These beams were all-purpose; they did not need to be tuned like the boxes.

The Masters had had centuries of experience at this sort of thing!

The Masters were the very authorities Flint was sent to talk to -- but at this point they would dismiss anything he said as the ravings of a rebellious Slave. Probably Φiw had made a report that suggested Øro was mad, because of the overdose of punishment pain. A neat maneuver by the Foreman.

And Flint was increasingly uncertain he wanted to contact the Masters officially. Maybe it would be better to give the Slaves a break. Sphere Sol had abolished slavery as uncivilized centuries ago, and if it aligned with these slaves --

"Are we going to fight, Øro?" ¢le inquired breathlessly.

"Yes!" he snapped, though at the moment he couldn't see how.

She smiled, though she was obviously terrified. "On A[th], they threw rocks."

Rocks? Against a supersonic saucer?"

"The Masters thought maybe they were bombs, so they put the shield up, and then they couldn't use the beams."

Flint saw it. "Beautiful, ¢le!" he cried.

"I know it," she said, patting her fur in place. Slave females were vain about their fur, even as human girls -- no, humans had hair. "Only one problem."

Now the saucer was upon them: a bowl-shaped flier large enough to hold two or three Masters. Flint dropped to the ground, scrambling for stones.

"What problem?" he demanded, searching desperately underneath the burl vines.

"No rocks here," she explained.

This was a cultivated field. Naturally there were no rocks!

Still, Flint had had occasion before to consider combating Space Age technology with Stone Age technology. He had come to the conclusion that a smart Paleolith could prevail against a stupid spaceman. Could, not would. It depended a lot on the individual circumstance. This particular situation was not what he would have chosen for the test.

Yet ¢le had given him the hint. The Masters could be deceived. They tended to underestimate the Slaves, then to overreact when surprised. This could be exploited -- maybe.

A beam stabbed out from the saucer. ¢le screamed: pain this time, not fear. The beam had crossed her foot. She fell among the vines, rolling, and the beam lost her.

Flint grabbed a burl berry and ripped it from its plant. It was a green fruit, unripe and hard and solid, and his savage jerk uprooted the parent plant. He hurled it at the saucer, his arm moving in a kind Of backhand swing that would have been impossible for a human.

The berry struck the underside of the craft and bounced off harmlessly.

Now the beam found him. It touched his arm as he tried to throw again.

It was twelve-pain; paralyzing, intolerable! It was as if the bone were splitting open, the flesh burning to ash, the blood boiling and vaporizing right within its conduits. The berry fell from his hand and his arm knotted in utter agony, every one of his six fingers twisting spasmodically. He, too, fell among the vines.

But these were random beam-tags. It was difficult to keep the beam on target when both saucer and target were moving. And when it left, his arm recovered quickly, undamaged. Now he was glad of the Masters' design: pain without injury.

By this time he had more berries, and so did ¢le. He aimed higher.

The saucer was not an armored flyer. It was more like a concave dish, open on top, so that the Master could look out over the fields conveniently in any direction. But this also meant it was vulnerable from any direction, as long as its protective shield was down. And if that shield was raised, it would not be able to attack.

Flint could see the occupant now. It was a lone Master; evidently that was deemed sufficient for the occasion.

The berries struck the saucer on both underside and upperside. But they did not do any real damage, and only annoyed the occupant. The Master did not raise the shield. Instead the saucer circled low, the pain-beam sweeping about, orienting on Øro. No hysterical reaction here! This Master had full confidence that the fugitives had no bombs; the only concern was to maneuver the craft so as to allow maximum effect of the beam.

Flint dodged, but the beam caught him again: a swipe across the chest.

Instant agony collapsed his lungs, and he began to lose consciousness. As he started to fall, the pain receded. With an effort he recovered his balance. He couldn't take too many more of those!

The saucer was now down almost to his eye level, hovering. The Master was looking over the rim at him: a slender dark shape, hooded against the sun, seemingly featureless. Flint discovered he didn't know what a Master looked like; Øro had never seen one close up, and had averted his eyes whenever a Master was visible.

The muzzle of the beam projector swung around to lock on Flint. This time the pain would not be transitory; the Master had taken time to be sure of his quarry.

Flint threw Øro's body to the ground. The beam grazed his back like a searing knife. He scrambled toward the saucer, getting under its edge, using it as a shield against the beam.

But the Master was no slouch at maneuvering. The saucer dodged aside, dropping ever lower. Once more the dread beam searched for him.

¢le rose up on the opposite side and threw a handful of dirt over the saucer. The Master whirled to cover her with the beam. The aim was excellent; she stiffened and fell, her mouth frozen in a soundless scream.

Flint leaped for the saucer. His fingers caught the rim. The weight of his body jerked it down.

The Master compensated beautifully. The saucer shot straight up, righting itself -- with Flint still hanging.

In a moment, he knew, he would feel the pain-beam on his fingers. The saucer was now high in the air; the fall would be fatal.

Flint swung crazily, using Øro's muscles in a way Øro never had. The saucer rocked; the ground far below seemed to tilt. He flexed his torso, thrusting a foot up.

The pain caught his hands, but now he had a leg hooked inside the center depression. He twisted and rolled, cursing the backward joints that made this activity much more difficult than it would have been in a human body, but he made it up into the bowl of the saucer.

The beam played over him, a flexing python of agony, but inertia kept him rolling. He crashed into the Master.

Øro's memory carried only a dire warning: it was death for any Slave to touch a Master. The very act was unthinkable. But Flint, raised on the free, unruly, primitive Outworld of Sphere Sol, had no such restriction. The beam was off, the projector knocked out of the Master's grasp and lost over the rim of the saucer. Flint reached around the cowled figure and hauled it out of the control well in the center. The creature came up easily; it was paper-light, like a winged insect.

The saucer veered, angled, and skated down, out of control. Flint held the Master helpless. "How are you at dying?" he inquired.

The creature's face turned to him. The eyes were faceted, and the mouth parts had mandibles. "You are no Slave!" it said, no trace of fear in the melodious voice.

Flint plumped it back down into the well. Immediately the craft pulled out of its dive, as the segmented feet resumed operating the controls. The Master seemed completely unshaken.

Now was Flint's chance to tell the Master of his identity and mission.

Yet he balked. Why deal with these parasites, further entrenching them in their power, when the Slaves were the humanoids? The natural affinity of human beings was with the downtrodden Slaves, not the insectoid Masters!

"I'm no Slave now," Flint said. "Now tell me how to manage this craft, or I'll see that we both crash."

Still the insectoid was unruffled. Did it have nerves of steel, or did it lack real emotion? "I am taking you in for interrogation. You evince none of the mannerisms of a Slave, despite your history. An extreme oddity."

Flint had to admire the thing's courage. The Master was trying to bluff!

And it proposed to do exactly what Flint had wanted -- up until an hour ago.

"I'm taking you to the FreeSlaves!" Flint shot back. "Unless you'd rather die right now."

"Die we may," the Master said calmly as the saucer looped smoothly about. "But I control the vehicle."

It simply would not be shaken. "Then I must take over the ship," Flint said. He hauled the Master up again.

Pain lanced into his arms. Numbed, he let go.

"I have activated my personal shield," the Master said. "You have the option of coming -- or going." It nodded toward the edge of the saucer. Flint saw there could be no bargaining. A Master simply did not give way to a Slave

-- or any other creature.

Flint swung his half-closed hand at the creature's head, hard. The contact felt as though he had smashed every bone in that hand, but mere pain could not abate the force of his blow. The Master's head caved in like a structure of woven grass.

The saucer veered again. Flint grabbed the corpse, receiving no pain input this time; the creature's death had deactivated the shield, fortunately.

He jerked it up and out of the well and threw it overboard. Then he lowered his own feet into the hole. They barely fit, for his torso was larger than that of the Master, and constructed differently.

There were knobs and pedals down there, inconveniently placed. Flint had no idea how they worked, but he experimented rapidly. Suddenly the saucer flipped over, redoubling its acceleration toward the ground. This was no Earth-type shuttle-capsule strung on a safe wire; this was a free ship, and any hesitation or mistake could quickly smash him flat. Flint clung to his perch and wiggled his toes, searching for the right combination of controls.

The saucer braked, looped, and headed down again, almost hurling him out. But Flint was catching on. There were a dozen foot controls, each with a wide range of positions. One was for the orientation of the craft, another was for velocity, a third for elevation. Just as he was about to intercept the ground at half-mach, he slowed the vehicle and brought it to a wobbly hover.

Then he lifted it and started it back toward the spot where ¢le should be.

He spotted her easily, running through the field toward the distant hills. Sensible girl! He came down as low as he dared -- for he was a long way from achieving precise orientation -- and bobbed along behind her. "Hey, ¢le of A[th]!" he called.

Startled, she glanced behind. "Øro!" she cried, amazed. "How did you resist capture?"

"Never mind," he called. "Get up here! We're going to the hills in style!"

The FreeSlaves were astounded. "You killed a Master?" they kept asking, refusing to quite believe it.

"Once again, lightly," Flint repeated. "I am an envoy from Sphere Sol, neighbor to Sphere Canopus, transferred to this body. I killed the Master and took over the saucer so as to make contact with you. ¢le of A[th] helped me. If you organize, revolt, take over this planet, spread the revolution throughout this Sphere, throw out the Masters, you shall have the secret of transfer."

"Yes!" ¢le breathed. "That's what A[th] lacked. "Transfer!"

But the FreeSlaves only stood about uncertainly. They were a motley crew, ill clothed and ill fed. The Slaves of the plantation not only looked healthier, they seemed happier.

Flint saw it wouldn't work. These were not human beings; centuries of ruthless selection had bred out the backbone of this species. They could no more revolt successfully than the domestic animals of Sphere Sol could. Some might run amuck when prodded too far, but that was a far cry from organized, disciplined revolution. No wonder they were called FreeSlaves; they were just that. Slaves without Masters.

¢le was as disappointed as he was. "I wish you'd come to A[th] a century ago," she said to him.

The FreeSlave leader appeared. He had evidently held back, lost in the crowd, listening to Flint's story before committing himself. The attitude of the FreeSlaves changed, becoming more disciplined. Perhaps there was hope after all!

"I am T%x of D)(d," the leader said, omitting the Slave intonation. Yes, a man of power! "You tell an interesting story, and you bring an excellent piece of equipment. But it proves only that you are here -- not that you are with us. I do not believe you could not have captured this vehicle by yourselves; the Masters gave it to you, and sent you here as spies to subvert our group."

"That's a lie!" Flint snapped. But he saw that the Free-Slaves didn't believe him. T%x had provided a believable rationale, and it gave them confidence.

"We shall make you tell the truth before we kill you," T%x said. He produced a punishment-box, no doubt stolen from the Masters.

"That won't work," ¢le said. "Øro was put under eleven-pain for three days and didn't crack. And he is telling the truth; I believe him. No Slave could do the things he did!"

"No genuine Slave," T%x replied. "But a spy dealing with cooperative Masters and faked pain -- "

"Øffal!" she spat derisively, employing the baton sinister.

T%x grabbed her by the shoulder. "You're a pretty one!" he exclaimed.

"I'll take you for my harem!"

She kicked him in the groin, which was fully humanoid. The blow was glancing, but it infuriated him. Flint took a step toward them, but was barred by the spears of a score of FreeSlaves.

"We'll torture her first!" T%x cried. "What's her number?"

Two men grabbed ¢le and read the number off her shoulder. T%x laboriously set the box. Then he turned the dial.

¢le stiffened. The box was operative, all right.

"Now," T%x said grimly. "Talk, spy. Why are you working for the Masters?"

"I'm not working for the -- " she cried, but was choked off by six-level pain. "Stop it!" Flint said. "I can prove my origin. I can tell you all about

-- "

"We'll get to you soon enough," T%x said. "Now, girl spy, who are your other accomplices?"

"I have none! I'm a loyal A[th] -- "

This time the pain was nine, held too long. ¢le writhed on the ground, her face grotesque in agony, her well-shaped legs spreading far apart, their muscles quivering. Someone chuckled evilly.

Flint grabbed a spear from the nearest FreeSlave and used it to knock the man down. This was a weapon he was expert with, in any body! He charged T%x. But the others piled on him in a mass and crushed him down, holding him helpless.

"One more time, spy," T%x said to ¢le. It was evident that the sight of her agony had excited him. He was a sadist, sexually stimulated by the infliction of pain. Which meant there would be no mercy in him. "What is the Masters' plan?"

¢le caught her breath and wiped the mud her spittle had formed from her face. "I don't know anything about -- " she said. And leaped for T%x.

But the pain caught her in midair. Twelve.

Red froth bubbled from her mouth as she fell. Flint had never seen such an expression of total agony. Her entire body jerked and shook, her wide-open eyes scraped through the dirt unblinking, and she soiled herself involuntarily. The watching FreeSlaves burst into laughter.

"Turn it off!" Flint bawled. "I'll tell you anything you want!"

But T%x did not turn it off. He watched, fascinated, while the thing that had been ¢le shuddered and twisted.

Abruptly she stopped. Her features relaxed, as though she were sleeping, just as the broken-armed $mg of Y◊jr had relaxed. "T%x," one of the FreeSlaves said nervously, "I think she's -- "

"Dead," T%x said, turning off the box. "Serves the spy right." He was breathing hard.

But ¢le wasn't dead. Her body still breathed.

T%x turned the dial up again, experimentally, seeing whether he could get another kick out of the victim. There was no response. "Strange..." he muttered.

"Mindless!" the FreeSlave said, awed. "You killed her mind!"

T%x considered, startled. "All right," he said. "That's even better. Put her in my cave. I can still use her, and she won't be any trouble now." He turned to Flint. "Give me his number."

Flint realized that this depraved creature would torture and kill for the pleasure of it; the information he sought was merely an excuse. The Master in the saucer had been a better creature, an enemy but no sadist, and not stupid.

Saucers appeared in the sky -- eight or nine of them. The FreeSlaves started to run in terror. Pain-beams cut them down, herding them back to the center. Cattle!

Flint made a break for his saucer. He scrambled over the rim and jammed his feet into the well, striking the lift pedal.

Nothing happened.

"Your carrier has been deactivated," a pleasant Master's voice said from a speaker in the saucer. "Remain where you are."

Flint hauled himself out and dived for the edge -- and into an invisible pain-field. He crumpled. There was no way to resist that flesh-permeating agony; his muscles stiffened involuntarily and prevented controlled action.

The pain diminished. "Remain where you are," the voice repeated gently.

Now Flint could fight it, for the level was only one or two. But the moment he moved, it shot up to eight or ten. He got the message. He was captive.

"I am B:::1," the Master interrogator said. "According to your statement to the runaways, you are an agent of Sphere Sol, our galactic neighbor. Were you sent to foment rebellion among the Slave population?"

"Eat your own eggs," Flint said.

"I presume that is intended to be derogatory," B:::1 said mildly. "We do not react to the remarks of Slaves -- but if you are from another Sphere, you are a special case, not subject to our customs. Since you took the life of one of our number, the latter status would be advantageous for you."

Flint did not answer.

"We have drugs," the Master said. "They are effective in making any Slave tell all he knows. But if you are not a Slave it would be bad form to use them on you. We do not want trouble with our neighbors, and we do not seek a quarrel with Sphere Sol. We ask only to be left alone."

Flint had expected to be tortured. This approach perplexed him. What was his proper course?

"Perhaps you have been influenced by the fact that the Slaves are humanoid, as we understand are the masters of Sphere Sol," B:::1 continued reasonably. "But you have now observed that the Slaves are not civilized.

Before we assumed control, their history was wastefully violent. They were breeding themselves into planetary famine, and rapidly exhausting their irreplaceable resources, such as fossil fuels. Pollution disease was taking hideous toll of their health. They did not precede us into space because they were too busy warring with each other while despoiling their environment with seemingly suicidal determination. We brought lasting peace and health to the Slave populace by providing the sensible control and moderation they lacked.

Otherwise they might well be extinct by now, or reduced to truly barbaric levels. Your true affinity as a member of a Spherical sapient species is with us, the civilized, regardless of the accident of physical form."

The problem was, it was true. The FreeSlaves were ignorant brutes, and not merely because of recent breeding. The Masters, in contrast, had treated Flint with a certain diffident courtesy despite his insults to them. They were

-- adult.

"Why did you not inform the Slaves of your mission at the outset?" B:::1

asked. "I refer to those of the plantation."

"I tried. They wouldn't listen." Then Flint jumped. "You bastard! You tricked me into admitting it!"

"It is obvious that you are not a Slave. Your entire manner betrays it.

Since we know that through an error Øro of N*kr was subjected to unconscionable punishment, the sensible explanation is that his mind was destroyed and his body taken over by an alien. We know such things are possible; it has happened in the past."

"You're pretty smart," Flint said grudgingly. He decided not to mention Φiw of Vops, the Slave foreman. Why place a good man in jeopardy? "The Slaves simply would not believe me -- any of them."

"That is because they are ignorant," B:::1 said, his mandibles making a little click of understanding. "To them, transfer is superstition, possession by demonic influence. But you could have reached us immediately."

"I could?" Flint asked, surprised. He had abandoned any pretense; he did have to deal with these Masters. This was what he had been sent here for.

"Verify it with your body's memory."

Flint checked...and discovered what had been there all the time: any Slave could petition for an interview with any Master, anytime. Such a petition was invariably granted, and the circumstance of the complaint promptly and thoroughly investigated. Justice was rigorous -- within the framework of the system. The Slaves did have rights, zealously protected by the Masters themselves.

He could have made his petition, even on the punishment rack, and had the complete and personal attention of a responsible Master within an hour.

His mission would have been completed had he really wanted to accomplish it that way. But he had preferred to fight, and to seek the humanoid Slaves.

What did he want -- the elevation of brutes like T%x? That would hardly save the galaxy! He had been a fool, allowing superficial appearances and subjective feelings to interfere with his mission. He would not make that mistake again!

"I am Flint of Outworld," he said formally. "Sphere Sol, as you surmised. I have come to give you the secret of transfer."

"We do not desire transfer," B:::1 said without even a pause.

This set Flint back. "We are not demanding payment. We want you to have it. I'll explain why."

B:::1 made a little flutter of his wing-cloak, signifying comprehension and negation. "Transfer would disrupt our system. A Slave economy functions best when identity is irrevocably fixed in its original body. If it became possible for Masters and Slaves to exchange bodies, even briefly, it would evoke disastrous unrest."

Flint pondered. He did not understand the intricacies of politics or economics, but was sure this Master did. "More than your system is at stake,"

Flint said. "The entire galaxy is in peril."

"That well may be. But the moment we begin to interfere with our neighbor Spheres, we become subject to interference from them. Since we do not desire this, we choose to minimize this possibility by keeping to ourselves."

"Even if you are all destroyed -- Masters and Slaves together?"

"We must exist according to our dictates -- even at such a risk."

Flint shook his head in an un-Slavelike gesture. He didn't know what to say, not having anticipated such a response. Yet he should have foreseen this, for now he recognized the same pattern shown by the Master of the saucer, who had died rather than yield even a fraction of his self-determination. "Well, I certainly can't force you. I'd better go home."

"Excellent. We shall construct a transfer unit to send you back, then destroy it. I think your government will understand."

Flint remembered the Council of Ministers of Imperial Earth. Yes, they were just the kind of fatheads to understand an attitude such as this!

Three Master technicians discussed the matter with him. They were intelligent, and quickly grasped the principles of what he was saying better than he himself did. He spouted incomprehensible formulas, the gift of his eidetic memory, and they shuddered with delight, admiring the sheer beauty of the logic. First he covered the Kirlian aura, and they modified their equipment to pick this up.

"As you can see," Flint said, "most entities have auras of a certain standard intensity. Some have stronger fields...and here is mine." He stepped into the sensing chamber. Their dial registered to one hundred, but the indicator jammed at the top. They were suitably impressed.

"Now you have to modify one of your matter transmitters to fix only on this aura -- which is tricky, because it completely permeates the body," Flint said. "Here are the formulas..."

But it was not so easy after all. The Masters used a different kind of transmitter -- one that could ship larger amounts more economically, but was quite limited in range. Ten light-years was the maximum; five was the average.

They traversed their Sphere by a series of hops from system to system, and had the routes so well organized that their Sphere suffered much less Fringe-regression than the human Sphere did. But the technology of their mattermitters was quite different from Sol's.

Since transfer was a refinement of mattermission, Flint's information was not applicable. A mattermission expert who understood the formulas of transfer adaptation could have adapted to the situation, but Flint was a Stone Age primitive with only rote information -- set for the wrong equipment. It would take the Masters months or even years to iron out the wrinkles.

So Flint could not, after all, provide them with the secret of transfer.

And he could not go home -- not by mattermission.

"We shall take care of you," B:::1 said with insectoid cheer. "Perhaps within a decade or two some other Sphere will contact us, and you will be able to depart."

Small comfort, and the Masters obviously neither expected nor wanted such contact. "In a few months -- maybe less -- it will be immaterial," Flint explained. "My Kirlian aura is fading, day by day. In a few months I will be no more than a -- a Slave!"

"There will always be a place in the burl plantations for you," the Master said consolingly.

"Thanks." Nothing like near-mindless drudgery, enforced by the punishment-box! And not even a pretty ¢le to share it with.

That reminded him. "¢le -- ¢le of A[th] -- what happened to her?"

"Do not concern yourself about her," B:::1 said.

"But I am concerned. She helped me, she resisted torture. They thought she was one of your spies -- "

"So she was."

Flint stared, but could not read the alien countenance. Yet why should the Master bother to lie?

"We hoped she would find her way to more formidable FreeSlave resistance," B:::1 explained. "There is a constant pilfering, minor disruption, firing of the crops. But all we got was T%x of D)(d and his ragged band. If she learned anything more, it is lost. Her mind was set to self-destruct before she betrayed her mission."

So she had not had the chance to betray Φiw. Flint had, realistically, changed sides -- but he was disinclined to turn in the Slave who had been sincere, clever, and courageous. "I'd like to see her," he said.

The Master made a negligent gesture with one thin black appendage. "She is in the Slave infirmary. You have freedom of this complex; we know you now.

I suggest that you do not go outside."

"I am a prisoner?"

"No. It is merely that those outside would mistake you for a Slave."

Clear enough! "Maybe someone could escort me. To the infirmary -- and back."B:::1 made a little twitch of assent, "Go to the Slave service station."

It was evident that the Masters regarded him as akin to Slaves, despite their overt courtesy. Well, nothing he could do about it; he had failed his mission through no fault of the Masters. He went.

Slaves were not permitted to enter the Masters' domicile, but were summoned to the Slave station next to it It was understood that no Master would deign to escort a creature resembling a Slave to a Slave function. A responsible Slave would be assigned the task.

The responsible Slave was there. "Φiw!" Flint exclaimed. "Φiw of Vops!"

The foreman was as surprised to see him. "Øro of N*kr! You are free?"

"It's a long story. I am not what I seem."

They walked slowly toward the infirmary. "You seemed like a rebel," Φiw said. "Or an alien. I did my best to prevent your escape."

"The girl was an agent of the Masters. I am now working with them."

Φiw was well disciplined, but he was unable to conceal his agitation.

"Then they know -- "

"The Masters know you did your best to prevent our escape. The girl might have had another opinion, but she perished before making her report.

Since I killed a mounted Master, it was evident that you, a mere Slave, could not have restrained me." Even if he had tried...

Φiw was silent. Flint had reassured him, obliquely, but it was obvious that the Masters had hardly been fooled. Why else had they summoned this particular Slave from the field to perform this particular chore?

¢le was lying on a bunk in an isolated cell. Flint felt a terrible pity for her. Double agent or not, she had been nice to know, and she had died cruelly. "May I go in?"

"She has no mind," Φiw reminded him. "She cannot be revived."

"I know. Still..." Flint could not express what he really wanted, as he did not himself know. He felt the way he did at the death service of a friend: awed, useless, feeling a great loss yet unable to do anything to alleviate it.

Grief. Yet a land of perverse relief that he himself had not died -- this time. Φiw, indifferent, touched the lock in an intricate pattern, and the gate slid open. Flint entered. Φiw remained outside, perhaps in deference to the dead, and the gate closed between them. It occurred to Flint that he was a prisoner now, locked in -- but the matter was academic. No prison was more confining than nontransfer.

He looked down at the breathing form, trying to tell whether she was awake or sleeping. But the mindless state made it irrelevant; she would never wake again. Maybe she was better off than he...

He felt compelled to touch her. It was to a large extent his fault that this had happened to her. She was extraordinarily pretty, and had deserved better. Even though a spy, she had showed a lot of spirit.

"¢le..." he murmured as his hand met her flesh.

And he felt the intimate shock of her potent Kirlian aura.

¢le sat up suddenly. Her arms whipped around his neck, curling tight.

She was hugging him!

No -- she was choking him! Bemused at this seeming vengeance from the grave, and fazed by the remarkable interaction of their auras -- for hers was as strong as his! -- Flint nevertheless responded automatically. He took her two small wrists in his hands and ripped them away. Her weaker feminine muscles could not compete with his.

He held her before him. "If this is mindlessness, I'd hate to see you whole!" he said.

"What are you doing?" Φiw demanded. "Put her down! It is profane to maul the dead!" He thought Flint had initiated the action.

¢le's foot came up to strike his groin, but Flint had indulged in hand-to-hand combat before, with male and female. Her muscle tension warned him; he twisted aside and threw her back on the bunk.

Pain caught him. He stiffened against the gate, Φiw had set the punishment-box for his number and activated it. "The dead are sacred," Φiw said grimly.

"She's un dead!" Flint gasped. The pain was set at about three -- enough to be effective, but not so as to incapacitate him completely. Φiw had good judgment. "Look at her!"

Indeed she was undead. ¢le had already bounced off the bunk to come at him again. He was paralyzed with pain. She took hold of him and threw him to the floor in what he recognized as an expert combat technique. Then she applied a blood strangle to his neck, her fingers digging for the major artery. But she didn't quite have it.

Flint's pain cut off. The gate slid open and Φiw bounded in. He hauled

¢le off and applied a nerve grip of his own. In a moment she was unconscious.

This verified Flint's prior suspicion: Φiw knew how to fight very well. He had been clumsy by design.

Flint sat up, rubbing his neck. "You know, you might have been better off if you had let her kill me -- then killed her yourself. Unfortunate accident of timing."

Φiw met his gaze. "You aliens think all Slaves are stupid -- and worse, that the Masters are. The Masters know what I did; they do not punish me because it would accomplish nothing. They know I will never again attempt disloyalty. They are just, and I have learned. Were they to accuse me openly, they would have to punish me, and that would cost me status among Slaves and decrease my effectiveness."

Flint nodded. "I have learned, too." Master and Slave -- they understood each other. He had been foolish to try to interfere.

They carried ¢le to the border of the Master's domicile. B:::1 appeared.

"This is strange," he remarked after hearing of ¢le's violence.

"It seems you were mistaken about her mindlessness," Flint said.

"We were not mistaken. Bring her to the examination room."

Φiw held back. "Sir, I may not enter -- "

B:::1 turned his faceted gaze upon the Slave. "You may do what I tell you to do." Flint recognized this as a forceful rebuke. The Master's word was law!

Φiw bowed his head, acknowledging. He had, at any rate, erred in the right direction. Then he picked ¢le up and carried her into the building.

Flint followed thoughtfully. So the Masters were not hidebound about their own rules.

At the examination room the technician tested the girl's Kirlian aura.

The indicator rose to the top of the scale.

"Another transferee," B:::1 said. "You are fortunate."

"But she tried to kill me!" Flint protested. "If Φiw hadn't acted -- "

"This is what is strange," the Master agreed.

¢le stirred. Her eyes opened.

"Alien, there is a pain inducer attuned to your body," B:::1 said to her. "Do not attempt any aggression." He turned to Flint. "Question her."

Yes indeed! "Who are you?" Flint demanded.

"I came -- to seek you," ¢le said.

"You're from Sphere Sol?"

"From Sol, yes."

Flint shook his head. "I didn't know they were transferring another envoy!"

"It is a common enough procedure," B:::1 assured him. "A backup agent sent without the knowledge of the first The first cannot betray what he does not know, yet the second is available to help in case of adversity. We employ similar safeguards."

Flint realized he had been naive. He didn't like it. "Then why did she attack me? I was true to my mission."

"I did not know you," ¢le explained. "I found myself imprisoned, and you touched my body. I -- mistook your intent."

After that magic contact of Kirlian auras? Some misunderstanding!

"An understandable error," B:::1 said. "But the question of her intent can be removed by her performance in transfer technology."

Smart, smart! "You are primed with transfer information -- that differs from mine?" Flint asked her.

She hesitated. "Yes."

"Go with the technicians," B:::1 said.

One of the Masters handed the punishment-box to Φiw; such tasks were normally delegated to Slaves. But B:::1 made an unobtrusive gesture, and the other Master took the box back and departed with the girl. Φiw, left with no specific task, stood awkwardly where he was. He was obviously extremely uncomfortable, here in the Masters' sanctum.

B:::1 turned to Flint. "Analysis of the female's pattern reveals substantial differences from your own," he said, reading a printout one of the technicians had given him. "Almost as though she were not only a different individual, but of a different species. We do not question your own motive --

but we are less certain of hers."

Sharp! The Masters had not put any dummy in charge of alien operations!

It had not even occurred to Flint to have the specific Kirlian pattern analyzed. "Maybe she is an alien," Flint said. "I thought there was no Kirlian aura above ninety-eight in Sphere Sol -- but we are in contact with the Polarians and others informally. If one of those Spheres helped..."

"Perhaps so. Ninety-eight is within the margin of error for our equipment. I did not mean to cause you undue concern."

"The major error in your equipment is in not being able to measure higher than a hundred," Flint said. "I am able to judge relative strengths of Kirlian auras, crudely -- and this one seems parallel to my own. Close to two hundred. So I doubt she's human."

"We merely look out for your welfare so that there will be no reason for any future contact between our Spheres -- or between ours and any of your allied Spheres."

"I appreciate that," Flint said dryly.

B:::1 turned to Φiw. "Your comment."

"Master, I trust him, not her," Φiw said. "She attacked him without sufficient provocation. Keep her within range of the box."

"Would your opinion be influenced by the fact that the female, ¢le of A[th], was one our agents, possessing information deleterious to your own welfare? There can be no carryover of personality; however, the present entity would have complete access to ¢le's memories and talents."

Φiw considered the loaded question. "Perhaps that influenced me. I know little of these matters, sir."

"Yet, compensating for that aspect, you would not see fit to trust her as you trust this man of Sol? Both are transferees."

"That is correct, sir." Φiw's discomfort was not abating. "Øro acted in an ethical manner; the female attempted to kill him. Perhaps she was confused

-- but she did not seem confused at the time."

B:::1 turned to Flint. "In this matter we are as Slaves, glimpsing portents whose wider significance we do not comprehend. Hence the opinion of a Slave has relevance. It is possible that the possessed ¢le cooperates only because of the punishment-box, and will turn against you when given opportunity. It is also possible that she is indeed of Sol or allied to Sol, and suspects that we have tortured you to gain your compliance with our own designs. We leave the decision of her disposition in your hands; we do not wish to become involved in Spherical intrigues."

"Ship her back to Sol with me," Flint said. "If her original body is human, that is the only place she can go." Then he reconsidered. "No -- ship her one day later. I will have a thorough investigation made. If she is false, we will be ready for her when she arrives."

"If she is not of your Sphere, where will she arrive?" the Master inquired.

Flint shrugged. "If she has no host-body available in our Sphere, she probably won't transmit at all. There has to be somewhere to go, or the process doesn't work. So if she does not transfer when you attempt to send her, you'll know she's no friend of ours."

"Your Sphere would not then object if we interrogated her?"

Flint knew it would be an extremely thorough interrogation. "We would not object."

B:::1 faced Φiw. "We have acquainted you with private matters of galactic scope. Return to your position, suffering no further stricture than this: If ever you overhear anything relating to this subject, make immediate report to me."

"Master," Φiw said, relieved.

Flint nodded thoughtfully. This was Φiw's true penance. He was now in effect a spy for the Masters. Yet the assignment had been couched in such manner as to make it seem that the Slave had been promoted to the level of political counselor. No torture, not even any overt reprimand -- yet a thorough job had been done. This was supreme skill in management.

After the Slave departed, B:::1 said: "In view of this development, and our uncertainty of decision, we feel we can no longer maintain our prior policy of disengagement. We shall participate in your coalition."

Flint's jaw dropped in a purely human reaction. "Because Sol sent another transfer agent, you've changed your minds?"

"One such visit is an anomaly. Two suggest a pattern. Were we certain that both emanate from Sphere Sol, we would not be concerned. But we cannot ignore the possibility that a third, possibly inimical Sphere has chosen to participate, perhaps competitively. There may well be others, in an expanding effort. We therefore choose to control to some extent the manner of our interaction with other Spheres by officially committing ourselves to this effort. We shall make a thorough search of our region of space in quest of aliens. Thus it will not be necessary for any other Spheres to seek us out to urge participation."

Just like that, success! Flint did not delude himself that any special competence on his part had been responsible. The Masters of Canopus had seen the way to cut their losses and maintain much of their isolation, so they had acted. Flint had blundered his way into it.

He did not belong in this business; if he ever transferred from Sphere Sol again, the odds were against his success or even survival. What a comedy of accident! At least he had discovered his inadequacy in a nonfatal fashion.

The end was routine. ¢le's knowledge sufficed; the technicians were able to convert the Canopian mattermitter for transfer, invoking fairly minor but critical modifications of detail. The settings were arranged for the center of Sphere Sol. ¢le was held under guard with the punishment-box, scheduled for later transfer.

Flint stepped into the transfer chamber.

4 -- Lake of Dreams

*notice initial mission destroy 200 intensity threat entity failed*

-- detail? --

*own agent 200 intensity dispatched contact made owing to suspicions of natives of canopus unable to eliminate sol transferee necessary to provide transfer information to sphere canopus in order to*

-- WHAT?! --

*to protect identity of agent origin and allay suspicion per directive judgment call on part of operative we intercepted agent at time of retransfer from canopus*

-- judgment call? more likely operative stunned by allure of equivalent aura and lost imperative for mission what sex agent? --

*female*

-- precisely and target entity male route her through spot reorientation to ensure next time duty before pleasure and reassign for next available intercept unfortunate we have to work through these high-kirlian types never can be quite certain of their loyalties --

*POWER*

-- CIVILIZATION --

Flint hopped rapidly over the surface of Luna, Planet Earth's huge moon, putting the mining station at Posidonius Crater behind him. The hopper's single plunger smacked into the bleak surface of the crater floor, compressing like a pogo stick, then thrusting him upward in a broad arc. He was only a fraction of his normal weight because of the reduced gravity, but the old-fashioned heavy-duty mining suit was twice his mass. The net result was a jumping weight of about two-thirds his nude-body normal. He needed the powered hopper to make real progress.

He bore west, searching out the gap in the crater wall. The station was inside a subcrater within Posidonius, capped over and pressurized. Nature had excavated the pit; now men used it as convenient access to the high concentrations of aluminum, titanium, magnesium, silicon, and iron there. It had cost a lot, a century or three ago, to emplace the first Lunar mines; they had paid their way many times over. Posidonius Mine was about worked out, as were most of the digs of this quadrant, and in fact the moon itself, but as long as the diminishing ores were worth more than the cost of operation, the mines continued to function. Today the planet Mercury of Sol and the larger moons of the outer Solar System -- Ganymede, Titan, and Triton -- were more important resources. Luna was largely forgotten.

Security was slack, which was why Flint had been able to pose as an itinerant miner and steal a suit and hopper to make a much better chase of it.

By the time Imperial Earth traced him this far, he would be impossible to trace further. The Lunar surface was so pocked with the marks of other hoppers

-- and each mark was permanent the instant made, since there was no weather, no air to erase it -- that his trail was not discernible. Once he got beyond the crater, beyond direct visual range, he would be lost. Bless that jagged rim!

He made it. The crater itself was fifty to seventy-five miles in diameter, depending on which way it was measured, and the mine was off-center, so he had about twenty miles to go. The hopper enabled him to do it in just about an hour without getting winded. Time enough; his next on-shift would not be for another two hours.

The crater rim, so fragile-looking from telescopic distance, was actually a phenomenal mountain ring several miles thick, though not tall. It had been formed millions or even billions of years ago by the impact of a large meteor, the material of the crater center scooped out and dumped in that circle. Not volcanic; there was very little volcanic activity on the moon.

Here at the western pass the wall was broken, and he navigated the rubble without difficulty. It was against Sphere law to deface the visible landscape of Luna, but anonymous miners had blasted out an ascending channel at the narrowest part to facilitate passage from the central depression. It was too small to show up on most photographs taken from Earth, so no investigation had been made. Anyway, that had been in the heyday of the mine, when metals worth millions of Sphere dollars had been extracted every few hours. Miners were tough, ornery men and women; even the Imperium tended to let them alone, as long as they produced. The profession of mining, freed from the cave-ins and black-lung threats of ancient times, had become the stuff of adolescent fancy.

Miners were heroes, prized and well paid and bold, and planet lubbers sought them avidly.

Now he emerged onto the broad Mare Serenitatis, the Sea of Serenity, an expanse of almost-level rock some four hundred miles across. The early Solarians, staring at their great moon from the vantage of misty Earth, had pictured these lava plains (here in the mare there had been volcanism!) as oceans and seas and bays, and named them accordingly. The illusion had been banished when Luna was physically explored, and perhaps even before then, but the intriguing names had remained. "Hope I don't get my feet wet," Flint muttered. His suit radio was turned off, of course; he would be a fool to let them trace him through his broadcast emissions.

His feet did not get wet, though the hopper made little splashes in the dust that disappeared almost instantly. With no air to hold the substance up, it collapsed without billowing. On the apex of each glide he could see over the Serpentine Wrinkle Ridge, an arm of which approached quite close to the rim of Posidonius. Had he been able to bound high enough, he might have been able to see all the way across the western edge of the Sea of Serenity to where its vast crater wall parted to give access to the even vaster Mare Imbrium, the Sea of Rains. His line of sight would give him a glimpse of one of that sea's craters, probably Archimedes. Flint had studied, and therefore had an exact visual memory of, the map of the adjacent geography of Luna --

but this would be a narrow line-of-sight view between the encroaching mountain ranges of the Caucasus to the north and the Apennines to the south. Mountains on Earth were named after these -- or maybe it was the other way around. There were three craters in that vicinity, so he couldn't be quite certain which one he would see from five hundred miles away. It really didn't matter, since the tight curvature of the moon put the whole area out of sight and he was not going there anyway.

He veered north, changing direction by shifting his weight to make the hopper lean. He skirted Posidonius, now shielded from observation by its rim.

Ahead of him was Lacus Somniorum, the Lake of Dreams. Primitive that he was, he loved that imagery. Flint had dreams -- of escape, of freedom, of eventual return to Outworld and his green darling Honeybloom. Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh, that alien transferee from the inner galaxy, had dazzled him into undertaking the mission, but in Sphere Canopus reality had caught up with fancy. He had encountered no high-Kirlian natives there, and had suffered torture and the constant threat of death. The one high-Kirlian entity he had met had turned out to be another transferee. He was unfit for this type of work; the edge was off. He hadn't even been able to complete his mission; the girl transferee had had to bail him out. Let her initiate the next mission! The Imps would not search for him long; they would know his suit-air could last no more than a day, so could assume he had perished. There was nothing like dying to avoid being pestered.

But he was not the suicidal type. He had a destination in mind, barely three hundred miles to the north. Burg Crater -- where an abandoned mine shaft still had leftover stores of oxygen, water, and food. It was one of a number of craters within reach. By the time they checked them all -- if they ever did

-- he would be gone again. They had little chance to catch up with him.

It was a fair distance. Even with the hopper it would take him about fifteen hours. He had picked a site near the limit of his range -- but not too near it -- so as to make it that more difficult for them to locate him quickly. But the marvels of the Lunar landscape soon palled. He was traversing a dull, seemingly endless plain, in the confined silence of his suit.

He remembered more of the bits of information the Shaman had given him.

Flint had supposed they were mere stories, intended for entertainment or for dealing with immediate needs, such as the hunting of dinosaurs, but now he understood their true relevance.

Before mattermission, Earth had been in desperate need of new sources of supply and living room for its horrendously teeming population. Lifeship colonization had been inadequate and too expensive. So they had tried desperate measures, such as colonization of near space. The first settlers went to Luna, drawing most of the construction substance from its crust. Then space itself was claimed, drawing on what was there: the particles of rock and ice in orbit, the planetoids. It was much easier to collect materials from there than to bring them up out of Earth's gravitational well, and a number of the orbiting rocks were big enough to become homes themselves.

Gardens were planted, within shells of air, rotating slowly so that the light of the sun struck them half of every day, Earth-time. That same rotation provided gravity via centrifugal force. Flint had never really understood that concept when the Shaman explained it, but his recent experience on the space shuttle from Earth to Luna had brought it into sharp focus, along with a spot of "spin sickness." The rotation provided weight in a small craft, but the head was nearer to the center than the feet, and so became slightly lighter.

The body reacted to this unbalance by becoming uncomfortably ill. Flint had never been ill before in his life, and it was a horrendous experience. So he had learned about practical centrifugal gravity the hard way. Knowing and comprehending were different things! Flint had known much, understood little.

But he was mastering his background knowledge now, right down into his gut.

The Ministers of Imperial Earth had relied too much on his presumed naiveté, falling into the trap of supposing that ignorance equated with stupidity, though they knew better. (No one was immune from the know-comprehend dichotomy!) They had given him cram courses in the most advanced technology of the galaxy -- that of matter-mission and transfer -- by relying heavily on his eidetic memory. He could now repeat paragraphs of complex formulas whose meaning he would never understand. He could now read -- just enough to get by. In conversation he sounded like a highly educated ignoramus, which he was. But they had also trained him in multiple combat and escape techniques...and never supposed he might employ these more practical skills against them. It had been child's play to escape the Ministry of Alien Spheres, buy a black-market tourist's pass, switch places with a disgruntled miner on furlough, and land at Posidonius Mine.

One transfer experience sufficed; he was going back home to Honeybloom.

The only mountains and depressions he cared to explore hereafter were hers.

All he had to do was figure out a way to get mattermitted back.

That might take some figuring. It would cost about two trillion dollars postage to jump from Earth to Outworld. But he would have time to mull over that challenge, here on the moon. There had to be some way available to a bright primitive...

The barren landscape continued. It was dusk here, with his long sharp shadow extending to the east, leaping far away as he went high, zooming back to meet him as he landed. The shadow was always barely in time for the bounce.

Would it ever miscalculate, play it too close, and miss the connection? Flint smiled, half-believing it could happen. Nothing was perfect!

He was well north of Posidonius Crater now, in the Lake of Dreams. Two hundred miles to the east the curve of Luna's surface shrouded the craters in darkness. He had progressed north of small Crater Daniell, coming up parallel to Crater Grove. He could see these only when he was high; the horizon was so much closer than that of Outworld, Earth, or the Canopian slave planet, because Luna was so much smaller. On the other hand there was no atmosphere to cloud vision. But he "saw" as much by means of the picture in his mind as with his eyes. His photographic mental image merged with the reality, greatly extending his perception. As, perhaps, his Kirlian aura extended his perception of life.

He kept going, hour after hour. As a Paleolithic hunter he had developed endurance -- but never before had he hopped the whole distance. The machine provided the thrust, but the little balancing mechanisms of his body were becoming fatigued. Now he was approaching the ill-defined depressions of Plana and Mason -- old, worn craters, perhaps, though what was there to wear them down? On the map they lay together with their center nipples like the breasts of a woman, but there was no such resemblance now. He was through the Lake of Dreams, traversing rougher surface. His imagination had ceased to conjure fun-visions of Outworld and Honeybloom, and not even these twin circles could bring them back with any force. Fatigue diminished the enthusiasm of dreams.

His hopper gave a despairing half-thrust, and failed. It was out of power.Flint came to rest in the crater of Plana, aware that he was in trouble.

The hoppers were supposed to be kept fully charged between uses, but they were old machines, not as efficient as when new. This one had taken him about 260

miles, which might have been enough had he been able to proceed directly north from the station. But his jog to the west to get out of Posidonius, and necessary deviations around roughness La the terrain, had left him with still around fifty miles to go.

Well, he would walk it. He had to; there was no other way, and no closer respite, now. It would enable him to use different muscles, anyway.

Flint progressed vigorously, achieving a kind of running, jumping stride that carried him bounding forward at a speed of six to eight miles per hour.

He was light, even with the suit, and strong, but the arms and legs of this thing were not adequately flexible for this, and they chafed.

He continued for an hour, crossing out of Plana and into the great doughnut-shaped plain of Lacus Mortis, the Lake of Death. Burg was in the center of it, a small crater compared to its neighbors Hercules and Atlas to the east, and Aristoteles and Eudoxus to the west. Oh, he had his mental map right before him, brilliantly clear as if illuminated by the slowly setting sun. Farther to the north was the large, long Mare Frigoris, the Sea of Cold.

All he had to do was proceed from this point on that map to that point. So easy to know, so hard to do.

He plowed on, his speed slowing as he tired. His elbows and knees were raw from constant abrasion against the rigid joints of the suit. His air tasted bad, though he should still have several hours' margin -- unless it, like the hopper, no longer performed at the original specs. Suit failure --

that was all he needed now!

Strange yet fitting, how he had started in such nicely named terrain: the Sea of Serenity, the Lake of Dreams. Now that he was in trouble, the dream was turning to nightmare, the Lake of Death. What would have happened had he gone east toward the Sea of Crises, or west to the Ocean of Storms? Better south to the Sea of Tranquility and Sea of Nectar!

But repeating the sweet names could hot extract him from the grim reality. There was no longer any doubt: his air was turning foul, and he had not covered half the distance to the station since the hopper failed. He could not even see Burg Crater yet. His presumed demise was about to become an actuality.

And was that so bad? Better to die than be a slave! Someone in Sphere Sol's past had said that. Maybe his hope of escape had been as illusory as the lovely moonscape names. Reality was this darkening airless void.

He fell. His faceplate nudged into moondust, the support straps about his head holding his face clear of the lens. It was not an uncomfortable position. He was prone now, resting -- yet panting. The air could no longer sustain him. He had no strength to get up; his vital energy was being drained, as the energy of the galaxy was being drained by the Andromedans. At some point the loss of force from the strong interaction of the local atomic nuclei would diminish their cohesion, and matter as this galaxy knew it would cease to exist.

Those Ministers of Imperial Earth were not such bad sorts. They were only trying to do their job. They didn't like working with a Stone Age man, but they did it graciously. And the Masters of Canopus, slavedrivers yet sensible, reversing their eons-long policy of Spherical isolation, to help save the common galaxy. They had set their dream of privacy aside.

That female who had followed him to Canopus -- who was she? The Minister of Alien Spheres had claimed to have sent no other agent there, and had affected great surprise at this part of Flint's report. But Flint knew they had a woman with a Kirlian aura intensity near a hundred, and they were surely using her somewhere. So they had to be concealing something from him, and he didn't like that. Too bad he'd never get to meet her, to find out the truth.

Could she have transferred on her own, somehow, sensing his need? But she had tried to kill him at first! So she must be from some unknown enemy Sphere. Yet she had an aura very like his own; she was his kind...

And his kind would soon be minus one, for here he was, perishing in weakness like one diseased. Not spin-sick, but moonstruck.

"Oh, hell!" he muttered. "I'm not cut out to die like this! Not in gasping foulness. I've got to fight, to make it swift and clean, like an honest spearthrust. Those damned Andromedans..."

He turned on his suit radio. "Okay -- vacation's over -- come and get me," he said clearly just before he passed out.

5 -- Ear of Wheat

*notice kirlian transfer sphere sol to sphere spica 200 intensity*

-- that's what we've been waiting for redispatch agent --

*POWER*

-- CIVILIZATION --

As before, the transition was instant and painless. Flint found himself inhaling water -- but not choking. He was in a sea, flushing the liquid out through gills in his shoulder region, though he lacked shoulders.

All right. His transfer identity always seemed basically human. Always these two times, at least. A man in a scuba-diving outfit would have as much to get used to as this. He was sure of that; knowing that the Sphere Spica Imperial Planet was waterbound, the Ministers had had him trained in scuba, just in case. For a man who had never seen an ocean prior to his first Earth visit, it had been quite an experience.

He flexed his arms and legs and found they were flippers. Excellent for swimming, not as good for manipulating objects. But they did have terminal digits. Man in deep-sea swimming gear: yes, the image would do.

"Bopek recovers!" a voice said, very close and clear in the liquid medium. Water was just great for transmitting sound.

"Swim, Bopek!" other voices urged. "Restore your system."

Flint swam. His powerful flipper arms and legs threshed the water and propelled him forward handsomely. Fresh water passed through his system, revitalizing it. It was a nice body, in a nice environment. There was some pain, however, and he turned his eyes on the affected part to investigate. It was easy to see -- his eyes were on extensible stalks, highly flexible, able to look anywhere quickly.

His body was bulbous, balloonlike, and somewhat nebulous. He seemed to have no skin, no well-defined outer boundary; instead he thinned into a frothy fadeout. His breath was more than respiration, and his gills less than solid.

He took in water through his mouth, then pumped it through his entire system and finally out in fine bubbles. This carried oxygen and nourishment into his system and carried wastes out. It seemed a reasonably simple, efficient, comfortable arrangement -- as long as the water was fresh. A man in scuba gear, like one in a spacesuit on the moon, could die in an unfresh medium...

But of course the human on Earth used air in a similar fashion. All people breathed from a common pool, and passed many of their wastes back into it. Plants and bacteria renewed it constantly -- as they did for the water environment here. So this was a perfectly comprehensible system, not like a confined suit at all.

But part of him had been crushed. The normal froth-pattern was abnormally irregular and discolored, and much of the mass had suffered where the nutrient flow had been too long interrupted. The seawater was like blood; when it stopped passing through, the tissues perished. Too gross an interruption, and regeneration became impossible.

The body had been injured severely enough to cause the loss of its Kirlian aura: spiritual extinction. But Flint's far more intense aura had animated it, restoring it to life. What was fatal to an aura of intensity one was survivable to an aura of intensity two hundred.

Now he had a body and an identity. But after his experience as a transferee in the slave Sphere, he was cautious about advertising it First he would ascertain the nature of this society, and of his place in it. Then he would make his contact -- directly, properly, without dangerous missteps.

He explored his new mind. Its content was not immediately clear to him, but he wasn't worried. It was bound to be a serviceable mind, because of the nature of transfer.

Though Flint had the symbology of transfer memorized, his comprehension of its actual mechanism was vague. It was instantaneous, like mattermission. A subject could be "beamed" to a specific locale, generally a planet in a Sphere. But there was no receiving station; instead there had to be a host with which the arriving Kirlian aura could associate. There was no problem about getting lost or landing in an unsuitable body; if there were no appropriate mind in the target region, the aura bounced, reanimating its original body. There were other qualifications, having to do with the aura's notion of what was suitable; the potential host had to be sapient and of the same sex. Why this was so was not clear; there was a great deal the Solarian technologists did not yet know. But transfer worked; that was what counted.

So Flint knew he had a sapient, male body he could make function. But as before, he had to work at physical coordination, and to concentrate in order to isolate specific memories, while the language process was largely automatic. He swam some more, while he pieced it together. Swimming enhanced his alertness by providing greater flow of water through his system.

He was Bopek, an Impact. He was a courier. There were three groups of sapient Spicans, all waterdwellers: the Impacts, the Undulants, and the Sibilants. This was an Impact zone. As courier he had to convey Undulants from the Undulant zone through the Neutral Corridor to the Undulant enclave.

Did that make sense? Flint visualized it as a world of swimming dogs, cats, and mice, three of the animals who had helped man colonize Outworld. He was a dog conducting a cat past the mice warren to the cat enclave. Not exact, but helpful for orienting. It was important -- and here a confusing complex of alarms sprouted from his host's memories and experience -- to keep the three types separate except on special occasions. Any two could associate freely, in any numbers, but never all three types. Apparently cats did not eat mice except in the presence of dogs, and dogs did not chase cats unless mice were watching.

Right now there was a big construction project in the Impact (dog) zone, that required the cooperation of Sibilants (mice). So the Sibilants had been granted temporary access. But one portion of the project had to be done in cooperation with Undulants (cats). Since they could not enter the mixed zone, a special courier channel excluding all the others had been defined. But as only a native Impact was familiar with the home zone, all visitors had to be guided lest they stray.

Yes, it was coming clear, though this was about as much of the Spican system as he cared to assimilate at the moment. His host had been escorting an Undulant, avoiding contact with Sibilants. But he had made an error, or been misguided, and taken her through a destruct area. A portion of the demolition structure had collapsed, crushing them both. Such a collapse was slower in water than in air, and swimming entities could move quickly when they had to, so they had been able to avoid complete annihilation. But the shock and violence had been too much. The Kirlian auras had dissipated, leaving functioning but soulless bodies. Flint's projected Kirlian aura had animated the empty Impact, while the Undulant --

What had happened to her? She had been an exceptionally well-formed specimen of her type, a veritable queen of felines, a tigress.

He swam back to inquire.

His companion Impacts had broadened the Neutral Corridor into a temporary Undulant enclave. Llyana the Undulant remained unconscious, inanimate; they could not revive her, though her body lived.

No question about it. She, like his host, had been deprived of her Kirlian soul. But no alien had been waiting to animate her vacant body. She was effectively dead.

Too bad. It was an unfortunate waste of an excellent specimen. Looking at her, Flint/Bopek reviewed the ideal criteria for the Undulant species, and found that Llyana was to Undulants as Honeybloom was to women. She had the same eyestalks and nebulous body he did, but lacked his stout flippers. Her mass was similar, but proportioned differently: she was long and sinuous, propelling herself by means of fishlike or snakelike ripples of her entire torso. In addition, while he and the other Impacts were basically horizontal, somewhat like the swimming turtles of Earth's seas, Llyana was vertical, being flattened on the sides like most fish. Some Undulants were too long and thin, others too stout; Llyana was just right.

Flint realized with an internal chuckle of self-directed humor that not so long ago he would have been appalled at the mere contemplation of such a creature, and would have considered the notion of a beautiful Undulant as sick humor. It was amazing how a mere change of body and brain altered esthetic perception.

Llyana, too, had damaged tissues. The other Impacts were forcing a flow of water through her mouth, setting up a suitable current with their flippers, keeping her technical life processes functioning. They assumed, reasonably enough for them, that if he had recovered, she would also. But of course Bopek had not recovered; he had been reanimated by an alien spirit: Flint.

The medic team arrived. "Conduct her down the Neutral Corridor to the Undulant enclave," the ranking Impact directed. He spoke, as did all sapients here, by vibrating an internal fin against a ribbed surface; the sound emerged from his mouth, but had nothing to do with his respiration.

"You to the Impact infirmary," the leader said to Flint. "You are motile, but have sustained similar physical injury. We must be sure you are fit for service."

One did not argue with a ranking member of one's kind. Flint stroked for the region his memory said was the infirmary. It turned out to be a building; a semifloating structure anchored to the depths by a stout braid. The braid was symbolic of the three elements of sapience: Impact, Undulant, and Sibilant. He paddled into the emergency bay and let the medics apply foam-salve. It was a marvelous relief; he had not realized how much he had been hurting.

"Now take it easy," the medic warned. "This stuff is excellent, but it has a certain intoxicating effect in some individuals. You'll need to rest for a cycle or two."

"Thanks." Flint paddled off.

He not only felt better, he felt good. He swooped through the pleasantly cool water, turned over and glided, eyestalks down. He had not noticed the scenery before, but now he could relax and enjoy it.

There were many sources of light in the water. Much was from the plankton, tiny creatures who grubbed nutriment from materials in the water and were in turn digested by larger creatures, including the sapients. The colors of the plankton varied with individual species, and an entity lacking a particular element of nutrition became increasingly attuned to the color of the plankton possessing that element. Thus feeding was a continual and ever-varied experience, satisfying the eye as well as the body. At the moment, all colors looked delicious to Flint, a warning of his condition he did not heed.

He dove down. Most fish on Earth possessed gas-filled sacs or bladders that provided buoyancy but inhibited rapid changes of depth. His present body was more sophisticated; he was able to compress or expand it considerably, so that he could dive without effort or discomfort, and rise again as easily. As he approached the nether margin of the sea, he spied the turrets of the anchored animals. They floated in the currents, their long thin tails descending to the ocean floor. They had intricate combs and networks of tubes through which they strained the water, and they too were of many colors.

Flowers of the floor. Some made pleasant noises to attract the sea insects that pollinated them. But these were primitive forms; the advanced life was invariably triple-sexed.

Flint drifted upward, savoring the experience. He had never imagined sea living could be so blissful. He saw the hanging discoloration signifying the fringe of the Impact zone. Lower creatures could pass through it freely, but he knew he should turn back. But he felt like exploring! He was a courier; he had a right to tour out of bounds, didn't he?

On through the Sibilant boundary. What fun! The thrill of seeing unfamiliar territory added to his satisfaction. He could cruise indefinitely!

Then he spied something special ahead. It was a pair of entities, an Undulant and a Sibilant. Of course -- the Undulants were working in the Sibilant zone this period, just as the Sibilants were working in the Impact zone. So long as the three types never came together in the same place at the same time, no problem.

So why did he experience this heightening, secret, almost obscene excitement?

The Sibilant had the same nebulous torso and eye-stalks as the others, but it lacked both flippers and vertical flattening. It propelled itself forward by jetting water from its main body tube. This action was accompanied by a gentle susurration that gave the entity its name. It was capable of considerable speed through the water, and especially rapid starts.

But that was of no immediate concern to Flint. The moment he spied the pair of creatures, something changed in him. He felt a guilty but powerful attraction. He shot forward on a collision course. If only they didn't see him too soon!

He was successful; by the time the others became aware of him, it was too late. He collided.

There was only a slight impact. His body did not shove theirs over; it merely overlapped theirs. Part of his flesh intersected that of the Sibilant, and part of it interacted with that of the Undulant. Their substance was so diffuse that it merged with his to make a solid-seeming cross-section.

This state of partial merging was tremendously exciting and compulsive.

He now had a firm hold on each of the other entities, not with his flippers but with the actual flesh of his body. Diagrammatically, it looked like this, with Flint the center entity.

He gathered his strength and heaved. As his body flexed at the edges it thinned at the center, drawing them in closer to each other. Then he flexed outward, taking in more of their substance, extending his overlap, experiencing a phenomenal satisfaction in the process.

By a series of pulses he brought the Sibilant and the Undulant into contact with each other -- within his own flesh. Now their efforts joined his, so that the pulses became more powerful. The effort became transcendentally important. Flint gathered his resources, tightened his grip on each of the others, and threw his entire strength into a convulsive contraction that hauled both entities all the way into his flesh and into each others' flesh.

The process was both painful and fantastically rewarding. In fact it was orgasmic.

Orgasm...

Flint's first transfer had set a pattern. He knew he was in an alien body, but it was much like knowing he was a man; it was right. He still thought of himself as human. His alien sensation translated so readily into the human equivalents that he was hardly conscious of it after the first moments. Intellectually, he kept noticing details and comparing them with his other embodiments, but that was much the way a man compared one world to another. While everything was changed, he was still fundamentally a man. Here in the Spican locale he had had a more stringent adaptation, to a swimming form -- but he was still basically a swimming man. And the Undulant he had escorted was a swimming woman. Or he could think of it as a dog, cat, mouse system. Different, yet still basically comprehensible.

Now he was caught up in something beyond his prior experience. It could not be translated into human or animal terms.

It was sex -- with three sexes.

His body, prompted by instinct, continued its heroic efforts, forcing a complete melding of masses. No, not complete; each individual had a private portion that did not overlap, and two segments of overlap with the others, and a minority segment of double overlap:

The individual portion was liquid, almost gaseous in its diffusion; the single overlaps were viscous; and the double overlap was virtually solid.

The three entities were penetrating each other -- but not as a man penetrated a woman. Not even as a two-man/one-woman trio. They were inter penetrating.

Flint could not rationalize this into any human act. It was genuinely alien. Not perverted so much as inconceivable.

The concept sundered his rationale. He could no longer think of himself as a visiting human; he was immersed in an alien scheme.

Flint lost his sanity. He saw himself as two irreconcilable entities: one human, the other monster. A man's mind could not exist in the carcass of a jellyfish. This was a prison worse than the most gruesome sickness. He had to get out!

But he was trapped. Transfer of personality, once completed, could not be revoked. He could go home only by being retransferred, and that meant first completing his mission.

The host body went on with its repulsive act, generating its obscene pleasure. The animated pornography engulfed him within its horror. He reacted violently, with utter revulsion. With his whole force of being, he drove off the intolerable connection.

The globular mass exploded apart. Flint experienced a tearing sensation that was at once painful and climactically fulfilling. The two other creatures shot out from him, like a double arrow loosed from a bow, still linked with each other. But the moment they cleared his flesh, they underwent a subexplosion so violent that the overlapping portions of them were not parted but were torn loose as a separate mass.

Flint, feeling only relief at being free, paddled rapidly away from the carnage. He didn't care what happened to the others; he had to shield himself from the disgust of the experience.

Yet he couldn't. The act had been fundamentally shocking -- but after the fact came comprehension, and that was even worse. Suddenly he understood the plight of a girl on Outworld who had been hurt and terrified by being raped -- but then came to realize that she carried her attacker's baby, and would have to bear it and raise it, forever after a reminder of the experience. Illegitimacy was a cardinal social offense on Outworld. Flint, like other men, had shrugged and said "Too bad," and not given the girl's plight much further thought, and of course had been careful neither to help her nor support her in any way. The rapist had been from another tribe, and had later been killed by a dinosaur, so that ended the matter. Then the girl had killed herself, to Flint's amazement. He had volunteered for the burial detail -- really, the Shaman had made him do it -- carrying her body out to the place of exposure and leaving it there for the vulture-dactyls and other predators who would do the job of cleaning the flesh from the bones. He had gazed at her nude body, still quite pretty, since she was young and the pregnancy was not far advanced, and marveled that she should have been so foolish as to sacrifice her life when fate had already revenged her. Several days later he had come to collect the bones for burial under her sleeping place, so that her spirit would be at rest. Even her bones had been shapely, and very nice in their pure whiteness, except for a couple that had been cracked open by some larger predator for their marrow. He had tied those together so that her ghost would not be crippled, and he had interred the whole in a curled-up position under her lean-to. Everything had been done according to form -- yet she had not rested. For months thereafter her lean-to had been haunted by her restless spirit, and finally the village had had to relocate. It had been a nuisance. Flint had shaken his head at the foolishness of girls. The Shaman had declined to explain it, though he had seemed sad. But now, faced with the growing realization of what he had just participated in, Flint understood why the tribesgirl had acted as she did.

Actually, the star Spica (a double star, as befitted Flint's notion of fitness, his home star, Etamin, being similar) was part of the constellation Virgo, as seen from Earth. There were many legends about this maiden, said by some to be the original harvest goddess; but since Flint's tribe had not advanced to the level of agriculture, being Paleolithic rather than Neolithic, he identified more with the constellation's identity as Erigone the Early Born. Erigone's father was Icarius, and when he died she hanged herself in grief -- another curious feminine reaction that Flint suddenly appreciated.

Tribesmen seldom lived to the age of forty on Outworld; if they lived long enough to see their children safely married, there was little cause for grief when they died. Their job, after all, was done. Flint's own parents had died before he was ten Solarian years, and that had been unfortunate, but the Shaman had taken him over and given him a better life than he had had before.

Certainly no cause for suicide. But now he saw that for those who felt really strongly about another person or thing, the loss of such a value could evoke a reaction as strong as to require death. The maiden Erigone, patroness of the wheat field, had gone to heaven with an ear of wheat in her hand, and that ear of wheat was the star Spica. Perhaps the story of the death of her father was a euphemism; actually she might have been raped, and here was the evidence in the form of a planet of rape.

But how much worse for a man! A pretty girl was made to be impregnated by one means or another, but any such suggestion for a man was an abomination.

He tried to put the horrendous concept out of his mind; he did not want to comprehend it. He tried to shove this debased body away from him, as he would the gore of a slain animal's ruptured intestine, knowing it was impossible, yet still making the effort, just as the pregnant girl must have tried to shove out her hateful baby.

*orientation effected*

What? A strange voice was talking in his brain. Not his head, for he had no head -- that was part of the problem! -- but his brain, integrated with his lateral line system, his pressure perceptors, balance organs, density control, and mergence response syndrome. Somewhere, in this melange of suddenly realized synapses and feedbacks was an alien communication.

He tried to focus on the alien. Here was possible escape! What he was able to grasp was a picture of three spheres. Two were tangent, touching each other; the third was a little apart. The first was labeled SIRE, the second PARENT, and the separate one CATALYST. What did it mean?

-- dispatch agent this time she'd better perform! --

There was that alien voice again. It spoke in an unfamiliar language or series of meaning-symbols that somehow he could understand. The picture, too, was becoming clear: each circle represented a Spican entity. Three entities, three functions -- but which was which? Each time he concentrated, it seemed there was a different alignment. Impact, Undulant, Sibilant...sire, parent, catalyst...dog, cat, mouse. At times an Impact was a dog and at other times a cat or even a mouse. Dog mating with cat and giving birth to mouse? No, that wasn't it.

Yet he had done it! Why couldn't he understand it?

Because, as with human reproduction, it functioned best when there was no understanding, just instinct. Understanding brought complications such as birth control, and nature didn't like that.

Abruptly he realized that the spheres or circles were from his host's memory of a long-ago orientation session that had had a profound, even unnerving effect. It had been a sex-education class, pornographic in its implications yet necessary. What was pornography anyway, but the portrayal of the necessary with too much enthusiasm? "Why are the three sexes kept always apart?" immature Bopek had asked persistently, so they had told him. And shocked him. As Flint had been shocked, the first time he saw a grown tribesman put it to a girl. She had cried and kicked her legs, and Flint had thought he was killing her. But she had only been wounded, and not seriously; there was only a bit of blood between her legs. And she had been presented thereafter as a woman, her initiation complete, though her breasts were hardly developed. Within a Sol-year she had been married, happily; it was evident that she had not been harmed. That had been Flint's own sex-education class, in the direct Stone Age manner. It had been alarming at first, but reassuring when time showed there were no bad consequences. Next year he had laughed when younger children flinched at the annual demonstration, and the following year he had come of age by making the demonstration himself. But when he took up with Honeybloom he had preferred privacy. Demonstration classes were one thing; love was another. So he understood Bopek's horror and gradual acceptance. That was the way of it.

He summoned another picture. In this one the three spheres had come together, each touching at the fringe, like the borders of stellar empires.

Perhaps this was an analogy; when Sphere Sol had exchanged technology with Sphere Antares (though Sol had been only a system then, for it was the mattermission secret it obtained from Antares that enabled it to form its interstellar colonization program) -- had it been a form of mating? Cultural intercourse. It was not an objectionable parallel. Yet young Bopek had thrilled to a guilty excitement. Three sexes touching! His very flesh had pulsed.

And so did Flint's, remembering that pornography:

*POWER*

-- CIVILIZATION --

"Get out of my mind!" he yelled at the meaning-bursts. Now, where was he? Cat -- sire -- dog...no, not cat, but catalyst. Forget the Earth animals, concentrate on the lesson material.

Nowhere else were the three entities depicted together, actually touching. Now Flint applied his own memories, and merged them with Bopek's --

and it started to become clear. The human equivalent -- there was no precise parallel, but as close as he could make it, and he had to find some kind of parallel, in order to regain his orientation -- was a fragrant soft bed of flowerferns in a private glade, bearing a naked, spreadeagled voluptuous girl being kissed by a naked, tumescent man. The curve-sided triangle between the three tangent circles matched the pubic triangles of hair -- the two triangles about to be superimposed. And now they drew together, overlapping, forming the single mass he had visualized before. Raw sex, without question. Secret, lewdly exciting, sniggers, repression, desire, unspeakable urges, interpenetrating --

:: CONCURRENCE ::

"Fush!" Flint cried aloud, expressing in that one distorted syllable the exact superimposition of lust and condemnation and fascination and outrage he felt, balked by the interfering meaning transmission. No better syllable existed, since his present body was unable to render the human word.

In moments he was back in the security of the Impact zone. Now, as the excitement of revulsion and discovery abated, his identification with his host-body returned. Once again he was Flint -- in alien circumstances, and with a matured awareness and acceptance and cynicism, but indubitably himself.

Now he grasped emotionally what previously had been intellectual: he was an alien. He might look and act like a three-sexed Spican, but he was not. He was an alien essence making use of a native host; in fact, he was a demon possessing a poor local boy. He was not part of this society, not bound by its conventions.

His period of disorientation had brought him much to ponder. He hoped never again to forget his basic alien-ness to the host, and not to allow himself to become trapped into involuntary sexual activity. But more important: his Kirlian aura, temporarily extended from the host in its vain effort to separate, had somehow ranged out and intercepted some kind of message in the transfer medium. At first that had been confusing -- but Flint, however naive he might be about Spican sex life, was no fool. One of the tools at his command was an efficient mode of integrating information. His disorientation now separated into three elements that could be analyzed: his repudiation of the act of his host body, the reproductive lesson material from the host memory, and this alien transmission. His revulsion was out of line: He was not Spican, the Spican was not human, and there could be no transfer of morality either way. It was important that he understand, accept, and perhaps even use this distinction. For his job was not to preserve himself or spread Sol Sphere culture, but to enlist other Spheres in the cause of saving the galaxy.

Yet evidently there was a Sphere that opposed this cause. They had traced his transfer to Canopus and sent an agent there, not to help him but to kill him. She had failed, and had had to turn about and help him, ironically, in order to protect the secret of her identity. The alien voices in his brain had indicated she was to be sent to the Ear of Wheat.

And he had a fair idea whose host-body she would occupy.

He had to act quickly, for the agent was deadly. She knew transfer technology, so could return to her Sphere after dispatching him. She probably didn't even have to educate the Spicans; her knowledge was so sophisticated that she just might be able to make do on her own. Or maybe her government was able to recall her without a transfer unit at this end. He should not gamble with it He had to nullify her first, and return to Sphere Sol with the news.

Maybe the Minister of Alien Spheres would know which Sphere it was, from the hints Flint had picked up; or maybe Flint could transfer to Knyfh Sphere and consult with their experts. One thing was certain: The galactic allies had to locate that enemy Sphere and neutralize it, or the whole effort would be sabotaged before it ever touched Andromeda.

Could he somehow trap and interrogate the alien agent? Flint rejected that immediately. He lacked the expertise, and it was too risky here. Better to nullify the agent, return to Imperial Earth, and let them send a party to deal with the agent. Or have her shipped to Sol Sphere with him -- no, he had tried that before, and she had somehow slipped the net. He could not trust her to transfer again. Play it safe; give her no chance to foul him up.

Yet he retained an image of ¢le of A[th] of Sphere Canopus, a pretty little thing in humanoid terms. The host-body was not the transfer mind, of course, and he could not judge the nature of the entity that had possessed her, yet it was hard to disengage the two entirely. Body did make a difference; he had to admit to himself that he would not have loved Honeybloom had she been ugly. And that powerful Kirlian aura of the other Sphere entity, as strong as his own; alluring. He had begun traveling to other Spheres partly to find his own level of aura, after all. Enemy she might be, but he did not want to kill her. Not yet.

Two Impacts spied him and swam up. "Bopek -- a charge of rape has been lodged against you," one said. "You will accompany us to the hearing."

"Rape?" Flint was stunned. "I never -- "

"Did you not depart the Impact zone without authorization and enter the Sibilant zone?"

Oh-oh. Violation of the zones was a serious matter, as he would have known had he bothered to check his host's memory. He had been careless. Better to admit the truth. "I was under the influence of the healing salve -- "

"And there you encroached on a Sibilant/Undulant pair and assumed the role of catalyst, forcing on them involuntary mergence?"

"I did not realize -- "

"And as a result of that union, a Sibilant offspring was created, forcing unanticipated parentage on the original Sibilant?"

Flint realized that he was in trouble. Ignorant of the mating system of this species, and intoxicated by the salve, he had not taken time to explore the cultural restrictions stored within his brain. The whole matter had seemed complex and irrelevant to his mission. Now it was clear: Mating was a three-entity affair, impossible with two, compulsive the moment a third appeared.

The third served as a catalyst, forcing the other two to mate immediately.

Like the game of scissors-paper-stone, which he had played as a child on Outworld though no real scissors or paper existed there, the order of the matchings determined the outcome. Scissors cut paper, paper wrapped stone, and stone crushed scissors. So the sex of the catalyst determined the sex of the offspring -- but the offspring did not match the catalyst. Hence the intricate zone system, in which visitors of only one sex were permitted at a time. The game could not be played unless all three were present.

Since major construction required the talents of all three types, some subzones had been instituted, and couriers brought otherwise unauthorized Undulants through the Impact zone to that subzone without encountering any Sibilants. When Bopek had danced into the Sibilant zone, he had trespassed in much the way a strange male trespasses when he enters a harem. He had thus encountered a Sibilant with an Undulant visitor, and had become the catalyst, forcing involuntary mergence. That, by this culture's definition, was rape.

He was guilty.

But he could not linger for the trial and penalty. The foreign Sphere agent might already be here, and he had to nullify her before she got oriented and nullified him. His mission came before the niceties of Spican etiquette.

"Fellows, I apologize," he said.

Whereupon he invoked the most disgusting crime of which a Spican sapient was capable. He "fushed" them. He visualized them as a Sibilant and an Undulant, himself as a catalyst, and puffed out his bodily perimeter to intersect theirs. He overlapped them both, then contracted, hauling them together inside his flesh.

The act was appalling. Only in the filthiest of jokes was it even conceivable. A wave of intense revulsion almost overwhelmed the mind of his host. This was despicable homosexual rape! But Flint, desperate and rendered cynical by his recent experience, forced the two to intersect each other. Then he expelled them violently, firing them through the water, linked to each other.Both Impacts were unconscious, overcome by sheer shock and horror. And Flint was now guilty of a capital offense. His Impact brain urged immediate penance in the form of suicide. But he had already suffered his readjustment, his impairment of sanity. The sense of separation he had achieved during his prior sexual encounter shielded him. He hated himself, but he swam on.

Now he was near his original awakening spot, guided by Bopek's unerring directional/distance sense. And the injured Undulant was still there, in the temporary sub-zone, swimming uncertainly. He was in time -- probably because her sudden awakening must have canceled their plans to remove her from the area. This would be tricky, but he had to risk it. He swam up boldly. "I see my client has revived. Good work! I must now convey the Undulant to the assigned construction site."

The others had not yet received news of his crime spree. Relieved of responsibility, they turned the Undulant over to him.

The Undulant accompanied him without protest, as he had been sure she would. The mind of the recent transferee was still orienting, still trying to assimilate the complexities of this Spican scheme. He had to keep that mind distracted until he could nullify her.

But first he had to make quite sure that she was his enemy agent, and not the real Undulant. So he touched her.

There was the powerful aura, equivalent to his own. "So you know me already," she said. "You are aware of my mission."

"You tried to kill me, there in the Keel of the Ship," be replied. "If need be, I shall counter you with love, here in the Ear of Wheat."

"Ear of Wheat?" she inquired, perplexed. "Love?" She was confused but also playing for time, until she could ascertain the best way to kill him. But he had the advantage of prior experience in this realm.

"I'll explain about the wheat," he said as they swam. With one part of his mind he noted how smoothly she moved, despite her injury. Did the Kirlian aura of a lovely creature seek out a lovely host, or did the animation enhance the host? Twice she had been beautiful; it could be coincidence. "My species began to be civilized when it mastered wheat. Wheat is a grain, the seed of a grass, a type of plant. You have plants on your home planet?"

"Yes," she said. "But not wheat."

"This grain is nutritious and it keeps well. It enabled my ancestors, who were more civilized than I am, to store food over the barren winter months. They ground it up between stones and cooked it into masses of substance called bread. This reliable supply of good food greatly increased their survival capacity. In fact, we call it the Neolithic Revolution, the great progress of the New Stone Age. They had to learn to weave baskets to store the grain, and had to make records to dispense it fairly, and this led to many other skills. Eventually it resulted in complete modern civilization."

How glibly he reiterated the Shaman's discourse on the subject! The Paleolithic Flint himself had little affinity for such concepts. But it was one of the bits of knowledge that was becoming clear as he perceived the astonishing manifestations of advanced civilization. "Wheat was so important that man even placed it in the sky. The system of Spica is called the Ear of Wheat, held in the hand of the Virgin. It covers her bare bottom, for she is evidently modest. But the relevance of wheat to Spica is even more pertinent."

"Its pertinence eludes me," she said. She was willing to talk, for she too was stalling for time, thinking him a fool. Last time they had met, she had tried to kill him violently; this time she was being more cautious, but her objective was the same.

"Consider the mode of reproduction of wheat," Flint continued blithely.

If his plan worked, he could nullify her harmlessly. He didn't want to kill the entity possessing such an aura! "There are male and female elements, the pistils and the stamens. But they do not reproduce directly. There must be the intercession of a third element, to bring the pollen to its proper place. This is the wind. It carries the pollen from one plant to another. Without it, the wheat would not reproduce. Some other plants use insects as the third agent.

The wind or the bee may be considered a catalyst, enabling the act to occur.

It promotes reproduction, though of itself it may be sexless." Now they were approaching the Impact zone boundary. Beyond it was the Sibilant zone: forbidden territory. But thanks to his distractive discourse, Llyana did not yet realize this.

"Now the Spicans actually have three sexes," Flint continued, guiding her on through the veil. "They are interchangeable, after their fashion. The third sex is always the catalyst, initiating the act without being affected by it, like the wind or the bee. The other two sexes become the sire and the parent, depending on the order in which they meet. This is complicated to explain. Perhaps it is simplest to identify the pattern by means of the catalyst If the catalyst is an Impact, the offspring will be a Sibilant. If the catalyst is an Undulant, the offspring will be an Impact. And if the catalyst is a Sibilant -- "

And now, of course, they encountered a Sibilant, for this was the Sibilant zone. It saw them and tried to take evasive action, but Flint zeroed in on it, bringing Llyana along, forcing an encroachment within the critical range. Like a man suddenly confronted with an act of human copulation in progress, the Sibilant had a reaction. But in this case voyeurism was not sufficient; it had to participate. Because this was the nature of this species; proximity was courtship and consummation.

The Sibilant turned about and closed on them. Llyana did not yet realize the danger; Flint's explanation, despite its accuracy, had prevented her from exploring the practical aspect of her host's knowledge. He had not told her the whole truth, just as some humans fail to tell their children the whole truth.For the Sibilant was the third entity, the separate one, the catalyst.

Position, not sex, determined the roles of the three participants in any sexual encounter. Since the approaching mergence was involuntary -- at least on Llyana's part -- this was technical rape. But the investigation would show that the Impact and the Undulant were intruders in the Sibilant zone, exonerating the Sibilant. Flint, as Bopek the courier, had to have known this.

Therefore he was the true rapist -- again.

Now the compulsion of propinquity was upon the Sibilant. Like a buck winding a doe in heat, it jetted right into contact, extending its substance to interact with that of Flint and Llyana. Now she realized something was happening. "You are overlapping!" she exclaimed, exactly like a woman goosed in a crowd, indignant but not wanting to call too much attention to her complaint. She tried to move away -- but could not.

The throes of mergence were upon them. Stimulated by the envelopment of the catalyst -- as if it were a cup of fermented honey, or a soft bed of fragrant foliage, or a lovely nubile nude girl -- Flint proceeded to what was natural.

Llyana was a beautiful creature, literally. Her torso was as sleek yet rounded as any he had experienced, and her perimeter was delightfully permeable. She was formed to be permeated, penetrated, suffused, and as the ineffable environment of the catalyst brought them together he did all these things with her. Her potent aura enhanced the effect. He thought of Honeybloom as his flesh sank deeply through hers, and the whole of his being expanded with instant love. This was not after all so different from human mating; in fact it was better, for the presence of the catalyzing entity guaranteed a perfect union. There would be no last-minute hitches, no frustrating feminine changes of mind, no awkwardnesses of mechanical copulation. And the volume of interaction was so much greater; the whole body was involved, not merely one small organ. Like a perfect program, it scored -- every time.

Llyana was struggling. "This -- this -- I am being violated!" she protested. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

"I am Sissix the Sibilant," the catalyst replied. "Let the inquest show that I did not seek this union. Nevertheless, I do not protest it; you are both handsome specimens." Actually, the catalyst had little reason to protest; catalysm was as close to completely free pleasure as this world provided. The parent was responsible for the offspring, and the sire gave up a healthy chunk of his flesh; the catalyst experienced the same triple orgasm, but without penalty. The Spican sentient's traditional view of heaven was a warm ocean filled with pairs of the other two sexes, so that the individual could travel from pair to pair in perpetual catalysis. Unremitting ecstasy!

"Your motions only enhance the interaction," Flint told Llyana, knowing this was like telling the victim of ongoing rape not to struggle.

"This -- this is mating!" she screamed, shocked. Her message came through her body as much as her vocal apparatus, for they were now overlapping each other's nervous systems.

Flint had never before felt such extreme pleasure. In the human body, the joys and pains of various experiences were actually self-generated. No actual transfer of sensation occurred, merely external stimulus. But here there was the enveloping joy of literal mergence, of becoming one with one's species. Sissix and Llyana pooled their nervous impulses with Flint's to make a symphonic unity of amazing depth and intensity. Before, when Flint had been the inadvertent catalyst, he had been too revolted by the concept to appreciate the pleasure; now he relished it.

"And what a mating!" Sissix agreed. "No wonder you two sought a catalyst! I have never partaken of such a powerful union before. By pure chance, I am a participant in a greater experience than I ever could have initiated deliberately."

Still Llyana protested. "I am not your kind! This is an abomination!"

And there it was: her open confession of alien status. With that unguarded admission in the presence of a witness (actually so much more than a witness, for this verification occurred on the complete range of apperception, not just sight), Flint had the key. Overlapped as he was, he could read it directly from her own system and force further testimony. His defense against the charge of rape would hinge on his own identity as an envoy from Sphere Sol, and Llyana's identity as -- who?

"You are...an agent of an inimical system, from far, far away, beyond Sphere Knyfh...no, in another direction," he repeated, picking it out despite the almost overwhelming urge to complete the procreative act. "Your home Sphere is -- "

"No! No!" she screamed, every nerve jangling with a current that only increased his pleasure to the bursting point. "Three different species...miscegenation!"

What an experience humans missed, unable to draw directly from their lovers' systems. To experience their mates' orgasms; in fact, to mate the orgasms themselves, fashioning a pyramid of rapture impossible to any single entity.

"What an experience!" Sissix agreed, picking up part of that impulse. "I feel as though I'm careening through the vastness of an infinite ocean, seeing clusters of glowfish -- "

"That is deep space," Flint informed it. "Those glows are stars. We are aliens from distant Spheres."

"Noooo!" Llyana reverberated. But she could no longer hide it; her own nervous system, so powerfully animated by her intense Kirlian aura, betrayed her. The two strong auras were the real source of the enhancement the Sibilant felt; because it was actually sharing their aura-imbued systems, it was for the moment an enhanced entity. Yes, it would definitely be able to testify as to the alien nature of its mergence companions.

Flint had experienced orgasm before. Now he knew that no mating of his with Honeybloom could approach the enchantment of one with this alien. Because Honeybloom had a Kirlian aura of about one, or average: a washout as far as interaction with his own aura went. Llyana/¢le's aura was about two hundred, matching his own. There was simply no way to beat that. Interpenetration of extremely intense auras, combined with the physical and emotional rapture of sexual mergence...

Then Llyana got smart -- and Flint was able to appreciate how intelligent and disciplined she was, again because his nerves were hers. She concealed her origin and purpose by throwing herself into the mergence with full force.

And the climax was upon them. They drew together until the three were a tight, rock-hard ball, with only small portions remaining discrete, and there was appalling pressure. The urgency of completion was so great it seemed that their very substance would sunder.

And it did. Rapture became rupture. The ferocity of the explosion was soul-shattering. Impelled by the atomic nucleus of their triple overlay, they smashed out in three directions. There was an instant of exquisite pain as a gross chunk of flesh was ripped out of his body; then Flint was rushing through the water, incomplete yet completed. He agreed with the Sibilant: what an experience! Ordinarily the three participants of a union separated after climax, allowing their explosive impetus to carry them far from each other.

Flint as the sire and Llyana as the parent had lost portions of their mass, and needed time to heal and regain full size. Both had already suffered from the accident that had made the hosts available, so recuperation was critical.

Sissix, as catalyst, had escaped without loss, of course. If Flint chanced into another mergence as anything but catalyst, he would lose yet another portion of himself, and that could be disastrous. So he had to be careful, and to get out of the Sibilant zone as soon as possible. He understood now that these zones were not merely prudery, but necessary to the survival of the species. Uncontrolled matings could be fatal!

Nevertheless, he swam around to follow Llyana. It was a risk, but a necessary one. He had to be sure he had nullified her.

He found her, undulating along with an infant of her kind. The little creature was scarcely formed, and was technically a neuter, but recognizable by its lack of flippers or propulsion jet. Babies had to be sexless, or they would be inadvertently caught up into mergences and not survive into maturity.

Like humans, they developed when they were ready.

"Well, happy motherhood," Flint said. She spun on him, coiling like a snake. Undulants had more supple bodies than Impacts, and could bend more readily. In the absence of a catalyst she had no further specific sex appeal, but she remained an esthetic specimen. "Schlish!" she exclaimed.

He chuckled as well as the alien vocal apparatus permitted. "You can't swear in Spican. There is no equivalence here, and the phonetics cannot be literally rendered. I believe what you're trying to say is 'fush!' "

"Schlish! Fush!" she agreed vehemently.

"Please -- not in front of the child," he cautioned her. "And you'd better let me show you out of the Sibilant zone, or we may encounter another roving catalyst. I don't think you'd want to mate again so soon."

She swelled up as if ready to explode. But his warnings did have effect.

She swerved to follow him, and did not make any more intemperate remarks.

Their infant swam docilely after her. Alien she might be -- but her body was Spican, and the biological ties of motherhood were controlling, just as they were among humans, even when the child was the result of rape.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded more moderately.

"To force an admission of your origin from you," he said. "That was successful, though I admit I didn't quite pinpoint your Sphere. And I had to prevent you from trying to kill me or otherwise balk me from the performance of my mission. With a child to care for, you can't go chasing after me, can you? Not to other Spheres."

"Schl -- " she started, then caught herself, glancing at the innocent infant. Flint was amazed at how readily he was able to accept this new reality: in just a few minutes by Sol time he had mated and become a father, and here was his child -- by a completely alien mother. "There will be another time.""I hope so," he said. "I'd really like to repeat this performance -- in my own body, with you in human form. You're quite a female."

She was silent for a moment. "And you are quite a male," she agreed at last. "I have not before encountered an aura to match my own. I underestimated you, assuming you to be a primitive of your kind."

"I am," Flint agreed. "I'm a Stone Age man. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid."

"That is true." Then she hardened. "But I shall not make that error again. Twice I have failed; that suffices."

And twice he had let her live, when perhaps he should have killed her.

If only it weren't for the fascination of her aura, and his curiosity about her Sphere of origin. "Meanwhile, take good care of our baby," he said cheerfully. "I believe it takes about six months, my time, to raise a neuter to independence. If my interpretation of the nature of transfer is correct, you do possess the maternal instinct and will not permit your baby to suffer -

- because your Spican host would not have done so. You can't go home before it is old enough to be weaned, or it will die, and you can't take it with you because its Kirlian aura is native to this planet and would quickly fade in another host. I hope your own aura will last sufficiently long?"

"You know my aura is as strong as yours!" she flashed.

"Good. Then you will have a full month's clearance, and then you can go home and recuperate for a similar period, while I complete my missions at other Spheres. After that, there will be no point in your seeking me out to kill me. The job will have been done. Are you sure you don't want me to send a message to your home Sphere to let them know you're busy?"

"You have nullified me!" she cried angrily.

"This is music to my auditory perception," he said, realizing that he didn't have ears. His whole surface picked up the sound waves. "Well, I would have hated to kill so lovely a creature as you. Maybe after all this is over, we can get together again. It was a lot of fun this time."

This time even the presence of the child did not restrain her.

" Schlish! "

But now Impacts were closing in, their fringes bubbling a bit in reaction to the foul language they had just picked up. Flint knew he could not escape arrest. And he realized there was a hole in his plan: he remained an outlaw. They might refuse to listen to him.

"Now I'll make you a deal," he said quickly. "You do not press charges against me for involuntary mergence, and I will not tell them of your alien origin."

"Fush!" she said. "I'll not cover for you! I can make them hold you here until your aura vanishes."

"All right -- I'll tell them all about it," he said brightly, though he was worried. "And I'll call in the Sibilant as witness." He turned to the nearest Impact. "I am an alien sapience in possession of this Impact body," he announced. "Your cultural rules do not apply to me. This Undulant is -- "

"I agree!" Llyana throbbed.

"...is an involuntary victim of my ignorance of local custom. Please take me to the Council of Impacts for interrogation."

"That we shall," the Impact said a bit grimly. "Do you, the victim, prefer charges against this entity?"

"No," she said grudgingly. "It was an accident. I am pleased with my offspring. Only give me safe conduct to my zone."

"As you wish," the Impact said. "These things do happen."

And so she departed with the little one, and Flint was conducted to the ruling council of his sex. He knew from data within his host's memory that the council entities possessed the acumen to comprehend and verify his message, and the self-interest to cooperate. After all, this tri-sexed species could not have formed a stellar empire without knowledge of space and a high technology. Their achievement in doing it from a water base was phenomenal; it spoke well of their potential and drive. He would soon be back in his home sphere, mission accomplished.

He hoped the two Impacts he had fushed would not come forward to testify against him. But probably they would hide that embarrassing secret, as a human man might hide the fact of a homosexual attack on him. Justice was not worth the notoriety.

He rather hated to leave Llyana behind. He doubted he would ever again encounter a Kirlian aura that intense. And she had spirit and intelligence.

She was in many respects his ideal mate.

But then he thought of Honeybloom, and remembered that he could never marry a nonhuman entity. How could they stay together any length of time, with fading auras? No, he belonged with his own kind.

6 -- Eye of the Charioteer

*notice agent mired in sphere spica cannot remove for some time*

-- we know! what of the target kirlian? --

*retransferred to sphere sol no subsequent transfer*

-- well check the mattermission indications, idiot! --

*target kirlian mattermitted to system capella within own sphere*

-- detail on system --

*renaissance culture despotic center of internal resistance to domination of earth planet some infiltration by agents of anti-coalition spheres dominated by scheming queen*

-- excellent that system may take care of our problem for us! --

*POWER*

-- CIVILIZATION --

Capella was forty-five light-years from Sol, in the general direction of Sphere Nath but only a sixth as far. Its closest colonized neighbor was Castor, about as far away from it as Sirius was from Sol. What were eight or ten light-years between friends? Nothing like the hundred and some light-years to Etamin. Some day Flint meant to stop in at his home planet -- but alas, Capella was not on that route.

He arrived in his own body in the afternoon, unannounced. Sol controlled the mattermitter, so that could be arranged. The station attendant, another pale-whitish specimen in an Imperial black tunic, introduced himself as Ambassador Jones of Earth. Flint identified himself. The man looked him up in the Orders of the Day and became more affable. "I've never met a genuine Outworlder before," he remarked. "I had understood that planet was -- "

"Stone Age," Flint finished for him. "Right. And I really am a jolly green giant. And I chipped stone for a living, until the Imps snatched me. I'm here to -- " he hesitated.

"Do not be concerned; I am cleared for such information. It's in your dossier. You are our chief transfer agent, on temporary leave to recover your aura. I gather it fades somewhat during transfer."

"Yes. They did not trust me to visit my home world. Afraid I might skip back to the better life."

"Ha ha," the man laughed dutifully, though Flint had been serious.

"Well, we shall take good care of you. Tonight is a very special occasion, locally. Good Queen Bess is having a birthday party. Capella is in the midrange of regression, culturally and technologically, you know. Post-medieval, early Renaissance, though of course that isn't exact. You'd think that in the three hundred years it's been settled they'd have advanced further, but there have been complicating factors. A number of the parallels to Earth history are contrived; the Queen is a student of history, and you can guess who her idol is."

"I'd have to," Flint remarked. "I'm more of a student of Paleolithic events myself. I'm not much on contemporary Earth."

But he did remember that the Shaman had called Capella "Victorian."

Evidently it was further regressed than that Maybe its population had been too thin to sustain the Victorian level.

The Ambassador chuckled again. "Well I have made arrangements for you to attend as the representative from System Etamin. Should make quite a splash.

Do you have any idea what it costs to mattermit a man your size a hundred light-years?"

"Two trillion dollars," Flint said immediately.

The Ambassador looked startled; evidently he had expected ignorance.

"Ah, yes. Queen Bess will be flattered to think that a system over thirty parsecs distant has sent a man to honor her. I would imagine you'll be feted.

You should enjoy it. These are a lusty people, for all their mannerisms, much given to feasting and, er, wenching."

Flint thought of Honeybloom, back on Outworld. When would he see her again? At any rate, she was not the jealous type. His dallying elsewhere would not bother her, as long as she knew he preferred her. Men were men, after all.

"Sounds great."

"Let's get you outfitted." The man brought out an armful of costume clothing. "This habiliment may seem outlandish, but believe me, it's what they wear. This is a suit appropriate to a high-ranking envoy."

"Wouldn't an authentic Outworld outfit be better?"

"Possibly. What is the established Outworld costume?"

"Nothing," Flint said. "We run naked."

The man forced yet another laugh. Flint got the message. When in the Capella system, dress Capella style.

He tugged his way into the skintight pants. "These are awful," he complained. "They're one size smaller than my skin."

"That's the style. Actually, you have very nice legs. The Queen has a fine eye for that sort of thing. Muscle in the right places, no fat. Now this."Flint eyed the bright-red bag. "What's that?"

"The codpiece."

"A piece of fish? Looks more like a scrotum."

"Precisely. A crotch guard. This one's armored, just in case."

"It's uncomfortable as hell! Suppose I need to -- ?"

"Ha ha. It's removable. Wait till you try on the armor."

"Armor?"

The Ambassador brought out a pile of metal. "This is a parade vest, decorative yet functional. Note the articulation of the joints, the polish of the surface. They have fine metalsmiths here."

"I'm a flintsmith, myself," Flint observed, frowning. But he struggled into the thing, clank by clank. And suffered an unpleasant memory. "It's worse than an old Luna spacesuit!"

"Undoubtedly. But even more proof against punctures." The man got it on him efficiently, then dropped an elegant blue sash across his right shoulder, knotting it over his left hip. Then slippers with blue bows. And some kind of trinket.

"I'm no lady!"

"You misunderstand the role of jewelry historically. Many virile men have worn it. But this happens to be a watch. These are very important here.

Queen Bess has her own palace watchmaker."

Flint looked at it: a round object about the heft of a good throwing stone, glassed on one side, with a decorated dial and two pointers. "What's it for?" "For telling time. You wear it on a chain, tucked into a special pocket, here."Flint balked again at the next object. "A snuffbox," the Ambassador explained. "It contains powdered tobacco -- don't do that!"

But he was too late. Flint had opened the box and done what was natural: taken a good sniff to find out what it smelled like. His paroxysm of sneezing blew tobacco powder all over the room, setting the Ambassador off too.

When the spasms subsided, the dressing resumed. "I think we can safely dispense with the snuffbox," the Ambassador said. Flint agreed emphatically.

"And we won't need the helmet and gauntlets, since this is a festive occasion.

But the sword must be worn. It is a mark of honor."

"But it has no cutting edge!" Flint objected, running his thumb along it. Swords were not yet in use on Outworld, but the Shaman had told him of them, and he found them intrinsically fascinating.

"It is a rapier, not a machete," the Ambassador said. "Remember the level of culture here. Three musketeers -- know what I mean?"

"Guns haven't yet been invented on my world. But I thought a musket was a firearm."

"Come to think if it, you're right. I wonder why they called them the three musketeers? They were French swordsmen of the seventeenth century.

Furthermore, there were four of them, counting D'Artagnan. Though of course they did have muskets there -- and have them here too -- but they aren't used as weapons of honor. Except for pistols, in arranged duels." He shrugged.

"Well, we've dressed you for the part, and if you watch your manners you won't have to use the sword. You can't get into any trouble wishing the Queen happy birthday. So long as you don't mention her age, ha ha."

So the Queen was an old bag. Well, he could wish her happy birthday, all right. Then get into the feasting and wenching.

The ritual of dressing had taken some time. It was night already. They went outside to wait for the transportation provided by the Queen. The stars were bright, but Flint hardly had time to look at them before the thud of hooves signaled the approach of his coach. He did identify his home star, Etamin, and that made him feel he had gotten his bearings, though the constellation it now occupied did not look much like Draco the Dragon. A shift of forty-five light-years to the side made a big difference in the apparent positions of the nearer stars. There was no Charioteer constellation, of course, because Capella was in it, as the eye of Auriga, mythological inventor of the chariot. The colonies were well aware of the places of their systems in human mythology, and Flint had no doubt the chariot was an important symbol here, just as the dragon was around Etamin. The visible constellations changed with each planet, but they lacked the human authenticity of the Earth-sky, and had not built up followings of their own. Even as a child in Etamin's system, Flint had learned the constellations of Sol's system. And some, like Orion's Belt, were the same anywhere in Sol Sphere, because those three stars were so far away.

Flint had a premonition about the probable nature of his steed. Sure enough: what hove into view was a dragon drawing a chariot. "They have several beasts of burden here," the Ambassador explained. "Since your world is considered to be a primitive warrior-system -- "

"An accurate description," Flint agreed, pleased. Actually, from what he had seen and beard, more civilized cultures were far more combative than his own. There were no wars on Outworld, and few individual combats. But each man liked to think of himself as a warrior.

The man coughed. "Yes. So you will be expected to have a rather crude, forceful bearing. But remember: The Queen's courtiers are all expert swordsmen, and dead shots with pistols. No one not raised to the manner can match them. Whatever you do, don't get into a duel! Don't draw your weapon at all in the palace."

"Tantamount to a challenge, eh?" Flint inquired as servitors guided the dragon in, like little tugboats beside its mass. "But why would they bother an honorary delegate from another system who only comes to wish their Queen well?""They wouldn't, ordinarily. But there has been unrest recently. There's a lot of local intrigue; it's part of the manners of the period. The Queen had her last lover beheaded some time ago for treason -- he was guilty, incidentally; she's very fair about such things -- and that heightens it."

"Because they're afraid there'll be more beheadings?"

"No. Because all the young nobles are jockeying for her favor, hoping to become her next lover. The Queen's specific favor means a lot, as she is the source of all power here. So she has been in a bad mood, and the whole planet reflects it. Duels are frequent. But as I said, you aren't part of this, so you're safe enough so long as you don't go out of your way to antagonize anyone. Sol isn't sending a delegate, and I'm staying here in the embassy.

Diplomatic immunity goes only so far. Rumors of transfer have gotten about, and these people have confused medieval notions about that. The mood is generally antiscientific. Do you know what I mean by the Inquisition?"

"No." But Flint made a mental note to find out, at his convenience; the Ambassador had spoken the word with a suggestive intonation that hinted at horrible things.

"Well, Queen Bess has suppressed the Inquisition anyway. But it typifies the alienophobic attitudes to which such cultures are prone. To them, Earth is alien. So Sol and Sirius are in bad repute; they make much of the fact that Capella is a hundred and fifty times as luminous as Sol. But Etamin is well regarded, perhaps because it is far away and primitive. So just be careful not to mention transfer, and you'll have a good time."

"A good time -- in the midst of this caldron of animosities?"

"For a Stone Age man, you have quite a vocabulary! But perhaps I have exaggerated the situation. Those in favor are very well treated, and when the Queen throws a party, there's nothing like it in Sphere Sol. Their ladies are very provocative and, er, free. But I'd advise against -- well -- "

"Why not?" Flint asked, more curious than alarmed.

"Well, the Queen -- " The Ambassador paused. "You really don't know much about this culture, do you? No reason you should, of course. I just hadn't thought it through. I think as a precaution you'd better take this."

He held out a flattish flesh-colored bit of plastic. "Stick it to the roof of your mouth."

"Why?"

"It's a communicator. Two-way radio. Picks up all sounds in your neighborhood, including your own speech, and transmits our messages through the bony structure to your ears, inaudible to anyone else. Essential for guiding you in local etiquette, just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"You're very direct."

"You're beating about the bush. If this is such a party, why all the precautions?"

The Ambassador sighed. "We don't expect any trouble, but this is a volatile situation and you are a very important individual. If you met with any misfortune my head would roll. Literally, I fear. Imperial Earth holds you in high regard."

"No accounting for tastes," Flint said.

"I may be overreacting, but now I question the advisability of sending you to this party. We can make an excuse -- "

"No, I want to go," Flint said. He inserted the radio, pressing it into place with his tongue. It was small, and bothered him only momentarily. Since he valued his hide fully as much as the Ambassador did, this was useful insurance.

His transportation had been docked and was waiting with growing signs of impatience. Flint walked up to the chariot and stared at the dragon. "That's some animal!" he remarked appreciatively.

"Of course. The Queen employs the best. Don't worry -- it should be perfectly tame, and it knows the route."

Flint eyed it There was something about it, a kind of nobility, quite apart from its impressive size. The animal was like a dinosaur, with huge bone flanges ridged along its backbone. But it was no dinosaur, neither of the Earthly nor the Outworldly types, but a genuine dragon complete with fiery breath and bright wings. Its feet terminated in claws so massive they resembled hooves; one of those extremities could readily kill a man by puncture and squeeze. Yes, magnificent!

Under his cynosure, the thing turned its head, swinging it on a sinuous neck, and brought a steely eye to bear on Flint. No figure of speech; the surface of the eyeball shone like polished metal.

Tame? Flint was reminded of the time he had looked the trapped dinosaur, Old Snort, in the eye. This dragon-creature held him in contempt. Flint's gut level reaction was to view this as a challenge.

Flint stepped up close and extended one hand. "Don't touch it!" the Ambassador cried with the same alarmed tone of his warning about the snuffbox

-- again, too late. Flint placed his right hand on the massive snout, firmly.

The dragon swelled up. visibly at this indignity. A kind of furnace-roaring emanated from its belly. Its nose became burning hot. A puff of steam jetted from its nostrils, heating Flint's slippered toes. But Flint stood firm, staring the beast down, and after a moment the dragon broke the contact.

The Ambassador gaped. "That was very chancy," he said, wiping perspiration -- or perhaps it was condensed steam -- from his brow. "They're tame -- but not pets. They tolerate the harness because they like to run, but only a given dragon's master may touch it about the head. If the master dies, the dragon usually has to be destroyed, lest it run wild. You must have the eye of a charioteer. The locally fabled gaze of command. It's rare."

Flint shrugged. He knew it had not been his gaze but his touch that had daunted the dragon. He was familiar with this type of creature, so had respect without fear -- but more than that, he had the Kirlian aura with special intensity. And so did the dragon. Animals, like men, possessed it, usually of indifferent intensity but highly variable. And a high-intensity creature responded to Flint's aura in much the way Flint himself had responded to the aura of Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh. There was now a mutual respect between man and dragon.

Flint mounted the chariot and took the reins. A tiny twitch put the dragon in motion. "Don't let it go too fast," a voice said.

Flint glanced about, but there was no one. "Where are you?" He believed in dragons, but not in ghosts.

"Here. It's the Ambassador. I'm using the radio."

The voice was in his own skull. "I'll keep it in mind. The dragon's not going to wreck himself."

The countryside was hardly visible at night, just a varied mat of vegetation, as on Outworld, the way a planet should be. Flint looked at the sky again, feeling nostalgic. He saw the tenuous cloud of the Milky Way, and the large faint patch of Galaxy Andromeda to the side, just as they were in the sky of Outworld. He pondered the notion that all his adventures stemmed from the malign influence of that distant cluster of stars.

He looked across to Etamin again, halfway around the sky. Home, so far away! What was Honeybloom doing now? Was the Shaman looking this way?

The dragon did know the way. It found its dragon-path and put on speed, spreading its vestigial wings for additional stability when banking around turns. The white steam jetting out from its nostrils puffed into the sky and drifted back, bathing Flint in its warm aroma. He knew that steam was invisible; this was merely the condensation of water droplets as the breath cooled. Small matter; it was pleasant being a dragonmaster, and he urged the creature on. This was an attitude it appreciated, for it responded with a burst of speed that had the chariot wheels bouncing over the irregularities of the trail. Now it was a high-velocity ride, but Flint gave the animal free play. The chariot shook so hard it seemed ready to fly apart, and Flint reveled in the sensation. Was this what it was like to be a god, coursing through the sky?

Yet he wondered. Why had the Queen provided an unchaperoned dragon for the visitor? A soft, civilized man like the Ambassador could have been injured or even killed. Was she testing him? He grinned in the dark as the waves of vapor blew out his hair. If the Queen were curious about the mettle of Outworld, she would learnt.

In due course they steamed into the palace demesne. There were a cluster of buildings and appurtenances, ornate affairs with columns and turrets and arches and flying buttresses -- probably a mishmash of Earthly medieval architecture. What sort of buildings had resulted when the pleasantly primitive Goths become Gothic architects? This was the physical manifestation of cultural regression toward the fringe of the civilized Sphere. It was the same for all Spheres, whatever sapient species controlled them, for there was a built-in limitation -- the lack of energy. With unlimited energy, all the Spheres could have been maintained at the highest level of civilization. Maybe it was really a blessing, for galactic conquest would become possible, and there were many creatures more advanced than humans. But as it was, many Spheres could flourish and their outer reaches had to fade. In no case was history reenacted; the technical approximation was echoed by culture. Where rapiers were the most advanced weapons, etiquette honored the proficient swordsman. The guidance of Earth history helped set the patterns, but this was a very general thing, with anomalies the rule. So there was no firm guide to the authenticity of the palace. The palace was what it was, and that was by local definition correct.

"Rogue dragon!" someone screamed as they slammed into the terminal. Men scurried about, spreading out a huge net with which to snare the rampant beast. But Flint smiled, and drew in on the reins gently. The dragon screeched to a stop precisely on target, its giant claws chiseling furrows out of the packed dirt. Flint dismounted in a cloud of steam and dust, gave the dragon a comradely pat on the nose, and marched regally into the main gate.

A shaken flunky took his name and planet, and another led away the dragon, who gave Flint another brief but meaningful glance. The rapport of Kirlians operated independently of species or intellect. Right now Flint had other things to do, but he would come to see the dragon again. He preferred its company to that of ordinary human beings.

And where there was one high-Kirlian animal, there might be others. Were all dragons like this here, or just this one? Probably no animals had been measured for this quality; few natives understood the nature of the regular Imperial surveys. Flint had been ignorant as a child and young warrior. Now he understood the secret of much of his success as a hunter on Outworld, and perhaps as a flintsmith too. Some animals and even some objects possessed auras, and he had unconsciously related to these.

"Ooooh, there's a handsome one," a female voice remarked as he entered the gate.

Flint picked out the owner of that voice. It was a girl -- like none he had seen before. Her face was pretty, and her breasts were astonishingly uplifted and full, seeming about to burst out of harness, but the rest of her was grotesque. Her arms were grossly bloated to the wrists, and her hips jutted out at right angles into a posterior like an overgrown swamp hummock, a massive mound dropping vertically to the floor. Two pegs protruded from that voluminous skirt, and Flint realized these were her slippered feet. And her face and hands and the alarming cleavage of her bosom were light blue.

"Haven't you seen a woman before?" she inquired.

"Don't stare," the voice in his skull said. It was the Ambassador, on the job. "I can't look through your eyes, but I'm assuming from the voice that you've just met one of the palace escorts, a handmaiden to the Queen. She -- "

"Shut up," Flint mumbled, not pleased to have had this encounter intercepted.

The blue girl gave him an arch glance. "Well!"

"Not you," Flint said quickly. "I was addressing my beating heart. I have not before observed such beauty." The Shaman would not have approved of such a lie, but it seemed necessary.

"Wow! You'll do fine here," the Ambassador said. "That's the ticket."

Flint wondered what a ticket was.

The girl flushed very prettily, her face, breasts, and hands turning so dark they were almost green. That made her look better. Flint realized that the flunkies outside had been blue too, but he hadn't noted it in the poor light. Just as his own people were green, and Sol's people were shades of white, brown, and black, these Capellans were blue. It all depended on the environment, especially the type of stellar radiation they received.

"You must be the envoy from Etamin. We know there are real men there."

"Yes," Flint agreed. "Will you guide me to the..."

"Throneroom," the Ambassador supplied.

"Throneroom?" Flint finished. "I am a stranger here."

"Gladly, sir," she agreed, putting one hand on his elbow, sliding her arm inside his. "I am Delle."

"I am Flint of Outworld," he said as she walked him down a long hall. "I am from a primitive world."

"Yes. The gossip is all over the palace, how you brought Old Scorch to heel. That must have been some -- "

"The dragon?" But of course it was. Just as the most ornery dinosaur of his region of Outworld had been dubbed Old Snort, a term both respectful and descriptive, the most ornery dragon here would be Old Scorch. Evidently news traveled like lightning in the palace, unless the girls had been watching from a window. "He's a fine animal."

"He's burned eleven men in his day," she said. "That's approaching a record. Usually an animal is destroyed after three, but he's the Queen's pet.

He never scorches her, you bet. He's not supposed to be used beyond the palace grounds, but there must have been a foulup."

"Very interesting," the voice in his skull remarked. "They were supposed to send a docile animal."

"As I said," Flint proceeded, "I am primitive. Please do not take offense -- but I am unfamiliar with your apparel. Does it reflect your form?"

"My form?" She looked perplexed.

"On my world, women have thinner arms and -- "

"Watch it!" the Ambassador snapped.

" -- legs," Flint finished.

Delle laughed so heartily her breasts actually flopped in the rigid half-cups. "Here, I'll show you." She glanced back down the hall, then drew him into an alcove. When she was satisfied they had privacy she pulled the side of her neckline away from her shoulder, baring her upper arm and half of the rest of her breast. "See, these are padded sleeves. It's the fashion, also warm on cold nights. I'm really quite skinny underneath."

And all blue. "Oh." Flint was relieved. "Forgive the confusion of a barbarian."

"You really thought all that was me?"

"I could not be certain. The skirt -- "

"What a fat ass you thought I had!" she exclaimed, delighted. "Well, catch a glimpse of this!" And she drew up a bulging hank of her skirt and petticoats to display as slender and symmetrical a pair of blue legs as Flint could have wished. "This is a farthingale, a kind of bustle under the skirt.

I'm quite human underneath. I have all the things a woman needs. Here, put your hand -- "

"Careful!" the voice in his skull cried.

"Why?" Flint asked both girl and voice.

"To feel my thigh," Delle said. "To prove it's real. And whatever else you may doubt. It really is all there."

"Because she'll seduce you if she can, quite without qualm," the Ambassador explained at the same time, like a conscience. "You are a handsome man from an enticingly primitive planet, and she would gain notoriety. Don't let it happen. Suppose the Queen wanted your service, and you just had exhausted yourself with a handmaiden, little better than a chambermaid? Very bad form."

Oho! Flint did not know the distinction between a handmaiden and a chambermaid, but he got the drift. First the dragon, then the flirt, testing him. The Queen was taking a greater interest in him than he had supposed.

Flint put his hand on her firm thigh. "Excellent," he remarked sincerely. He slid his fingers up to cup her supple buttock. "How I regret I cannot explore this matter further."

"Oh, but you can," Delle said warmly. "I know a room where no one goes, and it has a huge bed -- "

"But my urgency to wish Queen Bess a happy birthday is so pressing that all else palls. I may not dally." And as he spoke the word "pressing" he gave her buttock a good hard pinch, so that she jumped involuntarily, and withdrew.

"Beautiful!" the Ambassador said. "You are a born diplomat!"

No, Flint thought. No diplomat. He merely liked to make his own decisions, to seduce rather than be seduced. The more someone pushed him, the more he went his own way. As the bastard speaking in his skull might find out in due course. The Ambassador was taking entirely too much interest.

The girl could make no serious objection. She was loyal to her Queen --

perhaps a direct agent doing the Queen's specific bidding. Flint had learned on the slave world of Sphere Canopus not to confuse the relation between master and servant. People who failed the Queen could lose their heads.

Probably nothing that went on in this palace was hidden from the monarch. This place was like a giant spider web (one of Sol system's more intriguing phenomena), and woe betide the visiting fly who misstepped.

They came sedately to the entrance of the main hall. "Now you must wait for the herald," Delle explained. "Then walk slowly up and make obeisance to the Queen."

"That's right," the Ambassador said. "I will guide you. After that formality, you should have no trouble. Once the liquor starts flowing, just about anything goes."

Flint clicked his teeth once in acknowledgment. Maybe then the Ambassador would kindly take a nap and leave Flint to his own devices. He needed no advice in handling liquor, food, and pretty girls.

"His Excellency Lord Pimpernel, Envoy Extraordinary of System Sheriton, realm of the Ram," the herald announced. A rather pudgy little man with spotty skin minced up and made a deep bow to the Queen, who was out of the line of Flint's vision.

"The Lord High Poopdoodle of Pollux, Most Gracious Tzar of the Twins, Gentleman of Gemini." And a tall, thin, old man marched out, almost stumbling over his hanging sword, while Flint stifled a laugh. Poopdoodle of Pollux? It sounded like dragon refuse.

But the next introduction was even worse. "The Regent of the Fabled Green Planet, Scion of Star Etamin, Conqueror of the Dragon, Flint of Outworld!" the herald bawled.

Flint stood still, stunned by the audacity of the fanciful credits he had been assigned. Outworld had no Regent, and he had no authority even in his local tribe, let alone his planet. Were they trying to mock him?

"Get in there!" the skull-voice cried. " All their titles are ludicrous.

Popdod of Pollux is just an ambassador, same as me. He didn't balk!"

So Popdod had become Poopdoodle. The Ambassador was right: Flint had nothing to complain about.

He marched in. Now he saw the Queen, standing before her throne. She was short and blue, but impressive in padded sleeves and farthingale hoops that made her skirt even more like a barrel than that of Delle's. The material of her dress was thick and quilted, with golden thread and bright jewels at every interstice. She wore several necklaces of jewels that hung halfway down her body, reaching out to the edge of the vertical skirt. On either side of her neck were huge ruffs and wire frames extending the lines of her head out a foot or more. She wore an obvious wig pinned to her scalp, but still looked almost bald beneath it Her crown perched at the top like the spire of a church. In her right hand she held the scepter of power.

"Bow," the voice said urgently. "Slow and deep."

Flint faced Queen Bess and bowed.

"Well, it has manners after all," the Queen said. Her voice was harsh and somewhat scratchy. She was a robust woman, not young but not yet old, with makeup caked on her face so that it looked like a fright mask. Flint suspected that her body under the elaborate dress did resemble the outer configuration: bloated into the shape of a hogshead of strong liquor. Maybe that was why she had set this style: to cover her defects, and make all others cover their assets.

"She's the spitting image of the original Elizabeth of England, you know," the Ambassador remarked. "She uses the caked makeup deliberately, because that's the way the original did it; underneath she's actually a somewhat younger woman. Like Elizabeth, Bess is tough and smart. No coincidence, of course; she's studied history. Don't forget that for one instant. Wish her happy birthday, but don't mention her age."

Small chance; Flint didn't know her age, and the Ambassador had warned him about this before. But she was obviously older than the average Outworld tribeswoman. "Planet Outworld bids you an enjoyable birthday, gracious Queen."

"The whole planet!" she exclaimed, chuckling mannishly. "We welcome the emissary of the Dragon."

"Now back off," the Ambassador said. "There are others to be introduced, but you're home free. Queen Bess has accepted you."

Flint backed off. So far so good; if this were the worst of it, he would have an easy evening. The smell of the feast was already circulating through the room, and he saw barrels of liquor being set up in a corner. He was hungry and thirsty, and he might even get a chance to go out and look at the stars at greater leisure. That was one thing about having a party at night: the stars were out.

He bumped into someone. A young man was standing in his way, a man who hadn't been there a moment ago. He wore brown tights with a padded codpiece, a brilliant red cape, and a supercilious sneer. "I beg your pardon," the youth said loudly. "I was not aware of your optical infirmity. Stupid of me not to realize that anyone as green as you could not be in the best of health."

"He's baiting you," the Ambassador advised. "Ignore him. The court's full of young dandies on the prowl for trouble."

"Green is my natural color," Flint said mildly. "It has to do with the radiation of my star and the atmosphere of my planet, as most people know. My vision is satisfactory -- but the eyes of my head were on the Queen, and I do not possess eyes elsewhere."

"Are you suggesting that I do? " the dandy demanded, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He seemed more than willing to be insulted. "I, Lord Boromo of the Chariot?"

"Ignore him," the voice in the skull repeated. "I recognize the name.

He's a notorious troublemaker, but an expert swordsman, as these things go.