
Greystein listened intently until the tale ended. Then, rare uncertainty on his 
face, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. 
"Uhno offense meant, understandbut has it occurred to you that Hommroummy 
might have had a little help in grabbing you?"
Feighan closed his eyes, but all he could see was the saguaro. "You mean Nadia?"
"Uh yes."
For the love of God, fake it! He jabbed the faucet's temptrol button. "The 
thought has crossed my mind." The bitterness flowed naturally. "And I wanted to 
reject it 'cause" His throat clogged; he had to cough it open. "But I can't 
keep lying to myself. She didn doesn't love me; I was a job, an assignment. She 
set me up, no doubt about it and our whole 'romance' was just a prelude to last 
night." He slapped the top of the sink; Sam scuttled back. "Dammit!"
Greystein put his hand on Feighan's shoulder. "Everybody gets suckered by a 
pretty face at least once in his life."
"Yeah, but" But everybody else gets a second chance to make things better or 
to make things evenbut me pretty face? Uh-uh. No second chance for anything. 
Goddamn that bee "you're right, I guess."
"You going to report her?"
Lilac perfumed the room as he soaped his hands thoroughly. "No. No, I don't 
think so."
"Why not?"
He glared at his roommate. "Bad enough I was a fooldo I have to tell the whole 
world?"
Greystein raised his eyebrows, then nodded. "How'd you come up with the pebble 
trick?"
"What do they say about necessity? I was looking at guns, I was thinking about 
guns and I had a pocketful of star pearls."
"I'm glad for that."
"I wish I could say the same" He saw her now doing handstands on that lunar 
rock, while he held up the biggest stone of all. He leaned on the sink; its 
plascelain cooled his palms. "But I feel sickI mean, killing four people, it"
"Self-defense, Feighan, self-defense. You had a rightand no court anywhere 
would judge you guilty."
"I know that." He struggled to express what he did mean. "What I'm saying, 
though, is ah They had family, friends innocent people who are going to gr 
gr" He caught his breath and held it till his turmoil calmed. "People who will 
grieve for them. Grief hurts, Greystein. It hurts like hell. And I"
"But they were there to hurt you!" Greystein leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Yes. No. I don't Look." He dried his hands. "I'm not defending them, but they 
were hired to hold me. The one who wanted to hurt me is the only one who 
escaped." To forestall further comment, he said, "I haven't thought this through 
yet, so I can't talk straight about it all I know is that, however righteously, 
I have hurt innocent people. And dammit, I have this feeling that I've done 
something wrong, that I've, ah corrupted my Talent."
"But"
"No more on that subject."
Greystein shrugged. "All righthow do you feel about The Organization being 
after you again?"
"I don't know about that, either," he said. "I mean, I'm not scared of them 
anymore, or at least not exaggeratedly so, like I used to be, but damn." He 
shook his head, and winced: it felt like marbles rolling around inside his 
skull. "Remind me not to play soccer for a while I was just learning how to 
lead as normal a life as any Flinger can manage, and now geez, I'm back to 
Square One. It turns out I am connected with the Far Being, and The 
Organization's hot on my trail." He took the shampcomb from Sam and eased it 
through his matted hair. "Ouch!" The comb came away dirty, but left his mane 
clean and shiny. "Damn, I was really hoping I could be a person, you know? Not a 
somebody, not a celebrity, just a person." He stared at the reddened eyes of his 
mirror image. "It's going to take me a while to figure out how to deal with 
this. In the meantime"
"Be careful for god's sakes, will you?"
He actually chuckled. "I'll work at itbut you do the same. You're close to me, 
man, and, ah" He spread his hands. "The Organization hasn't been exactly kind 
to the people I love."
Greystein's jaw muscles jumped: not from nerves, but from 
determinationeagerness, even. "Don't worry your head about me, Feighan my 
fine-feathered friend." Softly, he said, "I'm a Flinger, too, remember? I can't 
wait to be attacked." And he winked.
"Thanks." He checked his watch. "Hey, I have to goI'm on duty in an hour, and I 
want to visit the Luna Police, first. Watch Sam for me?"
"Sure." Greystein reached out and tickled the Rhanghan's belly. "I'll see you 
later."
*PING*
The Luna Police Station stank of anger and sweat and sickness. A zig-zag crack 
ran down the left wall from ceiling to floor; sealant glistened along its 
length. On the bench against the right wall, a burly, pallid miner with 
bloodshot eyes and bleeding knuckles sat tense and suspicious. Feighan stepped 
to the desk. Memory provided the name of an officer he'd dealt with before. "Is 
Commander Rostrovro in?"
"Top of the stairs, to your left," said the bored sergeant.
Staircases on the Moon rose more steeply than their Terran counterparts, and the 
risers stood taller, but he mounted them in a second to confront a denim-blue 
simulacrum.
"Just one moment," it buzzed, once he'd said who he was. "Let me see if the 
Commander is free."
"Thanks."
"You're very welcome, and the Commander is available. Please go in."
Beyond the sliding panel, in a rock-walled cubbyhole almost filled with a 
battered plastic desk, sat a bent-nosed woman in her late forties. She raised 
her head as he entered, and looked at him curiously. "Feighan, huh? Where do I 
know you from?"
"A few years back," he said, dropping into the only other chair in the room, 
"you had to rescue me from The Organization."
"Now I remember, you're a good guy. No wonder the crook-check didn't flash you." 
She slouched in her seat and regarded him with steady hazel eyes. "So what can I 
do for you today?"
"Well I'm here about the deaths at the Hotel Luna."
She snapped erect. "What deaths?"
"The four" He stopped, and cocked his head. "You didn't get a report of four 
dead men in Suite 143-A?"
"Tell me about it."
Tersely, he explained what had happened. Again he felt that twinge of shame; 
again he would notcould nottell about Nadia. "So," he said, "I thought I'd 
come in, make a statement to get that case cleared up, then, ah prefer charges 
against Hommroummy. "
She consulted her computer. "According to this, there is no Milford Hommroummy 
on the Moon. Course he wouldn't use his real name, so let's pump a description 
through, see what it flushes out."
Verbally he sketched Hommroummy's appearance; she pointed to a monitor atop a 
filing cabinet. "Sing out if he shows up." Pictures flickered on the screen, 
disappearing each time he said no. Twenty minutes later she said, "That's the 
last of them."
"So now what?"
She yawned, and rubbed the bend in her nose. "We got no bodies, no suspect 
maybe no crime."
"But"
Her hand flashed up like a stop sign. "Feighan, we'll look for Hommroummy. I'll 
send a man over to your suite to eyeball it for evidence of a crime. But don't 
expect miracles. If they cleaned up goodand whatever else you say about them, 
you got to admit they're thoroughthen we won't find a fingernail, even. And if 
we can't find proof that a crime's been committed, then there's not a damn thing 
we can do. You understand that, don't you?"
Rising, he said, "Yeah."
"I'll give you a call if we need you."
"Fine." He extended his hand. "Thanks anyway."
They shook, and
*PING*
He stood in the corridor of the NYC Flinger Building, just outside his booth. 
He'd barely caught his breath before the four musical notes that signaled a 
shift-change chimed. Running his fingers through his hair, he went in. And 
wished he could stop imagining a cactus under a desert sun.
 
The villa was quiet. A six-toed cat slept in Milford Hommroummy's lap while he 
sipped a scotch and stared at the computer screen. It was dark, except for one 
dot of light at its center; he focused on that.
Then he blinked, nodded, and touched his phone.
The man who answered said, "Sixty-first. Captain Paulson."
"A task for you: visit Feighan's penthouse, ostensibly to reinstate police 
protection"
"But you told me to strip him!"
"Circumstances are now different. While in his penthouse, examine his bedroom 
most closely. Especially the floor. Should you find anything suggestive of 
violence"
"Like what?" Paulson sounded exasperated and sarcastic. "A dead body?"
"Or parts thereof. Arrest Feighan on any reasonable pretext, and take him 
downtown. I shall handle it from there."
"Mr. Hommroummy, what are you trying to do here?"
His lips turned slightly up. "I am about to offer him a choice: drown in the 
deep sea, or turn to the devil for help." Another touch of the phone severed the 
connection.
"It will fail, of course," he told the cat. "But the point is simply to lessen 
his trust in his allies, and to harry him until he drops from exhaustion. When 
he falls, we shall be there, waiting."
The cat purred.
Chapter VI
 ^ 
 
Shift over, Feighan pushed himself to his feet. He felt nauseous. His head 
throbbed. He was too tired even to yawn. But before he could rest, he had to get 
some advice.
He stepped into the corridor. Floor, ceiling, and walls were white; fluorescent 
lights recessed behind frosted panels kept cold vigil against the shadows. The 
hall extended so far in either direction that a figure at the end looked like a 
person seen through the wrong lens of a telescope. Yet he headed for Walking 
Mule's office on foot: he needed time to think.
He had three major problems, and wasn't sure how to deal with any of them. His 
resurrected relationship with the Far Being led the list, but Milford Hommroummy 
the Hunter demanded almost equal attention, as did that flaw in his own 
character exploited by Nadia Liang, false lover and secret agent.
He sighed and scratched his temple. The Far Being thing he couldn't decide how 
he felt about it. Good, he supposed, insofar as anyone should feel good over 
having been singled out by the powerful. Little kids go hysterical with elation 
when a touring President shakes their hands; shouldn't he, McGill Feighan, be 
even more ecstatic that the most potentif least-knownbeing in the universe had 
selected him?
But there the joy went bad: for he had no idea why he'd been tapped. Outside of 
his Talentwhich cropped up once in every ten million Terranshe was almost 
abnormally normal. A little taller than usual, perhaps a bit more handsome and a 
tad brighter, he could pass as the man in the street. And yet he had been 
chosen. Marked, somehow, as special to the Far Being.
All he knew, as he ambled through endless white sterility, was that the 
gastropod's assault on him had made him attractive to The Organization. Maybe 
even for the reasons Hommroummy had cited, not that it mattered. What mattered 
was that the galaxy's largest crime syndicate was pursuing him, and it had 
assigned one of its most brilliant administrators to his case.
His feet sluffed softly through the long beige carpet. He wasn't sure how to 
cope with The Organizationthough through his uncertainty he did perceive a 
glimmer of maturity; a year earlier the mere thought of The Organization had 
been sufficient to panic himbut he could see, even as he began to outline his 
strategy, that his would have to be a defensive role. He would have to wait for 
Hommroummy to move, and then react, quickly and competently. He should be able 
to handle almost anything, as long as he kept his wits about him and pebbles in 
his pocket He chuckled sadly to himself, and drew a curious glance from a 
Deputy Director leading a tour of VIP's.
The chuckle subsided into uneasiness as he recalled the four sprawled bodies. 
Self-defense, sure, but.. .he couldn't escape the notion that he'd misused his 
Talent. Tarnished it. Bloodstained its bright and shining beauty. He shook his 
head unhappily. Next time I've got to be cooler, more logicalfind a cleaner 
way.
But how, he demanded of himself, how can I stay cool and logical when I run into 
somebody like Nadia? I should have seen it from the beginning, or at least from 
when Sam bit her should have known that somebody like her wouldn't He couldn't 
even complete the thought, it hurt that much. She'd been his first experience 
with love and sex, and he'd adored her for her goodness. What a joke. Damn 
hormones blinded me. Or immaturity, something Greystein was right; I should 
have visualized her taking a shitall over me. He punched his right fist into 
his left palm. Damn! His stride lengthened.
Rounding the corner, he bumped into a stocky, dark-skinned man with a hawkish 
nose and gleaming black braids. "Walking Mule! I was just coming to see you."
"Social call or business?" asked the middle-aged Amerind.
"Business, I'm afraid."
"Figured it would be." The Senior Flinger spoke with a dry, Southwestern drawl. 
"Don't see much of you these days." He retraced his steps and thumbed the 
lockplate of his office door. "Hear you got a good-looking girl friend."
"Had," he said, realizing again just how carefully he would have to phrase his 
explanations.
"Come on in." He gestured Feighan inside, and followed close behind. "Lover's 
spat?"
"Huh." A computer terminal and two thousand pillows adorned the office. The 
keyscreen resembled every other one in the building, but the pillows came in all 
shapes, sizes, and colors. Covering the floors, they mounted halfway up the 
walls on either side. Straight ahead, a huge window-wall overlooked Manhattan. 
Feighan took a running leap onto a man-high stack of softness, and landed on his 
back, arms outstretched. "I wish that's all it was," he said, staring at the 
ceiling.
"You forgot to take off your shoes," said Walking Mule, still in the doorway.
"Damn. I'm sorry." Sitting up, and keeping his balance with an effort, he yanked 
them off. "Can I toss 'em to you?"
"Sure." He caught them neatly, set them by the door, then removed his own. "So 
what was it?"
"She set me up for The Organization." For the third time that day, he recounted 
his story. "And now" The truth loomed up before him, arms raised. He dodged it. 
"Now she's disappeared."
"She'll turn up again."
"I hope not," he said, because it felt like the sort of thing a betrayed lover 
should say.
"Guess you really hate her, huh?"
"I" Catching a sob before it could break free, he took a deep breath. "Look, 
Nadia Liang is the last of my worries right now."
"I'd have to agree with you there," said the Senior Flinger slowly.
"Walking Mule, I came to you because you're the only person around here I 
trustyou and Greysteinand and now that this whole thing's started up again" 
He shook his head. "What do I do? I've got a full-time job. Not that I need the 
money, but" The puzzlement on his mentor's face reminded Feighan that all other 
Flingers had been programmed to feel that they did need the jobs and its 
rewards. He floundered. "Ah, I mean, Earth needs my earnings, I can't just drop 
my responsibilities, I can't go scavenging around for my link to the Far Being."
Walking Mule bobbed his head. "Go on."
"But what the Far Being did to me, the plans it has for me, that could be 
important. And if The Organization gets me" Folding his arms under his head, he 
wriggled deeper into the mound of cushions, and let his eyes half close. "then 
I might have to kill again, and the thought makes me sick to my stomach."
The Amerind grunted something sympathetic.
"Did you ever have to kill somebody?"
"Nope." His hooded eyes gazed towards the past, and dulled with pain. "But I did 
anyway Sooner or later, we all get in a squeeze and wind up pitching somebody 
into the sun." He did not react to Feighan's wince. "It's just most of us don't 
have to do it all that often." He shook himself back to the present. "Guess in 
your case you'd have to steer real clear of The Organization."
"Surebut chained to a booth in New York, I'm a sitting duck."
"True 'nuff. So what do you want to do?"
"I don't know, just geez, I feel" He tried to arrange his thoughts, but 
fatigue kept scattering them. "I'm back to where I was before. The assumption is 
that there's something about me, ah, intangible or latent or whatever, some 
result of the gastropod it's probably just rationalization, but what happened 
to me got my parents and my best friend killed, and I mean, it wasn't my fault, 
but if the Far Being made me special, then maybe their deaths had some 
valuelike, if I'm part of a long-term plan, where I'll be needed to do 
something next week or next year or forty years down the road, then then 
Rothono was sacrificed for the Cause, and not just for for a whim." He took a 
deep, ragged breath. "God, it's frustrating! I endanger my friends, and I don't 
know the original why."
" 'Cause The Organization wants you?"
"No, that's not what I meant." Surreptitiously, he wiped his eyes with his 
fingers. "What I mean is, I don't know why I was chosen. What if my assumption's 
wrong? What if, ah say the whole thing was purely for the Far Being's 
benefitit wanted to study an infant Terran or a baby Flinger or whatever. Then 
I was just a lab rat, you know? There not for my own edification, but for 
someone else's. Well, if I knew that"
"You'd feel like shit."
"Yeah, maybe," he said glumly. "But if there were proof to convince The 
Organization, maybe it'd back off."
"So what you're saying is that you want to go hunting again."
"Exactly." He sighed.
"Got any leads?"
"Sure." He maneuvered himself into an unsteady sitting position. He tried to 
prop himself up with his hands, but they sank into the cushions. "The one I came 
back from Throngorn withthat the gastropod had last been on Delurc."
"Pretty slim." Brown eyes on Feighan, the Senior Flinger chewed a thumbnail. 
"But Delurc maybe" With a lithe motion, he uncrossed his legs, rose, and went 
to the computer. "Wake up," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"Isn't there an NAC Flinger on loan to Delurc?"
"Yes, sir." It hummed for half a second. "Mary O'Higgins, on 18-month TDY."
"How much time is left on her tour?"
"Three months."
Walking Mule turned back to Feighan. "There's your answer," he said, spreading 
his small, square hands.
"Mary O'Higgins?"
"Uh-huh." He dropped with grace into his tailor's squat, and didn't dislodge a 
pillow. "Not her, exactly, but her tour."
"I don't understand."
"The Delu are short on Flingersnobody's sure whybut there's a lot of traffic 
to and from their planet. The Consortia worked out a deal with them a few years 
back. We station a Flinger there on permanent loan, and they fine-tune our money 
supply to eliminate inflation. The assignment rotates from one consortium to 
another; O'Higgins is from the NAC."
"So what you're saying"
"Yup. We replace her with you. It'll let you shake The Organization 
temporarilynot permanently; we have leaks just like everybody elseand give you 
three months to figure out what the gastropod was doing there. What do you say?"
He thought for a while, stroking the embroidered silk cover of a blue lap 
pillow. "All right," he said at last. "Sounds like it'd be my best bet. Can you 
set up a briefing for me?"
"No," said the Amerind. "The contract says we can't do that at all."
Feighan blinked. The FNC never sent people to alien planets without warning them 
about what they faced. "But"
"The Delu want you to come in cold."
"That's idiotic!"
"Well, hell, McGill, you don't have to tell me that. That's the way the 
contract's written, though." He shrugged. "It's not all bleakHarry Sherman's 
based on Delurc."
"The Harry Sherman?"
He nodded. "You subscribe to his service?"
"Doesn't everybody?"
Walking Mule laughed. "Only the hundred million interested in Network economics 
anyway, he's on-planet. If you can get in to see him, do. He's a one-man outfit, 
but he's got more bits and pieces of data in his files than most news 
organizations. Rumor has it he's partial to Flingers, too."
"Why's that?" Feighan was suddenly wary that the newsman might turn out to be 
another celebrity teletagger Or worse.
"Sherman depends on us to get his datachips home fresh. In that business, an 
hour's delay can kill your profits."
"Can I trust him?"
The Senior Flinger seemed instinctively to know what Feighan meant. "He's had a 
few dustups with The Organization himself. I don't expect he's on their 
payrollbut it wouldn't hurt to sleep with one eye open. Just in case."
"I'll look him upcarefully."
"You do that." Walking Mule rose. "Go on home, get your things packed. I'll talk 
to the Director and put the paperwork in motion."
"Thanks." He held out his hand.
Walking Mule took it, and squeezed it firmly. "Don't forget your shoes."
Grinning, he picked them up. "I'll wait for your call."
*PING*
His stockinged feet touched the Flop Table; a green hiss sped between them. Sam 
had been drowsing in the day's last sun, and Feighan's unannounced 
materialization had terrified him. He raced twice around Feighan's ankles, then 
leaped to the middle of the room, where he took up a defensive stance: tail 
poised to club, arms cocked, jaws open. He hissed again, and his whole body 
shook with its force.
"I think you scared him," drawled a voice from the corner.
"Hiya, Greystein. I guess I did." Stepping down, he crossed to the young 
Rhanghan and dropped to his hands and knees. "Hey, Sam" His tone approached a 
coo. "it's all right, it's only me. See? Smell?"
Sam's magenta tongue tasted the air, but his tiny fists stayed clenched.
"Seems like he's forgotten who you are."
Feighan's conscience twinged. Defensively, he asked, "Are you saying I've been 
neglecting him?"
"Who, me? Accuse you of neglect? Tsk-tsk, McGill. I'm not the one who's hissing 
at you."
Slowly Feighan extended his hand, palm up, fingers spread. Saurian eyes 
glittered as they studied it, but the muscled jaws did not snap. He grazed Sam's 
stomach plate with a knuckle, then rubbed up and down until the Rhanghan 
relaxed. "Yeah," he whispered, "yeah, that's right, it's me. Sorry I haven't 
been around, kid, but I've been busy." Even to him it sounded lame. Then he 
blinked. "But we're going to spend a lot of time together from now on."
"I could swear he understands us." Greystein micro-goggled his eyes and went 
back to work on the circuit he'd been tampering with.
"Not yet," said Feighan, rising and stretching. "He hears the voices, and they 
intrigue him, but I don't think he's comprehending much of anything."
"What was that line about 'a lot of time together'? Your vacation isn't for 
another six months."
"Oh, that" The phone rang. "I'll get it. Hello?"
"McGill," said Walking Mule, "the Director approved the ideaeven if he is 
displeased with you for losing his Administrative Assistant. You can leave any 
time you're ready. Before you do, drop by his office, pick up a formal transfer 
notice for O'Higgins. The bureaucracy bends, but it will not break."
"Fantastic! Ah I'll be over in about an hour, once I get packed. AndWalking 
Mule, thanks, huh?"
"For a protg," said the Amerind, "I'll go to very great lengths. See you 
then." He cut the connection.
Greystein shoved the goggles back to his forehead. "Packed?"
"Yeah, see c'mon, I'll explain it in my room." As he passed Sam, the infant 
grabbed hold of his pants leg and scurried up his body to sit on his shoulder, 
like a maharaja on his elephant.
Feighan opened a lightweight suitcase on his bed and started wrenching out 
drawers. "Shirts," he muttered, seizing a stack and tossing them into the case. 
"And pants, and" While he ransacked his bureau, he explained the situation. 
"Don't worry about the rent, thoughthe trust fund credits the landlord's 
account automatically, until I order it to stop. Just don't fill the place with 
machines, that's all I ask."
"They make very good roommates," Greystein said. "Neat, quiet, efficientand 
they're not always running off to the far ends of the galaxy on some weird 
quest."
"Dammit! It's not weird. It'sit's essential, huh? And besides, it's moving the 
line of fire away from you, so you ought to be happy about it."
"Hey, McGill" He put a hand on his roommate's shoulder. "I was teasing; I'm 
sorry. I didn't mean to set you off."
"Yeah, I know." He sighed. "Things've just been happening too quickly. I'm 
edgy." He laid a travel alarm on the pile. "And I'm packed, so" He took 
Greystein's hand and pumped it, squeezing hard. "I don't know when I'll be back, 
but until then, enjoy, huh?"
"Least I won't have to put up with morning sunlight," said the other with a 
wink. "Take care of yourself."
"I will." He made sure Sam was secure on his shoulder. "So long."
"Oh, wait!"
"What?"
"I almost forgotthere was a copy here today, a Captain Pilsner"
"Paulson?" His cheeks went cold.
"Right. Said it looked like you needed police protection again, and he wanted to 
re-inspect the layout, for the surveillance cameras and all."
He relaxed. "I'm sort of pressed for timedo me a favor?"
"Do you have to ask?"
"Give him a call, tell him I won't need the protection because I won't be here."
"Sure thing." He laughed. "You know, when he started looking over your bedroom, 
I had to lock Sam out. Kept going for his ankles."
Again Feighan froze. "What was he doing in there?"
"Sam?"
"Paulson. What was he"
"What he said was" Greystein frowned. "he said he wanted to see if he could 
put sensors under the carpet; being something of an electronics expert myself, I 
told him what a waste of time that would be, but"
"Do me another favor?"
Greystein spread his hands. "At your service."
"When you speak to him, do notrepeat, do nottell him where I'm going. I'm 
beginning to trust Sam's instincts, and"
"You think Paulson"
"Who knows? But let's not take the chance. So don't let him know you know where 
I am, all right? And I really got to go, so"
"Enjoy, okay?"
Feighan shrugged. " 'Bye."
*PING*
Sam bounced up and down as they materialized; he seemed to like Flinging.
Feighan looked around. The Director's reception room dwarfed his entire 
penthouse. Spotlit objets d'art hung on the walls and mounted pedestals around 
the perimeter. He padded across thick grey rugs, passing to the left of the 
three-meter tall fountain. And they complain about a tight budget?
The Director rated a human secretary, who looked up as Feighan drew near. His 
displeasure at having to wait late for a Flinger manifested itself in a scowl.
"May I help you?" From his intonation, he thought it distastefully necessary to 
be civil. Relations between the teleports and the unTalented bureaucracy might 
crackle with acrimony, but had not yet deteriorated into open warfare.
"McGill Feighan." Claws dug into his collarbone. "Sam, stop hissing." Gently, he 
rapped the Rhanghan snout with a finger. "He doesn't like you, either," he said. 
Before the secretary could absorb that, he went on. "I'm here to pick up a 
transfer notice for Mary O'Higginsis it ready?"
The secretary said nothing. With a curt nod, he lifted a heavy white envelope 
from the corner of the desk. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he 
extended it to Feighan as though he didn't want his hand to get close to the 
Flinger's. "Will there by anything else?" His tone said, There'd better not be.
"Nope."
"McGill!" Across the grey acre hurried Gina Maccari.
All he could think of was that he didn't dare think: she would read him. And the 
last thing he wanted was to be Minded by someone he did not trust. "Hi," he said 
brusquely.
"You were leaving." She stated both fact and hurt.
"Yeah." Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he tried to mask his 
thoughts by inventorying the contents of his suitcase. "Following a lead."
She rubbed Sam's stomach. "I heard all about itand I'm sorry."
That confused him. "For what?"
"For Nadia."
His knees almost gave way. "What do you mean?" His voice was hoarse.
"Look, I'm a telepath! I don't probe people, true, I respect their privacy, but 
for God's sakes, McGill, I should have known she had it in for you" She shook 
her head, tossing the short black hair that should have been washed that 
morning. "Maybe I did I told you, I had a feeling that she had an ulterior 
motive"
"In the cafeteria?" Relief washed over him; she hadn't heard everything.
"Last week, right."
It seemed much longer than a mere ten days ago an entire romance had blossomed, 
withered, and rotted in those two hundred forty hours and Maccari could have 
foresoothed some of the pain. "But you didn't, ah ?" He touched his fingers to 
his temple.
"Investigate?" She waited for his nod. "No, I all right, I'll admit it. I was 
angry with you, and"
"I am sorry about that dunking."
"Not that!" Pursing her lips, she stared at the ceiling and blew air past her 
teeth. "You know, for a brilliant Flinger, you can be awfully dumb about people. 
Women, I mean all right, at the time, I was, um aggrieved? But once I dried 
off, it was funnywhat I was mad about, McGill Feighan, was that from then on 
you dodged me."
He winced. "But I thought"
"That's your whole problemyou thought. Next time, ask." She folded her arms and 
glared at him.
Something fluttered in his chest; recognizing it, he narrowed his eyes and 
reminded himself that she could be on two payrolls, too. And even if she 
weren't, she was a telepath, and the fluttering stopped. "All right," he said. 
"Next time, I will ask."
She cocked her head. "What's with the cactus? I thought you were going to 
Delurc."
He stepped back, half-raising his hands like he would to fend off an attacker. 
"Jesus, stay out of my head, will you? And where I'm going is supposed to be a 
secret."
"Sorry."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
She blinked, and half-turned away. "You better get going."
"Yeah."
Suddenly she turned back and hugged him. "Take care of yourself."
She felt so good it had to be a trap. "I will," he said, releasing her with more 
reluctance than he wanted to feel. "You, too."
"Well" She cleared her throat. "I've delayed you long enough, so" She stood on 
tiptoe and pecked his cheek, then patted Sam on his headplate. "G'bye." 
Whirling, she rushed away.
He stood a moment longer, held by a sudden wistful sense that, in going to 
Delurc, he diverged from the path his life should take through the future. The 
door out of the reception room whispered shut. Mentally, he kicked himself. 
Then
*PING*
Time had worn the tiles smooth, time and many moving bodies, but they still 
gleamed whitely. Mildew darkened their grout, and soured the cool, damp air that 
filled the dome. He raised his eyes to the clear walls. Around them swirled the 
ocean of Delurc. Great shapes glided in it, intercepting the sunlight that 
drifted down through the water. He shivered, partly from chill, but more from 
the gut-born fear that the transparent shell could not, would not, support all 
the water pressing down on it. Which was ridiculous. The dome had stood for 
three centuries without a single leak. The builders of the Flinger Network had 
raised itand they built well.
"Greetings!" The voice boomed out of the head-high light fixtures that circled 
the wall. A panel to his right retracted, revealing a glassed-in walkway. 
"Please proceed through the door to the Customs area."
Post-Fling weariness thickened into a fog of dj vufor he had come to Delurc 
some months before, during a bout of brief madness. He wondered if they 
remembered him, then knew that they must. The Delu forgot nothing. Embarrassment 
crimsoned his cheeks: on his last visit he'd acted like a fool, shouting and 
screaming and blathering idiocy
The walls reflected his tunic, catching its brilliance, cupping it, shimmering 
it around and around like a tail-chasing comet. Seaweed fondled the base of the 
dome, and through the waving stems darted tiny fish of a billion colors.
Before he passed out of the Flop Booth, he donned his oxygen mask, and inhaled 
heavily to test it. Satisfied that Sam's worked as well, he moved into the 
corridor. The door whisked shut behind him.
Within fifteen meters, the walkway fanned out like a river delta. A line of 
air-tight glass cubicles crossed the room at its widest point; the sign above 
one stated "Terrans" in subdued blue neon. Uncomfortably aware that he was the 
only being in the atrium, he approached the booth.
In it sat a human female whom he had seen the last time. Apparently middle-aged, 
but so fat that his estimate was a guess at best, she had skin whiter than her 
teeth, and lank blonde hair. She wore a metal cap; wires ran from its peak to 
gaskets in the ceiling of her booth. Outside, gills pumping and all eight fins 
treading water, a large fish wore a similar cap linked to hers. "Passchips," she 
said through her microphone. Robots spoke more vivaciously.
He pulled the plastic-sealed wafers from his pants pocket and slid them across 
the counter, through the mini-lock set in the glass for that purpose. She 
removed them from her side with shriveled, blue-nailed hands. The Customs area 
was chilly12 or 13 degreesbut her fingers looked even colder. They moved 
stiffly, mechanically, to drop the two passchips into the reader that would 
interpret the alignments of their visa-molecules and warp others to record their 
arrival on Delurc. He wondered if the Delu were taking proper care of her.
Travelers and other Flingers told tales about those who translated for the Delu. 
He could not separate truth from rumor; too many stories conflicted on too many 
points. It seemed certain that, cap-linked to a fishbeing, an extra-Delu became 
its appendage. All agreed that the translators had no volition, that the 
link-wires were really puppet strings. But darker accounts had spread as well: 
that the Delu kidnapped unwary wanderers, and pressed them into service; that a 
being once encapped lost all desire for freedom and all capacity for thought; 
that those who died in service became zombies who served even after the flesh 
had rotted off their bones he shivered.
"Nature and purpose of visit," said the frost-hoarsened voice at last.
"I'm a Flinger on loan to the extra-Delu City Consortium."
"The reptile?"
"My ward." Are they going to try to keep Sam out?
Overhead, the controller changed from cucumber green to sunset yellow. The 
translator's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
"Is there a problem?" Feighan asked.
"Permission granted," she said abruptly. Her countertop spit up their passchips; 
she nudged them back into the lock. "Proceed to Transients' Quartering Offices." 
Her left arm lifted in a series of jerks and pointed down the hallway.
"Thank you." His mask muffled his voice. He reclaimed the chips, hoisted his bag 
and moved away, still wondering. Sam, silent, clutched his hair.
A hundred meters down, a similar line of booths blocked the passageway; signs in 
thirty languages labeled them as "Transients' Quartering Offices." At congested 
times, they would channel the pedestrian stream like spillways on a dam. Now, 
his footsteps rang sharply in the emptiness. Feeling conspicuous and 
self-conscious, he hurried to the one marked "Terran."
Within, an opaque-eyed boy of six or seven rode a high stool. Above his 
purplish-black skin gleamed the chrome of his cap; on him, it seemed a prince's 
crown.
"Hi," said Feighan. "The lady at Customs told me to come here."
"Name." His voice was as lifeless as the woman's.
"McGill Feighan."
"Wait." The tiny speaker set into the wall crackled absently.
He watched the fish that controlled the child. The Academy had exposed him to 
the Delu language, not expecting him to learn it, for no extra-Delu had ever 
achieved more than the ability to ask a few halting questions, but with the idea 
that attempting to grasp its structure would broaden his mind, and force insight 
into the creatures' alienness.
The language flowed on three main levels and a host of minor ones. ConceptsI, 
you; this reef, that fishwere conveyed semi-telepathically, with the listener 
"seeing" what the speaker referred to. Music delineated the relationships 
between concepts: a rising trill could suggest ascending to the surface, for 
example, while a single note protracted as its volume swelled then suddenly cut 
off, meant "to eat." Moods, and states of being, explained themselves visually, 
through color-shifts on the beings' skins. Then, for what Terrans would call 
"non-verbal communication," the Delu had eight fins, the set of which they could 
alter; three watery dimensions in which to strike poses; the speed at which 
their gills pumped all of which is to say that, although he watched the black 
boy's puppet master, though he saw its colors change and sensed even through the 
dome the sound of its song, he couldn't make out a word it was saying.
But he wasn't alone. Only the squidfolk of nNocelphi had ever mastered more of 
the language than "Hello."
The boy's immobility broke: "McGill Feighan has been assigned to Spoke One, 
Wheel Twelve, Dome Twenty-six." His eyes closed.
"Thank you," said Feighan, uneasily aware that every translator in the room was 
studying him. "Where is that?"
The full lips parted. "Follow the signs."
"Ah" The child so much resembled a statue in a wax museum that the Flinger's 
skin crawled. "How can I find Mary O'Higgins?"
The boy's left arm lifted itself like the fat woman's had: slowly, in a series 
of stiff and awkward jerks. "Address inquiries to the servant in the Information 
Booth."
Turning his head, he looked to the right, where squatted another row of booths 
beneath lighted "DATA" signs. "Yeah, ah thanks."
At once the slim arm dropped, and hung limply by the boy's side. The unblemished 
face remained empty; the eyelids, shut.
Geez, he thought, heading for the Information Desk, spooky. Kid acts like a 
servo-mech off the junk heap as did the elderly Chinese man who informed 
Feighan that O'Higgins resided in Spoke One, Wheel Twelve, Dome Twenty-six. Huh, 
he thought, walking away, either they're completely insensitive, or they know 
I'm replacing her.
Sam chattered on his shoulder while he strode the curved-roof corridors. 
Reddish-orange light bathed the tiles. It ruddied the reptile's complexion, and 
bothered the human's eyes. A dull precursor to pain throbbed at the back of his 
skull. He blinked again and again.
"Fwah! Turang!" The voice was deep, gravelly. "Yuh, you, Turang Flinger."
He stopped and retraced his steps to a translation booth standing alone at the 
side of the hall. On a raised platform within crouched an Edbargian, a 
twelve-legged being with a meter-wide, tortoiselike shell and a flamingo's neck. 
Its bald, human-sized head ended in a daggerish beak. "Yuh," it said again. The 
bass notes rumbled the glass. "Welcome, Turang Flinger."
He looked outside the hall to the controlling Delu. Its mottled grey skin lay 
against some twenty meters of corridor wall; its orange-tinted gills pumped in 
an idle but complex rhythm. "What can I do for you?"
"Sull me dreams. One hundred points a night. Is a vury good price, all done in 
the convenience of your own dome. Guaranteed is the prosus agunst all side 
uffucts. Nowhure will one find a butter, more ruputable dealer. What do you say, 
Turang Flinger?"
"Thanks, but" Tired and ill at ease, he wasn't ready to sell his dreams to the 
first buyer. "I don't think so."
The creature hoisted its carapace an inch, and dropped it again: an Edbargian 
shrug. "You change your mind, you look for the Gambler."
"Right, I will." And he strolled on, wondering why that alien had displayed more 
liveliness, more animation, than his own people had.
When the corridor intersected another, glowing signs on its walls directed him 
to the right. The halls were almost empty, though far ahead, diminished by 
distance, scuttled something that could have been an Actuni. At least it looked 
like a mobile cactus his footsteps echoed off the chill walls. He shivered. And 
wished he had not seen the alien.
In a few more meters, an airlock admitted him to Spoke One. The light seemed 
yellower there, less alien to his irritated eyes. A wallsign read: "Terrans and 
others conditioned to Terra-normal atmosphere may remove masks." He did, and 
wiped the sweat off his nose. Then he freed Sam's snout. The saurian indulged in 
an orgy of tongue-flicking.
Extra-Delu Citythat compendium of tunnels and domes laid across the reefs by 
the construction crews of the Flinger Networkwould look, from overhead, like a 
series of concentric rings joined by four spokes that met at the central dome 
Feighan had just left. Every alien on the planet lived in extra-Delu City, even 
those fishbeings who could have survived in the ocean. The Delu liked their 
eeties in one place.
A bit farther on, Spoke One passed through the narrower corridor of Wheel One; 
he peered down its curve and saw that doorways lined its walls. Apparently each 
wheel sprouted domes of its own. He hoped that Wheel Twelve % Dome Twenty-six 
would be clearly marked.
Except for the alloys of the light fixtures, the FNC builders had used perfectly 
transparent materialsat the Delu's insistence. Beyond the arched walls of the 
corridor, the water darkened as the sun set. Thirty-meter shapes parted the 
sea's shadows, as Delu finned and flashed and "frolicked" would have been an 
appropriate word, if it didn't contradict everything the adult Delu represented. 
Perhaps the most humorless race man had encountered, they personified cold 
logic. Even their pursuit of dreams, which some xenosapiologists had equated 
with a desire for pleasure, was, on second glance, more like research. The Delu 
needed random associations and psychological distortions precisely because the 
rest of the universe was subject to them, and they were not. To understand the 
marketplace as thoroughly as the bottom line demanded, they had to explore the 
tangled undersides of those alien minds.
Feighan shivered again. Though vaguely conscious that a mid-sized Delu with a 
deformed fin was scrutinizing him, he was more concerned with incipient 
claustro-aqua-phobia. Thirty meters of water pressed down on the arch, and he 
could not stop visualizing the consequences of a leak. Water would spurt, not 
drip. Spurt at such force that the pinprick would widen and widen till suddenly 
the roof would collapse and the ocean would crush everything with its chill.
Don't be silly, he told himself. The FNC's construction crews don't screw up 
like that. For three hundred years these archways had resisted tides and 
currents and the forces of the sea, bearing their loads with well-wrought 
equanimity. No collapse could occur and even if it did, the contractors had 
installed, at every Spoke-Wheel intersection, barometrically-controlled doors 
that would clamp shut at the slightest increase in air pressure. The massiveness 
of the fail-safe soothed him.
Another half-hour of marching brought him to Wheel Twelve. The signs curved him 
to his right, to dome Twenty-six. As transparent as the rest of extra-Delu City, 
it covered roughly eighty square meters of tiled floor. It held a pallet, a 
chest of drawers, a chair and desk combination, a toilet, and a sink. On the 
pallet lay a woman, hand over her eyes. The pressure door stood open.
He cleared his throat. "Hello? Are you Mary O'Higgins?"
"No visitors, dammit," she said. "Go away."
"I'm not a visitor, I'm your relief." Sam hissed; Feighan stroked his headbone. 
"May I come in?"
Sitting up, she rubbed her bloodshot brown eyes. Grey-lined black hair tumbled 
onto her shoulders; wrinkles channeled the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her 
jaw thrust out pugnaciously. "Relief?" She extended an arm behind herself and 
leaned back on it.
"McGill Feighan, from the New York Flinger Building." As he stepped to the foot 
of her mattress, he dug into his suitcase for the Director's letter. "They told 
me to give you this, and to send you home."
"You're shitting me." She reached up for the envelope, bending forward while he 
stooped over. "Lemme see."
He'd looked down her blouse before he knew what he was doing, then with a guilty 
start twitched his gaze to her face.
She gave him a half-smile, and snapped her fingers. "The envelope, please?"
"Sorry. Here you go." He surrendered it, and glanced around while she tore it 
open. The room depressed him, but Sam scampered down his shirtfront to explore 
it. Which wasn't difficult, given its barrenness. "Did you know I was coming?"
"Not a word of it, but thanks be to God you did. Why? Were they saying that they 
would notify me?" Paper crackled as she folded the letter and smoothed it 
between reverent hands.
"No, but it looks like you sent all your stuff home."
"All what stuff?"
"Furniture, decorations" No Flinger lived in such emptiness, even on temporary 
duty. Moving was too easy. "Books, video-display centeryou know."
Her laugh bit harsher than sandpaper. "Contraband, you mean."
"Pardon?" He blinked, and stooped to pick up Sam when the Rhanghan tugged on his 
pants leg.
"Cute little thing, it isyour pet?"
"My ward. He's a Rhanghan, from Throngorn II."
She peered closer. "Sure and it ismy apologies. I'd never seen an infant 
before. About the contraband"
"Yes?"
"What you see is what you're allowed. Our hosts don't believe in material 
possessions. Re-arrange it as you like, but don't add a thing, or they'll take 
it away."
"Neat trick." He chuckled. "They wouldn't even fit in here."
"No, it's their servants they send. Just as their servants will paw through your 
clothes, and take 'for safe-keeping,' they say, any color or cut that's 
illegal."
"Illegal?"
"McGill" She sighed. "You're a handsome lad with a fine Irish name, and under 
other circumstances I'd be wetting my pants with the eagerness to bend your ear, 
but to tell you the God's honest truth, I won't spend a minute more here than I 
have to. Talk to the man in 25" She pointed across the Wheel. "he knows 
everything. Look me up in New York on your return."
As she disappeared, her Talent tugged at Feighan's, then released it.
"Hmph." Leaving his suitcase, he jerked open the desk to see if she'd left 
anything in its plastic drawers. She hadn't. The room's emptiness reverberated 
in each of them, and the light's yellow tinge made it all seem sickly.
Sam spat suddenly; his claws scratched the tiles.
Feighan whirled.
Over his now-open suitcase bent a slender, purple-feathered being with two 
stilt-like legs and a pair of delicate hands that sprouted from the inside of 
its wide wings. It was a Rehmal, an intelligent avian whose world was a 
full-fledged member of the Network. And it was sorting through his pants.
"Hey!"
It ignored him.
"What the hell are you doing?"
It didn't even twitch its marble-sized eyes.
The irritation and fatigue that had simmered in him for hours abruptly boiled 
over. He balled his fist. "Get out of there you"
"Don't bother," said a voice from the doorway.
"Huh?" He looked up, instantly resenting the amused smile of the rumpled, obese 
Terran who leaned against the wall. "Who are you?"
"Harry Sherman." Waddling into the room, the middle-aged man extended a meaty 
hand. "And you are"
"Oh." For a flustered moment he couldn't move. Here was the one person Walking 
Mule had told him to cultivate, and he'd already snarled at him. But who'd have 
expected a newsman respected throughout the Network to be so casual? "Sorry." As 
confusion submerged bad manners, he stammered. "McGill Feighan, Mr. Sherman. I'm 
Mary O'Higgins' replacement. Excuse me, but"
"Thought she had another three months. And call me Harry." He squatted carefully 
to stare at Sam. "Hah! A baby Rhanghan, didn't know there were any outside of 
the caves. How'd you get him?" He held out a steady finger to Sam. "Hi there, 
kid."
While the reptile stroked the proffered finger curiously, Feighan said, "It's a 
long story, but yes, she had another three months. I'm afraid something came up. 
She did tell me to talk to you, though so could you please tell me why the 
Rehmal is frisking my case?"
Sherman straightened. "Looking for illegal colors, I'd guess." He patted the 
forest green tunic that draped his paunch. In the orange light it looked 
ghastly. "Like thisone shade brighter and they'd confiscate it. Oops." He 
nodded to the Rehmal. "They don't like sky-blue, either."
Feighan turned just as the avian slipped a pair of azure socks into a drawstring 
sack. "Hey!"
"Don't bother," advised Sherman. "She's a zombiecan't hear you, or talk to you, 
either. All wireless servants do is obey their masters."
"Wireless?"
"Uncappedbefore her controller told her to take it off, it gave her a string of 
orders, ending with one to get back to station and recap herself. Right now, 
she's about as aware as a robot."
"But she's stealing my clothes!" His anger sparked into new life; he took a step 
towards the birdbeing.
Strong fingers hooked onto his belt. "Don't," said Sherman. "You'll get 
arrested." He jabbed a meaningful thumb at the Delu hovering just above them. 
Mid-sized, it had a deformed fin.
"Geez" The warningand the surveillancecooled his temper. He moved away, 
relieved to see that the Rehmal had left him some clothes, at least. "Thanks 
I'm usually not so hot under the collar, but ah these lights are getting to me, 
I guess. I've got a lot to learn about this world speaking of which, maybe 
you'd know. Where would I go for information about an alien that visited here, 
oh, twenty-one years ago?"
"Eleven years before my time, otherwise you'd come to me." Making a face, he 
tugged on his jowls as he thought. "Your best bet, I'm afraid, is ask the 
datadesk at the intersection. It probably won't have the answer, but it'll tell 
you who does."
"Great!" Delighted it would be that easy, he could not restrain his impatience. 
The need to know surged so strongly in him that he said, "Let me just check with 
itcan you watch Sam?"
"Sure."
"Thanks." He hurried into the Wheel and half-trotted to its crossing with Spoke 
One. In the booth, an Aronya ground its massive jowls. He approached. "Do you 
speak Terran?"
Two meters tall at the shoulder, the bovine-like creature swished its tail. 
"Sommme." Its green tongue lolled out.
From his pants pocket he took a hologram of the gastropod. "This being visited 
Delurc twenty-some years ago, Terran time, and I'd like to find out who it 
talked to."
Moist orange eyes focused on his face. "What is your point balance?"
"Ah" He shrugged. "I don't know."
"Your nammme?"
"McGill Feighan."
"Wait." The suns of its pupils rolled into eclipse behind its lids. Outside, the 
Delu controller shifted from grey to black. Then the Aronya wheezed, "Negative 
five."
"Pardon?"
"Your point balance is negative five, MmmGill Feighan. Mmmake five thousand five 
points, then return to repeat your question."
"Damn!" Disappointment sizzled across his soul. I forgot nothing's free here 
they musta charged for telling me where O'Higgins lived, too. "How do I make 
five thousand and five points, then?"
Placidly, it blinked. "Mmmake one thousand, then ask."
With an effort, he controlled his ire. "But"
"Good-bye." And it closed its fire bright eyes with the firmness of nightfall.
As his pivoted on his heel, Feighan thought he could guess why Mary O'Higgins 
had so disliked Delurc.
 
Clenched hands hidden behind his back, Milford Hommroummy faced a glass-walled 
tank taller than he. It nearly filled the vault carved from the heart of 
Kilimanjaro. It was filled with blue and gold gases that intermingled yet did 
not mix. They composed his immediate superior, Gryll.
"You have ordered me to capture McGill Feighan alive and unharmed, but he has 
fled my area of operation. I request permission to pursue him to Delurc, and to 
enlist the aid of the branch office on the reefs."
The speaker mounted on the pressure chamber gave a sixty-cycle hum. After a 
moment, Gryll said, "Permission granted. Use as base small rocket fleet two A.U. 
out from planet. Liaison will contact you; code-named Gimpy. Will assist. Offer 
quid-pro-quo."
Hommroummy scuffed the scarlet carpet with his toe. "What sort of quid-pro-quo?"
"Delurc Branch powerful; members have prestige and authority. Yet influence of 
Far Being Retzglaran also powerful and Retzglaran's beasts hold upper hand now. 
Assist Gimpy in upsetting balance."
Hommroummy's thick eyebrows arched. "A revolution?"
"Minimum acceptable achievement is control of Auditor's Council Board of 
Examiners. Unmonitored Delu make very creative accountants; are essential to 
Organization's prosperity. Go. Succeed." A curtain slipped out of the wall to 
screen the tank.
Hommroummy left the room at once. In the chill stone corridor, he paused. He let 
out his breath in a long, slow sigh. He wiped his sweaty palms on a 
handkerchief. He looked old and frightened.
Chapter VII
 ^ 


When Feighan returned to Dome Twenty-six, Harry Sherman was sitting cross-legged 
on the floor, wrinkled pants pulled halfway up his shins. He wore no socks. In 
the deep red light, he looked like an amiable gargoyle. He had made a pendulum 
of his ruby ring and a length of thread, and he dangled that in front of Sam. On 
each slow swing it tapped the saurian's snout; Sam would cover his nose with his 
paws and spit/hiss good-naturedly. Then he would lunge. While Feighan watched, 
he caught the ring with his teeth, and bit through the string. Sherman chuckled.
"Having fun?" The asperity in his voice startled the Flinger. He wondered where 
it had come from.
The other glanced over his shoulder. Corpulence threatened his tunic-seams. "To 
tell the truth," he said, "I am. Something wrong?"
He bit back a snappish reply. "Ah I'm just in a bad mood."
"They wouldn't answer, huh?"
He snorted. "I have to have five thousand points, firstand it'll cost me a 
thousand more to learn how to earn them."
"It's a mercenary world, all right." He rolled Sam over and tickled his leathery 
stomach plate, until the infant, pushing at the fingers, released the ring. 
Sherman pocketed it. "You can't let it get on your nerves, though."
"I know." He crossed to the desk and rested a haunch on its edge. His heel 
drummed against its tubular plastic leg. "I'm usually not this grouchy maybe I 
just need a good night's sleep. Or a punch-field, I don't know."
Sherman studied him with a different kind of interest. "Are you sensitive to 
telepathy?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"People with a sort of micro-Talent for Minding react badly here. There's so 
much telepathy in the area that they start picking it upbut they've never had 
training in how to block it. So it's there, constantly, in the backs of their 
heads, like radio static. That's why I wondered"
"I don't think that's it."
"The Delu, then?"
"Maybe." The fishbeings were as likely to have irritated him as anything.
"They do view data-sharingor even small talkfrom a different perspective Let 
me tell you a story."
"About what?" Feighan was listening to his stomach as well as to his neighbor, 
and his stomach said it was time for dinner.
"You do know I'm a newsbroker?"
Feighan had to smile. "Yeah, Harry, I think I might have heard that somewhere 
before."
"Oh? You a subscriber?"
"For a year, now."
"Then I hope this doesn't scare you off." He picked up Sam and began to stroke 
his sides. "Eight or nine years ago, I had about ten thousand points in working 
capital. Investment opportunity pieces by high-graded brokers were the big 
wants, then; the sharers couldn't get enough of them. I had a reliability index 
of close to 99.5%, and a contact here touting a short-term sure thing. My mouth 
watered."
"Money in the bank, huh?" Idly, he pulled out the center desk drawer. Reddish 
shadows shifted in its emptiness.
"It's Network legend that Delu never lie," said the fat man, "so I bought the 
data and shipped it home express." He grimaced. "I advised something on the 
order of 1.2 million data-sharers that BemGems, Inc., had just discovered the 
richest lode of Syra-quartz ever, and that it would float a common stock issue 
soon to raise money to develop the mine. I allowed as how it might be a good 
buy" With a wry headshake, he clucked his tongue.
"Wait," said Feighan, suddenly realizing what had to come next. "Don't tell me, 
your mine finally opened on the day they introduced synthetic Syra-quartz."
"Not my mine." Glumness settled over his coarse features. Scratching under his 
armpit, he said, "My readers' mine. I got hit with eighty-seven thousand 
accuracy gripes, and that was thirty months after the piece flashed the 
terminals. My reliability rating dropped two percent; the only thing that saved 
it from an utter flush was that the AccBoard found I had, at least, warned that 
this strikeand any new sources of supplywould lower the wholesale price of the 
jewel. Lost half a million subscribers anyway. Took me years to recover. Which 
in a roundabout way makes my point: the fish told me nothing but the truth. It 
merely neglected to mention the rest of the truth."
"That's unethical!"
"On Earth it would be." He sighed. "Mores aren't the same here, McGill. We had a 
contract that stated quite clearly that the advice the fish gave did not take 
into account probable, possible, or potential technological developments that 
might render said advice obsolete." He frowned. "God bless, do I remember that 
clauseto this day I read it in my nightmares"
"But still," said Feighan, "you paid for advice on a good investment for your 
readers' money, and he gave you bad advice."
"She. And that's not the way they see it here. She asked for ten thousand 
points, and guaranteed a short-term sure thing. No more. I asked for a high rate 
of return coupled with reasonable safety. Well, for the short term, I got what I 
wanted hell, the issue hit 37 and an eighth a month after going on the Board at 
5. Some of my readers made a killing the problem was, it took eighteen more 
months for the mine to open." He shrugged off the weight of his memories. "It 
was my fault for not taking the Delu perspective into proper account. You have 
to do that to survive here."
"I don't know," said Feighan slowly, "it just seems"
"Bloodthirsty?" He spread his wide hands. "That it is but that's the way it 
is."
"Speaking of the way"
"Yes?"
"Which way to the nearest restaurant?"
Sherman's eyes popped open, then twinkled. Laughing, he pointed straight up. 
"About ten light years due north. You eat in your room."
Feighan looked around. "There's no stove, no refrigerator"
"Did you miss dinner?"
"Yes, I did."
The fat man clucked sadly, sympathetically. "Then you'll have to wait for the 
breakfast servingbut at least it's delivered."
"Huh?"
"True, right to your door." Setting Sam down, he rose, and smoothed wrinkles out 
of his scarlet tunic. "One of the small amenities of life in extra-Delu City."
"What's it cost?"
"That depends on how much you eat. A small portion's five points, medium is 
twenty-five, and large is one hundred twenty-five." After an appraising glance 
at Feighan's figure, he said, "I'd advise the medium."
"But I don't have any points."
"Actually, you door will. The Delu are paying your salary, in points of course, 
and you make how many FNC's a day?"
"Thirty," he replied.
"There you go, then. The exchange rate's twelve points a fancyso you're making 
360 a day. The room's free, as is the airthe fish believe that the right to 
space and breath are inalienableso if Sam's meals aren't too expensive, you 
might turn a small profit." He glanced speculatively at the light fixture. "I 
have to go; I have an important appointment." Spinning out the door without 
another word, he dove into his own dome.
Feighan shook his head, then picked up the Rhanghan and scratched his skullbone. 
"Damn, Sam," he sighed. "This is a strange place. Wish I could Fling home for a 
snack" But he couldn't. Standing orders said Flingers stayed on station for the 
duration of their toursand no properly indoctrinated Flinger would ever disobey 
standing orders without good cause. Last thing I want, he thought, is for them 
to find out I never got brainwashed...
The saurian's four eyelids drifted down; he breathed in raspy little snuffles.
"You're going to sleep on me, huh?" Feighan whispered. He started to lift his 
hand.
Sam grabbed it, and pulled it back to the top of his head.
Feighan chuckled. "Okay, kid, whatever you say" Through the transparent walls 
he watched Sherman. The newsbroker went to his pallet, stripped it of its 
blanket, and reached underneath it for something which he palmed. Then he 
flapped the blanket open and let it settle across his separated desk and chair 
to form a small, thigh-high tent. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled 
inside.
"Weird place to have an appointment."
The blanket bulged at the sides; feet flashed in and out of view. It looked like 
two people wrestling in there a few minutes later, Sherman stood up, and threw 
off the blanket. Moving stiffly, he crossed the room and lay face-down on the 
pallet. He seemed to fall instantly asleep, because he didn't fidget once.
"Why didn't he just say so?" Feighan asked Sam.
The Rhanghan's questing hand dabbled in the light-bands of the energy tunic. 
They fascinated the infant, but his fingers were cold on the human's skin.
"Hey, kid, stop it, huh?" Playfully, he puffed air into Sam's face, and laughed 
as the magenta tongue flickered out.
In the corridor, a shadow rippled past. He eyed it for a moment, then decided 
his tired eyes were playing tricks on him. I oughta go to bed. But his hunger 
outweighed his fatigue, so he prowled the room. Bored and restless, he searched 
every square centimeter for he didn't know for what. It was just something to 
do, a way to kill time.
Unexpectedly, it paid off: O'Higgins had taped her work schedule to the backside 
of the desk. He squinted through the reddening light, and scowled at the strain 
on his eyes. Let's see, I'm due to report at30:30. Great.
He stepped to his suitcase and searched for his travel alarm, hoping that its 
dimwitted chip would at least be familiar with Delu chronology. He lifted the 
last pair of pants, then rocked back on his heels thoughtfully. Coulda sworn I 
packed it From his memory flicked an image of the cubical clock nestled in the 
corner of his top dresser drawer. Dammit !
His Talent flexed as he considered his options: do without, or find a local 
clock store. Again, Flinging back for his own was impossible. Doing without 
would be impractical. He decided to wake Sherman up and ask for directions to 
the nearest store with clocks in stock.
"C'mon, Sam," he told his equally tired ward. "Let's go bother Harry."
The infant didn't move.
"C'mon, kid." He jerked his head towards the doorway.
Sam held out his arms to be picked up.
"Oh, all right" Cradling the saurian, Feighan tickled him under the chin. Then 
he crossed the Wheel, shoes scraping on the smooth tile, and went up to the 
pallet. The newsbroker lay flat on his stomach. His elbows looked wrongly 
cocked. "Ah Harry? Harry? Are you awake? Hey, Harry" He squatted to touch 
Sherman's shoulder. "wake" He drew his hand back. His fingertips had poked 
plastic, not flesh.
The body was a mannequin.
"Jesus God!" Standing straight again, unconsciously shielding Sam from any 
danger, he spun on his heel and scanned the room. Except that Sherman had a 
computer-desk, and had dropped the blanket in the middle of the floor, the dome 
was identical to his. Even in the somber lighting all looked normal. And the 
newsbroker was nowhere to be seen. Oh Christ, I'll bet he works for Hommroummy.
He almost ran, then, but remembered that Walking Mule had vouched for 
Shermanand besides, he was curious. I saw Harry come in here, so he musta done 
the dummy, which means he'll be back and I can ask about *hmph* that 30:30 
business and the clock store.
Still cradling Sam, he settled into the straight-backed desk chair (wondering as 
he did so how that frail piece of furniture had not collapsed under the 
newsbroker).
The dome, mirrored by outside darkness, held reflections of its occupants by 
their heels, and threatened to drop them. Slowly, the hairs on the back of his 
neck stiffened; he shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. He was being 
watched. Goose-pimples puckered his skin. He stared at the clearness of the arch 
until his eyes ached. Nothing. No faces, no snouts didja think they'd press 
right up against it? They don't need to; it's light in here and dark out there; 
I'm spotlit like a man on a stage He snorted. I'm the lead in a play and 
nobody'll show me the rest of the script, won't let me walk into the wings, 
can't see or hear or smell the audience Despite his tension, he yawned. 
Stroking Sam's bellyplate until the reptile sprawled limply and fell asleep, he 
struggled to stay awake himself.
And failed.
So he dreamed.
Water, waves, watchers and overhead a desert sun. He dog-paddled frantically, 
trying to keep his mouth above water, but every grasping breath sucked brine 
into his lungs, and the audience lining the rails of the cruise ship applauded 
as he sputtered.
"Throw me a rope!"
"No!" they said in unison.
Piranha prodded his legs, nipping at his knees with teeth as sharp as cactus 
spikes. He screamed for help; choking, he flailed his feet, driving them away 
while the audience cheered.
"Please, a rope!"
"No!"
A fin cut the water, a triangular omen that left almond-eyed eddies in its wake, 
and the spectators shouted, "Shark! Shark!" and he yelled, "I see, I see, please 
help!"
"NO!"
So he floated alone and motionless, knowing limb twitches would draw the 
predator, and the waves washed the sockets of his eyes with salt, and a fin 
scraped his spine, and pilot fish probed his groin for parasites.
He floated alone and motionless.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done.
Then with a swirl the shark disappeared. Free now to save himself, he started to 
swim for shore, but the audience gasped as a great black whale
"Wake up," boomed a worried voice. An insistent hand shook his shoulder. "Come 
on, McGill, wake up hush, Sam, it's all right, I'm just trying to"
Jackknifing out of his slouch, he hugged himself. Sweat ran down his chest. 
"Harry. Sorry. I dozed off. I was waiting for you, and"
"You were screaming your head off." The fat man sat on the edge of his pallet, 
squashing it flat. "Bad dream?"
He trembled.
"I get them myself now and then."
"I'll be okay but, ah there were a couple of things I wanted to ask." He 
inhaled, then shuddered it out. "I'm supposed to be at work tomorrow at '30:30. 
' I don't even know what that means, much less how to get up before then."
The newsman grinned. "At the 1-12 datadeskwhere this Wheel intersects Spoke 
Oneprobably the same place you asked the 5000-point questiontell the puppet 
you wanted to be called how much time do you need to get ready for work?"
He shrugged. "I don't know hey, wait a minute. You're you, now." He looked 
around, groggy and still dazed by his nightmare. "I mean, when I came in, it 
wasn't you on the bed, it was you know, the"
"You do dream vividly, don't you?"
"No, this was before"
"Let's talk about that some other time. What's important is that you get enough 
rest before workremember, Delurc's day is only twenty-two hours long, and 
that's going to wipe you out until you get used to it."
Made uncomfortably aware that he had no right to pry into his neighbor's 
secrets, Feighan let Sherman change the subject back to time. "I need, say, ten 
minutes to wash up, fifteen to eat breakfastwhat's that in Delu terms?"
"About a troom and a quarter. The day here has sixty-four trooms, each of which 
has sixty-four twees. The Delu use base-eight notation, though, so they call 
them each 'one hundred.' '30:30' is actually the twenty-fourth troom and the 
twenty-fourth twee. An easy guide is that a troom's about twenty minutes, and a 
twee's nineteen seconds."
"So, ah" He juggled the numbers in his head. "That troom and a quarter you said 
I'd need equals like '1:20,' but with a few minutes safety factor it's 1:30, and 
that would make a a 29:00 wake-up call?"
"Base-eight, McGillthat's 27:00. Just tell the puppet to call you then, and to 
feed you at 27:40. I warn you, though, it'll cost, let's see, a point and a half 
for the service."
Feighan frowned. "Do you know any place that's open where I could buy an alarm 
clock?"
Sherman cocked his head in amusement, then snapped his fingers. "That's right, 
they're not allowed to brief you, are they? You can't buy a clock herehell, 
there aren't any stores at all. Of any kind. You'd have to get one custom-made 
off world, and even then they'd take it away from you."
The Flinger slapped his thigh angrily. "I knew I packed it!"
"A travel alarm, huh? You'll get it back when you leave, don't worry."
"But why'd they take it?"
"It violates the codeor at least, that's what they'd tell you if you asked."
"A clock?"
"Remember to take the Delu perspective into account."
"But how does it apply to a clock?"
"They'd rather sell you the time of day." Sherman chuckled. "And since it's 
their planet fortunately, they have this ethic about giving the sucker an even 
breaksee the lights?" He pointed to the ceiling.
His gaze followed the finger. "Yeah, surethey're hard to miss. So?"
"The color tinge comes from a variable monochrome component, and that VMC's in 
every fixture in extra-Delu City. It goes through the entire visible spectrum 
once a day. You got here yesterday in the early rednow, you'll notice, we're 
starting over in the deep violet. The VMC shifts an angstrom a twee, so unless 
you're color blind, you can use the lights as rough clocks."
Flabbergasted, the Flinger dropped his forehead onto his crossed arms. "But how 
can you tell 30:30 from 31:00? You've got to be a spectrograph to see a thirty 
angstrom frequency shift."
"The Delu can do it." Sherman shrugged. "And they prefer us to live up to their 
standards, rather than living down to ours."
"Madness!"
"Well put."
Cramped and bad-tempered, Feighan stretched. Then he yawned and, as he 
recognized the extent of his fatigue, became embarrassed. He had been an 
inconsiderate guest. "Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to impose on you this late"
"I keep GMT," Sherman assured him. "Have to, so my article-chips get back by 
6:00 EST every day. My bedtime's a long way off. And it's been a while since I 
last had somebody interesting to talk towith all due respect, your predecessor 
was not what I'd call convivial."
Curiosity overwhelmed tiredness. He turned the chair around, and straddled it. 
On the desktop, Sam rolled onto his stomach and gave a raspy little snore. 
"About your stand-in"
"Not now, McGill."
Following Sherman's upward gaze, he realized the newsbroker wouldn't discuss the 
topic if he could be overheard. So instead he said, with a gesture to the 
sterile furnishings, "They sure don't want anybody to get comfortable here."
"Precisely."
"But why?"
"The Delu don't like having aliens aroundin fact, the only reason they allow us 
in is because their treaty with the FNC says they have to."
"We were forced down their throats, huh?"
"McGill, their throats are so large we could glide down side by side with room 
to spare."
Feighan had to laugh. "I can believe it. But what have they got against aliens?"
"Who knows? Jealousy, maybe, because they're too big to Fling and we're not? 
It's not a privacy fetish, or else they'd have made the City opaque they claim 
that aliens disrupt their society, their culture, but they won't get more 
specific except for cash in advance, and so far, nobody's been that interested. 
I was thinking of investing in the answer myself, but I couldn't find a good 
market for it. For a one-hundred word statement on the matter, they want twenty 
thousand pointstwenty-five thousand USand I'll tell you, I couldn't sell that 
report to enough people to recoup my costs. Some government or foundation's 
going to have to buy it, someday."
Feighan suppressed a yawn, and tousled his hair with his fingers. "What gets me 
is that they joined the Network even though they felt this way."
The newsbroker folded his hands on his belly and rocked slowly back and forth. 
"It's not that simple," he said, picking his words with obvious care. "Not all 
of them feel that way. It's too early in the morning to go into all the details, 
but suffice it to say that extra-Delu residents are chips in a political poker 
game. See, this culture's changing, growing, evolvingand there are factions 
struggling to control the engines and vectors of change. It all gets back, 
eventually, to the buying and selling of information."
The Flinger was more tired than ever, so he shied away from conversational 
depths and instead began, "Speaking of information" He yawned widely.
"I charge less, so go ahead."
He scratched behind his right ear. "I feel sort of dumb asking this, but I can't 
find the light switch in my room."
Sherman hooted, and slapped his beefy thigh. "I sure wish I could sell the FNC a 
guidechip on Delurc, since I'm teaching all you New York Flingers for free 
anyway There is no light switch."
"Central control, then? I have to ask that it be turned off?"
"It doesn't get turned off, McGill. Ever."
"I haven't slept with the lights on in years!"
"Get used to it." He opened his hands to the violet haze that enveloped them. 
"You can't escape it."
"But why? More of the visitor-discouragement tactics?"
"Probably, though there's no way to prove it." He slapped his open palm on the 
pallet. "For all I know, they're just curious about aliens. Maybe we're a hobby 
to them, so they put us on display like goldfish in a bowl." For the first time, 
sourness tinged his deep voice, and pulled down the corners of his lips. "Which 
definitely cramps your style, if you're unfortunate enough to have a lover 
here."
"Unfortunate?" It was the last word Feighan would have used, though he still 
could not bring himself to think of Liang. "How can having a lover be 
unfortunate?"
Sherman swept an arm to the curving sheets of glass that separated his dome from 
the wheel. "Can you imagine how frustrating it is to be sitting here, a handspan 
away from someone you'd like to crawl all over, while you know you're visible to 
anybody who walks by? Forget about the fish, that's like leaving the holo-vee 
on, but to have a stranger five meters away, beyond a clear wall and an open 
door? No, sir." He shook his head sadly. "I haven't yet found a woman 
exhibitionistic enough to join me in the sack in public, as it were and if I 
did, I doubt if I'd be able to rise to the occasion. That's what I mean by 
unfortunate. Get used to celibacy."
Feighan couldn't help being warmed by Sherman's implicit compliment. The truth 
was that he'd never truly experienced non-celibacy He yawned again, in part to 
change the subject. "I'm exhausted any ideas what time it is?"
Sherman glanced at the light fixture. "Call it, ah, the third troom. That's 
close enough, anywayyou have a little under seven hours to sleep."
"Then I have to go." He rose, and stumbled away from the chair. "Thanks again 
for all your help; I'd have been lost without it."
"No problem. I'll see you tomorrow."
With a sleepy wave, the Flinger scooped up Sam and crossed the hall to his own 
room. Briefly, he thought of disrobing, but when he plopped into the chair, he 
was too tired even to pull off his boots. Besides, he couldn't shake the 
conviction that he was being watched. Despite the violet light, he felt exposed.
He peered into the surrounding domes. Most were empty. Harry Sherman sat at his 
desk, murmuring into his computer. Next door, a young man slept. Down the hall, 
a middle-aged woman raised binoculars to her eyes.
He'd sleep with his clothes on. The tunic wouldn't wrinkle
What he couldn't put off, though, was using the toilet. He turned his back on 
the nosy woman how come she can have binoculars when I can't keep a clock? but 
having to unzip in the middle of the room, unsheltered and visible to anyone 
with the right perspective, made him so anxious that nothing happened.
He'd had the same trouble in junior high, before the Academy, when he couldn't 
use the urinals during gym class. A doctor had called it a common occurrence, 
the "shy bladder syndrome," and knowing that it was widespread enough to have a 
name made him feel less of a freak. It didn't, however, provide a lot in the way 
of solutions
"Later," he muttered. "If I wait long enough, I'm gonna go no matter how shy it 
is."
Then he fluffed his lumpy pillow and crawled between the scratchy blankets. No 
sheets. The previous residents of the room had hollowed out the center of the 
pallet with their weight; he slipped into their mold but was too tall for the 
fit to be comfortable. Besides, they had sloughed odors off on the rough fabric, 
and he could smell them all: O'Higgins, and below her a faint yet masculine 
stench, and behind that a non-human rankness and the lights burned in his 
reddened eyes. Beside him rose Sam's reassuring snore.
"Damn," he said softly, as he wriggled for a position which wouldn't bring on a 
stiff neck or worse, "I don't know about this place"
 
In the morning a birdy twitter-tweet broke through a dream washed in bleak grey. 
He opened his eyes to a pair of stilt-like legs supporting a slender, feathered 
frame. "Huh?" he mumbled.
"Wake up call, Mr. Feighan." The Rehmal was the one who had frisked his luggage 
the day before. It trilled a snatch of Reveille. "It is 27:00."
"Oh, yeah." He sat up and yawned immensely. A dash of green gave character to 
the blue light. The Rehmal pigeon-bobbed its way back into the wheel. Feighan 
arose, and headed for the toilet.
By the time he'd washed and finger combed his hair, the Rehmal had returned with 
a covered plastic tray and a small plastic box. Its purple feathers iridesced 
darkly. Lowering the box to the floor, it set the platter on the desk and lifted 
the lid. "Medium?" it whistled.
"Fine," said Feighan, sliding the chair back.
Again it whistled, "Medium?"
He stopped. "Ah yes. Uh-huh. Medium."
One of the words triggered a response in the birdbeing, though he had no idea 
which. Next time I'll say 'em one by one The Rehmal whisked the middle-sized 
plate off the tray and onto the desk, then replaced the lid. Without even a 
glance in his direction, it clicked to the door and into the hallway, balancing 
its burden on an outstretched hand.
"Hey, wait," he said, when he eyed the plate. "You forgot the silverwa" But he 
reached the door too late. The Rehmal had disappeared. Probably wouldn't have 
come back even if I could have found it
So he returned to the hard-seated chair and confronted breakfast: a brown oblong 
about fifteen centimeters long, five centimeters wide, and two deep. Its surface 
shimmered slightly, as though it had been fried in oil. He sniffed, but smelled 
nothing. Gingerly, he picked it up with his fingers, and nibbled off a crisp 
corner. In texture it resembled black bread. Stale black bread.
"And it doesn't taste much better, either." He forced the first mouthful down 
his throat and stared without appetite at the remainder of the food bar. 
Suddenly it seemed much too large. "Hope they did better by you, Sam."
But the Rhanghan squatted on the tiles, glumly regarding a roach-sized brown 
oblong.
As he sipped the flat, tasteless water, Feighan wondered if he dared Fling back 
to Earth for his meals. It would save him moneylike thirty bucks a shot, he 
realizedmake mealtimes more pleasant, and keep him from feeling quite so 
isolated but leave me incredibly exhausted, maybe alienate the Delu if they 
noticed, and screw me good if the NAC found out
Still, he considered it. He was pretty sure he could fast-talk the NAC, but he 
could not afford to insult his hosts, even if they were trying to starve him. He 
needed information that they had about the gastropod and the Far Being 
Retzglaran, and although he did not understand their mores, he suspected they 
would deny him answers if they resented or disliked him. Or raise the price 
higher'n I afford
What clinched it was that he could not escape the physical consequences. The 
standard ninety-six Flings in twenty-four hours drained him; a regular nine days 
on, one off shift left him ready to cry with fatigue on the last night Here he 
lost two hours a day, so adding extra Flings, two extra interstellar Flings, 
would demolish him.
Leaden with resignation, he lifted breakfast and began to gnaw. If that was what 
Delurc offered Terrans to eat, that was what he would eat at least until he 
could take it no more.
Gotta ask Harry how he got so fat on this stuff!
When he had finally choked down the last of it, he looked up. The newsbroker was 
pacing the perimeter of his dome, and checking the light fixtures once a lap. 
Feighan waved across; Sherman pantomimed permission to enter. For a fat man, he 
moved gracefully.
Sam at his heels, Feighan went in. "Morning, Harry."
Sherman stopped walking, but his eyes kept darting to the lights. "It's more 
like night for me, but how are you today anyway?"
"I wanted to ask you about the food"
"Not very appetizing?"
"That's a mild way of putting it. Is it always this bad?"
Sherman's features sagged into melancholy. "It's always that meal. Three times a 
day, seven days a week the kitchens of extra-Delu City don't cook anything 
else."
"I don't understandI mean, that was a taste bud away from inedibilitythey 
trying to kill us?"
"Just discourage us."
"More of that, huh?" Hand on his stomach, he groaned. "It's just lying there 
resisting my digestive juices"
"Heartburn is epidemic here," said the newsbroker solemnly.
"Then why do you stay?" He could not understand it. Sherman had the money to 
live where and how he wanted, yet he had chosen this cold, cheerless planet as 
his headquarters. "You could have an incredible place in New York, or Shanghai 
why do you put up with this?"
The other gave him a level stare that went on and on till he said, "McGill, this 
is the info hub of the Network. If anything important happens anywhere 
important" He made a sound half-amused, half-disgusted. "they've already heard 
about it here. Working out of eD City gives me a six- to twelve-hour jump on the 
competition, and in this business, that's how you stay on top."
"But"
Sherman pointed to the gradually greening lights. "It's about time for you to 
get to work, isn't it?"
"I'll take your word for it." With a wave, he leftbut not before he had tried 
to commit the exact color of the lights to memory.
 
Flinging from Delurc, he discovered that morning, bored him as much as Flinging 
from Earth ever had. Only the steady diminishing of the pressure made it at all 
worthwhile. As on Terra, he sat in a small room overlooking a large one; the 
major difference was that in New York, his cubical booth had white walls and 
ceiling, while on Delurc, his dome was transparent. The desktop still doubled as 
a computer screen offering destination information and departure timesbut in 
Delu chronology, of course. Every twenty-five twees he had to teleport a 
traveler or a load of cargo. Four Flings a troom, twenty-four trooms (in base 
ten) a day.
"Sam, my friend," he said, halfway through his first shift, "I have a feeling 
that I'm going to like this place less and less as time goes on."
The child, still much too young to speak, regarded Feighan with dark-eyed 
impassivity. Politeness seemed instinctive in him: not till his guardian stopped 
speaking did he turn away. Having already explored the cramped enclosure, he 
snouted the wall to stare into the lightening waters. Seaweed tendrils slapped 
the glass in slow motion; at first he recoiled from them, but quickly came to 
learn that they did not hurt.
And while the small saurian made faces at the creatures of the ocean bottom, 
Feighan Flung for twelve straight trooms, four times a troom. At the end he 
arose, arched the stiffness out of his back, and cracked his knuckles. "Sam," he 
said tiredly, "let's go check out the city, see if there's anything to do that's 
halfway interesting."
It was just past mid-day; the fluorescents slathered them with mustard-yellow. 
Feighan adjusted their oxygen masks, and they strolled into the cluster of domes 
that formed the hub of eD City. Through the noon-bright waters overhead glided 
huge shapes that cast shadows like storm clouds. One had a deformed fin. A 
prickling came across Feighan's mind. He resented them all. He despised them. 
Each and every one.
Breath raspy in his mask, Sam on his shoulder, he looked around. A few domes 
away, a flock of Rehmal formed a ragged line and moved a shipment of cargo out 
of a Flop Booth bucket-brigade style. The sheets of glass and the intervening 
waters blurred their figures; he felt an impressionist painting had come to 
life.
Otherwise the city was still. Only his footsteps rang in the corridors. The 
servants in their booths waited like museum exhibits: immobile, unneeded, and 
faintly unreal. Ventilators whispered cool, damp air so redolent of mildew that 
it pierced his mask. A few sapients sat in untitled offices, but they didn't 
look up as he passed. Nowhere did he spot anyplace designed to amuse or relax. 
And there were, indeed, no stores.
Swiftly, the central city palled on him. He left it within half an hour for the 
oxygen-breathers' section, where at least he could remove his mask and inhale in 
comfort. Sam chittered in his ear while he turned off Spoke One to wander 
through the wheels.
Again, the majority of domes lay empty and unusedespecially those close to the 
core. It angered him more as he walked further; the Delu could certainly have 
assigned him to one of those, and spared him that half-hour hike to and from 
work. That they had not was extra evidence of their animosity.
Time dyed the lights' yellow orange; he strolled along laser-straight spokes and 
ever-larger wheels. Each was identical to every other, and his sense of 
direction began to fail. When he looked around he could find not a single 
landmark to distinguish the locale from anyplace else in eD City. There were no 
statues, no parks (or benches, either), no historical plaquesin all his 
roamings during those twelve off trooms, only one thing pleased him: Iona T. 
Reed had been transferred to Delurc, and her quarters were as sparsely furnished 
as his.
"Hi," he said through her open door.
"Who" She blinked, and her face gelled with dark hostility. "You."
"Yeah, it's me. I saw you through the wallwhat brought you here?" Entering, he 
bent so Sam could hop onto her desk. "This is the Rhanghan, from the egg?"
"I remember." Her eyes slitted. "I've been named Terran Ambassador."
"Congratulations!" Looking at her with new respect, he decided she must have 
been more competent than he had thought. "That's quite a promotion."
"It is a punishment," she snapped. "If not the end of my career."
"Ah" He swallowed hard in embarrassment. "Geez, I'm sorry to hear that." Her 
gaze burned through him and he had to back away. "You were punished because of 
Sam?"
She picked the child off the empty desktop and set him on the floor, then 
inspected her fingers for filth. "I am quite busy. Good day."
"Yeah." He nodded, absorbing the rebuff. "Okay. See you around."
Outside, he shrugged, and began to head back to his booth. Soon it would be time 
to report for his second shift, though I don't know, he thought, dragging his 
feet, sure isn't easy to work here. If I didn't need a clue to the Far Being It 
seemed almost a betrayal of his species to work for a race so disdainful of 
humanity. He glanced up, and briefly caught the eye of a ten-meter long Delu. He 
dropped his gaze at once.
Half an hour later, the gaping Booth door beckoned. He closed it behind himself, 
sat and Flung, nibbled on dinner when it was delivered, sat and Flung until 
twelve more trooms had elapsed, forty-eight more Flings all told, and Wardens 
Duty and Need freed him until 30:30 the next morning.
"Let's go home, kid."
Sam hauled himself up Feighan's pants leg and grasped his belt. With a final 
hiss for the still-waving seaweed, he nuzzled his face into the Flinger's side 
and wagged his tail as if to say, "I'm on, let's go."
Evening had dimmed the sea. The lights, though deep into the red, seemed 
brighter in contrast. Too tired to teleport again, even the short distance to 
his room, he trudged up the long bleak spoke. The twenty-two hour days were 
already wearing him down. The last alien planet he had lived on, Throngorn II, 
had had forty-hour days which he had thought were enervating, but Delurc was 
worse. Probably 'cause T II gave me a lot more time for sleep, huh?
"Hey, Tewan," lisped a high-pitched voice from the booth he was passing. "Would 
you wike to eawn ten points?"
His sore eyes swung up to focus on an orange and purple face. His blas reaction 
to an Othci was not feignedduring training he had visited their swamp world, 
Othcar. "Sorry," he told the limbless creature, "I didn't hear you."
Confined to a large aquarium, it squirmed, and rippled its ten-meter length into 
a new coil. Its four fangs gleamed blackly as it eased its capped head over the 
edge of the tank. "I asked," it said with some severity, "would you wike to eawn 
ten points?"
"Doing what?"
"Taking a fwee-association testonwy five questions."
Ten points? Ah, hell He propped a shoulder against the cubicle's outer wall. 
"Sure, but make it quick."
"Just say the fiwst wowd that comes into you' mind: as-pawagus."
"Lentils."
"Baggage."
"Harridan."
"Typewita."
"Obsolete."
"Sex."
"Love."
"Hate."
"Die."
"Vewy good." Its tripartite tongue lashed like a bullwhip out of control. "You' 
account has been cwedited with ten points, and we thank you vewy much."
"You're welcome," he said. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"
"State it, and we'll state the pwice of the answer."
He blinked, then decided that costing it out could not hurt. "Why is it that the 
Terran, ah, translators I meet seem stiff and lifeless, but the Terran-speaking 
extraterrestrials don't?"
The Othci rolled its large brown eyes for a moment, then responded, "Five 
hundwed points for a weply."
"Forget it." He sighed. "I don't want the answer that badly."
"Fou' hundwed."
"Uh-uh."
"Thwee-fifty, and that's my wowest offe'."
"Not a chance. Nice talking to you." He waved, and set off home.
So the Delu would bargain. It was a useful bit of information to have 
acquiredfor free, yetthough he winced to think that he might have bargained up 
his fee for taking the test. Funny nobody had mentioned to him that their prices 
were negotiable. Ah, well, he thought, as he strode into his wheel, live and 
learn
Outside Dome Twenty-six he hesitated, and glanced into Sherman's place. The 
newsman, in a purple tunic a scintilla flashier than a Rehmal's feathers, sat 
pensively at his computer-desk. Feighan cleared his throat. "Busy, Harry?"
"Huh? Oh, McGillno, come on in." He half-rose, but settled back before the 
gesture became an action. "Another question?"
"Yeahabout local prices." He set Sam on the floor and let the reptile scamper 
over to the other Terran. "Are they fixed or flexible?"
"It varies." He motioned the Flinger to the pallet, and made Sam comfortable on 
his own lap before he continued.
"It's very much a free enterprise, supply-and-demand economy here. Offer a fish 
a chance to make a buck, he'll name the highest price he thinks you're willing 
to pay. Sometimes he'll cut it if you turn it down; sometimes he won't. Depends 
on the merchandise."
"Well, what isn't negotiable?"
"Standard serviceswake-up calls, meals, things like thatthe price is set on 
them, and you can talk your head off without getting a better deal. Damn, I 
for" He checked the redness of the lights, then relaxed. "It's the one of the 
kind of deals where you can bargain."
"What about services they buy?" He told Sherman about the test. "Could I have 
held out for more?"
The newsbroker frowned. "Do you know who controlled the Othci?"
"No, I can't tell them apartwhy?"
"Because" Squinting at the ceiling, he measured out his words. "I've never 
heard of it's happening before, that's all. But" He stopped.
"What?" The newsman's uneasiness infected him, displacing his fatigue.
"Nothing, really they just seem to be showing a lot of interest in you."
Feighan wondered to himself if Sherman were jealous.
"But about your questionif they wanted you in particular to take that test, 
then yes, you could have gotten more. As you could have if they'd needed the 
answers in a real hurry."
"What about dreams?"
Sherman cocked his head to one side. "Selling them?"
"Yes."
"If you take my advice" Avoiding Feighan's eyes, he scratched Sam under the 
jaw. "you'll leave the dream dealers alone."
"But I've got to find the gastropod, so I need all those points!"
"Not that way, you don't."
"They'll pay hundreds a night, though."
"One-fifteen tops, if you're really tough with them." He looked like a Trappist 
prophet: burdened with foreknowledge, but sworn to silence. "Don't do it, 
McGill."
Feighan did not know whether to draw back or plunge ahead. "Why, Harry? You've 
got to give me a reason."
Sherman's jowls drooped. "I probably shouldn't have said a thing, but" 
Carefully shifting the Rhanghan off his lap, he stood, and laid one hand on 
either side of his belly. "I've been here eleven years, and seen maybe a 
thousand people who sold the Delu their dreams. They came here to do it, most of 
them, so I didn't get to know them before they started. Once they did start, 
though" Coming close to Feighan, he lowered his voice. "Look, this isn't the 
kind of thing I could put in a chipflash, because I don't have the hard proof, 
but these people, they act like they've lost something the rest of us still 
have. It's subtle, intangible. Their creativity, call it, ora spark, you know? 
Whatever it was that made them uniquely alive. Their souls?" Sweat glistened on 
his palms; he rubbed them up and down his tunic. "I shouldn't be saying this; 
they could be listening but don't do it. I'd hate to see you become a, a 
zombie."
"The real zombies are those translators," said Feighan, wondering what had 
worried the older man. So what if somebody overheard? "I don't know what they 
get paid, but it can't be worth it."
Sherman looked hastily at the ceiling. "You mean you don't know about them?"
"What's to know?"
He dropped his voice still lower. "To begin with, they're not paid, or even 
hired, for that matter. They're draftedforced to serve."
"Enslaved?" he asked in loud surprise.
"Ssh!" He spun like a top, face lifted in alarm. "Not so loud 'enslaved' isn't 
100% accurate, but"
"Why does the FNC let them do it?" Just outside the dome, a skin glowed bright 
green, then faded. Wondering if their entire conversation were illegal, he 
pointed it out to the newsman.
Sherman nodded, and fell into a soft whisper. "It's punishment." At the question 
raised by the Flinger's eyebrows, he said, "If you violate the Delu civil 
codeand there must be ten million ways of doing ityou're fined. Major crimes 
rate major fines. When your point balance drops below negative one thousand, 
you're sentenced to a term as a translator."
"But that's involuntary servitude!"
"McGill, the Network Charter says any indigenous legal system"
"right," he said, remembering his Network History courses at the Academy, " 
'shall be extended to all alien visitors and residents in the same degree to 
which it is applied to natives.' "
"Exactly."
"What if you refuse to be a translator?"
"Then" He rubbed the sole of his shoe on the tiles; it made a subdued, gritty 
rasping. "they kill you."
"Damn So what do you do, work off your debt as a translator?"
"Exactly. One hundred points a day until the fine is paid."
"That could take a while."
"It's been known to." He checked the lights, and seemed reassured that they were 
still deep red.
"What if you agree to leave, instead?"
"They won't let you. I don't know how they'd stop a Flinger, but for the rest of 
us mortals let me tell you a story. A friend of mine" He stopped, and became 
very attentive to the interlocking of his hands.
"What happened to your friend?" prodded Feighan.
"She" With a grace surprising for his bulk, he went to the wall and looked out. 
Darkness made the glass a mirror in which he could see only himself, but to 
himself he could recall, hoarsely, "She was a whistler. I mean, she liked to 
whistle. And she did it well, too, not like some people who only know one 
off-key tune. She was good. All kinds of musicBach, modern, 20th Century 
whatchamacallit"
"Rock'n'roll?"
"That's it. All kinds, and all of it magnificent. The thing is, though, it's 
illegal here. The Delu say it, uh, interferes with their navigational systems. 
So they fined her. She apologized, didn't know the law, the whole bitbut she 
whistled like I breathe. I mean, it was second nature to her. Instinct, almost. 
The only time she could keep from doing it was when she concentrated on not 
doing it. When something absorbed her attention, though" Shutting his eyes, he 
raised his fingers to his temples and massaged them.
Outside, skin signals flared and flickered like St. Elmo's fire. "Harry, I think 
we've got company."
"I don't care! This they can listen toit's not like they haven't heard it 
before."
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
"They fined her again. And again. More each time, because to repeat a violation 
is to commit a larger crime. The last fine was for close to a hundred thousand 
points. And of course she didn't have it, and that was right after I'd spent all 
my money on the BemGem data, and so" Spreading his fingers on the wall, he 
pressed his forehead to the coolness of the glass.
"Harry, if you'd rather not"
"No! You've got to know She became a translator. For three years she sat in a 
booth, wired up to a fish that" He swallowed hard. "By the time she'd worked 
off her fine, she'd become a different person. Cold. Lifeless. She had huge 
brown eyes; before, I could fall into them like a sky-diver but afterwards, 
they were mud puddles. I mean, nothing. And they'd taken all her music. She 
didn't have a note left in her." He paused for a long moment, then said, softly, 
"Not a damn note."
Feighan let a respectful silence gather before asking, "You loved her?"
"You noticed, huh?" Forcing a chuckle, he moved away from the wall, but kept his 
back turned while his fingers wiped things off his cheeks.
"I'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to have noticed. Where is she now?"
He pivoted to face the Flinger; his shoulders stiffened as though he were afraid 
of what was behind him. "Which?"
"The girl you loved."
"Here." He tapped the rolls of fat over his chest. "The girl I loved is here, in 
my heart and my memory. What she became I don't know where that person is I 
don't want to know"
"Funny," said Feighan slowly, "you're so cynical about everything else, I hadn't 
expected you to be this sentimental about a woman."
"I'm not," Sherman said with some bitterness, "now."
"Oh."
"Look at all those damn fish out there, waiting for me to" He caught himself, 
and threw an impatient eye at the lights. Their deep waning red announced the 
approach of midnight. The newsbroker lowered himself into his deskchair; it 
creaked. "So. Do you have love trouble?"
"Uh-huh." He picked up Sam, and with a cautious fingernail scraped the reptile's 
spine in the areas where the fins grew out of the skin. "Well I don't know if 
it's trouble, exactly, just that, ah" Nibbling on his lower lip, he wished he 
were as facile with words as with his Talent. "I'm socially retarded, you know?"
"You sure picked the right world to come to."
"Huh?"
"Never mind, you'll see for yourself. You were saying?"
"Oh, ah back when I should have been discovering girls, I was involved with 
other things. So now" He peeled a large patch of flaky skin; Sam wriggled in 
apparent satisfaction. "now I find there's this incredible game going on 
between men and women. I want to get into it, but I don't know the rules. That's 
already gotten me in trouble. But I have a feeling that at my age, it's bad form 
to ask what the rules are."
Sherman fingered his middle chin. "What's the basic problem?"
"How do you, ah" He blushed, and bent closer to the shedding Rhanghan. "How do 
you tell love from lust?"
Sherman cleared his throat, and laid his hands on his knees. Even in the cool 
air, sweat stuck his tunic to his chest. "That is a difficult one you want the 
romantic answer, or the coarse one?"
He would not look up. "Why not both?"
"All right, both it is. Romantic first: if you can't bear to be parted from her, 
if she's with a more beautiful woman but you have eyes only for her, if her 
least little gesture or touch or glance sends you into transports of joythat's 
love."
"Is it?" he asked dubiously, thinking of Nadia, thinking, My God, I loved her!
"In my book it's infatuation, which is something completely different, although 
it sometimes turns into love."
"That's three you've got to tell apart, then."
"Not really," chuckled Sherman, "because infatuation, if it isn't love, is 
almost always lust."
"Then what's the coarse answer?" he asked in something akin to resignation.
"Lock yourself in a bedroom with her, and go at it for a month straight. Don't 
even put your clothes on in between, just sit on the bed and talk or whatever. 
At the end of the month, move to a different city, go outand to bed withas 
many women as you can for another month. If, at the end of that second month, 
you find you'd rather be with the first woman after allthen that's probably 
love."
"I see what you meant about coarse."
"Hey, the problem with love is that it's intertwined with sexand to be sureto 
be positivethat what you feel for someone really is love, you've got to burn 
off all your sexual desires, at least temporarily. When you're completely sated, 
what's left is how you feel about her."
He squirmed. "But what if she were to do the same thing I mean, make the same 
test?"
"Do I hear a double standard?"
"No, it'sI" Again he regretted his verbal clumsiness. What he wanted to say 
was, But if she's the kind who could have all those men, how could I have been 
attracted to her? She'd be, I dunno, probably not a tramp, but "Maybe," he 
said, "maybe you do hear a double standard or maybe I couldn't take your test. 
I mean, I don't know if I could go to bed with one woman just to see if I were 
in love with another. You know what I mean?"
Sherman nodded, and a small glint of pleasure, or approval, lit up his eye. "I 
do, McGill, I do. I know exactly what you mean." Lifting his fist, he coughed 
into it. His jowls wobbled. "I heard about a possible job for youI'll get the 
details, and let you know as soon as I can. And for now" His hand hovered in 
mock threat. "off with you. I have a living to make, and my chip goes out at 
40:73."
"Sure thing, Harry. Sorry I took so much of your time."
"Don't be silly! I enjoyed it."
"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow." He trudged into the hall. The day had tired 
him, and his belt said he was losing weight again. He pondered that all the way 
down to the 1-12 Datadesk, where he arranged his wake-up call and breakfast 
time. When he returned, still testing the slack in his waistband, the wheel 
floor reared up before him.
He came to an abrupt halt.
It rippled away, traveling like the hump in a cracked whip.
"Jesus!" He staggered back, instinctively checking the arch for signs of 
collapse. It was fine. And the tile floor was not even marked.
Heart still thumping, he caught his breath, and shuddered as the moment of panic 
passed. Then he frowned.
Inside Sherman's dome, a mannequin lay on the pallet.
Feighan snapped his fingers in sudden comprehension. "A fiber optic suit!" He 
hurried forward, hoping to catch the newsbroker, but the wheel floors were flat. 
Sherman had disappearedagain.
Walking back, Feighan resisted fear. Walking Mule said he was okay! Said he'd 
had run-ins with The Organization, too but it bothered him, a lot. He did not 
like having a neighbor who prowled the corridors wrapped in manufactured 
invisibility. Not when Feighan had good reason to fear for his own safety.
He realized, as he stepped inside his dome, that he was also hurt. If the 
newsbroker were not Feighan's enemyif he were, indeed, the Flinger's 
friendthen he had not taken him into his confidence. He had said he was going 
to write an article, not Feighan scowled. Just what the hell is Harry doing?
"Hey, Sam." Sahaang had said the infant was an instinctive bodyguard who could 
sense if anyone meant to harm Feighan, and that seemed true. He had attacked 
Liang, and did eye the Delu servants with obvious suspicion. "Come here, Sam."
The child came over, swishing his tail.
Feighan jerked a thumb at Sherman's room. "What do you think, kid?"
Unblinking eyes met his gaze, then broke contact to study the other dome. After 
a moment he swung his snout back, unperturbed, at ease. Reaching out a small 
hand, he patted the back of Feighan's wrist. It was a peaceful, soothing 
gesture.
"You figure he's okay, huh?"
Cocking his head, Sam swept his tail from side to side.
"Well, if you vouch for him" Yet his unease would not pass. Sherman might not 
be trying to harm him, but he certainly was not leveling with him. He glanced 
across at the mannequin, and shook his head.
 
Five planets orbited the sun. Beyond the third, six rockets flared, heading 
inward, toward Delurc. In the flagship's main cabin sat Milford Hommroummy. He 
sat on the floor, for the cabin was bare. Stars gleamed through its transparent 
walls, which could maintain internal pressures up to a thousand kilograms per 
square centimeter: Gryll used that cabin on its tours of inspection. The only 
fixture, a communications ceiling, had a two-meter by three-meter screen, a 
speaker, and a microphone.
A young boy's face filled the screen. His eyes were dead brown; his skin, 
purplish-black. Mechanically he said, "What are Feighan's weaknesses?"
Hommroummy thought a moment, then looked up. "He is immature. He loses his 
temper easily, and when he does, he stops thinking. If you can goad him"
"We can. We have. What else?"
"He lives in the moment. He learns too little from the past, and does not plan 
for the future."
"Yet he is considered sapient?"
"He has wealth and Talent. His future is assured; he can afford to be impulsive. 
But he does not think ahead, and can be trapped through a succession of 
attractive lures."
"Other vulnerabilities?"
Hommroummy smiled. "He is obsessed with two things: the Far Being Retzglaran, 
and the female of his species. The former runs deeper; the latter, more 
strongly."
"Ah." The boy's head bobbed. "Yes, that is good. That is very good. We have just 
the bait. However, you will have to remove him from the trap."
"With pleasure," said Hommroummy. "With pleasure."
Chapter VIII
 ^ 


By his third day on Delurc, McGill Feighan was lonely and depressed. Between 
shifts that day, he moped around the core of eD City, looking for someone to 
talk to. The spoke was deserted; he stared out the wall. A school of blue and 
gold fish slalomed through the weeds.
Behind him a door closed. As he turned, a tall, hook-nosed man bumped into him. 
Sam hissed.
" 'Scuze," said the stranger. Though off-balance, he tried to brush past.
"That's okay." Feighan righted him. "Heydo you have a minute?"
"No." He whisked away.
An hour later, a scar-chested Timili delivered the same rebuff, as did a second 
human that night, when the Flinger walked wearily home. Whatsa matter? It was 
nice that they respected his privacy, but they did not have to do it so 
abrasively. He stepped into his dome and dropped onto his pallet. They got 
something against Flingers? He sniffed his armpits. A little stale, perhaps, but 
certainly not offensive
It surprised him. He would have thought that since there were so few aliens on 
Delurc, all of them confined to the domes on the reefs, a small-town mentality 
would have taken hold. After all, when one has nothing to do but to mind his 
neighbors' business
Bewildered, he took to watching the passersby as he roamed the spokes and 
wheels. And began to understand.
They all hurried; they all buffered themselves with tense preoccupation. They 
pursed their lips and avoided eye contact. It was as though each hunted a buried 
treasure and suspected the others of racing to find it first.
By the fifth day, he had stopped making overtures to friendship. He filled the 
lonely hours with Sam and Sherman, instead.
Sam, for all his swift intelligence, was still a child, and the games he loved 
to play distracted the Flinger only because his ward took joy in them. It warmed 
Feighan to have someone respond to him favorably and uncritically; the child 
projected so much happiness that it enveloped Feighan like a weather field, and 
insulated him from the indifference of the City.
He pulled Sam's tail. "Gotcha!"
Sam stuttered a wheezy hiss and clashed his teeth like castanets while he waved 
his snout in the air.
"Don't you love that laugh, Harry?"
The older man shook his head. "Sounds like faulty brakes."
"That's why you never pay any attention to him, right?"
Sherman drew back his tickling fingers. "Well"
"Uh-huh."
When time really weighed heavy, when the very lights seemed to slow their spin 
through the spectrum, he'd wander. Up a spoke, around an entire wheel, he'd 
walk, and pause, and peer for differences. There were none, except for the air 
in the various sectors. ED City was stamped from a mold that showed no signs of 
wearing out. And every alien ignored every other.
The only breaks in the monotony of his restless explorations came when the 
occasional translator hailed him. One would invite him to take a test, another 
to explain a point of Earthlore, a third to read a passage from Terran 
literature. They seemed curious about his planet and its people, and were 
willing to pay for it.
But not enough, which became a problem. The points accumulated slowly. Terribly 
slowly. Five here, twenty there he needed over five thousand to learn about the 
gastropod, but at the rate he was earning them, he would have to leave Delurc 
before he had gathered anywhere near enough.
On this ninth morning, he ran into Harry Sherman at the 1-12 Datadesk. "Good 
morning," he said, nodding to the cow-faced Aronya.
Sherman, who had clearly been up all night, eyed him without fondness. "You 
really think so?"
"Don't give me a hard time, Harry, I'm not in the mood for it." He regretted his 
tone at once. Pressure's built up again. Like he'd told Maccari in that 
cafeteria long ago and far awayhe felt a sudden yearning for its stale, syrupy 
coffeeFlinging was also a compulsion. An itchiness accumulated within; only 
teleporting could vent that diffuse frustration.
Flingers called it "the pressure," and hated it, for it haunted them. Even on 
Delurc, where the dwarf days sapped his stamina, he woke up taut, ballooned by 
his outthrusting Talent. And that made him irritable. "Sorry, Harry."
"Got the Delurc blues, huh?"
"You're not exactly smiling to split your cheeks yourself."
The newsbroker shrugged, and wiped his palms on his wrinkled mauve tunic. His 
voice rasped with fatigue. "My visa's up for renewal, and the local authorities 
are red-taping it."
"Why?"
"Ah, who knows?" He waved a hand smelling of mildew. "I go through this every 
year. I apply, nothing happens. I inquire, they say they have a few more 
questions." Displeasure creased his face. "They want an audited accuracy rating, 
a statistical profile of my readership, substantiable credit references what it 
boils down to, every year, is 'Tell us, Sherman, how we profit by your presence 
here.' That's really all they care about."
"How do you answer that one?"
"With difficulty." He forced a smile that vanished at once. "I really have only 
three things to say to them: First, that I'm a steady customer for their 
information; second, that I sometimes have data to sell them; and third, that 
I'm doing good PR for their image as the best brains in the galaxy." He sighed. 
"And they reply, 'So? Others would do the same as well, if not better,' and I 
just don't have a good come-back for that."
"Hmph," said Feighan. "Is this a factional thing, too?"
Alarm in his eyes, Sherman jerked his head. "Sh!" he whispered, motioning 
Feighan away from the big-eared Aronya. "Do me a favorif I'm within a klick of 
you, don't mention factions. They'll bounce me out of here if they think I'm 
investigating them."
Grumpy with unbled pressure, he took perverse satisfaction out of asking, "But 
you are, aren't you?"
The ruddiness drained from Sherman's cheeks. "No," he said firmly, though he did 
not meet Feighan's gaze. A bead of sweat rolled down the trunk of his neck, and 
disappeared into his tunic. "No. I am not researching anything of the kind. I am 
a simple newsbroker."
"Oh, sure, Harry. Anything you say, Harry."
The great bulk untensed. "Despite the sarcasm, thanks." He bent down to scratch 
Sam between the ears. "So what's gloomed you out today?"
"Ah I'm forty-eight hundred points short of what I need," said Feighan 
ruefully, "and I won't be able to get enough before I leave." He snorted. "Place 
is getting to meonly reason I'm here is to learn about the gastropodbut if my 
tour ends before I have the points, I'm gone anyway."
"What do you have, eighty more days?"
"Uh-huh."
"That's sixty points a day" He stood, grunting a bit, and pulled down his 
tunic. "They'll pay overtime for extra Flings."
Feighan scowled. "No way. Ninety-six in twenty-two hours is killing meI feel 
like I'm dating a vampire. Maybe you've noticed, I walk to work?"
"Thought that was for the exercise."
"Funny." He let Sam crawl up his wrist to perch on his shoulder. "I'm thinking 
about dreaming again."
Sherman snapped his fingers. "Think about your girl friend, instead." He reached 
into his hip pocket for a long envelope. "I forgot this came in today."
"What is it?" He held it in his hand and eyed it curiously.
"It's a letter for you, from the Maccari woman, the one you told me about the 
other day."
A memory-wisp of Maccari's smile spread warmth all through him. He wished he 
could lean across a table and talk to her againtill he remembered he might not 
be able to trust her. "How'd you get it?"
"Um" The newsman tried to look innocent. And failed. "I decided to meddle a 
bitwhen I sent in my chip the day before yesterday, I added a note for her 
saying that if she wanted to write you, she could route the letter through my 
computers, and I'd print it out for you here. Which I did." Hastily, he said, 
"But I didn't read it. Honest."
Feighan turned the envelope over in his hand, pinched a corner of it, and ran 
the pinching fingers along the envelope's edge as if to sharpen the crease. "I, 
ahthanks. I didn't I mean"
Sherman broke in. "It's okay, don't worry about it. And if you want to reply to 
her the same way, drop in and use my terminal. The letter'll get to her 
tomorrow."
"Harry, you're incredible!"
The fat man blushed. "What's the good of having a private line to Earth if you 
can't act high and mighty and let your friends use it once in a while?"
He shook Sherman's hand. "Thanks a lot."
"You're welcome."
"Hey," said the Flinger, "something's been puzzling me since I got here."
"What's that?"
"Why can't I convert dollars into Fancies, then convert them into points to buy 
the information I want?"
"Well, you could" At Feighan's surprise, he smiled. "if you could find a fish 
who wanted to sell points for FNC's. You can look around if you like, but I've 
never heard of it. Even if you got lucky, you'd get raped on the exchange rate."
"But whyI mean, you do it all the time, without any trouble, right?"
Sherman raised his eyebrows. "You mean my operating expenses and buy-money?"
"Yeah, don't you"
"Nope. I finance my local operations completely out of what I earn from selling 
the Delu information."
"But you can exchange money anywhere else in the Network!"
"And it's legal here, too, but" Thoughtful, Sherman squeezed a fold of neck 
skin and rolled it between his fingers. "Look: the Delu don't want FNC'sthey 
have no use for them. I mean, what can a fish buy in the way of material goods? 
The way they figure it, for them to offer unlimited exchange privileges, Fancies 
to points, would encourage inflationthey'd have to 'create' the points to sell, 
which would expand the money supply too quickly. So." He paused for a breath. 
"You following this?"
"Sort of; we covered some of this in IntroEcon."
"Good. Like I said before, you might be able to sell some Fancies herebut not 
at the official rate of twelve points per Fancy. One for twelve, maybe"
"One hundred eighty bucks a point? That's robbery!"
"It's supply and demand, McGill. They're flooded with FNC's from their 
consulting work, and they don't need that many to repay the FNC loans."
"I thought those were supposed to have been paid back two hundred years ago."
"The Delu," said Sherman dryly, "held out for better terms."
"That figures"
"Admittedly, they do hire off-world contractors to come in and expand eD City 
once in a while, and of course, they hire dreamers. Then they're constantly 
buying information from all over. It seems like they'd need more Network 
currency, but I don't know, they're the economic experts, and if they say their 
system works"
"then it works." Feighan forced a laugh. His Talent reminded him that it wanted 
to be used.
"To put it mildly. Hey, I've got to get to work" He slapped his forehead. "I'm 
dumb today. That job I was telling you about? Go talk to the translator at 
Datadesk 1-19. Even if you don't qualify, you'll enjoy it." His hands cut 
mirrored curves through the air. "So good-looking you want to cry and she talks 
normally, too. It's worth the trip."
"Spoke One and Wheel 19, huh?"
"That's the one." He patted Sam on the head, then let his hand drop lightly to 
Feighan's shoulder. "And I've got to run see you later."
He waved good-bye with Gina's letter, then turned to walk in the opposite 
direction. What the hell, I can take the pressure a while longer. He steadied 
Sam, who seemed about to slip off his shoulder. "Wake up, kid."
Sleepy, the Rhanghan snake-lashed his tongue, but tasted nothing of interest. 
Claws considerately retracted, he tightened his grip and dozed off again.
Once Feighan was sure he was headed outward, he ripped open the envelope. He 
didn't know what to expect. As he rubbed the lightweight paper that Sherman's 
computer preferred, it struck him that this was the first correspondence he'd 
ever had with a woman other than his mother. And shehe didn't want to think 
about her. Those memories hurt.
He unfolded Maccari's letter.
 
"Dear McGill,
I received a note from Harry Sherman today, in which he said that you are having 
trouble adjusting to life on Delurc, and that you would probably appreciate a 
letter from a friend.
The Talented always find it difficult to make themselves at home. Certainly I 
have discovered this, and you have, too. It is because the average person is not 
only afraid of that which is different, but is even more afraid of that which is 
almost the same. And so the Talented are rejected.
In a way, though, it might be somewhat easier for a Talented one to adapt to a 
society on an alien planetfor there, at"
 
He ran his devouring eyes down the blocks of square-faced print. Curiously, they 
disappointed him.
In length, the letter would have pleased almost anybody three single-spaced 
pages, it wasbut its tone impersonal. Essayish.
She spoke of many thingsethics and restaurants and the loneliness of the 
Talented!but though she probed her essence to show what she meant, she kept an 
ultimate, unifying portion of herself private. By shining too strong a light on 
the parts of her being, she left the whole in shadow. The Maccari of the letter 
was the Maccari of lifeless that last, animating spark.
Damn, he thought, folding it back into its envelope, which he pocketed with care 
against wrinkling, she coulda said, 'I miss you,' or yet the fact that she'd 
even tried to ease his loneliness lightened his step. That concern for her 
distant friends was one of the things that made her worth knowing.
He rounded the corner of Wheel 19, and stopped, stunned. There in the booth, as 
festooned with wires as an old oak tree with Spanish moss, sat the most 
beautiful woman he'd ever seen. No, second most beautiful, he corrected 
mentally. Nadia was first, and always will be
Short blonde hair framed blue eyes as big as a baby's fists, but their size made 
her beauty all the rarer. Soulful, expressive, their depths trapped wistfulness 
and humor and intelligence. Her pert nose and full red lips invited lingering 
gazes; he could study that face with a magnifying glass and not find a flaw. And 
the rest of her! From her neck to where the booth hid her hips, her body flowed 
like a river, with a narrow waist and high firm breasts, and sleek arms that 
tapered into fingers as long and slender as willow branches. Her smooth, tanned 
skin looked like the softest thing on Delurc.
She turned her head towards his gape, and smiled. "Hi." Her voice caressed his 
ears with husky richness. Her eyelids fluttered. "You're McGill Feighan, aren't 
you?"
He cleared his throat. "Yes, yes I am."
"The old female wanted to speak to you."
"Who?"
"The old female." Gracefully, she gestured with her left hand to the ceiling, 
beyond which hovered a hulking black presence. It blinked an abstract greeting 
pattern of green and orange spirals. "My controller."
"Oh" He leaned his elbows on the counter, and propped his chin in his hands. 
"What does she want?"
"To hire you, I think." She smiled again and her teeth flashed with a brilliance 
greater than his tunic's. "But isn't it time for you to be at work?"
Yes! pulsed his Talent, but he hardened himself against its stridency. Unwilling 
to leave, he glanced at the light fixture. Though he still couldn't read its 
frequency displacements accurately, the color did seem the shade of almost green 
it had been the last time he's reported to the Booth. He nearly asked her what 
time it wasbut remembered he couldn't afford the answer. Instead, he asked, 
"What's your name?"
"Taranya." She ducked her head and peered through the golden haze of her lashes.
She delighted him, and puzzled him too. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
Like mercury she flowed into another attitude, and sprawled luxuriously along 
the counter. "From 34:00 to 67:00why don't you come on up and see me?"
"I will." He stepped away. "I will." Walking backwards, he realized he looked 
like an idiot. "Come on, Sam, we're late."
And she waved good-bye
Hurrying down the long Spoke to the Fling Booth, he wondered where she'd come 
from, and what she could possibly have done to merit her punishment. Maybe she 
hummed? Paper crackled in his pocket as he swung his arms. For a brief instant, 
as if he were overlaying their portraits, he compared and contrasted Taranya 
with Gina. The New York Minder came out a distant second.
 
The first Fling of the day provided instant relief. God, I needed that! He 
leaned back in his chair, no longer feeling he'd go out of his skin if he stayed 
immobile a moment longer.
Outsiders wondered why people with such a skill would work one day in ten, much 
less their actual nine. Flingers shrugged and said, "We have to." The outsiders 
then wanted to know, "Don't you have a union or something to protect you, get 
you decent working conditions? And the Flingers would roar with laughter. Though 
the five consortia of Earth did need all the revenue their teleports could 
generate, Flingers worked because if they didn't, they'd go nuts. Of course, the 
fact that all but two of Terra's were brainwashed might have had a little to do 
with that
So he sat at his console, bored unto stupefaction, barely aware of his 
functioning, growing more tired with each Fling yet more at peace, as well. The 
light would blink, the cargo's destination would flare across the screen, the 
clock would downcountand his hunger to do it would mount until it peaked when 
the clock flamed 0.
*PING*
And he'd exhale in contentment, a little more fatigued, a little more relaxed 
ninety-six times a day, nine days out of ten.
Between Flings that day, he tried to compose a letter to Maccari. Communicating 
through an interface bothered him, though; the machine blocked the things he 
wished he could pour into her liquid brown eyes. It was like talking through a 
closed window. Ah, tell her about Sam
 
"Sam's putting on weight pretty steadily, and at times he moves so quick you 
wonder how he could possibly be anything but a machine, a spurt of electrons or 
something. Honest to God, the other day we're walking down this corridoror I 
am; he rides on my shoulder a lotand from the other direction comes this fat 
old Terran man with a silly-looking dog. Really. It's from Unjni, a planet 
that's not even in the Network, and it's got six legs, orange skin, and hair 
only on its belly. I thought dogs weren't allowed here because they disturb the 
fish, or so the Delu say, but I found out later this Nvele had had its vocal 
cords removed so it couldn't barkor oink, whatever it does.
Anyway. There I am, walking along, minding my own businessthis guy comes 
abreast of me and we sorta nod and the Nvele goes for my ankle. Well, I didn't 
even see it happen, because Sam started to move at the same time the Nvele 
spread its lips sidewaysand truly, the instant those fangs touched my skin, Sam 
was chewing on its throat. I have never seen such a surprised animal in all my 
life. It musta jumped six feet straight up into the air, with Sam hanging on all 
the way up. The owner didn't know what the hell to dohe was bowing and 
apologizing to me while trying to hold onto the Nvele's leash and pull Sam off 
at the same time without tearing out ol' Orangeskin's throat When I saw what 
the problem was, I just said, 'Leggo, Sam,' and he did."
 
He flung another load to Earth, then paused to reflect. His brows furrowed at a 
sudden, incredulous thought. Staring at nothing, he counted on his fingers. To 
double-check, he queried the console, but it wanted to charge for the data. He 
made do with his estimate:
 
"It just hit meSam's not even three weeks old yet! He acts so much older, so 
independentand besides, so much has happened since he hatched that it feels 
like he's always been around. To me, he's more than a pet"
 
Frowning, he told the console, "Erase that last sentence." Then he lifted the 
Rhanghan into his lap. "Sorry, Sam; I didn't mean it like it sounded. I, ah" 
Carefully, he scratched between the attentive eyes, shielded behind their 
transparent inner lids. They seemed to peer straight through him to the truth.
"Damn," he said softly, fleetingly sick of himself. He pushed the feeling away 
before it seized mastery of his mood.
"Twee twenty in one," said the console.
"Right" The two crate-bearing dreamers in the Booth said they were ready; when 
the O flashed he sent them back to Shanghai. Then he stroked the gleaming scales 
on Sam's flank, enjoying their pebbly warmth. "I didn't know, kid I'm sorry. 
I'll try to do better."
"Sir?" the console asked.
"Nothing. Ahhard-copy that letter for me. I'm calling it quits for the moment."
"That'll be one point, sir."
He gave a weary sighchuckle. What a planet! "Oh, all right."
When the draft chattered out, he reminded himself to rewrite it and to read it 
into Sherman's computer later that evening. It oughta hold her for a while, 
though. Same kind of letter she wrote me, not as long maybe, but it sure is 
funnierall of a sudden I see why hers was so distant. It's not easy, saying 
something meaningful to one special person He almost read his again, but folded 
it into his pocket. His failure to get beneath the superficial would only 
depress him further, and I'm depressed enough as it is.
After work that night, as they sat in a bubble of light tinged macabre red, 
Sherman gave him a heavy package. "Open it," he said. It unwrapped into a bound 
paper edition of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. "You want to know 
about love, this is what you ought to be reading."
It felt softened by many perusals; he stroked its wrinkled spine. "Geez, a real 
bookwhere'd you get it?"
"I brought it with me when I came. I don't know why, but they never confiscated 
it."
It fell open; he squinted at the page chance had chosen. "What language is 
this?"
"The original Elizabethan."
"Never heard of itI thought Shakespeare was English?"
"That's the way they talked in England then," he said with genuine dismay. 
"Didn't they teach you anything in school?"
"Not really." He hated to display his ignorance in front of the older man. "What 
do you recommend? I mean, in this book?"
Sherman chewed on a thumbnail while he thought. "Try the sonnets, see if they do 
anything for yousee if he's expressing emotions you're familiar withor read 
some of the plays. Romeo and Juliet"
"We did that one in school." He flipped through the volume for the start of it; 
the pages breathed mildew on him. "It didn't look anything like this, though. 
What are all these names on the left here?"
The newsman spat out a bit of nail and stared at him. "Do you mean you read a 
novelization?"
"YeahI mean, it was written just like a book'he said,' and 'she said,' and all 
that." Suddenly he despised the Flinger Academy for having mal-educated him. 
They'd made him look stupid. "All they care about is the Talent, you know? The 
school's just 'cause of the law. They" He stopped himself. "What's this 'Exeunt 
omnes' mean?"
" 'All exit,' " said the older man. "Try it anyway, maybe you'll like it."
Feighan couldn't prevent himself from shrugging. "If you say so better than 
staring out the walls."
Sherman chuckled. "Anything is."
"I saw that girl today," he said, making no effort to conceal the fact that he 
was changing the subject. "You were right she is gorgeous."
"I just wish her controller were the same," said Sherman glumly. He reached down 
to roll Sam onto his back and scratch his stomach plate, which was beginning to 
harden. Before long it would be natural armor, but now it itched.
The Rhanghan stuttered his wheezing pleasure, and nuzzled his muzzle against the 
newsbroker's wrist. With each sharp exhalation, his tongue flickered and 
snapped.
"Is the old female giving you problems?" asked Feighan.
"To put it mildly. She's a decision point in the social order, and has absolute 
authority to regulate the number of eedies permitted in. She's the one who's 
hassling me over my visa."
"Still no progress on it?"
"Progress in less than a day?" He raised his eyes to the crimson lights. "Hey, 
I'm not as young or resilient as you, and I've got to get to bed."
"How can you sleep with them on?" Feighan rose to his feet.
Yawning himself, he scooped up the sprawling Sam.
"Ten years here sort of gets you used to it." Sherman grunted. "I'll see you in 
the morning, all right?"
"Sure." Book in one hand, Rhanghan in the other, he crossed the wheel and draped 
himself across the hard, thin pallet, where he tried to make sense of the way he 
felt and the way the world worked.
Comprehending the archaic language took so much of his attention that he noted 
only peripherally the unnatural attitude of the shape on Sherman's pallet, and 
the bulky ripple headed towards the Spoke.
Eventually, sleep pushed his face onto the pages.
And dreams came on burgling feet to steal his peace of mind. Mist washed the 
walls and filled the domes and he, for once, had privacy. The absent eyes were a 
lifted weight; relaxed, he rode a couch and reveled in a day no fish would 
watch.
Swirled in fog, a face took form: large and round, with hanging jowls and a 
sunburst smile. "McGill," the man boomed, "McGill, hello!"
"Harry, hi," he said, extending a hand, which the broker seized too gladly.
"Let me sit at your side," and his arm wrapped around mute shoulders, which his 
fingers caressed.
"Ah, Harry" said the Flinger.
"Ah, love," said the man.
And McGill's heart trembled as he lifted his face for the lingering kiss and his 
clothes were gone, lost in the mist along with Sherman's, and a great white 
whale of a hand sweated on his rigid self, while he searched the softness of the 
other for his hardness, and finding it, worshipped it with his eyes, then parted 
his lips as the clouds burned away and a million fish thrashed on the dome 
flashing, "Do it, do it, do it!"
A whistle blasted away the dream.
Sherman's face dwindled, still leering.
"Get up, Mr. Feighan, get up!"
He jackknifed up, feeling the last throb and sticky splash in his groin. For an 
instant he loathed himselfhe'd liked that kiss, that touchbut the instant 
faded in the light of perspective. A dream is spun by a mind's twin tasks: to 
find a pattern in all it perceives, and to process and store its perceptions. At 
day's end, half sorts its heaping basket; the other must weave those random 
facts into a spuriously coherent reality.
That was the answerhe spent long hours with Sherman, but they didn't fill his 
huge loneliness. Only a woman could, so the need remained, to become a motif in 
a nightmare tapestry. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how he could act normally 
around the newsman later
The Rehmal servant stood a careful one-and-a-half meters away, and again said, 
"Get up, Mr. Feighan, get up!"
He glared at the avian. "It's my day off; go away!"
"We do regret the inconvenience." It whistled a minor-key run. "But 
circumstances have caused a temporary shortage of teleports, and a surplus of 
priority shipments." It chirped without emphasis, as though it were simply 
reading a message. "Your off time must be postponed for four more days; you 
will, however, be paid a ten percent premium today."
Angered and exhausted, he bent forward till his forehead rested on his raised 
knees. "Do I have a choice?"
"None."
"All right"
"Are you up, Mr. Feighan?"
"Yes."
It seemed to relax. "Breakfast will be served in forty twees."
Groaning, the Flinger pushed himself to his feet, and staggered to the toilet. 
In the corridor outside passed a couple arm-in-arm, but he didn't give them a 
second glance. Nor did they peek in. The artificial culture of extra-Delu City 
governed them. Each greedy eedie raised a wall around himself to hide his 
secrethis chance for wealthfrom the others there for the same prize. By 
refusing to see the rest, one could shirk the duty to share. Selective blindness 
worked; the wall opaqued in both directions. At least to the point of unshying 
his bladder.
He stripped, threw his stained shorts at the dirty clothes pile, and jabbed the 
controls of the shower. Am I? No, uh-uh. Didn't mean a thing. Stress. But he 
wished he could bury his self-doubt in a woman, anyway.
The Delu forbade sonicor even electricshavers because, they said, they emitted 
disturbing vibrations. He lathered soapsuds on his cheeks and reached for what 
was permitted: a razor. He cut himself just as the Rehmal returned. A dot of 
blood bulged on his right cheek. The servant gasped, snatching a piece of toilet 
paper from the roll, and ran to dab his cheek.
"Hey," he said, pushing the bird away, "what's the matter with you? It's 
breakfast time."
Its arm shot out; he ducked. A wing slapped his right cheek, then his left. He 
tried to back away, but a talon caught his belt and jerked him forward. The arm 
reached towards him again.
Rhanghan anger hissed like pipe-freed steam, and the Rehmal squealed in pain. 
Frantic, it pulled at the flurry of green meanness raking its arm.
"Sam!" said Feighan. "Let go! '
*Thud* the saurian dropped to the floor, still raging at the assault on his 
guardian. Electric blue Rehmal blood spattered the crown of his head. His tail 
curled upright; its scorpion end hung over his spine.
"It's okay, Sam," said Feighan soothingly.
"Is that a mature being?" chirped the Rehmal.
"I'm sorryhe's just a baby; he doesn't"
"It is exonerated." Despite the furious reptile and the blue ooze seeping out of 
its arm, the Rehmal again extended the ball of toilet paper. This time, Feighan 
remained motionless. Softly, it brushed his cut cheek. Then the bird scurried 
away, hand to arm.
Shaking his head, Feighan ate breakfast and hurried off to workthe long way, 
past Datadesk 1-19. "Hi," he said, waving to Taranya as he passed.
Her smile could have melted a glacier. "Hi! Come see me after your first shift."
He practically skipped the rest of the way to the Fling Booth.
Time crawled. It dragged. It dug in its heels. Scoffing at Einsteinian laws, it 
decided to pass at one-twentieth its normal speed.
And for once, Flinging didn't relieve the pressure. In fact, at first it seemed 
to increase it. He couldn't sit still in his chair. His Talent peaked long 
before the clock read 0. Ozoney shocks of restlessness jolted his body again and 
again.
He was well into his sixteenth Fling before he realized that it wasn't 
Talent-pressure that fidgeted so mercilessly within, but.. .damn, he thought in 
surprise, it's Taranya! He was so eager to see her again that even his Talent 
gave her priority.
The rest of the shift passed, somehow. He stayed at the console that long, at 
least, but before the screen had blanked out the details of his final Fling, he 
was already at the datadesk.
"Hi." He donned a mask of cheery cool. "You asked me to come back."
She leaned forward. Like a magician forcing the card he has chosen, she made him 
focus on her breasts: their fullness, their smoothness behind the dragon's head 
brooch that pinned her blouse closed. "Yes, I did." She purred. "And I'm glad 
you did."
He caught his breath and tried not to stare down her cleavage. "What, ah, what 
did you want?"
"The old female would like to hire you."
Involuntarily he looked up, past the mustard-yellow lights to the dark shadow 
that spread across the ceiling. "What for?"
"As a Conversationalist." Cautiously she reached to touch Sam, who nictitated as 
her fingers padded on his skull plate. "She'll pay sixty-five points a day. 
She's researching Talents."
Feighan frowned. "I"
"Oh, say you will!"
"I have a job."
"This would be between shifts only."
65 times 80-some days is 5200no safety margin. "Make it seventy a day."
"It's a deal!" She clapped her hands like a birthday child. "Oh, it will be nice 
to work together I am looking forward to it so much."
"How about starting by explaining what this is all about?"
Her eyelids drooped and her jaw jutted forward: a nearsighted professor peering 
up at his class. "The old female is constructing, in physical rather than 
psychical terms, a model of reality that will account for a Flinger's Talent, 
for his apparent random access to any point in space. To do this she needs to 
know a Flinger well, to interview him thoroughly, to to sense his responses to 
the life-stimuli of Delurc."
"I thought Knxalad of Mrxelpha had already come up with that kind of model."
She sniffed. "Knxalad purveys pseudo-science, and knows it. His so-called 
'theory' is no more than a semantic band-aid slapped onto a gaping wound in the 
structure of theoretical physics."
He stared fascinated at her; he'd never seen anyone don and doff so many 
disparate personalities. Sexsym, naif, acerbic old expert he couldn't think of 
a thing to say that would appeal to all of her. "The Academy didn't tell us"
"This might interest you. The old female contends that the notion of symmetric 
necessity demands that there be temporal analogues to teleports; individuals who 
have random access to any point in time. With your help, she believes she might 
develop some of the mathematics necessary to prove this."
He held his hands out, palms up. "Fine by me. Whatever I can do"
The switch clicked facially; she changed direction. "I understand a friend of 
yours has just arrived here."
"Who's that?"
She tossed her head like a jilted lover; her jaw clenched. "Gina Maccari," she 
spat.
For an instant it meant nothing; he couldn't associate the Minder's stocky 
cheeriness with the chill of Delurc. "Gina Maccari?" Then he goggled. "Gina? 
Here? What for?" He felt like a desert-lost traveler hearing of an oasis.
Insulted righteousness melted into a wink. "Five points for that answer."
"No, thanks, I'll ask her myself."
"As you like," she said indifferently. "Do you know that the Delu are immortal?"
"They can't die?"
Extending a spread-fingered hand, she waggled it from side to side. "They don't 
die, unless What does it feel like when you Fling?"
He was slow to answer because the best phrases didn't exist. "Ol' Knxalad got 
that right, at least. Sort of."
"Ah? Are your siblings Talented?"
"I have no brothers or sisters."
"Neither do I" Her eyes dropped. "The old female ate all her brothers and 
sisters."
He coughed down his start. "Ate?"
"In the nursery of the reefs, she remembers" Her head rolled loosely on her 
shoulders. "Come here, McGill, let me touch your temples, let me show you what I 
see."
Cautiously, he bent forward. The smooth softness of her fingers traced circles 
beside his eyes, circles that, as the stroking continued and his thoughts 
cleared away like wind-broomed smoke, became eyes themselves, eyes into another 
being's mind and memory.
Darkness. And warm jostling. No songs, no shades, just the seeing. "I. I. I," 
she projected for the others to see, while each of them 'pathed the same to her 
and to each other. Darkness. And warm jostling.
Then the spurt! The squeeze and the whoosh and the swirl and the slam! into 
salty water so blinding bright, so burning brilliant, that its currents had no 
impact, her tumbling had no upset. "I. I. I," she projected automatically, 
knowing who she was though not a single other thing, not even how to 
differentiate herself from the others who shouted, "I. I. I."
Dazzle up, dark down, bobbing and tossing in her tininess while all around great 
monstrous shapes feasted on her kin, sped through the cloud of fertilized eggs 
jaws agape, drinking in intelligence, sucking up sentience the seeing lessened 
as voices choked off she bobbed and tossed and tumbled in eddies and once a 
mighty tail slapped her, threw her almost to the flaming surface
The current dragged her through the reef. Dizzy with fright and light and 
motion, she oozed stickiness. The water washed her against a rock; her adhesive 
integument stuck her fast. Contact bruised the walls of her cell, and she 
hemorrhaged micro-milliliters of protein that triggered her chromosomes into 
initiating processes that sprouted roots.
By morning she'd sunk fibrous feet deep into the sandy soil of the reef, and was 
stemming rapidly towards the surface.
The fingers pulled away. "Well?" she asked.
He shook his head to dim the remembered glare of light on water, seen from 
beneath. "Fascinating how could she remember her birth?"
"The same way you did."
"The?" Hah! While she showed me hers, she peeked at mine "So what happens 
next?"
"Tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow."
"The time's up already?" He couldn't believe it, and had to check the lights. 
They glowed appropriately orange.
She nodded. "Tomorrow."
"You bet." And he walked away, Sam in tow. It pleased him immensely that they 
liked each other.
 
He found Gina that evening, before he'd even started looking for her. The Delu 
had assigned her the dome next to his, and he couldn't mistake her open stance 
as he walked down the wheel. Fine black hair gleaming luxuriously, she stood in 
the middle of her room, turning on one heel as she studied her quarters with a 
newcomer's wonder. The mirror effect seemed to awe her. An oxygen mask and 
mini-tank dangled from her hand.
He stuck his head through her doorway. "Ginahi!"
"McGill!" Pleasure splashed across her face and she bounced towards him, 
spreading her arms. "God, it's good to see you."
"Good to see you again, too," he said. Impelled by a feeling he obeyed without 
understanding, he thrust out his hand. As they shook he wondered about it, 
because he would have liked her softness against him, her breath warm and 
friendly on his ear. But he wasn't a hugger, and he didn't trust her, and in 
the half-instant that he had to consider the matter, he'd thought it better to 
avoid the embrace.
"It's nice to see a friendly face," he said, even as hurt tightened her cheeks. 
Blushing, he looked away. Geez, am I ever going to learn how to play this game? 
"Ah, what brings you here?"
She dropped his hand and retreated a meaningful two steps. "They needed a 
telepath," she said. "I volunteered."
"Oh, no!" He foresaw her misery and felt responsible. "Aw, Gina, you shouldn't 
have!"
"Why not?" She gestured at the bare room and the battered furniture. "I mean, 
living conditions don't look exactly plush, but McGillyou know what I'm like. 
I've been trying to get off-Terra for years, and I finally did it! Congratulate 
me."
"If you say soCongrats. But"
"No!" Her tone had sharpened more than she'd wanted. "SorryI'm overtiredI was 
too excited to sleep last night."
"You didn't mention this in your letter."
"I didn't know!" she exclaimed. "They didn't tell me until yesterday afternoon. 
Walking Mule came up"
"Walking Mule?" What did a Senior Flinger have to do with Minders?
"This is NAC businesshe said there's so much traffic between Terra and Delurc 
that the NAC needed a telepath on the spot, and he said he preferred one who 
er, who could get along with you," she said in a rush.
"Am I that difficult?" The light sparkled in her hair like rubies on velvet.
"You can be," she said mysteriously. "Anyway, I'm delighted to be here. McGill, 
you don't know what it's like for a Minderyou Flingers get to toss yourselves 
all around the galaxy while you're training, but we get locked up. From the day 
my change-ringer found me to the day I graduated, I lived like a thousand klicks 
from nowhere. So this" She spread her hands to indicate the walls, the wheels, 
the entire planet. "this is heaven! Just the chance to experience something 
new" Trailing off, she nibbled her lower lip and stared at him. "You don't 
understand, do you?"
"Uh-uh. I'd like to, but what can I say?" He slid a hand under Sam's belly and 
picked up the Rhanghan to display him. "See how big he's getting?"
"He's huge!" Leaning forward, she touched his nose with the tip of her finger. 
"Hi, SamI didn't recognize you."
The Rhanghan remembered a friend. He stretched out his arms to her, and clutched 
at her fingers.
"Can I hold him?"
"Sure." He passed Sam over, feeling a strange twinge at the way she cuddled him 
and held him close. Jealousy? Why should I be jealous of Sam? "The thing that 
really surprises me," he said, "is that the Delu are telepathic themselves. I 
can't figure why they imported an extra Minder."
"Apparently" Carrying Sam, she moved to her pallet, and sat on it, the Rhanghan 
in her lap. "it's something to do with the messages getting garbled. I guess 
the Minders here can't really communicate with the receiving Minders back home." 
She chuckled. "Let me tell you, McGill, trying to figure out what a Delu is 
really saying is like like seeing a snowball in a blizzard. They are just so 
powerful! But undisciplined. I mean, in our sense of the word. From what I know 
of the Delu language, it's the way they talk to each other, letting all sorts of 
peripheral images and impressions leak out around the words they speak, coloring 
thembut when you're Minding a business message from a salesman to his home 
office, you only confuse things. A sales manager doesn't need to know how many 
fish the message-sending Minder had for breakfast that morning, the key of its 
latest song, anything like that. So they sent me out to try to clarify the 
situation. I have to convince the Delu to purify the messages they relay, and 
chop out what's extraneous." She cocked her head and looked up at him. "Who is 
she?"
Feighan gulped. "P-pardon?"
"The one you're so hot for that your ache keeps surfacing even while I'm 
talking."
He sighed. He'd forgotten about this aspect of Gina's character. "She's a 
translator and the mostI mean, no offense or anythingthe most incredibly 
gorgeous woman and she's the only Terran translator here who talks like a 
living human being, you know?"
"You have it bad."
"Well"
"And you're really uncomfortable about talking it over with me, aren't you?"
He nodded. "Uh-huh. I mean you're a Minder, you know how I'm feeling even when 
you don't probe because it pops right out of my thoughts, so you know how I feel 
about this woman, but but I keep thinking that at one point and it wasn't all 
that long ago, you were in I mean, ah, you were sorta attracted to me, and I 
figure that that probably isn't all gonethat you still feel sorta, you know" 
His cheeks burned so badly he was afraid they'd boil his eyeballs. "It's really 
hard to talk when your mouth's full of foot, you know?"
She laughed, but said, "It's okay, I don't hold it against you."
"Thanks. I get flustered when I talk about about ah, about me and women. 
Especially when I'm talking with another woman, and a woman who, ah, you know 
it's not you, it's meI couldn't talk with anyone about, I mean any woman, 
especially a woman ah, forget it, okay?"
"Sure." For a moment she chewed her index fingernail. "Look, if it'll ease your 
mind any, after you left, I, er, managed to occupy my time."
"Huh?"
"What I mean to say is, I don't want you to think that I'm jealous of you and 
your feelings for this translator. I don't want you so much that I hope you're 
unhappy elsewhere. Honest, I don't. I like you, McGill." She leaned forward to 
touch his wrist with her sincerity. "As a friend, that is. But as a loverno." 
Her eyes widened. "Oof! Boy, did you react to that. But my point is, I'm happy 
you're in love with someone elsebecause I'm not in love with you."
"I'm not in love," he managed to say. "Just, ah attracted, that's all."
She stood and studied him. "You're strange, you know that? I can feel your 
relief like a clean windbut it's all mixed with gloom."
Feeling like a friend had just shown him the door, he hid in nonchalance. 
"Sorry."
"It's okay. Look. Let us be friends, okay?" She extended her hand. 
"Closegoodbestplatonic friends. All right?"
He took the hand and shook it. "All right," he said, after a hard swallow or 
two. "Sounds, ah, good."
From her wry smile, he knew that she knew that he was tremendously, curiously 
disappointed.
But at least she hadn't picked from his mind anything about Nadia.
 
Hommroummy lay on the bare metal floor, hands pillowing his head. He still 
looked elegant. He spoke to the boy in the ceiling screen. "It seems as though 
the Far Being Retzglaran has intervened."
"Statistically speaking," said the boy, "it could be coincidence."
Hommroummy waved a hand. "Nonsense. At great cost we have cut Feighan off from 
his base of support, and isolated him on a planet inhospitable to his kind, but 
to what end?" He ticked the points off on a manicured finger. "He brings a 
bodyguard, makes friends with the best-informed Terran on the planet, is joined 
by a first-rate telepath, and is attracted to the one servant on the reefs whom 
we cannot purchase. That is rather more than coincidence, Gimpy. That is the Far 
Being Retzglaran."
"We have managed to rent the translator"
"For a mere five tweesand at an exorbitant price."
"She claims to be using it for a research project."
"Again I smell the Far Being." He closed his eyes and thought a moment. "Our 
only choice is to isolate Feighan even more. You are affecting him?"
"Of course."
"Then warp him. Irrationality will drive his human friends off. Work on his 
temper; provoke him to violence. As for the lizard"
"It dies soon, Hommroummy."
"Very good." He frowned briefly, then clicked his fingers. "Something else I 
would suggest: give the newsbroker, gratis, data that verify the incompetence of 
the old female."
"It lacks subtlety."
"Truebut it will indebt him to you. And when we need his help"
"Ah." The boy grinned.
"Exactly." Hommroummy closed his eyes again. "Now go. I must sleep."
Chapter IX
 ^ 


The next morning, anticipation churned in him. As soon as his first shift ended, 
he made straight for Datadesk 1-19. In the yellow light the spoke seemed 
endless. He knew he shouldn't teleporthe'd been Flinging too often and resting 
too little but his time with Taranya was limited, and he did not want to lose a 
second of it: To hell with the consequences, he decided.
*PING*
"Hi." He stifled a yawn and leaned on the counter. "How are you today?"
"Just fine, now that you're here. Hello, Sam. Where were you born, McGill?"
His eyelids hung as heavily as iron shades; it was all he could do to keep them 
up. "Cleveland, Ohio, in the United States of America, Sol III."
"Does living in two dimensions heighten the territorial impulse?"
"Pardon?" Thick with fatigue, his mind couldn't begin to decode that question.
She pressed a finger against his nose. "Who taught you to read?"
"My change-ringer." Even through his exhaustion, the twists and turns of their 
conversation mystified him. "A retired Flinger named Jose Schwedeker. Why?"
"Can you wiggle your ears?"
Quit trying to figure it out; just relax and let it flow. "No."
"Do you like to swim?"
"Ah" He shrugged, and stretched sleepily. "I used to when I was a kid at 
summer camp I did the mile swim and took lifesaving coursesbut lately I don't 
know, I guess I haven't had the time."
She lowered her voice to whisper conspiratorially, "The old female is shocked! 
She doesn't see how anyone could leave the water behind."
"Ask her" He grinned. "when's the last time she took a five-mile hike?"
"Oh, that's different. But she remembers the two dimensions. Here. Let me 
share." She held out her hands head-high, and massaged the area around his 
temples as she had the day before. Again his own personality dissipated when he 
tapped the old female's memories.
Bud on a reed, sun burning bright, flashes off the water far below rotsmell 
tainted the air as the reef shook the sea off its back. The pod that penned her 
restless tossings withered in the blazing sun she swelled and it dried, flaking 
and crumbling dustily, until at last a fevered foot rippled a hole into the 
humid, salty air.
"I. I. I," she projected, while the others beamed their own self-images into her 
head, "I. I. I."
Clutching the stem with her tiny claws, she heaved this way and that, splitting, 
then shredding and shredding the papery pod. The wind whipped away its crumbs, 
and almost her, too, but she clung tight. In the light. The scorching light.
Instinct bowed her neck and opened her mouth. Broadcasting, "I. I. I," she 
nibbled on the succulent stalk and relished its acrid sap. It sharpened her 
teeth and nourished her muscles. Her beady eyes watched the brown-stained waves 
recede.
An insect hummed by her head. She paused in her feeding to watch it, to hear it, 
to envy it its freedom and its song.
Slowly she ate her way to the water, even as the water fled her coming.
Hot lights. Warm darks. Rising drones of multiplying insects. The stalk 
thickened towards the base but she grew, too, so she descended unslowed. All the 
while projecting, "I. I. I."
Lips brushed his forehead as the fingers eased away. "Back to work, McGill," she 
breathed.
"Oh, no!" he groaned. "It can't be that time already."
"Sorry." Her hand touched his chest, and pushed him away. "Tomorrow."
"Wait," he said desperately, as she began to slip into a statue's stasis.
"Yes?"
"I, ah" The blood stormed into his cheeks. He looked away, up; outside flashed 
a mid-sized Delu with a deformed fin. "What would it cost to free you?"
Laughing, she stroked her wires like a grande dame her pearls. "More than you 
can afford."
"No, I'm serious. I'd like to free you." His voice undercut him with its 
trembling, but the idea was right, and true, so he said it again. "To free you."
She pressed his hand between the warmth of her palms. "Thank you. But the fine I 
couldn't pay totaled twelve thousand points."
His heart sank. "You're right. I can't twelve thousand! How did you?" He 
looked at her questioningly.
She shook her head. "I can't say. Now go. You'll be late for work."
 
Halfway down the hall, a familiar voice called, "Yuh, Turang Flinghuhhear you 
want to spring the girl."
He turned to the tortoise-shelled Edbargian translator. "How'd you know?"
"The news is on the markut alrudydid you think we were slow, or what?"
"No, I just never thought about it at all, really."
It tweaked its hooked beak in a gesture of exasperation. "Wull, if you're going 
to live here, you ought to think about it. But before you do, we've got a 
proposition for you."
He glanced at the lights to see if he had time to tarry. He did. "What's the 
proposition?"
"My controllerthe gamblerwill pay that translator's fine."
The flat statement drove the air out of his lungs. For a minute he couldn't 
breathe, or even think. "IGod, that's great! I" Suspicion, irritated by his 
naivet, reminded him. "What does the gambler want in exchange?"
It nodded approvingly. "You're learning. But it doesn't want turribly muchthis 
is a sporting world, you know, and he was thinking that" It gestured towards 
Sam, who fixed it with a nictitating eye. "your putt might"
"He's not my pet! He's my, ah, ward."
"Putt, ward, mistress, whatuver you say. What the gambler was thinking, though 
is that thure could be one hulluva contust between your thing thure and a young 
pwodee."
"What?" As he recoiled, a Delu settled on the dome overhead. It was the same one 
he had noticed above Datadesk 1-19.
"A fight. They're about the same size, and pretty evunly matched, on paper at 
least. We heard about the incident with the Nvulu. So if you want to take that 
dubt off that woman's head, just say yus."
He visualized himself ringside at a prize fight. An image of a referee raising 
Sam's hand in victory floated across his mind. Quickening excitement jettisoned 
logic; all he could think was: "And then he'll free her?"
It lifted one of its twelve legs, which it scratched with the scythe of its 
nose. "She's serving time for a large dubt. The gambler gurantees to pay that 
dubt the instant the fight is over, win or lose."
The deal sounded tailored to his needs. He wanted badly to shake on it at once, 
but vestigial wariness forced him first to ask: "Can I see a pwodee before I 
agree?"
"Of course." It pointed to the place where the wall curved into the floor. 
"Thure's an adult in that patch of weedthe bluish-green thing with the 
snappers."
Feighan bent over to peer through the glass. Mud clouded the water, and through 
it tumbled ribbons of algae. He squinted past his reflection; a sea-shadowed 
tangle of limbs caught his eye. He stiffened.
The dark-shelled pwodee was all pincers. He counted six, seven, eight six were 
small, more like taloned feet than real weapons, and they clustered beneath its 
armored oval body. The other two looked vicious. Serrated triangles of chitin, 
they opened and closed in the rhythm of the currents, ballerina graceful till 
they caught a rock. They tasted it. Then crushed it into pebbles.
Obsession withdrew like clouds before a wind, and the light of sanity shone 
down. He saw those claws in his mind; his gut froze. They advanced in 
slow-motion, advanced and outspread, then swung narrowed trapped Sam's fragile 
neck. Bones cracked and popped. The knowing eyes darkened. He shuddered. "I"
"What?" said the translator sharply.
The scene in his head burst like a window does when a rock comes through it. 
"I" He trailed off into confusion. He tried to remember what he'd pictured, but 
the shards on the floor of his mind drew together to form a new vision, more 
vivid, more compelling. "Hi there," breathed Taranya. Supine on a long soft 
couch, she beckoned him with a crooked finger.
"Wull?"
The fantasy faded into a diffused throb of longing. He had to have her. He 
looked at Sam. "Can you take it?"
The Rhanghan focused his attention on the pwodee. He made a leisurely 
nictitation. The blades of his spine twitched upright; his tail swept the tiles. 
Jaws parted, he threw his tongue at the glass, and hissed with contempt.
Feighan let out his breath, and grinned. "Guess that'll do for an answer." 
Straightening, he turned to the Edbargian. "Would the fight be under water?"
"No. The pwodee is amphibious; the fight will be in the two dimunsions."
"Huh?"
"On dry land."
"Fine." He nodded decisively. "When and where?"
"Whun you gut off work this evuning. Return here and we will have uverything 
ruddy."
"Great!" He beamed down at Sam. He knew how quick Sam darted, how swift and 
smart and deadly; the fight was as good as over. Taranya would be his! And that 
evoked such a high-soaring joy that he swooped the Rhanghan into his arms. "Ah, 
you're great, ol' buddy!"
Sam merely blinked, and made himself comfortable. Then he glanced at the lights.
Feighan checked, too, then looked askance at his ward. "How'd you know it was 
time for work?"
Sam patted him on the chin.
"All right, off we go"
*PING*
But once he was in the Fling Booth, keeping his mind on his job proved 
difficult. He couldn't sit still. He chuckled over nothing. And he demanded a 
Fling count so many times that the console began flashing it automatically.
For once, he didn't even feel his fatigue. It lay sullen in a corner but hope so 
filled him that there wasn't room for much else. God she's pretty. He couldn't 
wait. She's gonna be so happy wonder if she'll let me no, can't ask that, I 
mean, gratitude's one thing, but to come out and say, 'Hey, how about we find 
someplace private and *harrumph*, uh-uh, that's a shitty way to do it but I 
wonder if she'll let me
Halfway through the shift, Maccari dropped by with some schedule changes. 
Darkness smudged her undereyes, and she yawned into his smile. "Boy, you're 
feeling good." She leaned against the wall and soaked up his mood for a moment. 
"What happened? I can tell it's that girl, but"
He told her.
Her good humor dried like rain on a griddle. She dropped into the chair he'd 
vacated. "McGill, you're risking Sam's life!"
"Naw." He shook his head. "Not a chance. Sam's"
"still just a baby!"
He swallowed. "If you'd seen him go after that Nvele"
"Now you're feeling uneasy, aren't you?" Her grimace bared her teeth.
Defensive against rising doubt, he said, "Dammit, it's not fair to Mind me!"
"You're right, it's not." Her shoulders sagged. "But why did you agree?"
"Because, ah" He stopped, and scratched his temple. The answer was there, on 
his tongue, in his throat, but he couldn't a minute earlier he could have 
explained the whole thing, laid it out, traced the reasons, but nowbut now he 
couldn't. The relationships escaped him. The perspective was lost. Puzzled, he 
blinked. "I don't knowI just, ah I just did, that's all."
She closed her eyes, and appeared to concentrate on something behind them. 
"There's wrongness here, McGill." She looked around, then upand suspicion 
tightened her lips. "You might have been 'influenced,' " she said. "Can you call 
it off?"
A sick sense of doom swirled through him, and he sat on his console. "I I don't 
think so. They're pretty tough about enforcing contracts here."
She bit her lip. "Then you'll have to go through with it."
"Sam Sam'll win. Sure he will."
"You're not as confident as you try to sound." She regarded them glumly. "What 
time is this happening?"
"74:30 tonight, after I get off work." Suddenly it seemed much too soon. "Why?"
"I want to be there."
He looked down at his ward, who was busily untying Maccari's shoelaces. "Hear 
that, Sam?" He tried to recapture his earlier certainty. "You're going to have a 
cheering section."
"Hardly that."
Her tone chilled him, but he cajoled, "You know what I meant."
"Yes," she said. "I'll wait for you outside."
"Thanks."
"You get off when, in a couple of trooms? I'll find Harry Sherman, too. He 
should be there."
When the appointed hour came, the Edbargian directed the three Terrans and the 
Rhanghan to a small dome adjoining a miniature, sand-floored arena. There waited 
a young pwodee. Now that air could carry sound, the castanets of its claws 
clicked a deadly rhythm. Sam bared his fangs but made no move to leave Feighan's 
arms. Instead, he shifted position and looked up at his guardian, as if to say, 
"Just give me the word."
And Feighan did. He bent over, set the reptile before the tunnel leading to the 
arena, and swatted him gently on the tail. "Go get him!"
Sam blasted down the tunnel.
The pwodee's feet kicked sand as it pivoted to meet the Rhanghan's hissing 
charge. Its right claw jabbed out and snapped! Sam yelped, then backed away. A 
drop of blood smeared the side of his snout.
"Stop it, McGill," said Maccari.
"I can't," he said, though he wanted to with all his heart. "I've got a 
contract."
Tail swishing the sand smooth, Sam circled the crustacean. He kept his hands up 
like a boxer guarding his face, with his jaws parted and his small teeth ready 
to slash. The pwodee stayed in one place, turning only to keep the other in 
view. Its six minor claws stayed close to its body, protecting its belly.
"C'mon, Sam," muttered Sherman. "Make me rich."
"You have a bet down?" asked Feighan.
"Even odds, but I put a thousand points on him, so c'mon, Sam."
Why didn't I think of that? Woulda gotten me that much closer to the 
gastropoddamn.
More and more Delu swam into position overhead. Skintalk spattered the dome like 
paints off a dropped palette; occasionally a harsh grating resonated as a 
careless spectator scraped the glass. In the corridor outside, too, a small 
crowd gatheredmostly reticent, arm-folded Terrans, though a twelve-legged 
marsupial from Rii-edsch stood right up front.
Sam lunged. The pwodee's claw flashed out, flashed open. Maccari gasped. Saw 
teeth sped for the reptile's throat. "No," she whispered.
At the last instant the Rhanghan ducked. Carried by momentum, the pincer rushed 
past, exposing its arm. Sam twisted his neck and bit up, hard. The pwodee 
spasmed, for the first time making a noise. It sounded like the whine of a 
kicked dog.
Sam's jaw muscles bulged. Crustacean blood smeared copper on his cheeks. Clearly 
he wanted to chew right through, but even as he intensified the pressure the 
pwodee hammered its other claw down on his head.
He fell and lay still.
Feighan thought his heart would stop.
Tucking its injured arm under its belly, the pwodee inched its good pincer 
towards Sam's throat.
"Sam!" shouted Feighan.
The Rhanghan wriggled alive and snapped! Saurian teeth crashed through chitin. 
With a muffled hiss he found his feet. While his tail lashed out, sweeping the 
pwodee off its claws, the leverage he exerted threw the beast onto its back. 
Then, releasing the crushed limb, he sprang for the pwodee's soft blue belly, 
and bit it again and again. Blood spurted over his skull plate. Raking his 
midlegs up and down the creature's groin, he pinned its head with his hands and 
beat its skull against the floor. For a long minute the room resounded with 
Sam's angry hisses. Gradually, the pwodee ceased struggling. And died.
Sherman exhaled his relief. "He did it!" He dried his palms on his tunic.
Feighan sagged against the wall. "Uh-huh" He wiped sweat off his forehead and 
looked at Maccari. "Well?"
She shrugged. "You figured it right, I guessbut I'm still not happy about it, 
McGill. If that thing had been a little stronger"
"I was thinking the same thing myself. But it wasn't. And Sam won."
The door connecting their dome with the arena opened. Feighan squatted on his 
haunches and whistled through it, "Here, Sam. It's over. Leggo, come on in."
The Rhanghan climbed off his prey, and pawed the bloody sand with his rear legs. 
Before turning towards the exit, he paused to tail-slap the corpse. Then, 
fatigue bowing his shoulders, he trudged into the observation dome and waited at 
Feighan's feet. Leaning against one boot for support, he stunk of saurian sweat 
and crustacean gore.
"Jeez, you were good, Sam." With his handkerchief he wiped the mess from his 
ward's muzzle. "Are you okay? Looks like" Sam's head jerked away from his 
touch. "Hold still, I have to ah, yes. Just a small cut. Not bad at all. Let me 
just dab up the blood easy, easy I know just how you feel; I once had to hold 
still for your mother while she pulled frindrin thorns from my butt" The urge 
to crush the Rhanghan in a tremendous hug almost overwhelmed him. Gratitude 
welled up in him; he had to blink and duck his face to hide the moistness of his 
eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, "thank you very, very much."
All four eyelids nictitating, Sam touched his snout to Feighan's nose, then 
clung to his upper arm and laid his muzzle on the human's shoulder.
They lingered by the arena for a while longer, as if their elation would shrivel 
were it removed from the scene of the triumph. They chatted with each other, 
though the people outside dispersed without a word, while Sam's breathing slowed 
and his heart beat eased and his muscle tension gradually softened. Then he fell 
asleep.
"Poor thing," said Maccari, as she pried him off Feighan's biceps. "You should 
take him home and put him to bed."
His eyebrows flickered.
"I felt that." She struggled to repress a laugh, but failed. "All right, I'll 
take him home so you can pick up your girlfriend and put her"
"Now, now," he said, sputtering on a giggle.
"I'll go with you, McGill," said Sherman.
"Thanks." Together they set out, down the spoke to the Edbargian's booth, and 
the Flinger, though his mind was elsewhere, asked, "How's the visa thing going?"
"I think they're weakening," he said gloomily, "or they were before this. But 
they're weird beings, and I'm not sure how the old female's going to react when 
my friend steals her favorite translator."
"You think she'd hold it against you?" His own jubilation made that seem 
impossible.
"Who can say? There's a chance" He jammed his hands into his pockets and walked 
along, head lowering, watching the tips of his shoes. "I'd really hate to have 
to leave this place."
"You're kidding."
"Are you serious?" He glanced at Feighan. "Sure you are, you're a Flinger. But 
look: no place in the Network has a comparable information flow. Admittedly, on 
other worlds it's easier to gather your data, but here, it's reliable. 
Guaranteed, even."
"In Delu terms," said Feighan. All around them, the cycle slid into the 
infra-red; for a few precious minutes they could splash through pure white 
fluorescence.
"There's that," conceded the broker, "but hey! Every word they utter is true; 
the danger lies in drawing your own conclusions."
He rubbed his eyes. "You'd really rather live here than somewhere else?"
"I'd really rather work here," he said. "At least until they amend the 
data-change rules. One of the factions"
"Which you're not investigating?"
"Right." Sherman smiled at his friend's sarcasm. "So I won't say anything more. 
I'd like to stay. It wouldn't ruin my business if I had to set up shop somewhere 
else, though. To tell the truth, someday I willbut dammit, McGill, I don't 
like the idea of being thrown out. It's not leaving that bothers me so much as 
having to leave. Know what I mean?"
"Sort of. I mean, yeah, I guess I do. I've never had that problem, though, so I 
can't really empathize." Or feel glum, eithernot on a day like today!
"Here's your gambler's puppet."
The Edbargian laid its flamingo neck on the counter and looked up. "Come to 
colluct your prize, uh?"
"You know it," said Feighan, grinning widely.
"The mobile servants are bringing herah, here thuy come." He nodded down the 
spoke behind them.
Sherman turned; Feighan spun. Lumbering towards them came an eight-legged 
Aronya, a wide, squat being with flame-red hair and a back as broad as a dining 
room table. Across it lay the translator, swaddled in blue. A gold-feathered 
Rehmal accompanied them to insure her balance.
"She's still asleep," said the hook-beaked translator. "Quite common in a 
detached servant."
"When will she wake up?"
"Oh, a couple of trooms, maybe more, maybe luss. Depunds on her mutabolism, if 
you know what I mean."
As the Aronya drew level with them, Sherman sighed. "She is gorgeous, McGill, 
especially in that blue robe. You're to be complimented."
He blushed. "For what?" He stopped his hand from tousling her honey hair.
"For arranging her releasethat's next to impossibleand also for the obvious."
"The obvious isn't definite, yet," he said. It was all he could do to keep from 
scooping her up in his arms.
"It will be when she hears what you've done."
"That might be some time, juntlemun," said the Edbargian. To the Rehmal it said, 
"Okay, take her away."
"Oh, are you delivering her to my room?"
The translator laughed. "Hardly. We're returning her to her booth."
His jaw dropped. "What for?" His fists reflexively clenched. The Aronya 
shouldered past him, orange eyes blazing.
"She's under arrust."
"What for?" Within him, disbelief and anger fought for mastery.
"A vury large dubt."
He pounded on the countertop. "The gambler paid that!"
"No," said the Edbargian, wagging its bald head. "The gambler paid the dubt for 
which she had bun suntunced. This is another dubt, a bigger one."
Teeth gritted, he said. "He promised to free her!"
"He did." Its carapace bounced in a shrug. "From the first dubt. That was just 
dumonstrated to you by the Aronya and the Ruhmal, who brought her here for your 
inspuction. It's not the gambler's fault if she had incurred another dubt."
Furiously angry, Feighan leaned across the counter, reaching into the booth to 
grab the beak-faced turtle and throttle its skinny neck and Sherman caught him 
in a neat full nelson. "Don't," snapped the newsbroker. "There's an immense fine 
for assaulting a translator. Don't even think of it."
Face pressed into the countertop, he said, "But the girl"
"You were suckered, McGill."
"But he promised."
"You didn't investigate enough." Sherman dragged him five meters from the booth, 
then released him. "Look, McGill, that's how Delurc worksyou made an agreement 
with the gambler, and you both lived up to your ends of the bargain. The thing 
is, the gambler hadn't told you the whole truthI warned you that they were like 
that, remember?"
"But I've got to do something!" He eyed the fat man, wondering if he could break 
around him. The newsdealer balanced easily, warningly, on the balls of his feet. 
"I can't just"
"Nothing you can do."
"But she"
"Uh-uh. Not a thing. Unless you want to send Sam back into the arena."
Hmm and this time I could get a bet of my own down Feighan's blood froze as he 
realized that he was actually contemplating that possibilitybut before he could 
begin to loathe himself for his willingness to risk Sam's life a second time, 
the translator called.
"Don't bother. The chance has gone out of it; you couldn't gut a rematch no 
matter how much you bugged."
Hot anger settling into banked resentment, Feighan said, "I guess that solves 
that."
"Sure seems to."
He looked down the long, sterile spoke to where the Rehmal and the Aronya were 
unloading the translator into her booth. His heart hurtso near she was, I 
thought sure I could get to know her, to His head hurt from fatigue and worry 
and overwork. And his pride hurt, because he'd been outwitted by a gambler and 
used in the process. Suddenly he punched his fist into his palm. "Dammit!"
"Can't say as I blame you," said Sherman, throwing a heavy arm around his 
friend's shoulders and aiming him towards home. "But what can you do?"
A dark shape swirled over them, and they raised their heads. Pressing against 
the dome, it shifted its colors. Its fins flicked in eight different directions 
at eight different speeds. A faint series of runs and trills vibrated the 
interface between air and water. "It's the old female," said Feighan.
"Do you know what she's doing?"
He looked up again, and shook his head. "Haven't the faintest."
"Laughing," said the newsman sadly.
"Really?" If he'd had a harpoon, he would gladly have sunk it into her.
"Really."
"Dammit. And her. And this place." Angrily, he paced ahead of Sherman, squeezing 
the moisture out of his eyes, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. 
"Dammit, Harry, I hate this whole world."
 
He hated it even more an hour later, when Maccari slipped into his dome to say: 
"Don't trust Harry Sherman."
Astonished, he gaped at her. Sam ran to her leg and begged a lift. "But the kid 
loves him, and that's practically a seal of approval. Harry's"
"Lying to you," she said. She kept her. tone firm but soft, and gave only a 
single over-the-shoulder glance at the mannequin on Sherman's pallet. "Listen. I 
haven't probed him, and you know I won't, but when the two of you talk I can 
feel him lying."
"Dammit, dammit, dammit! I knew I shouldn't trust him, I knew it!" Then he 
looked up. And wondered if he could trust her. "How is Harry"
"I don't know." Cradling Sam like she would a cat, she sat in the desk chair. "I 
just wanted to warn you."
"Aw, Christ." He rolled on his back and stared into the dark waters above. Ten 
meters up, a green glow showed for a moment, then faded. It was enough to light 
up a misshapen fin. "He acted like such a friend"
"He is fond of you," she admitted. "I can feel that, too but he's lying to you, 
so watch him."
He lay there in silence for a long time, while she baby-talked Sam and the 
Rhanghan wheezed sleepily. The pallet was hard beneath his shoulders; the lights 
violet in his eyes. He was angry with Shermanand her, too, for scuttling a 
friendship and with Walking Mule for misleading him, and the old female, and 
the gambler, and gritting his teeth, he simmered to himself, and wished he had 
someone to talk to. But he didn't; there was no gentle ear into which he could 
pour his woes; no soothing, loving, listenerHe clenched his fists, tautening 
the tendons of his arm until they stood out like cabled intentions. He wanted so 
badly to expend his rage that he imagined punching the wall no, break my hand 
the mattress no, awkward angle Maccari hey, no! I'm not
Shaken by his wild desire, he sat up slowly. Knowing he couldn't hurt her only 
made him more furious with her. He caught calculation in her eye and said, "Get 
out."
Her lip curled. "With pleasure."
"Now."
She set the drowsy Rhanghan on the floor and jerked to her feet. "I wouldn't 
spend another" She broke off and pinched the bridge of her nose. Squinting past 
her thumb and forefinger, she said in a different tone, "McGill"
"I said, get out." Irritated by her dawdling, he rose.
"No, no, the mood"
"Revulsion."
"it's not yours or mine, it's" Vaguely, she waved her left hand at the 
night-shadowed ocean. "it's coming from out there somewhere."
He had to restrain himself. "I don't care. It's mine, now. Get out."
"But" From across the dome she looked at him, and let her left arm droop. "All 
right," she said. "All right, I'm going."
He stood immobile till the lights softened into lilac, resisting the heat of his 
hate yet warming himself in it as well. Towards the end he had to stoke it to 
maintain it; he had to review his plight, the slights, the lies yet weariness 
cooled him, eventually, and then even the bleakest of images failed to rekindle 
him.
Exhausted, he limped over to his pallet and lay on it, sick with the ashes of 
rage. He wondered, briefly, if he were going insane.
Then he slept.
Poorly.
 
The fleet was a few hours out of Delurc. Milford Hommroummy was pacing. He 
slammed his heels against the metal floor, now and then looking up at the face 
of the screen. Finally he said, "What went wrong?"
"Both were stronger than expected."
"Gryll will hear of this."
"We convinced him to jeopardize the beast!"
"But not to attack the telepath," Hommroummy said with a sneer. "What about the 
newsbroker?"
The boy smiled. "That segment of the plan proceeded as desired."
"In other words, he took your data." His jaw muscles bulged. "But: Is. He. In. 
Your. Debt?"
The boy ducked his head. "Who can tell what an alien feels?"
Hommroummy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do this, then," he said with a sigh. 
"Tell Sherman you have more information, but that you will not reveal it unless 
Feighan is there to hear it. Tell him to take Feighan to an isolated place 
without Maccari!and then" Rubbing his jaw, he trailed off.
"Yes?"
Hommroummy completed three laps of the cabin before he stopped and spoke again. 
When he had finished, the boy was grinning.
And so was he.
Chapter X
 ^ 


The next afternoon, grouchy and over-tired, he stumbled towards Datadesk 1-19. 
The siren and her song drew him down the long spoke. His shoes scraped the 
tile's mildewed grout. Deprived of targets, he berated himself for returning to 
the old female. Considering the way she'd mocked him the previous night, he 
should quit the jobjust not show up but he had to find out about the 
gastropod. And it'd be nice to see Taranya again, too, he thought.
The arch of the spoke ran ahead and down, shrinking with perspective as if 
succumbing to the weight it bore. His spirits felt heavier. Even lifting his 
feet seemed impossible.
She sat on the stool behind her counter and smiled as though the preceding day 
had never happened. Then her eyes glistened with empathy. "You're sad." She 
reached over to smooth his unruly hair.
The single gesture swept away all his ire. "I wanted to free youI wanted it so 
much" He cleared his throat. "What do you owe on this debt?"
"Eighteen thousand four hundred points." Her long, slender fingers touched his 
right cheek gratefully, then tapped a soft rhythm on the counter. "How many 
children do you have?"
That startled him into a double-take. "None!"
"What are you favorite colors?"
"Ah" Puzzled, he cocked his head to look within himself. "I guess that depends 
on my mood" He couldn't resist adding, as he gazed into her face again, "Right 
now, they're blue and blonde."
"Thank you." She batted her eyelashes and burlesqued coyness. "Have you ever 
traveled to the Hub?"
"Neveralthough I'm sure I will, one day."
"Close your eyes," she said softly, and touched his temples. Within seconds he 
was in the memory-trance, so deep into it that he could barely remember that he 
was a Terran Flinger named McGill Feighan, not
"I. I. I." She sat at the stump of her birthstalk, clashing her teeth together 
experimentally while she made shadow-pictures on the mud with the uppermost of 
her eight notched fins. The sun lathered her light-grey skin with warmth. All 
around her lay or sat or crawled her brothers and sisters, each broadcasting, 
"I. I. I."
After a while, hunger outweighed the allure of the shadow-shapes, and she 
flopped forward, propping herself up on her fins. The surf tumbled at her rear, 
but she trotted to the reef's highest point, the spot that had first emerged 
from the sea. A few of her siblings had had the same idea, and she came upon 
them digging in the muck. Above their heads hummed a cloud of insects that hung 
maddeningly out of range.
"I. I. I," she projected, knocking a brother over.
Heshe?rolled down the small slope, skin color-muttering with anger. The sun so 
outshone it that it appeared as a visual ripple, the kind that goes away when 
you blink.
Her fins churned the soft ground, scooping up sandy mud and splashing it to 
either side while she watched it closely. A long grey grub wriggled in the 
brilliant light; she pounced on it. Two siblings eyed her jealously, but the 
grub wasn't even an appetizer, much less a meal big enough to be shared. 
Inhaling it, she returned to her excavation, hunched over the hole she'd 
hollowed out, and
strong sharp teeth seized her tail.
She twisted, and arched her spine, but that failed to shake loose her assailant. 
The sun beat down, warming the blood smell, spicing it. She curled under her own 
belly, and clamped her teeth on his gillbuds. With a squawk he released her, and 
would have stumped away on his fins if he could have.
She would not let him go. Uncoiling, and flapping onto her stomach, she chewed. 
Hot blood gushed down her gullet. It was good. She closed her jaws all the way, 
ripping a great chunk of his flesh off his ribs. He sprawled east and she west, 
thrown backwards by her straining.
She would have launched herself upon him againfor she had swallowed the hunk of 
him wholebut he had already disappeared under a flock of their siblings, all 
anxious to feed off of him. A few on the fringe even dared a tentative nibble in 
her direction, but her fury drove them back.
When the crowd melted away, only gleaming bones lay scattered on the reefbed.
The scene imploded as though a picture tube had failed. Feighan's eyes snapped 
open on their own; his head jerked up.
"I'm sorry," she said, while she stroked the back of his right hand soothingly. 
"The transition was too abrupt."
"Is it over?"
"Yes back to work, now."
"Oh, heycan't we"
A shadow swept across the oceans of her eyes. "I'm sorry, McGill. We can't. 
Good-bye."
Reluctantly, he backed away. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yes. Definitely. Tomorrow."
And through the whole second shift, he could think of nothing but that sadness 
in her eyes
 
He dreamed, that night, of a cloudless sky in July at the shore, white sand dry 
and loose beneath his sandals, cool wind refreshing on his bare chest. Cacti 
grew tall and man-like on the dunes. The beachgoer's summer had tamed the waves. 
They rolled in three feet high, slapping down with metronomic regularity, then 
whispering to themselves as they retreated to regroup.
He dropped his gear and kicked off his sandals. Alone, he was, with seasonal 
restlessness daring him to test his body's limits. He sprinted for the surf, 
kicking up sand then water; he stopped when the sprint became a ludicrous slog. 
Then he dove, flat and long, skimming the wavetops, surfacing into a butterfly 
stroke that stretched his shoulders and brought him to gasping within two 
hundred meters.
And there, as he trod water and looked back to the people hugging the land, too 
fearful to venture more than waistdeep into their ancestral element, something 
bumped his knees, and lifted.
A great dark whale rose beneath him.
He sat on its back, crossed his legs, and said, "Hello."
It rolled up an eye the size of a basketball. "Hello." The words burbled through 
its blowhole. "Can I give you a ride?"
"Where are you going?"
"To see the sea, and see what scenes can be seen."
"Sounds good," he said, but a kilometer or so out the whale unflicked its tail 
and dove! like a submarine plummeting from the bombs of a plane. "Hey! What are 
you doing?"
"The good stuff's on the bed. Let's dive!"
"I don't have gills!"
"Well, neither do I, you silly human. Hold your breath. We'll be up in half an 
hour."
And as he started to protest the gentle giant teeth closed on his ankle and 
pulled him down and the water went up and the sun burned bright and
"McGill, McGill, wake up."
He raised his head, the coarse blankets falling off his sweaty shoulders. "Wha? 
Who?" Maccari's concerned face loomed into focus. He mumbled, "Gina, wha?"
Squinting, she rubbed her temples. "You were having a nightmare."
Her proximity steadied him like a friendly tree. "Did I scream?"
"That, too." Exhaustion pallored her cheeks and cut lines at the corners of her 
eyes. "Mostly it was in your headand mine." She shivered.
"Damn, I'm sorry" He drew a breath of cool, damp air, and let it out with a 
shudder. "I don't know what it is, I've been having more and more of these 
dreams probably overwork, huh?"
She regarded him gravely. "Probably. But"
"What?"
"Never mind. Can you get back to sleep, now?"
"Where's Sam?" Suddenly he needed to know that he was present, watchful.
"Right there." She pointed to the foot of his pallet. The Rhanghan lay alert on 
his belly, all eyelids up and tail swinging from side to side.
He relaxed, and lowered his head back to the pillow. "I'm sorry, Ginabut thanks 
for getting me out of it."
In the doorway she paused. "McGill, believe me, I did it for myself. I'll see 
you in the morning." And she was gone.
"Good night, Sam," he whispered.
The saurian flicked his tongue through the air and stretched out, snout on his 
folded hands. The light sparkled off his attentive eyes. He would see no harm 
came to his guardian.
So Feighan slept.
 
On his way to work the next morning, the Edbargian called out to him from its 
booth: "Yuh, Turang!"
Sam chittered at the alien, but Feighan asked, "Yes?"
"How about sulling us your dreams?"
"Uh-uh."
It scratched its nose. "One-fifty a night, couldn't find a butter price."
That is high. But he couldn't see surrendering part of his soul. "No, but thanks 
anyway."
"Two hundrud thun."
Its persistence amused him, and despite his bleak mood he laughed. "No."
"All right, but if you change your mind, you know whure to find us."
"That I do," he said, giving it a wave and strolling off.
 
As he'd been promised when he'd had to work that extra shift, he got the 
following day off. Tired and anti-social, he moped in his dome. Taranya appeared 
sadder every time he saw her. Sherman, even though he was trying to deceive the 
Flinger, seemed to blame him for his visa problem. Maccari hadn't spoken to him 
since the night of Sam's fightexcept to drag him out of another nightmare, and 
she'd admitted she did that only because her Talent developed static when he had 
bad dreams. The one person who spent time with him was Samand that's probably 
'cause I'm paying for his food he thought in self-pity.
So it surprised him when Sherman stuck his head into the room. "Hey, McGill."
He didn't look up. "Yeah?"
"How about a picnic?"
"Uh-uh." He studied the back of his hand, pretending an interest in the tinge 
imposed by the yellow-green light. He did not trust Sherman any more, but liked 
him too much to say so. An awkward silence gathered. Feighan could not lift his 
eyes.
"C'mon."
"I said, no."
"What is it with you?"
"What is it with you?" he said, unable to contain himself. "I'm not the one 
who's going around lying to people! I'm not the one who leaves a plastic dummy 
on his pallet every night! What do you mean, what is it with me?"
Taken completely off-guard, the newsman rocked back on his heels. "Whew! You 
trying to ruin me? I thought we were friends."
"We were, till you started lying."
"About what?"
"You know."
Sherman scanned the surrounding waters. Then he sighed. "Look, McGill. It's not 
a safe topicthis is stuff it's dangerous to know, much less talk about. I 
haven't lied to hurt you, really. It's only been to keep us both out of 
trouble."
"I'm a big boy, Harry," he said bitterly. "I can stay out of trouble all by 
myself. Especially when I know who not to trust."
The newsman shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I'll tell you 
whatcome on the picnic, and I'll outline the situation for you."
"You mean that?" He cocked his head quizzically.
"Yes, I do. And for a fringe benefit, you can watch some baby Delu die."
His eyebrows arched. "Really?"
"Really."
"Well, if you put it like that" He pushed himself to his feet. "Where are we 
going?"
"To the nursery. It's a stiff walk, so wear comfortable shoes. I've got what 
passes for food." He pointed across the wheel, to a basket in his doorway. 
"Believe it or not, that also holds a bottle of rather good wine."
"How'd you get that?"
"It was brought to me last night by one of the servants remember that Rii-edsch 
that came by last night?"
"I didn't see any twelve-legged opossums."
"Maybe it was before you got home anyway, it bowed, handed me the bottle, bowed 
again, and said, "This is with the compliments of the Gambler.' "
"It's probably poisoned." Feighan scowled.
"Now, now you're supposed to enjoy yourself today, not brood."
"I'll see what I can do is Gina coming?"
"She's busy." He perused his young friend's face. "Look, McGillshe said she was 
busy, but I don't think that's itI think, um"
"What?" He had his own ideas on the subject, but wanted to have them confirmed.
"Never mind."
"No, I want to know."
Sherman clucked and rubbed his belly. "All right, if you insist. What I think it 
is, is, she doesn't want to be around you when you're like this. I mean, I can 
barely stand you"
"What?"
"Temper, temper." Raising his hands placatingly, Sherman advanced like a 
conciliatory tank. "You've been in a lousy mood since the Gambler cheated 
youand it's natural for you to be disappointed, or upset, or even furiousbut, 
McGill, you're so goddam gloomy that when you enter a room you darken it.. It's 
like you turn off the lights wherever you go and that's the opinion of a man 
who is not notably sensitive to human moods. Think how you must be affecting 
Gina, with her telepathy. No wonder she's been avoiding you."
He grimaced, and looked out the wall. Sherman's reflection stared at him over 
his own shoulder. "I don't know," he said "Maybe you're right"
"I am right, and you know it."
"All right, so you are, dammit. It's just I mean, how am I supposed to feel, 
huh? How would you feel if" He caught himself, but not before subjecting 
Sherman to painful memories. "Sorry, Harry. I'm lousy company, and I admit it. 
So why do you want to take me on a picnic?"
"You want the truth?"
"Uh-huh."
"I've got nothing better to do." He laughed at Feighan's crestfallen expression. 
"Besides, I thought it might cheer you up to watch baby Delu eating each 
otheras well as give you a slightly deeper insight into this weird planet. What 
do you say?"
"In your own inimitable wordsgot nothing better to do. I'll come."
"Good." He whistled to Sam. "Brought some goodies for him, too. Come on, Sam, 
I'll give you a ride. Up on my shoulder, now."
As Sherman had warned, the walk was long. Feighan couldn't even have saved them 
the tripthough he planned to spare them the returnbecause he'd never been to 
the nursery before, and could Fling only to places with which he was familiar. 
"Still getting hassled over your visa?"
"Still," he said glumly. "I had another interview this morningthe old female 
again"
McGill's heart twinged as he thought of the woman through whom the old female 
would have spoken. "How is she?" he asked softly, though he'd seen her less than 
a day earlier.
"As fine as could be, given the circumstances," said the newsman, apparently 
knowing which "she" Feighan had meant. "Anyway, the way the old female talked, 
everything was vague and indefinite, but she seemed to be hinting that if I 
confined my investigations to events that occur off Delurc, I might be able to 
stay."
"Did you agree?"
"Like I said, everything was indefinite it was we take this left into this 
wheel, then turn right at the next spoke. You did bring your oxygen mask?"
"Of course. Sam's, too."
"Okay, because this wheel ''s the last with good ol ' 02. Where was I? Oh, yes. 
It was the way she was questioning me, as though she were trying to pin me down 
into stating that I was neither a spy nor a cultural anthropologist it bothered 
me, you know? I asked her three times what she meant, but she would not even 
name a price for the answerand that's unheard-of. Something's upsomething very 
bigand" Dropping his voice, he looked nervously around. "I plan to find out 
what it is. We could be sitting on a coup." He shook his head. "If you hear 
anything"
"You'll be the first to know," said the Flinger.
"Thanks. And this will about do it for the oxygen, so masks on."
Feighan adjusted his own, then bent over to slip Sam's onto his muzzle. By the 
time he had strapped it tightly and fastened the bottle to the Rhanghan's 
thorax, Sherman had activated the air lock and the door opened. They stepped in 
together.
For another hour and a half they walked through the mildly poisonous atmosphere 
which sustained row after row of potted Lumbi, sapient plants from the planet 
Lumb. Four meters tall with a swollen crown and huge glossy leaves, they 
stretched into the distance as far as he could see. He marveled at their numbers 
until Sherman radioed that the Delu had imported them to research the nature of 
intelligence and the forms which it could take. Fully half the plants were wired 
into translator boothsnot as punishment, but to aid them in communicating with 
the Delu. As it turned out, the Lumbi had come to research the Delu: they were 
trying to devise a theory, consistent with their biology, to explain how 
intelligence could appear in a fish
The spoke ended in a staircase, a spiral affair spun of glass and steel. Sherman 
began to climb. The risers were higher than Sam could comfortably manage, so 
Feighan scooped him up and carried him. After thirty-three steps, they emerged 
into a thirty-meter high dome divided into eight sections by transparent panels. 
Sherman headed for the pie-slice that a dozen languages marked: "0&#8322;." A 
cap-wearing Rii-edsch translator let them in.
Inside, they stripped off their masks and closed their bottles, then sighed with 
relief and rubbed their sore cheeks. Sam conscientiously imitated them, though 
Feighan doubted that his bony cheekplates hurt at all.
"So what's the story here?" asked Feighan.
"This is the observation dome; it's as close as the Delu allow aliens to get to 
their nursery." Sherman pointed to a rocky spit of land that jutted a few meters 
above the ocean's surface. "Those things squiggling around on it are baby Delu."
He wondered how many were playing shadow games. "Uh-huh. And?"
"Look closeyou'll see they're eating each other."
"Have any binoculars?"
"It's a magnifying wall. It only costs five points to adjust it to your vision; 
just tell the puppet what you want."
"Oh." He had the points to spare, so he gave his instructions. It focused for 
him. "How long do I have?"
"Fifty twees," said the marsupial. It squeaked, then licked the fur on its 
twelve legs.
He felt he was standing on the island. The infant Delu were bigger than Sam, and 
just as toothy. As promised, they were eating each otherand now that he 
observed the scene from a Terran point of view, he derived a great deal of 
satisfaction from it.
Even as he watched, three infants fell on a fourth. Two pinned it awkwardly 
while the third chewed off its head. Then all three tore into it, spitting out 
scales and bits of bone. They kept a wary distance between them, and their eyes 
swiveled nervously the entire time.
"You know," said Feighan, "I've re-lived the old female's memories of this, but 
I still can't figure out how they tolerate cannibalism."
"You've memory-swapped with her?" The newsman looked at him with new respect. 
"You're lucky; you're the only Terran I've heard of who's ever gotten the 
chance. As for cannibalism it only happens at this stage of their lives, and to 
them, there's nothing wrong with it. What they figure would be wrong is if it 
didn't happen. The law is survival."
"But why is it necessary?"
"Because they've eaten the nursery bare of everything else."
"Yeah, butthis plant, animal, fish cycle makes no sense!"
"Blame it on the weather," the broker said wryly. "Delurc's almost completely 
under waterand it has no axial tilt. Its orbit is just elliptical enough to 
keep the temperature at the poles in the vicinity of 0 C. Wintertime, it drops 
to -2 or -5 something like that, but not too coldand in summer, the high 
hits 2 to 5."
Impatiently, he cut in, "So what does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything." Like a lecturer at a podium, Sherman raised a finger. "All year 
round, warm, moist air from the tropics rises and heads for the poles, where it 
condenses. It snows like hell there in winterI saw a figure once; it's 
something on the order of 400,000 cubic kilometers of water before it turns into 
snowand that drops the sea level all around the world by two or three meters. 
In egg-laying season, though, or late fall, the water's at its highest. The 
reefs are barely submerged when the eggs hatch, and they break the surface 
almost at once. If you've memory-swapped, you know how quickly the babies clean 
off the reefs after a while, all they have left are each other and incredible 
hungers. So" He shrugged.
"Competitiveness is bred into them, huh?"
"To put it mildly."
He peered through the magnifying wall again, and watched one larger than average 
baby stalking another. "Does this have anything to do with the factions?" 
Something tugged his Talent, then, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to 
identify it. It felt like fingers clutching at the sleeve of your mind as you 
pass by. He spun around.
Except for the translator, the observation dome was empty.
"Harry?" The Rii-edsch glanced up. "Sam?" Oh sweet Jesus, I've been set up 
again!
Plastic clattered at his feet. Eyes alive and wild, he crouched to pick up the 
small grey box. As he turned it over in his hands, it spoke: "McGill Feighan?"
Surprised, he could say only, "Yes."
"Milford Hommroummy, here. Try not to Fling away: you're Anchored."
His hand fell involuntarily to his belt.
"And should you be thinking of Flinging a pebble or two through the Anchors, you 
should know that it wouldn't bother them at all: they're Delu, and rather large 
enough to survive what is, after all, merely a pinprick to them. And, of course, 
if you attempt to Fling to them, you'll have a spot of difficulty breathing at 
that depth stay where you are. We're bringing in a landing craft to take you 
off-planet."
"I swear to God, I'll kill him."
"Who?" Hommroummy sounded puzzled.
"Harry Sherman! Who the hell"
"He is not on my payroll," said Hommroummy. "I only wish he were."
"That's what you said about Nadia."
"Ah, but that time I lied."
"Then where the hell are they?" He'd never forgive himself if Sahaang's son were 
hurt on his account.
"I really couldn't say; my planetside assistant handled that aspect of it."
"You mean The Organization's here, on Delurc?"
"Do act your age, FeighanThe Organization is everywhere."
"But how do you think you can hold me? You know I won't go quietly."
"I believe that's our problem, not yours. But trust mewe shall hold you like a 
miser does a coin."
Squeezing the radio as if he could crush it, he stared out the window, and 
glared at the waves. Below the platform, a dark shape disturbed the waters. He 
told the marsupial translator, "Focus on that, will you?"
Hommroummy asked, "Are you speaking to me?"
"No." He peered through the readjusted walldirectly into huge eyes peering at 
him. He recognized the fish, though he wasn't sure how: it was the old female. 
"Can you contact her?"
"For a price," said the Rii-edsch.
"I'll paydo it."
"Certainly." It cleared its throat, and in a higher, rather effeminate voice 
said, "Yes?"
"Am I speaking to the old female directly, or through a relay?"
"Your words are being relayed to her through my translator and through myself; 
her answers are returned likewise."
"Tell her"
"You don't need to say that; I realize to whom you are talking."
He clenched his fists in frustration with the being's haughtiness. "Dammit, tell 
her I'm in danger! The Organization is trying to kidnap me."
"She knows."
"Well, I could use some help, here."
"You're unable to pay for it."
"She's just going to let me be taken?"
"Unless you earn two thousand points now and then, yes."
"To hell with this." He ran for the doorbut it would not open. He whirled on 
the translator. "This is locked!"
The marsupial nodded. "It was ordered."
"By whomthe old female?"
"No," it said with scorn, "by another."
He leaned despairingly against the transparent walls of the airlock. It looked 
thin and fragile, but a material strong enough to withstand three centuries of 
wind and sea would laugh at any force he could apply. He tried it anyway: 
removing his belt, he accelerated the buckle into the glass at four kps. It 
blasted a fist-sized hole right through itbut nothing more.
Scurrying over to slap on a patch, the Rii-edsch said, "That'll cost you."
"Dammit!"
Striding back to the window-wall, he looked up at the sky. A dot of flame 
yellowed the blue. The landing vehicle was dropping for him already. It had to 
be incredibly old if it relied on chemical rocketsbut trust The Organization, 
it would lift off as though it were brand new. Lift off with him in it and no 
way out, no way at all
The radio crackled, "We shall send a small boat over to pick you up, Feighan."
"From where?" he asked absently.
"From that reef, of course."
He readjusted the focus on the wall and saw that, sure enough, the reef's 
surface was flat enough for the ship to land safely. Of course, the flamewash 
would burn away all the baby Delu, but what did he care about them? A kilometer 
beyond the reef cruised the Anchor.
Then he snapped his fingers. "Does the old female know that all those children 
will die?"
"Most usually do," said the translator.
"No, what I mean is, when that rocket lands, it will kill them all."
"Ah" The puppet seemed nonplussed. The controller went away for a moment, 
leaving his toy blank-faced behind, and returned to say, "She hadn't realized."
He looked down. The whale-shape now swam in fast, tight circles, breaking the 
surface once a lap. Her dark bulk lifted out of the water, then slapped back 
down like a massive hand swatting a full sink. Water sprayed everywhere, 
darkening the reef with its mist. The wavelets reached up between the rocks, 
here and there pulling an infant away with them. "She seems excited."
"She's frantic," said the other dryly. "They are her childrenher first in 
nearly twenty seasons."
"I thought so." He let a long moment go by, a moment during which the flame 
overhead brightened and sharpened. "You might tell her I could save her 
children."
"You can't save yourself!"
"Oh, I can now."
The marsupial's voice cracked: "She says to go ahead and save them."
"Surefor a price."
The translator went schizophrenic. While its sharp-nosed face grinned and winked 
approvingly, the voice groaned, "You bargain at a time like this?"
" 'When in Rome' "
"She offers three thousand."
"I want a hundred thousand."
"Four, then."
"Uh-uh."
"The price you ask is ridiculously high."
"Her tough luck."
"She doesn't have the points available."
"A hundred thousand," he said firmly, though when he saw how much closer the 
landing vehicle had come, he began to get worried. He could save himselfbut he 
had to start before the ship touched down.
"Five and a visa for your friend Harry Sherman."
"How long a visa?"
"One year."
"Ten."
"Dammit, all right!" it said, through its alter ego's grin and clapping paws. 
"Five thousand points and a ten-year visa for Sherman."
"It's a deal." He inhaled hugely and stared at the windtossed sea. It all 
depended on how close the Anchor was. Only one way to find out he stared at the 
water, visualized 900 kilograms worth in a nice tight ball, felt how to take it 
from here to there, then
*PING*
nine hundred kilograms of water, with an angular momentum parallel to the 
ocean's surface and a velocity approaching two kilometers per second, 
materialized next to the nose of the descending vehicle. Smashing into its side, 
the water globe burst into steam as its speed flash-boiled itbut by then it had 
already delivered its hammer-blow.
The sudden force crushed the craft's nose, and threw the entire ship off 
balance. It pinwheeled, rockets burping long and short as the frantic pilot 
tried to save it, but he hit the controls a second too late. A gush of flame 
boosted it past the reef, then javelined it into the water. It exploded as it 
hit.
The radio crackled, "Damn your soul, Feighan."
"Shit! I thought you were on board."
"From now until you're mine, Feighan, I'm nowhere near you, nowhere you know 
where I am. But you will be mine."
"Fat ah!" Hot plastic splashed his wrist as the radio melted. He dropped it.
"The old female thanks you," said the Rii-edsch.
"The question is, did she pay me?"
"Of coursewe're all honest fish here."
"Fine, fine. Tell her I want" The girl, he thought, but he knew he had nowhere 
near enough points, so instead:"to know about the giant gastropod."
"You don't have enough points."
"She just paid me five thousand!"
"Ah, but you were two hundred twelve in debt before you even entered this 
roomand my charges for the wall and the liaison come to well over four hundred. 
You are still a bit short." At Feighan's curse, it hastily smoothed the fur on 
its chest. "However, sir, the door is unlocked."
He slammed it as he left.
 
Hands behind his back, Hommroummy paced the cabin. The dark young face grinned 
down. "Gryll will not be pleased," said the boy.
"Not when he learns where you dropped your Anchor!"
The grin faded into dismay. "How were we to know?"
"Oh, do shut up, Gimpy." Chewing on his lower lip, he paced some more. One lap. 
Five. Ten On the twentieth he stopped. "There is a possible solution."
"Do tell."
"Feighan thinks he has defeated us, but knows we will try for him again. The 
stress must certainly have tired him; the tension of anticipating our next 
attack will tire him even more. It would be a good moment for you to goad him to 
the maximum."
"Why ever for?"
Hommroummy's scowl brought his thick eyebrows into a V. "I am unfamiliar with 
eedie life on the reefs, Gimpy, but I recall hearing about a very strict legal 
system. Goad Feighan into breaking the law and he is ours."
"Hommroummy, he's a Flinger! If we arrest him, he'll teleport out."
"No." He chuckled. "No, I rather think not. Flingers are indoctrinated, you see. 
Should he be arrested, he would serve out his sentence in fact, he would burn 
out his brain were he to try to flee your jurisdiction." He chuckled again, more 
loudly, more happily. "Proceed, Gimpy. Goad him well."
Chapter XI
 ^ 


Shaken and angry, Feighan materialized in his dome. Sherman, Maccari, and Sam 
were on the floor, playing with rings and strings. They did not notice him until 
he grabbed Sherman from behind and yanked him to his feet. "You bastard!" He 
spun the broker around and shoved him hard. "Nobody sets me up, you hear? 
Nobody!"
Sherman caught himself. Eyes slitted, he crouched slightly and balanced on the 
balls of his feet. He spread his arms a bit and stiffened his hands. "What's 
wrong with you?"
"Nothing that putting you into the sun won't cure. After all, you're the one who 
tried to feed his 'buddy' to The Organization. What'd they pay you for that?"
"Me? Set you up?" The newsman's eyes widened; he straightened. "Christ, Feighan, 
you Flung me and the kid back here so hard you broke the damn bottle of wine."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Sherman wasn't going to admit his betrayal, 
not in front of witnesses. To hell with him, then. He concentrated visualized
"McGill, wait!"
He looked at Maccari. "Why?"
"Because he's telling the truthhe didn't set you up."
"Jesus Christ, woman! You told me not to trust him yourselfyou told me he's 
been lying to me! Now"
"McGill," said Sherman in a calmer voice. "Listen. I don't know what happened 
out there, but I took you there because my source had a hot story for meabout 
the old femalebut he wanted you to hear it. That's what he said, at least."
He glanced over to Maccari.
"He's telling the truth, McGill." Her eyes were clear and steady.
He met her gaze head on. Hot with adrenalin, he clenched and unclenched his 
fists. He couldn't decide. It was all screwed up. She was a Minder; she could 
read Shermanso if he trusted her, Sherman was okay. But do I trust her? he 
thought in anguish. Jesus Christ, which side is she on? I thought Nadia Aloud 
he said, "I can't believe you. Every time I turn around, somebody's lying to me. 
Get out. Both of you. Now!"
Slowly she got to her feet, never once taking her eyes off his face. "You think 
I"
"I don't know. If you're straight, I'm sorry. If you're not" He saw Nadia's 
face, and the word FAILURE carved in human flesh.
She blanched. "Oh my God, McGill, did you"
"Get out on your own or I'll throw you out!"
She seized Sherman's arm and led him away. At the doorway she paused. Over her 
shoulder, she said, "McGill, I"
"Leave me the fuck alone!"
She did.
 
At work the next morning, Feighan was still seething. Mostly at himself, for 
having been so vehement the night before. His outburst had gained him nothing: 
if Sherman and Maccari had been on his side, he had alienated them; if they had 
been on Hommroummy's, he had warned them. Stupid asshole, he thought.
Overhead, a mid-size Delu twitched a deformed fin to keep the current from 
sweeping it out of its hover. Blue's last lengths muddied the green of the 
lights. He whipped a load of fully briefed economists back to New York, then 
watched the servants muscle in a pile of wooden boxes. And dammit! I'm stuck 
here for ten more weeks!
"Hey, McGill." Harry Sherman stood at the Booth door. "May I talk to you a 
minute?"
He fought down his anger. "Yeah. Come on in. About last night: I'm I blew my 
top. I'm sorry."
"No problem. I understand."
"It's justJesus! There I am getting kidnapped, and the Delu float around 
twiddling their tails. They demand cash on the thumb to help me, then get mad 
when I do the same. What the hell kind of world is this? Don't they have any 
laws? And where were the damn police?"
The broker scowled. "The fish don't give a damn what one eedie does to another. 
They are not concerned with our fates. Hommroummy could spread-eagle you on the 
floor and flay you alive, and all they'd do is fine you for screaming in a pitch 
that offends their sensibilities. Or for bleeding where they can see itthe 
color upsets them."
"All right, all right, so their law stays out of our private feudsbut they're 
embezzling my account, Harry! And I don't see any police there, either. How 
could I be in debt? I earn sixty points a day from the old female, and my 
regular salary on top."
The reporter pulled at his pendulous lower lip. "Well, that does seem strange. 
Their accountants don't screw up often; it's too dangerous. When you see the old 
female, ask about it. If anybody mishandled your credit balance, he gets fined. 
I'll see you later, all right?"
But he continued to simmer, and it so disrupted his concentration that Maccari 
had to visit him. "McGill, I was just Minding with New York, and they say you're 
bringing them in high and fast." She consulted the sheet of paper in her hand. 
"Point eight centimeters up, with an angular momentum in the right direction, 
but three meters per second too slowthey have crates skidding across the Flop 
Booth at ten kph, and they don't like that a whole lot. Can you do something 
about it?"
Wearily, he raised a hand in silent acknowledgment. "I'm just pissed off."
"I know," she said pointedly. "Try to be less so, all right?"
He nodded, and resumed Flinging. His anger hadn't diminished, but, reminded of 
his responsibilities, he did manage to partition it off from his Talent. Which 
is what being a professional is all about, I guess, he thought grumpily. Not 
letting your personal problems screw up your performance on the job.
At the end of the shift, he teleported up to Datadesk 1-19, where Taranya, dark 
circles under her eyes, forced a fleeting smile and held out her hand. Fury 
dying down before her sadness, he stepped forward, grasped those cold fingers, 
and impulsively kissed her forehead. "You okay?" he whispered.
"Yes," she murmured, "now that you're here."
He'd rehearsed his demands a dozen times, but now that the time had come to 
deliver them, the hot ire which was to have blazed in them had cooled. Clumsily, 
he began, "About yesterday"
She stiffened. "Would you have allowed my children to die?"
"Would you have let them kidnap me?"
She closed her eyes. "I I would have had to."
"Why?"
"That is an internal affair of Delurc, and is none of your business."
Taken aback, he gasped. "What? I almost get kidnapped and it's none of my 
business?"
"The kidnapping," she said, "is naturally of concern to you, but the reasons for 
my non-interference are classified? No, that's the wrong concept." Her high 
forehead wrinkled in thought. "Perhaps 'taboo' most approximates our word."
That rekindled all his anger. "What the hell's going on here? I'm supposed to be 
working for you people, which means you're supposed to guarantee my safety, but 
one of your Flingers hides my friend and my ward, and one of your Anchors pins 
me down so The Organization can come get me, and somebody arranges for a crucial 
door to be locked then it's none of my business?"
Her eyes moistened, but she looked past him, at the far wall. "It is not illegal 
for a Delu to conspire against an extra-Delu, no matter in whose employ is that 
extra-Delu. Do you comprehend?"
"No, dammit, I don't!" He slammed his fist onto the counter-top. "And I don't 
understand how I was two hundred some points in debt when I ought to've been a 
thousand or more to the good. You wanna explain that for me?"
Though her outstretched hands implored him to be sympathetic, she spoke with ice 
in her voice: "The records show that the day before yesterday you purchased 
information valued at two thousand five hundred points."
"That's crap!"
She lifted a perfect eyebrow. "Do you dispute the bill?"
"Damn straight I dowho claims he sold me the data?"
"That is none of your concern; the matter will be investigated."
"Again with that 'none of your concern'!" He ground his teeth together until a 
detached but observant part of his mind wondered if they'd crack off. "Lady, 
what the hell are you trying to do to me?"
"McGill," she said suddenly, "I'm not trying to hurt you! Believe me!" She 
seized his shoulders and drew him close. "McGill, I I love you. I wouldn't hurt 
you for the world. Please. It's not me."
"Hey," he said, in a tone softened by surprise, "I know it's not youit's her." 
He jerked a thumb upward, at the black bulk hovering above the dome. "I don't 
blame you, I don't. Okay?"
She sniffed back her tears. "Don't blame her, either please? She" Her manner 
changed at once, as if a new presence informed her. "She is not permitted to 
speak of these matters to unauthorized extra-Delu."
Disgusted, he shook his head. "I'll be seeing you."
"You don't wish to earn your fee today?"
"You mean I haven't?"
"Not in the least."
"All right." He begrudged her the cooperation, but he did need the points. He 
lowered his head and let the questing fingers find his temples. They circled, 
slowly, gently, rubbing away his anger and his frustration and his vision and 
his present and his being and
"I. I. I," she piped thinly, as the water lapped at her belly. Reflected 
sunlight burned in her eyes. The lone survivor of her nursery, she had climbed 
the reef's highest point to elude the rising sea. Yet it licked at her fins, 
splashed on her tail. It would already have carried her away, if she hadn't held 
the rocks so tightly. "I. I. I" A wave slapped her face, and gushed down her 
throat, choking her. She sputtered and coughed; blinded by the salt, she failed 
to see the next wave, a bigger one, which crashed down on her head and back. It 
numbed her. It broke her grip on the stones so that when the third wave came it 
could hoist her and spin her away while she wailed, "I. I. I."
The boom of a big bass drum resounded in her aural membranes; a soft-edged mind 
voice said: "Morpheanious the Weed-Weaver, I-father, child-father, I-teacher, 
child-teacher" Colors flared and flickered across the spectrum. Her eyes, still 
smarting but growing accustomed to her new element, focused on the hugeness in 
her path.
"I. I. I," she projected plaintively.
Happy bronze glowed the bulk. "I"twwirrph"child. Morpheanious the 
Weed-Weaver"twwirrph"child-father. Morpheanious the Weed-Weaver" twwirrph 
"'I'-father."
Fins moving strangely in this new environment, sculling back and forth to hold 
her in place against the strength of the current, she chirped, "I" twwirrph 
"child?"
Twwirrph. And the great-tailed shape pushed a fish in her direction.
Eating it, she noticed that she, too, glowed happy bronze.
The scene and all its reality shrank, as though Feighan was looking through a 
telescope that retreated from his eye. He blinked. "Is it over?"
"Yes," she whispered, "for today." Her fingers caressed his cheeks, then one 
hand slid behind his neck and urged his face forward to her lips. "But 
tomorrow"
"Oh, yes!" He leaned across the counter for another kiss, but she smiled and 
pulled away.
"Not today, McGill. Tomorrow. Go on, now. I'll see you then."
So it was back to work, but in a far better mood
 
By evening, though, the embers of his anger had come to life again. He paced the 
bare floor of his quarters, heels clicking on the old cold tiles. Maccari sat on 
the pallet, watching him through her warm dark eyes, holding Sam on her lap and 
stroking the Rhanghan's sleek, bony head. Sam twisted his neck to position her 
fingers correctly. "Calm down," she said.
"Calm down?" He whirled to glare at her. "My God, The Organization's here to 
nail me again, the fish are conspiring against me, I save a whole damn nursery 
full of aquatic minicomputers for a mother who only values the entire school at 
five thousand points and a ten-year visaI'm still short of what I need and 
don't see any way of getting itand you tell me to calm down?"
Green pulsed through the fluorescents' red as a flickering Delu swam over the 
dome and took up station there.
"That gives me the creeps," he said, glancing up. "I get the feeling they're 
always watching me."
"They are," she said.
"Huh?"
"They are watching youand discussing you among themselves."
He touched his throat. "Why me?"
"I don't know." Worry wrinkled her forehead and tightened her lips. "Of course 
it's not just youthey talk about every eedie now and thenbut you crop in in 
their conversations more often than anybody."
Inside Feighan, alarm jangled with fury, but both yielded to a triumphant sense 
of vindication. He dropped to his knees and asked impatiently, "Well, what do 
they say?"
"I don't know." She groaned. Plainly, she'd been harassed by that same question 
herself. "I don't speak Delu. I wish I did, but" She sagged back to the pallet 
to stare at the circling fish. "All I get are flashes and throbs of their 
telepathyyou know how their language works, and if I'm not concentrating on 
something else when they're talking nearby, I'll 'see' the alien they're 
discussing. I see too much of you."
"Thanks a lot."
"I meant see, McGill," she said in exasperation. "In my head. From them." She 
kicked a pointed foot at the ceiling. Almost to herself, she continued, "But the 
picture comes through wrong. I don't know if it's because they've only seen you 
through the domes, because their minds don't work the same, or because they've 
got it in for youbut the image of you they project is" She made a face, and 
shrugged.
"What?"
When she answered, it was with reluctance. "Distorted, I guess. It's an overhead 
shot; you're foreshortened, your nose sticks way way out" She mimed a Pinocchio 
with her right hand. "and not only do you look a lot smaller, you look dumb."
"That's a cartoon!"
She nodded. The water beyond the dome seemed to press down on them. "They use 
caricature like we use tone of voice; the distortions, I think, represent value 
judgments"
"They have a real high opinion of me, don't they?" He glowered at the floor.
"They're pretty arrogant" She sat up suddenly, and leaned forward. "I don't 
like it at all; it makes me nervous. You ought to get out of here, let the NAC 
send somebody else."
"I can't," he said, though he agreed with her.
"How many points do you need now?"
He juggled numbers in his head. "Six fifty or so, for the gastropod answer."
"You can get those easily."
"Plus nineteen thousand more for Taranya."
"Oh." She fell silent for a long time. "Listen let me help."
The offer startled him, though he had known she was the kind to make it. "How?"
"I don't know I'm getting a few points together myself, every day, out of my 
salary I could probably eat one less meal a day, give you another twenty-five" 
Lining her head off the pillow, she eyed her waistline, then patted it. 
"Wouldn't hurt if I went on a diet anyway."
He was genuinely touched. "Hey, thanks, but"
"And I could find somebody to buy my dreams."
"Uh-uh!"
She jerked as though burned. "Boy, you feel strongly about that."
"You bet." He crossed over to her. "It's not a good thing to do." Swiftly, he 
recounted some of Sherman's horror stories. "I couldn't stand to see that happen 
to youespecially if you were doing it for me."
"Why, McGill, I didn't know you cared."
He recoiled from her sarcasm. "That's not what I"
"I know what you meant, sillyI was just teasing you."
"Oh." Strangely, that depressed him further. "I don't like this place."
"You're not alone."
He looked at her in astonishment. "You, too?"
Features downcast, she nodded.
"But you were so excited about coming here!"
"That was before I knew what it was like." She shuddered. "The sterility's bad 
enough, but I could get used to itthe Training Center was just as cold, just 
as" She raised her hands to gesture at the walls. "Just as bleak. Visually, I 
mean. Emotionally, though, it was" She closed her eyes and remembered rapture 
warmed her pale cheeks. "Ah, McGill, I don't think I have the words for it 
There were a couple hundred of us, of all strengths and specialties, all of us 
trying so hard to keep our thoughts quiet and our 'ears' shut but any time you 
were lonely or scared or hurt, the warmth came at you from everywhere it was 
better than basking in sunshine, because sun is warm and strong and good, but it 
doesn't lovehere, though" Unconsciously, she wrapped her arms around herself 
and huddled into a small ball. "There's chatter, all the time, deliberately 
broadcastdo you know each of those fish keeps a running tally not only of his 
own score, but of five or ten thousand other Delu's point totals? And all the 
time they're broadcasting that, and what they want to buy, and what they want to 
sell, and the conceptual underpinning of their latest songs, and it's so 
noisy," she whispered, "so terribly, terribly noisy but it's cold noise. It's 
all slick, hard, sharp and different, so very scary different oh, I don't like 
it here, either, McGill"
He knelt before her to wipe the single tear off her satin cheek. He ached to 
comfort her, to envelop her in his arms and murmur, "It's all right, 
everything'll be fine," in her ear. But she wouldn't want
"Do it, please," she said.
"Every time I decide I know you, you surprise me," he said with feigned rue and 
real joy.
Ah, she felt good, with her head on his chest and her arms slowly sliding around 
him and her hair tickling his chin and her softnesses comforming to him he 
breathed her soapscent and stroked her shoulder, saying, "It's okay, Gina. Don't 
worry, it's okay."
His tunic splashed color into her cheeks. She sniffed, and hugged him hard. Then 
she raised her face while her eyes gently, slowly, slid shut, and
An indigo Rehmal strode into the room whistling, "The Gambler has sent me to 
offer you an exchange." It stopped when Sam, with a hiss, started towards it.
For an instant neither would release the other, but self-consciousness overcame 
need, and they parted, Feighan to rise, Maccari to sit up straight and dab at 
her shining eyes with a surreptitious hand.
Everything about the avian messenger irritated the Flinger: its unheralded 
entrance, its flutish condescension, even its haughty pose. The back of his neck 
warmed up; he demanded, "What's this about an exchange?"
"He asks, 'Do you want the translator?' "
"Ah" He resented being put on the spot by a beak-faced zombie. He did, indeed, 
want Taranyabut after hugging Maccari, he did not feel entitled to say so in 
front of her.
She helped him out of his quandary. "Yes," she said firmly, "he does." To him 
she added, "And I know you do."
"You're right." He told the avian, "Yes, I do."
"The Gambler has been able to arrange an even exchange."
"Oh?" Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a Delu stop a fin's length away 
from the dome. A bent fin's length.
"The translator for her." It pointed to the Minder. "She will serve the 
remainder of the translator's sentence. If this is agreeable"
From a well of raw hostility geysered: "No, dammit, it isn't!"
Maccari's smile rewarded himnot for the words, but for the fondness that had 
partially prompted them. Then she cocked her head and stared at him curiously.
"The Gambler thought you might say as much," continued the Rehmal, "so he 
authorized me to offer you, at this time, six hundred fifty points as well."
"Get out." Even to him, the disgust he felt seemed out of proportion to the 
provocation, yet he couldn't contain it. "Out!"
"But the Gambler"
"Dammit!" His temper snapped like a frayed rope. While a part of him studied his 
overreaction with dispassionate interest, the rest of him shook in rage. He 
reached the Rehmal in two swift strides. "I told you to get out of here" He 
seized the servant's wing and spun it around. "and if you won't leave under 
your own power, then I'll goddam well throw you out!"
"Please, sir," it tweeted, "it is not wise"
"OUT!" He pushed it towards the doorway, but it balked. He drew back his 
footknowing that he was out of control but unable to rein himself inand kicked 
it. It flew into the wheel, trailing broken feathers.
A groan came from outside, then a familiar voice said, "Oh, you didn't do that!"
"Bet your butt I did, Harry." He shook his fist at the retreating avian. "Get 
lost, birdbrain!" To the newsman he said, "Come in."
"Why the hell did you kick a puppet?" Sherman leaned against the wheel's wall 
and massaged his red-tunicked belly. "I've told you, that's about the worst 
crime you can commit."
He stepped out of the doorway to let his friend enter. Already abashed, he said 
lamely, "It's not like attempted murder or anything."
"It is forbidden to assault a servant in the slightest." Sherman recited it as 
if by rote. " 'For servants only do their masters' biddings, and deserve no 
blame for fealty.' " He reversed the desk chair and straddled it. "You're in for 
it now, McGill, and there isn't a thing in the world that can save you. Hiya 
Gina, Sam."
"But it wasn't his fault," Maccari said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, he kicked that bird because he lost his temper, but that happened 
because somebody reinforced all his emotions telepathically, I mean."
"You're saying somebody made him kick the zombie?"
"No." She shook her head. "I mean somebody goaded him into violence."
"But no Delu would" He stopped himself, and fingered his middle chin. "I take 
that back. There are a few who'd go to any lengths McGill, you and Sam had 
better get back to New York City real quicklike right now."
"Uh-uh," said Feighan. "No, I'm not going to run from The OrganizationI'm here 
to get an answer, and I will."
"But now all the Delu are against youyou broke the law, remember?"
"So what can they do to me?"
The newsbroker's pudgy fingers curled over the back of the chair, and squeezed 
until their knuckles whitened. "Fine you," he said curtly.
"And if I don't pay?"
"They deduct it from your credit balance automatically you do recall that they 
keep the books?"
"Yeah, but if I haven't" A tramping in the corridor drowned his words. He 
turned. A horde of aliens marched towards him: four Aronya, a green Rii-edsch, a 
brace of Rehmal, and six tentacled beings that otherwise resembled Terran 
gorillas. "What's this, a parade?"
Their eyes focused on him. Their hands/claws/tentacles opened and closed as 
though around his throat. Their teeth flashed and gleamed and glittered.
He retreated into the middle of his dome. "They don't look too friendly."
"Cops never do," said Sherman.
"Cops?" They're not wearing badges, he thought, and realized in the thinking how 
inane that was. His mental processes seemed distorted, clouded. He felt as 
insulated from what happened around him as if cotton gauze swaddled him.
Gina glanced sharply in his direction, then swiveled her head to peer through 
the dark waters outside. A mid-size Delu with a deformed fin floated twenty 
meters away. "Stay cool."
He wanted to tell her about the numbness infiltrating his brain, but couldn't 
get the words out.
The green Rii-edsch stepped in front of him. Apparently the leader, it drummed 
its twelve legs. Sam interposed himself with a hiss, but it ignored the 
Rhanghan. It wheezed: "You are under arrest. Do not attempt to resist us."
He surveyed the well-muscled assemblage one more time. Through disbelief as 
thick as custard, he said, "I'll go quietly." Then he turned to his friends. 
"Watch over Sam, will you please?" He scooped the saurian off the floor, stared 
into those too-knowing eyes, and hugged him. Then he passed him into Maccari's 
open arms. "Be good, Sam."
The Rhanghan waved good-bye.
Outside, Aronya-riding Rehmal boxed him in: one in front, one in back, and one 
on either side. Not a member of that grim company talked to him, not even when 
he shouldered away his disorientation and asked, "What happens next?"
They led him along the wheel to the spoke, then down the main thoroughfare in a 
silent, half-hour possession. The eedies they encountered looked away. In the 
heart of the great city, not far from his Fling Booth, they stopped, and 
directed him into a small room.
As soon as he went in, they locked its door from the hall. He shivered, then 
sneezed from the mustiness. The low dome barely allowed him to stand erect. The 
violet of early morning glowed on the tiles.
In separate domes abutting his sat heavily-wired translators, all staring at 
him. The one on the far left, a purple-feathered Rehmal with a cracked beak, 
asked, "Did you strike a servant?"
"I kicked him, yes." The Flinger's vision rippled; he blinked. "Am I on trial 
here, or what?"
A Timili from Throngorn, tall and lemur-like, said, "Did it strike you first?"
"No." He dropped his gaze in confusion.
"Then," said a blue-shelled, twelve-legged baseball fan from Cygnus XII, "surely 
it must have threatened your life or your points."
He got the feeling that the Cyg Twelvian was trying to help him, but he had to 
say, "No."
The judges rocked back. "No?" they all asked.
"No, but, you see," he said, "the servant acted real insulting, and ah" He 
groped in his mind for the words Maccari had used. "Somebody else, a telepath, 
made me angrier than I would have been normally, got me madder and madder until 
I blew up, so it wouldn't have happened if that Minder hadn't interfered like 
that."
The Timili leaned forward. "This is the woman Gina Maccari?"
"No, no," he said hastily, "somebody else."
"Who?" said the Cyg Twelvian.
"I don't know, just somebody else."
"Is he claiming," tweeted the Rehmal, "innocent by reason of insanity?"
"Sounds more like diminished capacity to me," said the Timili.
The baseball fan adjusted his Yankees' cap. "I think he's maintaining 
third-party provocationperhaps even collusion between the injured party and the 
alleged telepath."
"Look," he said, "I don't know! I can't think straight; there's static in my 
head. There was then, too. And I'm sorry I did it."
For a long moment they looked at him in silence. Their pressures of their varied 
gazes squeezed him till he couldn't breathe.
The Timili said, "It appears as though you confess to violating Verse 12 of the 
18th Stanza of the Song of Servants."
"Well, I" He shook his head, not to deny the charge but to direct his attention 
at the proceedings. "I don't know that song."
"You don't have to," said the baseball fan. "We do."
The translators closed their eyes in unison, and slouched in their chairs as 
their controllers removed consciousness from their bodies. Overhead, massive 
shapes swirled through interlocking patterns, and flashed stroboscopic lights 
from all patches of their skins. Faint dissonant notes penetrated the dome. Then 
the limp bodies stirred, and the Rehmal chirped, "McGill Feighan, Terran 
Flinger, we find you guilty as charged."
"What does that mean?" He clenched his fists at his side; a trickle of sweat ran 
down the nape of his neck.
"It means," they said together, like a chorus in a Greek tragedy, "that you are 
sentenced to a fine of 24,450 points, payable immediately."
"But I don't have that much!"
"We know," they chanted.
"So how can I pay?"
"You can't."
A cold certainty grew within him. "Then what do you want me to do?"
"Join us."
His eyes widened. "You?"
"Us."
The door into the dome opened and a green Rehmal entered, holding in its hands a 
wiry cap. It proffered it to the captive Flinger.
"Wear it," intoned the judges.
"Uh-uh," he said, almost in panic.
"You must pay your fine."
"No way." He backed away from the cap-holder, who stood motionless in the 
doorway.
"Wear it."
"No."
"WEAR IT!"
"NO, DAMMIT, NO, I WON'T!"
The Rehmal bowed and withdrew, shutting the door after itself. From the outside 
it dogged it tight.
Feighan looked around, wondering what would happen next.
The Judges sang: "Then you must die." They bowed.
And water poured into the dome.
 
Milford Hommroummy stood with his face upturned. The screen showed the execution 
in three quadrants, and the black boy in the fourth. Hommroummy's cheeks were 
pale and sunken. "I've no idea," he said again. "He should have submitted. He 
has been indoctrinated!"
"Looks like it didn't take," said the boy.
"But he mustn't die!" He rubbed his throat.
"That's right, Gryll told you to bring him back alive, didn't it?"
He nodded. And put a finger on his carotid artery, as if to feel the beat one 
last time. "Stop it," he said.
"We can't. It's out of our hands, now." The boy chuckled.
He glared up at the screen. "What do you find so amusing?"
"The relationship between physiology and linguistics, for one thing."
"We've no time for that nonsensesave Feighan."
"We don't know about you, Hommroummy, but we have plenty of time. Putting a 
Flinger to death is strong stuff. It's going to scandalize the community, and 
cost the old female half her points. And her job, as well. Care to guess who's 
next in the line of succession?"
He made a sour face. "I assume you are, Gimpy. But that doesn't solve our 
problemFeighan mustn't die!"
"No, Hommroummy, that's not our problemit's your problem. You save him."
"Damn you, Gimpy. You'll pay for this. I guarantee it."
The boy laughed out loud.
Hommroummy whispered, "Get out of there, Feighan. Save yourself. For God's 
sakes, man, sa" He gasped.
Chapter XII
 ^ 


As the insurging seas crested his boot tops, Feighan flung himself to his own 
dome. Sherman, Maccari, and Sam were there, eating breakfast. Sherman looked 
neither surprised nor pleased at Feighan's abrupt entrance. He nodded, and 
swallowed the last of his food bar.
Maccari ran over and hugged the Flinger, pressing strength on him like a 
promise. "They set you free?"
For a moment he lost himself in her embrace. "Uh-uhI teleported out."
"You shouldn't have done that," said Sherman.
He stared across the top of Maccari's head. "What, I should be a translator?"
"Or pay the fine." The newsman covered a burp with his fingers.
"Twenty-five thousand points?"
"No, I guess you couldn't have paid that. Then you should have taken your 
punishment."
Sam hissed his anger; Feighan shushed him and said, "I've got better things to 
do with my life than spend the next godknowshow many years wired to a fish."
Maccari released him to agree. "It would have killed him, Harrya Flinger can't 
let his Talent stay dormant. The pressure drives him nuts."
"So now the Delu kill him," said the fat man gloomily. He wiped his hands on his 
green tunic, then spread them wide, palms up. "What's the difference, dead is 
dead, right?"
"They can't kill me." The tactile memory of Maccari's firm body whispered on his 
skin, invoking a surge of determination.
"Hah!"
"They have to catch me first." He held back his temper as if he were talking to 
a child. "And how the hell are they going to catch a Flinger who doesn't want to 
be caught?"
"They have ways." Pessimism spread from him like a bleak mist. "These are the 
Delu, McGill, and they have ways."
Unhappiness washed across Maccari's tired face. "I don't know about ways, 
McGill, but they do have Anchors. And if they can pin you down"
"They can't," he said, with more confidence than he felt.
"Look," said Sherman, "why don't you just skip the planetgo home, back to New 
York. They can't touch you there, and probably won't even try."
"Uh-uh." He folded his arms and planted his feet. "I came here for information. 
I won't leave without itor without Taranya, either."
"You're being bull-headed."
"Maybe I ambut I don't feel like running. Didn't you once tell me that 
leaving's one thing, and having to leave's another?"
"Look, you can be back home in" He snapped his fingers. "Otherwise they'll 
chase you around the planet trying to drown you. They won't feed you, they'll 
cut off your air if they get a chancewhy risk it?"
He looked at the other for a long, unfriendly moment. "Tell me something, 
Harryare you worried about me, or about you?"
"I, urn" His shrug threatened the seams of his forest-green tunic. "What can I 
say? I'm here on sufferance and"
"A ten-year visa," Feighan said, "courtesy of yours truly."
"That's true, but dammit, don't you see how this works? You think it's you 
against them, clean and simple, but it's not. It's also one faction against 
another, with you caught in the middle." He glanced up to look for 
eavesdroppers, then continued in a low, rapid tone: "Look. The fish who're 
running things set standards, and all the Delu have to stick to them. The other 
faction wants to change the rules: let more eedies in, downgrade the 
data-reliability classifications, increase the Network's economic dependency on 
the planet"
"But why? It makes no senseand what does it have to do with me?"
"Why? Because they're partners with your man Hommroummy. Combine Delu minds with 
Organization morals, and you get the original irresistible force. Let it last a 
while, and guess who's running the Galaxy?"
"That's what you were investigating?"
"Yesthe only way you can stop something like that is by publicizing it, but to 
do that without being sued into bankruptcy means facts. Evidence. Which I've 
been trying to gather for three years now; which I won't have enough of if I get 
thrown off the planet."
Feighan went to the wall and peered out. The sea was empty. "So how do I fit 
in?"
"They're making you a cause clbre; they're trying to embarrass the ruling 
faction. To bungle a case like yours costs the administration pointsin the 
monetary senseand if they lose enough points, they lose their jobs. So 
Hommroummy's fish move into power, and" He shrugged. "They also deport me, 
immediately, because dealing with an escaped criminal is a violation of the 
code. You've got to give yourself up."
The newsman's desperation hurt. Feighan turned to face the wall, and glanced 
straight into glaring eyes. A Delu had spotted him, and was presumably calling 
for reinforcements. "I understand what you're saying, Harry, but there's just no 
wayno way in hellthat I can yield like a meek little lamb. I've got my pride."
"Sir?" tweeted a Rehmal at the door.
He spun. "What?"
The orange-and-silver avian cringed, but did not withdraw. "Please go to the 
nearest translator for discussion with the authorities. Your safety is 
guaranteed until the end of the negotiations, if you promise to go."
He looked at the newsman, who spread his hands as if to say, What have you got 
to lose? So he said, "All right."
"This way, please." Talons clicking on the tiles, it led him down the wheel to 
the spoke. Every three steps it looked nervously over its shoulder, though it 
was neither the one he had kicked, nor the one Sam had bitten.
At Datadesk 1-12 sat Taranya, hair encircled with a tiara of wires.
He froze. The old female floated overhead. Sure, he thought. They're squeezing 
her. She's got to lose either her job or her research projectjust wish she 
hadn't brought Taranya.
"Please inform her of your presence," said the Rehmal.
Through he approached down her field of vision, no life sparked in those azure 
eyes. "Hi." He reached across the counter to touch her with a gentle finger. 
"The bird said you wanted to see me?"
"Yes," she said, in a clipped, cold tone. Her hands moved as if to fend him off. 
"You did not submit to your sentence, nor did you accept death. The Delu nation 
finds itself in the curious position of having to declare war on you. This is 
not to our liking." A frown clouded her face. "We would prefer to arrive at a 
negotiated settlement before hostilities commence."
"They haven't already?" he said, trying to bring a smile to her lips.
The hands made pushing gestures. "That was a judicial matternow it is a 
military one."
"Drop the charges and it won't be."
"Please!" She choked, then spasmed and went limp. Her face sagged forward.
He looked up. The old female was pulling away from the interface, allowing a 
smaller fish to replace her.
When it had donned its cap and tightened the wires, the translator sat up again. 
The stiff jerkiness in her manner manifested the new controller's inexperience. 
"I am accountant," she said, "and if we overgo the balance sheet together we 
able work out reasonable settlement."
"What do you mean, a settlement?"
The lips on the frozen face cracked to say, "You been found guilty of serious 
offense against civil code. Fine of 24,450 points been levied against you. 
Circumstances in your case indicate immediate collection impossible, and 
imposition of standard alternate sentences equally impracticable. Therefore, we 
work out payment schedule tailored to your abilities and special requirements." 
Clumsily, she took a pen and began to print laborious figures on a sheet of 
paper. "You continue to Fling, of course, and salary pay living expenses, as 
now. We located purchaser of your dreams, and you be paid 150 points night for 
them. The old female placed good bid for your daytime servicescontinuation of 
your present employment, as I understandand continue to pay you 75 points a 
day. At such earning level, you pay entire debt to De lure, including 10% simple 
interest, within 121 days." She drew a line across the bottom of the paper and 
placed an X at its left. "You sign here, commence immediately." She turned the 
paper around for Feighan's inspection.
"Crap."
She cocked her head like a bird hearing a catpaw. "Pardon?"
"No."
"I'm afraid don't understand." She reversed the paper again and studied it 
closely. "I left something out?"
"I'm not going to put up with that," he said firmly.
"Mr. Feighan"
"It's involuntary servitude."
"It's repayment schedule, Mr. Feighan." She gave the impression of restraining 
anger on a frail leash. "And very fair, too. Not for your special circumstances, 
I point out, not even been offered to you."
"Yeah," he said, "but the thing is, my special circumstances make it impossible 
for you to force me to agree to that."
"Alternative is war, Mr. Feighan."
"So bring on the guns."
Almost at once pressure panels fell all around him, cutting him off from the 
translator and the spoke. Gonna flood me again, he thought with a wry laugh. 
Don't they know it won't work?
As water began to jet into the dome, he made ready to Fling outthen stopped, 
for in the background pulled an Anchor. He couldn't teleport to safety, not yet. 
And the sea already slurped at his ankles.
Dammit. Carefully, he visualized a globe of water, and Rung that, instead. 
Imparting to it as much velocity as he could, he gave the velocity a small 
circular spin. Oughta feel like a buzz-saw hit him, he thought. Then, before the 
Anchor could recover, he took a deep breath and teleported himself back to his 
room.
"Hi, Gina," he said, shaking his head to clear away the cotton wool of fatigue. 
Water dripped from his pants legs.
"McGill!" She half-rose, then settled back. "Did you get it worked out?"
He laughed. "Not hardly." Going to the wall, his shoes squished. A puddle spread 
across the floor. He looked out at the gathering fish. "They just declared war 
on me."
She ran a hand through the black silk of her hair. "You don't feel too worried 
about it."
His breath fogged the glass. "They can't get me."
"I hope not."
"No, they aah!" A fiery pain exploded in his skull. Slapping his hands over his 
temples, he dropped to his knees. It burned like a torch, but died out quickly. 
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them with caution. "Oh, wow a bonfire 
between my ears what the hell was it? Quiet, Sam."
The Rhanghan stopped hissing, and settled into a watchful pose.
Maccari was rubbing her own head. "A telepathic attack. And not too 
well-focused, either. They're trying to disorient you."
"They succeeded," he said ruefully.
Fingers to her lips, she listened to a sound he couldn't hear. "I'm only getting 
the outlines," she said after a moment, "but they'll keep hitting you with that 
while their Anchors hold you, and" Her eyes widened. "They're trying to kill 
you!" Astonishment and outrage vied for dominance in her tone.
"Told you they'd declared war on me." Having a Minder for an ally emboldened 
him. "How do I fight back?"
"I don't know if you can" Nibbling on a finger, she thought a moment. "Uh-uh. 
You'd have to be a telepath yourself. But the Delu aren't"
His brain flashed white! The light blotted out his vision and, for an instant, 
divorced him from his body. Deaf and dumb, he floated in the heart of a cold 
sun. Then it, too, faded, leaving no after-haze on his retina. "Another attack?" 
he asked when he'd recovered.
"To put it mildly."
"You were saying?"
"Huh? Oh the Delu aren't they don't use their telepathy the same way we 
Minders doI mean, they don't key it to a given brain, wherever that brain is; 
they key it to all the brains in a given area. I guess that's 'cause they know 
where each other is all the time OH!"
This cut like a knife of ice. Clasping his hands across his belly, he doubled 
into a fog of anguish and whimpered. Maccari and the Rhanghan cried out with 
him. But like the other assaults, it passed quickly, and he was able to 
straighten up again.
"Gina, you'd better get out of here."
She rose to her feet, clutching at the desk for support.
"Take Sam, too, huh?"
"You going to stay here?" And she answered herself, "No, I can feel you're not 
but what are you planning?"
He smiled, a trifle wanly. "I'm just going to stay around and free long enough 
to convince them that there's nothing they can do to hurt meonce they accept 
that, things'll settle back to normal."
"I think you're wrong."
"We'll see, won't we?"
She stepped up to him and planted a quick but real kiss on his cheek "Good luck, 
McGilldon't let anything happen to you."
"I'll do my best." He toyed with a lock of her fine black hair.
"Bye."
"Bye."
He waited till she was out of sight, then set another water-globe spinning 
beneath the nearest Delu. This time he did not graze the fish with itrather, he 
dribbled it on the ocean floor so it would churn up mud and guck. Pwodees 
scrambled helplessly in the vortex; a huge cloud enveloped the green-flashing 
Delu. "Try that in your gills." He laughed.
Then he sat on his pallet and tried to figure out what to do. He started to 
formulate a plan of guerrilla warfareappear, attack, then disappearbut before 
he had worked out the first two staged "AAH!"
Screams ricocheted through his head, agonized screams of dying men from all the 
galaxy, humans and Delu and Rhanghan and Timili and every creature he'd ever 
imagined, much less met the shrieks echoed down the corners of his mind, 
falling and rising like banshee wails so there was no one volume he could adjust 
to, learn to accept, and
 and water rose in the dome, gurgled on the floor as it swirled around the 
pallet, and already papers floated on the tide, while his pillow sank
 and he could sense an assembly of Anchors outside, sense them through the 
clamor in his brain; he knew that he couldn't no, yes he could, he could, he 
was McGill Feighan the Fearless Flinger and they were fussy fish, that was all, 
he could, just not kill them they were cops after all, just startle them, break 
their concentration
*PING* and a chair slapped one on the tail.
*PING* the desk drove another through the water like a motor.
*PING* a dresser drawer scraped the belly of the third.
And the pressure of Anchors was gone, sliced like an ax-hewn hawser. If he could 
stay away long enough he could
*PING*
His brain fell silent. He almost slept.
Over him bent a middle-aged woman with braided black hair and coppery skin. 
"Feighan! What the hell are you doing in my dome?"
After a long yawn he smiled weakly, and tried to look reassuring. "Very sorry to 
disturb you like this, Ms. Ambassador, but this was the first place that came to 
mind."
Reed's dark eyes hardened. "They told me they've arrested you, and that you're a 
fugitive from justice. You can't break their laws and expect to hide herethere 
is no extraterritoriality any more, nor even diplomatic immunity. Give yourself 
up."
"Not a chance," he said, stepping into the corridor. "I've got better things to 
do."
As he ran the long spoke, he wondered, for the first time, just how he would 
make it through the night. The daytime should present no problemas he had 
demonstrated time and again, he could do 96 Flings every 22 hours, and do them 
wellbut at night, when fatigue coaxed his eyes into shutting of their own 
accord and he could fend off sleep no longer what then? Wake on a wire? Or 
worse, underwater?
His shoes slapped the floor like wet sponges; here and there a startled face 
peered out a doorway at him. What would he do, come night? Fling back to New 
York until dawn? But that would defeat the whole purpose of staying
Ahead, a kidney-shaped translator caught sight of him, and changed color from 
red to green. "Feighan! Feighan, listen!"
He sprinted past its booth.
"We have arrested Maccari!"
He stopped dead. Slowly, he turned, back stiff, shoulders squared. "What?"
As he stalked towards it, the puppet plastered itself to the wall and spread out 
like pancake batter. Its color dropped into the violet. "We have arrested Gina 
Maccari and the little Rhanghan. Both are in a hidden place, one you do not 
know. With them is the translator of whom you are so fond. If you do not 
surrender yourself within one troom, the dome will be floodedand all three will 
die."
As its color dropped out of the visible spectrum, it disappeared into 
transparency.
 
"Pretty good, hey Hommroummy?" said the boy.
"If it works," he said.
"It will, it will you'd better get down there to pick him up. Don't waste 
timewe haven't been sworn in yet."
He switched the intercom on. To his pilot he said, "Tell the Ookinza to get 
readyI am going down for our quarry."
Chapter XIII
 ^ 


Feighan stood at that sterile intersection for what seemed like ages, and no one 
came near him. The eedies in the area detoured through other wheels, down other 
spokes. The translator stayed invisible beneath its cap. The fish swam 
elsewhere. He stood alonewith himself. And time sped by on unwatched feet.
Gina! For one brief moment he wondered if this, too, could be a ploy; if her 
arrest had been faked to make her seem his ally. But the moment passed and he 
knew the truth. She had been on his side all along; he had just refused to 
accept it. He had not wanted to trust her, or anybody: because he had not 
trusted himself. He had lost faith in his ability to distinguish friend from 
foe, and so he had kept her at arm's length when he should have held her close. 
Gina, oh God I'm sorry I got you into this
And they had Taranya, too, she of the golden hair and liquid laugh and velvety 
gestures of course, they had had her since he had met her, but this was 
different. Before, they had only had her to use hernow, her life was at stake. 
And it was his fault. All his fault. If he had not resisted if I hadn't loved
And Sam. Helluva guardian I am, letting my ward get taken hostage He looked 
through the wall into the darkening ocean, where seaweed mocked him with its 
supple sway. Shit. He had promised Sahaang he would take good care of her child, 
and now, because he had been a bonehead, the kid faced death. Why'd I have to 
kick that Rehmal? Why?
He could not Fling home, that was for sure. He would hate himself forever. Cacti 
still prickled his dreams, and there he had not abandoned anybodywhat would 
haunt him if he ran away now?
He had to surrender before they drowned his ward, his friend, and his lovebut 
when I do run up the white flag, they'll wire me into a booth and that'll drown 
me, dammit, me!
The fluorescents cycled toward green. I can't let 'em die. It was okay to play 
tag with the Delu when nothing was at stake but my freedom, but nowI can't let 
'em die.
At last he sighed. His muscles had stiffened from tension. He stretched and, 
unaccountably, yawned. Then he said to the cap hanging in mid-air, "All right. 
Tell the fish I give up. Where do I turn myself in?"
The shape and color changer darkened into a fog. "You surrender?" it whispered 
hoarsely.
"That's what I just said, isn't it?"
"Yes, but I had to be sure I'd heard right. Very well." With a burst of boldness 
it blued itself. "Wait here. An Aronya will take you to where you're going."
Now that the decision had been made, he found himself impatient for its 
consequences. "Wait? Can't I go there myself?"
"You don't know where."
He cracked his knuckles and paced anxiously, while the dimmed image of his tunic 
curved along the wall. Odd. During his struggle with himself he had not noticed 
time's passage; now that he had to stand around and wait for the jailer, he 
thought wryly He wanted events to speed up because time itself had slowed down. 
He wanted to go before the judges, to hear the formal sentence read so the 
punishment could start and he could lose himself in the zombiedom of a 
translator Do they think? he wondered. Do they cringe inside their minds while 
the fish possess their bodies? What does it feel like, and can I stand something 
that feels that bad?
Plodding feet brought him away from the wall. When he turned, the long squat 
Aronya grunted: "Put this on." Its hand proffered a collar, and a chain-link 
leash.
Feighan scowled. "No."
The plastic chameleon said, "You must, to prove the sincerity of your 
surrender."
"I'm not a dog, I'm a man!"
"No longer, Feighan. You're a convict."
"I won't."
"Then your surrender is rejected and the hostages die."
"Wait!" His hands trembled as he reached for the circle of iron. "I'll dammit. 
Give them to me."
They watched in smug silence as he fitted the collar around his neck, and 
clipped the heavy leash to it. Rough metal chafed his neck. Tears of rage sprang 
to his eyes; never had he felt so abased. "All right," he muttered, "It's on."
The translator said, "Hand the free end to the Aronya."
He obeyed.
At once the alien set off, clutching the leash and tugging Feighan behind. Its 
legs pumped a furious pace. The Flinger knew that if he once lost his balance it 
would drag him through the spokes and wheels like a sack of garbage. Panting, he 
ran; puffing, he gave thanks that the Delu hadn't cuffed his hands behind his 
back. They did that, I'd have fallen by now.
When the Aronya galloped past his old room, Sherman came to the door, a look of 
inexpressible sadness on his fat face and in his bloodshot eyes. "Luck, McGill!" 
He turned away immediately.
A half-kilometer farther on, the American Ambassador watched with blatant 
pleasure. "You deserved it!"
Angered, Feighan drew on the tattered remnants of his strength and Flung ten 
kilograms of water into the American's clothes. Her howl pursued him down the 
wheel.
Others emerged to watch his humiliation, but none were glad to see it. 
Kaleidoscopic flashes froze their horror and repugnance and fear. Each realized 
the Flinger's fate could be his own, if he offended the Delu.
At last, in a sector Feighan had never explored, the Aronya pulled up before a 
dome guarded by half a dozen armed Rehmal. It handed the leash to the 
blue-feathered-one that seemed to command, and thundered off again, without so 
much as a glance at the being it had paraded through the city.
The avian yanked on the leash, yanked hard and down so that Feighan had to drop 
to his knees to ease the sandpaper pain on his neck. "Very good," it tweeted. 
"You're learning the proper attitude. Now follow mebut don't get up."
Gritting his teeth, he crawled into the dome. The bird locked the leash's free 
end to a post and stepped to the wall, where it donned a translator cap. Feighan 
looked around. The room was empty.
"Where are my friends?"
"In a safe and secret place," snapped the Rehmal.
"I gave myself upI want to see that they're free."
It shook its crested head. "They will be freed once you have been wired. Not 
until then. Your capabilities are too laden with potential."
"Who are you?"
"You know who I am, McGill Feighan." A wingtip stroked his temple in a horrid 
parody of something dear and familiar.
"The old female," he said glumly.
"Exactly. Now" The translator jerked suddenly. "What?"
Feighan looked through the ceiling. An entire school of medium-sized Delu swam 
around the dome, swam circles around the solitary old female. If he didn't know 
better, he'd say they were threatening her.
"Well, well, well," said a voice he had not been expecting. "It has been a 
while, McGill."
"Hommroummy?" He twisted around to see.
"None other." The Organization man stepped forward and seized the end of 
Feighan's leash. With a pick he worked at the lock. "And you have just been 
delivered into my custody."
"The old female gave me to you?" He couldn't believe it.
"Her?" He rolled his eyes up. "Of course not. She'd not deal with me. My 
associates and I are anathema to her entire hidebound clique. Ah, well. One 
ignores the future at her own peril."
"I'm not going with you." He reached up and undid the collar, dropping it to 
clatter on the white tiles.
"Oh, but I think you will."
The Rehmal translator said, "You think wrong, Milford Hommroummy."
His suavity was something to behold. "I have a contract," he said, extracting a 
voice-record chip from his briefcase and holding it above his head. "This, of 
course, is a copy, but it states clearly that McGill Feighan is to pass into my 
possession the instant he becomes the property of the Delu."
Every feather on the Rehmal's body fluffed out, making it look three times as 
large. "The contract is null and void, because it cannot have been executed by 
anyone with the authority to negotiate it."
The Organization hunter looked calmly at the chip. "That's not my problem," he 
said, "it's yours. Those who signed it will be in positions of authority. The 
Organization will ensure that this contract is enforced."
Feighan tried the door. It was locked. Arms folded, he leaned against the wall. 
He did his best to look untroubled.
But he projected a false image. Inside, where no one but a telepath could see, 
he sweated, and tensed, and shouted with all his might, Gina! Gina Maccari! 
Where are you?
Closing his eyes, he listened for some responseand heard only Hommroummy 
arguing with the translator: " burn off your breeding grounds, if need be. We 
care nothing for the future of your racein fact, we would be pleased to see you 
become extinct. So surrender him to us, or face ruin."
GINA! He visualized her smile, her friendly white teeth. GINA!
Still nothing but the Rehmal's reply: " not be pressured, Milford Hommroummy. 
The Delu will not be intimidated. The Delu will not be forced to surrender their 
convict to anyone, at any time. Should hostilities commence, the mutual defense 
pact now extant between the Delu and the Flinger Network Control would come into 
effect; within hours our allies would have arrived to destroy you."
"Ah," said Hommroummy in a purr, "but within hours the entire next generation of 
Delu will have been broiled alive, and we, madam, will be long gone."
GINA WOULD YOU ANSWER ME DAMMIT?
Owwis that you, McGill? Though familiar, the voice sounded strangelike a 
friend's over the telephone the first time. Every medium, every mode of 
transmission alters reality by the act of conveying it, and telepathy behaves 
the same. The words welled into his consciousness like a vivid, vagrant memory, 
and partook so strongly of the texture of his mind that he could not tell if she 
had spoken or he had imagined. How the hell did you get through to me?
I thought real loud. The intonations felt genuine, and he felt good that they 
were still attuned to each other. Where are you? I want to rescue you.
I don't know. Her plaintiveness whistled like a lonely wind. They took us down a 
maze, almost; I got lost can you locate me through my Minding? Like aa homing 
beacon?
No for a moment a cliff of despair loomed over him, ready to topple. Then he 
stiffened. I have an idea: use your telepathy to, ah He didn't know how to 
phrase it so it would make sense to a non-Flinger. to experience your 
environment. Better yet: if you can, hook me directly into your eyes and ears 
and other senses, and let me feel it for myself.
Though kilometers separated them, she recoiled from him. Let you into me?
Swimming against the tides of her uneasiness, the waves of her near-fear, he 
thought, Your physical senses. I don't need your memory, your mind, anything 
spiritual or emotionaljust the physical, so I can experience your environment, 
your location, for myself.
It's all or none Her shudder induced one in him. I don't have that kind of 
discriminatory control.
There's no other way I can reach you.
Oh, God
Suddenly his pulse raced; a stranger's nausea fluttered his stomach. Hugging his 
belly, he slid down the wall. The knobs of his spine slithered along the glass. 
Squatting on his haunches, he opened his eyes. Hommroummy gestured through a 
shadowy Sam, and the Rehmal paced the length of the supine translator. Stronger, 
clearer, sharper!
A lemon-bite of asperity tinged her snap: I'm doing the best I can!
Of course you are, I know you are
Sam's outlines misted as Hommroummy's voice knifed through Feighan's 
concentration: " three cruisers armed with lasers; what they don't burn, 
they'll boil."
The Flinger wrestled his eyelids down. In the room of his mind the blonde's 
profile clarified, and he could discern the steady rise and fall of her chest. 
Her fanned-out hair gilded the tiles. The nausea strengthened; helium chilled 
her skull while making it lighter than air. In two seconds he would faint, which 
he had not done since that day at the Training Center what?
I was never in a Training Center
no, but I was, and you're part of me, now
I'm sorry,
he said with all sincerity, because suddenly he felt like a pervert, skulking 
through a woman's head and squatting on female haunches and receiving from her 
nervous system very different telegraph messages, especially
please, McGill,
no! And another awareness within that body seized the hand he had dispatched to 
explore, and he/she blushed, they blushed, he for his inconsiderate curiosity, 
she for her reflexive modesty.
I'm sorry, he said again, and once more meant it.
Just this disorients me, I can't get used
think how I must feel, Feighan,
letting somebody else in and giving him free rein to
wonder if Taranya
feels this way when she's wired up?
God, I hope not, it'd be hell.
Ignoring the physical distractions that teased him to investigate, Feighan 
focused the eyes he had borrowed. No help. The room recapitulated every dome of 
its size on the planet: eight meters at the peak, eighty square meters on the 
ground, white tiles rimmed in dark mildew must soured the air, dank and clammy 
in the ocean beyond, shifting pillars of bright precessed between Delu-shadows 
while seaweed shimmied and pwodees scuttled from stalk to stalk but he 
concentrated, laser-tight and diamond-hard, working his Talent down the pipeline 
of hers; he had to bend it around the far elbow, working it from the point of 
insertion, bend it around the far elbow and twist it into the light not easy, 
wriggle and push and contort and hold his breath until his Talent sensed or 
guessed something about this mass-produced dome, some intangible attribute of 
time and space that set it in some small way apart from every other dome in the 
planet. With that tiny uniqueness as a reference, the task became easier, but he 
still had no time for corporeal diversions, so when the haze of black hair fell 
burning into his eyes, Maccari took control of her hand and swept the stray lock 
back up over her forehead to its proper wave. He moved his finger to scratch a 
patch of mildew; he raised it to his nose where he sniffed it; she took her nail 
fastidiously and wiped it on a paper towel when he was done with it.
I think that's got it, he said.
Leaving so soon! she mocked,
because, now that he'd laid her this bare, she didn't want him to go, yet 
couldn't permit herself to say so.
Be back in a minute, in person 
I hope.
He withdrew from her, then. The perceptions they had been sharing dwindled into 
the invisible past; the warmth of her mind raced cooling away. He squatted on 
his haunches in the dome to which the Aronya had dragged him, and Milford 
Hommroummy still argued with the translator.
"Just surrender him," said the clench-jawed Organization man for what must have 
been the twentieth time. "We shall quit your planetridding it, I should point 
out, of an element which you yourselves have already deemed highly 
objectionableand nothing more shall be said of this."
Feighan had no time to listen to the Rehmal's rebuttal. He closed his eyes, 
summoned up the memory he and Maccari had 
manufacturedconcentratedvisualizedfeltknew
*PING*
Sam scrambled across the floor with happiness hissing in his throat. He hurled 
himself up Feighan's pants leg to his shoulder, where, curling within his tail, 
he nuzzled the human's ear.
Maccari got more slowly to her feet, and raised her face. A flush still perfused 
her cheeks. Awkwardly, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. A 
barrier parted them like a glass wall.
He lacked the words to apologize for his violation of her privacy; all he could 
do was seize her and hug her tightly.
And she did not try to pull away. Not once.
At last, he released herreluctantlyand scowled at a Delu nosing up to the 
dome. "We've been spotted," he said. "We've got to get out of here."
"But how" She laughed at herself. "Sorry, I keep forgetting."
"You and Sam" He detached the saurian from his neck. "sit on the floor next to 
her." He shooed them over with a flurry of hand sculls. "Ready?"
Maccari, the Rhanghan in her lap and her arms around him, bit her lip and nodded 
once.
*PING*
All four materialized in the private dome of the United States Ambassador to 
Delurcwho huffed angrily when she caught sight of them. "What are you doing?" 
She sprang from her desk and stalked over to them. Her braids swung back and 
forth, pendulums of petulance. "Get out of here."
"Sorry," said Feighan, "but it's you"
*PING*
Maccari blinked. "Nasty woman where'd you put her?"
"In your prison cell." Quickly he glanced through the ceiling; the largest fish 
in view measured only a meter. The Delu swam elsewhere. He ripped the blankets 
and sheets off the ambassadorial pallet and draped one over the unconscious 
translator. He stretched another over the backs of two chairs, pitching a small 
tent of it. "The two of you get in here; you'll be hidden for a while, and I 
hope that's all I'll need."
"I'll mind-shield us, too." Just before he dropped the fold to conceal her 
completely, she asked, "What are you planning to do?"
"It's sort of complicated. Besides" He grinned. "I don't know if it'll work, 
so just wait inside until I come back. Okay?"
"Okay, but don't be long. Ana' be careful, all right?"
"I promise." Cloth bunched in his hand, he swooped down to drop a kiss on her 
forehead. "Thanks."
The blanket swished like an act's end curtain and locked her in darkness.
*PING*
" produce him immediately," Hommroummy was yelling, "we will"
"Shut up, Hommroummy," snapped Feighan. "Hey, old female!"
The Rehmal swiveled its head and pinned him with its beady eyes. "Yes?"
"I'll make you a dealI'll get rid of The Organization's ships for you if you'll 
pay enough to cover my fine, free the translator, and buy the answer to my 
questionbut no juggling with the books this time." He ducked a vicious punch 
from the hard-faced older man, and kicked him in the stomach, twice. "Stop 
that," he said. "Well? Is it a deal?"
Sprawled on the floor, The Organization man barked orders into a transceiver 
mounted on a pinky ring, but before the acknowledgement crackled back, the 
Rehmal bobbed its beak. "Very well." It sighed. "We have a deal."
"Thanks." A distant Flinger pulled Hommroummy to safety. "I wonder what he's up 
to?" He gave a mock salute to the fish outside, then
*PING*
teleported himself into the observation dome.
"You!" The Rii-edsch translator squeaked. "You're wanted by the police."
"Not any more I'm not," he said, striding to the window-wall. He jabbed a finger 
towards the cloudless sky. "There are three eedie ships up there"
"All ships orbiting this planet are extra-Delufish don't fly, remember?"
He shook his head in exasperation with the controller's childish 
literal-mindedness. "These belong to The Organization, and if I don't stop them, 
they're going to burn off every nursery they can find. Now. Do you think you can 
bring them into view?"
"I can but try," said the marsupial, nervously grooming its flank fur with its 
ninth and tenth legs. "Straight above your head I'll focus a patchthere. See 
it?"
A jewel-studded black circle blossomed in the middle of a blue sky. The 
Rii-edsch fine-tuned the focus. Delu optics transfigured the central gem into an 
aluminum-colored ball prickled with antenna.
"How high is it?"
"Five hundred kilometers."
That seemed low, but then, they were hovering in readiness for action, and a 
higher orbit would have delayed their arrival at the firing line. "What about 
the others?"
"To the left and right of your present field of visionby the way, this is being 
charged to your personal account, isn't it?"
"Yeah" He shifted his eyes. The Organization vessels ballooned in his sight, 
each as ominously innocuous as the first. Each had a small opening in its hull: 
the laser-cannon port. "Same height?"
"The same."
Now that he'd spotted them, a new question arose: could his Talent reach a place 
he had never been to? When he could see a location with his own eyes, he had no 
trouble Flinging to itbut through a telescopic wall? Experimentally, he scooped 
a globe of water from the sea outside, and
*PING*
light sparkled beside the middle ship as the waterball appeared and 
flashboiled.
He scratched his temple and contemplated the next step. He could Fling water at 
the ships, as he'd done to the landing craft that day which seemed so long ago, 
but he was not sure how the missiles would behave in frozen vacuum. If they 
turned to ice, no problembut if they vaporized before they hit
The Rii-edsch's gasp alerted himor his body, because he had already dropped to 
the floor and rolled right before his mind began to puzzle at the sound's origin 
and significance. He bounced on his shoulder as an anesthetic dart slapped the 
wall where he had been standing; it ricocheted and fell, needle flattened.
"Damn," said a hard bass voice.
While he scrambled for cover he risked a glancefour men crouched on the dome's 
far side, each swinging a leveled dart-gun that tried to track his frantic 
zig-zags.
"Freeze!" said the unshaven man in the front, the one with the bass. Raising his 
rifle, he squeezed off a shot that missed Feighan only because the Flinger 
skinned his nose on the tiles. "Hommroummy said"
Christ they got here quick. He panted his lungs full, then threw himself into a 
hasty somersault. Another trigger clicked; another projectile twanged. So what 
the hell am I hah! Even as he moved, he detached a portion of his mind from the 
task of survival and set it to concentrating, visualizing feeling knowing
*PING*
"Bull's-eye!" said the Rii-edsch.
To his companions' loud alarm, the bristle-faced man had disappeared. For one 
heartbeat the only invader with Feighan in his sights let his jaw go slack and 
his eyes twitch to his leader's last footprints. He began: "What the he"
*PING*
The marsupial applauded with eight of his limbs. It sounded like a small crowd. 
"It's spinning and dropping and the crewmen are being sucked out the hole!"
*TWANK* popped a dart, and *TWANK* another, but they rattled into the corner as 
their target flopped away like a gaffed fish on a deck.
He felt like he had been breast-stroking through molasses for hours; his muscles 
screamed to sleep and to recover. A yawn forced its way up his throat, but 
before it curled the back of his tongue, he had
*PING*
Flung the third gunman five hundred kilometers high, with a velocity of two kps 
directed at the very heart of Delurc. And for the third time the translator 
hailed Feighan's triumph: "You put him right through the hull," it said, "and it 
looks like that ship's a goner, too. Congratulationsthree bull's-eyes that's 
fine shooting."
The fourth man snarled as he raised his gun. Feighan, so fatigued that he could 
barely raise his chin off the cold floor, chuckled, "Bye-bye."
*PING*
On a nursery reef two kilometers distant, the children swarmed eagerly over this 
new kind of food.
"I guess that'll do it." The Flinger laid his cheek on the clammy tiles and went 
to sleep.
 
Gryll was in the cabin, waiting. Its gases swirled faster than Hommroummy had 
ever seen, but when it spoke, it seemed calm. "Another failure?"
"Regrettably, yes." He stiffened his spine.
"Not your fault."
His jaw dropped. "Sir?"
"Whole planet reeks of Retzglaran. Lucky to escape with life. Regroup. Rethink. 
Replan. Third time charm, yes?"
"Yes, sir," he said, holding his hands behind his back to control their 
trembling. "Yes, sir. I shall not fail again."
"Your neck if you do, Hommroummy." The wall opaqued; the speaker shut off.
And Milford Hommroummy shuddered.
Chapter XIV
 ^


Under the dome and the sky he awoke alone, save for the marsupial, which leaned 
across its counter to peer down on him. "About time," it said peevishly. "I 
should charge you rent for the floorspace. There are two messages for you, and 
both have already been debited to your account."
Woozily he sat up, and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. They cracked as he 
flexed them; the same stiffness hobbled the rest of his body. "How long have I 
been here?"
"Fifty trooms." It settled back, wrapping its tail around its perch. "Do you 
want your messages, or don't you?"
"Go ahead." He stretched, and touched his toes. It made him grunt, but he felt 
better for it.
"I'll give them to you in order of importance. First, the old female says" Its 
pose and pitch altered instantly. "'Congratulations, and our gratitude. Your 
fine has been paid, the answer to your question is available at my desk anytime 
within the next five days, and you have been awarded a 5000-point bonus for 
having lured a traitorous faction into open action, thus allowing us to identify 
and eliminate it. Your translator is also free. I look forward to speaking with 
you soon.' "
"Where is she?"
The Rii-edsch waved its tail indifferently. "She's reachable through any 
datadesk; just request the chance to speak with her, and your message will be 
relayed."
After a moment's digestion, he said, "Not the old female, the translator who's 
just been freed."
"The second message might answer that questionfrom one Gina Maccari, who says, 
'Sam, Harry, and I are in your dome with her, who woke up an hour ago. Please 
come as soon as possible.' "
He pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his pants. Scuff marks lightened 
the toes of his boots, and wrinkles shadowed his trousers, but his fingernails 
were fairly clean, and his tunic glittered like a Christmas ornament in the red 
light. He smoothed back his hair with anxious hands. "How do I look?"
"Terran. Wha"
*PING*
A millisecond before materializing, he crashed through a shell of antipathy. 
Alarm jangled in his synapses and he tensed, ready for anything. The instant his 
feet felt cold tile, he got his bearings and looked around.
A static tableau uncoiled his muscles, though it prickled the hairs of his neck. 
On the pallet, herbivores cornered by a predator, sat Maccari, Sherman, and Sam. 
Their jaw muscles bulged.
The translator poised in the desk chair, dry palms on her thighs, a statue of 
patience. Her quiescence was a dormancy: a seismic fault, a well-honed blade.
The otherness of her shook him, yet he steeled himself. He nodded to his friends 
and stepped toward her. "Hi, I'm McGill Fei"
"I know." She spoke levelly, spacing sounds and silence with an exactitude 
suggestive of enormous self-control. Still in the chair, she seemed four meters 
tall. "I am Jessica Bjornfjorken."
Then he knew. The Delu had lived too long in her; their outlook had become hers. 
Having no use for compassion, they had burned it out of her. All of it. Every 
bit. Like Pluto, she dwelled so far from caring's heat that ice crackled in her 
every part. Nonetheless, he held out his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."
She gave the extended arm the attention paid to a stranger in an urban street: 
unless it did something, it was irrelevant. "I would like to leave." And in 
that, too, cracked the Delu will: she would have what she wanted, and had 
already counted its cost. The price to others mattered not.
"Ah" He tucked in his chin, dismayedly aware that what he confronted was 
closer, now, to an elemental force than a fellow human. Still he clung to his 
hopes, like a mountaineer to his rock in a high wind. "Well, listen, we're 
probably going to be celebrating; would you like to stay for the party?"
"No." She raised her eyes. They were flat as cheap blue paint. They looked into 
his without a flicker of acknowledgment. He meant less to her than would a wall. 
Or a pane of glass. "I am leaving now."
"Ah" He swallowed a lump of something heavy and bitter. "Sure. If you want."
"I will not forget that you have freed me." She rose like the moon, aloof and 
unstoppable.
Sam hissed, and stalked towards her.
"Let her go, Sam," Feighan said.
The Rhanghan gave a disgusted wheeze. Settling onto his tail, he folded his arms 
as if disclaiming responsibility.
She walked steadily away, seeing nothing but her goal.
"Wait!" he said, as she stepped into the wheel.
She paused. Her head swiveled back like the turret of a tank. "Yes?"
"Why were you sentenced? What did you do to get them mad?"
She blinked. "I lied to them." Then her head pivoted forward and she moved away 
to pass through the world without its ever touching her again.
Feighan breathed, but it caught in his throat. His eyes stung. Half-buried in 
the rubble of his ruined dreams, he watched her proceed down the wheel with 
precise, acquisitive strides. He wanted to curl up in a closet and just hurt for 
a while.
"McGill," said Maccari softly.
Keeping his back turned, he held up his hand and waved her to silence. He was 
stunned by the reality of Jessica Bjornfjorkenand devastated that he had 
discovered it in the presence of his friends. His shoulders tightened as he 
waited for them to comment, to laugh. I must look an absolute fool, falling head 
over heels for a an alien like that. He feared their laughter. Although he 
would have earned it, he was defenseless against it, and its harsh ringing would 
so deepen his pain that he could relieve it only by transmuting it into rage at 
those who took it lightly Don't laugh, any of you, 'cause if you do I'll hate 
you forever. Don't laugh
"We won't," said Maccari's caring voice.
"Won't what?" asked Sherman, instinctively curious even at delicate moments.
"Hush," said Maccari. "McGill?"
He cleared his throat, but still didn't turn. "I, ah I'm going to go ask about 
the gastropod, be back in a while."
"Sure," she said gently. "I'll watch over Sam."
"Th-thanks." He squared his shoulders and marched out of the dome, arms swinging 
stiffly at his sides. Self-consciousness trailed him all the way down the wheel.
At Datadesk 1-19, a huge-headed Aronya shuffled about on a wooden platform. It 
raised its head from a water bucket as Feighan approached, and appeared not to 
notice when he stopped, and visibly hesitated, ten meters from the desk.
I better find another one, can't face the old female naw, they'll just patch me 
through to her, set up a relay to carry the answer but dammit, she made a fool 
out of me with her little translator games He swallowed hard. I'm gonna have to 
deal with her again, sooner or later, so I might as well get it over with right 
now...
"This the old female?" he asked as he stepped forward again.
"Yes," lowed the Aronya, shifting its weight on its many feet. "What can I do 
for you, MmmuGill?"
He leaned across the counter, and tried not to wrinkle his nose at the bovine's 
earthy stench. "Tell me about the gastropod," he said simply.
"I could tell, or I could show. Which would you prefer?"
"I don't understand." His knuckles whitened as his hands curled into fists. Was 
this the start of another evasion?
"You have swapped mmmemmmories with mmme before," it said. "I offer you the 
opportunity to do so again, and experience the recollection of mmmy mmmeeting 
with the representative of the Far Being Retzglaran."
"Then he did work for the Far Being?" he said eagerly, forgetting his distrust.
"It refused to nammme its emmmployer, but" The Aronya's tail dusted its 
speckled back. "I had enough evidence to mmmake a respectably logical 
deduction."
"For example?"
"Let mmme show you." The monstrous head nodded towards a helmet in the corner. 
"I'mmm afraid, though, that because you purchased the formmmer translator's 
freedommm, suitable contact can be mmmade only through the cap."
He drew back unconsciously. "No."
"This is a dreammm cap, MmmuGill, not a translation interface. Please. If you 
don't, you will only hear a description of the reality you mmmight otherwise 
have experienced."
"But it"
"I mmmake contract with youwhich is to say that I prommmise on the honor of 
mmmy scorethat when the mmmemmmory has played itself out, you will be released 
frommm the cap, none the worse for wear."
He had to find out what the Delu knew about his gastropod he had to. And if 
that meant risking his his what? His wholeness, his psychic integrity?then, by 
damn, he'd risk it. "All right," he said at last. "But" He shook away the last 
of his doubts. Slowly, anticipation replaced nervousness as the cause of his 
tension. "All right."
His fingers stayed steady as they lifted the cap, and he was glad for that. He 
didn't like to be embarrassed by tremors at crucial moments. The inner lip of 
the metal helmet fit his skullbone as snugly as if it had been tailored 
especially for it which disturbed him, because it might have been. But he 
brushed away that final foreboding, and velcro'd the helmet strap under his 
chin. "Now what?"
"Just sit and wait," said the Aronya. "Close your eyes and"
 and the fields that the helmet enlivened in his brain took effect. Gently they 
separated his being from his body, and nudged it down the path to the other 
body, the empty one, the big sleek eight-finned one that pumped its gills faster 
now that it couldn't swim circles for fear of breaking the fragile wires.
He got to the edge of usurpation and a force like a whirlwind enveloped him, 
turned and twisted and compressed him, pulled him like taffy until it dropped 
him right into
"Taranya the Queerbeing Quotamaker," she projected at intervals defined by her 
scorecounts: "8,721 net," and interspersed with her datawants "Willbuy: annual 
Occleftian consumption of zinc-based sun lotions," and datahaves "Cansell: 
number of red-headed male infants born in North American Consortium daily."
She shrieked her pronouncements into the sea, yet still could listen to the 
other gabble her meter-wide aural membranes picked out of the waters. Like a 
hawker parked outside a market, she called, "Taranya the Queerbeing Quotamaker; 
8,728 net; willbuy: profile of leading entrepreneur Rehmal; cansell: 
pheroreceptor diagram of Terran nasal passages."
With another part of her mind she directed the singing of her latest name song, 
and pondered the speed of time in a space filled with anti-matter, and carried 
on a conversation with a large ocher tourist which could probably shape itself 
into something quite attractive, but which, at present, resembled nothing so 
much as an overgrown snail. The tourist filled two-thirds of the dome in which 
it humped, and trickled into the spoke in both directions.
"Ah, McGill Feighan," it said, in a cultured Oxford accent that the Flinger 
later recognized as having been supplied by his own concepts of the appropriate 
mannerisms for a divine emissary. "Now that you've traced me this far, don't you 
think it's time we had a little talk?"
"Why me?" It spilled out of him/her before she/he could think of anything more 
profound.
"And why not you? My master will work with any material that suits the Far 
Being's purposeand you will."
"What is that purpose?"
It deformed itself to let a pedestrian pass through the intersection. "I say, 
have you heard of the uncertainty principle?"
"You mean that the observer changes the event by the act of observing?"
"An analogy can be drawn between that and yourself."
He waited for elaboration, but when none came, asked, "What's the analogy?"
"P'raps it would be best if you drew it yourself."
"Can't you tell me anything?"
"Certainly. You are not to continue the quest for the Far Being. Do you 
understand?"
"No" She/he shook their head and scattered a school of bottom-browsers. "No, I 
don't understand at all. Why?"
"The Far Being does not intend to monopolize your life, McGill. My master has 
not ordered your ingestion to provoke your curiosity about the Far Being; my 
master has acolytes enough without going to such lengths to enlist more. You 
will not be called upon to comb the far reaches of the galaxy for the Far Being 
Retzglaran. Do you understand?"
"I know why I haven't been called," he said, "but what I still don't know is, 
why have I been called?"
"But that's just the thing, don't you see? You will not be called."
"But you"
"I will ingest you, McGillnot ordain you, not enroll you, not call you. Can you 
make that rather fine distinction?"
"But why did you eat me?"
"Ah that, my friend, I must confess is a mystery to me."
"You don't know why you did it?"
"I will do it because my master has ordered it," it said stiffly. "That is 
reason enough for me."
"But what did you do to me while I was in you?"
"As I have yet to do it, I really couldn't say."
"Not even a hint?"
"Just the one: you are not to waste your time investigating it. You are to lead 
a normal life in every wayget married, have children, pay your taxesyou are 
not to imagine yourself Galahad in search of the Grail. Can I make myself any 
clearer?"
He groped amidst his astonishment for words: "But then what's the point? Why did 
you bother to eat me at all?"
"If I knew that," it said with dignity, "I would be the Far Being Retzglaran. 
But I am not, so I do not know." It extruded a pair of pseudo-pods with which it 
lifted off the cap.
"Hey, wait!" said Feighan/Taranya.
But, as it could notor would nothear him, it set the cap on the countertop, 
flashed a jovial "Thank you," to the datadesk attendant, and followed sluggishly 
down the wheel.
That tornado of transformation ripped him out of his place in space, scruffed 
him into the air and shook him, prodding him back into his original shape and 
size. It set him on the passageway and shoved him towards his own body. As he 
tumbled into it, he rubbed shoulders with a fleeting, fleeing woman veiled in 
black.
And then he was easing the cap off his own head, and staring at the orange-eyed 
Aronya. "Whew! The transition's a little rougher with these things."
"Yes," mooed the bovine, "that's why earlier I used mmmy fingers, instead. But 
now that I have only hooves" It raised one and let it clump back onto the 
platform.
"Thanks," he said, uncertainly.
"You're very welcommme you'll be leaving soon, won't you?"
He nodded.
It turned its huge eyes on him. Soulful, expressive, their depths trapped 
wistfulness and humor and intelligence. "I'll mmmiss you," it lowed mournfully.
He could no longer avoid acknowledging the truth. "You tried to manipulate me 
into falling in love with you." He gave a shaky laugh. "And almost succeeded. 
Why did you do it? Just to get a research subject?"
The great head swung from side to doleful side. "I'mmm sorry. We have a concept 
of love that mmmust differ greatly frommm yours, but frommm the mmmommment we 
mmmet I could see in you the qualities that enhance a mmmale. You are bold, 
confident, inquisitive yet sensitive with women, shyly charmmming and 
charmmmingly shy and your need for love is so palpable. Were you a Delu I would 
mmmate with you with joyfully, MmmuGill, for at least a full season. But I ammm 
sorry."
He looked at the tail-flicking Aronya, yet saw the veiled, scented shape of the 
true Taranya. "It's not your fault," he said, seeing himself as he was, too. "I, 
ah I fell in love with the notion that love has to be sleek and regal and and 
beautiful; then I extended it, and feltfelt that the person you loved had to be 
all that, and, ah" He shook his head like he was throwing off his youth. "I 
guess I'd better be going."
She nodded. "Commme back anytime, this tour or in the future you don't need the 
points any mmmore, but if you'd like to chator discuss mmmy new mmmodel of 
realityI would welcommme you. Goodbye, MmmuGill."
"Goodbye," he said, and then, because he didn't like to linger over partings
*PING*
Flung himself back to his dome. Sherman had left, but Maccari sat cross-legged 
on the pallet, holding a small crustacean just out of Sam's reach. Neither 
noticed the Flinger's arrival. "Gina," she said patiently, "Gina."
Feighan kept silent, watching, wondering.
The Rhanghan snapped his jaws at the crustacean, but Maccari pulled it away. 
"Gina," she said, "Gi-na."
Sam's tongue flickered and he hissed, "Heea."
"Magnificent!" She popped the baby pwodee into the open, toothy mouth. "Good 
boy, Sam. You did great." She waited till he'd swallowed it, then from a small 
box at her side took another and waved it over his nose. "Gi-na? Gi-na?"
Something swelled in Feighan's throat right then, and his eyes grew moist enough 
to require heavy blinking. "Gina," he said softly.
She jumped a good fifteen centimeters; the pwodee fell forgotten from her 
fingers. Sam nailed it in mid-air. "McGill!" She struggled to her feet. "What'd 
you find?"
He started to answer but decided that the big discovery could wait. Instead, he 
told her what he'd learned at the datadesk. "A dead end. Thethe fish let me 
share her memory of the day she met the gastropod, and" Moving across the room, 
he sank into the desk chair. "And it was weird. The gastropod talked to menot 
her, meas though I mean, it came here twenty years ago or so, before I was 
born, but in this twenty-year-old memory, it acted like it was here right now." 
A sudden thought struck him: did Taranya know that the gastropod had been what 
she now soughta being with random access to time? Of course she does; it must 
be what started her on this "Anyway, it told me, I'm not supposed to be looking 
for the Far Being, or trying to figure out the reason for my ingestion or 
anything to do with the whole event. I'm supposed to pretend it never happened, 
and just lead a normal life." He gave a bitter laugh tinged with wistfulness. 
"As if I could as if I would."
She put her hand on his shoulder, then slid it under his chin and lifted his 
face. "Are you going to give up the quest?" Her dark eyes bored into his. "No," 
she whispered slowly, "no, you're not, are you?"
"Uh-uh." He would have shaken his head, but he didn't want to dislodge her 
fingers. "I can't you know that."
"So?"
"I don't know go back to being a Flinger, keep my eyes and ears open for leads, 
and in my spare time I don't know, something like that. I haven't decided what, 
exactly."
"So I can expect that you won't be dragging Sam off to the Hub tomorrow? I mean, 
I've just got him started trying to talk."
That hurt. Not because she was doing a task he should have overseen himself, but 
because she inquired about his plans only out of a desire to spend time with 
Sam. "No," he said at last, masking his jealousy with a stiff amiability, "I 
expect you'll be seeing a lot of Sam for a while."
Her fingers circled on his chin. "Only Sam?"
"Well, I" He caught the laughter in her eyes and scowled with mock severity. 
"You bum! Why do you tease me like that?"
"Because Sam's the one who seems to like me best."
"But you know how I feel! I mean, you're a Minder, you can read"
"There are some things, McGill, a woman likes to hear said."
"All right." He stood, and took her in his arms. "Gina Maccari, there's 
something I want you to hear said. I" The next word came out though he tried to 
stop it, but once it hung in the air between them he could hear for himself that 
it was, after all, proper and right. "love you. I do. And, ah I'm not about to 
Fling very far away from you, because suddenly I find myself wanting to spend 
just a whole lot of time standing somewhere exactly like this, all the world 
silent and your nose bumping mine."
Her eyes drifted shut and her mouth groped for his. Her warm, alive tongue came 
to his tentatively, hesitating before penetrating, but then touched and entwined 
with joyous abandon. Oh, McGill, she said in his mind, where only he could hear 
her, I love you, too, and thank you for saying that, because while you felt it 
all along you kept trying to pretend it wasn't there, and so you wouldn't share 
it with me until you believed in it, too, but you wouldn't believe in it until 
you admitted it to yourself
Pulling away to scrutinize the richness of her irises, he took a deep breath. 
He'd never felt so happy in his lifeor so scared. Now that he had his arms 
around her, he couldn't imagine ever releasing her, even for a moment. Yet he 
knew he would have to, eventuallyshe had a job, after alland the thought 
depressed him. Once she left she might not come back. So he took another deep 
breath and asked, "Will you marry me?"
Her startled eyes popped wide. "Marry you?"
He tried for a light touch because gravity would choke him. "Yeah, marry. You 
know: church, rings, flowergirls lots of champagne at the reception marry."
She broke his hold on her and slipped lithely away. "No." Her words rang firm. 
Then sympathy softened her face, and she stretched out a hand. "There you go, 
taking it wrong again I can feel you hurting like a dropped infant, but you've 
got no cause. I'm not rejecting you, McGilljust the notion of marriage right 
now."
He tried to speak but his throat was full of sticky splinters and he couldn't 
find a facile phrase anyway. He coughed into his hand; the action broke some of 
the tension. "I, ah I'm sorry." The words rushed out of him as if to wash away 
what he'd just asked. "It was silly of me to ask you and I apologize for it, I 
guess I just got carried away and"
She hushed him with a kiss. Holding his cheeks between tender hands, she said, 
"McGill, it wasn't silly of you to ask it just would have been silly of me to 
accept. I'm not ready for it, not now. I love you dearly, but to love you right 
I'd have to give up my" A frown creased her forehead as she mused along. " 
'Freedom' is the wrong word, because I can sense that when you love someone 
right you don't have to surrender that; love has room for it it's just that to 
do a marriage right, you have to be able to explain everything you do, and to 
have a good reason for it, because marriage is this incredible tumble through 
time, like synchronized sky-fall ballet, only it lasts a helluva lot longer. 
Each partner's got to trust the other to make the right moves all the time, or 
at least to have a good reason for making a wrong move, but McGill" She shook 
her head and her hair brushed his fingers. "I'm still growing up. I'm going to 
be doing a lot of things purely for the hell of it, and if something goes wrong 
because of what I do, it wouldn't be fair for you to get hurt by it. Do you 
understand what I'm saying? I love you, but I'm not ready to slant my 
decision-making along the lines that I should do what's best for us, or that I 
should avoid what will hurt us. Do you understand?" She searched his eyes.
He took yet another deep breath, and let it out slowly, resignedly. "I think I 
do," he said. "I think it's the same for meI haven't been, ah an individual, 
in the sense of doing what most fulfills melong enough to appreciate becoming 
half of a pair. I'm not expressing it well it doesn't matter. I know what you 
mean, and I think you're rightfor both of us. For the moment."
She ran a finger down his nose, and smiled. "Thanks." She kissed him. "And if 
you ask again in four or five years, who knows? Maybe I'll have grown up by 
then."
Burying his face in the smooth follow of her neck, he felt peaceful. And yet, 
curiously satisfied. "Four years, huh? I'll tell my computer to mark it on the 
calendarin boldface bits."
"Maybe five," she murmured, as her hands stroked his back.
"If I'm ready in four, you'd better be, too."
"We'll see." And her smile vanished under his lips.
From the corner, Sam hissed, "Heea! Heea!" When they ignored him, he flicked 
his tail and trotted across the wheel to Sherman's dome. He was hungry, and if 
anybody around there would understand that, it would be the newsman. "Hawee," he 
tried, "Hawee"
It ought to be worth a couple of pwodees, at least.
^