The Hrass murmured, gesturing.
The K’Vasti brayed with laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one. Gentherans and Earthians, having a contest on B’yurngrad to see who can write the most insulting poems about the Quaatar in Quaatarian!”
The Hrassian leaned forward, saying something urgent.
“Not only the Quaatar? Insults in Frossian and K’Famir as well. Ha. Where’s this contest being held?”
The Hrass murmured, swinging its nose in what might be presumed to be laughter.
“At a tribal camp northwest of Black Mountain? Out in the wilderness. Guess they figured nobody would hear them out there…Whoops…” Abruptly the K’vasti rose to his feet and staggered off toward the toilets. While all eyes followed him, the Hrass, as was customary in his race, quietly slipped away. Seemingly the K’vasti had had far too much to drink, for he, too, did not return. •••
M’urgi and I sat wearily at the foot of a tree, looking off across the campgrounds when Mr. Weathereye returned in the company of a Hrass, who promptly took off her nose and emerged as Ongamar. “It’s done,” he said. “We put on the performance. I played the K’vasti. Ongamar played the Hrass. We were both totally believable in the roles.”
“I’ve recruited bellowers to shout insults, just in case the insulted need convincing,” said M’urgi in a weary voice. “What do we do now?”
“We wait,” I said. I glared at Weathereye, who from my point of view had a lot to answer for. “You did say the word would travel rapidly?”
“You may rely on it, my boy,” said Mr. Weathereye. “It’s taken us almost a day to get back, so we did our little playlet that long ago. In half a day, the word was widespread among K’Famir and Frossians, and the first of them to hear of it would have been in touch with at least one Quaatar, if for no other reason than to enjoy Quaatar agitation. The moment even one Quaatar knew, all the Quaatar would know.” Weathereye shifted a bit uncomfortably. “I do hope we’re ready?”
“The machine’s in the center of the camp, and we’ve checked the new calibrations,” said M’urgi. “One of us is always beside it, an hour at a time so we don’t risk falling asleep.”
“I sent word to the Siblinghood,” I said. “Told them we knew the origin of the ghyrm. The K’Famir have been ordering a lot of big weapons from Omniont space, and the Siblings intend to substitute our machines, remotely controlled, for several of theirs.”
“How long will it take?”
“Some time. The machine isn’t even finished yet,” I replied, searching the skies above them. “What do you think they’re doing right now?”
“The K’Famir, the Frossians, and the Quaatar? I think they’re working themselves up into a killing rage,” said Weathereye. “I think they have an interesting synergy going between themselves and their gods. They planned originally to test their ghyrm-drop quietly, without fanfare, hoping nobody much would notice until B’yurngrad was uninhabited, but if they’re sufficiently insulted, they won’t care who notices.”
“It’s a pity we have to have all this destruction,” said M’urgi.
Weathereye nodded. “Oh, my dear lady, I do agree. From my own personal point of view, however, I’d prefer that humans not go extinct, and I know of no peaceful way to prevent it. That possibility is really a question for races like the Gentherans, who love complex ethical issues. When is it justified to kill or destroy? In self-defense, or never? I, of course, can only think what humans think, and I think we’re justified in getting rid of ghyrm along with certain bacteria and viruses.”
“Look there,” said Naumi, pointing toward the sky. “There, a little east of south, fairly low. That’s a ship.”
“Go warn Mar-agern,” said Mr. Weathereye. “And the tribes.”
“There are lookouts,” M’urgi said, not moving.
A mournful horn sounded from a nearby rise, a sound echoed almost immediately by dozens of others, from all directions. M’urgi sat up straight and closed her eyes. I knew she was sending herself to the place Mar-agern sat next to the machine, finger on the start button.
M’urgi sighed, relaxed, came back to herself. “Everyone’s alert,” she reported. “Mar-agern’s ready.”
M’urgi and I rose. The ship came toward us, four others descending into view behind, followed in turn by four more.
“They’re huge,” I breathed. “I’ve never seen anything that size! If they’re full of cargo…full of ghyrm…no way we’re going to be able to…”
“Nine of their biggest ones,” said Mr. Weathereye in a faraway voice. “The ones they use for cargo shipments.”
“Our people will need our help,” I said, starting away down the hill, M’urgi trailing behind me, only to stop as we saw a red-robed women approaching.
“Naumi,” she said. “M’urgi. What have you set up here? A trap?”
I had the very strong impression I had seen her somewhere before. “The dragonfly I dreamed about,” I said abruptly to M’urgi. “The dragonfly. She was the pilot!”
“So I was,” said the Gardener. “I bring you greetings from Gretamara, and Wilvia. They await you in Tercis. I ask again, what have you here? A trap?”
“We calculated it would be a trap,” I confessed, suddenly convinced that I ought to tell her everything that was going on, without reservation. “We have a machine to kill ghyrm, and we thought if we could get them all dumped on top of us, we could wipe them out here. But look at those ships? If they’re stuffed full of ghyrm, it will take too long…and the power source is limited. If they pour those things out, hour after hour, there won’t be time. There’s not even time to get word to the Siblinghood.”
She looked up at the huge ships, her eyes veiled. “One never foresees everything,” she said. “One can only do the best one can, with what one has to work with.” She spoke over my shoulder, to Weathereye. “I came to tell you that the Gentherans have found the place on Chottem where a man named d’Lornschilde has been keeping the human children
