What on Jijo could we possibly have to say?

Alvin THIS IS A TEST. I'M TRYING OUT A BURNISH-NEW WAY of writing.

If you call this "writing"-where I talk out loud and watch sentences appear in midair above a little box I've been given.

Oh, it's uttergloss all right. Last night, Huck used her new autoscribe to fill a room with words and glyphs in GalThree, GalEight, and every obscure dialect she knew, ordering translations back and forth until it seemed she was crowded on all sides by glowing symbols.

Our hosts gave us the machines to help tell our life stories, especially how the Six Races live together on the Slope. In return, the spinning voice promised a reward.

Later, we'll get to ask questions of the big chilly box.

Huck went delirious over the offer. Free access to a memory unit of the Great Library of the Five Galaxies! Why, it's like telling Cortes he could have a map to the Lost Cities of Gold, or when the legendary hoonish hero Yuqwourphmin found a pa.s.sword to control the robot factories of Kurturn. My own nicknamesake couldn't have felt more awe, not even when the secrets of Vanamonde and the Mad Mind were revealed in all their fearsome glory.

Unlike Huck, 'though, I view the prospect with dark worry. Like a detective in some old-time Earth storybook, I gotta ask-where's the catch?

I've just spent a midura experimenting. Dictating text. Backing up and rewriting. The autoscribe sure is a lot more flexible than scratching away with a pencil and a ball of guarru gum for an eraser! Hand motions move chunks of text like solid objects. I don't even have to speak aloud, but simply will the words, like that little tickle when you mutter under your breath so's no one else can hear. I know it's not true mind reading-the machine must be sensing muscle changes in my throat or something. I read about such things in The Black Jack Era and Luna City Hobo. But it's unnerving anyway.

Like when I asked to see the little machine's dictionary of Anglic synonyms! I always figured I had a good vocabulary, from memorizing the town's copy of Roget's Thesaurus'. But it turns out that volume left out most of the Hindi and Arabic cognate grafts onto the English-Eurasian rootstock. This tiny box holds enough words to keep Huck and me humble ... or me, at least.

My pals are in nearby rooms, reciting their own memoirs. I expect Huck will rattle off something fast-paced, lurid, and carelessly brilliant to satisfy our hosts. Ur-ronn will be meticulous and dry, while Pincer will get distracted telling breathless stories about sea monsters. I have a head start because my journal already holds the greater part of our personal story-how we four adventurers got to this place of weirdly curved corridors, far beneath the waves.

So I have time to worry about why the phuvnthus want to know about us.

It could just be curiosity. On the other hand, what if something we say here eventually winds up hurting our kinfolk, back on the Slope? I can hardly picture how. I mean, it's not like we know any military secrets-except about the urrish cache that Uriel the Smith sent us underwater to retrieve. But the spinning voice already knows about that.

In my cheerier moments I envision the phuvnthus letting us take the treasure back, taking us home to Wuphon in their metal whale, so we seem to rise from the dead like the fabled crew of the Hukuph-tau . . . much to the surprise of Uriel, Urdonnol, and our parents, who must have given us up for lost.

Optimistic fantasies alternate with other scenes I can't get out of my head, like something that happened right after the whale sub s.n.a.t.c.hed Wuphon's Dream out of its death plunge. I have this hazy picture of bug-eyed spiderthings stomping through the wreckage of our handmade vessel, jabbering weird ratchety speech, then jumping back in mortal terror at the sight of Ziz, the harmless little traeki five-stack given us by Tyug the Alchemist.

Streams of fire blasted poor Ziz to bits.

You got to wonder what anyone would go and do a mean thing like that for. effortless and easily corrected. It encourages running off at the mouth, when good old pencil and paper meant you had to actually think in advance what you were going to sa- Wait a minute. What was that?

There it goes again. A faint booming sound . . . only louder this time. Closer.

I don't think I like it. Not at all.

Ifni! This time it set the floor quivering.

The rumble reminds me of Guenn Volcano back home, belchin' and groanin', making everybody in Wuphon wonder if it's the long-awaited Big 0-Jeekee sac-rot! No fooling this time.

Those are explosions, getting close fast!

Now comes another noise, like a zookir screeching its head off 'cause it sat on a quill lizard.

Is that the sound a siren makes? I always wondered- Gishtuphwayo! Now the lights go dim. The floor jitters- What is Ifni-slucking going on!

Dwer I might as well get to work.

How to begin my story?

Call me Alvin. ...

No. Too hackneyed. How about this opening?

Alvin Hph-wayuo woke up one morning to find himself transformed into a giant . . .

Uh-uh. That's. .h.i.tting too close to home.

Maybe I should model my tale after 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Here we are, castaways being held as cordial prisoners in an underwater world. Despite being female, Huck would insist she's the heroic Ned Land character. Ur-ronn would be Professor Aronnax, of course, which leaves either Pincer OR me to be the comic fall guy, Conseil.

So when are we going to .finally meet Afewo?

Hmm. That's a disadvantage of this kind of writing, so THE VIEW FROM THE HIGHEST DUNE WASN'T Promising The Danik scout craft was at least five or six leagues out to sea, a tiny dot, barely visible beyond a distinct line where the water's hue changed from pale bluish green to almost black. The flying machine cruised back and forth, as if searching for something it had misplaced. Only rarely, when the wind shifted, did they catch the faint rumble of its engines, but every forty or so duras Dwer glimpsed something specklike tumble from the belly of the sleek boat, glinting in the morning sun before it struck the sea. Ten more duras would pa.s.s after the object sank- then the ocean's surface bulged with a hummock of roiling foam, as if an immense monster suffered dying spasms far below.

"What's Kunn doing?" Dwer asked. He turned to Rety, who shaded her eyes to watch the distant flier. "Do you have any idea?"

The girl started to shrug her shoulders, but yee, the little urrish male, sprawled there, snaking his slender neck to aim all three eyes toward the south. The robot rocked impatiently, bobbing up and down as if trying to signal the distant flier with its body.

"I don't know, Dwer," Rety replied. "I reckon it has somethin' to do with the bird."

"Bird," he repeated blankly.

"You know. My metal bird. The one we saved from the mule spider."

" That bird?" Dwer nodded. "You were going to show it to the sages. How did the aliens get their hands-"

Rety cut in.

"The Daniks wanted to know where it came from. So Kunn asked me to guide him here, to pick up Ja.s.s, since he was the one who saw where the bird came to sh.o.r.e. I never figured that'd mean leavin' me behind in the village. . . ." She bit her lip. "Ja.s.s must've led Kunn here. Kunn said somethin' about 'flushin' prey.' I guess he's tryin' to get more birds."

"Or else whoever made your bird, and sent it ash.o.r.e."

"Or else that." She nodded, clearly uncomfortable. Dwer chose not to press for details about her deal with the star humans.

As their journey south progressed, the number of marshy streams had multiplied, forcing Dwer to "carry" the robot several more times before he finally called a halt around dusk. There had been a brief confrontation when the combat machine tried intimidating him to continue. But its G.o.d weapons had been wrecked in the ambush at the sooner camp, and Dwer faced the robot's snapping claws without flinching, helped by a strange detachment, as if his mind had somehow grown while enduring the machine's throbbing fields. Hallucination or not, the feeling enabled him to call its bluff. , With grudging reluctance that seemed lifelike, the robot gave in. By a small fire, Dwer had shared with Rety the donkey jerky in his pouch. After a moment's hesitation, Rety brought out her own contribution, two small lozenges sealed in wrappers that felt slick to the touch. She showed Dwer how to unwrap his, and guffawed at the look on his face when intense, strange flavors burst in his mouth. He laughed, too, almost inhaling the Danik candy the wrong way. Its lavish sweetness won a place on his List of Things I'm Glad I Did Before Dying.

Later, huddled with Rety on the banked coals, Dwer dreamed a succession of fantastic images far more potent than normal-perhaps an effect of "carrying" the robot, conducting its ground-hugging fields. Instead of crushing weight, he fantasized lightness, as if his body wafted, unenc.u.mbered. Incomprehensible panoramas flickered under closed eyelids . . . objects glimmering against dark backgrounds, or ga.s.sy shapes, glowing of their own accord. Once, a strange sense of recognition seized him, a timeless impression of loving familiarity.

The Egg, his sleeping consciousness had mused. Only the sacred stone looked strange-not an outsized pebble squatting in a mountain cleft, but something like a huge, dark sun, whose blackness outshone the glitter of normal stars.

Their journey resumed before dawn, and featured only two more water crossings before reaching the sea. There the robot picked them up and streaked eastward along the beach until it reached this field of dunes-a high point to scan the strange blue waters of the Rift.

At least Dwer thought it was the Rift-a great cleft splitting the continent. I wish I still had my telescope, he thought. With it he might glean some idea what the pilot of the scout ship was trying to accomplish.

Flushing out prey, Rety said.

If that was Kunn's aim, the Danik star warrior could learn a thing or two about hunting technique. Dwer recalled one lesson old Fallon taught him years ago.

No matter how potent your weapon, or whatever game you're after, it's never a good idea to be both beater and shooter. If there's just one of you, forget driving your quarry.

The solitary hunter masters patience, and silently learns the ways of his prey.

That approach had one drawback. It required empathy. And the better you learn to feel like your prey, the greater the chance you may someday stop calling it prey at all.

"Well, we settled one thing," Rety commented, watching the robot semaph.o.r.e its arms wildly at the highest point of the dune, like a small boy waving to parents who were too far away to hear. "You must've done a real job on its comm gear. Even the short range won't work, on line-o'-sight."

Dwer was duly impressed. Rety had learned a lot during her stint as an adopted alien.

"Do you think the pilot could spot us by eye, when he heads back toward the village to pick you up?" Dwer asked.

"Maybe . . . supposin' he ever meant to do that. He may forget all about me when he finds what he wants, and just zip west to the Rothen station, to report."

Dwer knew that Rety had already lost some favor with the sky humans. Her voice was bitter, for aboard that distant flying dot rode Ja.s.s, her tormentor while growing up in a savage tribe. She had arranged vengeance for the bully. But now Ja.s.s stood at the pilot's elbow, currying favor while Rety was stuck down here.

Her worry was clear. What if her lifelong enemy won the reward she had struggled and connived for? Her ticket to the stars?

"Hmm. Well, then we better make sure he doesn't miss us when he cruises by."

Dwer wasn't personally anxious to meet the star pilot who had blasted the poor urrish sooners so unmercifully from above. He fostered no illusion of gentle treatment at Kunn's hands. But the scout boat offered life and hope for Rety. And perhaps by attracting the Danik's attention he could somehow prevent the man's quick return to the Gray Hills. Danel Ozawa had been killed in the brief fight with the robot, but Dwer might still buy time for Lena Strong and the urrish chief to work out an accord with Rety's old band . . . beating a stealthy retreat to some place where star G.o.ds would never find them. A delaying action could be Dwer's last worthwhile service.

"Let's build a fire," the girl suggested, gesturing toward the beach, littered with driftwood from past storms.

"I was just about to suggest that," Dwer replied.

She chuckled. "Yeah, right! Sure you were."

Sara AT FIRST THE ANCIENT TUNNEL SEEMED HORRID and gloomy. Sara kept imagining a dusty Buyur tube car coming to life, an angry phantom hurtling toward the little horse-drawn wagon, bent on punishing fools who disturbed its ghostly domain. Dread clung fast for a while, making each breath come short and sharp between rapid heartbeats.

But fear has one great enemy, more powerful than confidence or courage.

Tedium.

Chafed from sitting on the bench for miduras, Sara eventually let go of the dismal oppression with a long sigh. She slipped off the wagon to trot alongside-at first only to stretch her legs, but then for longer periods, maintaining a steady jog.

After a while, she even found it enjoyable.

I guess I'm just adapting to the times. There may be no place for intellectuals in the world to come.

Emerson joined her, grinning as he kept pace with longlegged strides. And soon the tunnel began to lose its power over some of the others, as well. The two wagon drivers from the cryptic Illias tribe-Kepha and Nuli-grew visibly less tense with each league they progressed toward home.

But where was that?, Sara pictured a map of the Slope, drawing a wide arc roughly south from the Gentt. It offered no clue where a horse clan might stay hidden all this time.

How about in some giant, empty magma chamber, beneath a volcano?

What a lovely thought. Some magical sanctuary of hidden gra.s.sy fields, safe from the glowering sky. An underground world, like in a pre-contact adventure tale featuring vast ageless caverns, mystic light sources, and preposterous monsters.

Of course no such place could form under natural laws. But might the Buyur-or some prior Jijo tenant-have used the same forces that carved 'this tunnel to create a secret hideaway? A place to preserve treasures while the surface world was sc.r.a.ped clean of sapient-made things? Sara chuckled at the thought. But she did not dismiss it.

Sometime later, she confronted Kurt.

"Well, I'm committed now. Tell me what's so urgent that Emerson and I had to follow you all this way."

But the exploser only shook his head, refusing to speak in front of Dedinger.

What's the heretic going to do? Sara thought. Break his bonds and run back to tell the world?

The desert prophet's captivity appeared secure. And yet it was disconcerting to see on Dedinger's face an expression of serene confidence, as if present circ.u.mstances only justified his cause.

Times like these bring heretics swarming . . . like privacy wasps converging on a gossip. We shouldn 't be surprised to see fanatics thriving.

The Sacred Scrolls prescribed two ways for Jijo's illegal colonists to ease their inherited burden of sin-by preserving the planet, and by following the Path of Redemption. Ever since the days of Drake and Ur-Chown, the sages had taught that both goals were compatible with commerce and the comforts of daily life. But some purists disagreed, insisting that the Six Races must choose.

We should not be here, proclaimed Lark's faction. We sooners should use birth control to obey Galactic law, leaving this fallow world in peace. Only then will our sin be healed.

Others thought redemption should take higher priority.

Each clan should follow the example of glavers, preached Dedinger's cult, and the Urunthai. Salvation and renewal come to those who remove mental impediments and rediscover their deep natures.

The first obstacle to eliminate-the anchor weighing down our souls-is knowledge.

Both groups called today's High Sages true heretics, pandering to the ma.s.ses with their wishy-washy moderation. When dread starships came, fresh converts thronged to purer faiths, preaching simple messages and strong medicine for fearful times.

Sara knew her own heresy would not attract disciples. It seemed ill matched to Jijo-a planet of felons destined for oblivion of one sort or another. And yet . . .

Everything depends on your point of view.

So taught a wise traeki sage.

we/i/you are oft fooled by the obvious.

BIN URRISH COURIER CAME RUSHING OUT OF THE forest of tall, swaying great boo.

Could this be my answer already?

Lark had dispatched a militiaman just a few miduraS ago, with a message to Lester Cambel in the secret refuge of the High Sages.

But no. The rough-pelted runner had galloped up the long path from Festival Glade. In her rush, she would not even pause for Lark to tap the vein of a tethered simla, offering the parched urs a hospitable cup of steaming blood. Instead, the humans stared amazed as she plunged her fringed muzzle into a bucket of undiluted water, barely shuddering at the bitter taste.

Between gasping swallows, she told dire news.

As rumored, the second starship was t.i.tanic, squatting like a mountain, blocking the river so a swamp soon formed around the trapped Rothen cruiser, doubly imprisoning Ling's comrades. Surviving witnesses reported seeing familiar outlines framed by the battleship's brightly lit hatchway. Corrugated cones. Stacks of rings, luxuriously glistening.

Only a few onlookers, steeped in ancient legends, knew this was not a good sign, and they had little time to spread a warning before torrid beams sliced through the night, mowing down everything within a dozen arrowflights.

At dawn, brave observers peered from nearby peaks to see a swathe of shattered ground strewn with oily smudges and b.l.o.o.d.y debris. A defensive perimeter, stunned observers suggested, though such prudence seemed excessive for omnipotent star G.o.ds.

"What casualties?" asked Jeni Shen, sergeant of Lark's militia contingent, a short, well-muscled woman and a friend of his brother, Dwer. They had all seen flickering lights in the distance, and heard sounds like thunder, but imagined nothing as horrible as the messenger related.