The Uplift War

68 Galactics

The image in the holographic display flickered. That was not surprising, since it came from many parsecs away, refracted through the folded space of the Pourmin transfer point. The muddy picture wavered and occasionally lost definition.

Still, to the Suzerain of Propriety the message was coming in all too clearly.

A diverse collection of beings stood depicted before the Suzerain’s pedestal. It recognized most of the races by sight. There was a Pila, for instance — short, furry, and stubby-armed. And there was a tall, gangling Z’Tang who stood beside a spiderlike Serentin. A Bi-Gle glowered lazily, coiled next to a being the Suzerain did not immediately recognize, and which might have been a client or a decorative pet.

Also, to the Suzerain’s dismay, the delegation included a Synthian and a human.

A human!

And there was no way to complain. It was only appropriate to include a Terran among the official observers — if a qualified human were available — since this world was registered to the wolflings. But the Suzerain had felt certain that there were none employed by the Uplift Institute in this sector!

Perhaps this was one more sign that the political situation in the Five Galaxies had worsened. Word had come from the homeworld Roost Masters telling of serious setbacks out between the spiral arms. Battles had gone badly. Allies had proven unreliable. Tandu and Soro fleets dominated once profitable trade routes and now monopolized the siege of Earth.

These were trying times for the great and powerful clan of the Gooksyu-Gubru. All now depended on certain important neutralist patron-lines. Should something happen to draw one or two of them into an alliance, triumph might yet be attained for the righteous.

On the other side of the wing, it would be disastrous to see any of the neutrals turn against the Great Glan!

To influence such matters had been a major reason, back when the Suzerain of Propriety originated the idea of invading Garth in the first place. Superficially this expedition had been intended to seize hostages for use in prying secrets out of the High Command of Earth. But psychological profiles had always made success in that seem unlikely. Wolflings were obstinate creatures.

No, what had won the Roost Masters over to the priest’s proposal was the possibility that this would bring honor to the cause of the clan — to score a coup and win new alliances from wavering parties. And at first all seemed to go so well! The first Suzerain of Cost and Caution -

The priest chirped a deep note of mourning. It had not before realized what wisdom they had lost, how the old bureaucrat had tempered the rash brilliance of the younger two with deep and reliable sense.

What a consensus, unity, policy we might have had.

Now, though, in addition to the constant struggles among the still disunited Triumvirate, there was this latest bad news. A Terran would be among the official observers from the Uplift Institute. The implications were unpleasant to consider.

And that was not to be the worst of it! As the Suzerain watched in dismay, the Earthling stepped forward as spokesman! Its statement was in clear Galactic Seven.

“Greetings to the Triumvirate of the Forces of Gooksyu-Gubru, now in contested occupation of the limited-leasehold world known as Garth. I greet you in the name of Cough’Quinn*3, Grand High Examiner of the Uplift Institute. This message is being sent ahead of our vessel by the quickest available means, so that you may prepare for our arrival. Conditions in hyperspace and at transfer points indicate that causality will almost certainly allow us to attend the proposed ceremonies, and administer appropriate sapiency tests at the time and place requested by you.

“You are further informed that Galactic Uplift Institute has gone to great lengths to accommodate your unusual request — first in exercising such haste and second in acting on the basis of so little information.

“Ceremonies of Uplift are joyous occasions, especially in times of turmoil such as these. They celebrate the continuity and perpetual renewal of Galactic culture, in the name of the most revered Progenitors. Client species are the hope, the future of our civilization, and on such occasions as this we demonstrate our responsibility, our honor, and our love.

“We approach this event, then, filled with curiosity as to what wonder the clan of Gooksyu-Gubru plans to unveil before the Five Galaxies.”

The scene vanished, leaving the Suzerain to contemplate this news.

It was too late, of course, to recall the invitations and cancel the ceremony. Even the other Suzerains recognized this. The shunt must be completed, and they must prepare to receive honored guests. To do otherwise might damage the Gubru cause irrevocably.

The Suzerain danced a dance of anger and frustration. It muttered short, sharp imprecations.

Curse the devil-trickster Tymbrimi! In retrospect, the very idea of “Garthlings” — native pre-sentients that survived the Holocaust of the Bururalli — was absurd. And yet the trail of false evidence had been so startlingly plausible, so striking in its implied opportunity!

The Suzerain of Propriety had begun this expedition in a lead position. Its place in the eventual Molt had seemed assured after the untimely demise of the first Suzerain of Cost and Caution.

But all that changed when no Garthlings were found — when it became clear just how thoroughly Propriety had been tricked. Failure to find evidence of human misuse of Garth or their clients meant that the Suzerain still had not yet set foot upon the soil of this planet. That, in turn, had retarded the development of completion hormones. All of these factors were setbacks, throwing the Molt into serious doubt.

Then, insurrection among the neo-chimpanzees helped bring the military to the fore. Now the Suzerain of Beam and Talon was rapidly growing preeminent, unstoppable.

The coming Molt filled the Suzerain of Propriety with foreboding. Such events were supposed to be triumphant, transcendent, even for the losers. Moltings were times of renewal and sexual fulfillment for the race. They were also supposed to represent crystallization of policy — consensus on correct action.

This time, however, there was little or no consensus. Something was very wrong, indeed, about this molting.

The only thing all three Suzerains were in agreement about was that the hyperspace shunt must be used for some sort of Uplift ceremony. To do otherwise would be suicidal at this point. But beyond that they parted company. Their incessant arguing had begun affecting the entire expedition. The more religious Talon Soldiers had taken to bickering with their comrades. Bureaucrats who were retired soldiers sided with their former comrades over logistical expenditures, or turned sullen when their chief overruled them. Even among the priesthood there were frequent arguments where there should already be unanimity.

The priest had just recently discovered what factionalism could do. The divisiveness had gone all the way to the point of betrayal! Why else had one of its two race-leader chimpanzees been stolen?

Now the Suzerain of Cost and Caution was insisting on a role in choosing the new male. No doubt the bureaucrat was responsible for the “escape” of the Fiben Bolger chimp in the first place! Such a promising creature it had been! By now it no doubt had been converted to vapor and ashes.

There would be no way to pin this on either of the rival Suzerains, of course.

A Kwackoo servitor approached and knelt, proffering a data cube in its beak. Given assent, it popped the record into a player unit.

The room dimmed and the Suzerain of Propriety watched a camera’s-eye view of driving rain and darkness. It shivered involuntarily, disliking the ugly, dank dinginess of a wolfling town.

The view panned over a muddy patch in a dark alley… a broken shack made of wire and wood, where Terran birds had been kept as pets … a pile of soggy clothing beside a padlocked factory… footprints leading to a churned up field of mud beside a bent and battered fence… more footprints leading off into the dim wilderness…

The implications were apparent to the Suzerain before the investigators’ report reached its conclusion.

The male neo-chimpanzee had perceived the trap set for it! It appeared to have made good its escape!

The Suzerain danced upon its perch, a series of mincing steps of ancient lineage.

At a gesture its Kwackoo followers hurried forward. The Suzerain’s first command was straightforward.

The servitor bowed, and the other Kwackoo crooned. “Zoooon!”

69 Government in Exile

The holo-tank cleared as the interstellar message ran to its end. When the lights came on, the Council members looked at each other in puzzlement. “What. . . what does it mean?” Colonel Maiven asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Commander Kylie. “But it’s clear the Gubru are up to something.”

Refuge Administrator Mu Chen drummed her fingers on the table. “They appeared to be officials from the Uplift Institute. It seems to mean the invaders are planning some sort of Uplift ceremony, and have invited witnesses.”

That much is obvious, Megan thought. “Do you think this has anything to do with that mysterious construction south of Port Helenia?” she asked. The site had been a topic of much discussion lately.

Colonel Maiven nodded. “I had been reluctant to admit the possibility before, but now I’d have to say so.”

The chim member spoke. “Why would they want to hold an Uplift ceremony for the Kwackoo here on Garth? It doesn’t make sense. Would that improve their claim on our leasehold?”

“I doubt it,” Megan said. “Maybe… maybe it isn’t for the Kwackoo at all.”

“But then for who?”

Megan shrugged. Kylie commented. “The Uplift Institute officials appear to be in the dark as well.”

There was a long silence. Then Kylie broke it again.

“How significant do you think it is that the spokesman was human?”

Megan smiled. “Obviously it was meant as a dig at the Gubru. That man might have been no more than a junior clerk trainee at the local Uplift Institute branch. Putting him out in front of Pila and Z’Tang and Serentini means Earth isn’t finished yet. And certain powers want to point that out to the Gubru.”

“Hm. Pila. They’re tough customers, and members of the Soro clan. Having a human spokesman might be an insult to the Gubru, but it’s no guarantee Earth is okay.”

Megan understood what Kylie meant. If the Soro now dominated Earthspace, there were rough times ahead.

Again, another long silence. Then Colonel Maiven spoke.

“They mentioned a hyperspace shunt. Those are expensive. The Gubru must set great store by this ceremony thing.”

Indeed, Megan thought, knowing that a motion had been put before the Council. And this time she realized that it would be hard to justify holding to Uthacalthing’s advice.

“You are suggesting a target, colonel?”

“I sure am, madam coordinator.” Maiven sat up and met her eyes. “I think this is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

There were nods of agreement up and down the table. They are voting out of boredom, and frustration, and sheer cabin fever, Megan knew. And yet, is this not a golden chance, to be seized or lost forever?

“We cannot attack once the emissaries from the Uplift Institute have arrived,” she emphasized, and saw that everybody understood how important that was. “However, I agree that there may be a window of opportunity during which a strike could be made.”

Consensus was obvious. In a corner of her mind, Megan felt there really ought to be more discussion. But she, too, was near filled to bursting with impatience.

“We shall cut new orders to Major Prathachulthorn then. He shall receive carte blanche, subject only to, the condition that any attack be completed by November first. Is it agreed?”

A simple raising of hands. Commander Kylie hesitated, then joined in to make it unanimous.

We are committed, Megan thought. And she wondered if Hell reserved a special place for mothers who send their own sons into battle.

70 Robert

She didn’t have to go away, did she? I mean she herself said it was all right.

Robert rubbed his stubbled chin. He thought about taking a shower and shaving. Major Prathachulthorn would be calling a meeting sometime after it reached full light, and the commander liked to see his officers well groomed.

What I really should be doing is sleeping, Robert knew. They had just finished a whole series of night exercises. It would be wise to catch up on his rest.

And yet, after a couple of hours of fitful slumber he had found himself too nervous, too full of restless energy to stay in bed any longer. He had risen and gone to his small desk, setting up the datawell so its light would not disturb the chamber’s other occupant. For some time he read through Major Prathachulthorn’s detailed order of battle.

It was ingenious, professional. The various options appeared to offer a number of efficient” ways to use limited forces to strike the enemy, and strike Rim hard. All that remained was choosing the right target. There were several choices available, any of which ought to do.

Still, something about the entire edifice struck Robert as wrong. The document did not increase his confidence, as he had hoped it would. In the space over his head Robert almost imagined something taking form — something faintly akin to the dark clouds that had shrouded the mountains in storms so recently — a symbolic manifestation of his unease.

Across the little chamber a form moved under the blankets. One slender arm lay exposed, and a smooth length of calf and thigh.

Robert concentrated and erased the nonthing that he had been forming with his simple aura-power. It had begun affecting Lydia’s dreams, and it wouldn’t be fair to inflict his own turmoil upon her. For all of their recent physical intimacy, they were still in many ways strangers.

Robert reminded himself that there were some positive aspects to the last few days. The battle plan, for instance, showed that Prathachulthorn was at last taking some of his ideas seriously. And spending time with Lydia had brought more than physical pleasure. Robert had not realized how much he missed the simple touch of his own kind. Humans might be able to withstand isolation better than chims — who could fall into deep depression if they lacked a grooming partner for very long. But mel and fern humans, too, had their apelike needs.

Still, Robert’s thoughts kept drifting. Even during his most passionate moments with Lydia, he kept thinking of somebody else.

Did she really have to leave? Logically there was no reason to have to go to Mount Fossey. The gorillas were already well cared for.

Of course, the gorillas might have been just an excuse. An excuse to escape the disapproving aura of Major Prathachulthorn. An excuse to avoid the sparking discharges from human passion.

Athaclena might be correct that there was nothing wrong with Robert seeking his own kind. But logic was not everything. She had feelings, too. Young and alone, she could be hurt even by what she knew to be right.

“Damn!” Robert muttered. Prathachulthorn’s words and graphs were a blur. “Damn, I miss her.”

There was a commotion outside, beyond the flap of cloth that sectioned off this chamber from the rest of the caves. Robert looked at his watch. It was still only four a.m. He stood up and gathered his trousers. Any unplanned excitement at this hour was likely to be bad news. Just because the enemy had been quiet for a month did not mean it had to stay that way. Perhaps the Gubru had gotten wind of their plans and were striking preemptively!

There was the slap of unshod feet upon stone. “Capt’n Oneagle?” a voice said from just beyond the cloth. Robert strode over and pulled it aside. A winded chim messenger breathed heavily. “What’s happening?” Robert asked.

“Urn, sir, you’d better come quick.”

“All right. Let me get my weapons.”

The chim shook her head. “It’s not fighting, sir. It’s… it’s some chims just arrivin’ from Port Helenia.”

Robert frowned. New recruits from town had been arriving in small groups all along. What was all the excitement about this time? He heard Lydia stir as the talking disturbed her sleep. “Fine,” he told the chimmie. “We’ll interview them a little later—”

She interrupted. “Sir! It’s Fiben! Fiben Bolger, sir. He’s come back.”

Robert blinked. “What?”

There was movement behind him. “Rob?” a feminine voice spoke. “What is—”

Robert whooped. His shout reverberated in the closed spaces. He hugged and kissed the surprised chimmie, then caught up Lydia and tossed her lightly into the air.

“What… ?” she started to ask, then stopped, for she found herself addressing only the empty space where he had been.

Actually, there was little need to hurry. Fiben and his escorts were still some distance away. By the time their horses could be seen, puffing up the trail from the north, Lydia had dressed and joined Robert up on the escarpment. There dawn’s gray light was just driving out the last wan stars.

“Everybody’s up,” Lydia commented. “They even roused the major. Chims are dashing all over the place, jabbering in excitement. This must be some chen we’re waiting for.”

“Fiben?” Robert laughed. He blew into his hands. “Yeah, you might say old Fiben’s unusual.”

“I gathered as much.” She shaded her eyes against the glow to the east and watched the mounted party pass a switchback climbing the narrow trail. “Is he the one in the bandages?”

“Hm?” Robert squinted. Lydia’s eyesight had been bio-organically enhanced during her Marine training. He was envious. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Fiben’s always getting banged up, one way or another. Claims he hates it. Says it’s all due to’innate clumsiness and a universe that has it in for him, but I’ve always suspected it was an affinity for trouble. Never known a chim who went to such lengths just to get a story to tell.”

In a minute he could make out the features of his friend. He shouted and raised his hand. Fiben grinned and waved back, although his left arm was immobilized in a sling. Next to him, on a pale mare, rode a chimmie Robert did not recognize.

A messenger arrived from the cave entrance and saluted. “Sers, the major requests that you an’ Lieutenant Bolger come down just as soon’s he’s here.”

Robert nodded. “Please tell Major Prathachulthorn we’ll be right there.”

As the horses climbed the last switchback, Lydia slipped her hand into his, and Robert felt a sudden wave of both gladness and guilt. He squeezed back and tried not to let his ambivalence show.

Fiben’s alive! he thought. I must get word to Athaclena. I’m’sure she’ll be thrilled.

Major Prathachulthorn had a nervous habit of tugging at one ear or the other. While listening to reports from his subordinates, he would shift in his chair, occasionally leaning over to mumble into his datawell, retrieving some quick dollop of information. At such times he might seem distracted, but if the speaker stopped talking, or even slowed down, the major would snap his fingers, impatiently. Apparently, Prathachulthorn had a quick mind and was able to juggle several tasks at once. However, these behaviors were very hard on some of the chims, often making them nervous and tongue-tied. That, in turn, did not improve the major’s opinion of the irregulars that had only recently been under Robert’s and Athaclena’s command.

In Fiben’s case, though, this was no problem. As long as he was kept supplied with orange juice, he kept on with his story. Even Prathachulthorn, who usually interrupted reports with frequent questions, probing mercilessly for details, sat silently through the tale of the disastrous valley insurrection, Fiben’s subsequent capture, the interviews and tests by the followers of the Suzerain of Propriety, and the theories of Dr. Gailet Jones.

. Now and then Robert glanced at the chimmie Fiben had brought with him from Port Helenia. Sylvie sat to one side, between the chims Benjamin and Elsie, her posture erect and her expression composed. Occasionally, when asked to verify or elaborate on something, she answered in a quiet voice. Otherwise, her gaze remained on Fiben constantly.

Fiben carefully described the political situation among the Gubru, as he understood it. When he came to the evening of the escape, he told of the trap that had been laid by the “Suzerain of Cost and Caution,” and concluded simply by saying, “So we decided, Sylvie and I, that we’d better exit Port Helenia by a different route than by sea.” He shrugged. “We got out through a gap in the fence and finally made it to a rebel outpost. So here we are.”

Right! Robert thought sardonically. Of course Fiben had left out any mention of his injuries and exactly how he escaped. He would no doubt fill in the details in his written report to the major, but anyone else would have to bribe them out of him.

Robert saw Fiben glance his way and wink. I’d bet this is at least a five-beer tale, Robert thought.

Prathachulthorn leaned forward. “You say that you actually saw this hyperspace shunt? You know exactly where it is located?”

“I was trained as a scout, major. I know where it is. I’ll include a map, and a sketch of the facility, in my written report.”

Prathachulthorn nodded. “If I had not already had other reports of this thing I’d never have credited this story. As it is though, I am forced to believe you. You say this facility is expensive, even by Gubru standards?”

“Yessir. That’s what Gailet and I came to believe. Think about it. Humans have only been able to throw one Uplift ceremony for each of their clients in all the years since Contact, and both had to be held on Tymbrim. That’s why other clients Me the Kwackoo can get away with snubbing us.

“Part of the reason has been political obstruction by antagonistic clans like the Gubru and the Soro, who’ve been able to drag out Terran applications for status. But another reason is because we’re so frightfully poor, by Galactic standards.”

Fiben had been learning things, obviously. Robert realized part of it must have been picked up from this Gailet Jones person. With his heightened empathy sense, he picked up faint tremors from his friend whenever her name came up.

Robert glanced at Sylvie. Hmm. Life seems to have grown complicated for Fiben.

That reminded Robert of his own situation, of course. Fiben isn’t the only one, he thought. All his life he had wanted to learn to be more sensitive, to better understand others and his own feelings. Now he had his wish, and he hated it.

“By Darwin, Goodall, and Greenpeace!” Prathachulthorn pounded the table. “Mr. Bolger, you bring your news at a most opportune time!” He turned to address Lydia and Robert. “Do you know what this means, gentlemen?”

“Um,” Robert began.

“A target, sir,” Lydia answered succinctly.

“A target is right! This fits perfectly with that message we just received from the Council. If we can smash this shunt — preferably before the dignitaries from the Uplift Institute arrive — then we could rap the Gubru right where it pains them most, in their wallets!”

“But — ” Robert started to object.

“You heard what our spy just told us.” Prathachulthorn said. “The Gubru are hurting out there in space! They’re overextended, their leaders here on Garth are at each others’ throats, and this could be the last straw! Why, we might even be able to time it so their entire Triumvirate is at the same place at the same time!”

Robert shook his head. “Don’t you think we ought to give it some thought, sir? I mean, what about the offer that the Suzerain of Probity—”

“Propriety,” Fiben corrected.

“Propriety. Yes. What about the offer it made to Fiben and Dr. Jones?”

Prathachulthorn shook his head. “An obvious trap, Oneagle. Be serious now.”

“I am being serious, sir. I’m no more an expert on these matters than Fiben, and certainly less of one than Dr. Jones. And certainly I concede it may be a trap. But on the surface, at least, it sounds like a terrific deal for Earth! A deal I don’t think we can pass up without at least reporting this back to the Council.”

“There isn’t time.” Prathachulthorn said, shaking his head. “My orders are to operate at my own discretion and, if appropriate, to act before the Galactic dignitaries arrive.”

Robert felt a growing desperation. “Then at least let’s consult with Athaclena. She’s the daughter of a diplomat. She might be able to see some ramifications we don’t.”

Prathachulthorn’s frown spoke volumes. “If there’s time, of course I’ll be happy to solicit the young Tymbrimi’s opinion.” But it was clear that even mentioning the idea had brought Robert down a peg in the man’s eyes.

Prathachulthorn slapped the table. “Right now I think we had better have a staff meeting of commissioned officers and discuss potential tactics against this hypershunt installation.” He turned and nodded to the chims. “That will be all for now, Fiben. Thank you very much for your courageous and timely action. That goes the same to you too, miss.” He nodded at Sylvie. “I look forward to seeing your written reports.”

Elsie and Benjamin stood up and held the door. As mere brevet officers they were excluded from Prathachulthorn’s inner staff. Fiben rose and moved more slowly, aided by Sylvie.

Robert hurriedly spoke in a low voice to Prathachulthorn. “Sir, I’m sure it only slipped your mind, but Fiben holds a full commission in the colonial defense forces. If he’s excluded it might not go down well, urn, politically.”

Prathachulthorn blinked. His expression barely flickered, though Robert knew he had once again failed to score points. “Yes, of course,” the major said evenly. “Please tell Lieutenant Bolger he is welcome to stay, if he’s not too tired.”

With that he turned back to his datawell and started calling up files. Robert could feel Lydia’s eyes on him. She may despair of my ever learning tact, he thought as he hurried to the door and caught Fiben’s arm just as he was leaving.

His friend grinned at him. “I guess it’s grownup time again, here,” Fiben said, sotto voce, glancing in Pratha-chulthorn’s direction.

“It’s worse even than that, old chim. I just got you tapped as an honorary adult.”

If looks could maim, Robert mused on seeing Fiben’s sour expression. And you thought it was Miller time, didn’t you? They had argued before about the possible historical origins of that expression.

Fiben squeezed Sylvie’s shoulder and hobbled back into the room. She watched him for a moment, then turned and followed Elsie down the hall.

Benjamin, however, lingered for a moment. He had caught Robert’s gesture bidding him to stay. Robert slipped a small disk into the chim’s palm. He dared not say anything aloud, but with his left hand he made a simple sign.

“Auntie,” he said in hand talk.

Benjamin nodded quickly and walked away.

Prathachulthorn and Lydia were already deep into the arcana of battle planning as Robert returned to the table. The major turned to Robert, “I’m afraid there just won’t be time to use enhanced bacteriological eifects, as ingenious as your idea was on its own merits. …”

The words washed past unnoted. Robert sat down, thinking only that he had just committed his first felony. By secretly recording the meeting — including Fiben’s lengthy report — he had violated procedure. By giving the pellet to Benjamin he had broken protocol.

And by ordering the chim to deliver the recording to an alien he had, by some lights, just committed treason.

71 Max

A large neo-chimpanzee shambled into the vast underground chamber, hands cuffed together, drawn along at the end of a stout chain. He remained aloof from his guards, chims wearing the invader’s livery, who pulled at the other end of his leash, but occasionally he did glare defiantly at the alien technicians watching from catwalks overhead.

His face had not been unblemished to start with, but now fresh patterns of pink scar tissue lay livid and open, exposed by patches of missing fur. The wounds were healing, but they would never be pretty.

“C’mon, Reb,” one of the chim guards said as he pushed the prisoner forward. “Bird wants to ask you some questions.”

Max ignored the Probie as best he could as he was led over to a raised area near the center of the huge chamber. There several Kwackoo waited, standing upon an elevated instrument platform.

Max kept his eyes level on the apparent leader, and his bow was shallow — just low enough to force the avian to give one in return.

Next to the Kwackoo stood three more of the quislings. Two were well-dressed chims who had made tidy profits providing construction equipment and workers to the Gubru — it was rumored that some of the deals had been at the expense of their missing human business partners. Other stories implied approval and direct connivance by men interned on Cilmar and the other islands. Max didn’t know which version he wanted to believe. The third chim on the platform was the commander of the Probie auxiliary force, the tall, haughty chen called Irongrip.

Max also knew the proper protocol for greeting traitors. He grinned, exposing his large canines to view, and spat at their feet. With a shout the Probies yanked at his chain, sending him stumbling. They lifted their truncheons. But a quick chirp from the lead Kwackoo stopped them in mid-blow. They stepped back, bowing.

“You are sure — certain that this one — this individual is the one we have been looking for?” the feathered officer asked Irongrip. The chim nodded.

“This one was found wounded near the site where Gailet Jones and Fiben Bolger were captured. He was seen in their company before the uprising, and was known to be one of her family’s retainers for many years before that. I have prepared an analysis showing how his contact with these individuals makes him appropriate for close attention.”

The Kwackoo nodded. “You have been most resourceful,” he told Irongrip. “You shall be rewarded — compensated with high status. Although one of the candidates of the Suzerain of Propriety has escaped our net somehow. We are now in a good position to choose — select his replacement. You will be informed.”

Max had lived under Gubru rule long enough to recognize that these were bureaucrats, followers of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. Though what they wanted from him, what use he could be to them in their internal struggles, he had no idea.

Why had he been brought here? Deep in the bowels of the handmade mountain, across the bay from Port Helenia, there sat an intimidating honeycomb of machinery and humming power supplies. During the long ride down the autolift, Max had felt his hair stand out with static electricity as the Gubru and their clients tested titanic devices.

The Kwackoo functionary turned to regard him with one eye. “You will serve two functions,” it told Max. “Two purposes now. You will give us information — data about your former employer, information of use to us. And you will help — assist us in an experiment.”

Again, Max grinned. “I won’t do neither, an’ I don’t even care if it is disrespectful. You can go put on a clown suit an’ ride a tricycle, for all I’ll tell you.”

The Kwackoo blinked once, twice, as it listened to a computer translation for verification. It chirped an exchange with its associates, then turned back to face him.

“You misunderstand- — mistake our meaning. There will be no questions. You need not speak. Your cooperation is not necessary.”

The complacent assuredness of the statement sounded dire. Max shivered under a sudden premonition.

Back when he had first been captured, the enemy had tried to get information out of him. He had steeled himself to resist with all his might, but it really rocked him when all they seemed to be interested in were “Garthlings.” That’s what they asked him about again and again. “Where are the pre-sentients?” they had inquired.

Garthlings?

It had been easy to mislead them, to lie in spite of all the drugs and psi machines, because the enemy’s basic assumptions had been so cockeyed dumb. Imagine Galactics falling for a bunch of children’s tales! He had had a field day, and learned many tricks to fool the questioners.

For instance, he struggled hard not to “admit” that Garthlings existed. For a while that seemed to convince them all the more that the trail was hot.

At last, they gave up and left him alone. Perhaps they finally figured out how they’d been duped. Anyway, after that he was assigned to a work detail at one of the construction sites, and Max thought they’d forgotten about him.

Apparently not, he now knew. Anyway, the Kwackoo’s words disturbed him.

“What do you mean, you won’t be asking questions?”

This time it was the Probationer leader who replied. Irongrip stroked his mustache with relish. “It means you’re going to have everything you know squeezed out of you. All this machinery” — he waved around him — “will be focused on just little ol’ you. Your answers will come out. But you won’t.”

Max inhaled sharply and felt his heart beat faster. What kept him steady was one firm resolve; he wasn’t going to give these traitors the satisfaction of finding him tongue-tied! He concentrated to form words.

“That… that’s against th’… the Rules of War.”

Irongrip shrugged. He left it to the Kwackoo bureaucrat to explain.

“The Rules protect — provide for species and worlds far more than individuals. And anyway, none of those you see here are followers of priests!”

So, Max realized. I’m in the hold of fanatics. Mentally he said farewell to the chens and chimmies and kids of his group family, especially his senior group wife, whom he now knew he would never see again. Also mentally, he bent over and kissed his own posterior goodbye.

“Y’made two mistakes,” he told his captors. “Th” first was lettin’ it slip that Gailet is alive, an’ that Fiben’s made a fool of you again. Knowin’ that makes up for anythin’ you can do to me.”

Irongrip growled. “Enjoy your brief pleasure. You’re still going to be a big help in bringing your ex-employer down a few pegs.”

“Maybe.” Max nodded. “But your second mistake was leaving me, attached to this—”

He had been letting his arms go slack. Now he brought them back with a savage jerk and pulled the chain with all his might. It yanked two of the Probie guards off their feet before the links flew out of their hands.

Max planted his feet and snapped the heavy chain like a whip. His escorts dove for cover, but not all of them made it in time, One of the chim contractors had his skull laid open by a glancing blow. Another stumbled in his desperation to get away and knocked down all three Kwackoo like bowling pins.

Max shouted with joy. He whirled his makeshift weapon until everyone was either toppled or out of reach, then he worked the arc sideways, changing the axis of rotation. When he let go, the chain flew upwards at an angle and wrapped itself around the guardrail of the catwalk overhead.

Shimmying up the heavy links was the easy part. They were too stunned to react in time to stop him. But at the top he had to waste precious seconds unwrapping the chain. Since it was attached to his handcuffs, he’d have to take it along.

Along where? he wondered as he got the links gathered. Max spun about when he glimpsed white feathers over to his right. So he ran the other way and scurried up a flight of stairs to reach the next level.

Of course escape was an absurd notion. He had only two short-term objectives: doing as much harm as possible, and then ending his own life before he could be forced against his will to betray Gailet.

The former goal he accomplished as he ran, flailing the tip of the chain against every knob, tube, or delicate-looking instrument within reach. Some bits of equipment were tougher than they looked, but others smashed and tinkled nicely. Trays of tools went over the edge, toppling onto those below.

He kept a watch out, though, for other options. If no ready implement or weapon presented itself before the time came, he ought to try to get high enough for a good leap over the railing to do the trick.

A Gubru technician and two Kwackoo aides appeared around a corner, immersed in technical discussions in their own chirping dialect. When they looked up Max hollered and swung his chain. One Kwackoo gained a new apterium as feathers flew. During the backstroke Max yelled, “Boo!” at the staring Gubru, who erupted in a squawk of dismay, leaving a cloud of down in its wake.

“With respect,” Max added, addressing the departing avian’s backside. One never knew if cameras were recording an event. Gailet had told him it was okay to kill birds, just so long as he was polite about it.

Alarms and sirens were going off on all sides. Max pushed a Kwackoo over, vaulted another, and swept up a new flight of steps. One level up he found a target just too tempting to pass by. A large cart carrying about a ton of delicate photonics parts lay abandoned very near the edge of a loading platform. There was no guardrail to the lifter shaft. Max ignored all the shouts and noise that approached from every side and put his shoulder to the back end. Move! he grunted, and the wheeled wagon started forward.

“Hey! He’s over this way!” he heard some chim cry out. Max strained harder, wishing his wounds had not weakened him so. The cart started rolling.

“You! Reb! Stop that!”

There were footsteps, too late, he knew, to prevent inertia from doing its work. The wagon and its load toppled over the edge. Now to follow it, Max thought.

But as the command went to his legs they spasmed suddenly. He recognized the agonizing effects of a neural stunning. Recoil spun him about in time to see the gun held by the chim called Irongrip.

Max’s hands clenched spastically, as if the Probie’s throat were within reach. Desperately, he willed himself to fall backward, into the shaft.

Success! Max felt victory as he plummeted past the landing. The tingling numbness would not last long. Now we’re even, Fiben, he thought.

But it wasn’t the end after all. Max distantly felt his nerve-numbed arms half yanked out of their sockets as he came up suddenly short. The cuffs around his wrists had torn bleeding rents, and the taut chain led upward past the end of the landing. Through the metal mesh of the platform, Max could see Irongrip straining, holding on with all his might. Slowly, the Probie looked down at him, and smiled.

Max sighed in resignation and closed his eyes.

When he came to his senses Max snorted and pulled away involuntarily from an odious smell. He blinked and blearily made out a mustachioed neo-chimp holding a broken snap-capsule in his hand. From it still emitted noxious fumes.

“Ah, awake again, I see.”

Max felt miserable. Of course he ached all over from the stunning and could barely move. But also his arms and wrists seemed to be burning. They were tied behind him, but he could guess they were probably broken.

“Wh… where am I?” he asked.

“You’re at the focus of a hyperspace shunt,” Irongrip told him matter-of-factly.

Max spat. “You’re a Goodall-damned liar,”

“Have it your way.” Irongrip shrugged. “I just figured you deserved an explanation. You see, this machine is a special kind of shunt, what’s called an amplifier. It’s s’pozed to take images out of a brain and make em clear for all to see. During the ceremony it’ll be under Institute control, but their representatives haven’t arrived yet. So today we’re going to overload it just a bit as a test.

“Normally the subject’s supposed to be cooperative, and the process is benign. Today though, well, it just isn’t going to matter that much.”

A sharp, chirping complaint came from behind Irongrip. Through a narrow hatch could be seen the technicians of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution. “Time!” the lead Kwackoo snapped. “Quickly! Make haste!”

“What’s your hurry?” Max asked. “Afraid some of the other Gubru factions may have heard the commotion and be on their way?”

Irongrip looked up from closing the hatch. He shrugged.

“All that means is we’ve got time to ask just one question- But it’ll serve. Just tell us all about Gailet.”

“Never!”

“You won’t be able to help it.” Irongrip laughed. “Ever tried not to think about something? You won’t be able to avoid thoughts about her. And once it’s got somethin’ to get a grip on, the machine will rip the rest out of you.”

“You… you…” Max strugggled for words, but this time they were gone. He writhed, trying to move out of the focus of the massive coiled tubes aimed at him from all sides. But his strength was gone. There was nothing he could do.

Except not think of Gailet Jones. But by trying not to, of course, he was thinking about her! Max moaned, even as the machines began giving out a low hum in superficial accompaniment. All at once he felt as if the gravitic fields of a hundred starships were playing up and down his skin.

And in his mind a thousand images whirled. More and more of them pictured his former employer and friend.

“No!” Max struggled for an idea. He mustn’t try not to think of something. What he had to do was find something else to contemplate. He had to find something new to focus his attention on during the remaining seconds before he was torn apart.

Of course! He let the enemy be his guide. For weeks they had questioned him, asking only about Garthlings, Garthlings, nothing but Garthlings. It had become something of a chant. For him it now became a mantra.

“Where are the pre-sentients?” they had insisted. Max concentrated, and in spite of the pain it just had to make him laugh. “Of… all th’ stupid… dumb… idiotic…”

Contempt for the Galactics filled him. They wanted a projection out of him? Well let them amplify this! Outside, in the mountains and forests, he knew it would be about dawn. He pictured those forests, and the closest thing he could imagine to “Garthlings,” and laughed at the image he had made.

His last moments were spent guffawing over the idiocy of life.

72 Athaclena

The autumn storms had returned again, only this time as a great cyclonic front, rolling down the Valley of the Sind. In the mountains the accelerated winds surged to savage gusts that sloughed the outer leaves from trees and sent them flying in tight eddies. The debris gave shape and substance to whirling devil outlines in the gray sky.

As if in counterpoint, the volcano had begun to grumble as well. Its rumbling complaint was lower, slower in building than the wind, but its tremors made the forest creatures even more nervous as they huddled in their dens or tightly grasped the swaying tree trunks.

Sentience was no certain protection against the gloom. Within their tents, under the mountain’s shrouded flanks, the chims clung to each other and listened to the moaning zephyrs. Now and then one would give in to the tension and disappear screaming into the forest, only to return an hour or so later, disheveled and embarrassed, dragging a trail of torn foliage behind him.

The gorillas also were susceptible, but they showed it in other ways. At night they stared up at the billowing clouds with a quiet, focused concentration, sniffling, as if searching for something expectantly. Athaclena could not quite decide what it reminded her of, that evening, but later, in her own tent under the dense forest canopy, she could easily hear their low, atonal singing as they answered the storm.

It was a lullaby that eased her into sleep, but not without a price.

Expectancy… such a song would, of course, beckon back that which had never completely gone away.

Athaclena’s head tossed back and forth on her pillow. Her tendrils waved — seeking, repelled, probing, compelled. Gradually, as if in no particular hurry, the familiar essence gathered.

“Tutsunucann…” she breathed, unable to awaken or avoid the inevitable. It formed overhead, fashioned out of that which was not.

“Tutsunucann, s’ah brannitsun. A’twillith’t…”

A Tymbrimi knew better than to ask for mercy, especially from Ifni’s universe. But Athaclena had changed into something that was both more and less than mere Tymbrimi. Tutsunucann had allies now. It was joined by visual images, metaphors. Its aura of threat was amplified, made almost palpable, filled out by the added substance of human-style nightmare. “… s’ah brannitsun,…” she sighed, pleading antephialticly in her sleep.

Night winds blew the flaps of her tent, and her dreaming mind fashioned the wings of huge birds. Malevolent, they flew just over the tree tops, their gleaming eyes searching, searching…

A faint volcanic trembling shook the ground beneath her bedroll, and Athaclena shivered in syncopation, imagining burrowing creatures — the dead — the unavenged, wasted Potential of this world — ruined and destroyed by the Bururalli so long ago. They squirmed just underneath the disturbed ground, seeking. …

“S’ah brannitsun, tutsunucann!”

The brush of her own waving tendrils felt like the webs and feet of tiny spiders. Gheer flux sent tiny gnomes wriggling under her skin, busy fashioning unwilled changes.

Athaclena moaned as the glyph of terrible expectant laughter hovered nearer and regarded her, bent over her, reached down -

“General? Mizz Athaclena. Excuse me, ma’am, are you awake? I’m sorry to disturb you, ser, but—”

The chim stopped. He had pulled aside the tent flap to enter, but now he rocked back in dismay as Athaclena sat up suddenly, eyes wide apart, catlike irises dilated, her lips curled back in a rictus of somnolent fear.

She did not appear to be aware of him. He blinked, staring at the pulsations that coursed slowly, like soliton waves, down her throat and shoulders. Above her agitated tendrils he briefly glimpsed something terrible.

He almost fled right then. It took a powerful effort of courage to swallow instead, to bear down, and to choke forth words.

“M-Ma’am, p-please. It’s me… S-Sammy …”

Slowly, as if drawn back by the sheerest force of will, the light of awareness returned to those gold-flecked eyes. They closed, reopened. With a tremulous sigh, Athaclena shuddered. Then she collapsed forward.

Sammy stood there, holding her while she sobbed. At that moment, stunned and frightened and astonished, all he could think of was how light and frail she felt in his arms.

“… That was when Gailet became convinced that any trick, if th’ Ceremony was a trick at all, had to be a subtle one.

“You see, the Suzerain of Propriety seems to have done a complete about-face regarding chim Uplift. It had started out convinced it would find evidence of mismanagement, and perhaps even cause to take neo-chimps away from humans. But now the Suzerain seemed to be earnest in searchin’ out … in searchin out appropriate race representatives…”

The voice of Fiben Bolger came from a small playback unit resting on the rough-hewn logs of Athaclena’s table. She listened to the recording Robert had sent. The chim’s report back at the caves had had its amusing moments. Fiben’s irrepressible good nature and dry wit had helped lift Athaclena’s limp spirits. Now, though, while relating Dr. Gailet Jones’s ideas about Gubru intentions, his voice had dropped, and he sounded reticent, almost embarrassed.

Athaclena could feel Fiben’s discomfort through the vibrations in the air. Sometimes one did not need another’s presence in order to sense their essence.

She smiled at the irony. He is starting to know who and what he is, and it frightens him. Athaclena sympathized. A sane being wished for peace and serenity, not to be the mortar in which the ingredients of destiny are finely ground.

In her hand she held the locket containing her mother’s legacy thread, and her father’s. For the moment, at least, tutsunucann was held at bay. But Athaclena knew somehow that the glyph had returned for good. There would be no sleep now, no rest until tutsunucann changed into something else. Such a glyph was one of the largest known manifestations of quantum mechanics — a probability amplitude that hummed and throbbed in a cloud of uncertainty, pregnant with a thousand million possibilities. Once the wave function collapsed, all that remained would be fate.

“… delicate political maneuverings on so many levels — among the local leaders of th’ invasion force, among factions back on the Gubru homeworld, between the Gubru and their enemies and possible allies, between the Gubru and Earth, and among th’ various Galactic Institutes…

She stroked the locket. Sometimes one does -not need another’s presence in order to sense their essence.

There was too much complexity here. What did Robert think he would accomplish by sending her this taping? Was she supposed to delve into some vast storehouse of sage Galactic wisdom — or perform some incantation — and somehow come up with a policy to guide them through this? Through this?

She sighed. Oh father, how I must be a disappointment to you.

The locket seemed to vibrate under her trembling fingers. For some time it seemed that another trance was settling in, drawing her downward into despair.

“. . .By Darwin, Goodall, and Greenpeace!”

It was the voice of Major Prathachulthorn that jarred her out of it. She listened for a while longer.

“. . . a target! …”

Athaclena shuddered. So. Things were, indeed, quite dire. All was explained now. Particularly the sudden, gravid insistence of an impatient glyph. Wheivthe pellet ran out she turned to her aides, Elayne Soo, Sammy, and Dr. de Shriver. The chims watched her patiently.

“I will seek altitude now,” she told them.

“But — but the storm, ma’am. We aren’t sure it’s passed. And then there’s the volcano. We’ve been talking about an evacuation.”

Athaclena stood up. “I do not expect to be long. Please send nobody along to guard or look out for me, they will only disturb me and make more difficult what I must do.”

She stopped at the flap of the tent then, feeling the wind push at the fabric as if searching for some gap at which to pry. Be patient. I am coming. When she spoke to the chims again, it was in a low voice. “Please have horses ready for when I return.”

The flap dropped after her. The chims looked at each other, then silently went about preparing for the day.

Mount Fossey steamed in places where the vapor could not be entirely attributed to rising dew.»Moist droplets still fell from leaves that shivered in the wind — now waning but still returning now and then in sudden, violent gusts.

Athaclena climbed doggedly up a narrow game trail. She could tett that her wishes were being respected. The chims remained behind, leaving her undisturbed.

The day was beginning with low clouds cutting through the peaks like the vanguards of some aerial invasion. Between them she could see patches of dark blue sky. A human’s eyesight might even have picked out a few stubborn stars.

Athaclena climbed for height, but even more for solitude. In the upper reaches the animal life of the forest was even sparser. She sought emptiness.

At one point the trail was clogged with debris from the storm, sheets of some clothlike material that she soon recognized. Plate ivy parachutes.

They reminded her. Down in the camp the chim techs had been striving to meet a strict timetable, developing variations on gorilla gut bacteria in time to meet nature’s deadline. Now, though, it looked as if Major Prathachulthorn’s schedule would not allow Robert’s plan to be used.

Such foolishness, Athaclena thought. How did humans last even this long, I wonder?

Perhaps they had to be lucky. She had read of their twentieth century, when it seemed more than Ifni’s chance that helped them squeeze past near certain doom… doom not only for themselves but for all future sapient races that might be born of their rich, fecund world. The tale of that narrow escape was perhaps one reason why so many races feared or hated the k’chu’non, the wolflings. It was uncanny, and unexplained to this day.

The Earthlings had a saying, “There, but for the love of God, go I.” The sick, raped paucity of Garth was mild compared to what they might easily have done to Terra.

How many of us would have done better under such circumstances? That was the question that underlay all the smug, superior posturings, and all of the contempt pouring from the great clans. For they had never been tested by the ages of ignorance Mankind suffered. What might it have felt like, to have no patrons, no Library, no ancient wisdom, only the bright flame of mind, unchanneled and undirected, free to challenge the Universe or to consume the world? The question was one few clans dared ask themselves.

She brushed aside the little parachutes. Athaclena edged past the snagged cluster of early spore carriers and continued her ascent, pondering the vagaries of destiny.

At last she came to a stony slope where the southern outlook gave a view of more mountains and, in the far distance, just the faintest possible colored trace of a sloping steppe. She breathed deeply and took out the locket her father had given her.

Growing daylight did not keep away the thing that had begun to form amid her waving tendrils. This time Athaclena did not even try to stop it. She ignored it — always the best thing to do when an observer does not yet want to collapse probability into reality.

Her fingers worked the clasp, the locket opened, and she flipped back the lid.

Your marriage was true, she thought of her parents. For where two threads had formerly lain, now there was only one larger one, shimmering upon the velvety lining.

An end curled around one of her fingers. The locket tumbled to the rocky ground and lay there forgotten as she plucked the other end out of the air. Stretched out, the tendril hummed, at first quietly. But she held it tautly in front of her, allowing the wind to stroke it, and she began to hear harmonics.

Perhaps she should have eaten, should have built her strength for this thing she was about to attempt. It was something few of her race did even once in their lifetimes. On occasions Tymbrimi had died…

“A t’ith’tuanoo, Uthacalthing,” she breathed. And she added her mother’s name. “A t’ith’tuanine, Mathicluanna!”

The throbbing increased. It seemed to carry up her arms, to resonate against her heartbeat. Her own tendrils responded to the notes and Athaclena began to sway. “A t’ith’tuanoo, Uthacalthing …”

“It’s a beauty, all right. Maybe a few more weeks’ work would make it more potent, but this batch will do, an’ it’ll be ready in time for when the ivy sheds.”

Dr. de Shriver put the culture back into its incubator. Their makeshift laboratory on the flanks of the mountain had been sheltered from the winds. The storm had not interfered with the experiments. Now, the fruit of their labors seemed nearly ripe.

Her assistant grumbled, though. “What’s th’ use? The Gubru’d just come up with countermeasures. And anyway, the major says the attack is gonna take place before the stuffs ready to be used.”

De Shriver took off her glasses. “The point is that we keep working until Miss Athaclena tells us otherwise. I’m a civilian. So’re you. Fiben and Robert may have to obey the chain of command when they don’t like it, but you and I can choose…”

Her voice trailed off when she saw that Sammy wasn’t listening any longer. He stared over her shoulder. She whirled to see what he was looking at.

If Athaclena had appeared strange, eerie this morning, after her terrifying nightmare, now her features made Dr. de Shriver gasp. The disheveled alien girl blinked with eyes narrow and close together in fatigue. She clutched the tent pole as they hurried forward, but when the chims tried to move her to a cot she shook her head.

“No,” she said simply. “Take me to Robert. Take me to Robert now.”

The gorillas were singing again, their low music without melody. Sammy ran out to fetch Benjamin while de Shriver settled Athaclena into a chair. Not knowing what to do, she spent a few moments brushing leaves and dirt from the young Tymbrimi’s ruff. The tendrils of her corona seemed to give off a heavy, fragrant heat that she could feel with her fingers.

And above them, the thing that tutsunucann had become made the air seem to ripple even before the eyes of the befuddled chim.

Athaclena sat there, listening to the gorillas’ song, and feeling for the first time as if she understood it.

All, all would play their role, she now knew. The chims would not be very happy about what was to come. But that was their problem. Everybody had problems.

“Take me to Robert,” she breathed again.

73 Uthacalthing

He trembled, standing there with his back to the rising sun, feeling as if he had been sucked as dry as a husk.

Never before had a metaphor felt more appropriate. Uthacalthing blinked, slowly returning to the world … to the dry steppe facing the looming Mountains of Mulun. All at once it seemed that he was old, and the years lay heavier than ever before.

Deep down, on the nahakieri level, he felt a numbness. After all of this, there was no way to tell if Athaclena had even survived the experience of drawing so much into herself.

She must have felt great need, he thought. For the first time his daughter had attempted something neither of her parents could ever have prepared her for. Nor was this something one picked up in school.

“You have returned,” Kault said, matter-of-factly. The Thennanin, Uthacalthing’s companion for so many months, leaned on a stout staff and watched him from a few meters away. They stood in the midst of a sea of brown savannah grass, their long shadows gradually shortening with the rising sun.

“Did you receive a message of some sort?” Kault asked. He had the curiosity shared by many total nonpsychics about matters that must seem, to him, quite unnatural.

“I — ” Uthacalthing moistened his lips. But how could he explain that he had not really received anything at all? No, what happened was that his daughter had taken him up on an offer he had made, in leaving both his own thread and his dead wife’s in her hands. She had called in the debt that parents owe a child for bringing her, unasked, into a strange world.

One should never make an offer without knowing full well what will happen if it is accepted.

Indeed, she drained me dry. He felt as if there was nothing left. And after all that, there was still no guarantee she had even survived the experience. Or that it had left her still sane.

Shall I lie down and die, then? Uthacalthing shivered.

No, I think. Not quite yet.

“I did experience a communion, of sorts,” he told Kault.

“Will the Gubru be able to detect this thing you have done?”

Uthacalthing could not even craft a palanq shrug. “I do not think so. Maybe.” His tendrils lay flat, like human hair. “I don’t know.”

The Thennanin sighed, his breathing slits flapping. “I wish you would be honest with me, colleague. It pains me to be forced to believe that you are hiding things from me.”

How Uthacalthing had tried and tried to get Kault to utter those words! And now he could not really bring himself to care. “What do you mean?” he asked.

The Thennanin blew in exasperation. “I mean that I have begun to suspect that you know more than you are telling me about this fascinating creature I have seen traces of. I warn you, Uthacalthing, I am building a device that will solve this riddle for me. You would be well served to be direct with me before I discover the truth all by myself!”

Uthacalthing nodded. “I understand your warning. Now, though, perhaps we had better be walking again. If the Gubru did detect what just happened, and come to investigate, we should try to be far from here before they arrive.”

He owed Athaclena that much, still. Not to be captured before she could make use of what she had taken.

“Very well, then,” Kault said. “We shall speak of this later.”

Without any great interest, more out of habit than for any other reason, Uthacalthing led his companion toward the mountains — in a direction selected — again by habit — by a faint blue twinkling only his eyes could see.

74 Gailet

The new Planetary Branch Library was a beauty. Its beige highlights glistened on a site recently cleared atop Sea Bluff Park, a kilometer south of the Tymbrimi Embassy.

The architecture did not blend as well as the old branch had, into the neo-Fullerite motif of Port Helenia. But it was quite stunning nevertheless — a windowless cube whose pastel shades contrasted well with the nearby chalky, cretaceous outcrops.

Gailet stepped out into a cloud of dry dust as the aircar settled onto the landing apron. She followed her Kwackoo escort up a paved walkway toward the entrance of the towering edifice.

Most of Port Helenia had turned out to watch, a few weeks ago, as a huge freighter the size of a Gubru battleship cruised lazily out of a chalybeous sky and lowered the structure into place. For a large part of the afternoon the sun had been eclipsed while technicians from the Library Institute set the sanctuary of knowledge firmly into place in its new home.

Gailet wondered if the new Library would ever really benefit the citizens of Port Helenia. There were landing pads on all sides, but no provision had been made for groundcar or bicycle or foot access to these bluffs from the town nearby. As she passed through the ornate columned portal, Gailet realized that she was probably the first chim ever to enter the building.

Inside, the vaulted ceiling cast a soft light that seemed to come from everywhere at once. A great ruddy cube dominated the center of the hall, and Gailet knew at once that this was, indeed, an expensive setup. The main data store was many times larger than the old one, a few miles from here. It might even be bigger than Earth’s Main Library, where she had done research at La Paz.

But the vastness was mostly empty compared to the constant, round-the-clock bustle she was used to. There were Gubru, of course, and Kwackoo. They stood at study stations scattered about the broad hall. Here and there avians clustered in small groups. Gailet could see their beaks move in sharp jerks, and their feet were constantly in motion as they argued. But no sound at all escaped the mufflsd privacy zones.

In ribbons and hoods and feather dyes she saw the colors of Propriety, of Accountancy, and of Soldiery. For the most part, each faction kept apart in its own area. There was bristling and some ruffling of down when the follower of one Suzerain passed too close to another.

In one place, however, a multi-hued gaggle of fluttering Gubru displayed that some communication remained among the factions. There was much head ducking and preening and gesturing toward floating holographic displays, all apparently as much ritualistic as based on fact and reason.

As Gailet hurried by, several of the hopping, chattering birds turned to stare at her. Pointing talons and beak gestures made Gailet guess that they knew exactly who she was, and what she was supposed to represent.

She did not hesitate or linger. Gailet’s cheeks felt warm.

“Is there any way I can be of service to you, miss?”

At first Gailet thought that what stood at the dais, directly beneath the rayed spiral of the Five Galaxies, was a decorative plant of some sort. When it addressed her, she jumped slightly.

The “plant” spoke perfect Anglic! Gailet took in the rounded, bulbous foliage, lined with silvery bits which tinkled gently as it moved. The brown trunk led down to knobby rootlets that were mobile, allowing the creature to move in a slow, awkward shuffle.

A Kanten, she realized. Of course, the Institutes provided a Librarian.

The vege-sentient Kanten were old friends of Earth. Individual Kanten had advised the Terragens Council since the early days after Contact, helping the wolfling humans weave their way through the complex, tricky jungle of Galactic politics and win their original status as patrons of an independent clan. Nevertheless, Gailet restrained her initial surge of hope. She reminded herself that those who entered the service of the great Galactic Institutes were supposed to forsake all prior loyalties, even to their own lines, in favor of a holier mission. Impartiality was the best she could hope for, here.

“Urn, yes,” she said, remembering to bow. “I want to look up information on Uplift Ceremonies.”

The little bell-like things — probably the being’s sensory apparatus — made a chiming that almost sounded amused.

“That is a very broad topic, miss.”

She had expected that response and was ready with an answer. Still, it was unnerving talking with an intelligent being without anything even faintly resembling a face. “I’ll start with a simple overview then, if you please.”

“Very well, miss. Station twenty-two is formatted for use by humans and neo-chimpanzees. Please go there and make yourself comfortable. Just follow the blue line.”

She turned and saw a shimmering hologram take form next to her. The blue trail seemed to hang in space, leading around the dais and on toward a far corner of the chamber. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

As she followed the guide trail she imagined she heard sleigh bells behind her.

Station twenty-two was like a friendly, familiar song. A chair and desk and beanbag sat next to a standard holo-console. There were even well-known versions of datawells and styluses, all neatly arranged on a rack. She sat at the desk gratefully. Gailet had been afraid she would have to stand stiltwise, craning her neck to use a Gubru study station.

As it was, she felt nervous. Gailet hopped slightly as the display came alight with a slight “pop.” Anglic text filled the central space. PLEASE ASK FOR ADJUSTMENTS ORALLY. REQUESTED REMEDIAL SURVEY WILL BEGIN AT YOUR SIGNAL.

“Remedial survey …” Gailet muttered. But yet, it would be best to begin at the simplest level. Not only would it guarantee that she had not forgotten some vital fundamental, but it-would tell her what the Galactics themselves considered most basic.

“Proceed,” she said.

The side displays came alight with pictures, displaying images of faces, the faces of other beings on worlds far away in both space and time.

“When nature brings forth a new pre-sentient race, all Galactic society rejoices. For it is then that the adventure of Uplift is about to begin. …”

Soon the old patterns reasserted themselves. Gailet swam easily into the flow of information, drinking from the font of knowledge. Her datawell filled with notes and cross-references. Soon she lost all sense of the passage of time.

Food appeared on the desktop without Gailet ever becoming aware of how it arrived. A nearby enclosure took care of her other needs, when nature’s call grew too insistent to ignore.

During some periods of Galactic history, Uplift Ceremonies have been almost purely ceremonial. Patron species have been responsible for declaring their clients suitable, and their word was simply accepted that their charges were ready. There have been other epochs, however, in which the role of the Uplift Institute has been much stronger, such as during the Sumubulum Meritocracy, when the entire process was under direct Institution supervision in all cases.

The present era falls somewhere in between these extremes, featuring patron responsibility but with medium to extensive Institute involvement. The latter participation has increased since a rash of Uplift failures forty to sixty thousand GYU’s ago* resulted in several severe and embarrassing ecological holocausts (Ref: Gl’kahesh, Bururalli, Sstienn, MuhurnS.) Today the patron of a client cannot vouch alone for its client’s development. It must allow close observation by the client’s Stage Consort, and by the Uplift Institute.

*GYU = Galactic year unit (approximately fourteen Earth months)

Uplift Ceremonies are now more than perfunctory celebrations. They serve two other major purposes. First, they allow representatives from the client race to be tested — under rigorous and stressful circumstances — to satisfy the Institute that the race is ready to assume the rights and duties appropriate to the next Stage. Also, the ceremony allows the client race an opportunity to choose a new consort for the subsequent Stage, to watch over it and, if necessary, to intercede on its behalf.

The criteria used in testing depend upon the level of development the client race has reached. Among other important factors are phagocity type (e.g., carnivore, herbivore, autophagic, or ergogenic), modality of movement (e.g., bipedal or quadrupedal walker, amphibious, roller, or sessile), mental technique (e.g., associative, extrapolative, intuitive, holographic, or nulutative)…

Slowly she worked her way through the “remedial” stuff. It was fairly heavy plodding. This Library branch would need some new translation routines if the chim-on-the-street in Port Helenia was going to be able to use the vast storehouse of knowledge. Assuming Joe and Jane Chim ever got the opportunity.

Nevertheless, it was a wonderful edifice — far, far greater than the miserable little branch they’d had before. And unlike back at La Paz, there was not the perpetual hustle and bustle of hundreds, thousands of frantic users, waving priority slips and arguing over access timeslots. Gailet felt as if she could just sink into this place for months, years, drinking and drinking knowledge until it leaked out through her very pores.

For instance, here was a reference to how special arrangements were made to allow Uplift among machine cultures. And there was one brief, tantalizing paragraph about a race of hydrogen breathers which had seceded from that mysterious parallel civilization and actually applied for membership in Galactic society. She ached to follow that and many other fascinating leads, but Gailet knew she simply did not have the time. She had to concentrate on the rules regarding bipedal, warm-blooded, omnivorous Stage Two clients with mixed mental faculties, and even that made for a daunting reading list.

Narrow it down, she thought. So she tried to focus on ceremonies which take place under contention or in time of war. Even under those constraints she found it hard slogging. Everything was all so complicated! It made her despair over the shared ignorance of her people and clan.

. .’. whether an agreement of co-participation is or is not made in advance, it can and shall be verified by the Institutes in a manner taking into account methods of adjudication considered traditional by the two or more parties involved…

Gailet did not recall falling asleep on the beanbag. But for some time it was a raft, floating upon a dim sea which rocked to the rhythm of her breathing. After a while, mists seemed to close in, coalescing into a black and white dream-scape of vaguely threatening shapes. She saw contorted images of the dead, her parents, and poor Max.

“Mm-mm, no,” she muttered. At one point she jerked sharply. “No!”

She started to rise, began to emerge from slumber. Her eyes fluttered, fragments of dreams clinging in shreds to the lids. A Gubru seemed to hover overhead, holding a mysterious device, like those which had probed and peered at her and Fiben. But the image wavered and fell apart as the avian pressed a button on the machine. She slumped back, the Gubru image rejoining the many others in her disturbed sleep.

The dream state passed and her breathing settled into the slow cycle of deep somnolence.

She only awoke sometime later, when she dimly sensed a hand stroke her leg. Then it seized her ankle and pulled hard.

Gailet’s breath caught as she sat up quickly, before she could even bring her eyes to focus. Her heart raced. Then vision cleared and she saw that a rather large chim squatted beside her. His hand still rested on her leg, and his grin was instantly recognizable. The waxed handlebar mustache was only the most superficial of many attributes she had come to detest.

So suddenly drawn out of sleep, she had to take a mo-ment to find speech again. “Wh… what are you doing here?” she asked acerbically, yanking her leg away from his grasp.

Irongrip looked amused. “Now, is that the way to say hello to someone as important as I am to you?”

“You do serve your purpose well,” she admitted. “As a bad example!” Gailet rubbed her eyes and sat up. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you bothering me? Your incompetent Probies aren’t in charge of guarding anybody anymore.”

The chen’s expression soured only slightly. Obviously he was relishing something. “Oh, I just figured I ought to come on down to th’ Library and do some studying, just like you.”

“You, studying? Here?” She laughed. “I had to get special permission from the Suzerain. You’re not even supposed^—”

“Now those were the exact words I was about to use,” he interrupted.

Gailet blinked. “What?”

“I mean, I was gonna tell you that the Suzerain told me to come down here and study with you. After all, partners ought to get to know each other well, especially before they step forward together as race-representatives.”

Gailet’s breath drew in audibly. “You… ?” Her head whirled. “I don’t believe you!”

Irongrip shrugged. “You needn’t sound so surprised. My genetic scores are in the high nineties almost across the board… except in two or three little categories that shouldn’t ever have counted in the first place.”

That Gailet could believe easily enough. Irongrip was obviously clever and resourceful, and his aberrant strength could only be considered an asset by the Uplift Board. But sometimes the price was just too great to pay. “All that means is that your loathsome qualities must be even worse than I had imagined.”

The chen rocked back and laughed. “Oh, by human standards, I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “By those criteria, most Probationers shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near chimmies and children! Still standards change. And now I have the opportunity to set a new style.”

Gailet felt a chill. It was just sinking in what Irongrip was driving at.

“You’re a liar!”

“Admitted, mea culpa.” He pretended to beat his breast. “But I’m not lying about being in the testing party, along with a few of my fellow donner boys. There’ve been some changes, you see, since your little mama’s boy and teacher’s pet ran off into the jungle with our Sylvie.”

Gailet wanted to spit. “Fiben’s ten times the chen you are, you, you atavistic mistake! The Suzerain of Propriety would never choose you as his replacement!”

Irongrip grinned and raised a finger. “Aha. There’s where we misunderstand each other. You see we’ve been talking about different birds, you and I.”

“Different …” Gailet gasped. Her hand covered the open collar of her shirt. “Oh Goodall!”

“You get it,” he said, nodding. “Smart, aristophrenic little monkey you are.”

Gailet slumped. What surprised her most was the depth of her mourning. At that moment she felt as if her heart had been torn out.

We were pawns all along, she thought. Oh, poor Fiben!

This explained why Fiben had not been brought back the evening he took off with Sylvie. Or the next day, or the next. Gailet had been so sure that the “escape” would turn out to have been just another propriety and intelligence test.

But clearly it wasn’t. It had to have been arranged by one or both of the other Gubru commanders, perhaps as a way to weaken the Suzerain of Propriety. And what better way to do that than by robbing it of one of its most carefully chosen chim “race-representatives.” The theft couldn’t even be pinned on anybody, for no body would ever be found.

Of course the Gubru would have to go ahead with the ceremony. It was too late to recall the invitations. But each of the three Suzerains might prefer to see different outcomes.

Fiben …

“So, professor? Where do we start? You can start teaching me how to act like a proper white card now.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Go away,” she said. “Just please go away.”

There were more words, more sarcastic comments. But she blocked them out behind a numbing curtain of pain. Tears, at least, she managed to withhold until she sensed that he was gone. Then she burrowed into the soft bag as if it was her mother’s arms, and wept.

75 Galactics

The other two danced around the pedestal, puffing and cooing. Together they chanted in perfect harmony.

The Suzerain of Propriety shivered, fighting the changes. They were completely united in opposition now. The Suzerain of Cost and Caution had given up hope of achieving the prized position — and was supporting the Suzerain of Beam and Talon in its bid for dominance. Caution’s objective was now second place — the male Molt-status.

Two out of three had agreed then. But in order to achieve their objectives, both sexual and in policy, they had to bring the Suzerain of Propriety down off its perch. They had to force it to step onto the soil of Garth.

The Suzerain of Propriety fought them, squawking well-timed counterpoint to disrupt their rhythm and inserting pronouncements of logic to foil their arguments.

A proper Molt was not supposed to go this way. This was coercion, not true consensus. This was rape.

For this the Roost Masters had not invested so much hope in the.Triumvirate. They needed policy. Wisdom. The other two seemed to have forgotten this. They wanted to take the easy way out with the Uplift Ceremony. They wanted to make a terrible gamble in defiance of the Codes.

If only the first Suzerain of Cost and Caution had lived! The priest mourned. Sometimes one only knew the value of another after that one was gone, gone.

Against their united voice it was only a matter of time, of course. Their unison pierced through the wall of honor and resolve the priest had built around itself and penetrated down to the realm of hormone and instinct. The Molt hung suspended, held back by the recalcitrance of one member, but it would not be forestalled forever.

The Suzerain of Propriety shuddered and held on. How much longer it could do so, it did not know.

75 The Caves

“Clennie!” Robert shouted joyfully. When he saw the mounted figures come around a bend in the trail he nearly dropped his end of the missile he and a chim were carrying out of the caves.

“Hey! Watchit with that thing, you… captain.” One of Prathachulthorn’s Marine corporals corrected himself at the last second. In recent weeks they had begun treating Robert with more respect — he’d been earning it — but on occasion the noncoms still showed their fundamental contempt for anyone non-Corps.

Another chim worker hurried up and easily lifted the nose cone out of Robert’s grasp, looking disgusted that a human should even try lifting things.

Robert ignored both insults. He ran to the trailhead just as the band of travelers arrived and caught the halter of Athaclena’s horse. His other hand reached out for her.

“Clennie, I’m glad you …” His voice faltered for an instant. Even as she squeezed his hand he blinked and tried to cover up his discomfiture. “. . . urn, I’m glad you could come.”

Athaclena’s smile was unlike any he remembered her ever wearing before, and there was sadness in her aura that he had never kenned.

“Of course I came, Robert.” She smiled. “Could you ever doubt I would?”

He helped her dismount. Underneath her superficial air of control he could feel her tremble. Love, you have gone through changes. As if she sensed his thought, she reached up and touched the side of his face. “There are a few ideas shared by both Galactic society and yours, Robert. In both, sages have spoken of life as being something like a wheel.”

“A wheel?”

“Yes.” Her eyes glittered. “It turns. It moves forward. And yet it remains the same.”

With a sense of relief he felt her again. Underneath the changes she was still Athaclena. “I missed you,” he said.

“And I, you.” She smiled. “Now tell me about this major and his plans.”

Robert paced the floor of the tiny storage chamber, stacked to the overhead stalactites with supplies. “I can argue with him. I can try persuasion. Hell, he doesn’t even mind if I yell at him, so long as it’s in private, and so long as after all the debate is over I still leap two meters when he says ‘Jump.’ ” Robert shook his head. “But I can’t actively obstruct him, Clennie. Don’t ask me to break my oath.”

Robert obviously felt caught between conflicting loyalties. Athaclena could sense his tension.

His arm still in a sling, Fiben Bolger watched them argue, but he kept his silence for the time being.

Athaclena shook her head. “Robert, I explained to you that what Major Prathachulthorn has planned is likely to prove disastrous.”

“Then tell himl”

Of course she had tried, over dinner that very evening. Prathachulthorn had listened courteously to her careful explanation of the possible consequences of attacking the Gubru ceremonial site. His expression had been indulgent. But when she had finished, he only asked one question. Would the assault be considered one against the Earthlings’ legitimate enemy, or against the Uplift Institute itself.

“After the delegation from the Institute arrives, the site becomes their property,” she had said. “An attack then would be catastrophic for humanity.”

“But before then?” he had asked archly.

Athaclena had shaken her head irritably. “Until then the Gubru still own the site. But it’s not a military site! It was built for what might be called holy purposes. The propriety of the act, without handling it just right …”

It had gone on for some time, until it became clear that all argument would be useless. Prathachulthorn promised to take her opinions into account, ending the matter. They all knew what the Marine officer thought of taking advice from “E.T. children.”

“We’ll send a message to Megan,” Robert suggested.

“I believe you have already done that,” Athaclena answered.

He scowled, confirming her guess. Of course it violated all protocol to go over Prathachulthorn’s head. At minimum it would seem like a spoiled boy crying to mama. It might even be a court-martial offense.

That he had done so proved that it wasn’t out of fear for himself that Robert was reticent about directly opposing his commander, but out of loyalty to his sworn oath.

Indeed, he was right. Athaclena respected his honor.

But I am not ruled by the same duty, she thought. Fiben, who had been silent so far, met her gaze. He rolled his eyes expressively. About Robert they were in complete agreement.

“I already suggested to th’ major that knocking out the ceremonial site might actually be doin’ the enemy a favor. After all, they built it to use it on Garthlings. Whatever their scheme with us chims, it’s probably a last ditch effort to make up some of their losses. But what if th’ site is insured? We blow it up, they blame us and collect?”

“Major Prathachulthorn mentioned your idea about that.” Athaclena said to Fiben. “I find it acute, but I’m afraid he did not credit it as very likely.”

“Y’mean he thought it was a cuckoo pile of apeshi—”

He stopped as they heard footsteps on the cool stone outside. “Knock knock!” A feminine voice said from beyond the curtain. “May I come in?”

“Please do, Lieutenant McCue,” Athaclena said. “We were nearly finished anyway.” The dusky-skinned human woman entered and sat on one of the crates next to Robert. He gave her a faint smile but soon was staring down at his hands again. The muscles in his arms rippled and tensed as his fists clenched and unclenched.

Athaclena felt a twinge when McCue placed her hand on Robert’s knee and spoke to him. “His nibs wants another battle-planning conference before we all turn in.” She turned to look at Athaclena and smiled. Her head inclined. “You’re welcome to attend should you wish. You’re our respected guest, Athaclena.”

Athaclena recalled when she had been the mistress of these caverns and had commanded an army. I must not let that influence me, she reminded herself. All that mattered now was to see that these creatures harmed themselves as little as possible in the coming days.

And, if at all possible, she was dedicated to furthering a certain jest. One that she, herself, still barely understood, but had recently come to appreciate.

“No, thank you, lieutenant. I think that I shall go say hello to a few of my chim friends and then retire. It was a long several days’ ride.”

Robert glanced back at her as he left with his human lover. Over his head a metaphorical cloud seemed to hover, flickering with lightning strokes. I did not know you could do that with glyphs, Athaclena wondered. Every day, it seemed, one learned something new.

Fiben’s loose, unhinged grin was a boost as he followed the humans. Did she catch a sense of something from him? A conspiratorial wink?

When they were gone, Athaclena started rummaging through her kit. I am not bound by their duty, she reminded herself. Or by their laws.

The caves could get quite dark, especially when one extinguished the solitary glow bulb that illuminated an entire stretch of the hallway. Down here eyesight was not an advantage, but a Tymbrimi corona gave quite an edge.

Athaclena Grafted a small squadron of simple but special glyphs. The first one had the sole purpose of darting ahead of her and to the sides, scouting out a path through the blackness. Since cold, hard matter was searing to that which was not, it was easy to tell where the walls and obstacles lay. The little wisp of nothing avoided them adroitly.

Another glyph spun overhead, reaching forth to make certain that no one was aware of an intruder in these lower levels. There were no chims sleeping in this stretch of hallway, which had been set aside for human officers.

Lydia and Robert were out on patrol. That left only one aura beside hers in this part of the cave. Athaclena stepped toward it carefully.

The third glyph silently gathered strength, awaiting its turn.

Slowly, silently, she padded over the packed dung of a thousand generations of flying insectivore creatures who had dwelt here until being ousted by Earthlings and their noise. She breathed evenly, counting in the silent human fashion to help maintain the discipline of her thoughts.

Keeping three watchful glyphs up at once was something she’d not have attempted only a few days ago. Now it seemed easy, natural, as if she had done it hundreds of times.

She had ripped this and so many other skills away from Uthacalthing, using a technique seldom spoken of among the Tymbrimi, and even less often tried.

Turning jungle fighter, trysting with a human, and now this. Oh, my classmates would be amazed.

She wondered if her father retained any of the craft she had so rudely taken from him.

Father, you and mother arranged this long ago. Yo« prepared me without my even knowing it. Did you already know, even then, that it would be necessary someday?

Sadly, she suspected she had taken away more than Uthacalthing could afford to spare. And yet, it is not enough. There were huge gaps. In her heart she felt certain that this thing encompassing worlds and species could not reach its conclusion without her father himself.

The scout glyph hovered before a hanging strip of cloth. Athaclena approached, unable to see the covering, even after she touched .it with her fingertips. The scout unraveled and melted back into the waving tendrils of her corona.

She brushed the cloth aside with deliberate slowness and crept into the small side chamber. The watch glyph sensed no sign that anyone was aware within. She only kenned the steady rhythms of human slumber.

Major Prathachulthorn did not snore, of course. And his sleep was light, vigilant. She stroked the edges of his ever-present psi-shield, which guarded his thoughts, dreams, and military knowledge.

Their soldiers are good, and getting better, she thought. Over the years Tymbrimi advisors had worked hard to teach their wolfling allies to be fierce Galactic warriors. And the Tymbrimi, in truth, often came away having learned some fascinating bits of trickery themselves, ideas that could never have been imagined by a race brought up under Galactic culture.

But of all Earth’s services, the Terragens Marines used no alien advisors. They were anachronisms, the true wolflings.

The glyph z’schutan cautiously approached the slumbering human. It settled down, and Athaclena saw it metaphorically as a globe of liquid metal. It touched Prathachulthorn’s psi-shield and slid in golden rivulets over it, swiftly coating it under a fine sheen.

Athaclena breathed a little easier. Her hand slipped into her pocket and withdrew a glassy ampule. She stepped closer and carefully knelt next to the cot. As she brought the vial of anesthetic gas near the sleeping man’s face, her fingers tensed.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, casually.

Athaclena gasped. Before she could move his hands darted out, catching her wrists! In the dim light all she could see were the whites of his eyes. Although he was awake his psi-shield remained undisturbed, still radiating waves of slumber. She realized that it had been a phantasm all along, a carefully fabricated trap!

“You Eatees just have to keep on underrating us, don’t you? Even you smarty-pants Tymbrimi never seem to get it.”

Gheer hormones surged. Athaclena heaved and pulled to get free, but it was like trying to escape a metal vice. Her clawed nails scratched, but he nimbly kept her fingers out of reach of his callused hands. When she tried to roll aside and kick he deftly applied slight pressure to her arms, using them as levers to keep her on her knees. The force made her groan aloud. The gas pellet tumbled from her limp hand.

“You see,” Prathachulthorn said in an amiable voice, “there are some of us who think it’s a mistake to compromise at all. What can we accomplish by trying to turn ourselves into good Galactic citizens?” he sneered. “Even if it worked, we’d only become horrors, awful things totally divorced from what it means to be human. Anyway, that option isn’t even open. They won’t let us become citizens. The deck is stacked. The dice are loaded. We both know that, don’t we?”

Athaclena’s breath came in ragged gasps. Long after it was clearly useless, the gheer flux kept her jerking and fighting againt the human’s incredible strength. Agility and quickness were to no avail against his reflexes and training.

“We have our secrets, you know,” Prathachulthorn confided. “Things we do not tell our Tymbrimi friends, or even most of our own people. Would you like to know what they are? Would you?”

Athaclena could not find the breath to answer. Prathachulthorn’s eyes held something feral, almost animally fierce.

“Well, if I told you some of them it would be your death sentence,” he said… “And I’m not ready to decide that quite yet. So I’ll tell you one fact some of your people already know.”

In an instant he had transferred both of her wrists to one hand. The other sought and found her throat.

“You see, we Marines are also taught how to disable, and even kill, members of an allied Eatee race. Would you like to know how long it will take me to render you unconscious, miss? Tell you what. Why don’t you start counting?”

Athaclena heaved and bucked, but it was useless. A painful pressure closed in around her throat. Air started getting thick. Distantly, she heard Prathachulthorn mutter to himself.

“This universe is a goddam awful place.”

She would never have imagined it could get blacker, but an even deeper darkness started closing in. Athaclena wondered if she would ever awaken again. I’m sorry, father. She expected those to be her last thoughts.

Continued consciousness came as something of a surprise then. The pressure on her throat, still painful, eased ever so slightly. She sucked a narrow stream of air and tried to figure out what was happening. Prathachulthorn’s arms were quivering. She could tell he was bearing down hard, but somehow the force wasn’t arriving!

Her overheated corona was no help. It was in total ignorance and amazement — when Prathachulthorn’s grip loosened — that she dropped limply to the floor.

The human was breathing hard, now. There were grunts of exertion, and then a crash as the cot toppled over. A water pitcher shattered and there was a sound like that a datawell would make, getting smashed.

Athaclena felt something under her hand. The ampule, she realized. But what had happened to Prathachulthorn?

Fighting enzyme exhaustion, she crawled in a random direction until her hand came down upon the broken datawell. By accident her fingers brushed the power switch, and the rugged machine’s screen spilled forth a dim luminescence.

In that glow, Athaclena saw a stark tableau… the human mel straining — his powerful muscles bulged and sinewy — against two long brown arms that held him from behind.

Prathachulthorn bucked and hissed. He threw his weight left and right. But every effort to get free was to no avail. Athaclena saw a pair of brown eyes over the man’s shoulder. She hesitated for only a moment, then hurried forward with the ampule.

Now Prathachulthorn had no psi-shield. His hatred was open for all to kenn if they had the power. He heaved desperately as she brought forward the little cylinder and broke it under his nose.

“He’s holdin’ his breath,” the neo-chimpanzee muttered as the cloud of blue vapor hovered around the man’s nostrils, then slowly fell groundward.

“That is all right,” Athaclena answered. From her pocket she drew forth ten more.

When he saw them, Prathachulthorn let out a faint sigh. He redoubled his efforts to get away, but all it served was to bring closer the moment when he would finally have to breathe. The man was stubborn. It took five minutes, and even then Athaclena suspected he had fainted of anoxia before he ever felt the drug.

“Some guy,” Fiben said when he finally let go. “Goodall, they make them Marines strong.” He shuddered and collapsed next to the unconscious man.

Athaclena sat limply across from him.

“Thank you, Fiben,” she said quietly.

He shrugged. “Hell, what’s treason an’ assault on a patron? All in a day’s work.”

She indicated his sling, where his left arm had rested ever since the evening of his escape from Port Helenia. “Oh, this?” Fiben grinned. “Well, I guess I have been milking the sympathy a bit. Please don’t tell anybody, okay?”

Then, in a more serious mood, he looked down at Prathachulthorn. “I may not be any expert. But I’ll bet I didn’t win any points with th’ old Uplift Board, tonight.”

He glanced up at Athaclena, then smiled faintly. In spite of everything she had been through, she found she could not help but find everything suddenly hilarious.

She found herself laughing — quietly, but with her father’s rich tones. Somehow, that did not surprise her at all.

The job wasn’t over. Wearily, Athaclena had to follow as Fiben carried the unconscious human through the dim tunnels. As they tiptoed past Prathachulthorn’s dozing corporal, Athaclena reached out with her tender, almost limp tendrils and soothed the Marine’s slumber. He mumbled and rolled over on his cot. Especially wary now, Athaclena made doubly sure the man’s psi-shield was no ruse, that he actually slept soundly.

Fiben puffed, his lips curled back in a grimace as she led him over a tumbled slope of debris from an ancient landslide and into a side passage that was almost certainly unknown to the Marines. At least it wasn’t on the. cave map she had accessed earlier today from the rebel database.

Fiben’s aura was pungent each time he stubbed his toes in the dim, twisting climb. No doubt he wanted to mutter imprecations over Prathachulthorn’s dense weight. But he kept his comments within until they emerged at last into the humid, silent night.

“Sports an’ mutations!” he sighed as he laid his burden down. “At least Prathachulthorn isn’t one of th’ tall ones. I couldn’t’ve managed with his hands and feet dragging in the dust all the way.”

He sniffed the air. There was no moon, but a fog spilled over the nearby cliffs like a vaporous flood, and it gave off a faint lambience. Fiben glanced back at Athaclena. “So? Now what, chief? There’s gonna be a liornet’s nest here in a few hours, especially after Robert and that Lieutenant McCue get back. Do you want I should go get Tycho and haul away this bad example to Earthling clients for you? It’ll mean deserting, but what the hell, I guess I was never a very good soldier.”

Athaclena shook her head. She sought with her corona and found the traces she was looking for. “No, Fiben. I could not ask that of you. Besides, you have another task. You escaped from Port Helenia in order to warn us of the Gubru offer. Now you must return there and face your destiny.”

Fiben frowned. “Are you sure? You don’t need me?”

Athaclena brought her hands over her mouth. She trilled the soft call of a night bird. From the darkness downslope there came a faint reply. She turned back to Fiben. “Of course I do. We all need you. But where you can do the most good is down there, near the sea. I also sense that you want to go back.”

Fiben pulled at his thumbs. “Gotta be crazy, I guess.”

She smiled. “No. It is only one more indicator that the Suzerain of Propriety knew its business in choosing you… even though it might prefer that you showed a little more respect to your patrons.”

Fiben tensed. Then he seemed to sense some of her irony. He smiled. There was the soft clattering of horses’ hooves on the trail below. “All right,” he said as he bent over to pick up the limp form of Major Prathachulthorn. “Come on, papa. This time I’ll be as gentle as I would with my own maiden aunt.” He smacked his lips against the Marine’s shadowed cheek and looked up at Athaclena.

“Better, ma’am?”

Something she had borrowed from her father made her tired tendrils fizz. “Yes, Fiben.” She laughed. “That’s much better.”

Lydia and Robert had their suspicions when they returned by the dawn’s light to find their legal commander missing. The remaining Terragens Marines glared at Athaclena in open distrust. A small band of chims had gone through Prathachulthorn’s room, cleaning away all signs of struggle before any humans got there, but they couldn’t hide the fact that Prathachulthorn had gone without a note or any trace.

Robert even ordered Athaclena restricted to her chamber, with a Marine at the door, while they investigated. His relief over a likely delay in the planned attack was momentarily suppressed under an outraged sense of duty. In comparison, Lieutenant McCue was an eddy of calm. Outwardly, she seemed unconcerned, as if the major had merely stepped out. Only Athaclena could sense the Earth woman’s underlying confusion and conflict.

In any event, there was nothing they could do about it. Search parties were sent out. They caught up with a party of Athaclena’s chims returning on horseback to the gorilla refuge. But by that time Prathachulthorn was no longer with them. He was high in the trees, being passed from one forest giant to another, by now conscious and fuming, but helpless and trussed up like a mummy.

It was a case of humans paying the penalty for their “liberalism.” They had brought up their clients to be individualists and citizens, so it was possible for chims to rationalize imprisoning one man for the good of all. In his own way Prathachulthorn had helped to bring this about, with his patronizing, deprecating attitudes. Nevertheless, Athaclena was certain the Marine would be delicately, carefully treated.

That evening, Robert chaired a new council of war. Athaclena’s vague status of house arrest was modified so she could attend. Fiben and the chim brevet lieutenants were present, as well as the Marine noncommissioned officers.

Neither Lydia nor Robert brought up going ahead with Prathachulthorn’s plan. It was tacitly assumed that the major wouldn’t want it put under way without him.

“Maybe he went off on a personal scouting trip, or a snap inspection of some outpost. He might return tonight or tomorrow,” Elayne Soo suggested in complete innocence.

“Maybe. We’d best assume the worst, though,” Robert said. He avoided looking at Athaclena. “Just in case, we’d better send word to the refuge. I suppose it’ll take ten days or so to get new orders from the Council, and for them to send a replacement.”

He obviously assumed that Megan Oneagle would never leave him in charge.

“Well, I want to go back to Port Helenia,” Fiben said simply. “I’m in a position to get close to the center of things. And anyway, Gailet needs me.”

“What makes you think the Gubru will take you back, after running away?” Lydia McCue asked. “Why won’t they simply shoot you?”

Fiben shrugged. “If I meet up with the wrong Gubru, that’s what they’ll probably do.”

There was a long silence. When Robert asked for other suggestions, the humans and remaining chims remained silent. At least when Prathachulthorn had been here, dominating the discourse and the mood, there had been his overbearing confidence to override their doubts. Now their situation came home to them again. They were a tiny army with only limited options. And the enemy was about to set into motion things and events they could not even understand, let alone prevent.

Athaclena waited until the atmosphere was thick with gloom. Then she said four words. “We need my father.”

To her surprise, both Robert and Lydia nodded. Even when orders finally arrived from the Council-in-Exile, those instructions would likely be as confused and contradictory as ever. It was obvious that they could use good advice, especially with matters of Galactic diplomacy at stake.

At least the McCue woman does not share Prathachulthorn’s xenophobia, Athaclena thought. She found herself forced to admit that she approved of what she kenned of the Earthling female’s aura.

“Robert told me you were sure your father was alive.” Lydia said. “That’s fine. But where is he? How can we find him?”

Athaclena leaned forward. She kept her corona still. “I know where he is.”

“You do?” Robert blinked. “But …” His voice trailed off as he reached out to touch her with his inner sense, for the first time since yesterday. Athaclena recalled how she felt then, seeing him holding Lydia’s hand. She momentarily resisted his efforts. Then, feeling foolish, she let go.

Robert sat back heavily and exhaled. He blinked several times. “Oh.” That was all he said.

Now Lydia looked back and forth, from Robert to Athaclena and back again. Briefly, she shone with something faintly like envy.

I, too, have him in a way that you cannot, Athaclena mused. But mostly, she shared the moment with Robert.

“. . . N’tah’hoo, Uthacalthing,” he said in GalSeven. “We had better do something, and fast.”

77 Fiben and Sylvie

She awaited him as he led Tycho up the trad emerging out of the Valley of Caves. She sat patiently next to an overhanging fip pine, just beyond a switchback, and only spoke when he drew even. “Thought you’d just sneak out without saying goodbye, did you?” Sylvie asked. She wore a long skirt and kept her arms wrapped around her knees.

He tied the horse’s tether to a tree limb and sat down next to her. “Nah,” Fiben said. “I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky.”

She glanced at him sidelong and saw that he was grinning. Sylvie sniffed and looked back into the canyon, where the early mists were slowly evaporating into a morning that promised to be clear and cloudless. “I figured you’d be heading back.”

“I have to, Sylvie. It’s—”

She cut him off. “I know. Responsibility. You have to get back to Gailet. She needs you, Fiben.”

He nodded. Fiben didn’t have to be reminded that he still had a duty to Sylvie as well. “Um. Dr. Soo came by, while I was packing. I…”

“You filled the bottle she gave you. I know.” Sylvie bowed her head. “Thank you. I consider myself well paid.”

Fiben looked down. He felt awkward, talking around the edges of the topic like this. “When will you—”

“Tonight, I guess. I’m ready. Can’t you tell?”

Sylvie’s parka and long skirt certainly hid any outward signs. Still, she was right. Her scent was undisguised. “I sincerely hope you get what you want, Sylvie.”

She nodded again. They sat there awkwardly. Fiben tried to think of something to say. But he felt thick headed, stupid. .Whatever he tried, he knew, would surely turn out all wrong.

Suddenly there was a small rustle of motion down below, where the switchbacks diverged into paths leading in several directions. A tall human form emerged around a rocky bend, jogging tirelessly. Robert Oneagle ran toward a junction in the narrow trails, carrying only his bow and a light backpack.

He glanced upward, and on spotting the two chims he slowed. Robert grinned in response as Fiben waved, but on reaching the fork he turned southward, along a little-used track. Soon he had disappeared into the wild forest.

“What’s he doing?” Sylvie asked.

“Looked like he was running.”

She slapped his shoulder. “I could see that. Where is he going?”

“He’s gonna try to make it through the passes before it snows.

“Through the passes? But—”

“Since Major Prathachulthorn disappeared, and since time is so short, Lieutenant McCue and th’ other Marines agreed they’d go along with the alternative plan Robert and Athaclena have cooked up.”

“But he’s running south,” Sylvie said. Robert had taken the little-used trail that led deeper into^the Mulun range.

Fiben nodded. “He’s going looking for somebody. He’s the only one who can do the job.” It was obvious to Sylvie from his tone that that was all he would say about the matter.

They sat there for a little while longer in silence. At least Robert’s brief passage had brought a welcome break in the tension. This is silly, Fiben thought. He liked Sylvie, a lot. They had never had much chance to talk, and this might be their last opportunity!

“You never… you never did tell me about your first baby,” he said in a rush, wondering, as the words came out, if it was any of his business to ask.

Of course it was obvious that Sylvie had given birth before, and nursed. Stretch marks were signs of attractiveness in a race a quarter of whose females never bred at all. But there is pain there as well, he knew.

“It was five years ago. I was very young.” Her voice was level, controlled. “His name was — we called him Sichi. He was tested by the Board, as usual, but he was found… ‘anomalous.’ ”

“Anomalous?”

“Yes, that was the word they used. They classified him superior in some respects… ‘odd’ in others. There were no obvious defects, but some ‘strange’ qualities, they said. A couple of the officials were concerned. The Uplift Board decided they’d have to send him to Earth for further evaluation.

“They were very nice about it.” She sniffed. “They offered me the choice of coming along.”

Fiben blinked. “You didn’t go, though.”

She glanced at him. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m terrible. That’s why I never told you before. You’d have refused our deal. You think I’m an unfit mother.”

“No, I—”

“At the time it seemed different, though. My mother was ill. We didn’t have a clan-family, and I didn’t feel I could just leave her in the care of strangers, an’ probably never see her again.

“I was only a yellow card at the time. I knew my child would get a good home on Earth or … Either he’d find favored treatment and be raised in a high-caste neo-chimp home or he’d meet a fate I didn’t want to know. I was so worried we would go all that way and they would only take him away anyway. I guess I also dreaded the shame if he was declared a Probationer.”

She stared down at her hands. “I couldn’t decide, so I tried to get advice. There was this counselor in Port Helenia, a human with the local Uplift Board. He told me what he thought th’ odds were. He said he was sure I’d given birth to a Probie.

“I stayed behind when they took Sichi away. Six … six months later my mother died.”

She looked up at Fiben. “And then, three years after that, word came back from Earth. The news was that my baby was now a happy,’well-adjusted little blue card, growing up in a loving blue-card family. And oh, yeah, I was to be promoted to green.”

Her hands clenched. “Oh, how I hated that damned card! They took me off compulsory yearly contracept injections, so I didn’t have to ask permission anymore if I wanted to conceive again. Trusted me to control my own fertility, like an adult.” She snorted. “Like an adult? A chimmie who abandons her own child? They ignore that, and promote me because he passes some damn tests!”

So, Fiben thought. This was the reason for her bitterness, and for her early collaboration with the Gubru. Much was explained.

“You joined Irongrip’s band out of resentment against the system? Because you hoped things might be different under the Galactics?”

“Something like that, maybe. Or maybe I was just angry.” Sylvie shrugged. “Anyway, after a while I realized something.”

“What was it?”

“I realized that, however bad the system was under humans, it could only be far worse under the Galactics. The humans are arrogant all right. But at least a lot of them feel guilty over their arrogance. They try to temper it. Their horrible history taught them to be wary of hub… hub …”

“Hubris.”

“Yeah. They know what a trap it can be, acting like gods and coming to believe it’s true.

“But the Galactics are used to this meddlesome business! It never occurs to them to have any doubts. They’re so damned smug … I hate them.”

Fiben thought about it. He had learned much during the last few months, and he figured Sylvie might be stating her case a little too strongly. Right now she sounded a lot like Major Prathachulthorn. But Fiben knew there were quite a few Galactic patron races who had reputations for kindness and decency.

Still, it was not his place to judge her bitterness.

Now he understood her nearly single-minded determination to have a child who would be at least a green card from the very start. There had to be no question. She wanted to keep her next baby, and to be sure of grandchildren.

Sitting there next to her, Fiben was uncomfortably certain of Sylvie’s present condition. Unlike human females, chimmies had set cycles of receptivity, and it took some effort to hide them. It was one reason for some of the social and family differences between the two cousin species.

He felt guilty to be aroused by her condition. A soft, poignant feeling lay over the moment, and he was determined not to spoil it by being insensitive. Fiben wished he could console her somehow. And yet, he did not know what to offer her.

He moistened his lips. “Uh. Look, Sylvie.”

She turned. “Yes, Fiben?”

“Um, I really do hope you get … I mean I hope I left enough …” His face felt warm.

She smiled. “Dr. Soo says there probably was. If not, there’s more where that came from.”

He shook his head. “Your confidence is appreciated. But I wouldn’t bet I’ll ever be back again.” He looked away, toward the west.

She took his hand. “Well, I’m not too proud to take extra insurance if it’s offered. Another donation will be accepted, if you feel up to it.”

He blinked, feeling the tempo of his pulse rise. “Uh, you mean right now?”

She nodded: “When else?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He grinned and reached for her. But she held up a hand to stop him.

“Just a minute,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am? Candlelight and champagne may be in short supply up here, but a fern generally appreciates at least a little foreplay.”

“Fine by me,” Fiben said. He turned around to present his back for grooming. “Do me, then I’ll do you.”

But she shook her head. “Not that kind of foreplay, Fiben. I had in mind something much more stimulating.”

She reached behind the tree and brought forth a cylindrical object made of carved wood, one end covered by a tautly stretched skin. Fiben’s eyes widened. “A drum?”

She sat with the little handmade instrument between her knees. “It’s your own damn fault, Fiben Bolger. You showed me something special, and from now on I’ll never be satisfied with anything less.”

Her deft fingers rattled off a quick rhythm.

“Dance,” she said. “Please.”

Fiben sighed. Obviously she wasn’t kidding. This choreo-maniac chimmie was crazy, of course, whatever the Uplift Board said. It seemed to be the type he fell for.

There are some ways we’ll never be like humans, he thought as he picked up a branch and shook it tentatively. He dropped it and tried another. Already he felt flushed and full of energy.

Sylvie tapped the drum, starting with a rapid, exhilarating tempo that made his breath sharpen. The shine in her eyes seemed to warm his blood.

That is as it should be. We are our own selves, he knew.

Fiben took the branch in a two-handed grip and brought it down on a nearby log, sending leaves and brush exploding in all directions. “Ook…” he said.

His second blow was harder though, and as the beat picked up his next cry came with more enthusiasm.

The morning fog had evaporated. No thunder rolled. The uncooperative universe had not even provided a single cloud in the sky. Still, Fiben figured he could probably manage this time without the lightning.

78 Galactics

In Gubru Military Enacampment Sixteen, the chaos at the top had begun affecting those lower down in the ranks. There were squabbles over allotments and supplies, and over the behavior of common soldiers, whose contempt for the support staff reached new and dangerous levels.

At afternoon prayer time, many of the Talon Soldiers put on the traditional ribbons of mourning for the Lost Progenitors and joined the priestly chaplain to croon in low unison. The less devout majority, who generally kept a respectful silence during such services, now seemed to make it a special occasion for gambling and loud commotion. Sentries preened and purposely sent loose feathers drifting in strong breezes so they would pass distractingly among the faithful.

Discordant noises could be heard during work, during maintenance, during training exercises.

The stoop-colonel in charge of the eastern encampments happened to be on an inspection tour and witnessed this disharmony in person. It wasted no time on indecision. At once the stoop-colonel ordered all personnel of Encampment Sixteen assembled. Then the officer gathered the camp’s chief administrator and the chaplain by its side upon a platform and addressed those gathered below.

For some time the stoop-colonel spoke to them so — joined in persuasive song by the camp’s administrator and its spiritual advisor — until, at last, the shamed soldiers and staff began to coo together in a rising chorus of harmony.

They made the effort, invested the time, one small united regiment of military, bureaucrats, and priests, and struggled as one to overcome their doubts.

For a brief while then, there did indeed take shape a consensus.

79 Gailet

…Even among those rare and tragic cases, wolfling species, there have existed crude versions of these techniques. While primitive, their methods also involved rituals of “combat-of-honor,” and by such means kept aggressiveness and warfare under some degree of restraint.

Take, for example, the.most recent clan ofwolflings — the “humans” of Sol HI. Before their discovery by Galactic culture, their primitive “tribes” often used ritual to hold in check the cycles of ever-increasing violence normally to be expected from such an unguided species. (No doubt these traditions derived from warped memories of their long lost patron race.)

Among the simple but effective methods used by pre-Contact humans (see citations) were the method of counting coup for honor among the “american indians,” trial by champion among the “medieval europeans,” and deterrence by mutual assured destruction, among the “continental tribal states.”

Of course, these techniques lacked the subtlety, the delicate balance and homeostasis, of the modern rules of behavior laid out by the Institute for Civilized Warfare…

“That’s it. Break time. I’m puttin’ a T on it. Enough.”

Gailet blinked, her eyes unfocusing as the rude voice drew her back out of her reading trance. The library unit sensed this and froze the text in front of her.

She looked to her left. Sprawled in the beanbag, her new “partner” threw his datawell aside and yawned, stretching his lanky, powerful frame. “Time for a drink,” he said lazily.

“You haven’t even made it through the first edited summary,” Gailet said.

He grinned. “Aw, I don’t know why we’ve got to study this shit. The Eatees will be surprised if we remember to bow and recite our own species-name. They don’t expect neo-chimps to be geniuses, y’know.”

“Apparently not. And your comprehension scores will certainly reinforce the impression.”

That made him frown momentarily. He forced a grin again. “You, on the other hand, are tryin’ so hard — I’m sure the Eatees will find it terribly cute.”

louche, Gailet thought. It hadn’t taken the two of them very long to learn how to cut each other where it hurt.

Maybe this is yet another test. They are seeing how far my patience can be stretched before it snaps.

Maybe… but not very likely. She had not seen the Suzerain of Propriety for more than a week. Instead, she had been dealing with a committee of three pastel-tinged Gubru, one from each faction. And it was the blue-tinted Talon Soldier who strutted foremost at these meetings.

Yesterday they had all gone down to the ceremonial site for a “rehearsal.” Although she was still undecided whether to cooperate in the final event, Gailet had come to realize that it might already be too late to change her mind.

The seaside hill had been sculpted and landscaped so that the giant power plants were no longer visible. The terraced slopes led elegantly upward, one after another, marred only by bits of debris brought in by the steady autumnal winds. Already, bright banners flapped in the easterlies, marking the stations where the neo-chimp representatives would be asked to recite, or answer questions, or submit to intense scrutiny.

There at the site, with the Gubru standing close by, Irongrip had been to all outward appearances a model student. And perhaps it had been more than a wish to curry favor that had made him so uncharacteristically studious. After all, these were facts that had direct bearing upon his ambitions. That afternoon, his quick intelligence had shone.

Now though, with them alone together under the vast vault of the New Library, other aspects of his nature came to the fore. “So how ’bout it?” Irongrip said, as he leaned over her chair and gave her a cyprian leer. “Want to step outside for some air? We could slip into the eucalyptus grove and—”

“There are two chances of that,” she snapped. “Fat and slim.”

He laughed. “Put it off until the ceremony, then, if you like it public. Then it’ll be you an’ me, babe, with the whole Five Galaxies watchin’.” He grinned and flexed his powerful hands. His knuckles cracked.

Gailet turned away and closed her eyes. She had to concentrate to keep her lower lip from trembling. Rescue me, she wished against all hope or reason.

Logic chided her for even thinking it. After all, her white knight was only an ape, and almost certainly dead.

Still, she couldn’t help crying inside. Fiben, I need you. Fiben, come back.

80 Robert

His blood sang.

After months in the mountains — living as his ancestors had, on wits and his own sweat, his toughened skin growing used to the sun and the scratchy rub of native fibers — Robert still had not yet realized the changes in himself, not until he puffed up the last few meters of the narrow, rocky trail and crossed in ten long strides from one watershed to another.

The top of Rwanda Pass… I’ve climbed a thousand meters in two hours, and my heart is scarcely beating fast.

He did not really feel any need to rest, however Robert made himself stow down to a walk. Anyway, the view was worth lingering over.

He stood atop the very spine of the Mulun range. Behind him, to the north, the mountains stretched eastward in a thickening band, and westward toward the sea, where they continued in an archipelago of fat, towering islands.

It had taken him a day and a half of running to get here from the caves, and now he saw ahead of him the panorama he would have yet to cross to reach his destination.

I’m not even sure how to find what I’m looking for! Athaclena’s instructions had been as vague as her own impressions of where to send him.

More mountains stretched ahead of him, dropping away sharply toward a dun-colored steppe partially obscured by haze. Before he reached those plains there would be still more rise and fall over narrow trails that had only felt a few score feet even during peacetime. Robert was probably the first to- come this way since the outbreak of war.

The hardest part was over, though. He didn’t enjoy downhill running, but Robert knew how to take the jolting, fall-stepping so as to avoid damaging his knees. And there would be water lower down.

He shook his leather canteen and took a sparing swallow. Only a few deciliters remained, but he was sure they’d do.

He shaded his eyes and looked beyond the nearest purple peaks to the high slopes where he would have to make his camp tonight. There would be streams all right, but no lush rain forests like on the wet northern side of the Mulun. And he would have to think about hunting for food soon, before’ he sallied forth onto the dry savannah.

Apache braves could run from TQOS to the Pacific in a few days and not eat anything but a handful of parched corn along the way.

He wasn’t an Apache brave, of course. He did have a few grams of vitamin concentrate with him, but for the sake of speed he had chosen to travel light. For now, quickness counted more than his grumbling stomach.

He skirted aside where a recent landslide had broken the path. Then he set a slightly faster pace as the trail dropped into a set of tight switchbacks.

That night Robert slept in a moss-filled notch just above a trickling spring, wrapped in a thin silk blanket. His dreams were slow and as quiet as he imagined space might be, if one ever got away from the constant humming of machines.

Mostly, it was the stillness in the empathy net, after months living in the riot of the rain forest, that lent a soft loneliness to his slumber. One might kenn far in an empty land such as this — even with senses as crude as his.

And for the first time there was not the harsh — metaphorically almost metallic — hint of alien minds to be felt off in the northwest. He was shielded from the Gubru, and from the humans and chims for that matter. Solitude was a strange sensation.

The strangeness did not evaporate by the dawn’s light. He filled his canteen from the spring and drank deeply to take the edge off his hunger. Then the run began anew.

On this steeper slope the descent was wearing, but the miles did go by quickly. Before the sun was more than halfway toward the zenith the high steppe had opened up around him. He ran across rolling foothills now — kilometers falling behind him like thoughts barely contemplated and then forgotten. And as he ran, Robert probed the countryside. Soon he felt certain that the expanse held odd entities, somewhere out there beyond or among the tall grasses.

If only kenning were more of a localizing sense! Perhaps it was this very imprecision that had kept humans from ever developing their own crude abilities.

Instead, we concentrated on other things.

There was a game that was often played both on Earth and among interested Galactics. It consisted of trying to reconstruct the fabled “lost patrons of humanity,” the half-mythical starfarers who supposedly began the Uplift of human beings perhaps fifty thousand years ago and then departed in mystery, leaving the job “only half done.”

Of course there were a few bold heretics — even among the Galactics — who held that the old Earthling theories were actually true, that it was somehow possible for a race to Uplift itself… to evolve starfaring intelligence and pull itself up by its bootstraps out of darkness and into knowledge and maturity.

But even on Earth most now thought the idea quaint. Patrons uplifted clients, who later took their own turn uplifting newer pre-sentients. It was the way and had been ever since the days of the .Progenitors, so long ago.

There was a real dearth of clues. Whoever the patrons of Man might have been, they had hidden their traces well, and for good reason. A patron race who abandoned a client was generally branded as an outlaw.

Still, the guessing game went on.

Certain patron clans were ruled out because they would never have chosen an omnivorous species to raise. Others were unsuited to living on Earth even for short visits — because of gravity or atmosphere or a host of other reasons.

Most agreed that it couldn’t have been a clan which believed in specialization either. Some uplifted their clients with very specific goals in mind. The Uplift Institute demanded that any new sapient race be able to pilot starships, exercise judgment and logic and be capable of patron status itself someday. But beyond that the Institute put few constraints on the types of niches into which client species might be made to fit. Some were destined to become skilled craftsmen, some philosophers, and some mighty warrior castes.

But humanity’s mysterious patrons had to have been generalists. For Man, the animal, was very much a flexible beast.

Yes, and for all of the vaunted flexibility of the Tymbrimi, there were some things not even those masters of adaptation could even think of doing.

Such as this, Robert thought.

A covey of native birds exploded into the air in a flurry of beating wings as Robert ran across their feeding grounds. Small, skittering things felt the rumble of his approach and took cover.

A herd of animals, long-legged and fleet like small deer, darted away, easily outdistancing him. They happened to flee southward, the direction he was going anyway, so he followed them. Soon Robert was approaching where they had stopped to feed again.

Once more they bolted, opened a wide berth behind them, then settled down again to browse.

The sun was getting high. It was a time of the day when all the plains animals, both the hunters and the hunted, tended to seek shelter from the heat. Where there were no trees, they scraped the soil in narrow runnels to find cooler layers and lay down in what shade there was to wait out the blazing sun.

But on this day one creature did not stop. It kept coming. The pseudo-deer blinked in consternation as Robert approached again. Once more, they arose and took flight, leaving him behind. This time they put a little more distance in back of them. They stood atop a small hill, panting and staring unbelievingly.

The thing on two legs just kept coming!

An uneasy stir riffled through the herd. A premonition that this just might be serious. Still panting, they fled once more.

Perspiration shone like oil on Robert’s olive skin. It glistened in the sunlight, quivering in droplets that sometimes shook loose with the constant drumming of his footsteps.

Mostly, though, the sweat spread out and coated his skin and evaporated in the rushing wind of his own passage. A dry, southeasterly breeze helped it change state into vapor, sucking up latent heat in the process. He maintained a steady, even pace, not even trying to match the sprints of the deerlike creatures. At intervals he walked and took sparing swigs from his water bag, then he resumed the chase.

His bow lay strapped across his back. But for some reason Robert did not even think of using it. Under the noonday sun he ran on and on. Mad dogs and Englishmen, he thought.

And Apache… and Bantu… and so many others…

Humans were accustomed to thinking that it was their brains which distinguished them so from the other members of Earth’s animal kingdom. And it was true that weapons and fire and speech had made them the lords of their homeworld long before they ever learned about ecology, or the duty of senior species to care for those less able to understand. During those dark millennia, intelligent but ignorant men and women had used fires to drive entire herds of mammoths and sloths and so many other species over cliffs, killing hundreds for the meat contained in one or two. They shot down millions of birds so the feathers might adorn their ladies. They chopped down forests to grow opium.

Yes, intelligence in the hands of ignorant children was a dangerous weapon. But Robert knew a secret.

We did not really need all these brains in order to rule our world.

He approached the herd again, and while hunger drove him, he also contemplated the beauty of the native creatures. No doubt they were growing rapidly in stature with each passing generation. Already they were far larger than their ancestors had been back when the Bururalli slew all the great ungulates which used to roam these plains. Someday they might fill some of those empty niches. Even now they were already far swifter than a man.

Speed was one thing. But endurance was quite another matter. As they turned to flee him again, Robert saw that the herd members had begun to look a little panicky. The pseudo-deer now wore flecks of foam around their mouths. Their tongues hung out, and their rib cages heaved in rapid tempo.

The sun beat down. Perspiration beaded and covered him in a thin sheen. This evaporated, leaving him cool. Robert paced himself.

Tools and fire and speech gave us the surplus. They gave us what we needed to begin culture. But were they all we had?

A song had begun to play in the network of fine sinuses behind his eyes, in the gentle squish of fluid that damped his brain against the hard, driving accelerations of every footstep. The throbbing of his heartbeat carried him along like a faithful bass rhythm. The tendons of his legs were like taut, humming bows… like violin strings.

He could smell them now, his hunger accentuating the atavistic thrill. He identified with his intended prey. In an odd way Robert knew a fulfillment he had never experienced before. He was alive.

He barely noticed as he began overtaking deer who had collapsed to the ground. Mothers and their fawns blinked in dull surprise as he ran past them without a glance. Robert had spotted his target, and he projected a simple glyph to tell the others to relax, to slip aside, while he chased a big male buck at the head of the herd.

You are the one, he thought. You have lived well, passed on your genes. Your species does not need you anymore, not as much as I da.

Perhaps his ancestors actually used empathy-sense quite a bit more than modern man. For now he saw a real function for it. He could kenn the growing dread of the buck as, one by one, its overheated companions dropped aside. The buck put in a desperate burst of speed and leaped far ahead. But then it had to rest, panting miserably to try to cool off, its sides heaving as it watched Robert come on.

Foaming, it turned to flee again.

Now it was just the two of them.

Gimelhai blazed. Robert bore on.

A little while later he brought his left hand to his belt as he ran, and loosened the sheath of his knife. Even that tool he chose with some reluctance. What decided him to use it, instead of his bare hands, was empathy with his prey, and a sense of mercy.

It was some hours later, his stomach no longer growling urgently, that Robert felt his first glimmerings of a clue. He had begun making his way southwestward, in the direction Athaclena had hoped would lead him to his goal. As the day aged, Robert shaded his eyes against the late afternoon glare. Then he closed them and reached forth with other senses.

Yes, something was close enough to kenn. If he thought of it metaphorically, it came as a very familiar flavor.

He headed forth at a jog, following traces that came and went, sometimes cool and sentient and sometimes as wild as the buck who had shared its life with Robert so recently.

When the traces grew quite strong, Robert found himself near a vast thicket of ugly thorn bush. Soon it would be sunset, and there was no way he would be able to chase down the thing emanating those vibrations, not in this dense, hurtful undergrowth. Anyway, he did not want to “hunt” this creature. He wanted to talk to it.

He was sure the being was aware of him now. Robert halted. He closed his eyes again and cast forth a simple glyph. It darted left, right, then plunged into the vegetation. There came a rustle.

He opened his eyes. Two dark, glittering pools blinked back at him. “All right,” he said, softly. “Please come on out now. We had better talk.”

There was another moment’s hesitation. Then there shambled forth a long-armed chim, hairier than most, with thick brows and a heavy jaw. He was dirty, and totally naked.

There were a few stains that Robert was sure came from caked blood, and it had not come from the chim’s own minor scratches. Well, we are cousins, after all. And vegetarians don’t live long on a steppe.

When he sensed that the comate chim was reluctant to make eye contact, Robert did not insist. “Hello, Jo-Jo,” he said softly, and with sincere gentleness. “I’ve come a long way to bring a message to your employer.”

81 Athaclena

Its occupant — naked, unshaven, and looking very much the wolfling — stared down at Athaclena with an expression that would have burned even without the loathing he radiated. To Athaclena it felt as if the little glade were saturated with the prisoner’s hatred. She planned to keep her visit as short as possible.

“I thought you would want to know. The Gubru Triumvirate has declared a protocol truce under the Rules of War,” she told Major Prathachulthorn. “The ceremonial site is now sacrosanct, and no armed force on Garth can act except in self-defense for the duration.”

Prathachulthorn spat through the bars. “So? If we’d attacked when I planned, we’d have made it before this.”

“I find it doubtful. Even the best plans are seldom executed perfectly. And if we were forced to abort the mission at the last minute, every secret we had would have been revealed for nothing.”

“That’s your opinion,” Prathachulthorn snorted.

Athaclena shook her head. “But that is not the only or even the most important reason.” She had grown tired of fruitlessly explaining the nuances of Galactic punctilio to the Marine officer, but somehow she found the will to try one more time. “I told you before, major. Wars are known to feature cycles of what you humans sometimes call ‘tit-for-tat’ where one side punishes the other side for its last insult, and then that other side retaliates in turn. Left unconstrained, this can escalate forever! Since the days of the Progenitors, there have been developed rules which help keep such exchanges from growing out of all proportion.”

Prathachulthorn cursed. “Damn it, you admitted that our raid would’ve been legal if done in time!”

She nodded. “Legal, perhaps. But it also would have served the enemy well. Because it would have been the last action before the truce!”

“What difference does that make?”

Patiently, she tried to explain. “The Gubru have declared a truce while still in an overpowering position of strength, major. That is considered honorable. You might say they ‘win points’ for that.

“But their gain is multiplied if they do so immediately after taking damage. If they show restraint by not retaliating, the Gubru are then performing an act of forbearance. They gather credit—”

“Ha!” Prathachulthorn laughed. “Fat lot of good it’d do them, with their ceremonial site in ruins!”

Athaclena inclined her head. She really did not have time for this. If she spent too long here, Lieutenant McCue might suspect that this was where her missing commander was being hidden. The Marines had already swooped down on several possible hiding places.

“The upshot might have been to force Earth to finance a new site as a replacement,” she said.

Prathachulthorn stared at her. “But — but we’re at warl”

She nodded, misunderstanding him. “Exactly. One cannot allow war without rules, and powerful neutral forces to enforce them. The alternative would be barbarism.”

The man’s sour look was her only answer.

“Besides, to destroy the site would have implied that humans do not want to see their clients tested and judged for promotion! But now it is the Gubru who must pay honor-gild for this truce. Your clan has gained a segment of status by being the aggrieved party, unavenged. This sliver of propriety could turn out to be crucial in the days ahead.”

Prathachulthorn frowned. For a moment he seemed to concentrate, as if a thread of her logic hung almost within reach. She felt his attention shimmer as he tried… but then it faded. He grimaced and spat again. “What a load of crap. Show me dead birds. That’s currency I can count. Pile them up to the level of this cage, little Miss Ambassador’s Daughter, and maybe, just maybe I’ll let you live when I finally break out of here.”

Athaclena shivered. She knew how futile it was to try to hold a man such as this prisoner. He should have been kept drugged. He should have been killed. But she could not bring herself to do either, or to further- prejudice the fate of the chims in her cabal by involving them in such crimes.

“Good day, major,” she said. And turned to go.

He did not shout as she left. In a way, the parsimonious use he made of his threats made those few seem all the more menacing and believable.

She took a hidden trail from the secret glade over a shoulder of the mountain, past warm springs that hissed and steamed uncertainly. At the ridge crest Athaclena had to draw in her tendrils to keep them from being battered in the autumn wind. Few clouds could be seen in the sky, but the air was hazy with dust blowing in from faraway deserts.

Hanging from a nearby branch she encountered one of the parachutelike kite and spore pod combinations blown up here from some field of plate ivy. The autumn dispersal was fully under way now. Fortunately, it had begun in earnest more than two days ago, before the Gubru announced their truce. That fact might turn out to be very important indeed.

The day felt odd, more so than any time since that night of terrible dreams, shortly before she climbed this mountain to wrestle with her parents’ fierce legacy.

Perhaps the Gubru are warming up their hyperwave shunt, again.

She had since learned that her fit of dreams on that fateful night had coincided with the invaders’ first test of their huge new facility. Their experiments had let surges of unallocated probability loose in all directions, and those who were psychically sensitive reported bizarre mixtures of deathly dread and hilarity.

That sort of mistake did not sound like.the normally meticulous Gubru, and it seemed to be validation of Fiben Bolger’s report, that the enemy had serious leadership problems.

Was that why tutsunucann collapsed so suddenly and violently that evening? Was all that loose energy responsible for the terrific power of her s’ustru’thoon rapport with Uthacal thing?

Could that and the subsequent tests of those great engines explain why the gorillas had begun behaving so very strangely?

All Athaclena knew for certain was that she felt nervous and afraid. Soon, she thought. It will all approach climax very soon.

She had descended halfway down the trail leading back to her tent when a pair of breathless chims emerged from the forest, hurrying^ uphill toward her. “Miss… miss …” one of them breathed. The other held his side, panting audibly.

Her initial reading of their panic triggered a brief hormone rush, which only subsided slightly when she traced their fear and kenned that it did not come from an enemy attack. Something else had them terrified half out of their wits.

“Miss Ath-Athaclena,” the first chim gasped. “You gotta come quick!”

“What is it, Petri? What’s happening?”

He swallowed. “It’s the Villas. We can’t control ’em anymore!”

So, she thought. For more than a week the gorillas’ low, atonal music had been driving their chim guardians to nervous fits. “What are they doing now?”

“They’re leaving!” the second messenger wailed plaintively.

She blinked. “What did’you say?”

Petri’s brown eyes were filled with bewilderment. “They’re leaving. They just got up and left! They’re headin’ for the Sind, an’ there doesn’t seem t’be anythin’ we can do to stop “em!”

82 Uthacalthing

Their progress toward the mountains had slackened considerably recently. More and more of Kault’s time seemed to be spent laboring over his makeshift instruments… and in arguing with his Tymbrimi companion.

How quickly things change, Uthacalthing thought. He had labored long and hard to bring Kault to this fever pitch of suspicion and excitement. And now he found himself recalling with fondness their earlier peaceful comradeship — the long, lazy days of gossip and reminiscences and common exile — however frustrating they had seemed at the time.

Of course that had been when Uthacalthing was_whole, when he had been able to look upon the world through Tymbrimi eyes, and the softening veil of whimsy.

Now? Uthacalthing knew that he had been considered dour and serious by others of his race. Now, though, they would surely think him crippled. Perhaps better off dead.

Too much was taken from me, he thought, while Kault muttered to himself in the corner of their shelter. Outside, heavy gusts blew through the veldt grasses. Moonlight brushed long hillcrests that resembled sluggish ocean waves, locked amid a rolling storm.

Did she actually have to tear away so much? he wondered, without really being able to feel or care very much.

Of course Athaclena had hardly known what she was doing, that night when she decided in her need to call in the pledge her parents had made. S’ustru’thoon was not something one trained for. A recourse so drastic and used so seldom could not be well described by science. And by its very nature, s’ustru’thoon was something one could do but once in one’s lifetime.

Anyway, now that he looked back upon it, Uthacalthing remembered something he hadn’t noticed at the time.

That evening had been one of great tension. Hours beforehand he had felt disturbing waves of energy, as if ghostly half-glyphs of immense power were throbbing against the mountains. Perhaps that explained why his daughter’s call had carried such strength. She had been tapping some outside source!

And he remembered something else. In the s’ustru’thoon storm Athaclena triggered, not everything torn from him had gone to her!

Strange that he had not thought of it until now. But Uthacalthing now seemed vaguely to recall some of his essences flying past her. But where they had actually been bound he could not even imagine. Perhaps to the source of those energies he had felt earlier. Perhaps…

Uthacalthing was too tired to come up with rational theories. Who knows? Maybe they were drawn in by Garth lings. It was a poor joke. Not even worth a tiny smile. And yet, the irony was encouraging. It showed that he had not lost absolutely everything.

“I am certain of it now, Uthacalthing.” Kault’s voice was low and confident as the Thennanin turned to face him. He put aside the instrument he had constructed out of odd items salvaged from the wrecked pinnace.

“Certain of what, colleague?”

“Certain that our separate suspicions are focusing in on a probable fact! See here. The data you showed me — your private spools regarding these ‘Garthling’ creatures — allowed me to tune my detector until I am now sure that I have found the resonance I was seeking.”

“You are?” Uthacalthing didn’t know what to make of this. He had never expected Kault to find actual confirmation of mythical beasts.

“I know what concerns you, my friend,” Kault said, raising one massive, leather-plated hand. “You fear that my experiments will draw down upon us the attention of the Cubru. But rest assured. I am using a very narrow band and am reflecting my beam off the nearer moon. It is very unlikely they would ever be able to localize the source of my puny little probe.”

“But …” Uthacalthing shook his head. “What are you looking for?”

Kault’s breathing slits puffed. “A certain type of cerebral resonance. It is quite technical,” he said. “It has to do with something I read in your tapes about these Garthling creatures. What little data you had seemed to indicate that these pre-sentient beings might have brains not too dissimilar to those of Earthlings, or Tymbrimi.”

Uthacalthing was amazed by the way Kault used his faked data with such celerity and enthusiasm. His former self would have been delighted. “So?” he asked.

“So … let me see if I can explain with an example. Take humans—”

Please, Uthacalthing inserted, without much enthusiasm, more out of habit.

“—Earthlings represent one of many paths which can be taken to arrive eventually at intelligence. Theirs involved the use of two brains that later became one.”

Uthacalthing blinked. His own mind was working so slowly. “You… you are speaking of the fact that their brains have two partially independent hemispheres?”

“Aye. And while these halves are similar and redundant in some ways, in others they divide the labor. The split is even more pronounced among their neo-dolphin clients.

“Before the Gubru arrived, I was studying data on neo-chimpanzees, which are similar to their patrons in many respects. One of the things the humans had to do, early in their Uplift program, was find ways to unite the functions of the two halves of pre-sentient chimpanzee brains comfortably into one consciousness. Until that was done neo-chimpanzees would suffer from a condition called ‘bicamerality.’…”

Kault droned on, gradually letting his jargon grow more and more technical, eventually leaving Uthacalthing far behind. The arcana of cerebral function seemed to fill their shelter, as if in thick smoke. Uthacalthing felt almost tempted to craft a glyph to commemorate his own boredom, but he lacked the energy even to stir his tendrils.

“. . .so the resonance appears to indicate that there are, indeed, bicameral minds within the range of my instrument!”

Ah, yes, Uthacalthing thought. Back in Port Helenia, at a time when he had still been a clever crafter of complex schemes, he had suspected that Kault might turn out to be resourceful. That was one reason why Uthacalthing chose for a confederate an atavistic chim. Kault was probably picking up traces from poor Jo-Jo, whose throwback brain was in many ways similar to fallow, non-uplifted chimpanzees of centuries ago. Jo-Jo no doubt retained some of this “bicame-rality” characteristic Kault spoke of.

Finally Kault concluded. “I am therefore quite convinced, from your evidence and my own, that we cannot delay any longer. We must somehow get to and use a facility for sending interstellar messages!”

“How do you expect to do that?” Uthacalthing asked in mild curiosity.

Kault’s breathing slits pulsed in obvious, rare excitement. “Perhaps we can sneak or bluff or fight our way to the Planetary Branch Library, claim sanctuary, and then invoke every priority under the fifty suns of Thennan. Perhaps there is another way. I do not care if it means stealing a Gubru starship. Somehow we must get word to my clan!”

Was this the same creature who had been so anxious to flee Port Helenia before the invaders arrived? Kault seemed as changed outwardly as Uthacalthing felt inwardly. The Thennanin’s enthusiasm was a hot flame, while Uthacalthing had to stoke his own carefully.

“You wish to establish a claim on the pre-sentients before the Gubru manage it?” he asked.

“Aye, and why not? To save them from such horrible patrons I would lay down my life! But there may be need for much haste. If what we have overheard on our receiver is true, emissaries from the Institutes may already be on their way to Garth. I believe the Gubru are planning something big. Perhaps they have made the same discovery. We must act quickly if we are not to be too late!”

Uthacalthing nodded. “One more question then, distinguished colleague.” He paused. “Why should I help you?”

Kault’s breath sighed like a punctured balloon, and his ridge crest collapsed rapidly. He looked at Uthacalthing with an expression as emotion-laden as any the Tymbrimi had ever seen upon the face of a dour Thennanin.

“It would greatly benefit the pre-sentients,” he hissed. “Their destiny would be far happier.”

“Perhaps. Arguable. Is that it, though? Are you relying on my altruism alone?”

“Errr. Hrm.” Outwardly Kault seemed offended that anything more should be asked. Still, could he really- be surprised? He was, after all, a diplomat, and understood that the best and firmest deals are based on open self-interest. “It would … It would greatly help my own political party if I delivered such a treasure. We would probably win government,” he suggested.

“A slight improvement over the intolerable is not enough to get excited about.” Uthacalthing shook his head. “You still haven’t explained to me why I should not stake a claim for my own clan. I was investigating these rumors before you. We Tymbrimi would make excellent patrons for these creatures.”

“You. You… K’ph mimpher’rrengi?” The phrase stood for something vaguely equivalent to “juvenile delinquents.” It was almost enough to make Uthacalthing smile again. Kault shifted uncomfortably. He made a visible effort to retain diplomatic composure.

“You Tymbrimi have not the strength, the power to back up such a claim,” he muttered.

At last, Uthacalthing thought. Truth.

In times like this, under circumstances as muddy as these, it would take more than mere priority of application to settle an adoption claim on a pre-sentient race. Many other factors would officially be considered by the Uplift Institute. And the humans had a saying that was especially appropriate. “Possession is nine points of the law.” It certainly applied here.

“So we are back to question number one.” Uthacalthing nodded. “If neither we Tymbrimi nor the Terrans can have the Garthlings, why should we help you get them?”

Kault rocked from one side to the other, as if he were trying to work his way off a hot seat. His misery was blatantly obvious, as was his desperation. Finally, he blurted forth, “I can almost certainly guarantee a cessation of all hostilities by my clan against yours.”

“Not enough,” Uthacalthing came back quickly.

“What more could you ask of me!” Kault exploded.

“An actual alliance. A promise of Thennanin aid against those now laying siege upon Tymbrim.”

“But—”

“And the guarantee must be firm. In advance. To take effect whether or not these pre-sentients of yours actually turn out to exist.”

Kault stammered. “You cannot expect—”

“Oh, but I can. Why should I believe in these ‘Garthling’ creatures? To me they have only been intriguing rumors. I never told you I believed in them. And yet you want me to risk my life to get you to message facilities! Why should I do that without a guarantee of benefit for my people?”

“This… this is unheard of!”

“Nevertheless, it is my price. Take it or leave it.”

For a moment Uthacalthing felt a thrilled suspicion he was about to witness the unexpected. It seemed as if Kault might lose control… might actually burst forth into violence. At the sight of those massive fists, clenching and unclenching rapidly, Uthacalthing actually felt his blood stir with change enzymes. A surge of nervous fear made him feel more alive than he had in days.

“It… it shall be as you demand,” Kault growled at last.

“Good.” Uthacalthing sighed as he relaxed. He drew forth his datawell. “Let us work out together how to parse this for a contract.”

It took more than an hour to get the wording right. After it was finished, and when they had both signified their affirmation on each copy, Uthacalthing gave Kault one record pellet and kept the second for himself.

Amazing, he thought at that point. He had planned and schemed to bring about this day. This was the second half of his grand jest, fulfilled at last. To have fooled the Gubru was wonderful. This was simply unbelievable.

And yet, right now Uthacalthing found himself feeling numb rather than triumphant. He did not look forward to the climb ahead, a furious race into the steep towers of the Mukm range, followed by a desperate attempt that would, no doubt, result only in the two of them dying side by side.

“You know of course, Uthacalthing, that my people will not carry out this bargain if I turn out to be mistaken. If there are no Garthlings after all, the Thennanin will repudiate me. They will pay diplomatic gild to buy out this contract, and I will be ruined.”

Uthacalthing did not look at Kault. This was another reason for his sense of depressed detachment, certainly. A great jokester is not supposed to feel guilt, he told himself. Perhaps I have spent too much time around humans.

The silence stretched on for a while longer, each of them brooding in his own thoughts.

Of course Kault would be repudiated. Of course the Thennanin were not about to be drawn into an alliance, or even peace with the Earth-Tymbrimi entente. All Uthacalthing had ever hoped to accomplish was to sow confusion among his enemies. If Kault should by some miracle manage to get his message off and truly draw Thennanin armadas to this backwater system, then two great foes of his people would be drawn into a battle that would drain them … a battle over nothing. Over a nonexistent species. Over the ghosts of creatures murdered fifty thousand years ago.

Such a great jest! I should be happy. Thrilled.

Sadly, he knew that he could not even blame s’ustru’thoon for his inability to take pleasure out of this. It was not Athaclena’s fault that the feeling clung to him… the feeling that he had just betrayed a friend.

Ah, well, Uthacalthing consoled himself. It is all probably moot, anyway. To get Kault the kind of message facilities he needs now will take seven more miracles, each greater than the last.

It seemed fitting that they would probably die together in the attempt, uselessly.

In his sadness, Uthacalthing found the energy to lift his tendrils slightly. They fashioned a simple glyph of regret as he raised his head to face Kault.

He was about to speak when something very surprising suddenly happened. Uthacalthing felt a presence wing past in the night. He started. But no sooner had it been there than it was gone.

Did I imagine it? Am I falling apart?

Then it was back! He gasped in surprise, kenning as it circled the tent in an ever-tightening spiral, brushing at last against the fringes of his indrawn aura. He looked up, trying to spot something that whirled just beyond the fringe of their shelter.

What am I doing? Trying to see a glyph?

He closed his eyes and let the un-thing approach. Uthacalthing opened a kenning.

“Puyr’iturumbul!” he cried.

Kault swiveled. “What is it, my friend? What… ?”

But Uthacalthing had risen. As if drawn up by a string he stepped out into the cool night.

The breeze brought odors to his nostrils as he sniffed, using all his senses to seek in the acherontic darkness. “Where are you?” Uthacalthing called. “Who is there?”

Two figures stepped forward into a dim pool of moonlight. So it is true! Uthacalthing thought. A human had sought him out with an empathy sending, one so skillful it might have come from a young Tymbrimi.

And that was not the end to surprises. He blinked at the tall, bronzed, bearded warrior — who looked like nothing but one of the heroes of those pre-Contact Earthling barbarian epics — and let out another cry of amazement as he suddenly recognized Robert Oneagle, the playboy son of the Planetary Coordinator!

“Good evening, sir,” Robert said as he stopped a few meters away and bowed.

Standing a little behind Robert, the neo-chimpanzee, Jo-Jo, wrung his hands nervously. This, certainly, was not according to the original plan. He did not meet Uthacalthing’s eyes.

“V’hooman’ph? Idatess!” Kault exclaimed in Galactic Six. “Uthacalthing, what is a human doing here?”

Robert bowed again. Enunciating carefully, he made formal greetings to both of them, including their full species-names. Then he went on in Galactic Seven.

“I have come a long way, honored gentlebeings, in order to invite you all to a party.”

83 Fiben

“Easy, Tycho. Easy!”

The normally placid animal bucked and pulled at its reins. Fiben, who had never been much of a horseman, was forced to dismount hurriedly and grab the animal’s halter.

“There now. Relax,” he soothed. “It’s just another transport going by. We’ve heard ’em all day. It’ll be gone soon.”

As he promised, the shrieking whine faded as the flying machine passed quickly overhead and disappeared beyond the nearby trees, traveling in the direction of Port Helenia.

A lot had changed since Fiben had first come this way, mere weeks after the invasion. Then he had walked in sunshine down a busy highway, surrounded by spring’s verdant colors. Now he felt blustery winds at his back as he passed through a valley showing all the early signs of a bitter winter. Half the trees had already dropped their leaves, leaving them in drifts across meadows and lanes. Orchards were bare of fruit, and the back roads devoid of traffic.

Surface traffic, that is. Overhead the swarm of transports seemed incessant. Gravities teased his peripheral nerves as Gubru machines zoomed past. The first few times, his hackles had risen from more than just the pulsing fields. He had expected to be challenged, to be stopped, perhaps to be shot on sight.

But in fact the Galactics had ignored him altogether, apparently not deigning to distinguish one lonely chim from others who had been sent out to help with the harvest, or the specialists who had begun staffing a few of the ecological management stations once again Fiben had spoken with a few of the latter, many of them old acquaintances. They told of how they had given their parole in exchange for freedom and low-level support to resume their work. There wasn’t much to be done, of course, with winter coming on. But at least there was a program again, and the Gubru seemed quite satisfied to leave them alone to do their work.

The invaders were, indeed, preoccupied elsewhere. The real focus of Galactic activity seemed to be over to the southwest, toward the spaceport.

And the ceremonial site, Fiben reminded himself. He didn’t really know what he was going to do in the unlikely event he actually made it through to town. What would happen if he just marched right up to the shabby house that had been his former prison? Would the Suzerain of Propriety take him back?

Would Gailet?

Would she even be there?

He passed a few chims dressed in muffled cloaks, who desultorily picked through the stubble in a recently harvested field. They did not greet him, nor did he expect them to. Gleaning was a job generally given the poorest sort of Probationer. Still, he felt their gaze as he walked Tycho toward Port Helehia. After the animal had calmed a bit, Fiben clambered back onto the saddle and rode.

He had considered trying to reenter Port Helenia the way he left it, over the wall, at night. After all, if it had worked once, why not a second time? Anyway, he had no wish to meet up with the followers of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution.

It was tempting. Somehow, though, he figured that once was lucky. Twice would be simple stupidity.

Anyway, the choice was made for him when he rounded a bend and found himself staring at a Gubru guard post. Two battle robots of sophisticated design whirled and focused upon him.

“Easy does it, guys.” Fiben said it more for his own benefit than theirs. If they were programmed to shoot on sight, he never would have seen them in the first place.

In front of the blockhouse there sat a squat armored hover craft, propped up on blocks. Two pairs of three-toed feet stuck out from underneath, and it did not take much knowledge of Galactic Three to tell that the chirped mutter-ings were expressing frustration. When the robots’ warning whistled forth there came a sharp bang under the hover, followed by an indignant squawk.

Soon a pair of hooked beaks poked out of the shadows. Yellow eyes watched him unblinkingly. One of the disheveled Gubru rubbed its dented head frill.

Fiben pressed his lips together to fight back a smile. He dismounted and approached until he was even with the bunker, puzzled when neither the aliens nor the machines spoke to him.

He stopped before the two Gubru and bowed low.

They looked at each other and twittered irritably to each other. From one there came something that sounded like a resigned moan. The two Talon Soldiers emerged from under the disabled machine and stood up. Each of them returned a very slight but noticeable nod.

Silence stretched.

One of the Gubru whistled another faint sigh and brushed dust from its feathers. The other simply glared at Fiben.

Now what? he tried to think, but what was he supposed to do? Fiben’s toes itched.

He bowed again. Then, with a dry mouth, he backed away and took the horse’s tether. With affected nonchalance he started walking toward the dark fence surrounding Port Helenia, now visible just a kilometer ahead.

Tycho nickered, swished his tail, and cut loose an aromatic crepidation.

Tycho, pu-lease! Fiben thought. When a bend in the road at last cut off all view of the Gubru, Fiben sank to the ground. He just sat and shook for a few moments.

“Well,” he said at last. “I guess there really is a truce after all.”

After that, the guard post at the town gate was almost anticlimactic. Fiben actually enjoyed making the Talon Soldiers acknowledge his bow. He remembered some of what Gailet had taught him about Galactic protocol. Grudging acknowledgment from the client-class Kwackoo had been vital to achieve. To get it from the Gubru was delicious.

It also clearly meant that the Suzerain of Propriety was holding out. It had not yet given in.

Fiben left a trail of startled chims behind him as he rode Tycho at a gallop through the back streets of Port Helenia. One or two of them shouted at him, but at that moment he had no thought except to hurry toward the site of his former imprisonment.

When he arrived, however, he found the iron gate open and untended. The watch globes had vanished from the stone wall. He left Tycho to graze in the unkempt garden and beat aside a couple of limp plate ivy parachutes that festooned the open doorway.

“Gailet!” he shouted.

The Probationer guards were gone too. Dustballs and scraps of paper blew in through the open door and rolled down the hall. When he came to the room he had shared with Gailet, Fiben stopped and stared.

It was a mess.

Most of the furnishings were still there, but the expensive sound system and holo-wall had been torn out, no doubt taken by the departing Probies. On the other hand, Fiben saw his personal datawell sitting right where he had left it that night.

Gailet’s was gone.

He checked the closet. Most of their clothes still hung there. Clearly she hadn’t packed. He took down the shiny ceremonial robe he had been given by the Suzerain’s staff. The silky material was almost glass-smooth under his fingers.

Gailet’s robe was missing.

“Oh, Goodall,” Fiben moaned. He spun about and dashed down the hall. It took only a second to leap into the saddle, but Tycho barely looked up from his feeding. Fiben had to kick and yell until the beast began to comprehend some of the urgency of the situation. With a yellow sunflower still hanging from his mouth, the horse turned and clomped through the gate and back onto the street. Once there, Tycho brought his head down and gamely gathered momentum.

They made quite a sight, galloping down the silent, almost empty streets, the robe and the flower flapping like banners in the wind. But few witnessed the wild ride until they finally approached the crowded wharves.

It seemed as if nearly every chim in town was there. They swarmed along the waterfront, a churning mass of brown, callipose bodies dressed in autumn parkas, their heads bobbing like the waters of the bay just beyond. More chims leaned precariously over the rooftops, and some even hung from drainage spouts.

It was a good thing Fiben wasn’t on foot. Tycho was really quite helpful as he snorted and nudged startled chims aside with his nose. From his perch on the horse’s back, Fiben soon was able to spy what some of the commotion was about.

About half a kilometer out into the bay, a dozen fishing vessels could be seen operating under neo-chimpanzee crews. A cluster of them jostled and bumped near a sleek white craft that glistened in cliquant contrast to the battered trawlers.

The Gubru vessel was dead in the water. Two of the avian crew members stood atop its cockpit, twittering and waving their arms, offering instructions which the chim seamen politely ignored as they tied hausers to the crippled craft and began gradually towing it toward the shore.

So what? Big deal, Fiben thought. So a Gubru patrol boat suffered a breakdown. For this all the chims in town had spilled out into the streets? The citizens of Port Helenia really must be hard up for entertainment.

Then he realized that only a few of the townfolk were actually watching the minor rescue in the harbor. The vast majority stared southward, out across the bay.

Oh. Fiben’s breath escaped in’a sigh, and he, too, was momentarily struck speechless.

New, shining towers stood atop the far mesa where the colonial spaceport lay. The lambemV monoliths looked nothing like Gubru transports, or their hulking, globular battleships. Instead, these resembled glimmering steeples — spires which towered high and confident, manifesting a faith and tradition more ancient than life on Earth.

Tiny winklings of light lifted from the tall starships — carrying Galactic dignitaries, Fiben guessed — and cruised westward, drawing nearer along the arc of the bay. At last the aircraft joined a spiral of traffic descending over South Point. That was where everyone in Port Helenia seemed to sense that something special was going on.

Unconsciously Fiben guided Tycho through the crowd until he arrived at the edge of the main wharf. There a chain of chims wearing oval badges held back the crowd. So there are proctors again, Fiben realized. The Probationers proved unreliable, so the Gubru had to reinstate civil authority.

A chen wearing the brassard of a proctor corporal grabbed Tycho’s halter and started to speak. “Hey, bub! You can’t …” Then he blinked. “Ifni! Is that you, Fiben?”

Fiben recognized Barnaby Fulton, one of the chims who had been involved in Gailet’s early urban undergound. He smiled, though his thoughts were far across the choppy waters. “Hello, Barnaby. Haven’t seen you since the valley uprising. Glad to see you still scratchin’.”

Now that attention had been drawn his way, chens and chimmies started nudging each other and whispering in hushed voices. He heard his own name repeated. The susurration of the crowd ebbed as a circle of silence spread around him. Two or three of the staring chims reached out to touch Tycho’s heavy flanks, or Fiben’s leg, as if to verify that they were real.

Barnaby made a visible effort to match Fiben’s insouciance. “Whenever it itches, Fiben. Uh, one rumor had it you were s’pozed to be over there.” He gestured toward the monumental activity taking place across the harbor. “Another said you’d busted out an’ taken to the hills. A third …”

“What did the third say?”

Barnaby swallowed. “Some said your number’d come up…”

“Hmph,” Fiben commented softly. “I guess all of them were right.”

He saw that the trawlers had dragged the crippled Gubru patrol boat nearly to the dock. A number of other chim-crewed vessels cruised farther out, but none of them crossed a line of buoys that could be seen stretching all the way across the bay.

Barnaby looked left and right, then spoke in a low voice. “Uh, Fiben, there are quite a few chims in town who… well, who’ve been reorganizing. I had to give parole when I got my brassard back, but I can get word to Professor Oakes that you’re in town. I’m sure he’d want to get together a meetin’ tonight. …”

Fiben shook his head. “No time. I’ve got to get over there.” He motioned to where the bright aircraft were alighting on the far headlands.

Barnaby’s lips drew back. “I dunno, Fiben. Those watch buoys. They’ve kept everybody back.”

“Have they actually burned anybody?”

“Well, no. Not that I’ve seen. But—”

Barnaby stopped as Fiben shook the reins and nudged with his heels. “Thanks, Barnaby. That’s all I needed to know,” he said.

The proctors stood aside as Tycho stepped along the wharf. Farther out the little rescue flotilla had just come to dock and were even now tying up the prim white Gubru warcraft. The chim sailors did a lot of bowing and moved in uncomfortable crouched postures under the glare of the irritated Talon Soldiers and their fearsome battle drones.

In contrast, Fiben steered his steed just outside of the range that would have required him to acknowledge the aliens. His posture was erect, and he ignored them completely as he rode past the patrol boat to the far end of the pier, where the smallest of the fishing boats had just come to rest.

He swung his feet over the saddle and hopped down. “Are you good to animals?” he asked the startled sailor, who looked up from securing his craft. When he nodded, Fiben handed the dumbfounded chim Tycho’s reins. “Then we’ll swap.”

He leaped aboard the little craft and stepped behind the cockpit. “Send a bill for the difference to the Suzerain for Propriety. You got that? The Gubru Suzerain of Propriety.”

The wide-eyed chen seemed to notice that his jaw was hanging open. He closed it with an audible clack.

Fiben switched the ignition on and felt satisfied with the engine’s throaty roar. “Cast off,” he said. Then he smiled. “And thanks. Take good care of Tycho!”

The sailor blinked. He seemed about to decide to get angry when some of the chims who had followed Fiben caught up. One whispered in the boatman’s ear. The fisherman then grinned. He hurried to untie the boat’s tether and threw the rope back onto the foredeck. When Fiben awkwardly hit the pier backing up, the chim only winced slightly. “G-good luck,’ he managed to say.

“Yeah. Luck, Fiben,” Barnaby shouted.

Fiben waved and shifted the impellers into forward. He swung about in a wide arc, passing almost under the duraplast sides of the Gubru patrol craft. Up close it did not look quite so glistening white. In fact, the armored hull looked pitted and corroded. High, indignant chirps from the other side of the vessel indicated the frustration of the Talon Soldier crew.

Fiben spared them not a thought as he turned about and got his borrowed boat headed southward, toward the line of buoys that split the bay and kept the chims of Port Helenia away from the high, patron-level doings on the opposite shore.

Foamed and choppy from the wind, the water was cinerescent with the usual garbage the easterlies always brought in, this time of year — everything from leaves to almost transparent plate ivy parachutes to the feathers of molting birds. Fiben had to slow to avoid clots of debris as well as battered boats of all description crowded with chim sightseers.

He approached the barrier line at low speed and felt thousands of eyes watching him as he passed the last shipload, containing the most daring and curious of the Port Helenians.

Goodall, do I really know what I’m doing? he wondered. He had been acting almost on automatic so far. But now it came to him that he really was out of his depth here. What did he hope to accomplish by charging off this way? What was he going to do? Crash the ceremony? He looked at the towering starships across the bay, glistening in power and splendor.

As if he had any business sticking his half-uplifted nose into the affairs of beings from great and ancient clans! All he’d accomplish would be to embarrass himself, and probably his whole race for that matter.

“Gotta think about this,” he muttered. Fiben brought the boat’s engine down to idle as the line of buoys neared. He thought about how many people were watching him right now.

My people, he recalled. I … I was supposed to represent them.

Yes, but I ducked out, obviously the Suzerain realized its mistake and made other arrangements. Or the other Suzerain’s won, and I’d simply be dead meat if I showed up!

He wondered what they would think if they knew that, only days ago, he had manhandled and helped kidnap one of his own patrons, and his legal commander at that. Some race-representative!

Gailet doesn’t need the likes of me. She’s better off without me.

Fiben twisted the wheel, causing the boat to come about just short of one of the white buoys. He watched it go by as he turned.

It, too, looked less than new on close examination — somewhat corroded, in fact. But then, from his own lowly state, who was he to judge?

Fiben blinked at that thought. Now that was laying it on too thick!

He stared at the buoy, and slowly his lips curled back. Why… why you devious sons of bitches…

Fiben cut the impellers and let the engine drop back to idle. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his temples, trying to concentrate.

I was girding myself against another fear barrier…like the one at the city fence, that night. But this one is more subtle! It plays on my sense of my own unworthiness. It trades on my humility.

He opened his eyes and looked back at the buoy. Finally, he grinned.

“What humility?” Fiben asked aloud. He laughed and turned the wheel as he set the craft in motion again. This time when he headed for the barrier he did not hesitate, or listen to the doubts that the machines tried to cram into his head.

“After all,” he muttered, “what can they do to shake the confidence of a fellow who’s got delusions of adequacy?” The enemy had made a serious mistake here, Fiben knew as he left the buoys behind him and, with them, their artificially induced doubts. The resolution that flowed back into him now was fortified by its very contrast to the earlier depths. He approached the opposite headland wearing a fierce scowl of determination.

Something flapped against his knee. Fiben glanced down and saw the silvery ceremonial robe — the one he had found in the closet back at the old prison. He had crammed it under his belt, apparently, just before leaping atop Tycho and riding, pell-mell, for the harbor. No wonder people had been staring at him, back at the docks!

Fiben laughed. Holding onto the wheel with one hand, he wriggled into the silky garment as he headed toward a silent stretch of beach. The bluffs cut off any view of what was going on over on the sea side of the narrow peninsula. But the drone of still-descending aircraft was — he hoped — a sign that he might not be too late.

He ran the boat aground on a shelf of sparkling white sand, now made unattractive under a tidal wash of flotsam. Fiben was about to leap into the knee-high surf when he glanced back and noticed that something seemed to be going on back in Port Helenia. Faint cries of excitement carried over the water. The churning mass of brown forms at the dockside was now surging to the right.

He plucked up the pair of binoculars that hung by the capstan and focused them on the wharf area.

Chims ran about, many of them pointing excitedly eastward, toward the main entrance to town. Some were still running in that direction. But now more and more seemed to be heading the other way… apparently not so much in fear as in confusion. Some of the more excitable chims capered about. A few even fell into the water and had to be rescued by the more level-headed.

Whatever was happening did not seem to be causing panic so much as acute, near total bewilderment.

Fiben did not have time to hang around and piece to-

fether this added puzzle. By now he thought he understood is own modest powers of concentration.

Focus on just one problem at a time, he told himself. Get to Gailet. Tell her you’re sorry you ever left her. Tell her you’II never ever do it again.

That was easy enough even for him to understand.

Fiben found a narrow trail leading up from the beach. It was crumbling and dangerous, especially in the gusting winds. Still, he hurried. And his pace was held down only by the amount of oxygen his limited lungs and heart could pump.

84 Uthacalthing

The four of them made a strange-looking group, hurrying northward under overcast skies. Perhaps some little native animals looked up and stared at them, blinking in momentary astonishment before they ducked back into their burrows and swore off the eating of overripe seeds ever again.

To Uthacalthing, though, the forced inarch was something of a humiliation. Each of the others, it seemed, had advantages over him.

Kault puffed and huffed and obviously did not like the rugged ground. But once the hulking Thennanin got moving he kept up a momentum that seemed unstoppable.

As for Jo-Jo, well, the little chim seemed by now to be a creature of this environment. He was under strict orders from Uthacalthing never to knuckle-walk within sight of Kault — no sense in taking a chance with arousing the Thennanin’s suspicions — but when the terrain got too rugged he sometimes just scrambled over an obstacle rather than going around it. And over the long flat stretches, Jo-Jo simply rode Robert’s back.

Robert had insisted on carrying the chim, whatever the official gulf in status between them. The human lad was impatient enough as it was. Clearly, he would rather have run all’ the way.

The change in Robert Oneagle was astonishing, and far more than physical. Last night, when Kault asked him to explain part of his story for the third time, Robert clearly and unself-consciously manifested a simple version of teev’nus over his head. Uthacalthing could kenn how the human deftly used the glyph to contain his frustration, so that none of it would spill over into outward discourtesy to the Thennanin.

Uthacalthing could see that there was much Robert was not telling. But what he said was enough.

I knew that Megan underestimated her son. But of this I had no expectation.

Clearly, he had underrated his own daughter as well.

Clearly. Uthacalthing tried not to resent his flesh and blood for her power, the power to rob him of more than he had thought he could ever lose.

He struggled to keep up with the others, but Uthacalthing’s change nodes already throbbed tiredly. It wasn’t just that Tymbrimi were more talented at adaptability than endurance. It was also a fault in his will. The others had purpose, even enthusiasm.

He had only duty to keep him going.

Kault stopped at the top of a rise, where the- looming mountains towered near and imposing. Already they were entering a forest of scrub trees that gained stature as they ascended. Uthacalthing looked up at the steep slopes ahead, already misted in what might be snow clouds, and hoped they would not have to climb much farther.

Kault’s massive hand closed around his as the Thennanin helped him up the final few meters. He waited patiently as Uthacalthing rested, breathing heavily through wide-open nostrils.

“I still can scarcely believe what I have been told,” Kault said. “Something about the Earthling’s story does not ring true, my colleague.”

“Tfunatu…” Uthacalthing switched to Anglic, which seemed to take less air. “What — what do you find hard to believe, Kault? Do you think Robert is lying?”

Kault waved his hands in front of himself. His ridgecrest inflated indignantly. “Certainly not! I only believe that the young fellow is naive.”

“Naive? In what way?” Uthacalthing could look up now without his vision splitting into two separate images in his cortex. Robert and Jo-Jo weren’t in sight. They must have gone on ahead.

“I mean that the Gubru are obviously up to much more than they claim. The deal they are offering — peace with Earth in exchange for tenancy on some Garthian islands and minor genetic purchase rights from neo-chimpanzee stock — such a deal seems barely worth the cost of an interstellar ceremony. It is my suspicion that they are after something else on the sly, my friend.”

“What do you think thsy want?”

Kault swung his almost neckless head left and right, as if looking to make sure no one else was within listening range. His voice dropped in both volume and timbre.

“I suspect that they intend to perform a snap-adoption.”

“Adoption? Oh… you mean—”

“Garthlings,” Kault finished for him. “This is why it is so fortunate your Earthling allies brought us this news. We can only hope that they will be able to provide transport, as they promised, or we will never be in time to prevent a terrible tragedy!”

Uthacalthing mourned all that he had lost. For Kault had raised a perplexing question, one well worth a well-crafted glyph of delicate wryness.

He had been successful, of course, beyond his wildest expectations. According to Robert, the Gubru had swallowed the “Garthling” myth “hook, line, and sinker.” At least for long enough to cause them harm and embarrassment.

Kault, too, had come to believe in the ghostly fable. But what was one to make of Kault’s claim that his own instruments verified the story?

Incredible.

And now, the Gubru seemed to be behaving as if they, too, had more to go on than the fabricated clues he had left. They, too, acted as if there were confirmation!

The old Uthacalthing would have crafted syulff-kuonn to commemorate such amazing turns. At this moment, though, all he felt was confused, and very tired.

A shout caused them both to turn. Uthacalthing squinted, wishing right then that he could trade some of his unwanted empathy sense for better eyesight.

Atop the next ridge he made out the form of Robert Oneagle. Seated atop the young human’s shoulders, Jo-Jo waved at them. And something else was there, too. A blue glimmering that seemed to spin next to the two Earth creatures and radiate all of the good will of a perfect prankster.

It was the beacon, the light that had led Uthacalthing ever onward, since the crash months before.

“What are they saying?” Kault asked. “I cannot quite make out the words.”

Neither could Uthacalthing. But he knew what the Ter-rans were saying. “I believe they are telling us that we don’t have very much farther to go,” he said with some relief. “They are saying that they have found our transport.”

The Thennanin’s breathing slits puffed in satisfaction. “Good. Now if only we can trust the Gubru to follow custom and proper truce behavior when we appear and offer correct diplomatic treatment to accredited envoys.”

Uthacalthing nodded. But as they began marching uphill together again, he knew that that was only one of their worries.

85 Athaclena

She tried to suppress her feelings. To the others, this was serious, even tragic.

But there was just no way to keep it in; her delight would not be contained. Subtle, ornate glyphs spun off from her waving tendrils and diffracted away through the trees, filling the glades with her hilarity. Athaclena’s eyes were at their widest divergence, and she covered her mouth with her hand so the dour chims would not see her human-style smile as well.

The portable holo unit had been set up on a ridgetop overlooking the Sind to the northwest in order to improve reception. It showed the scene being broadcast just then from Port Helenia. Under the truce, censorship had been lifted. And even without humans the capital had plenty of chim “newshounds” on the spot with mobile cameras to show all the debris in stunning detail.

“I can’t stand it,” Benjamin moaned. Elayne Soo muttered helplessly as she watched. “That tears it.”

The chimmie spoke volumes, indeed. For the holo-tank displayed what was left of the fancy wall the invaders had thrown around Port Helenia… now literally ripped down and torn to shreds. Stunned chim citizens milled about a scene that looked as if a cyclone had hit it. They stared around in amazement, picking through the shattered remnants. A few of those who were more exuberant than thoughtful threw pieces of fence material into the air jubilantly. Some even made chest-thumping motions in honor of the unstoppable wave that had crested there only minutes before, then surged onward into the town itself.

On most of the stations the voice-over was computer generated, but on Channel Two a chim announcer was able to speak over his excitement.

“At — at first we all thought it was a nightmare come true. You know… like an archetype out of an old TwenCen flatmovie. Nothing would stop them! They crashed through the Gubru barrier as if it was made of tish-tissue paper. I don’t know about anybody else, but at any moment I expected the biggest of them to go around grabbing our prettiest chimmies and drag them screaming all the way to the top of the Terragens Tower. …”

Athaclena clapped her hand tigher over her mouth in order to keep from laughing out loud. She fought for self-control, and she was not alone, for one of the chims — Fiben’s friend, Sylvie — let out a high chirp of laughter. Most of the others frowned at her in disapproval. After all, this was serious! But Athaclena met the chimmie’s eyes and recognized the light in them.

“But it — it appears that these creatures aren’t complete kongs, after all. They — after their demolishment of the fence, they don’t seem to have done much more damage in their s-sudden invasion of Port Helenia. Mostly, right now, they’re just milling around, opening doors, eating fruit, going wherever they want to. After all, where does a four-hundred-pound gar … oh, never mind.”

This time, another chim joined Sylvie. Athaclena’s vision blurred and she shook her head. The announcer went on.

“They seem completely unaffected by the Gubru’s psi-drones, which apparently aren’t tuned to their brain patterns…”

Actually, Athaclena and the mountain fighters had known for more than two days where the gorillas were headed. After their first frantic attempts to divert the powerful pre-sentients, they gave up the effort as useless. The gorillas politely pushed aside or stepped over anybody who got in their way. There had simply been no stopping them.

Not even April Wu. The little blond girl had apparently made up her mind to go and find her parents, and short of risking injury to her, there was no way anybody would be able to pry her off the shoulders of one of the giant, silver-backed males.

Anyway, April had told the chims quite matter-of-factly, somebody had to go along and supervise the Villas, or they might get into trouble!

Athaclena remembered little April’s words as she looked at the mess the pre-sentients had made of the Gubru wall. I’d hate to see the trouble they could cause if they weren’t supervised!

Anyway, with the secret out, there was no reason the human child should not be reunited with her family. Nothing she said could hurt anybody now.

So much for the last secrecy of the Howletts Center Project. Now Athaclena might as well just toss away all the evidence she had so dutifully gathered, that first, fateful evening so many months ago. Soon the entire Five Galaxies would know about these creatures. And by some measures that was, indeed, a tragedy. And yet…

Athaclena remembered that day in early spring, when she had been so shocked and indignant to come upon the illegal Uplift experiment hidden in the forest. Now she could scarcely believe she had actually been like that. Was I really such a serious, officious little prig?

Now, syulff-kuonn was only the simplest, most serious of the glyphs she sparked off, casually, tirelessly, in joy over a simply marvelous joke. Even the chims could not help being affected by her profligate aura. Two more laughed when one of the channels showed an alien staff car, manned by squawking irate Kwackoo, in the process of being peeled back by gorillas who seemed passionately interested in how it would taste. Then another chim chuckled. The laughter spread.

Yes, she thought. It is a wonderful jest. To a Tymbrimi, the best jokes were those that caught the joker, as well as everybody else. And ihis fit the bill beautifully. It was, in truth, a religious experience. For her people believed in a Universe that was more than mere clockwork physics, more than even Ifni’s capricious flux of chance and luck.

It was when something like this happened — the Tymbrimi sages said — that one really knew that God, Himself, was still in charge.

Was I, then, also an agnostic before? How silly of me. Thank you then, Lord, and thank you too, father, for this miracle.

The scene shifted to the dock area, where milling chims danced in the streets and stroked the fur of their giant, patient cousins. In spite of the likely tragic consequences of all this, Athaclena and her warriors could not help but smile at the delight the brown-furred relations obviously took in each other. For now, at least, their pride was shared by all the chims of Port Helenia.

Even Lieutenant Lydia McCue and her wary corporal could not help but laugh when a gorilla baby danced past the cameras, wearing necklace made of broken Gubru psi-globes. They caught a glimpse of little April, riding in triumph through the streets, and the sight of a human child seemed to galvanize the crowds.

By now the glade was saturated with her glyphs. Athaclena turned and walked away, leaving the others to resonate in the wry joy. She moved up a forest trail until she came to a place with a clear view of the mountains to the west. There she stood, reaching and kenning with her tendrils.

It was there that a chim messenger found her. He hurried up and saluted before handing her a slip of paper. Athaclena thanked him and opened it, though she thought she already knew what it would say.

“With’tanna, Uthacalthing,” she said, softly. Her father was back in touch with the world again. For all of the events of the past few months, there was a solid, practical part of her, still, who was relieved to have this confirmation by radio.

She had had faith that Robert would succeed, of course. That was why she had not gone to Port Helenia with Fiben, or after that with the gorillas. What could she accomplish there, with her poor expertise, that her father could not do a thousand times better? If anyone could help turn their slim hopes into more and still greater miracles, it would be Uthacalthing.

No, her job was to remain here. For even in the event of miracles, the Infinite expected mortals to provide their own insurance.

She shaded her eyes. Although she had no hope of personally sighting a little aircraft against the bright clouds, she kept looking for a tiny dot that would be carrying all her love and all her prayers.

86 Galtactics

Gay pavilions dotted the manicured hillside, occasionally billowing and flapping in the gusting breeze. Quick robots hurried to pluck up any debris brought in by the wind. Others fetched and carried refreshments to the gathered dignitaries.

Galactics of many shapes and colors milled in small groups that merged and separated in an elegant pavane of diplomacy. Courteous bows and flattenings and tentacle wavings conveyed complex nuances of status and protocol. A knowledgeable observer might tell a great deal from such subtleties — .and there were many knowledgeable observers present on this day.

Informal exchanges abounded as well. Here a squat, bearlike Pila conversed in clipped, ultrasonic tones with a gangling Linten gardener. A little upslope, three Jophur ring-priests keened in harmonious complaint to an official from the War Institute over some alleged violation out among the starlanes.

It was often said that much more practical diplomacy was accomplished at these Uplift Ceremonies than at formal negotiation conferences. More than one new alliance might be made today, and more than one broken.

Only a few of the Galactic visitors spared more than passing attention to those being honored here today — a caravan of small, brown forms which had taken the entire morning to labor halfway up the mound, circling it four times along the way.

By now nearly a third of the neo-chimpanzee candidates had failed one test or another. Those rejected were already trooping back down the sloping path, in downcast ones and twos.

The remaining forty or so continued their ascent, symbolically reiterating the process of Uplift that had brought their race to this stage in its history, but ignored, for the most part, by the bright crowds on the slopes.

Not all of the observers were inattentive, of course. Near the pinnacle, the Commissioners from the Galactic Uplift Institute paid close attention to the results relayed up by each test station. And nearby, from beneath their own pavilion, a party of the neo-chimpanzees’ human patrons watched, glumly.

Looking somewhat lost and helpless, they had been brought out from Cilmar Island only this morning — a few mayors, professors, and a member of the local Uplift Board. The delegation had put forward a procedural protest over the irregular way the ceremony had come about. But when pressed, none of the humans actually claimed a right to cancel it altogether. The possible consequences were potentially just too drastic.

Besides, what if this were the real thing? Earth had been agitating to be allowed to hold just such a ceremony for neo-chimpanzees for two hundred years.

The human observers definitely looked unhappy. For they had no idea what to do, and few of the grand Galactic envoys present even deigned to acknowledge them amid the flurry of informal diplomacy.

On the opposite side of the Evaluators’ pavilion sat the elegant Sponsors’ Tent. Many Gubru and Kwackoo stood just outside, nervously hopping from time to time, watching every detail with unblinking, critical eyes.

Until moments ago, the Gubru Triumvirate had been visible also, two of them strutting about with their Molt colorings already starting to show and the third still obsti-

nately perched upon its pedestal.

Then one of them received a message, and all three disappeared into the tent for an urgent parlay. That had been some time ago. They still had not emerged.

The Suzerain of Cost and Caution fluttered and spat as it let the message drop to the floor.

“I protest! I protest this interference! This interference and intolerable betrayal!”

The Suzerain of Propriety stared down from its perch, totally at a loss. The Suzerain of Cost and Caution had proved to be a crafty opponent, but never had it been purposely obtuse. Obviously something had happened to upset it terribly.

Crouching Kwackoo servitors hurriedly plucked up the message pellet it had dropped, duplicated the capsule, and brought copies to the other two Gubru lords. When the Suzerain of Propriety viewed the data, it could scarcely believe what it saw.

It was a solitary neo-chimpanzee, climbing the lower slopes of the towering Ceremonial Mound, passing rapidly through the automatic first-stage screens and gradually beginning to close the wide gap separating it from the official party, higher on the hillside.

The neo-chimp moved with an erect determination, a clearness of purpose that could be read in its very posture. Those of its con-specifics who had already failed — and who were spiraling slowly down the long trail again — first stared, then grinned and reached out to touch the newcomer’s robe as he passed. They offered words of encouragement.

“This was not, cannot have been rehearsed!” the Suzerain of Beam and Talon hissed. The military commander cried out, “It is an interloper, and I shall have it burned down!”

“You should not, must not, shall not!” the Suzerain of Propriety squawked back in anger. “There has not yet been a coalescence! No complete molting! You do not yet have a queen’s wisdom!

“Ceremonies are run, governed, ruled by traditions of honor! All members of a client race may approach and be tried, tested, evaluated!”

The third Gubru lord snapped its beak open and shut in agitation. Finally, the Suzerain of Cost and Caution fluffed its ragged feathers and agreed. “We would be charged reparations. The Institute officials might leave, depart, lay sanctions… The cost …” It turned away in a downy huff. “Let it proceed, then. For now. Alone, solitary, in isolation it can do no harm.”

But the Suzerain of Propriety was not so sure. Once, it had set great store in this particular client. When it seemed to have been stolen, the Suzerain of Propriety suffered a serious setback.

Now, however^ it realized the truth. The neo-chimp male had not been stolen and eliminated by its rivals, the other Suzerains. Instead, the chimp had actually escaped!

And now it was back, alone. How? And what did it hope to accomplish? Without guidance, without the aid of a group, how far did it think it could go?

At first, on seeing the creature, the Suzerain of Propriety had felt joyful amazement — an unusual sensation for a Gubru. Now its emotion was something even more uncomfortable … a worry that this was only the beginning of surprise.

87 Fiben

So far so good. He made it around the first circuit in what had to be record speed.

Oh, a few times they asked him some questions. What was his earliest memory? Did he enjoy his profession? Was he satisfied with the physical form of this generation of neo-chimpanzee, or might it be improved somehow? Would a prehensile tail be a convenient aid in tool use, for instance?

Gailet would have been proud of the way he remained polite, even then. Or at least he hoped she’d be proud of him.

Of course the Galactic officials had his entire record — genetic, scholastic, military — and were able to access it the moment he passed a group of startled Talon Soldiers on the bayside bluffs and strode through the outer barriers to meet his first test.

When a tall, treelike Kanten asked him about the note he had left, that night when he “escaped” from imprisonment, it was clear that the Institute was capable of subpoenaing the invaders’ records as well. He answered truthfully that Gailet had worded the document but that he had understood its purpose and concurred.

The Kanten’s foliage tinkled in the chiming of tiny, silvery bells. The semi-vegetable Galactic sounded pleased and amused as it shuffled aside to let him pass.

The intermittent wind helped keep Fiben cool as long as he was on the eastward slopes, but the westward side faced the afternoon sun and was sheltered from the breeze. The effort of maintaining his rapid pace made him feel as if he were wearing a thick coat, even though a chim’s sparse covering of body hair was technically not fur at all.

The parklike hill was neatly landscaped, and the trail paved with a soft, resilient surface. Nevertheless, through his toes he sensed a faint trembling, as if the entire artificial mountain were throbbing in harmonies far, far below the level of hearing. Fiben, who had seen the massive power plants before they were buried, knew that it was not his imagination.

At the next station a Pring technician with huge, glowing eyes and bulging lips looked him up and down and noted something in a datawell before allowing him to proceed. Now some of the dignitaries dotting the slopes seemed to have begun to notice him. A few drifted nearer and accessed his test results in curiosity. Fiben bowed courteously to those nearby.

So far it had been a piece of cake. Fiben wondered what all the fuss was about.

He had feared they would ask him to solve calculus problems in his head — or recite like Demosthenes, with marbles in his mouth. But at first there had only been a series of force-screen barriers that peeled back for him automatically. And after that there were only more of those funny-looking instruments he had seen the Gubru techs use weeks, months ago — now wielded by even funnier-looking aliens.

So far so good. He made it around the first circuit in what had to be record speed.

Oh, a few times they asked him some questions. What was his earliest memory? Did he enjoy his profession? Was he satisfied with the physical form of this generation of neo-chimpanzee, or might it be improved somehow? Would a prehensile tail be a convenient aid in tool use, for instance?

Gailet would have been proud of the way he remained polite, even then. Or at least he hoped she’d be proud of him.

Of course the Galactic officials had his entire record — genetic, scholastic, military — and were able to access it the moment he passed a group of startled Talon Soldiers on the bayside bluffs and strode through the outer barriers to meet his first test.

When a tall, treelike Kanten asked him about the note he had left, that night when he “escaped” from imprisonment, it was clear that the Institute was capable of subpoenaing the invaders’ records as well. He answered truthfully that Gailet had worded the document but that he had understood its purpose and concurred.

The Kanten’s foliage tinkled in the chiming of tiny, silvery bells. The semi-vegetable Galactic sounded pleased and amused as it shuffled aside to let him pass.

The intermittent wind helped keep Fiben cool as long as he was on the eastward slopes, but the westward side faced the afternoon sun and was sheltered from the breeze. The effort of maintaining his rapid pace made him feel as if he were wearing a thick coat, even though a chim’s sparse covering of body hair was technically not fur at all.

The parklike hill was neatly landscaped, and the trail paved with a soft, resilient surface. Nevertheless, through his toes he sensed a faint trembling, as if the entire artificial mountain were throbbing in harmonies far, far below the level of hearing. Fiben, who had seen the massive power plants before they were buried, knew that it was not his imagination.

At the next station a Pring technician with huge, glowing eyes and bulging lips looked him up and down and noted something in a datawell before allowing him to proceed. Now some of the dignitaries dotting the slopes seemed to have begun to notice him. A few drifted nearer and accessed his test results in curiosity. Fiben bowed courteously to those nearby and tried not to think about all the different kinds of eyes that were watching him like some sort of specimen.

Once their ancestors had to go through something like this, he consoled himself.

Twice Fiben passed a few spirals below the party of official candidates, a gradually dwindling band of brownish creatures in short, silvery robes. The first time he hurried by, none of the chims noticed him. On the second occasion, though, he had to stand under the scrutiny of instruments held by a being whose species he could not even identify. That time he was able to make out a few figures among those up above. And some of the chims noticed him as well. One nudged a companion and pointed. But then they all disappeared around the corner again.

He had not seen Gailet, but then, she would likely be at the head of the party, wouldn’t she? “Come on,” Fiben muttered impatiently, concerned over the time this creature was taking. Then he considered that the machines focused on him might read either his words or his mood, and he concentrated on preserving discipline. He smiled sweetly and bowed as the alien technician indicated a passing score with a few terse, computer-mediated words.

Fiben hurried on. He grew more and more irritated with the long distances between the stations and wondered if there wasn’t any dignified way he could run, in order to cut down on the gap even faster.

Instead though, things only started going slower as the tests grew more serious, calling for deeper learning and more complex thought. Soon he met more chims on their way back down. Apparently these were now forbidden to talk to him, but a few rolled their eyes meaningfully, and their bodies were damp with perspiration.

He recognized several of these dropouts. Two were professors at the college in Port Helenia. Others were scientists with the Garth Ecological Recovery Program. Fiben began to grow worried. All of these chims were blue-card types — among the brightest! If they were failing, something had to be very wrong here. Certainly this ceremony wasn’t perfunctory, as that celebration for the Tytlal, which Athaclena had told him about.

Perhaps the rules were stacked against Earthlings!

That was when he approached a station manned by a tall Gubru. It did not help that the avian wore the colors of the Uplift Institute and was supposedly sworn to impartiality. Fiben had seen too many of that clan wearing Institute livery today to satisfy him.

The birdlike creature used a vodor and asked him a simple question of protocol, then let him proceed.

A thought suddenly occurred to Fiben as he quickly left that test site. What if the Suzerain of Propriety had been completely defeated by its peers? Whatever its real agenda, that Suzerain had, at least, been sincere about wanting to run a real ceremony. A promise made had to be kept. But what of the others? The admiral and the bureaucrat? Certainly they would have different priorities.

Could the whole thing be rigged so that neo-chimps could not win, no matter how ready they were for advancement? Was that possible?

Could such a result be of real benefit to the Gubru in some way?

Filled with such troubling thoughts, Fiben barely passed a test that involved juggling several complex motor functions while having to solve an intricate three-dimensional puzzle. As he left that station, with the waters of Aspinal Bay falling under late afternoon shadows to his left, he almost failed to notice a new commotion far below. At the last moment he turned to see where a growing sound was coming from.

“What in Ifni’s incontinence?” He blinked and stared.

He was not alone in that. By now half of the Galactic dignitaries seemed to be drifting down that way, attracted by a brown tide that was just then spilling up to the foot of the Ceremonial Mound.

Fiben tried to see what was happening, but patches of sunlight, reflected by still-bright water, made it hard to make out anything in the shadows just below. What he could tell was that the bay appeared to be covered with boats, and many were now emptying their passengers onto the isolated beach where he had landed, hours before.

So, more of the city chims had come out to get a better look after all. He hoped none of them misbehaved, but he doubted any harm would be done. The Galactics surely knew that monkey curiosity was a basic chimp trait, and this was only acting true to form. Probably the chims’d be given a lower portion of the slope from which to watch, as was their right by Galactic Law.

He couldn’t afford to waste any more time dawdling, though. Fiben turned to hurry onward. And although he passed the next test on Galactic History, he also knew that his score had not helped his cumulative total much.

Now he was glad when he arrived on the westward slope. As the sun sank lower, this was the side on which the wind did not bite quite as fiercely. Fiben shivered as he plodded on, slowly gaining on the diminishing crowd above him.

“Slow down, Gailet,” he muttered. “Can’t you drag your feet or somethin’? You don’t haveta answer every damn question the very second it’s asked. Can’t you tell I’m comin’?”

A dismal part of him wondered if she already knew, and maybe didn’t care.

88 Gailet

She found it increasingly hard to feel that it mattered. And the cause of her depression was more than just the fatigue of a long, hard day, or the burden of all these bewildered chims relying upon her to lead them ever onward and upward through a maze of ever more demanding trials.

Nor was it the constant presence of the tall chen named Irongrip. It certainly was frustrating to see him breeze through tests that other, better chims failed. And as the other Sponsors’ -Choice, he was usually right behind her, wearing an infuriating, smug grin. Still, Gailet could grit her teeth and ignore him most of the time.

Nor, even, did the examinations themselves bother her much. Hell, they were the-best part of the day! Who was the ancient human sage who had said that the purest pleasure, and the greatest force in the ascent of Mankind, had been the skilled worker’s joy in her craft? While Gailet was concentrating she could block out nearly everything, the world, the Five Galaxies, all but the challenge to show her skill. Underneath all the crises and murky questions of honor and duty, there was always a clean sense of satisfaction whenever she finished a task and knew she had done well even before the Institute examiners told her so.

No, the tests weren’t what disturbed her. What bothered Gailet most was the growing suspicion that she had made the wrong choice after all.

I should have refused to participate, she thought. I should have simply said no.

Oh, the logic was the same as before. By protocol and all of the rules, the Gubru had put her in a position where she simply had no choice, for her own good and the good of her race and clan.

And yet, she also knew she was being used. It made her feel defiled.

During that last week of study at the Library she had found herself repeatedly dozing off under the screens, bright with arcane data. Her dreams were always disturbed, featuring birds holding threatening instruments. Images of Max and Fiben and so many others lingered, thickening her thoughts every time she jerked awake again.

Then the Day arrived. She had donned her robe almost with a sense of relief that now, at least, it was all finally approaching an end. But what end?

A slight chimmie emerged from the most recent test booth, mopped her forehead with the sleeve of her silvery tunic, and walked tiredly over to join Gailet. Michaela Nod-dings was only an elementary school teacher, and a green card, but she had proven more adaptable and enduring than quite a few blues, who were now walking the lonely spiral back down again. Gailet felt deep relief on seeing her new friend still among the candidates. She reached out to take the other chimmie’s hand.

“I almost flunked that one, Gailet,” Michaela said. Her fingers trembled in Gailet’s grasp.

“Now, don’t you dare flake out on me, Michaela,” Gailet said soothingly. She brushed her companion’s sweaty locks. “You’re my strength. I couldn’t go on if you weren’t here.”

In Michaela’s brown eyes was a soft gratitude, mixed with irony. “You’re a liar, Gailet. That’s sweet of you to say, but you don’t need any of us, let alone little me. Whatever I can pass, you take at a breeze.”

Of course that wasn’t strictly true. Gailet had figured out that the examinations offered by the Uplift Institute were scaled somehow, in order to measure not only how intelligent the subject was but also how hard he or she was trying. Sure, Gailet had advantages over most of the other chims, in training and perhaps in IQV but at each stage her own trials got harder, too.

Another chim — a Probationer known as Weasel — emerged from the booth and sauntered over to where Irongrip waited with a third member of their band. Weasel did not seem to be much put out. In fact, all three of the surviving Probationers looked relaxed, confident. Irongrip noticed Gailet’s glance and winked at her. She turned away quickly.

One last chim came out then and shook his head. “That’s it,” he said.

“Then Professor Simmins… ?”

When he shrugged, Gailet sighed. This just did not make sense. Something was wrong when fine, erudite chims were failing, and yet the tests did not cull out Irongrip’s bunch from the very start.

Of course, the Uplift Institute might judge “advancement” differently than the human-led Earthclan did. Irongrip and Weasel and Steelbar were intelligent, after all. The Ga-lactics might not view the Probationers’ various character flaws as all that terrible, loathsome as they were to Terrans.

But no, that wasn’t the reason at all, Gailet realized, as she and Michaela stepped past the remaining twenty or so to lead the way upward again. Gailet knew that something else had to be behind this. The Probies were just too cocky. Somehow they knew that a fix was in.

It was shocking. The Galactic Institutes were supposed to be above reproach. But there it was. She wondered what, if anything, could be done about it.

As they approached the next station — this one manned by a plump, leathery Soro inspector and six robots — Gailet looked around and noticed something for the first time, that nearly all of the brightly dressed Galactic observers — the aliens unaffiliated with the Institute who had come to watch and engage in informal diplomacy — nearly all of them had drifted away. A few could still be seen, moving swiftly downslope and to the east, as if drawn by something interesting happening off that way.

Of course they won’t bother telling us what’s going on, she thought bitterly.

“Okay, Gailet,” Michaela sighed. “Yo’ti first again. Show ’em we can talk real good.”

So, even a prim schoolteacher will use grunt dialect as an affectation, a bond. Gailet sighed. “Yeah. Me go do that thing.”

Irongrip grinned at her, but Gailet ignored him as she stepped up to bow to the Soro and submit to the attentions of the robots.

89 Galactics

The Suzerain of Beam and Talon strutted back and forth under the flapping fabric of the Uplift Institute pavilion. The Gubru admiral’s voice throbbed with a vibrato of outrage.

“Intolerable! Unbelievable! Impermissible! This invasion must be stopped, held back, put into abeyance!”

The smooth routine of a normal Uplift Ceremony had been shattered. Officials and examiners of the Institute — Galactics of many shapes and sizes — now rushed about under the great canopy, hurriedly consulting portable Libraries, seeking precedents for an event none of them had ever witnessed or imagined before. An unexpected disturbance had triggered chaos everywhere, and especially in the corner where the Suzerain danced its outrage before a spiderlike being.

The Grand Examiner, an arachnoid Serentini, stood relaxed in a circle of datatanks, listening attentively to the Gubru officer’s complaint.

“Let it be ruled a violation, an infraction, a capital of-fense! My soldiers shall enforce propriety severely!” The Suzerain fluffed its down to display the pinkish tint already visible under the outer feathers — as if the Serentini would be impressed to see that the admiral was nearly female, almost a queen.

But the sight failed to impress the Grand Examiner. Serentini were all female, after all. So what was the big deal?

The Grand Examiner kept her amusement hidden, however. “The new arrivals fit all of the criteria for being allowed to participate in this ceremony,” she replied patiently in Galactic Three. “They have caused consternation, of course, and will be much discussed long after this day is done. Still, they are only one of many features of this ceremony which are, well, unconventional.”

The Gubru’s beak opened, then shut. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that this is the most irregular Uplift Ceremony in megayears. I have several times considered canceling it altogether.”

“You dare not! We should appeal, seek redress, seek compensation …”

“Oh, you would love that, wouldn’t you?” The Grand Examiner sighed. “Everyone knows the Gubru are overextended now. But a judgment against one of the Institutes could cover some of your costs, no?”

This time, the Gubru was silent. The Grand Examiner used two feelers to scratch a crease in her carapace. “Several of my associates believe that that was your plan all along. There are so many irregularities in this ceremony you’ve arranged. But on close examination each one seems to stop just short of illegality. You have been clever at finding precedents and loopholes.

“For instance, there is the matter of human approval of a ceremony for their own clients. It is unclear these hostage officials of yours understood what they were agreeing to when they signed the documents you showed me.”

“They were — had been — offered Library access.”

“A skill for which wolflings are not renowned. There is suspicion of coercion.”

“We have a message of acceptance from Earth! From their homeworld! From their nest-mothers!”

“Aye,” the Serentini agreed. “They accepted your offer of peace and a free ceremony. What poor wolfling race in their dire circumstances could turn down such a proposal? But semantic analysis shows that they thought they were only agreeing to discuss the matter further! They obviously did not understand that you had purchased liberation of their old applications, some made more than fifty paktaars ago! This allowed the waiting period to be waived.”

“Their misunderstandings are not pur concern,” clipped the Suzerain of Beam and Talon.

“Indeed. And does the Suzerain of Propriety hold with this view?”

This time there was only silence. Finally, the Grand Examiner lifted both forelegs and crossed them in a formal bow. “Your protest is acknowledged. The ceremony shall continue, under the ancient rules set down by the Progenitors.”

The Gubru commander had no choice. It bowed in return. Then it swiveled and flounced outside, angrily pushing aside a crowd of its guards and aides, leaving them cackling, disturbed, in its wake.

The Examiner turned to a robot assistant. “What were we discussing before the Suzerain arrived?”

“An approaching craft whose occupants claim diplomatic protection and observer status,” the thing replied in Galactic One.

“Ah, yes. Those.”

“They are growing quite perturbed, as Gubru interceptors now seem about to cut them off, and may do them harm.”

The Examiner hesitated only a moment. “Please inform the approaching envoys that we will be only too happy to grant their request. They should come directly to the Mount, under the protection of the Uplift Institute.”

The robot hurried off to pass on the order. Other aides then approached, waving readouts and picting preliminary reports on still more anomalies. One after another of the holo-screens lit up to show the crowd that had arrived at the base of the hill, tumbling out of rusty boats and surging up the unguarded slopes.

“This event grows ever more interesting,” the Grand Examiner sighed reflectively. “I wonder, what will happen next?”

90 Gailet

It was after sunset and Gimelhai had already sunk below a western horizon turbid with dark clouds by the time the worn-down survivors finally passed through the last examination screen to collapse in exhaustion upon a grassy knoll. Six chens and six chimmies lay quietly close to each other for warmth. They were too tired to engage in the grooming all felt they needed.

“Momma, why didn’t they choose dogs to uplift, instead? Or pigs?” One of them moaned.

“Baboons,” another voice suggested, and there was a murmur of agreement. Such creatures deserved this kind of treatment.

“Anybody but us,” a third voice summarized, succinctly.

Ex exaltavit humilis, Gailet thought silently. They have lifted up the humble of origins. The motto of the Terragens Uplift Board had its origins in the Christian Bible. To Gailet it had always carried the unfortunate implication that someone, somewhere, was going to get crucified.

Her eyes closed and she felt a light sleep close in immediately. Just a catnap, she thought. But it did not last long. Gailet felt a sudden return of that dream — the one in which a Gubru stood over her, peering down the barrel of a malevolent machine. She shivered and opened her eyes again.

The last shreds of twilight were fading. Bitterly clear, the stars twinkled as if through something more refracting than mere atmosphere.

She and the others stood up quickly as a brightly lit floater car approached and settled down in front of them. Out stepped three figures, a tall, downy-white Gubru, a spiderlike Galactic, and a pudgy human mel whose official gown hung on him like a potato sack. As she and the other chims bowed, Gailet recognized Cordwainer Appelbe, the head of Garth’s local Uplift Board.

The man looked bewildered. Certainly he must be overawed to be taking part in all this. Still, Gailet also wondered whether Appelbe was drugged.

“Urn, I want to congratulate you all,” he said, stepping just ahead of the other two. “You should know how proud we are of all of you. I’ve been told that, while there are certain test scores that are still in dispute, the overall judgment of the Uplift Institute is that Pan argonostes — the neo-chim-panzees of Earthclan — are, or, well, actually have been ready for stage three for quite some time.”

The arachnoid official stepped forward then. “That is true. In fact, I can promise that the Institute will favorably consider any future applications by Earthclan for further examinations.”

Thank you, Gailet thought as she and the others bowed again. But please, don’t bother picking me for the next one.

Now the Grand Examiner launched into a lengthy speech about the rights and duties of client races. She spoke of the long-departed Progenitors, who began Galactic civilization so long ago, and the procedures they set down for all succeeding generations of intelligent life to follow.

The Examiner used Galactic Seven, which most of the chims could at least follow. Gailet tried to pay attention, but within her troubled thoughts kept turning to what was certainly to come after this.

She was sure she felt underfoot an increase in the faint trembling which had accompanied them all the way up the mountain. It filled the air with a low, barely audible rumbling. Gailet swayed as a wave of unreality seemed to pass through her. She looked up and saw that several of the evening stars appeared to flare suddenly brighter. Others’ fled laterally as an oval distortion inserted itself directly overhead. A blackness began to gather there.

The Examiner’s aeolian speech droned on. Cordwainer Appelbe listened raptly, a bemused expression on his face. But the white-plumed Gubru grew visibly impatient with each passing moment. Gailet could well understand why. Now that the hyperspace shunt was warmed up and ready, every passing minute was costing the invaders. When she realized this, Gailet felt warmer toward the droning Serentini official. She nudged Michaela when her friend seemed about to doze off, and put on an attentive expression.

Several times the Gubru opened its beak as if about to commit the ungraceful act of interrupting the Examiner. Finally, when the spiderlike being stopped briefly for a breath, the avian cut in sharply. Gailet, who had been studying hard for months, easily understood the clipped words in Galactic Three.

, ” — delaying, dawdling, stalling! Your motives are in doubt, incredible, suspect! I insist that you proceed, move along, get on with it!”

But the Examiner scarcely missed a beat, continuing in Galactic Seven.

“In passing the formidable gauntlet you faced today, more rigorous than any testing I have heretofore witnessed, you have demonstrated your worthiness as junior citizens of our civilization, and bring credit to your clan.

“What you receive today, you have earned — the right to reaffirm your love of your patrons, and to choose a stage consort. The latter decision is an important one. As consort you must select a known, oxygen-breathing, starfaring race, one that is not a member of your own clan. This race will defend your interests and impartially intercede in disputes between you and your patrons. If you wish, you may select the Tymbrimi, of the Clan of the Krallnith, who have been your consort-advisors up until now. Or you may make a change.

“Or, you may choose yet another option — to end your participation in Galactic civilization, and ask that the meddling of Uplift be reversed. Even this drastic step was prescribed by the Progenitors, as insurance of the fundamental rights of living things.”

Could we? Could we really do that? Gailet felt numb at the very idea. Even though she knew that it was almost never allowed in practice, the option was there!

She shuddered and refocused her attention as the Grand Examiner lifted two arms in a benediction. “In the name of the Institute of Uplift, and before all of Galactic civilization, I therefore pronounce you, the representatives of your race, qualified and capable of choosing and bearing witness. Go forth, and do all living things proud.”

The Serentini stepped back. And at last it was the turn of the ceremony sponsor. Normally, this would have been a human, or perhaps a Tymbrimi, but not this time. The Gubru emissary did a little dance of impatience. Quickly, it barked into a vodor, and words in Galactic Seven boomed forth.

“Ten of you shall accompany the final representatives to the shunt and offer witness. The selected pair shall carry the burden of choice and honor. These two I shall name now.

“Doctor Gailet Jones, female, citizen of Garth, Terragens Federation, Clan of Earth.”

Gailet did not want to move, but Michaela, her friend, betrayed her by planting a hand in the small of her back and gently urging her forward. She stepped a few paces toward the dignitaries and bowed. The vodor boomed again.

“Irongrip Hansen, male, citizen of Garth, Terragens Federation, Clan of Earth.”

Most of the chims behind her gasped in shock and dismay. But Gailet only closed her eyes as her worst fears were confirmed. Up until now she had clung to a hope that the Suzerain of Propriety might still be a force among the Gubru. That it might yet compel the Triumvirate to play fair. But now…

She felt him step up next to her and knew the chen she hated most was wearing that grin.

Enough! I’ve stood for this long enough! Surely the Grand Examiner suspects something. If I tell her…

But she did not move. Her mouth did not open to speak.

Suddenly, and with brutal clarity, Gailet realized the real reason why she had gone along with this farce for so long!

They’ve fooled with my mind!

It all made sense. She recalled the dreams… nightmares of helplessness under the subtle, adamant coercion of machines held in ruthless talons.

The Uplift Institute wouldn’t be equipped to test for that.

Of course they wouldn’t! Uplift Ceremonies were invariably joyous occasions, celebrated by patron and client alike. Who ever heard of a race-representative having to be conditioned or forced to participate?

It must’ve been done after Fiben was taken away. The Suzerain of Propriety couldn’t have agreed to such a thing. If the Grand Examiner only knew, we could squeeze a planet’s worth of reparation gild from the Gubru!

Gailet opened her mouth. “I …” She tried to make words come. The Grand Examiner looked at her.

Perspiration condensed on Gailet’s brow. All she had to do was make the accusation. Even hint at it!

But her brain was frozen. It felt as if she had forgotten how to make words!

Speechlock. Of course. The Gubru had learned how easy it was to impose on a neo-chimpanzee. A human, perhaps, might have been able to break the hold, but Gailet recognized how futile it was in her case.

She could not read arthropoid expressions, but it seemed somehow as if the Serentini looked disappointed. The Examiner stepped back. “Proceed to the hyperspace shunt,” she said.

No! Gailet wanted to cry. But all that escaped was a faint sigh as she felt her right hand lift of its own accord and meet Irongrip’s left. He held on and she could not let go.

That was when she felt an image begin to form in her mind — an avian face with a yellow beak and cold, unblinking eyes. No effort could rid her of the picture. Gailet knew with terrible certainty that she was about to carry that image with her to the top of the ceremonial mound, and once there she and Irongrip would send it upward, into the oval of warped space overhead, for all to see, here and on a thousand other worlds.

The part of her mind that still belonged to her — the logical entity, now cut off and isolated — saw the cold covinous logic of the plan.

Oh, humans were sure to claim that the choice made today had been rigged. And probably more than half of the clans in the Five Galaxies would believe it. But that wouldn’t change anything. The choice would still stand! The alternative would be to discredit the entire system. Stellar civilization was under such pressure, right now, that it could not stand much further strain.

In fact, quite a few clans might decide that there had already been quite enough trouble over one little tribe of wolflings. Whatever the rights and wrongs, there would be substantial sentiment for ending the problem, once and for all.

It came to Gailet all in a rush. The Gubru did not merely want to become chims’ new stage consort “protectors.” They meant to bring about the extinction of humanity. Once that was accomplished, her own people would be up for adoption, and she had little doubt how that would go!

Gailet’s heart pounded. She struggled not to turn in the direction Irongrip was guiding her, but to no avail. She prayed that she would have a stroke.

Let me die!

Her life hardly mattered. They certainly planned to have her “disappear” immediately after the ceremony anyway, to dispose of the evidence. Oh, Goodall and Ifni, strike me down now! She wanted to scream.

At that moment, words came. The words… but it was not her voice that spoke them.

“Stop! An injustice is being done, and I demand a hearing!”

Gailet had not thought her heart could beat any quicker, but now tachycardia made her feel faint. Oh God, let it be…

She heard Irongrip curse and let go of her hand. That alone brought her joy. There was the sound of squawking Gubru anger, and high “eeps” of chim surprise. Someone — Michaela, she realized — took her arm and turned her around.

It was full night now. Scattered clouds were underlit by the bright beacons of the mound, and by the turbulent, lambent tunnel of energy now taking form above the artificial mountain. Into the stark light of the floater car’s headlamps a solitary neo-chimpanzee in a dust-coated formal robe approached from the last test station. He wiped sweat from his brow and strode purposefully toward the three surprised officials.

Fiben, Gailet thought. Dazed, she found that old habits were the first to reassert themselves. Oh, Fiben, don’t swagger! Try to remember your protocol…

When she realized what she was doing, Gailet suddenly giggled in a brief wave of hysteria. It shook her partially free of her immobility, and she managed to lift her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, Fiben,” she sighed.

Irongrip growled, but the new arrival only ignored the Probationer. Fiben caught her eye and winked. It struck Gailet how the gesture that had once so infuriated her now made her knees feel weak with joy.

He stepped before the three officials and bowed low. Then, with hands clasped respectfully, Fiben awaited permission to speak.

“—dishonorable, incorrigible, impermissible interruptions — ” the Gubru’s vodor boomed. “We demand immediate removal and sanction, punishment—”

The noise suddenly cut off as the Grand Examiner used one of her forward arms to reach up and switch the vodor off. She stepped daintily forward and addressed Fiben.

“Young one, I congratulate you on making your way up to this place all alone. Your ascent provided much of the excitement and unconventionality that is making this one of the most memorable of all ceremonies on record. By virtue of your test scores and other accomplishments, you have earned a place on this pinnacle.” The Serentini crossed two arms and lowered her forebody. “Now,” she said as she rose again, “can we assume that you have a complaint to voice? One important enough to explain such abruptness of tone?”

Gailet tensed. The Grand Examiner might be sympathetic, but there was a veiled threat implied in those words. Fiben had better make this good. One mistake and he could make matters even worse than before.

Fiben bowed again. “I — I respectfully request an explanation of… of how the race-representatives were chosen.”

Not too bad. Still, Gailet struggled against her conditioning. If only she could step forward and help!,

For some time the dim slopes beyond the circle of lights had begun to fill with the Galactic dignitaries — those who had departed earlier to watch unknown events downslope. Now they were all hushed, watching a humble client from one of the newest of all species demand answers from a lord of the Institute.

The Grand Examiner’s voice was patient when she answered. “It is traditional for the ceremony sponsors to select a pair from among those who pass all trials. While it is true that the sponsors are, on this occasion, declared enemies of your clan, their enmity will officially end upon completion of the rites. Peace will exist between the clan of Terrans and that of Gooksyu-Gubru. Do you object to this, young one?”

“No.” Fiben shook his head. “Not to that. I just want to know this: Do we absolutely have to accept the sponsors’ choice as our representatives?”

The Gubru emissary immediately squawked indignantly. The chims looked at one another in surprise. Irongrip muttered, “When this is over, I’m gonna take that little frat boy an’…”

The Examiner waved for silence. Its many-faceted eyes focused upon Fiben. “Young one, what would you do, were it up to you? Would you have us put it to a vote of your peers?”

Fiben bowed. “I would, your honor.”

This time the Gubru’s shriek was positively painful to the ear. Gailet tried once again to step forward, but Irongrip held her arm tightly. She was forced to stand there, listening to the Probationer’s muttered curses.

The Serentini official spoke at last. “Although I am sympathetic, I cannot see how I can allow your request. Without precedent—”

“But there is precedent!”

It was a new, deep voice, coming from the dim slope behind the officials. From the crowd of Galactic visitors four figures now emerged into the light, and if Gailet had felt surprise before, now she could only stare in disbelief.

Uthacalthing!

The slender Tymbrimi was accompanied by a bearded human mel whose ill-fitting formal robe had probably been borrowed from some bipedal but not quite humanoid Galactic and was thrown over what seemed to be animal skins. Beside the young man walked a neo-chimp who had obvious trouble standing completely erect and who bore many of the stigmata of atavism. The chim hung back when they approached the clearing, as if he knew he did not belong on this ground.

It was the fourth being — a towering figure whose bright, inflated crest ballooned upward in dignity — who bowed casually and addressed the Grand Examiner.

“I see you, Cough*Quinn’3 of the Uplift Institute.”

The Serentini bowed back. “I see you, honored Ambassador Kault of the Thennanin, and you, Uthacalthing of the Tymbrimi, and your companions. It is pleasant to witness your safe arrival.”

The big Thennanin spread his arms apart. “I thank your honor for allowing me to use your transmitting facilities to contact my clan, after so long an enforced isolation.”

“This is neutral ground,” the Uplift official said. “I also know that there are serious matters regarding this planet which you wish to press with the Institute, once this ceremony is at an end.

“But for now, I must insist we maintain pertinence. Will you please explain the remark you made on your arrival?”

Kault gestured toward Uthacalthing. “This respected envoy represents the race which has served as stage consort and protector to the neo-chimpanzees ever since their wolfling patrons encountered Galactic society. I shall let him tell you.”

All at once Gailet noticed how tired Uthacalthing looked. The tym’s usually expressive tendrils lay flat, and his eyes were set close together. It was with obvious effort that he stepped forward and offered a small, black cube. “Here are the references,” he began.

A robot came forward and plucked the data out of his hand. From that instant the Institute’s staff would be inspecting the citations. The Examiner herself listened attentively to Uthacalthing.

“The references will show that, very early in Galactic history, Uplift Ceremonies evolved out of the Progenitors’ desire to protect themselves from moral fault. They who began the process we now know as Uplift frequently consulted with their client races, as humans do with theirs, today. And the clients’ representatives were never imposed upon them.”

Uthacalthing gestured toward the assembled chims.

“Strictly speaking, the ceremonial sponsors are making a suggestion, when they make their selection. The clients, having passed all the tests appropriate to their stage, are legally permitted to ignore the choice. In the purest sense, this plateau is their territory. We are here as their guests.”

Gailet saw that the Galactic observers were agitated. Many consulted their own datawells, accessing the precedents Uthacalthing had provided. Polylingual chatter spread around the periphery. A new floater arrived, carrying several Gubru and a portable communications unit. Obviously, the invaders were doing furious research of their own.

All this time the power of the hyperspace shunt could be felt building just upsjope. The low rumbling was now omnipresent, making Gailet’s tendons quiver in imposed rhythm.

The Grand Examiner turned to the nominal human official, Cordwainer Appelbe. “In the name of your clan, do you support this request for a departure from normal procedure?”

Appelbe bit his lower lip. He looked at Uthacalthing, then at Fiben, then back at the Tymbrimi Ambassador. Then, for the first time, the man actually smiled. “Hell, yes! I sure do!” he said in Anglic. Then he blushed and switched to carefully phrased Galactic Seven. “In the name of my clan, I support Ambassador Uthacalthing’s request.”

The Examiner turned away to hear a report from her staff. When she came back the entire hillside was hushed. Suspense held them all riveted until she bowed to Fiben.

“Precedent is, indeed, interpretable in favor of your request. Shall I ask your comrades to indicate their choice by hand? Or by secret ballot?”

“Right!” came an Anglic whisper. The young human who had accompanied Uthacalthing grinned and gave Fiben a thumbs-up sign. Fortunately, none of the Gajactics were looking that way to witness the impertinence.

Fiben forced a serious expression and bowed again. “Oh, a hand vote will do nicely, your honor. Thank you.”

Gailet was more bemused than anything as the election was held. She tried hard to decline her own nomination, but the same captation, the same implacable force that had kept her from speaking earlier made her unable to withdraw her name. She was chosen unanimously.

The contest for male representative was straightforward as well. Fiben faced Irongrip, looking calmly up into the tall Probationer’s fierce eyes. Gailet found that the best she could make herself do was abstain, causing several of the others to look at her in surprise.

Nevertheless, she almost sobbed with relief when the poll came in nine to three … in favor of Fiben Bolger. When he finally approached, Gailet sagged into his arms and sobbed.

“There. There,” he said. And it wasn’t so much the cliche as the sound of his voice that comforted her. “I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?”

She sniffed and rubbed away tears as she nodded. One cliche deserved another. She touched his cheek, and her voice was only slightly sardonic as she said, “My hero.”

The other chims — all except the outnumbered Probies — gathered around, pressing close in a jubilant mass. For the first time it began to look as if the ceremony just might turn into a celebration after all.

They formed ranks, two by two, behind Fiben and Gailet, and started forth along the final path toward the pinnacle where, quite soon, there would be a physical link from this world to spaces far, far away.

That was when a shrill whistle echoed over the small plateau. A new hover car landed in front of the chims, blocking their path. “Oh, no,” Fiben groaned. For he instantly recognized the barge carrying the three Suzerains of the Gubru invasion force.

The Suzerain of Propriety looked dejected. It drooped on its perch, unable to lift its head even to look down at them. The other two rulers, however, hopped nimbly onto the ground and tersely addressed the Examiner.

“We, as well, wish to present, offer, bring forward … a precedent!”

91 Fiben

How easily is defeat snatched from the jaws of victory?

Fiben wondered about that as he stripped out of his formal robe and allowed two of the chims to rub oil into his shoulders. He stretched and tried to hope that he would remember enough from his old wrestling days to make a difference.

I’m too old for this, he thought. And it’s been a long, hard day.

The Gubru hadn’t been kidding when they gleefully announced that they had found an out. Gailet tried to explain it to him while he got ready. As usual, it all seemed to have to do with an abstraction,

“As I see it, Fiben, the Galactics don’t reject the idea of evolution itself, just evolution of intelligence. They believe in something like what we used to call “Darwinism” for creatures all the way up to pre-sentients. What’s more, it’s assumed that nature is wise in the way she forces every species to demonstrate its fitness in the wild.”

Fiben sighed. “Please get to the point, Gailet. Just tell me why I have to go face to face against that momzer. Isn’t trial-by-combat pretty silly, even by Eatee standards?”

She shook her head. For a little while she had seemed to suffer from speechlock. But that had disappeared as her mind slipped into the familiar pedantic mode.

“No, it isn’t. Not if you look at it carefully. You see, one of the risks a patron race runs in uplifting a new client species all the way to starfaring intelligence is that by meddling too much it may deprive the client of its essence, of the very fitness that made it a candidate for Uplift in the first place.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that the Gubru can accuse humans of doing this to chims, and the only way to disprove it is by showing that we can still be passionate, and tough, and physically strong.”

“But I thought all those tests—”

Gailet shook her head. “They showed that everyone on this plateau meets the criteria for Stage Three. Even” — Gailet grimaced as she seemed to have to fight for the words — “even those Probies are superior, at least in most of the ways Institute regulations test for. They’re only deficient by our own, quaint, Earth standards.”

“Such as decency and body odor. Yeah. But I still don’t get—”

“Fiben, the Institute really doesn’t care who actually steps into the shunt, not once we’ve passed all its tests. If the Gubru want our male race-representative to prove he’s better by one more criterion — that of ‘fitness’ — well it’s precedented all right. In fact, it’s been done more often than voting.”

Across the small clearing, Irongrip flexed and grinned back at Fiben, backed up by his two confederates. Weasel and Steelbar joked with the powerful Probationer chief, laughing confidently over this sudden swerve in their favor.

Now it was Fiben’s turn to shake his head and mutter lowly. “Goodall, what a way to run a galaxy. Maybe Pratha-chulthorn was right after all.”

“What was that, Fiben?”

“Nothin’,” he said as he saw the referee, a Pila Institute official, approach the center of the ring. Fiben turned to meet Gailet’s eyes. “Just tell me you’ll marry me if I win.”

“But — ” She blinked, then nodded. Gailet seemed about to say something else, but that look came over her again, as if she simply could not find the phrases. She shivered, and in a strange, distant voice she managed to choke out five words.

“Kill — him — for — me, Fiben.”

It was not feral bloodlust, that look in her eyes, but something much deeper. Desperation.

Fiben nodded- He suffered no illusions over what Irongrip intended for him.

The referee called them forward. There would be no weapons. There would be no rules. Underground the rumbling had turned into a hard, angry growl, and the zone of “nonspace overhead flickered at the edges, as if with deadly lightning.

It began with a slow circling as Fiben and his opponent faced each other warily, sidestepping a complete circuit of the arena. Nine of the other chims stood on the upslope side, alongside Uthacalthing and Kault and Robert Oneagle. Opposite them, the Gubru and Irongrip’s two compatriots watched. The various Galactic observers and officials of the Uplift Institute took up the intervening arcs.

Weasel and Steelbar made fist signs to their leader and bared their teeth. “Go get ’im, Fiben,” one of the other chims urged. All of the ornate ritual, all of the arcane and ancient tradition and science had come to this, then. This was the way Mother Nature finally got to cast the tie-breaking vote.

“Be-gin!” The Pila referee’s sudden shout struck Fiben’s ears as an ultrasonic squeal an instant before the vodor boomed.

Irongrip was quick. He charged straight ahead, and Fiben almost decided too late that the maneuver was a feint. He started to dodge to the left, and at barely the last moment changed directions, striking out with his trailing foot.

The blow did not finish in the satisfying crunch he’d hoped for, but Irongrip did cry out and reel away, holding his ribs. Unfortunately, Fiben was thrown off balance and could not follow up his brief opportunity. In seconds it was gone as Irongrip moved forward again, more warily this time, with murder written in his eyes.

Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed, Fiben thought as they resumed circling.

Actually, today had begun when he awoke in the notch of a tree, a few miles outside the walls of Port Helenia, where plate ivy parachutes festooned the stripped branches of a winter-barren orchard…

Irongrip jabbed, then punched out with a hard right. Fiben ducked under his opponent’s arm and riposted with a backhand blow. It was blocked, and the bones of their forearms made a loud crack as they met.

… The Talon Soldiers had shown grudging courtesy, so he rode Tycho hard until he arrived at the old prison…

A fist whistled past Fiben’s ear like a cannonball. Fiben stepped inside the outstretched arm and swiveled to plant his elbow into his enemy’s exposed stomach.

… Staring at the abandoned room, he had known that there was very little time left. Tycho had galloped through the deserted streets, a flower dangling from his mouth…

The jab wasn’t hard enough. Worse, he was too slow to duck aside as Irongrip’s arm folded fast to come around to cross his throat.

… and the docks had been filled with chims — they lined the wharves, the buildings, the streets, staring…

A crushing constriction threatened to cut off his breath. Fiben crouched, dropping his right foot backward between his opponent’s legs. He tensed in one direction until Irongrip counterbalanced, then Fiben whirled and threw his weight the other way while he kicked out. Irongrip’s right leg slipped out from under him, and his own straining overbalance threw Fiben up and over. The Probationer’s incredible grasp held for an astonishing instant, tearing loose only along with shreds of Fiben’s flesh.

… He traded his horse for a boat, and headed across the bay, toward the barrier buoys…

Blood streamed from Fiben’s torn throat. The gash had missed his jugular vein by half an inch. He backed away when he saw how quickly Irongrip found his feet again. It was downright intimidating how fast the chen could move.

… He fought a mental battle with the buoys, earning — through reason — the right to pass through…

Irongrip bared his teeth, spread his long arms, and let out a blood-curdling shriek. The sight and sound seemed to pierce Fiben like a memory of battles fought long, long before chims ever flew starships, when intimidation had been half of any victory.

“You can do it, Fiben!” Robert Oneagle cried, countering Irongrip’s threat magic. “Come on, guy! Do it for Simon.”

Shit, Fiben thought. Typical human trick, guilt-tripping me!

Still, he managed to wipe away the momentary wave of doubt and grinned back at his enemy. “Sure, you can scream, but can you do this?”

Fiben thumbed his nose. Then he had to dive aside quickly as Irongrip charged. This time both of them landed clear blows that sounded like beaten drums. Both chims staggered to opposite ends of the arena before managing to turn around again, panting hard and baring their teeth.

… The beach had been littered, and the trail up the bluffs was long and hard. But that turned out to be only the beginning. The surprised Institute officials had already started disassembling their machines when he suddenly appeared, forcing them to remain and test just one more. They assumed it would not take long to send him home again…

The next time they came together, Fiben endured several hard blows to the side of his face in order to step inside and throw his opponent to the ground. It wasn’t the most elegant example of jiu-jitsu. Forcing it, he felt a sudden tearing sensation in his leg.

For an instant, Irongrip was rolling, helpless. But when Fiben tried to pounce his leg nearly collapsed.

The Probationer was on his feet again in an instant. Fiben tried not to show a limp, but something must have betrayed him, for this time Irongrip charged his right side, and when Fiben tried to backpedal, the left leg gave way.

… grueling tests, hostile stares, the tension of wondering if he would ever make it in time…

As he fell backward, he kicked out, but all that earned him was a grip that seized his ankle like a roller-press. Fiben scrambled for leverage, but his fingers clawed in the loose soil. He tried to slip aside as his opponent hauled him back and then fell upon him.

… And he had gone through all of that just to arrive here? Yeah. All in all, it had been one hell of a day…

There are certain tricks a wrestler can try against a stronger opponent in a much heavier weight class. Some of these came back to Fiben as he struggled to get free. Had he been a little less close to utter exhaustion, one or two of them might even have worked.

As it was, he managed to reach a point of quasi-equilibrium. He attained a small advantage of leverage which just counterbalanced Irongrip’s horrendous strength. Their bodies strained and tugged as hands clutched, probing for the smallest opening. Their faces were pressed near the ground and close enough together to smell each other’s hot breath.

The crowd had been silent for some time. No more shouts of encouragement came, from one side or the other. As he and his enemy rocked gradually back and forth in a deadly serious battle of deceptive slowness, Fiben found himself with a clear view of the downward slope of the Ceremonial Mound. With a small corner of his awareness, he realized that the crowd was gone now. Where there had been a dense gathering of multiformed Galactics, now there was only an empty stretch of trampled grass.

The remnants could be seen hurrying downhill and eastward, shouting and gesticulating excitedly in a variety of tongues. Fiben caught a glimpse of the arachnoid Serentini, the Grand Examiner, standing amid a cluster of her aides, paying no attention any longer to the two chims’ fight. Even the Pila referee had turned away to face some growing tumult downslope.

This, after talking as if the fate of everything in the Universe depended upon a battle to the death between two chims? That same detached part of Fiben felt insulted.

Curiosity betrayed him, even here and now. He wondered. What in th’ ivorld are they up to?

Lifting his eyes even an inch in an attempt to see was enough to do it. He missed by milliseconds an opening Irongrip created as the Probationer shifted his weight slightly. Then, as Fiben followed through too late, Irongrip took advantage in a sudden slip and hold. He began applying pressure.

“Fiben!” It was Gailet’s voice, thick with emotion. So he knew that at least somebody was still paying attention, if only to watch his final humiliation and end.

Fiben fought hard. He used tricks dragged up out of the well of memory. But the best of them required strength he no longer had. Slowly he was forced back.

Irongrip grinned as he managed to lay his forearm against Fiben’s windpipe. Suddenly breath came in hard, high whistles. Air was very dear, and his struggles took on new desperation.

Irongrip held on just as urgently. His bared canines reflected bitter highlights as he panted in an open-mouthed grin over Fiben.

Then the glints faded as something occulted the lights, casting a dark shadow over both of them. Irongrip blinked, and all at once seemed to notice that something bulky had appeared next to Fiben’s head. A hairy black foot. The attached brown leg was short, as stout as a tree trunk, and led upwards to a mountain of fur…

For Fiben the world, which had started to spin and go dim, came slowly back into focus as the pressure on his airpipe eased somewhat. He sucked air through the constricted passage and tried to look to see why he was still alive.

The first thing he saw was a pair of mild brown eyes, which stared back in friendly openness from a jet black .face set at the top of a hill of muscle.

The mountain also had a smile. With an arm the length of a small chimpanzee, the creature reached out and touched Fiben, curiously. Irongrip shuddered and rocked back in amazement, or maybe fear. When the creature’s hand closed on Irongrip’s arm, it only squeezed hard enough to test the chim’s strength.

Obviously, there was no comparison. The big male gorilla chuffed, satisfied. It actually seemed to laugh.

Then, using one knuckle to help it walk, it turned and rejoined the dark band that was even then trooping past the’ amazed rank of chims. Gailet stared in disbelief, and Utha-calthing’s wide eyes blinked rapidly at the sight.

Robert Oneagle seemed to be talking to himself, and the Gubru gabbled and squawked.

But it was Kault who was the focus of the gorillas’ attention for a long moment. Four females and three males clustered around the big Thennanin, reaching up to touch him. He responded by speaking to them, slowly, joyfully.

Fiben refused to make the same mistake twice. What gorillas were doing here, here atop the Ceremonial Mound the Gubru invaders had built, was beyond his ability to guess, and he wasn’t even about to try. His concentration returned just a split instant sooner than his opponent’s. When Irongrip looked back down, the Probie’s eyes betrayed instantaneous dismay as he recognized the looming shape of Fiben’s fist.

The small plateau was a cacophony, a mad scene devoid of any vestige of order. The boundaries of the combat arena did not seem to matter anymore as Fiben and his enemy rolled about under the legs of chims and gorillas and Gubru and whatever else could walk or bounce or slither about. Hardly anybody seemed to be paying them any attention, and Fiben did not really care. All that mattered to him was that he had a promise that he had to keep.

He pummeled Irongrip, not allowing him to regain balance until the chen roared and in desperation threw Fiben off like an old cloak. As he landed in a painful jolt, Fiben caught a glimpse of motion behind him and turned his head to see the Probationer called Weasel lifting his leg, preparing to strike down with his foot. But the blow missed as the Probie was grabbed up by an affectionate gorilla, who lifted him into a crushing embrace.

Irongrip’s other comrade was held back by Robert Oneagle — or, rather, held up. The male chim might have vastly greater strength than most humans, but it did him no good suspended in midair. Robert raised Steelbar high overhead, like Hercules subduing Anteus. The young man nodded to Fiben.

“Watch out, old son.”

Fiben rolled aside as Irongrip hit the ground where he had lain, sending dust plumes flying. Without delay Fiben leaped onto his opponent’s back and slipped into a half-Nelson hold.

The world spun as he seemed to ride a bucking bronco. Fiben tasted blood, and the dust seemed to fill his lungs with clogging, searing pain. His tired arms throbbed and threatened to cramp. But when he heard his enemy’s labored breathing he knew he could stand it for a little while longer.

Down, down Irongrip’s head went. Fiben got his feet around the chim and kicked the other’s legs out from under him.

The Probationer’s solar plexus landed on Fiben’s heel. And while a flash of pain probably meant several of Fiben’s toes were broken, there was also no mistaking the whistling squeak as Irongrip’s diaphragm momentarily spasmed, stopping all flow of air.

Somewhere he found the energy. In a whirl he had his foe turned over. Gripping in a tight scissors lock, he brought his forearm around and applied the same illegal-but-who-cares strangulation hold that had earlier been used on him.

Bone ground against gristle. The ground beneath them seemed to throb and the sky rumbled and growled. Alien feet shuffled on all sides, and there was the incessant squawking and chatter of a dozen jabbering tongues. Still, Fiben listened only for the breath that did not flow through his enemy’s throat… and felt only for the throbbing pulse he so desperately had to silence…

That was when something seemed to explode inside his skull.

It was as if something had broken open within him, spilling what seemed a brilliant light outward from his cortex. Dazzled, Fiben first thought a Probationer or a Gubru must-have struck him a blow to the head from behind. But the luminance was not the sort coming from a concussion. It hurt, but not in that way.

Fiben concentrated on first priorities — holding tightly to his steadily weakening opponent. But he could not ignore this strange occurrence. His mind sought something to compare it to, but there was no correct metaphor. The soundless outburst felt somehow simultaneously alien and eerily familiar.

All at once Fiben remembered a blue light which danced in hilarity as it fired infuriating bolts at his feet. He remembered a “stink bomb” that had sent a pompous, furry little diplomat scurrying off in abandoned dignity. He remembered stories told at night by the general. The connections made him suspect…

All around the plateau, Galactics had ceased their multi-tongued babble and stared upslope. Fiben would have to lift his head a bit to see what so captivated them. Before he did so, however, he made certain of his foe. When Irongrip managed to drag in a few thin, desperate breaths, Fiben restored just enough pressure to keep the big chen balanced on the edge of consciousness. That accomplished, he raised his eyes.

“Uthacalthing,” Fiben whispered, realizing the source of his mental confusion.

The Tymbrimi stood a little uphill from the others. His arms opened wide and the capelike folds of his formal robe flapped in the cyclone winds circling the gaping hyperspace shunt. His eyes were set far apart.

Uthacalthing’s corona tendrils waved, and over his head something whirled.

A chim moaned and pressed her palms against her temples. Somewhere a Pring’s tooth-mashies clattered. To many of those present, the glyph was barely detectable. But for the first time in his life, Fiben actually kenned. And what he kenned named itself tutsunucann.

The glyph was a monster — titanic with long-pent energy. The essence of delayed indeterminacy, it danced and whirled. And then, without warning, it blew apart. Fiben felt it sweep around and through him — nothing more or less than distilled, unadulterated joy.

Uthacalthing poured the emotion forth as if a dam had burst. “N’ha s’urustuannu, k’hammin’t Athaclena w’thtanna!” he cried. “Daughter, do you send these to me, and so return what I had lent you? Oh, what interest compounded and multiplied! What a fine jest to pull upon your proud parent!”

His intensity affected those standing nearby. Chims blinked and stared. Robert Oneagle wiped away tears.

Uthacalthing turned and pointed up the trail leading toward the Site of Choosing. There, at the pinnacle of the Ceremony Mound, everyone could see that the shunt was connected at last. The deeply buried engines had done their job, and now a tunnel gaped overhead, one whose edges glistened but whose interior contained a color emptier than blackness.

It seemed to suck away light, making it difficult even to recognize that the opening was there. And yet Fiben knew that this was a link in real time, from this place to countless others where witnesses had gathered to observe and commemorate the evening’s events.

I hope the Five Galaxies are enjoying the show. When Irongrip showed signs of reviving, Fiben gave the Probie a whack to the side of the head and looked up again.

Halfway up the narrow trail leading to the pinnacle there stood three ill-matched figures. The first was a small neo-chimpanzee whose arms seemed too long and whose ill-formed legs were bowed and short. Jo-Jo held onto one hand of Kault, the huge Thennanin, ambassador. Kault’s other massive paw was grasped by a tiny human girl, whose blond hair flapped like a bright banner in the whirling breeze.

Together, the unlikely trio watched the pinnacle itself, where an unusual band had gathered.

A dozen gorillas, males and females, stood in a circle directly under the half-invisible hole in space. They rocked back and forth, staring up into the yawning emptiness overhead, and crooned a low, atonal melody.

“I believe …” said the awed Serentini Grand Examiner of the Uplift Institute. “… I believe this has happened before… once or twice… but not in more than a thousand aeons.”

Another voice muttered, this time in gruff, emotion-drenched Anglic. “It’s no fair. This was s’pozed t’be our time!” Fiben saw tears streaming down the cheeks of several of the chims. Some held each other and sobbed.

Gailet’s eyes welled also, but Fiben could tell that she saw what the others did not. Hers were tears of relief, of joy.

From all sides there were heard other expressions of amazement.

“—But what sort of creatures, entities, beings can they be?” One of the Gubru Suzerains asked.

“. . . pre-sentients,” another voice answered in Galactic Three.

“. . . They passed through all the test stations, so they had to be ready for a stage ceremony of some sort,” mumbled Cordwainer Appelbe. “But how in the world did goril—”

Robert Oneagle interrupted his fellow human with an upraised hand. “Don’t use the old name anymore. Those, my friend, are Garthlings”

lonization filled the air with the smell of lightning. Uthacalthing chanted his pleasure at the symmetry of this magnificent surprise, this great jest, and in his Tymbrimi voice it was a rich, unearthly sound. Caught up in the moment, Fiben did not even notice climbing to his feet, standing to get a better view.

Along with everyone else he saw the coalescence that took place above the giant apes, humming and swaying on the hilltop. Over the gorillas’ heads a milkiness swirled and began to thicken with the promise of shapes.

“In the memory of no living race has this happened,” the Grand Examiner said in awe. “Client races have had countless Uplift Ceremonies, over the last billion years. They have graduated levels and chosen Uplift consorts to assist them. A few have even used the occasion to request an end of Uplift … to return to what they had been before. …”

The filminess assumed an oval outline. And within, dark forms grew more distinct, as if emerging slowly from a deep fog.

“. . . But only in the ancient sagas has it been told of a new species coming forth of its own will, surprising all Galac-

tic society, and demanding the right to select its own patrons.”

Fiben heard a moan and looked down to see Irongrip beginning to rise, trembling, to his elbows. A cruor of blood-tinted dust covered the battered chen from face to foot.

Got to hand it to him. He’s got stamina. But then, Fiben did not imagine he himself looked a whole lot better.

He raised his foot. It would be so easy. … He glanced aside and saw Gailet watching him.

Irongrip rolled over onto his back. He looked up at Fiben in blank resignation.

Aw, hell. Instead he reached down and offered his hand to his former foe. I don’t know what we were fighting over. Somebody else got the brass ring, anyway.

A moan of surprise rippled through the crowd. From the Gubru came grating wails of dismay. Fiben finished hauling Irongrip to his feet, got him stable, then looked up to see what the gorillas had wrought to cause such consternation.

It was the face of a Thennanin. Giant, clear as anything, the image hovering in the focus of the hyperspace shunt looked enough like Kault to be his brother.

Such a sober, serious, earnest expression, Fiben thought. So typically Thennanin.

A few of the assembled Galactics chattered in amazement, but most acted as if they had been frozen in place. All except Uthacalthing, whose delighted astonishment still sparked in all directions like a Roman candle.

“Z’wurtin’s’tatta… I worked for this, and never knew!”

The titanic image of the Thennanin drifted backward in the milky oval. All could see the thick, slitted neck, and then the creature’s powerful torso. But when its arms came into view, it became clear that two figures stood on either side of it, holding its hands.

“Duly noted,” the Grand Examiner said to her aides. “The unnamed Stage One client species tentatively called Garthlings have selected, as their patrons, the Thennanin. And as their consorts and protectors, they have jointly chosen the neo-chimpanzees and humans of Earth.”

Robert Oneagle shouted. Cordwainer Appelbe fell to his knees in shock. The sound of renewed Gubru screeching was quite deafening.

Fiben felt a hand slip into his. Gailet looked up at him, the poignancy in her eyes now mixed with pride.

“Oh, well,” he sighed. “They wouldn’t have let us keep ’em, anyway. At least, this way, we get visitation rights. And I hear the Thennanin aren’t too bad as Eatees go.”

She shook her head. “You knew something about these creatures and didn’t tell me?”

He shrugged. “It was supposed to be a secret. You were busy. I didn’t want to bother you with unimportant details. I forgot. Mea culpa. Don’t hit, please.”

Briefly, her eyes seemed to flash. Then she, too, sighed and looked back up the hill. “It won’t take them long to realize these aren’t really Garthlings, but creatures of Earth.”

“What’ll happen then?”

It was her turn to shrug. “Nothing, I guess. Wherever they come from, they’re obviously ready for Uplift. Humans signed a treaty — unfair as it was — forbidding Earthclan to raise ’em, so I guess this’ll stand. Fait accompli. At least we can play a role. Help see the job’s done right.”

Already, the rumbling beneath their feet had begun to diminish. Nearby, the cacophony of Gubru squawking rose in strident tones to replace it. But the Grand Examiner appeared unmoved. Already she was busy with her assistants, ordering records gathered, detailing followup tests to be made, and dictating urgent messages to Institute headquarters.

“And we must help Kault inform his clan,” she added. “They will no doubt be surprised at this news.”

Fiben saw the Suzerain of Beam and Talon stalk off to a nearby Gubru flyer and depart at top speed. The boom of displaced air ruffled the feathers of the avians who “remained behind.

It happened then that Fiben’s gaze met that of the Suzerain of Propriety, staring down from its lonely perch. The alien stood more erect now. It ignored the babbling of its fellows and watched Fiben with a steady, unblinking yellow eye.

Fiben bowed. After a moment, the alien politely inclined its head in return.

Above the pinnacle and the crooning gorillas — now officially the youngest citizens of the Civilization of the Five Galaxies — the opalescent oval shrank back into the narrowing funnel. It diminished, but not before those present were treated to yet one more sight none had ever seen before… one they were not likely ever to see again.

Up there in the sky, the image of the Thennanin and those of the chim and human all looked at each other. Then the Thennanin’s head rocked back and he actually laughed.

Richly, deeply, sharing hilarity with its diminutive partners, the leathery figure chortled. It roared.

Among the stunned onlookers, only Uthacalthing and Robert Oneagle felt like joining in as the ghostly creature above did what Thennanin were never known to do. The image kept right on laughing even as it faded back, back, to be swallowed up at last by the closing hole in space and covered by the returning stars.