probably not even be challenged. They parted company near the center of camp. Cor took the path that led to Tatja’s tent, and Svir walked toward the provincial headquarters area. Here the thick arches of the looproot were more closely set. In places the branches and needle leaves reduced the sunlight to a gray-green twilight. The underbrush was shaded out. Tents and cots were scattered at random through darker portions of the grove. The scene was quite different from the display bivouacs he had seen back in Crownesse, where tents and vehicles were set in pretty rectangular formations that looked so neat and military.
The moment he left Cor, he began working on Ancho. It seemed that as the years went by the animal became better and better at responding to the tactile instructions of his masters, and Svir was pretty confident that Ancho would not fail him now. He tried not to think what happened the last time he invaded a godling’s privacy. This was different: get some information and split. With luck, Tatja would protect them later.
The first sentry he passed came to attention and saluted. Good. The sentry probably identified him as Jolle. Fifteen feet ahead, the grove thinned and sunlight flooded a mossy clearing. Parked at the edge of the clearing was the camouflaged hulk of Jolle’s wagon. The wagon’s tent had been pulled out and assembled. If Jolle were in the tent, would it rupture the sentries’ credulity when another Jolle appeared outside the tent? He would know in a moment.
He walked briskly toward the wagon’s rear entrance. The guards around the wagon saluted. No one attempted to stop him.
He had been identified as Jolle again. He walked purposefully to the little doorway. The entrance had a standard lever-latch. He pulled at the latch. It didn’t budge. He pulled again, harder. He found himself sweating as he wondered what the sentries thought of his inability to enter “his own” wagon. Perhaps one of the guards had a key, but he didn’t dare ask. Besides, he noticed on closer inspection that no lock mechanism was visible. He had no chance of getting in here.
He leaned against the side of the wagon and pretended to admire the flowers drooping from the branches that sheltered the wagon from snoopers further up the gorge. There was only one other place he could try; the tent entrance. Jolle probably wasn’t there; but if he were, he might react so abruptly that Svir wouldn’t be able to set off the noise bomb.
Well, he had come this far; it seemed ridiculous to back out now. He reflected with some irritation that in general his courage derived from the fear that he might be taken for a coward. He walked to the tent at the other end of the wagon. The vents were open, but it was too dark for him to see anything inside. The guard at the entrance saluted, addressed him as Jolle.
He took a deep breath and decided to commit himself. “I’m going to be in and out all afternoon. I don’t wish to be disturbed.” That might help take care of inconsistencies if the sentry later saw Jolle outside the tent.
“Very good, sir,” the woman replied.
Svir pulled back the entrance curtain and stepped into the dimness. All was quiet. It was warm, but not hot. There was even a faint breeze. Sunlight lay on the carpeted floor, and after a few seconds he could see the interior clearly. No one home. The room was lavishly appointed; Jolle had a penchant for the good life. From one corner came the pleasant odor of burning perfume. Beside the tent mast stood a low couch and a table supporting a coolchest and bottles of drink.
He moved quickly across the room to the wagon’s entrance. The deep carpet made his movements silent: the loudest sounds were the cicadas and the daybats. Even in the dimness, he could see that this entrance was different from the one at the rear. When the troops were in march, the tent was stowed in the front of the wagon, behind a pair of clamshell doors—which now stood open. Beyond those doors, a beautifully painted partition of fine-weave spider silk was stretched taut from one side of the wagon to the other. A doorway was mounted at the center of the partition. The spider silk was so fine that Svir would be clearly visible to anyone behind it.
He pulled at the leverlatch on the little door. This one didn’t move either. Again, there was no evidence of a locking mechanism. The only explanation was that the door was barred from the inside. But this would imply that there was someone in there. What now?
Then he heard Tatja’s voice outside the tent. Jolle was with her. They were coming into the tent. Even now Jolle was telling the sentry at the entrance to move away, that secret matters were to be discussed. Svir stood frozen for a moment, and Ancho echoed his discomfort, whimpering where he crouched on the astronomer’s shoulder. Svir’s only chance was to hide and hope that the dorfox would give him some protection with his I’m-not- here signal. If Jolle were like Tatja it was indeed a slim hope, but Ancho might be able to dull the godlings’ senses to merely human levels. He ducked behind the ornate stand that supported the burning perfume. The stand was directly in front of the door into the wagon.
Ancho had barely changed the illusion he broadcast when Tatja and Jolle entered the tent. He couldn’t risk looking around the corner of the stand. He held his breath and waited to be discovered. Although the perfume was pleasant in small doses, in high concentrations it brought a nearly overpowering desire to sneeze. He heard them sit on the low couch, and wondered how the interior of the tent could ever have seemed dim. The sunlight coming down from the ceiling vents splashed over the blue-green rug. Why, his footprints might still be visibly impressed in the pile!
“Feral or sport?” Tatja’s soft voice came from the area of the couch.
“Feral. Shipwreck, maybe an ambush.” Jolle’s voice sounded perfectly calm. Perhaps Svir hadn’t been detected. On impulse, he reached behind him and pulled again at the leverlatch. It moved smoothly downward and the door swung open. Svir came close to squeaking his surprise. He looked through the little doorway. There was no one in the darkness beyond. Now he had an unpleasant choice: he could remain behind the perfume stand or he could sneak into the wagon. If he moved quickly and quietly, he could probably make it. The doorway was hidden from the couch by the high perfume stand. He would never have dared it without Ancho. Ordinarily Tatja seemed able to hear the faintest sounds. Without the dorfox broadcasting a signal that would put a battle group out of action, she—and probably Jolle—could have heard his heart beating.
In the final analysis it was his curiosity that decided him:
He turned, slipped through the entrance, and quietly shut the door. No alarms sounded. Except for the blood singing in his ears, there was no sound in the wagon. The spider-silk screen provided an almost transparent window on the more brightly lit tent area. Tatja and Jolle were sitting on the couch, and were facing almost directly away from him. There was no sign that he had been discovered. He felt Ancho purring against the side of his neck as the little animal continued to broadcast deception.
Tatja was dressed even more gushily than that morning. A party shawl of virtually transparent silk covered her shoulders. Svir could see the top of her low-cut blouse. Jolle wore a militia uniform. He was pouring drinks. Svir pulled his attention away from the tent and inspected the wagon. It was hot, poorly ventilated. Except for the perfume drifting through the silk screen, he smelled nothing. But it wasn’t completely dark here. Along the length of the wagon, red and orange prisms had been set in the roof. A dim, hellish light filtered through. Everything was a jumble. Along one side he saw a bed and bath. The rest of the room was filled with books and ornately carved cabinets. This seemed more like a wizard’s den than the quarters of a man from the stars. It was hard to believe that just twenty inches away the sun was shining, bats were flying, and pink flowers scattered blue mist through cool mountain air.
Svir looked back through the silk screen. Jolle handed Tatja a goblet of clear wine. They sipped in silence. Then Jolle spoke. “It was sloppy language. But—” he waved broadly “—we’re all the same species. They just don’t have the benefit of engineering of self.”
“Natural state?” Tatja sounded incredulous.
“Sure. My grandparents even. No. Call it magic.”
“Please?”
Jolle laughed sympathetically at the pleading tone in her voice. He reached out to caress the smooth, clear skin of her neck. She moved closer, and even through the silk screen she seemed dazed.
“Well,” replied the alien, “I can try. But it will just mislead you. You’re asking for an education, not an explanation. There’s drugs, genetic manipulation, and direct amplification. The last was first because it’s easiest, but the deadliest—as the first discovered.”
Svir followed every word closely. He was almost onto what they were talking about. If he could just fill in the blanks—
“Why deadly?” she asked.
“Last last, please,” he answered, and extended his arms around her shoulders, drew her against his chest.
