“Estivation,” corrected the other. “It’s closer to summer than winter.”
“Why in hell would anything go dead in the summertime?”
Chur Durwen picked up the next knife and peered at it closely. “I think animals do it on desert planets. Where it gets too hot and dry in midsummer. Where the cooler winter weather is actually more supportive of life.”
“This probably qualifies as a desert planet. And I can’t say I’m sorry they’ve quit bothering us.”
“Nasty, aren’t they? Almost human, the way they look, the way they sound. That little whine of theirs. Like a child, or a woman trying to get you to buy her something.”
“Or pay her for something,” gibed Mitigan.
“Hell, if you have to pay for it, you don’t deserve it.” The man from Collis tried the second knife with the hardened skin of his thumb. “Come to think of it, though they have very female-looking bodies, every damn one of them has a dingus long as your forearm and pointy as a dagger. Do you suppose the locals …?”
“You’d have to be more than ordinarily stupid,” remarked Mitigan. “Or quite irresistibly horny.” He turned away from the cave entrance to examine the map he’d pinned to the wall inside. “This canyon, then one more. We’ll make it in one or two days if the butterfly bats stay quiet.”
“Vampire butterflies,” corrected Chur Durwen.
The other muttered, “Vampires only suck your blood. They don’t bite your throat out and try to chew on your face.”
His companion grunted agreement. When he had finished three more knives, he asked, “You really think there will be Fambers there? At this navel hole?”
“Just a feeling,” admitted Mitigan. “A hunch. I’ve learned to pay attention to my hunches. I think we’re going to hit the main vein of Fambers at the omphalos. I think when we get there, we’ll earn our pay.”
According to the rememberer in Simidi-ala, the Procurator could not fly directly to the omphalos. He could fly to a point very near. To the very next canyon, in fact. But the last little bit, one had to go on foot.
“And why is that?” demanded Poracious Luv.
“Only songfathers will be allowed to go into the sacred area or to…”
To make decisions, the Procurator silently finished the remark.
“Interesting,” said Poracious. “Why is that?”
“It’s not my area of expertise,” said the rememberer, staring over her left shoulder.
“Most interesting,” she repeated. “Don’t you think so, sir?”
“I think we should waste as little time as possible in conversation,” muttered the Procurator between his teeth. “We would not enjoy arriving at the omphalos only a few moments too late to prevent assassinations from occurring.”
“Quite right. Fastest way, please, rememberer. On foot or whatever.”
The rememberer’s “on foot” seemed to include gaufer feet, for both a chariot and a cart, each with its team of gaufers, awaited them near the head of the shallow valley in which they landed. Two servants, who had accompanied them in the flier, jumped down at once and began loading the Procurator’s voluminous baggage into the cart while both hitches of animals stamped their feet impatiently.
“I suggested the conveyances would make the remaining distance a bit easier,” the rememberer murmured, keeping his eyes resolutely away from Poracious’s bulky form.
“For which my thanks,” she said, heaving herself aboard the chariot with remarkable agility. She picked up the reins and gave them an experimental tug.
“I must leave you here.” The rememberer bowed. “As I’ve mentioned, those of us from Simidi-ala are not allowed to enter the sacred precincts. Neither are outlanders, of course, and I cannot guarantee an exception will be made for you. We have managed to convince the songfathers it is in their best interest to speak with you. That’s the best we can do.”
“We understand.” The Procurator nodded. “Where are they?”
The rememberer nodded toward the very top of the valley, where several figures stood athwart a shallow col, silhouetted against the sky. “High officials. And I’m afraid we’re persona non grata.” He beckoned to the servants. “As soon as I’ve gone, they’ll come for you.”
He and the servants climbed back into the flier and were whisked aloft in a great cloud of dust.
“He seemed relieved to get out of here,” commented the ex-King of Kamir, wiping the dust from his eyes as he climbed into the chariot beside Poracious.
“I can see why,” murmured Poracious, peering beneath her lashes at the black-clad men who were approaching. “They don’t look happy to see us.”
“Please allow me to speak for us,” said the Procurator from where he stood beside the left wheel. He had donned an official tabard for the meeting, one glittering with gems and fine gold embroidery. It bore upon the back panel the great arms of the Alliance, worked in pearls and sapphires, and on the front panel a grid, in each square of which was the symbol of one of the Seventeen Sectors. Stitched over the symbol of Hermes Sector was a pall of black tissue, showing it to be under threat.
The symbolism was not lost upon the approaching Dinadhi. They saw it and stopped to mumble with one another before continuing their advance.
“What has this predicament of the Alliance to do with Dinadh?” demanded the foremost, threatening with one clawlike hand.
“All your people may perish,” said the Procurator silkily, the words sinuous as snakes, demanding attention. “Dinadh is next in line.”
The Dinahdi glanced at one another, only briefly.
The speaker sneered. “We do not believe we are in any danger from … the Ularians.”
The Procurator blinked slowly. His voice gained both volume and vehemence. “If you are not in danger from them, you are in danger from the Alliance. If you alone in Hermes Sector are not destroyed by the aliens, we must assume you have made common cause with them against the rest of humanity. Is it not written, ‘All life is struggle. He who will not stand with me stands against me’? Humanity will have vengeance for such treachery. You will not be allowed to remain here unscathed while
