“Third, try not to go more than a quarter-tank’s distance away from the line, or you can’t be sure you’ll get back to refill your tank. There’s a counter on the tank, push it when you step over the line.
“Fourth, if any mucous gets on your skin, wash it off while it’s still gooey. If it dries on you, it makes sores that don’t heal. Don’t take off your faceplate while you’re washing, either, if you do it down there. They like to grab you down at the river. The best thing to do is wash in the troughs we’ve piped water to, on the highlands. There are tall beacons by every trough. They’re easy to find.
“Fifth, don’t try to talk to them. I don’t care what kind of Alsense machine you’ve got, keep it on translate and record, not on speak. They go crazy if you try to talk to them. They just love it. We’ve had some of them swarm over the line just because some student was trying to communicate with them. It kills them, but they don’t die right away. They live long enough to do a lot of damage.
“Sixth, you’ll actually see more and hear more if you stay away from them than if you go close. If you go close, you’ll spend most of your time swallowed, and from inside you can’t see or hear anything much. The way to stay away from them is to stay above the line. That way nobody gets hurt. I know you won’t pay any attention, but it’s true. You’ll see just as much from up here as you will if you get closer. Use spy-eyes, if you like. They’ll get slimed fairly fast, but you can bring them back and clean them off.
“Seventh, use the nose filters whenever you see or hear them. I know you don’t think a stink can kill you, but damn, it can come close. …”
What they had said. What they said to every student who came to Ninfadel. Shan had heard it; now he dreamed it, every word. Perhaps he only remembered it, but in the dream it seemed that he heard it for the first time, felt, for the first time, his own scepticism. Shan was High Baidee. He believed what he himself knew to be true. He did not necessarily believe these Native Matters people from effete Phansure, these Ahabarian guards.
They gave him the breathing hood, a tight, flexible garment with a hard visor-hinged faceplate. The plate was linked to a heavy tank containing two day’s worth of ultrapack-air. A tube inside the faceplate could give him water. Another could feed him nutri-paste. The whole assemblage was heavy to carry, uncomfortable to wear.
“How long can I wear this thing?” he’d asked.
“Some people wear it all their fives,” the officer had said, making a joke. It wasn’t a joke, of course. Shan had seen the recordings of the assemblages lying in the sun among scattered human bones: required viewing for any graduate student who had the arrogance to plan research among the Porsa.
Or the courage, he told himself in the dream, as he had told himself in reality. Dedication, determination, courage. That’s all one needed. He went out of the outpost, into the security lock. The inner door closed and locked. The outer door opened. He walked along the high, rocky ground, keeping himself just inside the clearly marked glowing line, above which the Porsa died, looking down into sparse growth on the lower slopes of the hills and along the river. The smells were of spice and resin. Below him, by the stream, he saw a group of Porsa and heard them shouting at one another. Unthinkingly, he stepped over the line and went down onto the moist, sucking soil of the hill, turning on his Alsense machine so he could hear what they were saying.
“Piss, shit, snot, pus,” said one to another.
“Shit, slime, rot, you,” replied the second.
“Fartedy-fart-fart,” screamed a third. “Filth. You. Filth. You. Bury in feces.”
They fell on one another, melting together, seeming to coalesce, then separating once more. As they did so, they caught sight of him and began sliming up the hill toward him, shouting greetings, great gray blobs of mucous covered with running sores. The stink that preceded them came in a palpable wave. Gagging, Shan thrust in the nose filters he had been holding and then remembered, at the last possible minute, to pull down the faceplate. Shrieking happily, they increased their speed.
“Coming to you, filth. Coming to you.”
“Wait, filth. Wait!”
Shan dreamed that he ran, but they caught him. He dreamed that they swallowed him, one after the other, making gulping, liquid sounds.
Shan began to scream and went on screaming.
“Damzel!” someone shouted.
“Let me out!” he screamed.
“You’re out,” Sam yelled at him, shaking him. “Damzel, wake up. I heard you from my office downstairs. You’re on Hobbs Land. You’re all right!”
Groggily, Shan thrust himself toward the top of his bed, sat up, tried not to breathe.
“Breathe,” Sam commanded, as the man before him turned blue. “There’s nothing here to hurt you.”
Shan tried a tentative sniff. Nothing. Only air. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought I’d learned not to do that anymore.”
“You’re probably overtired,” said Sam, carefully not asking the questions he wanted to, such as, “What were you dreaming about.” Instead he asked, “Are you all right now?”
“Fine,” said Shan. “Where are Bombi and Volsa?”
“Saw them walking down the street a while ago. You’re sure you’re all right.”
“Fine,” said Shan again, calling out as Sam went out the door, “and thank you.”
Inside he was trembling, keeping himself from total panic only with an effort. This wouldn’t have happened, he told himself, on Thyker. It wouldn’t have happened. It
