Prologue

"We have ascertained that this person is an alien creature occupying a human body," the Minister of Alien Spheres said formally. "His Kirlian field is extremely intense, on the order of eighty times human normal, and its pattern is unlike anything we have on record. We believe he is what he claims to be: an envoy from a non-Sol Sphere."

The Ministers of the Imperial Earth Council contemplated the subject.

There was little to distinguish the alien. He was male, of normal height, about thirty years old, in good health. There were no telltale emanations from his eyes, extraordinary nuances of expression, or any visible aura. He was just an ordinary man -- with a bright tattoo on his right wrist.

That tattoo was the mark of a recipient body: mindless, empty, without personality. Even without the Kirlian verification, the intelligent animation of this body was highly significant. Only a freak accident could have done it

-- or alien possession. For there was no known way to forge a Kirlian imprint, and Sphere Sol lacked the technology to transfer identity from one body to another.

The Regent of Earth Planet spoke next, formally addressing the possessed body. "Sir, we accept you as such an envoy, and accord you the courtesies of that office. Welcome to Sphere Sol. Please acquaint us with your mission."

Now there was an almost tangible tension in the hall. Such visitations had been known only half a dozen times before in all human history, and each had had cataclysmic impact. One had confirmed the existence of intelligent alien life elsewhere in the galaxy, and revealed the presence of transfer technology. Another had defined the limits of direct human colonization -- 120

light-years' radius from Sol -- so that there would be no question of conflict with neighboring Spheres: Polaris, Nath, Canopus, Spica or giant Sador.

Another, from neighbor Sphere Antares, had effected one fundamentally important exchange of technology: Sol had yielded the secret of controlled hydrogen fusion in return for Antares' secret of matter transmission. That had revolutionized the human stellar empire, making rapid communication possible -

- and had presumably done something similar for Antares, starved for safe local power.

This could well be the moment of the century.

"I am Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh," the alien said. "We are about five thousand of your light-years in toward the center of the galaxy. Our two Spheres have not before had direct contact."

The Council Ministers nodded. They had only vague knowledge of the interior Spheres, most of whose stars of origin were not visible from Earth.

But it was certain that many of them were highly advanced. In fact, Sol was a very new, very minor Sphere, a galactic backwater only now opening relations with its civilized contemporaries. Some Spheres had endured for thousands of years, and achieved radii of many hundreds of light-years, while Sol had achieved its full size only a century before.

"We place your locale," the Regent said. "Please continue, Envoy of Knyfh."

"I am embodied here to enlist the cooperation of Sphere Sol in a mutual crisis of galactic proportion. I ask you, at this moment, to ascertain which individuals of your sapient species are suitable for identity-pattern transfer."

"That is not necessary," the Minister of Alien Spheres said. "We maintain continuous survey. After the difficulty the first envoy had in making contact with our government, five hundred years ago -- "

"That was not the first," Pnotl said dryly.

"The first we recognized," the Regent said, flushing. Historical research had revealed the probability of several prior attempts at transfer contact. All had failed because earlier cultures had preferred not to believe in the possibility of intelligent alien visitation or possession. What chances had been squandered by that ignorance!

"We felt we could not afford to risk any further such embarrassment,"

the Minister of Alien Spheres continued. "So we maintain a number of potential transfer host bodies -- such as the one you now occupy -- and we have every Kirlian field on record." He paused. "Unfortunately the technique of transfer itself has eluded us. We cannot transfer the mind of an individual of our species into another body." He made a small gesture of apology, as though this were a minor matter. "We just don't have the know-how."

Pnotl turned on him a polite yet uncanny glance. "We grant it you," the alien said.

It was as though a stun-bomb had detonated in their midst. There was now no pretense of unconcern. "The secret of the galaxy!" the Minister of Alien Spheres exclaimed.

The Regent held up one hand. "We cannot conceal our interest," he said.

"But such information is extremely valuable. We must know what you require in return, before we make any commitment."

"What price?" the Minister of Technology rasped, almost drooling in his eagerness and apprehension.

That sobered the others. All eyes returned to the envoy. Surely the secret of the galaxy would exact the ransom of the millennium.

"No price," Pnotl said evenly. "We wish you to have this capability."

Now there was open suspicion. "Why?" the Regent asked.

"Our entire galaxy is in imminent danger. Unless we unify the Spheres and utilize our maximum capabilities, all of us may be destroyed. We have no other way to form a galactic coalition."

"Forgive us for our cynicism," the Regent said grimly. "We have a fable about Greeks bearing gifts. This means that we do not trust seemingly unmotivated largesse. And we are not likely to react to nebulous, undocumented threats."

"And why us?" the Minister of Alien Spheres demanded. "Sphere Sador has a radius of almost five hundred light-years -- a volume of controlled space a hundred and twenty-five times as great as ours. They are the obvious candidate for your coalition."

"Such cynicism is a survival trait," Pnotl replied. "We are pleased to find it in you." But something in his tone suggested that he was not delighted. "I shall satisfy you on three scores: the practical, the technological, and the intellectual.

"First, why not Sador, or Mintaka, or any of the other larger Spheres of this galactic segment? Because though well established, these Spheres are decadent. Their controlling species no longer possess the initiative to tackle a problem of galactic scope. And your other neighbors have not had the foresight to arrange for transfer hosts, as you have. We have therefore contacted the most capable Sphere in this region, Sol."

The Council Ministers nodded, pleased at the unsubtle flattery.

"Technologically, I shall simply confer with your scientists immediately following this meeting, and will convey to them the details of the transfer mechanism. After all" -- Pnotl paused to smile gravely -- "if you do not achieve this capability in short order, I shall lose my own identity. I shall be the first transfer you make, since I cannot otherwise return to my Sphere."

"Fair enough," the Regent said, relieved that they would not have to undertake the enormous expense of mattermitting the envoy home. "If you trust the process enough to be the first subject, it would certainly seem to be authentic. But we can promise nothing until we know what the requirements are for membership in the galactic coalition." He was still suspicious, and let the alien know it.

"To understand the need for cooperation, you must understand the nature of transfer itself," Pnotl said. "Transfer is a modification of matter transmission, but such an unlikely aspect that only one species in a thousand discovers it independently." The Minister of Technology nodded, remembering how devious the method of matter transmission had proved to be. A whole new system of logic had had to be mastered before the necessary computations could be made. But that logic had avoided the paradox of relativistic limitations, and allowed a particular type of signal to transmit across light-years without lapse of time. If identity transfer were worse than this, they would not master it soon, even with a full blueprint. The finest minds of the Empire had been trying for decades.

"Transfer operates at a thousand times the distance, at a thousandth the cost in energy," Pnotl continued. "This is because so much less actually has to be transmitted. Only the Kirlian ambiance moves; the body is left behind.

It is my Kirlian force alone that animates this body -- and it will quickly fade if I do not return to my own body, which is quite alien in comparison.

Thus transfer is by no means a substitute for matter transmission, or even for physical travel through space. It is merely our most economical means of communication over galactic distances. And though it is a million times as efficient as matter transmission, it can still be costly in energy."

The Minister of Technology nodded. That was the great liability of mattermission: its cost. A million dollars' worth of energy had to be expended to transmit a hundred pounds one light-year, approximately. In fact, that had become the practical definition of the modern dollar. The expense cubed as the distance squared, so that it cost a billion dollars to transmit that same mass ten light-years and a trillion dollars to move it a hundred light-years.

Consequently very little freight was shipped that way; most mattermissions consisted of microscopic coded message capsules. It was still an essential means of maintaining Imperial communications.

Transfer, at a millionth the effective cost, would still have to be used sparingly, if it were not to deplete the Imperial exchequer. But it would lay open the entire galaxy to human contact, and the benefits could be enormous.

For if there was one thing more valuable than energy, it was knowledge.

"The threat is linked to this," Pnotl said. "The civilization of another galaxy proposes to solve its own energy problem by draining off the fundamental energies of the Milky Way Galaxy. I speak of the atomic interactions themselves, and the force of gravity. I think you will appreciate what would happen to us all if these forces were weakened."

"Disaster!" the Minister of Technology said immediately. "Our whole framework would disintegrate."

"But how -- ?" the Regent inquired, always practical.

"Apparently they have rediscovered some of the science of the Ancients,"

Pnotl said. "They are using the bodies of local galactic species to build and operate enormous power-transfer stations."

"Transfer of energy?" the Minister of Technology asked, amazed. "I didn't know that was possible."

"We did not know either," Pnotl admitted. "It seems there are ramifications of transfer technique we have yet to master. It may be that some forms of energy possess Kirlian fields. As I pointed out, the threat is fundamentally connected to transfer."

"We must make a special search for more Ancient artifacts!" the Minister of Technology exclaimed.

"In short," Pnotl concluded, "we are about to be ravaged by Galaxy Andromeda. If we do not act immediately, we all shall perish."

"Exactly what sort of assistance do you expect from us?" the Regent inquired, shaken despite his cynicism.

"Merely to use your power of transfer to contact your neighbors and bring them into the coalition. You will freely relay the transfer technology to them. They will then patrol their own regions, destroying any Andromedan stations and agents discovered. Galactic vigilance is the price we all must pay for survival."

"We have to do the dirty work you balk at," the Regent said. "That is your real price."

Pnotl nodded. "Unkindly put, but accurate enough. We must concentrate our own major effort in our own region of space. If you can reach ten or twenty Spheres within a radius of two thousand light-years of Sol, it will suffice. Our own sweep will complement yours tangentially, for Sphere Knyfh is covering a radius of three thousand light-years. All over the galaxy the other major Spheres are performing similarly." The alien made a bow of dismissal.

"If you will now convey me to your technicians, I shall begin working with them immediately. It may take some time to clarify the specifics and construct the apparatus, and my time is limited."

The alien smiled, and several Ministers smiled with him. He was speaking the literal truth; he had at most eighty days before his identity became submerged within the ambiance of the human host. It would have to be a terrific effort, on his part and theirs.

"But we haven't even agreed!" the Regent protested.

Pnotl's glance hinted that he thought the Council to be a bunch of unlettered idiots, but his tone was controlled. "Since your survival, like ours, depends on the early unification of our galaxy, so that we may muster our entire resources to combat this menace, I believe your agreement is assured. But I shall give you the information regardless -- just as you will have to give it to other Spheres, however negative they may prove to be."

The Regent gestured, and the Minister of Technology conducted the alien out of the audience chamber.

"We seem to have been committed," the Regent remarked sourly. "But if he really delivers transfer..."

The Minister of Population produced a printout. "Assuming that we have a use for it, I have here the list of our top prospects for transfer. As you know, the strength of the Kirlian field is the overriding factor -- "

"We know!" the Regent interrupted. "Summon the top five prospects. I want them here within twenty-four hours."

"That will be awkward. Our leading name is on the Fringe."

The Regent bashed one fist into the opposite hand. "I don't care if it's as far as Outworld! Fetch it here!"

The Minister permitted himself a fleeting smile. "It is on Outworld.

Star Etamin, one hundred and eight light-years distant. Our farthest viable colony."

"The Stone Age planet!" the Minister of Culture exclaimed. "Disaster!"

"We'll have to use the second choice, that's all," the Minister of Alien Spheres said. "Where's that one?"

"Sirius." Again a small smile.

"That's close -- and civilized! Saves us ninety-nine light-years'

postage. Much better."

The Minister of Population shook his head. "It's a woman."

There was a general, discreet groan. The cultural prejudices of the Ministers were emerging in the absence of the alien envoy. "Worse yet!" the Minister of Culture said.

"Stop this bickering!" the Regent cried. "Bring them both -- and the next three. I'll decide when the time comes."

"But the expense!" the Minister of Finance cried, appalled.

The others ignored him; expense was irrelevant when the Regent gave an order. If he overreached himself, he would have to answer to the Emperor, whereupon there just might be a new Regent. This particular Regent was unusually competent, and therefore it was likely that his tenure in the office would be brief.

"What's the top name?" the Minister of Alien Spheres asked. The arrival of the envoy from Sphere Knyfh had enhanced his prestige of the hour considerably, and he spoke with a new timbre of authority.

"Flint. Flint of Outworld. Age two-thirds -- "

"What?" the Minister of Culture squawked.

"Sorry. Their year is thirty years long; I forgot to interpolate. Age about twenty-one. Male. Single. Heterosexually inclined. Intelligence about one point five."

" About? " the Minister of Culture demanded. "Can't you measure it accurately?" His tone reeked of contempt.

"No. He's a primitive -- like some here. Can't even read. Runs about naked. Has green skin. But he's smart -- very smart."

"Lovely!" the Minister of Culture said sarcastically. "A smart naked ignoramus!"

The Minister of Population shook his head. "This savage has a Kirlian intensity of just over two hundred -- the highest we have ever measured."

"Two hundred!" the Minister of Culture gasped. "Two hundred times human normal?"

"That's right," the Minister of Population said smugly. "The next prospect, apart from the liability of being female, is only ninety-eight on the Kirlian scale. The barbarian is something special."

"We're stuck with the Jolly Green Giant," the Minister of Culture muttered.

"Disaster," the Minister of Population agreed.

"On the contrary," the Regent said briskly. The alien envoy had evidently viewed these men with a certain condescension; the alien had been a sharp judge of character! "Ideal. This innocent will hardly realize what he is getting into. What better choice for our first experimental transfer of a human being to an alien Sphere? We can have no notion of the risks this entails! If the advanced entities of the Inner Galaxy won't even try the Spheres of our region..."

The Ministers exchanged glances. A smile passed among them.

1 -- Flint of Outworld

The old man and the young man lay in the cool of predawn, looking up at the stars. The old man wore a ragged tunic; under it his skin was an off-shade of white. The young man was naked, and was a delicate green all over. He was large and muscular, even for Outworld.

"Can you see Arcturus, boy?" the old man asked.

"Yes, Shaman," Flint said with good-natured respect. He was no longer a boy, but he made allowances for the old man's failing vision. If there was one thing the wise Shaman had taught him -- and indeed there were many things --

it was not to take offense irresponsibly. "Shining as always, about third magnitude."

"And Vega?"

"Yes, fourth magnitude." Each distinction of magnitude meant a star was about two and a half times as bright -- or dim. It seemed to help the Shaman to be reminded that Vega was dimmer than Arcturus, so Flint always repeated the information. On cloudy nights these magnitudes changed, if the stars were visible at all. He could have called them out from memory, but the Shaman had also taught him never to lie unnecessarily.

A pause. Then: "Sirius?"

"Fainter. Fifth magnitude."

"And -- and Sol?" The old man's voice quavered.

"No. Too faint."

"Use the glass, boy," the Shaman said.

Flint raised the small old telescope, a relic of the first colony ship that had brought his ancestors, over a century ago. He oriented on faint Sirius, then slid toward the nearby region where Sol was to be found. The instrument magnified ten times, which meant that stars of up to eight and a half magnitude should be visible. But magnification was not enough: the scope did not fetch in sufficient light to provide proper clarity at night. So Sol, magnitude seven and a half, was a difficult identification, even for Flint's sharp eye. For the half-blind Shaman, it was impossible.

Now Flint was tempted to lie, knowing how important it was to the old man to spot Sol, even secondhand, this night and every night of the season it was in the night sky. But the Shaman had an uncanny knack for spotting that sort of thing.

Then, faintly, he saw it. "Twin stars! Sol and Toliman!" he cried exuberantly.

"Sol and Toliman!" the Shaman echoed. The words were like a prayer of thanksgiving.

Flint set down the telescope. The ritual had been honored. They had seen Sol tonight.

There was still an hour until dawn, and the Shaman made no move to rise for the walk down the mountain. Flint had work to do, but he had learned not to hustle the old man. The Shaman had never quite acclimatized to the fifteen-hour days of Outworld. He would sleep one full night, seven and a half hours, then stay up a day and a night, fifteen hours straight, then nap in the daytime. He had, he said, been born to a twenty-four-hour cycle, eight hours asleep and sixteen awake, and this was as close as he could make it on Outworld. Flint had once tried to duplicate that odd rhythm, but it had made him irritable and muddle-minded. No one could adopt Shaman ways except the Shaman.

Sometimes the Shaman liked to talk a bit, as he neared the end of his day-night vigil. Flint pretended to the other tribesmen that he merely humored the old fogey, but the truth was that the Shaman's words were almost always fraught with meaning and unexpected revelations. He had taught Flint amazing things -- and some of the best had been almost by accident. "Shaman, if I may ask -- "

"Ask, boy!" the man replied immediately, and Flint knew that this was, indeed, a talking night. Perhaps it would make his early awakening worthwhile, apart from the necessity of helping the old man up the steep hill. "What was it like -- on Sol?"

"Not Sol, Flint. Earth. Sol is the star, Earth the planet just as Etamin is the star here, and Outworld the planet. A small star, Sol, and a small planet, 'tis true, but the home of all men and still lord of all Sol Sphere."

Flint knew. Etamin was a hundred times as brilliant as Sol, and Outworld twice Earth's mass. That was why Outworld, though ten times as far from its star as Earth was from Sol, had a similar climate. Lower density, heavier atmosphere, and faster rotation brought the surface gravity down to within 10

percent of Earth's, effectively, so man had been able to colonize and survive here. Of course Outworld's year was thirty times as long, but what the Shaman called a severe precessional wobble provided seasons similar to Earth's. All this was but a fraction of the knowledge the Shaman had dispensed in the course of prior conversations. The tribesmen hardly cared, as long as hunting was good -- but Flint was fascinated, and always wanted to comprehend more.

"Earth, of course," Flint said. "But the planet -- was it like this?

With rains and vines and dinosaurs?"

The Shaman laughed, but had to stop when it triggered off his cough.

"Yes and no," he gasped after a bit. "Rains, yes -- every few days in some sections. But no vines -- not such as you mean. None you could really climb on. Dinosaurs -- not today, only long ago, a hundred million years ago! Only birds and mammals and fish and a few small reptiles and not many wild animals, with the human species overrunning the last wilderness areas. Earth is crowded, boy -- more crowded than you can imagine. Hundreds, thousands of people per square mile. Even more!"

Flint had heard this before, too, but he allowed for exaggeration. It would be impossible for the land to support more than ten or fifteen people per square mile; the game would all be destroyed by overhunting. He had had experience hunting; he knew the limits. "Why is there such a difference, Shaman? Why isn't Outworld just like Earth, since it was colonized directly from Earth?"

"An excellent question! The experts have wrestled with that one for decades, Flint. The answer is, we don't really know. But we have some educated guesses."

"There must be a reason," Flint said complacently. "There's a reason for everything -- as you have told me."

"Reason, yes. Understanding, no. But the prevailing theory -- or it was when I left Earth -- is called the Principle of Temporal Regression, and it applies to all Spheres, not just ours. Earth is civilized, but since our fastest ships can achieve only half light-speed, it takes many years to reach the farther colonies. Vega is twenty-six and a half light-years from Sol, so it takes over fifty years to travel between them, one way. Sirius is within nine light-years of Sol; that's about eighteen years. Even Toliman -- it was called Alpha Centauri -- was just over four -- "

Flint cleared his throat, gently.

The Shaman chuckled ruefully. "I ramble, I know. The point is this: it takes time to communicate between the colonies -- so they are always somewhat out of date."

"Not with mattermission," Flint objected.

"Matter transmission is prohibitively expensive. It would be ruinous to transport a single man that way, let alone a factory. So we lack the base for an advanced technology."

"But we should not be more than two hundred years out of date!" Flint protested. "Even without mattermission, Etamin is only a hundred and eight light-years from Sol -- "

" Only! It's Earth's farthest colony! Oh, there are a few men scattered farther out, and quite a few in the Hyades cluster -- but those are really alien Spheres."

"There are some aliens here," Flint reminded him. "Polaroids."

"Don't call them that. Polarians. Don't assume they don't know the difference; they're as smart as we are, even though they do have trouble with our mode of speaking." He paused, letting the rebuke sink in. Then: "But they are in our Sphere, subject to our regulations. Just as the few men in Sphere Polaris are subject to Polarian government, according to galactic convention.

Such admixture is good; it promotes better understanding between sapient species. We are fortunate that they are so similar to us -- "

"Similar!" Flint snorted. "Know what Chief Strongspear calls them?

Dinosaur T -- "

"Chief Strongspear is a bigoted lout whose time is getting short. There are qualities in Polarians -- and in all sapient aliens -- well worthy of your respect. Remember that."

Flint raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll be extra nice to the next Pole I meet." Then he caught himself before the Shaman could protest.

" Polarian, I mean." Despite his bantering tone, he fully intended to keep his promise. He was curious about the alien residents anyway.

"To return to your question," the Shaman said. He never lost a thread, no matter how far the conversation might wander. "Why aren't we within two hundred years of Earth, in culture and technology? That is the crux of dissension. There seems to be a cumulative regression, a logarithmic ratio --

"

Flint cleared his throat again.

"All right, all right," the Shaman said, more than a tinge of petulance in his tone. "In nontechnical language, it gets worse as you get farther out from the center, unless progressive subcenters develop. Somehow that two-hundred-year delay multiplies, until -- well, Outworld is frankly Paleolithic.

Old Stone Age, to you."

"And a good thing!" Flint said. "What would I do for a name if there were no stoneworking?"

The Shaman sighed. "What, indeed. Be glad you're not on Castor or Pollux or Capella, with their Victorian cultures and musket diplomacies!"

"Why did you come here, Shaman? You had so many worlds to choose from..."

The old man gazed at the first faint light of dawn, as mighty Etamin gave herald of his rising. The Shaman's eyesight improved greatly by day. "I suppose it was because of the challenge. Certainly I didn't relish the odds for survival -- only half the freeze-passengers ever make it, you know."

"What happens to the others?" This was new to Flint; he had assumed that all ships got where they were going without a hitch.

"Natural attrition. One ship in four is lost -- either it is struck by a meteor, or goes astray to perish in uncharted space, or its internal systems fail and destroy it. And one body in three, aboard the intact ships, does not revive."

"That's more than half lost," Flint said.

The Shaman smiled. "That is exactly half."

"Uh-uh! You taught me fractions, remember? Find the common denominator, add them up. One in four is three in twelve ships lost; one in three is four in twelve bodies dead. That's seven of twelve dead -- more than half."

The old man chuckled. "Bright boy! But you are mistaken, because you have not really found the common denominator. You can't add ships and bodies."

"All right. If one ship in four is lost, all the bodies in it are lost.

So that's still one body in four."

"But you are now counting bodies twice. Those in the lost ships have to be excluded from the surviving-ship tally."

Flint wrestled with that, but the concept was nebulous.

"It will come to you in time," the Shaman said. "The obvious is not always the truth -- in mathematics or in life."

"Maybe so," Flint said dubiously. "Either way, it's one hell of a risk."

"I was not really aware of those statistics at the time I volunteered,"

the Shaman admitted. "And there is nothing very personal about it. It is not like fighting a dinosaur. The journey is like an instant -- that's why I was able to leave Earth at age thirty-five and arrive here at thirty-five." He sighed again. "Thirty years ago!"

"Another freezer is due soon, isn't it?" Flint asked.

"In a couple of years, yes. They are spaced out about three ships to the century, so that at any given moment half a dozen ships are on their way here.

In this way there is a steady, if small, supply of educated Earth natives to guide us and see that Outworld progresses. The same is true for all Earth colonies, of course. Otherwise Sol would not be a true Sphere, but just a motley collection of settlements."

"Why didn't my ancestors travel by freezer?" Flint asked. "Then they would all have been Earthborn, and Outworld would have started off civilized."

"Well, the survival rate is better in the lifeships. And without the complex, heavy freezing and resuscitation apparatus, twice as many people can be shipped in each vessel. So about three times as many make it to the colony, at a fraction the expense. With a program the size of Earth's, that's a critical saving. In fact, Outworld would not have been colonized at all, without the lifeships. But there is that one disadvantage: In the course of the seven isolated generations the trip takes, much regression takes place, even though books and tapes are available. The spaceborn just don't have the inclination to maintain complex systems of knowledge and rigorous skills that aren't needed aboard the ship itself. And once they emerge on the planet -- "

"Who can study dull books when he's fighting a dinosaur?" Flint asked.

"That's about it. So I think we have a complex of reasons for the retardation. It starts in the original colony lifeships, and is not corrected by the freezers, because the majority culture is already set. Perhaps the lowered density of population also has something to do with it. As you know, only so many people can survive on a square mile of land by hunting and gathering. Until rising population forces them to change, they take the easy way -- and that's what you have here on Outworld. Enjoy it; it will not endure forever."

"You know what I said, when I learned I had been apprenticed to you?"

Flint inquired mischievously. " 'What? That old fool?' "

The Shaman laughed with him. "Right you were!"

But Flint was abruptly serious. "No, I was the fool! You know so much, I can hardly comprehend it even when you tell it straight. But you're always right, when I finally figure it out. Compared to you, I know how stupid I am."

"Never that," the Shaman said. "Ignorant, yes; stupid, no. There's another fundamental distinction for you. I chose you because you were by far the brightest and most talented child in the tribe. You have a peculiar, special, intense vitality. I saw real leadership potential in you, Flint --

and I see it yet, stronger with every question you ask. You must work, you must learn, you must not be content like the others, for one day this tribe will be yours."

"But I am no Chief's son!" Flint cried, flattered.

The Shaman seemed not to have heard. "You will have to lead your people out of the Paleolithic, and into the Mesolithic -- even the Neolithic, the New Stone Age! Progress is much faster here than it was on Earth, because now the knowledge exists. I have been teaching you to read; the books are here, waiting to teach you more than I have ever known. You can accomplish in a generation what took millennia on Earth. Centuries from now, Outworld will be civilized..."

Flint let him ramble. He looked through the telescope again, locating Sirius, fainter now with the coming dawn, and then, with special effort, the twin stars of Sol and Toliman. This was his last chance before Etamin blotted them out for the day. Strange to imagine that man had evolved on that far little planet circling that almost invisible star --

"Shaman!" he exclaimed. "Sol's gone!"

The Shaman started, then relaxed. "That would be an eclipse. One of our satellites. With nine moons, these things happen." He paused. "Let me see --

that would be Joan. She's the only moon in the Sirius constellation at this hour. I had forgotten."

"You need a memory bank," Flint said, smiling. If there was one thing that grew even longer and clearer with time, it was the old man's memory.

"I need a computer -- to figure out all the nine orbits, the patterns of occlusion, so unpredictable by the naked mind. On Earth the early cultures, not so far ahead of you, had a computer. A marvelous device. It was made of stone -- huge stones, each weighing many tons, set in a monstrous circle. It was called Stonehenge by the later natives. With that, they could accurately track the phases of the sun -- Sol sun, I mean -- and predict the eclipses by Earth's moon, Luna. It was a monstrous moon."

"A moon covered up the sun?" Flint asked incredulously.

"It happened. Here, the moons are too small and distant. There, its disk appeared to be as large as that of Sol. The ancient astronomers went to extraordinary trouble to chart its cycles -- "

"Civilized Ancients!"

"Not the way you mean! It is true that there appears to have been a pattern of early artifacts on Earth, prehistoric yet vast. So vast that the evidences of that primal civilization went virtually unnoticed for millennia, and only recently have they been appreciated for what they are. They -- "

"That is the way I mean!" Flint said, growing excited. "Here on Outworld there are artifacts of Ancients, things we can't understand. Why not the same on Earth?"

"The Earth Ancients dated from four or five thousand years ago," the Shaman said indulgently. "The Alien Ancients may date from four or five million years ago. There is no comparison! It's like the common error of putting cavemen and dinosaurs together, because both are prehistoric, when actually -- "

Flint burst out laughing. The Shaman seldom made jokes, but when he did, they were beauties! "Cavemen and dinosaurs! It's an error to put them together, all right!"

The Shaman sighed. "I keep forgetting..." Then he sat up, startled.

"Sol? Are you sure? Sol has been obscured?"

"Sol. I see Toliman -- "

"An omen! An omen! Clear as the star itself!"

Flint put down the telescope. "Do you really believe in such?"

"On Earth, thirty years ago -- I mean, two hundred and thirty years ago

-- no. I wasn't superstitious. But here on Outworld, in the Old Stone Age, the people expect it from me. After a while it becomes easier to accept. And I must admit, for those who follow omens, this is as clear as they come. Sol is going to change your life -- significantly. And soon. Take it from an old scientist who converted to a medicine doctor to survive among savages: you have been warned by the stars."

"No!" Flint said. "Sol is nothing to me, and I don't believe that rubbish." But he felt a premonitory chill, for despite his denials, he did believe.

"Flint! Flint!" the child cried. "The hunt -- you must come!"

Flint stopped in the path, letting the lad come to him. It was a messenger runner. "I'm not involved in hunting anymore; you know that. I'm the stonemason." He did not need to add that he was also apprenticed to the crazy Shaman.

"Three are dead, five gored, two trampled. We need help!"

"Three dead! That was supposed to be a routine morning hunt! What did they flush?"

"Old Snort," the boy cried despairingly.

"No wonder! That dinosaur is best left alone. Anyone fool enough to tangle with him -- "

"Chief Strongspear -- "

"That explains it!" But Flint was on nervous ground, for if word of his insolence reached the Chief there could be unpleasant repercussions.

"Chief Strongspear's son is dying. Old Snort won't let them recover the dead. You must come."

"I told you -- I no longer hunt!" But he wondered. The Shaman had spoken of leadership, and now the Chief's son was dying. The heir was stupid, like the father -- but who would fill that office if the muscular Chiefson died? In a year the Chief would be retired. And Sol had been eclipsed. Since Flint had seen it happen, he was the one directly affected by the omen.

"Chief Strongspear says if you don't come now, he'll put a pus-spell on Honeybloom."

The Chief was fighting dirty! The very thought of such disfiguration on the prettiest girl in the tribe turned Flint's stomach. "I'll come. Show the way." The boy showed the way, running swiftly ahead. These runners were agile and long-winded; they could keep the pace better than any man. Flint followed, pausing only to don his harness and secure his best handax. They left the fruitpalms of the oasis behind, hopped from hummock to hummock through the thornreed swamp -- the village's chief bulwark against predatory dinosaurs --

and climbed nimbly up the trailing tentacle of a vine. At first it was only a few inches in diameter, requiring careful balancing, but as they approached the vine's center web it swelled to more than a yard across.

Out along the opposite tentacle they went, dropping to the firm ground beyond the swamp. They passed a bed of fragrant honeyblooms, the big green-and-red flowers as pretty as they smelled, reminding him poignantly of their namesake: his woman. He and Honeybloom would be wed in midsummer. He would go to her tonight...

The boy slowed. An alien was squatting in the path. A Polarian.

They drew up before the strange creature. It was a teardrop-shaped thing with a massive spherical wheel on the bottom and a limber tentacle or trunk at the top. When that tentacle reached straight up, it would be as high as Flint, and the body's mass was similar to his. But the Polarian had no eyes, ears, nose, or other appendages.

The Shaman claimed they were similar to human beings because they liked similar gravity, breathed the same air -- though they had no lungs -- and had a similar body chemistry. Their brains were as massive and versatile as man's, and they were normally inoffensive. But they looked quite different, and such details as how they ate, reproduced, and eliminated were mysteries.

But Flint had promised himself to treat the next alien he met with special courtesy. He and the boy halted politely. "Greetings, explorer," Flint said. The creature's body glowed with simulated pleasure. It put its stalk down to the ground. In this position it looked more than ever like a dinosaur dropping. Flint stifled a laugh.

A little ball in the tip of the trunk spun rapidly. "Greetings, native,"

the ground said.

Flint was not surprised. He had been familiar with the mechanism from infancy. The little ball vibrated against the ground -- or any available surface -- to produce intelligible sounds. As the Polarian had no mouth, it could not talk as humans did.

"I am Flint, Solarian male." What was obvious to a human was not necessarily evident to a Polarian -- and vice versa. Protocol did not require such an introduction; he could have gone on after the first exchange. The runner boy was already fidgeting at this delay. But Flint had a resolution to fulfill: appreciate an alien.

"Tsopi, Polarian female."

"Peace, Topsy."

"Peace, Plint."

Was this creature laughing back at him? What did the human form resemble, to the alien perception? A bundle of vine splinters? Flint became intrigued. "I go to a dinosaur hunt. Would you like to accompany me?" In one sense, this too was protocol; Polarians liked to be included in activities.

But they were appropriately wary of dinosaurs.

"I would be gratified," the teardrop said.

Now he had done it! He had never suspected the creature would accept!

Well, it couldn't be helped. "It is an emergency. We shall be hurrying."

"I shall not impede you," the Polarian replied.

Fat chance! But Flint smiled graciously. He gestured to the boy. "Show the way."

The runner was off, sensing a race. This was firm, level ground, excellent for making time. Flint followed, stretching his legs.

But Tsopi followed right along, rolling smoothly on her ball-wheel. She was at no disadvantage. Polarians could move rapidly and effortlessly when the terrain was right; their wheel was efficient. Flint had not before appreciated how efficient. On occasion he had wondered how the aliens kept themselves upright. The Shaman had remarked that a man on a unicycle performed the same feat. But there were no unicycles on Outworld.

Then they came to a ravine. One vine crossed it. The boy leaped up, caught a trailing sprout, and hauled himself topside. Flint started to follow, then paused. The Polarian could never make that leap.

"Permit me," Flint said, extending his linked hands. He had heard of this kind of cooperation, and was curious to see if it worked.

The Polarian looped her trunk around the hands. It was warm; the body temperature was similar to man's. Flint braced himself and heaved up, hauling the entire weight of almost two hundred pounds into the air. Then he swung --

and the torso of the creature bumped against the underside of the vine.

Instantly the trunk disengaged from his hands and whipped about the vine. The bottom wheel spun against the bark, shoving the torso up. The entire body elongated momentarily; the aliens had no bones. In a moment, by a splendid feat of acrobatics, the Polarian stood upright atop the vine, ready to move on.

Flint hauled himself up, and they proceeded, running single file across the chasm. Purple mud bubbled far below; trash was disposed of here, for what dropped into that mud never reappeared.

The vine trailed near the ground on the far side, so the Polarian needed no help. Actually, Flint realized, she could have used a small ramp to hurl herself a few feet into the air at speed, high enough to catch the vine with her upraised tentacle. His assistance had merely facilitated things.

A mile farther along Flint heard the noises of an enraged dinosaur.

"Trouble, all right!" he gasped, and tried to run faster. But he was winded.

Tsopi rolled up beside him, effortlessly. The tentacle touched the ground. "Permit me," she said. Then the trunk reached over, circled around Flint's waist, and tightened elastically. In a moment he was lifted into the air, head forward.

Then Tsopi accelerated. Faster than any man, she zoomed across the plain, carrying Flint like an elevated javelin. Thirty miles an hour, thirty-five, forty -- the wind whistled past his ears and forced his eyes and mouth closed. No wonder the Polarians had no such organs; they were unusable at this velocity. He held himself perfectly rigid, knowing that any upset in the alien's balance would be disastrous.

In moments they were at the scene of action. Tsopi slowed and set him down. The runner was far behind.

"Thanks, Topsy," Flint muttered, not entirely pleased at this demonstration of the alien's superior ability. But he realized that the Polarian might have felt similarly about the climb to the vine. It was a lesson, and a good one, vindicating the comment of the Shaman -- yet it galled him that he should have had to learn it this way.

"Welcome, Plint," the Polarian responded, making a momentary glow of amusement.

Flint turned his attention to the situation. It was a disaster, all right. Two bodies lay in the trampled dirt, and Old Snort paced angrily around them. He had already worn a brown track in the turf. He didn't want to eat the bodies, for he was herbivorous, but he was intent on killing any other men who approached. Some ancient instinct told him that eventually they were sure to approach their dead.

The dinosaur was old, but neither small nor feeble. He measured thirty feet from snout to tail, and weighed about fifteen tons. His long-range eyesight was poor, but his nose and ears more than made up for this deficiency, and his muscles were huge. He had been wounded by several spear thrusts, but the cuts were superficial and only increased his rage. This hunt had been botched, all right!

"Where is the Chief?" Flint demanded of the nearest warrior, who was cowering behind the stump of a withered vine.

"Wounded," the man cried. "He watches over his son, who is dying. He calls for you."

Flint hesitated, remembering the eclipse of Sol. The omen could signify the direct intervention of Sol in his affairs, but an alternate interpretation was that he could face a crisis of leadership. Sol was literally the center of the human empire, but figuratively the symbol of power, anywhere. If he bailed out Chief Strongspear, in the absence of the Chief's natural son, Flint would become the odds-on favorite for adoptive replacement. The Chief was too old to sire a new son, and too near retirement to raise a young lad to the office.

But he had to have an heir, and soon. The custom of the tribe required it.

Flint wasn't certain he wanted leadership. There were many strictures on the Chief. He had to officiate at all sacrifices, marry all widows, lead all major hunts, and settle all tribal disputes. Any of these could be sticky matters. It was a dangerous, unpopular office, with little occasion for romance or star-gazing. Worst of all, the Chief had to practice magic, to ensure good hunts and fertile tribes-women, and to compel discipline. Just as Strongspear had compelled Flint's own attendance by the threat of the pus-spell.Flint did not believe in magic -- at least, not for himself. Others could cast spells that worked beautifully, but Flint had never been able to succeed. The Shaman had told him it was a matter of confidence and suggestion, that the spells worked because the ignorant tribesmen really believed in them.

And the Shaman had demonstrated this by casting a mass sleep-spell on the entire tribe in the middle of the day. All had either succumbed or pretended to. Flint himself had gone under. The Shaman, figure of ridicule that he might be, knew human nature well, and was the ultimate magician. But Flint's own efforts didn't compel sufficient belief, and so failed. Already the others well knew his liability; men Flint could back off in a physical encounter could back him off in magical competition. It didn't help to have the Shaman explain that their very strength came from their ignorance; the plain fact was their magic worked.

Even Honeybloom had once given him a stiff finger, mischievously. He had been forced to gather three five-leaved thornblooms, at terrible expense to his hide, before she relented and put them in her red hair. "Intelligent people are highly suggestible," the Shaman had observed, unperturbed.

And there was one crowning drawback to the Chief-ship: retirement. At the end of his term, the Chief was ritually slaughtered and offered up for sacrifice to the Nature Spirits of Outworld. The Shaman, knowledgeable in everything, had explained that though in one sense this represented an unfortunate primitivism, in another it was practical. No Chief had any incentive to store private wealth, and so he was generally honest. "And the hunting does seem to improve the year after such a sacrifice," the Shaman had admitted.

Naturally, Flint thought. Because the hunters had the fear of extinction goosing them, after witnessing human murder.

No, Flint did not want to be Chief! But as he came into the presence of Strongspear, he realized that he would probably have little choice. The old man's eyes glittered with grief under his ornate headdress of rank. Blood dripped from a shoulder wound. He was in no mood to be balked. Any trouble from Flint, and there would be much worse than pus-spells as punishment.

Yet the very seriousness of the situation provoked an antisurvival mirth. Here were cavemen and dinosaurs together! Flint bit his tongue to stop the smile, but it burst out anyway.

"What the hell you laughing at, boy?" Strongspear demanded.

"Not a laugh -- a grimace," Flint said quickly. He bared his teeth to amplify his horror -- and his horror was real, in its fashion. What a place for a foolish smile!

"What's that Pole doing here?" the Chief rapped.

Flint had forgotten the Polarian, who had unobtrusively followed him.

"This is Topsy of Polaris," he said hastily. "Topsy, this is Chief Strongspear." He faced the Chief again. "Topsy is merely observing."

"Well, let him spin his wheel out of here!" Strongspear snapped. "We don't need any damned aliens -- "

"The Chief means it might be dangerous for you," Flint told the Polarian. "No offense intended." It did not seem to be the time to advise Strongspear that he had mistaken the sex of the alien.

The tentacle touched the trunk of a vine. "I quite understand, and appreciate the consideration. But the dinosaur poses no threat to me. Perhaps I can be of help."

"Perhaps," Flint agreed politely. He wished Tsopi would get well clear, but she was slow at taking such hints. Already he was regretting his vow to the Shaman to be nice to the aliens. If Tsopi died in the midst of a human dinosaur hunt, there could be Spherical repercussions.

"The Polarians control a Sphere twice the diameter of ours," the Shaman had explained. "They've been in space longer, and they have better organization. And no doubt they're more advanced technologically in their origin-world than we are at Earth. Out here at the Fringe they're primitives, just as we are -- just as every species is at the edge of its Sphere. But don't let that fool you. Someday we may need their help. Always remember that."This was one of a great many fundamental lessons the Shaman had taught Flint: the respect of alien culture. There were few Polarians on Outworld --

but there were billions within their own Sphere. In many respects, Outworld was closer to Polaris than to Sol.

Suddenly Flint had an idea. If the Polarian could be made to seem instrumental in relieving this crisis, there would be little credit due Flint himself, and thus no question of becoming heir to the Chief. Strongspear would never confer honor on an alien!

"Your offer of assistance is much appreciated," Flint said to Tsopi. "I noticed you move very swiftly. Do you think you could lead Old Snort toward our deadfall, without running the risk of getting trampled or gored?"

"This would be simple," Tsopi said, glowing with pleasure. Flint wondered whether her constant illumination was a Polarian trait or a female one.

"Get that dino turd out of here!" Strongspear yelled, furious that the alien should witness the human predicament.

"We shall clean up Snort's refuse as soon as we get him in the trap,"

Flint said, hoping that the Polarian would misinterpret Strongspear's reference. If only it weren't so apt!

They moved out. Flint showed Tsopi where the deadfall was, then they rounded up the scattered tribesmen and approached the dinosaur.

"The idea is to lure him away from our dead," Flint explained. "But since he has killed men, he must be killed, not just removed. So we have to lead or drive him over the deadfall. The only problem is -- "

"He can outrun us!" a tribesman finished.

"Yes," Flint agreed grimly. "Therefore the Polarian has kindly agreed to take the lead. Old Snort can't outrun a Polarian on level ground."

The men looked dubious, but acceded to Flint's evident authority. If he muffed it, he would be in trouble, not they. They formed a half-circle around the dinosaur, a wide arc, for they were not eager to provoke him into another devastating charge. The monster would tend to shy away from a large group of men at a distance, unable to see or smell them well enough to attack them with confidence. But this was still chancy.

Flint and Tsopi came near. Old Snort snorted as he became aware of them.

He stomped the ground, making it shudder. From up close, he was huge -- twice the height of a man. The bones of his head opened out into a massive shield about the neck, and he had three great horns on his nose. "A triceratops," the Shaman had said. "Not a true reptile, here on Outworld, but close enough for practical purposes. The planet permits larger development. Convergent evolution..." Flint hadn't cared about the technicalities; all he knew was that Old Snort was about as formidable an opponent as the planet offered.

True, there were also predator dinosaurs, but they seldom bothered to go after anything as small as men, and men stayed well clear of them, so there was little contact. There were many of these hornbeasts, in contrast, and their young made good hunting. The sheer stupidity of flushing this one, instead of smaller prey...

Flint shook his head. Old Snort, the most ferocious of the lot, terror of the plain for over a century!

The huge head swung around, attracted by Flint's motion. The triple horns pointed at man and Polarian. Any notion that the dinosaur was dull or slow was dissipated by that alert reaction; Old Snort was stupid, but fully competent within his province. The opposite of the Shaman, who was intelligent but often incompetent about routine things, like gutting roachpigs for cooking. He tended to shy away from the squirting green juices...

The dinosaur snorted again, the air misting out around his nasal horn with a half-melodious honk, and stamped one mighty hoof warningly. He did not like intruders.

Flint hadn't brought his own spear, and had no immediate use for his stone handax. The tool was good enough, but not against a standing dinosaur.

His only advantage was his brain -- and as the creature loomed larger, he was none too sure of that. But the job had to be done, and his perverse pride forced him to see it through, even at the risk of becoming the Chief's heir.

"Hee-ya, Snorthorn!" he cried loudly, waving his arms.

One moment the dinosaur was standing; the next, he was charging at a good twenty miles an hour. Or so it seemed.

There was only one response to such a charge: to get out of the way. He ran, straining his utmost, hearing the thud thud thud of Old Snort's tremendous hooves hammering the ground close behind. Too close behind; the animal could catch a man in full flight, and knew it.

Then Tsopi shot past, her tentacle looped down to touch her own body.

From the small bearing came a piercing keening noise, as of an animal in terror.

Flint dodged to the side, caught his foot in a vine root, and sprawled headlong. The feet of the dinosaur smashed down -- and missed him by a good yard. The turf sank several inches. Old Snort had seen him fall, but was unable to change course on such short notice -- and Tsopi was buzzing along immediately ahead, commanding attention.

Flint got up, unhurt. He should have watched his feet better; now all the tribesmen would know of his clumsiness. But perhaps it was just as well, for he was obviously not the hero of this adventure. The Polarian was. He watched the chase with interest.

Tsopi approached the deadfall, dinosaur in galloping pursuit. The trap was a huge pit, ten feet deep and forty in diameter, covered by a network of crisscrossing vine stems. It was not concealed; dinosaurs' eyes were not so sharp, and their brains not so good as to decipher its menace before putting a foot in it. Natural hazards were one thing; natural selection had bred care.

But artificial hazards were only a century old, and the dinosaurs had not had time to learn yet. All that had been necessary was to build it several weeks before the hunt, to give the man-smell time to wear thin. Old Snort would crash through the vine segments and fall in -- and though his shoulder was two feet taller than the drop, his mass and musculature were such that he would not be able to climb out. Forward propulsion was not the same as upward movement, as the Polarian's problem with climbing showed.

Suddenly Tsopi veered away from the deadfall -- followed of course by Old Snort. Both skirted the edge, and the dinosaur did not fall in.

"The alien fool!" the man next to Flint exclaimed. "Why didn't he go over it, the way we planned?"

Why not, indeed? Had the Polarian deliberately sabotaged the hunt?

Now they were looping back -- toward the men. Tsopi accelerated right at Flint. If old Snort continued on his course -- well, they could scatter, but one or two more men would be trampled.

"Plint!" Tsopi cried, her tentacle touching the ground. "I cannot cross the trap at speed!"

Then Flint realized his mistake. A man would have bounded from one vine to the other automatically, safely, but the Polarian could not jump. Not that way. The crisscrossing vines were an impassable menace.

"Move toward it -- then dodge aside!" Flint cried. "Old Snort can't turn as fast as you can."

"Right!" The Polarian looped about again, and such was the concentration of the dinosaur that he charged right by Flint without seeing him. One-track body, one-track mind.

But Old Snort was slowing; he could not maintain charge speed for long.

That would complicate the trap; he might lose interest in the uncatchable alien and turn to the slower men. "Let him follow close!" Flint called. And wondered how it was that the earless Polarian could hear him.

Tsopi eased off, letting the dinosaur catch up. They headed back toward the deadfall, the small form almost merging with the large one.

"Now she's playing it too close!" Flint muttered nervously, seeing Old Snort's horn almost snag the alien. Tsopi dodged aside, right at the brink of the deadfall. Old Snort tried to twist, and he was now going slowly enough so that his body did lurch over. But his front feet were on the vines, and under his weight they snapped like twigs and let him down. He plowed horns-first into the pit.

Vine logs flew up in a momentary splay. A foot-thick piece came down on Tsopi, knocking her into the pit.

"Oh, no!" Flint cried. Suddenly the peace of Spheres was imperiled. He sprinted toward the deadfall.

"Stay clear!" someone called. "There's no getting out of that hole!"

But Flint ran to the edge. The dinosaur seemed stunned; he was on his knees and not moving. The Polarian was wobbling crazily, but she was alive.

Old Snort shuddered. His head turned, and he struggled to rise from his knees. As he had half-slid over the edge, the dirt had been scraped into a pile at the bottom. That, and the cushioning effect of the vines, had spared the dinosaur from immediate harm. Still, a drop of ten feet was a considerable jolt for fifteen tons, and in other circumstances could have been fatal.

Now the Polarian was in trouble. She could not climb out, even where the edge was broken down, and her gyrations were attracting the notice of the dinosaur. The massive head swung about, the three horns orienting. Half stunned and stupid the monster might be, but in the confines of the pit he would soon smash Tsopi flat.

Flint slid down the broken wall, landing solidly but safely at the bottom. He drew his handax from its harness and rapped Old Snort's longest nose horn smartly. It clanged like a dry hollow vine. "Hi-ya, stupid!" he yelled.

The dinosaur lunged to his feet, snorting. He had been well named; the blast was deafening. But his little eye was fixed on Tsopi; he had not yet realized that there were now two creatures in the pit with him. The beast bucked his horns forward.

"Permit me!" Flint screamed over the ringing in his ears from the snort.

He threw his arms about Tsopi's torso and heaved the alien into the air. The torso squeezed together like a bag of water. The horns rammed into the wall of the pit, immediately below the Polarian's hanging wheel.

Old Snort wrenched his head up. Dirt and sand sprayed, and another section of wall collapsed. Flint leaped aside, carrying the alien. The surface of Tsopi's torso was oddly slick, though dry, as though it had been polished.

The large wheel spun slowly.

Flint brushed by the flaring shield of bone that guarded Old Snort's neck; it was taller than he was, and monstrous muscles were attached to it.

The dinosaur whipped his shield about, trying to smash the two tiny figures. This was one maneuver he was good at! Flint put out one foot. The edge of the shield caught. As it swung through, Flint walked right up over the saddle-shape.

Old Snort bucked his head up and back, and the two were thrown off. They skidded down the corrugated back. They were now above the level of the ground

-- but there was no way to step across to it.

Flint half-slid, half-stepped on down to the ground beside the dinosaur's tail. He set Tsopi down. "I think we're in trouble, friend," he remarked. "Sorry if I squeezed you too tight."

"I am better now," the Polarian said. "I shall return the favor." And she scooted forward.

Old Snort was just turning, unable to maneuver freely because his flanks kept banging into the walls of the pit. They were in danger of being crushed between the hulking body and the hard sand of the wall. Flint made a mental note: if he got out of this, and if he ever had charge of a pit-construction crew, he would dig several man-sized holes in the base. Probably no man would ever again be caught in such a place with a live dinosaur, but...

Tsopi shot past the broad shield and around the blunt beak, making a keening noise. Even to Flint, that sound had an annoying quality. No doubt that was the intent.

The three horns snapped about, going after Tsopi with amazing accuracy.

The Polarian squished aside and the horns missed -- barely -- and plowed into the wall again. More dirt tumbled down. Old Snort wrenched the horns up --

apparently this was an automatic goring reflex, an excellent maneuver against a twenty-foot-tall carnosaur -- and ripped out a larger section. What had taken the tribe weeks to excavate, this dinosaur was taking only moments to demolish.

But even as that awful armored nose cleared, Tsopi was wheeling back over the loose dirt, leaving cross-hatched treadmarks in the soft surface, taunting the dinosaur with that keening sound. For an instant the tentacle even touched one of the great horns, and the keening became momentarily louder as the hollow horn amplified it. It was like spitting in the face of the monster!

Suddenly Flint realized what the alien was doing. She was making the dinosaur dig their way out of the hole. Every pass meant another gap in the wall, another mound of dirt in the bottom. Already there was a yard of it piled, and a six-foot section of wall had been demolished. Of course Flint himself could have made it out, if Old Snort gave him time. He could jump and catch the edge of the pit and lift himself out, if the turf didn't crumble.

But he couldn't carry the Polarian out and the alien was too heavy to throw that far up.

But Flint, glad as he was to see a viable exit developing, foresaw one problem: When it leveled out enough to make a passable ramp for Solarian and Polarian, the dinosaur would also be able to climb out They'd be back where they had started: with an enraged colossus charging about the plain.

No, not quite at the start. There had been time to remove the dead and wounded from the field, now. That much had been gained, at least.

Soon the job was done, for the animal was a powerful worker. Maybe someday man would learn to tame dinosaurs, and gain tremendous leverage against the environment. When a fair ramp was made, Tsopi led Old Snort into a half-turn, away from the gap. Then Flint ran around, put out an arm to assist Tsopi, and scrambled up the steep incline. For a moment dirt flew out under the alien's wheel, making a hole; Flint lifted, and they were over the brink and out.

But now, what of the dinosaur? Flint stood at the brink, uncertain. But Old Snort did not follow them. He just kept turning, looking for the annoyance he had been chasing. He paid no attention to the ramp.

"Friend Plint, we must move!" Tsopi said urgently.

"In a moment," Flint said. Something was nagging him, and he was unwilling to run before he figured it out.

Then Snort's eye came up almost level with Flint's own eye, the powerful neck muscles elevating the head surprisingly. What control the animal had! For a moment they stared at each other. The dinosaur's muscles bunched -- "Plint!"

Old Snort turned away.

He hadn't even recognized Flint as the quarry -- because Flint was not in the pit.

In fact, the dinosaur was trapped. He could climb out, by gouging a wider passage to accommodate his huge body, then tramping up the ramp. But he wouldn't. Because he was too dull to look that far ahead. It suddenly hit Flint: Stupidity was the greatest trap of all! There was no confine worse than a slow brain. "May I never look my enemy in the eye and not know him," Flint whispered to himself. "May I never miss the easy way because of slow wit."

There, truly, was the difference between man and dinosaur!

"No offense, Plint," the Polarian said. Flint was about to explain that he knew there was no present danger, but realized that this was not the question. "No offense," he agreed. The alien had something of import to convey, perhaps controversial, and now was the time to say it.

"I am not familiar with all your customs. Among my kind, when one entity preserves the life of another, there is a debt."

"Among mine too," Flint agreed warily. This pit experience had complicated his perspective of the alien; Polarians did indeed have worthwhile qualities.

"You saved my life, at risk to your own -- "

To avoid Spherical complications -- but it would be indiscreet to say that. "And you saved mine."

"We have exchanged debts," the Polarian said.

"We have." What was coming next?

"Farewell, debt brother," Tsopi said. That was all?

"Farewell, debt sister," Flint echoed. The Polarian departed, zooming across the ground at the incredible velocity of its kind. Flint watched, shaking his head. What a day!

Now the other tribesmen came close. "You did it!" one exclaimed. "You trapped Old Snort!"

"Topsy the Polarian did it," Flint said. "She led the dinosaur into the trap, and helped me get out of it. The credit belongs to her, and to her alone. Tell Chief Strongspear."

They looked dubious, but one set off in the direction of the Chief.

Flint knew that his statement, plus the evidence of the witnesses, would scotch any question of chiefly adoption. The only thing Chief Strongspear hated worse than an alien was an alien-lover.

Meanwhile, the hunters would be able to finish off Old Snort at leisure, if need be by starving him to death. The tribe would feast royally for many days to come. There would be good leather for sandals, good sinew for tying bundles, and excellent bones for spears. The blood would make puddings and dinosaur-malt; the vertebrae would make clubs. The fat would make tallow for candles and grease for cooking. Almost every part of Old Snort would be used, eventually. Not because the tribesmen were unduly conservation-minded, but because it was easier to use what they had than to go out after another dinosaur one day sooner than necessary. Today's dead would be long remembered!

Yet it disturbed him, this slaughter. They could never have overcome Snort in his prime. The dinosaur was well over a century old, and generations of men had changed course in deference to this monster's stamping grounds. His demise was the end of an era, and this was sad.

There were other dinosaurs, of course, and some were larger and more vicious than Old Snort. Snort hadn't been a bad neighbor, really. He had let the tribe alone just as long as it had left him alone. Soon some other monster would move in to fill the vacuum, for this was prime grazing territory, and then the tribe might discover how well off it had been.

Flint knew that this was merely the standard post-hunt letdown -- but still he was depressed. So he did the sensible thing.

He went to see Honeybloom.

She was picking juiceberries beyond the West Thicket. Her red hair was radiantly lovely. Her green breasts were as lush as melonberries, and her skin as soft as a freshly peeled vine.

"Flint!" she cried with mock chagrin. "You're filthy!"

"I fell in a hole," he said. He looked at her appreciatively. "I'd like to fall in another."

She threw a juiceberry at him. The eyeball-sized globe splattered on his chest and dribbled blue juices down his belly. "Let me wash you," she said, instantly contrite.

She took him to the river pool and washed him thoroughly, in that special way she had. Her hands were marvelously gentle. He thought of the threatened pus-spell, and was supremely relieved that it hadn't come to pass.

After a while he pulled her down with him, dunking her with a pretense of savagery as though he were a real caveman subduing a real cavewoman. Actually few of the tribe lived in caves; it was easier to make lean-tos under vines, and there were no resident predators to oust. But the myths of caveman violence were always good for laughs -- and when Honeybloom laughed, it was something to see.

Her breasts floated enticingly, looking even larger than they were.

Flint looked forward with a certain wistful regret to the time when he would have to give them up to his baby. That was the problem with marriage...

Eventually, feeling much better, he made his way to his shop in the village. It was now noon; Etamin shone down hotly. He had lost half a day. But it had been worth it, in its fashion; he had learned enough to last him a week. He brought out a large block of flint. Flint was a unique stone. Other material fractured unreliably, making large chunks, small chunks, pebbles, and dust -- all irregular. Flint could be fractured in controlled fashion, to make flakes with sharp edges -- knives. A flint knife was sturdy; it could kill a small animal effortlessly. It was durable; it never lost its edge, and it was exceedingly hard. All in all, it was a stone of near-miraculous properties.

But it had to be handled correctly. Strike a block of flint the wrong way, and useless chunks would flake off. Strike it the right way, and anything could be produced: a thin-bladed knife, a pointed speartip, a solid handax, or a scraper. All it required was the proper touch.

It was an inborn talent. Flint was one of the few who had the touch; in fact, he was the finest flint craftsman in the region. His blades were sharper, better-formed than anyone else's. But most important, he could turn them out rapidly and with very little waste stone. Flint stone was not found naturally in this region; the tribe had to trade for it, so it was precious.

Fortunately Flint's talent had made this trade profitable for the first time in a generation. They could import as much of the stone as they needed in return for half the finished blades. That was why Flint was no longer obliged to hunt or to perform other onerous tasks like burying the tribe's dung. He was more valuable to the group as a craftsman. Until this morning, when the hunt had flushed Old Snort.

He oriented his master-block carefully, laid a bone buffer against it, and struck the core glancingly with a specially designed club. A long, narrow blade flaked off. He struck again -- and another perfect blade appeared.

Flint made no secret of his technique; the skill was in his hands, not his tools. The strike had to be not too hard, not too soft, not too far from the edge, nor too close. Others had tried to copy his motions, but they muffed it because they lacked his coordination and feel for the stone. The material was in his being; when he hefted a piece he could tell at a glance where the key cleavage lay, and he could strike that spot accurately. No one had trained him in this; no one had needed to.

On a good day, he could turn out several hundred assorted blades. A year ago, upon achieving his maturity, he had given a public demonstration. Thus he had earned his name and become the flintsmith. As long as there was flint to be had, and his hands remained uninjured, his position was secure.

That was another reason to marry Honeybloom. She was a sweet girl, and beautiful, always amenable, but not unduly bright The Shaman had tried to argue him out of making the commitment to her, on the grounds that she would become poor company the moment her figure went to fat. But she had a fair talent for magic, and specialized in hands. Even as she had given him the stiff finger -- retribution, she had claimed, for what he had done with it one time when he had caught her sleeping -- she could ensure that his hands remained strong and supple. That was insurance he had to have.

Crack! Another blade. Crack! Yet another. It always took him a while to get the rhythm of it, the feel, but he was warming up beautifully now. With luck, he would turn out his full day's quota despite the loss of the morning.

"Flint." The voice startled him, destroying his concentration, and he muffed a shot. A foully misshapen fragment of stone skittered across the ground. Damn!

He looked up, his upper lip lifting in a silent snarl. But he didn't speak, for this was no ordinary intruder, no naked tribe child. It was a man wearing the uniform of the Imperial Guard. His skin was so pale as to be virtually white, slug-white, like the Shaman's, which meant he was Earthborn.

From the spaceport, obviously; one of their idle personnel. But the Imperial Guard was not to be ignored.

Flint, like most natives, didn't care for clothing. It interfered with necessary activity. Only in winter would he don protective gear.

"I am Flint," he said.

"Come with me."

Once every five years the Imperials rounded up all the children of the tribe and ran them through a battery of tests. It was a meaningless procedure, but the kids got a kick out of it and it seemed to satisfy the Earthborns. But this was not the year or the time, and Flint was no longer a child. Earth had no present call on him. "Like hell I will!" he snapped. "I've got work to do."

The Guardsman reached for his weapon -- a regulation blaster.

Flint was on his feet instantly, poised, a flint blade held expertly between his fingers. "Want to try it, Imp?" he whispered.

Now a crowd of children had gathered, gawking at the scene. The Imperial reconsidered. If he blasted Flint, he would be deemed a murderer, attacking a naked and effectively unarmed primitive. If Flint killed him with that blade, he would be dead. Either way, he would have failed in his mission. "You have to come, Flint," he said. "It's by order of the Regent of Earth. The capsule just arrived."

"What does the Regent want with me?" Flint demanded, not relaxing.

"He wants to send you to Sol. That's all I know."

"Sol!" the children cried, amazed.

Flint laughed. "Me to Sol! No one goes to Sol. They come from there!"

But then he remembered the omen. Could this be its meaning?

In that moment of Flint's hesitation, the Imperial Guard drew his blaster. "Nothing personal," he said. "But orders are orders. You're being mattermitted to Earth -- today."

But the resistance was gone from Flint. He could have handled the guard, and hidden from the Earthborns -- but how could he fight the omen? His magic was weak, and this sign had reached across 108 light-years to touch him.

Against that, there was no defense.

2 -- Mission of Ire

*notice target galaxy development*

-- notice taken report --

*transfer logged 80 intensity motion 1500 parsecs from sphere knyfh to underdeveloped region*

-- potential interest evidently knyfh is searching for assistance unable to monitor outer galaxy alone futile no advanced cultures in that segment --

*addendum number of technologically incipient cultures in vicinity cluster of spheres*

-- itemize --

*canopus spica polaris antares sador nath bellatrix mirzam mintaka*

-- cluster of nonentities canopus is slave culture spica waterbound sador regressive to core mintaka interested only in music antares possesses transfer but uses it only internally polaris represents potential threat owing to efficient circularity this is where knyfh transferred? --

*correction transferred to sphere sol*

-- sol! barely technological small sphere --

*advanced rapidly in recent period after awkward breakthrough*

-- concurrence detail on sol --

*abortive mattermission expansion depleted source planet almost to point of nonreturn followed by disciplined starship colonization 400 source planet cycles or years major colonies sirius and procyon atomic level altair formalhaut vega machine technology arich mufrid pollux arcturus denebola castor capella all pre-industrial commerce sheriton deneb-kaitos aldebaran alioth corserpentis sabik all medieval remaining colonies further regressed to subcivilized*

-- enough! with nucleus of only three atomic-level settlements including origin sphere represents very limited actuality and questionable potential no action required at this time continue monitoring to ascertain purpose of knyfh transfer if other than desperation quest --

*POWER*

-- CIVILIZATION --

Flint looked about, still angry despite the omen. He was in a huge room, much like the main chamber of the Imp station on Outworld, but larger. Vents set high in the walls let in slits of light -- no, it was artificial light after all, that was one of the things the Imps had -- and there was a growling as of hidden machines running. The overall effect was awful.

"Flint of Etamin?" a woman inquired. She had no sex appeal; she was flat-breasted, cloud-white, and spoke with a strong Imp accent. Flint presumed this really was Imperial Earth, and he didn't like it.

"Etamin -- double star on the Fringe," she said. Her voice was low but not soft.

This elicited a spark of interest. "You mean Sol isn't double?" he inquired. He was not being facetious; it had not occurred to him that Sol should differ from his home sun in this significant respect. No wonder Sol was so faint in the sky. But of course there was no reason a single star should not support life; it was the planet that counted.

"Please don this tunic," she said, holding out a bolt of red cloth.

"You want me to put on a red dress?" he asked incredulously.

"It is not a dress. It is an Imperial tunic. All citizens wear them, males and females. You will note that I wear one."

Flint looked again. This Imp was not merely flat-breasted, but non-

breasted. "You're male! " he said, surprised. The dress and the smooth, unbearded face had deceived him, but the voice and chest should have given him the hint. He was being dangerously unobservant.

The man rolled his pale eyes briefly skyward in a feminine gesture.

"What color tunic would you prefer? Anything except black."

"Why not black?"

"That signifies officialdom."

Flint disliked officialdom. "I'm happy the way I am."

Now an evanescent smile. "That simply won't do. You're no Tarot figure."

"Tarow people are naked?"

"That's Tarot, with an unpronounced terminal T. Merely illustrations on occult cards used by the cult of Tarotism. Its prime tenet is that all concepts of God are valid."

" Aren't they?"

Again the rolling of eyes. "You're to meet the Council of Ministers in fifteen minutes. You must be dressed."

Flint realized that argument would only delay his return home. "Give me a green one, then. I'm a green man."

"Very good," the white man said distastefully. He produced a green tunic that came reasonably close to matching Flint's skin, and Flint put it on over his head. He balked at using the silk undergarment the man tried to make him wear under it, however. A dress was bad enough, but no warrior or craftsman wore panties! Suppose he needed to urinate in a hurry?

A woman -- a real one this time, with breasts and hips and hair, though dressed just like the man -- came and slicked down his proudly unruly hair, washed his hands and feet, and trimmed off the better part of his strong finger- and toenails. She was, despite her pale skin, an attractive female with a musky odor and a deft touch; otherwise he would not have submitted to these indignities. He hoped he would not have to fight soon; his hands were now as embarrassingly dainty as Honeybloom's.

He was ushered into a capsule that closed about him and abruptly plunged through the wall. He had a confused glimpse of buildings like straight vertical cliffs, and crowds of robed people. Up above the sky was blue, not green, and the light of the sun was sickeningly yellowish. This was Imp Earth, all right! Then the capsule penetrated another wall like a spearpoint through hide, and stopped inside.

A bit dizzy, Flint got out.

A man stepped up to grasp his hand. Flint was tempted to grab that flabby hand and throw the bastard over his shoulder, but restrained himself.

It was better to ascertain the facts before acting, as the Shaman always reminded him. Then he could throw a few Imps about.

"Welcome, Flint of Outworld. I am the Minister of Population. It was our excellent aura-intensity files that located you. The Council is ready for you now." "Ugh," Flint grunted noncommittally. He followed the man through bare halls like the base of an overgrown vine forest. He felt confined, his vision, hearing, and smell restricted to the point of uselessness; surely this was one of the fabled Earth prisons. He kept a nervous eye out for predators, though he knew that the larger dinosaurs had died out on Earth.

The Council of Ministers was a group of undistinguished men in identical black tunics. Their faces and hands were bone-white, except for one brown man.

They introduced themselves in rapid order, though they hardly seemed sufficiently distinct from each other to warrant names. Flint made disinterested note in case there were ever any future relevance. He had a perfect memory for such details; it came of practice in hunting and scouting.

The Shaman called it "eidetic."

"I'll come straight to the point," the brown man said. He was the Regent, and seemed to have more character than the others. "You have a high Kirlian aura -- er, do you know what that is?"

"No." This was something the Shaman had not mentioned, unless it was the Imp name for intelligence. Keer-lee-an aura?

"Very well," the man said, with a grimace that showed it was not very well. "I'll explain. It is a kind of a field of force associated with living things, like a magnetic field -- do you know what that is?"

"No." Actually the Shaman had mentioned magnetism, but Flint was not in a good mood.

"Complete savage," one of the Ministers murmured in a comment he evidently thought Flint could not overhear. The man did not realize that a complete savage would have acute hearing for wilderness survival. Flint was proud of his primitive heritage, though he realized the Minister had intended the remark disparagingly. Well, toss one more Imp -- in due course.

"Hm, yes," the Regent said. "Well, some four or five hundred years ago, when Earth was just emerging into the space age, the twentieth century, you know, scientists discovered that there were phenomena that could not be explained by conventional means. ESP, PSI, dowsing, precognition --

fascinating concepts in their time -- "

One of the Ministers cleared his throat, and Flint realized why they liked to be so similar: it was difficult to tell which one had interrupted the discussion.

The Regent frowned and continued. "At any rate, it was obvious that force fields of an unknown nature existed. In 1939 a Soviet electrician -- uh, the Soviets were a nation, somewhat like a stellar system except they were right here on Earth -- called Semyon Davidovich Kirlian photographed the patterns of bioluminescence -- that is, a glow from living things -- that appeared in certain high-frequency electrical fields. This effect resembled a fireworks display, with multicolored flares, sparks, twinkles, glows, and lines. In fact, a Kirlian photograph of a living human hand resembled the image of our galaxy with all its stars and clusters and swirls of dust and gas. And so this discovery -- "

"Really, our guest isn't interested in this detail," the Minister of Population interjected.

The truth was, Flint was interested. A human hand that had fields of energy like the galaxy? But if he revealed how much he understood, he would spoil his image of barbaric ignorance, so he kept silent.

"My point," the Regent continued, "is that this was the start of what was to become the major science of bioluminescence. It has had profound effects on medicine, agriculture, criminology, archaeology, and other sciences, because every living thing has its Kirlian aura, whose pattern is unique to it and varies with its health and mood and experience. Some even call this aura the astral body or the soul. There are religious implications -

- "

Again the anonymous clearing of a throat.

"Well, the Kirlian aura is now subject to precise measurement. It varies in intensity and detail with different individuals. Some have weak fields, some strong fields. Most are average. You happen to have a very strong field.

This means you would be a good subject for transfer of identity to another body, for where your Kirlian aura goes, you go -- because your aura is your essence."

Suddenly Flint caught the man's drift. "Like mattermission -- to someone else's body!"

"To someone else's body and brain -- but you retain your own personality and memories, because they are inherent in your aura. As you change, it changes, reflecting your growth. Your aura is you. In this case, it goes to some thing else's body. You are about to have the magnificent adventure of traveling to the stars."

The notion had its appeal. Flint was intrigued by the stars, and all the stories connected with them. But he remained angry. "I just traveled from a star -- and I want to go back."

"But this is a signal honor. No human being has done this before. You will be an extraordinary envoy to alien Spheres -- "

"The old goat almost makes me want to transfer," one of the Ministers whispered to another.

Not only did Flint overhear this, he knew the Regent heard it too, for the man's lips twitched into the merest suggestion of a snarl. This Council was like a nest of piranha-beetles when the meat ran out, snapping at anything that moved, including each other. Flint's own ire was simple: he wanted to go home. The Ministers' ire was complex, but not his business, unless he could find some way to turn it to his own advantage. Maybe one of them would help him escape, just to spite the others?

For he had no intention of having his aura transferred. "Go to the stars

-- in some creature's body?" Flint thought of being a wheeled Polarian, and was revolted.

"Precisely. And you will bring to those Spheres the secret of transfer itself, and enlist them in the galactic coalition -- "

But Flint had heard more than enough. He turned and ran out of the chamber so quickly that the assembled Ministers were left staring. "Stop him!"

the Regent cried.

Imperial guards appeared, barring Flint's passage. But they were civilized and soft, while he was a tough Stone Age warrior. He dodged the first, ducked under the reaching arm of the second, and nudged the third into the fourth. He really felt crippled, without either spear or fingernails! He left them behind in a tangle.

He came to the capsule area and jumped into one. The transparent cover closed over him and the thing launched through the wall. This time Flint watched closely: The wall irised open as the blunt snout of the craft shoved in, so that it formed an aperture just the right size. He emerged outside, and looked back to see the wall closing behind like the anus of a grazing dinosaur. And what did that make the capsule and its occupant, ejected like this from the bowel of the building? Flint smiled briefly, thinking of what men called Polarians. Now Flint himself was the dinosaur dropping.

The capsule was on some sort of vine or wire that extended before and after, a bead on a string. That was why it didn't fall into the chasm between buildings. Flint felt nervous, peering down into the void; if that string broke -- but of course it wouldn't. The Imps were very careful about things like that, being extremely dependent on their machines.

Now he had only a moment to make plans. The Imps would be waiting for him at the next stop. He had to outmaneuver them. But it would be foolish to go out into this awesome city; he would give himself away in an instant even if he found a way to cover up his green skin. He had to act in a manner they did not expect And he had to get home.

The capsule punched into the next building. Evidently it was a shuttle, going back and forth between the matter-mission center and the Ministry. Yet that was limited, and outside there had been a network of lines like the spreading limbs of a large vine tree. Surely the string continued to other places.

There was a little panel of buttons before him, and a sign. He could not read it, but could guess: This was a manual control system, like reins on the horses that more civilized worlds than Outworld used. He punched buttons randomly as the capsule slowed to a halt. He could see the Imp guards clustered at the landing.

Abruptly the capsule took off again. It shot past the surprised faces of the guards and on through the opposite wall. Now he was back in suspension, seeing the connecting lines spreading every which way. Each one represented potential escape, if only he could figure out the system in time. Flint punched more buttons, and the capsule slowed, as if confused by the multiple directions.

By quick experimentation and use of his excellent memory, Flint got a notion of how to operate the thing. Each button represented a preset destination, like telling a child runner "Go to Chief Strongspear." The question was, where did he want to go -- and illiterate as he was, how could he choose that particular button?

Once he got home, he would ask the Shaman to teach him how to read. It had become a survival skill.

Well, maybe he could use his own ignorance to advantage. Every time he punched a button, the capsule shifted its route to head for that location. By punching new buttons, he kept shifting his destination, so that the Imps could not tell where he was going. Evidently they could not intercept him here in the capsule en route, so he was safe for the moment. He had a chance to think.

First, he had to delve into his own motives. The Shaman had always disciplined him in this: "Know thyself." Sometimes the obvious became spurious, and new truths manifested from the hidden mind.

Why was he fleeing? After a flurry of superfluous reasons, he penetrated to the basic one: He could not face the notion of being placed in the prison of an alien body. He had always been allergic to weakness, abnormality, or illness. Honeybloom's stiff-finger hex had been more than a nuisance; it had forced a recognition of physical incapacity on Flint, to his emotional discomfort. Chief Strongspear's threat of a pus-spell had been devastating, for the thought of making love to a sick woman completely unmanned Flint. He had always been supremely healthy himself. Good clean combat wounds were all right, but anything festering -- ugh!

The idea of becoming a monstrous bug or stupid dinosaur or slimy jelly-thing -- no, Flint could not face this. He knew himself to be brave in the conventional sense, but an abject coward in this. His essence, his spark of individuality, was his strength, and any weakening of that was like suffocation. He had to remain in his own good body. Even if this meant dying in it.He spied a different kind of area, cleared of the huge buildings. What could this be, here in the perpetual metropolis of the Imperial Planet? A bit of forest?

He brought his capsule closer to it by punching buttons, coordinating them like the fracture lines of imperfect flint rocks. He had, after all, the touch of an expert. A little here, a little there, and the capsule jerked closer to a destination that was not programmed for any of its buttons.

Finally the clearing expanded, and he spied a spaceship.

Flint had seen similar craft at the little spaceport on Outworld. It was an orbiter shuttle, a jet-propelled ship that carried things up to the orbiting interstellar ships. A starship would break apart if it ever tried to land on a full-sized planet, but there was no need for it to come down when the shuttle relayed everything.

This was Imperial Earth, origin planet of man. Spaceships still set out from here for all parts of Sphere Sol. If he could locate one going to Outworld and get aboard it...

But of course it would be two hundred years before he got home. Even if he were frozen -- a notion he didn't like -- so that he didn't age, he would still be way too late for Honeybloom. But at least he would be going in the right direction.

Who the hell was he fooling? Half the people on Freezers died in transit. Of every twelve shipfuls, three were lost in space and three more were lost in failed revivals. For some reason, he had once thought that was more than half gone, but the Shaman had corrected him. In any event, why should he risk throwing away his young life like that? The Shaman's case had been different: He had been old, thirty-five, when he embarked on his freezer-voyage to Outworld.

Yet he couldn't stand being cooped up in a metal lifeship for the rest of his life, either. He'd be stir-crazy, as the Shaman put it, before two months were out. There was no way home but mattermission: instant transport.

But he knew there was no chance of getting mattermitted back. Not on his own. Starships were not closely guarded; who in his right mind would stow away aboard a vessel that wouldn't dock for fifty or a hundred years? But mattermission was such a special thing that everything to be sent had to be triple-checked, though it were no bigger than a grain of sand. Which was just about the size of the message capsules that zipped back and forth between the major planets. No sloppy procedures there!

Which made it all the more amazing that he should have been mattermitted all the way to Earth. It must have cost a couple of trillion Solar dollars in postage -- more than any person was permitted to earn in a lifetime. In fact, more than the annual budget of most systems in the Sphere. Not that the tribesmen of Outworld bothered with money; what use was it, after all? Oh, some of the villagers used it in trade for larger shares of food or help on their lean-tos, and there were Imp trinkets the girls liked that could be obtained only with money. But it really wasn't part of Paleolithic existence.

Flint knew about it only because of the Shaman's education.

What was so two-trillion-dollars' special about him? Surely there were others who could transfer to bug-eyed monster bodies. Others who would be more amenable, with a lot more education than Flint had. Maybe some ugly or ill ones, who would be glad to get out of their poor human bodies, gambling on a better alien body. Why take a barbarian flintsmith from the farthest colony planet?

Surely there was good reason. Either the job was so dangerous or horrible that only the most ignorant person would go, or he had some qualification that made him so much better than others that it was worth the expense of mattermitting him here. Since an ignorant person would not stay ignorant long, the latter seemed more likely. The Regent had said that Flint had a very strong Kirlian aura. Apparently not many people had that -- and only the ones with it could transfer.

How badly did they want him? If they had dozens like him, they would not bother to chase him very far, and wouldn't care if he died on an outbound starship. But if he were the choice, they would keep a very close eye on him.

And the planet-ransom they had already expended in fetching him here suggested the answer. He could put that to the test -- and might be able to use it to bargain with. If they really thought he was prepared to die rather than submit to transfer, they just might treat him kindly in an effort to bring him around. And the greatest kindness they could do him would be to mattermit him home to think it over.

His decision was made. He would gamble his life and sanity on the assumption that he was really important. That two-trillion-dollar investment suggested better odds than the fifty-fifty of freeze-traveling.

The capsule would not go all the way to the spaceport. Like his thoughts, it sheered off from the target unless really pressed. Was the spaceport off limits?

All right. Flint pushed buttons until the capsule, confused by conflicting directives, stalled in place. Like a dinosaur, it wasn't very smart. Then he forced open the lid, exerting pressure he knew was beyond the capacity of most civilized men. He climbed out and dropped to the wire. It was guyed at regular intervals -- how the capsules got past these connections he wasn't sure -- and poles went to the ground. He was at a dizzying height, but was confident of his ability. He took hold and swung to the nearest supporting pole, then let himself down to the ground. It wasn't as handy as a vine tree, but it wasn't difficult either. The gravity of this planet was slightly less than at Outworld, giving extra buoyancy.

Solarian pedestrians stared as he came down. It was not his green skin that impressed them, for the natives of Earth were of several colors themselves; it was rather his agility that claimed their attention. They were advanced culturally, but regressed physically. He could fathom their weakness just by looking at them, and it disgusted him. So he ignored them and made his way at a lope toward the spaceport. Naturally his whereabouts would soon be reported, if they didn't have a spy-beam on him already. However, that was the idea. He was acting exactly as they would expect him to. If they really wanted this savage, they would close the net quickly and thus provide him his leverage.

Starships were always in need of strong men for hull repairs en route and things like that, the Shaman had said. The dust of space constantly pitted surfaces, and sometimes larger debris gouged out little craters that had to be patched. Maybe that was why so many freezers were lost; no one to patch up the damage. It was not the big meteors that took out ships, but the steady accumulation of microscopic abrasion that could finally hole the hull if not watched. They'd take him aboard, no questions asked.

To one side of the spaceport, there was an incredible expanse of water.

Flint had never seen water in greater amount than a temporary flood lake before. This was monstrous, stretching from the spaceport all the way to the horizon. And it had waves: large traveling ripples that moved to the shoreline and dissolved in thinning froth. It was hypnotic, and he quickly tore his eyes away lest he fall into a trance. So much water!

Then he saw something just inside the fence. It was a moving pebble --

no, it was alive! A blob of flesh dragging along a housing of something like bone. In fact -- his memory trotted out one of the myriad incidentals the Shaman had mentioned -- this must be a snail.

Earth certainly had its wonders. But there was no time to gawk now. He had business to attend to. " 'Bye snail," he said, for the moment childlike in his discovery.

He navigated the fence easily, avoiding its electric shock by leaping, straightened out his ludicrous tunic, and walked boldly into the little office. "I'm looking for work," he said, imitating the heavy Earth accent as well as he could.

The man at the desk didn't even look up. "Next ship's for Vega. Computer parts. Fifty-year haul. Standard enlistment bonus. No stops. Sterile girls.

Burial in space if you don't make it."

So they gave money for signing up, and provided play-girls for the fifty-year trip. The Shaman hadn't mentioned such details. Even so, it must be deadly dull, and unless the girl were Honeybloom, Flint wouldn't care for it.

Which meant he'd better be guessing right.

Vega. Flint visualized his sphere map. Vega was roughly in line with Etamin, about a quarter of the way out. It was exactly the planetary system an ignorant savage would head for. "I'll take it."

"Where's your ID?"

Oh-oh. Outworld didn't use such things. A man was known by his face and skills, a woman by her face and body.

"No bonus without turning over your ID. Too many take the money and skip."Oh. "I'll go now. I don't need money." Maybe the average enlistee blew his bonus in a night's binge, his last fling on Earth, but Flint was trying to make a point, not money. It really was time for the Imps to show up, if they were going to. If he stalled too long, they would know he didn't mean it.

"You're pretty eager. Got a record?" A record? Flint didn't know what that was, so he bypassed it. "My business is private." The Imps said that a lot on Outworld, as if anything there were private. It was one of the things that made them unpopular. Sometimes an Imp would approach a native girl, and she would mock him by saying, "My privates is business."

A figure appeared in the doorway. Flint whirled, certain the Ministers had caught up with him. He moved quickly, but not as quickly as he could when really threatened, putting up his left forearm as though to shove the intruder aside, making his show. He might get stunned by a paralyzing beam, but he was pretty sure they would not hurt him. Nobody simply wiped out a two-trillion-dollar investment!

But this was no minister. It was a stranger in white. And with the light touch of arm against arm, something happened. There was a strange, almost electric aura about the man that affected Flint profoundly. Suddenly he didn't want to fight or flee, even in pretend; he just wanted to know about this stranger.

"I am Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh," the man said, and the words assumed a transcendant importance. "I am an alien sapient in human guise. I have come to ask you to help save our galaxy from destruction."

The words were simple, but the aura was compelling. Only one other person had ever affected Flint so strongly, though in a different way. That was the Shaman. This Pnotl, who claimed to be an alien creature, was far from being repulsive; he was magnetic, almost godlike.

"I don't know what it is about you -- "

"It is my Kirlian aura," Pnotl said, and Flint had a vision of a hand radiating like a galaxy: yes, there was something of that in this creature's touch. "It is eighty times as intense as the sentient norm. I feel it in you, too, most strongly."

"I don't know what you jokers are up to," the man at the desk snapped.

"But either sign up for Vega or get out of my office."

Vega suddenly seemed to be so close as to be negligible, compared to the reaches of far-distant Spheres. Flint glanced at the deskman curiously. "He doesn't feel it."

"Only those who possess it feel it, as a rule," Pnotl explained, guiding him outside onto the plain of the spaceport. A small hovercraft rested there.

"You have not before been aware of your gift."

"The Ministers -- "

"Unaware."

"But they told me -- "

"Their machines give them readings, their computers give them readouts.

They think by their analysis of holographic photographs of the Kirlian aura they understand what is important. They reduce it to statistics. But in themselves, they are unaware, as is an entity who has never experienced love."

"They're blind," Flint said, amazed.

"Blind, deaf, senseless. Yet they do what they must."

"Why don't you revolt me? I am an alienophobe, and I can't stand illness

-- "

"The intense Kirlian aura does not reflect sickness, but health. It is a function of extreme vitality. It transcends the individual, even the species.

Some call it the soul."

"And I, myself, have -- "

"Self does not exist. There is no true individual consciousness. We are all vessels of a larger force, all aspects of the flame of life. Only the ramifications of our separate environments and experience provide the illusion of distinction. The Kirlian aura is all, and it meticulously reflects the influence of the physical and mental vessels we occupy. Through it we share the universe. We are the universe."

Flint was awed. The Regent had said much the same thing, but from Pnotl it had the force of conviction. "My mind does not understand, but I have to believe. You are -- my kind."

"I am your kind. We two are Kirlian entities. But your aura is more than twice the intensity of mine. You may be the most potent aura in the galaxy.

You must go out into that galaxy, not merely to preserve it from external threat, but to seek your own level. You will not find your like among your physical kind."

"You're telling me I have to transfer," Flint said.

"It is the only way. For you and your Sphere and our galaxy."

Once more Flint visualized the hand like the galaxy. The two were really the same, aspects of the Kirlian cosmos. "Exactly what is my mission?"

"You must bring the secret of Kirlian transfer to the other Spheres of this cluster, this galactic segment. You are best equipped to do this, for though the Kirlian aura is the essence of the communal Self, it associates with its original vessel and fades relentlessly when removed from that vessel.

Every day that passes in transfer reduces the intensity of the aura by approximately one sentient norm, so that ordinary entities cannot retain their original identities in transfer. Those with more intense auras can, their limits defined by the potency of those auras. I can remain in transfer up to eighty Earth-days. You can do it for up to two hundred days. That is what makes you crucial to our effort. You can accomplish more, with a far greater margin of safety."

"Yes." It was obvious, now. "What's this about the galaxy being destroyed?"

"Come with me and I shall explain."

And Flint went with the alien, committed.

3 -- Keel of the Ship

*alarm priority development*

-- summon council available entities linked thought transfer immediate -

-

COUNCIL INITIATED PARTICIPATING* -- ::

-- only one additional entity? why do we bother! proceed --

*new transfer entity object galaxy potent*

-- specific data? --

*scale approximately 200 intensity motion 60 parsecs mid-rim segment*

:: 200 intensity! surely misreading? ::

-- review prior manifestations for entity :: --

*recent transfer 80 intensity motion 1500 parsecs from known sphere knyfh to object region formerly undeveloped*

:: call 200 undeveloped?! ::

-- indication emissary from established transfer culture successful promoting subsidiary transfer activity recruited extraordinary potency now extreme threat priority target initiate action promptly --

:: indication noted call for concurrence ::

CONCURRENCE

:: nature of proposed action summon agent highest expertise matching alien entity scale dispatch earliest opportunity destination transfer recipient station target galaxy mission destroy 200 intensity threat entity ::

*contraindication no available agent scale 200*

:: solution preempt top agent from lesser mission we do have a 200

intensity agent? ::

*one*

-- ::CONCURRENCE:: --

-- stipulation concealment of agent mandatory --

:: modification of concurrence mission destroy 200 intensity threat only in manner concealing motive and origin ::

-- *CONCURRENCE* --

:: signoff ::

-- *POWER CIVILIZATION CONCURRENCE* --

The transfer was instant and painless. One moment Flint was standing in the lab; the next he was hanging from chains in the blistering sun, looking out over a field of ripening burl berries.

He also had a complete new mindful of information; too much to assimilate all at once. His life experiences had suddenly been doubled, but only his Kirlian identity fell into place readily. He was still Flint of Outworld, pressed into Sol Sphere service; he was also -- who? With concentration, it came: Øro of N*kr, Slave laborer in the local burl plantation. Not much to choose between these two identities!

It took time to work out further details, but he had time. He hung alone, untended. The steady dull pain was distracting, but the need to ascertain his situation overrode it. Øro had been a laborer -- until he committed the infraction of balking at performing illicit overtime during the Slave holiday. An apologetic petition would have brought nominal punishment and probably redress, for the schedule had been an oversight. But an overt balk was quite another matter. So the holiday labor had been confirmed, to the grief of all the Slaves, and Øro had been chained and tortured until his mind snapped. No, not his mind; his soul.

Flint felt dizzy and nauseous, and not entirely because of this just-relived history. He was from a frontier himself; pain and death did not appall him unduly. It was the alien perspective that sickened him. He had come here, at least in part, in quest of high-Kirlian entities like himself -- and here he was in an un-Kirlian body in the throes of torture. Øro's entire life was available for his inspection; all he had to do was work for it. But the effort filled him with disgust. He had to ease off, to get his bearings slowly, to become acclimatized not only to Øro's situation but to the fact that strong, free Flint was weak and chained. It had to be done a little at a time, or his own mind would crack, his own soul fade.

Øro's mind had died only recently, his personality at last giving up the ghost (literally), for the memories carried through the increasing distress until this very morning. This was a fresh body and brain -- probably the freshest on the planet, attracting Flint's aura the way a high point attracted a bolt of lightning.

The best host-body on the planet: a chained Slave!

A foreman approached. Flint/Øro recognized him: Φiw of Vops, a Slave of status, harsh but fair.

"Last day, Øro," Φiw said, raising the punishment-box. "Think you'll make it?" He spoke in the native language, of course, but Øro's brain rendered the meaning as though it were Flint's own.

Silence would mean a stiff jolt of pain; a plea of contrition would reduce it. Øro had maintained stony silence through the first two days of the three-day ordeal. But Flint, knowing Øro's cause was just if stubborn, ignored these alternatives. "Go soak your beak in acid, Φiw."

It was a triple insult, culled from the depths of Øro's admirably rebellious nature. Only the birdlike carrion-eaters had beaks; acid was the slang term for liquid offal brewed to high potency; and the intonation of the double bar //, or baton sinister, meant "Slave of a Slave." In human heraldry it could suggest illegitimacy, but since Slaves had no legitimacy and no marriage, that was irrelevant here.

"Unrepentant," Φiw remarked blandly. "That elevates the scale." He turned the dial on the punishment-box, moving the indicator up a notch. "And foul-mouthed." He turned the dial again.

And paused. The dial stuck; it would not complete the second notch. Φiw looked at it, startled, then turned the dial all the way down to neutral, counting clicks. "Great One!" he swore, taking the title of a Master in vain, the strongest possible expletive. "The dial's out of adjustment! It was set on eleven!"

Flint's new memory made this clear after a moment of effort. Actually, this seemed to be the best mode of operation: to allow events to call forth the necessary background in their own fashion. As long as he did not try to grasp too much at once, he suffered no further nausea. The punishment-box had twelve settings, with one being minimal and twelve maximal. Øro was supposed to get a jolt of six each hour of the day and night until his scheduled ordeal was over. Contrition would reduce it to five; his insult should have raised it two notches to eight. But Øro had actually been receiving, by accident, near-fatal jolts of eleven. No wonder his soul had succumbed!

Φiw spoke into Ms Master-band. "Problem in the field, sir. Defective punishment-box."

A melodious voice responded immediately, sounding bored. "Noted.

Exchange for another."

"Complication, sir. Convict Øro jolted eleven, not six."

"Convict damaged?"

Φiw looked at Flint "No apparent damage, sir."

"Administer scheduled punishment Check other boxes. Report."

"With dispatch, sir." Φiw lowered the box, studying Flint "Slave, you know the difference between six and eleven! Why didn't you speak?"

But Flint, wiser now, did not answer.

Φiw went to the control center and exchanged boxes, giving the convict temporary respite. Why, Flint wondered, hadn't Øro spoken? Why had he tolerated an appalling intensity of pain for so long, when it could have been reduced at any time? And why hadn't Øro made the properly subservient petition for redress at the outset.

It was because he was unrealistically stubborn, and not very bright Øro would die before allowing himself to appear craven, to beg for mercy. In fact, he had died, for the pain had killed his essence. The death of a valuable, powerful Slave -- for Øro was physically strong as if in compensation for his intellectual weakness -- would have gotten Foreman Φiw in trouble -- except that no one outside of Øro's body knew of it. Now Flint was here, taking the place of the Slave.

All he had to do, he realized suddenly, was tell them -- and he would be on his way.

Φiw returned with the new punishment-box. "Shall we try it again?" he inquired as he carefully calibrated it to Øro's frequency.

"I'm not Øro," Flint said. "Øro died this morning. I am an alien from Sphere Sol."

"Unrepentant, one notch," Φiw said. "Sarcastic; another notch. Right back on eight."

"Wait!" Flint cried. "I'm telling you -- "

Terrible pain overwhelmed him. His body strained against the chains as the soul-shattering agony tore through every cell of his being. He tried to scream, but the muscles of his lungs were knotted, unable to respond.

It lasted an eternity: a few seconds stretched out interminably by the sheer volume of pain. For it was not mere surface sensation, such as that produced by the quick slash of a knife; it was complete tissue involvement, as of fire projected inside to cook the muscle and bone simultaneously. When it finally stopped, he collapsed, supported by the chains.

By the time his head cleared, Φiw was gone.

At dusk a young female Slave brought him his rations: dried burl and water.Flint accepted the offering eagerly, for he was famished. The effort of pain dissipated much bodily energy, and part of Øro's punishment was to endure half-rations these three days. This was rough on an able-bodied giant.

Fortunately the ordeal would be over in the morning.

As his chains prevented him from feeding himself she had to put the food in his mouth, as though he were an infant or an idiot. That, too, was part of it. Pain, hunger, and shame. The three-day sentence was a thorough humiliation and discomfort, guaranteeing that 90 percent of offenders would not soon repeat the offense.

Flint searched Øro's memory, but could not identify this girl Slave. She was extraordinarily pretty, and evidently new to this plantation. "Who are you?" he asked in the direct Slave way.

She flushed in humanoid fashion -- for they were humanoid -- and he realized that he had spoken too soon. His memory informed him that one did not inquire the identity of a female except as a prelude to more serious business.

If she were not interested, she would decline to answer.

"I am ¢le of A[th]," she replied.

His Øro memory clicked over. Flint didn't want to make any more mistakes! A[th] was a distant Slave planet, small but well regarded among Slaves. There had been three major rebellions there in the past century. Now the Masters were spreading A[th] all across Sphere Canopus, preventing that nest of ire from achieving critical mass.

The Masters and Slaves, his memory instructed him, had evolved on neighboring planets within the Canopus system. Both had achieved sapience at about the same time, but the presence of readily refinable metals on the crust of the Masters' planet had given them an impetus toward technology that the Slaves lacked. Thus the Masters achieved space travel first, and came to their neighbors as conquerors. They had a tremendous need for cheap manual labor, and were quick to exploit what they found. They took care to see that the Slaves never had opportunity to learn even the most rudimentary technology, and so never gained even the semblance of equality. Thus it had been for a thousand years -- and those years were longer than the years of Earth, though considerably short of the years of Flint's home planet, Outworld. As the Masters, buoyed by this cheap labor, expanded to full Sphere status, their Slaves expanded with them, while doing all the uglier chores. Most accepted this without objection -- but some resisted.

"You A[th]s have real spirit," Flint said.

"So do you N*krs," she said, pleased.

Flint realized that there were possibilities here. He was not about to identify himself to the foreman again -- but perhaps some of the lower slaves would believe him. If he were circumspect This was as good a place to start as any.

"I am released tomorrow," he said. "Will you work beside me?"

"I would," she said dubiously.

More memories of Slave protocol. There were no permanent liaisons, by order of the Masters, for the family structure provoked loyalties to other than the Masters. But there were many temporary connections. A girl as lovely as this would always have a man. Flint's interest was in making connections with independent-minded Slaves, so that he could explain his situation and use their belief as a lever to compel the attention of the Masters. His heart was loyal to Honeybloom, back on Outworld, of course. But how could ¢le know that?

In fact, it would look suspicious if he failed to take note of her attractiveness. Better to play the game, until his mission was achieved.

That meant he would have to deal with her boyfriend. "Who?" The very intonation of his query implied contempt for that about-to-be-divulged name.

"$mg of Y◊jr."

Once again, Øro's memory obligingly culled the essence: Y◊jr was a rough tribe! To a man, those natives were warriors. And Øro's body had been decimated by the torture. Well, it had to be done. "I will meet him."

¢le put the last morsel in his mouth with a flourish, obviously pleased.

It must have been a chore to get such a commitment, and that explained her readiness to approach a convict. How else could she rid herself of an unwanted boyfriend -- one who could probably pulverize anyone else she might fancy?

As the darkness closed in, the stars came out. At last Flint could orient himself. He knew he was in Sphere Canopus, because that was where he had been sent, but as it was similar to Sphere Sol in size, with a diameter of over two hundred light-years, he could be anywhere within it. Probably fairly near Canopus itself, within a few parsecs.

The stellar configuration was vastly different from anything he had seen within his own Sphere's skies, of course, but still there were identifiers.

There was a bright-red star that was surely huge Betelgeuse, and a bluish one that had to be Rigel, one of the brightest stars anywhere in this segment of the galaxy. That meant that between them should be -- yes, there it was, just below Rigel: the triple lights of Orion's Belt. Those three second-magnitude blue-white stars in a line, Alnitac, Alnilam, and Mintaka. Each fifteen hundred to sixteen hundred light-years from Sol, and about the same from Canopus. His shift in viewpoint had removed them from between Betelgeuse and Rigel, but the constellation was certain. He knew where he was.

He contemplated the new configurations, doing a kind of mental triangulation from the Belt, and gradually the finer details fell into place.

He was on a planet circling a star on the far side of Canopus. Canopus itself was extraordinarily bright -- triple the apparent magnitude of Sirius from Earth (that was not the proper way to express it, but he hardly cared at this moment) -- and Sirius was Earth's brightest star. It demonstrated the need for galactic orientation points, for in any area there would be a number of small stars that were very bright because of their proximity. Bless the galaxy for providing Betelgeuse, Rigel, and Orion's Belt!

Sol itself, of course, could not be seen. Even if he had been able to view that section of the galactic sky, Sol would not be visible without a telescope. Over two hundred light-years distant, Sol would be down to ninth magnitude, and bright Sirius down to five and one-half magnitude -- just visible.

For a moment he visualized Canopus as seen from Earth. Canopus was in the constellation Argo, the Boat. In fact it was on the keel of the ship --

the ship of the Argonauts. The mythological hero Jason had sailed in this ship with his fifty Argonauts, seeking the famous Golden Fleece and having other glorious adventures. He had vanquished a dragon and sown dragon's teeth that sprouted from the ground as warriors. He married a king's daughter, the enchantress Medea -- a woman of splendidly mixed qualities. This keel-star had an adventurous and violent history, in the lore of Earth, and was a fitting Sphere for mortal individual combat.

Flint slept between his periodic doses of punishment pain, accepting them as necessary for now, and allowed his wastes to drop on the turf at his feet as they had to. Soon it would be over. He did not try again to inform Φiw of his true status -- but neither did he plead contrition. And at dawn he was released -- to work all day in the fields.

$mg of Y◊jr was every bit as imposing as anticipated. He was gross and ugly, with the scars of many past encounters on his torso, and his eyes were fierce. Flint was glad that Øro had a big, powerful body; he would need it. He had spent the day beside ¢le, wrestling the burls from their tough vines, recovering the strength sapped by punishment. He was still weak, but not critically so.

Memory told him how Øro had handled such occasions in the past. He had bulled ahead with such determination and heedlessness of pain that even stronger opponents had stepped back. Had he been smarter, Øro could have been a good Slave leader, perhaps a foreman. But he had never been able to hold women long, because he lacked the wit to keep them entertained and lacked the will to hold them against their inclinations. Thus he was not regarded as much of a threat; it was easier to let Øro have a woman as he was sure to lose her.

This time, however, he was up against a Y◊jr. Pride would compel the other to try to prevail, and the innate sadism of that tribe would cause him to hurt Øro as much as he could get away with.

The meet was supervised by Foreman Φiw. This was to ensure that neither worker was damaged unduly. The Masters permitted these encounters, but always acted to preserve their property. Pain was allowed, even encouraged, but not mutilation.

On the occasions Flint had fought on Outworld, he had always won. This was due partly to his strength, speed, and extraordinary coordination, and partly the advice in martial art the Shaman had provided. But his fighting was effective mainly because of his brain. He was capable of rapidly analyzing his opponent's pattern and capitalizing on its flaws.

$mg came at him like a wrestler. Flint stepped aside and caught the Y◊jr with a backhand chop to the skull. It was a hard blow, and his hand went numb; he had intended to go for the neck. But that was his human experience, suffering in the translation. For Øro's arm was jointed differently, and the fingers did not form a true fist. And $mg's head was not solid bone in back; it rose into a cartilage crest. Somehow these differences were more apparent to the sense of touch than to the sense of sight. As a result, Flint had actually hurt himself worse than he had hurt $mg.

But there was a hum of amazement through the audience, for Øro was not behaving the way Slaves usually did in combat. In fact, this strike at the hard head with the soft hand resembled a gesture of supreme contempt.

Flint saw Φiw watching him closely. Well, let the foreman be surprised; Flint had tried to tell him the truth!

Stung by the fancied taunt, $mg came at him like a boxer. Flint dodged his first swing, spun about, trapped his moving hand and twisted the arm into an armlock. This should be a submission hold, good for some satisfying pain.

$mg tried to jerk away. Flint bore down, throwing himself to the ground and carrying the trapped arm with him. Suddenly there was a crack, and $mg screamed. Flint had broken his arm.

He hadn't intended to. A human arm would not have broken. But again, he had misjudged the alien structure. The elbows bent the opposite way from those of human beings.

Φiw stepped forward, eyeing the damage. He spoke into his Slave-band.

"Property damage report, sir."

The Master responded at once in his musical tones. "Details."

"Routine meet, sir. For favor of female. Upper appendage broken."

"Salvageable?"

"Joint. Uneconomic convalescence."

"Intentional?"

Φiw peered at Flint, obviously unable to figure out how someone as stupid as this had fought like that. "Accident."

"Dispatch damaged property. Five days discipline for instigator."

Five days discipline! Flint needed no survey of his memory to comprehend what that meant. For Øro it would be extremely unpleasant -- but for Flint it could mean disaster. Every day he stayed here in this alien body meant a further diminution of his Kirlian aura. Eventually he would lose his identity, and become Øro in fact as well as form. The Earth authorities thought he was good for several months -- but they weren't sure. Not until he completed his mission and returned, could they measure the actual depletion of aura.

Meanwhile, all they could be sure of was that he had better not waste any time when out of his natural body. Five days of starvation and punishment pain, on top of the three his body had just undergone -- that could be very bad trouble, and was not worth the risk.

Φiw was setting the punishment-box on $mg's frequency. Every Slave had a code imprinted on his torso, and any box could be tuned to that code, so that it sent its current through that specific body and no other. Φiw set the dial to twelve.

"No!" $mg screamed, scrambling toward him, the broken arm dangling.

"I'll recover! I'll recover fast!"

But Φiw activated the box. $mg of Y◊jr stiffened in utter agony, crashing helplessly into the dust. For five seconds the torture continued, ten, fifteen, without letup -- until the Slave relaxed.

$mg of Y◊jr was dead. The unremitting maximum-intensity pain, continued beyond the toleration point of life, had wiped out his mind, and with it his body. It was a terrible way to die.

The way Øro had died, vacating his body for Flint.

Φiw turned. "Now, Øro of N*kr," he said, beginning to retune the box.

Flint kicked the box right out of his hands. There was a moan of shock from the surrounding Slaves. Flint dived for the box, knowing that he could never escape as long as it was in working order and within range of him. He picked it up and smashed it down against a rock.

"The band!" someone cried. It was ¢le. "Don't let him call!"

But Φiw was already calling, "Emergency!" he said. "Slave out of control."

Flint whirled about and charged him.

"Identity," the pleasant Master voice, replied, unruffled.

Flint caught the band with one hand and shoved Φiw back with the other.

The communicator ripped off the foreman's wrist. "Øro of N*kr!" Flint yelled into the speaker. "Oro!" This time he omitted the Slave-intonation, no mere breach of etiquette, but a crime. "Shove it up your blowpipe!"

That would have been a vaguely obscene insult to a human being. It was not vague at all when addressed to a Master of Canopus, for this species really did have pipes through which digestive refuse was expelled under pressure, or "blown," in crude vernacular.

Then Flint smashed the band and whirled to face the stunned Slaves. "Who joins me in freedom?" he challenged them.

" I do!" ¢le cried.

But she was the only one.

"Let's get out of here!" Flint said to her, disgusted. "They can't all be vegetables on this planet."

"The hills," she said. "There are FreeSlaves there -- wildmen. If we can make it before the Masters come -- "

The Slaves all seemed stunned, afraid to either hinder or help the rebels.

Except for Foreman Φiw. Stripped of his punishment-box and his Master communicator, he charged Flint barehanded.

Flint sidestepped the clumsy lunge and tripped him. Φiw fell to the ground, bashed his head, and lay still.

And Flint realized: It was too easy. Φiw had not gotten to be foreman by being clumsy or stupid. Why hadn't he simply ordered the loyal Slaves to tackle Øro in a group and overpower him?

Because he wanted Øro and ¢le to escape? Naturally he could not permit this openly; his own position and perhaps his life would be forfeit So he had made a show of obstruction, blundering into the fray exactly as $mg had, and taken his dive. Everyone present had seen him try. So he had fouled it up; what else could be expected of a mere Slave?

Would the Masters see through the act? If so, Φiw's own punishment would not be token. "You play a dangerous game, Foreman," Flint muttered.

They fled across the fields of burl. "You know the odds are against us,"

Flint said as they ran.

"Maybe not," she said, breathing hard. "The Masters don't realize Slaves can think. They'll underestimate us -- and maybe Φiw will stall them long enough."

So she had noted the foreman's act too! Φiw -- why would he allow a dangerous Slave to escape, if he had not understood what Flint had tried to tell him? And if he had understood, why hadn't he taken Øro directly to the Masters for more careful interrogation?

The question elicited its own answer: Because Φiw didn't want Flint to make contact with the Masters. The Foreman was ultimately loyal to his own kind; he wanted Flint either silenced or with the FreeSlaves. So he had waited on events, cautiously, not risking his own position -- and had acted when he had to.

Waited on events? Surely the Foreman had selected ¢le of A[th] to feed Øro, knowing she was a rebel at heart, untamed, and that she was looking for a new man, a strong one. Very cunning!

¢le made a half-choked little scream. Flint looked back.

A Master's saucer was skimming over the field toward them.

There was no way to outrun it, and there was no concealment here in the field. Their trail through the burl was obvious, and the saucer could crack the speed of sound when under full power in the open.

Øro's memory was no help; it merely informed him that the saucers were equipped with pain beams that could strike right through foliage, rocks, or any other cover to incapacitate the fugitives instantly -- without damage.