The starman stood on a rocky eminence with the dulcimer propped before him, beating its forty-six strings. The melody was eerie. The rhythm orderly, yet impossible to constrain, like a mathematical series that refused to converge.
Emerson’s silhouette was framed by flickering fire as he played for nature’s maelstrom.
This fire was no imagining — no artifact of an easily fooled eye. It rippled and twisted in the far distance, rimming the broad curves of a mighty peak that reared halfway up the sky.
Fresh lava.
Jijo’s hot blood.
The planet’s nectar of renewal, melted and reforged.
Hammering taut strings, the Stranger played for Mount Guenn, serenading the volcano while it repaid him with a halo of purifying flame.
PART FIVE
IT HAS BEEN NEARLY A MILLENNIUM SINCE A LARGE OUTBREAK OF TRAEKINESS WAS FOUND.
These flare-ups used to be frequent embarrassments, where stacks of hapless rings were found languishing without even a single master torus to guide them. But no word of such an occurrence has come within the memory of living wax.
The reaction of our Polkjhy ship to this discovery on Jijo was disgusted loathing.
HOWEVER, LET US NOW PAUSE and consider how the Great Jophur League might learn/benefit from this experiment. Never before have cousin rings dwelled in such intimacy with other races. Although polluted/contaminated, these traeki have also acquired waxy expertise about urs, hoon, and qheuen sapient life- forms — as well as human wolflings and g’Kek vermin.
MOREOVER, the very traits that we Jophur find repellent in traeki-natural rings — their lack of focus, self, or ambition — appear to enable them to achieve empathy with unitary beings! The other five races of Jijo trust these ring stacks. They confide secrets, share confidences, delegate some traekis with medical tasks and even powers of life continuation/cessation.
IMAGINE THIS POSSIBILITY. SUPPOSE WE ATTEMPT A RUSE.
INTENTIONALLY, we might create new traeki and arrange for them to “escape” the loving embrace of our noble clan. Genuinely believing they are in flight from “oppressive” master rings, these stacks would be induced to seek shelter among some of the races we call enemies.
Next suppose that, using this knack of vacuous empathy, they make friendships among our foes. As generations pass, they become trusted comrades.
At which point we arrange for agents to snatch — to harvest — some of these rogue traeki, converting them to Jophur exactly as we did when Asx was transformed into Ewasx, by applying the needed master rings.
Would this not give us quick expertise about our foes?
GRANTED, this Ewasx experiment has not been a complete success. The old traeki, Asx, managed to melt many waxy memories before completion of metamorphosis. The resulting partial amnesia has proved inconvenient.
Yet, this does not detract from the value of the scheme — to plant empathic spies in our enemies’ midst. Spies who are believable because they think they are true friends! Nevertheless, with the boon of master rings, we can reclaim lost brethren wherever and whenever we find them.
Makanee
THERE WERE TWO KINDS OF PUPILS IN THE WIDE, wet classroom.
One group signified hope — the other, despair.
One was illegal — the other, hapless.
The first type was innocent and eager.
The second had already seen and heard far too much.
# good fish …
# goodfish, goodfish …
# good-good FISH! #
Dr. Makanee never used to hear Primal Delphin spoken aboard the Streaker. Not when the keeneenk master, Creideiki, used to hold the crew rock steady by his unwavering example.
Nowadays, alas, one commonly picked up snatches of old-speech — the simple, emotive squealing used by unaltered Tursiops in Earth’s ancient seas. As ship physician, even Makanee sometimes found herself grunting a snatch phrase, when frustrations crowded in from all sides … and when no one was listening.
Makanee gazed across a broad chamber, half-filled with water, as students jostled near a big tank at the spinward end, avid to be fed. There were almost thirty neo-dolphins, plus a dozen six-armed, monkeylike figures, scrambling up the shelf-lined walls, or else diving to swim agilely with webbed hands. Just half the original group of Kiqui survived since they were snatched hastily from far-off Kithrup, but the remaining contingent seemed healthy and glad to frolic with their dolphin friends.
I’m still not sure we did the right thing, taking them along. Neo-dolphins are much too young to take on the responsibilities of patronhood.
A pair of teachers tried bringing order to the unruly mob. Makanee saw the younger instructor — her former head nurse, Peepoe—use a whirring harness arm to snatch living snacks from the tank and toss them to the waiting crowd of pupils. The one who uttered the Primal burst — a middle-aged dolphin with listless eyes — smacked his jaw around a blue thing with writhing tendrils that looked nothing like a fish. Still, the fin crooned happily while he munched.
# Goodfish … good-good-good! #
Makanee had known poor Jecajeca before Streaker launched from Earth — a former astrophotographer who loved his cameras and the glittering black of space. Now Jecajeca was another casualty of Streaker’s long retreat, fleeing ever farther from the warm oceans they called home.
This voyage was supposed to last six months, not two and a half years, with no end in sight. A young client race shouldn’t confront the challenges we have, almost alone.
Taken in that light, it seemed a wonder just a quarter of the crew had fallen to devolution psychosis.
Give it time, Makanee. You may yet travel that road yourself.
• • •
“Yes, they are tasty, Jecajeca,” Peepoe crooned, turning the reverted dolphin’s outburst into a lesson. “Can you tell me, in Anglic, where this new variety of ‘fish’ comes from?”
Eager grunts and squeaks came from the brighter half of the class, those with a future. But Peepoe stroked the older dolphin with sonar encouragement, and soon Jecajeca’s glazed eye cleared a bit. To please her, he concentrated.
“F-f-rom outside … Good s-s-sun … good wat-t-ter …”
Other students offered raspberry cheers, rewarding this short climb back toward what he once had been. But it was a slippery hill. Nor was there much a doctor could do. The cause lay in no organic fault.
