We don't have much of a chance of escaping . . . but it might be possible to draw the universe away from Jijo. Diverting its attention. Making it forget the sooners, once again.

It would take skill and luck just to achieve that sacrifice. But if successful, what an accomplishment! Preventing the extinction of the g'Kek, or the unwanted transformation of the traeki, or the discovery and blame that would befall Earth, if human sooners were exposed here.

If this works, we'll have a complete cache of Earthlings on Jijo-humans, chimps, and now dolphins, too. A safety reserve, in case the worst happens at home.

That seems worthwhile. A result worth paying for. '

Of course, like everything in the cosmos, it would come at a price.

They had pa.s.sed Loocen-the moon still glittering with abandoned cities-and accelerated about a million kilometers beyond when the detection officer declared: "Enemy cruiser leaving atmosphere! Vectoring after swarm number one!"

The spatial schematic showed a speck rising from Jijo, larger and brighter than any other, lumbering to accelerate its t.i.tanic, ma.s.s.

We could outrun you, once, Gillian thought. We still can . . . for a while.

Even handicapped by the irksome carbon sheathing, Streaker would spend some time increasing the gap between her and the pursuing battleship. Newtonian inertia must drag down the heavier Jophur-that is, until it reached speeds adequate for level-zero hyperdrive.

Then the speed advantage would start to shift.

If only a transfer point were nearer. Gillian shook her head, and kept on wishing.

If only Tom and Creideiki were here. They'd get us away without much trouble, I bet. I could retire to sick bay with confidence, treating dolphins for itchy-flake and spending my copious free time contemplating the mysteries of Herbie.

In a moment of decision, she had elected to take along the billion-year-old mummy, despite the high likelihood Streaker would be destroyed in a matter of hours or days. She could not part with the relic, which Tom had fought so hard to s.n.a.t.c.h from a fleet of ghost ships in the Shallow Cl.u.s.ter-back in those heady days before the whole Civilization of the Five Galaxies seemed to turn against Streaker.

Back when the naive crew expected grat.i.tude for their epochal discovery.

Never surprise a stodgy Galactic, went a Tymbrimi saying. Unless you're prepared with twelve more surprises in your pocket.

Good advice.

Unfortunately, her supply of tricks was running low.

There were, in fact, only a few left.

The Sages THE LATEST GROUP OF PILGRIMS UNDERSTOOD more now, about the Holy Egg.

More than Drake and Ur-Chown knew, when they first stared at the newly emerged wonder, glowing white-hot from its fiery emergence. Those two famed heroes conspired to exploit the Egg for their own religious and political purposes, declaring it an omen. A harbinger of unity. A G.o.d.

Now the sages have printouts provided by the dolphin ship. The report, downloaded from a unit of the Great Galactic Library, calls the Egg-a psi-active geomorph. A phenomenon observed on some life worlds whose tectonic restoration processes are smoothly continuous, where past cycles of occupation and renewal had certain temporal and technologic traits . . .

Phwhoon-dau contemplated this as the newly rea.s.sembled Council of Sages approached the sacred site, walking, slithering, and rolling toward the place they had all separately been heading when they heard Vubben's dying call.

In other words, the Egg is a distillation, a condensation of Jijo's past. All the dross deposited by the Buyur . . . and those who came before . . . has combined to contribute patterns.

Patterns that somehow wove their way through magma pressure and volcanic heat.

To the south, these spilled forth chaotically, to become the Spectral Flow. But here, conditions permitted coalescence. A crystalline tip consisting of pure memory and purpose.

At last he understood the puzzle of why every sooner race settled on the Slope, despite initial jealousies and feuds, We were summoned.

Some said this knowledge would crush the old ways, and Phwhoon-dau agreed. The former faith-founded in the Sacred Scrolls, then modified by waves of heresy- would never be the same.

The basis of the Commons of Six Races had changed. But the basis survived.

A re-formed Council of Six entered the scarred canyon circle, where they spent a brief time contemplating the charred remains of their eldest member, a jumble of frail nerves and fibers, plastered against the Egg's pitted, sooty flank.

They buried Vubben there-the only sage ever so honored. Then began their work.

Others would join them soon. A re-formed council meant re-formed duty.

At last we know what you are, Phwhoon-dau thought silently, leaning back to regard the Egg's great curving ma.s.s.

But other questions remain. Such as . . . why?

Rety THE CONTROLS REFUSED TO RESPOND! "Come on!" she shouted, slamming the holosim box with the palm of her hand, then jiggling more levers. Not that Rety had much idea what she'd do if she gained mastery over the decoy vessel. At first, the stunning views of Jijo and s.p.a.ce sent her brain reeling. It was all so much bigger than she ever imagined. Since then, she had left the big visual holo turned off, while continuing to fiddle with other panels and displays.

Wisdom preached that she ought to leave the machinery alone . . . and finally, Rety listened. She forced herself to back away, joining yee at her small stack of supplies, smuggled off the sled when Chuchki wasn't looking. She stroked her little husband while munching a food-concentrate bar, pondering the situation.

Every salvaged decoy ship had been programmed to head out-by a variety of routes-toward the nearest "transfer point." From there, they would jump away from, fallow Galaxy Four, aiming for distant, traffic-filled lanes where oxygen-breathing life-forms teemed.

That was good enough for Rety, providing she then found a way to signal some pa.s.sing vessel, i This old ship may not be worth much, but it oughta pay my pa.s.sage to their next stop, at least.

What would happen next remained vague in her mind, Getting some kind of job, most likely. She still had the little teaching machine that used to belong to Dennie Sudman, so learning those jabber-talk alien languages shouldn't be too hard.

I'll find a way to make myself useful. I always have. t Of course, everything depended on making it to the

transfer point.

Gillian prob'ly set things up so the decoys'll try to lure the t Jophur. Maybe they give off some sort of light or noise to t make 'em think there are dolphins aboard.

That might work for a while. The stinky rings'll chase around, losin' time while checkin' things out.

But Rety knew what would happen next. Eventually, the Jophur G.o.ds would catch on to the trick. They'd figure out what to look for, and realize which ship was the real target, Suppose by then they've torn apart half the decoys. That still leaves mefitty-fitty odds. Which is Ifni times more than I'd have aboard old Streaker. Once they figure which one ': she is, they'll leave the rest of us decoys alone to go about ' our business.

At least that was the overall idea. Ever since she had found Kunn and Ja.s.s, dead in their jail cells, Rety knew she must get off the Earthling ship as fast as possible and make it on her own.

I'd better be able to send out a signal, when we pop into a civilized galaxy, she thought. Is'pose it'll take more than just shining a light out through a window. Guess I better study some more about radio and that hyperu'ave stuff. '*

As wonderful and patient as the teaching unit was, Rety did not look forward to the drudgery ahead . . . nor to relying on the bland paste put out by the ancient food processor, once her supply of Streaker food ran out. The machine had taken the sample of fingernail cuticle she gave it, and after a few moments put out a substance that tasted exactly like cuticle.

Chirping tones interrupted her thoughts. A light flashed atop the holosim casing. Rety scooted over to the machine. "Display on!"

A 3-D image erupted just above the floor plates. For a time, she made little sense of the image, which showed five small groups of amber points spiraling away from a tiny blue disk. It took moments to realize the dot was Jijo, and the decoy swarms had already left the planet far behind. The separation between the convoys also grew larger, with each pa.s.sing dura.

One dot lagged behind, brighter than the others, gleaming red instead of yellow. It crept toward one of the fleeing swarms as she watched.

That must be the Jophur ship, she realized. Squinting closer, she saw that the big dot was trailed by a set of much tinier crimson pinp.r.i.c.ks, almost too small to see, following like beads on a string.

The red symbol accelerated, slowly closing the distance to its intended prey.

Boy, I pity whoever's in that swarm, when the stink rings catch up with 'em.

It took Rety a while longer to fathom the unpleasant truth.

That swarm was the one that contained her own ship. The Jophur were coming for her first.

My usual luck, she complained, knowing better than to think the universe cared,.

Dwer EVERYTHING CHANGED.

One moment, he had been surrounded by sky. Mountains, clouds, and prairies stretched below his wicker gondola. The urrish balloon bulged and creaked overhead.

From the high northwest, a glittering object fell toward him, like a stoop raptor, unstoppable once it has chosen its prey.

That's me, he thought, feeling transfixed, like a gra.s.s mouse who, caught in the open, knows there is no escape, and so has little choice but to watch the terrible beauty of Death on the wing.

Death came streaking toward him.

He felt an explosion, a shrill brilliance . . .

. . . and found himself here.

A gilded haze surrounded Dwer as he took stock.

I'm alive.

The sensations of a young, strong body accompanied irksome itches and the sting of recent sc.r.a.pes. His clothes were as they had been. So was the gondola, for that matter-a basket woven out of dried river reeds-its contents undamaged.

The same could not be said of the balloon itself. The great gasbag lay collapsed in a curved heap of blur cloth, its upper half apparently cleaved off. Remnant folds lay spread across the interior of what Dwer came to realize must be a prison of some sort.

A spherical jail. He now saw it clearly. A sphere whose inner surface gave off a pale, golden light, confusing to the

eye at first. *

"Huh!"

To Dwer's surprise, his princ.i.p.al reaction was intrigue. In those final moments, as the missile fell, he had bid farewell to life. Now each added moment was profit. He could spend it as he chose.

He decided on curiosity.

Dwer clambered out of the basket and eased his moccasins onto the gold surface. He half expected it to be slick, but the material instead clung to his soles, so that he had to pull with some effort each time he took a step. After a few tentative strides, he came to yet another startling revelation.

"Down" is wherever I happen to be standing! From Dwer's new position, it looked as if the gondola was tilted almost sideways, about to topple onto him. He squatted, looking down at the "floor" between his legs, riding out the expected wave of disorientation. It wasn't too bad.

I'll adapt. It'll be like learning to ice-walk across a glacier. Or probing face caves at the end of a rope, dangling over the Desolation Cliffs.

Then he realized something. Looking down, he saw more than just a sticky golden surface. Something glittered beneath it. Like a dusting of tiny diamonds. Gemstones, mixed with dark loam.

He leaned closer, cupping hands on both sides of his eyes to keep out stray light.

All at once Dwer fathomed; the diamonds were stars.

Lark CROUCHING BEHIND AN AROMATIC OBELISK, TWO humans had an unparalleled chance to view events in the Jophur control room.

Lark would much rather they had stayed in the quiet, safe "observation chamber."

Towering stacks of sappy toruses loomed nearby, puffing steam as each Jophur worked at a luminous instrument station. The density of smells made Lark want to gag. It must be worse for Ling, who hadn't grown up near traeki. Yet she seemed enthralled to be here.

Well, this was a terrific idea, he groused mentally, recalling the impulse that had sent them charging into a pit of foes.

Hey, look! The Jophur seem stunned, Let's rush down from this nice, safe hiding place and sabotage their instruments while they're out!

Only the Jophur didn't stay out long enough. By the time he and Ling made it halfway across the wide control room, several ring piles abruptly started puffing and swaying as they roused from their torpor. While machine voices reported status to their reviving masters, the two humans barely managed to leap behind this cl.u.s.ter of spirelike objects, roughly the shape of idealized Jophur, but twice as tall and made of some moist, fibrous substance.

Lark dropped down to the floor. All he wanted was tc scrunch out of sight, close his eyes, and make objective reality go away.

Responding to his racing heartbeat, the purple ring twitched in its cloth bag. Lark put his hand on it and the thing eventually calmed down.

"I think I can tell what's going on!"

Lark glanced up the twin, tanned columns of Ling's legs, and saw that she was leaning around one of the soggy pillars, staring at the Jophur data screens. Reaching up, he seized her left wrist and yanked her down. She landed on her bare bottom beside him.

"Make like vermin," was his advice. On matters of concealment and survival, Ling had a lot to learn from a Jijoan I sooner. '

"Okay, brother rat." She nodded with surprising cheerfulness, then went on eagerly. "Some of their screens are set to spectra I can't grok. But I could tell we're in s.p.a.ce now, racing toward Izmunuti."

A wave of nausea struck Lark-a sensation akin to panic Unlike his siblings, who used to talk and dream about starflight when they were little, he had never wanted to leave Jijo. The very thought made him feel sick. Sensing his discomfort, Ling took his head and stroked it, but that did not stop her from talking, describing a complex hunt through j s.p.a.ce that Lark failed to visualize, no matter how he tried *

"Apparently there must have been a fleet of ships on or near Jijo," she explained. "Though I can't imagine how they got there. Maybe they came snooping from Izmunuti and the Jophur are chasing them away. Anyway, the mystery fleet seems to have split into five groups, all of them heading separately for the flare star. And from there to the transfer point, I suppose.

"There's also a couple of small objects trailing behind this ship . . . connected to it, as far as I can tell, by a slender force string. I don't know what their purpose is. But give me time. . . ."

Lark wanted to laugh out loud. He would give Ling the world. The universe! But right now all he really wanted was their nest. Their little green hideaway, where sweet fruits dangled within reach and no one could find them.

Lark was starting to push the vertigo away at last, when a noise blared from across the room.

"What's that?" he asked, sitting up. He did not try to stop Ling from rising partway and peering around for a look.

"Weapons release," she explained. "The Jophur are firing missiles at the nearest squadron. They must be pretty confident, because they sent just one for each ship."

Lark silently wished the new aliens luck, whoever they were. If any of them got away, they might report what they saw to the Galactic Migration Inst.i.tute. Although Jijo's Six Races had lived in fear of the law for two thousand years, the intervention of neutral judges would be far better than any fate the Jophur planned to mete out, in private.

"The small ships are trying evasive maneuvers, but it's doing no good," Ling said. "The missiles are closing in."

Rety SHE CURSED THE DROSS SHIP, FOR NOT GIVING HER control.

She cursed Gillian Baskin and the dolphins, for putting her in a position where she had no choice but to escape from their incompetence into this impossible trap.

She cursed the Jophur for sending missiles after this decoy flotilla, instead of expertly finding the right prey.

Above all, Rety swore an oath at herself. For in the end, she had no one else to blame.