by Zach Hughes
—are the logical results of life, the end results to this time. Nature, in her wisdom, has created in us the ability to cope with the problems of a dying planet, but she has not made the task an easy one. It is up to us to help as we await her next move.» Such talk did indeed interest Rack. He was, after all, involved in life. But still there was something in him that drove him to question the ways of his world. Was the ultimate pleasure service to one's race? If so, why did every Far Seer have at least one Keeper? Not solely for the purpose of storing information in the blank portion of the Keeper's mind. No. Rack, like all Healers, spied like a curious child, and often saw the Far Seers lost in their own pleasure, using the bodies of the Keepers. It was a pleasure alien to the nature of a Healer, of course, and it was indulged in with an amusing regularity. To a Healer, curiosity was the source of pleasure, and as he matured, Rack discovered that he was never reprimanded when he did his duty and saved the titillation of his curiosity for his free time. He reasoned that he was as much entitled to his pleasure as Red Earth was to his. During his free periods he filled his mind with the dim legends of the Old Ones and engaged in what the Far Seers looked on as Healer weakness, rambling on his long, mobile legs over the wide, empty space of the area. His ability to heal the damage he suffered from the hard projectiles and the toxic gases gave him mobility. His curiosity and his wanderlust sent him to the thin frost of the far north, to the steamy heat of the middle regions, to the waters of the west. He scaled mountains on the way, crossed a great river and climbed the broken face of the rift to the west of the river. In a box made of the Material, were the treasured results of his travels: two hard-material nuggets, one the size of his thumb ball, the other tiny, almost invisible. The large one was heavy in his palm, and irregularly shaped. It could be scratched with a sharp, extra hard piece of the Material and it held an endless fascination for Rack. The smaller nugget was fast being eaten away, for even in the protective atmosphere of the establishment it accumulated brown waste on itself from time to time and, when cleaned, became smaller and smaller. But Red Earth was mistaken in thinking that Rack was merely interested in accumulating the hard-material nuggets because they possessed a certain rarity. To Rack the nuggets did not represent riches, as they did to citizens of the eastern lands. The nuggets held a dark mystery for him. Rack was constantly frustrated in his pursuit of knowledge regarding the Old Ones. He avidly sought out the dim, old legends, retained for their aesthetic values. To the Far Seers these legends were a part of the culture, saved for the picturesque beauty of the thoughts of the first Healers. Some of the most beautiful were the thoughts of Rose the Healer, preserved from deep antiquity. Ah, Rack sighed, how they rang, coming from the peaceful, childlike mind of an aging Keeper in the steamy land beside the southern sea: And when the sun flared up,searing the Old Ones, vast clouds of smoke and particles covered the sky. And the Old Ones died, fornicating even in death, to give birth to the New Ones who had scales. «Negative, negative,» sent his teachers. «It is the thought of Rose the Healer,» Rack protested. «He speaks in symbols,» said the teachers, «for the process of evolution crawled forward on feeble legs through"—Rack again received an image of a vast series of sun cycles—"to meet the slowly deteriorating conditions.» «And yet,» Rack argued, «Rose the Healer said that the sun flared up and killed the Old Ones suddenly.» «It is against logic,» said the teachers. «For have we not observed the sun for countless sun circles and has it not been stable?» «How do you explain this, then?» And there were others that had tails and died birthing and those with malformed features and stomachs without vital organs. «We know little,» they admitted, «for the Old Ones had no Keepers and all their store of knowledge, however insignificant, has been lost. We can only presume that such a race, with none of the advantages of civilization, with no kept records, existed on the plenty of a youthful planet, feeding and breathing the bounty of nature. There are also legends of other living things. And yet we find no proof. Surely, had the Old Ones built we would find remnants of their achievements, for is not the Material everlasting, resisting the acids of the air and the smoke of the burning earth of the southern lands?» «Could they have built of the hard materials?» «Negative, negative,» they sent. «You have traveled far. You have talked with many Healers who have nuggets, and yet, have you found the source of the hard material? Is it conceivable that there was once a life form on the planet capable of producing such a lifeless material? Could you possibly think that enough of the hard material could be amassed to construct even one establishment?» «But there is more than one type,» Rack said. «I have seen yellow and white, dark and light. Some nuggets feed on themselves with dark waste, while others, such as my large one, grow only a white, powdery waste when exposed to the yellow of the air.» «Another proof,» said the teachers. «It feeds on itself. In a short span of sun circles an establishment made of your hard material would be reduced.» The hard material was indeed fragile. But Rack had a new idea. «Perhaps,» he said, his heart beating with excitement, for he was being daring, «the hard material came from the bowels of the earth.» He received warning vibrations, for he was treading on dangerous ground. But he plunged on. «Perhaps the Old Ones penetrated the surface?» There was sadness in the answer, not anger. «It is conceivable. For the Old Ones died, did they not?» In truth, the Old Ones had died and left behind old legends and nothing more. In the final days the bodies of the Old Ones covered the Earth. So were the thoughts of Rose the Healer marred by impossible statements, making the total credence of his thoughts less than reliable, for no planet, however young and fruitful, could support so much life. On all the continent the Eastern Group Establishment was the largest concentration of the Material known and at peak production periods in the summer it was the most populous. The picture showed Power Givers in a grouping equal to the number of digits on Rack's left hand, a paired group of Far Seers, and rock-weighted Healers diving in the thick water. The whole group numbered no more than the digits on Rock's hands and horny feet. If only, Rack lamented, the Far Seers had not erased the old thoughts. If only they had saved more than just the beautiful thoughts of Rose the Healer—what a delightful concept his name evoked, a confused mental image of something delicate and bright and beautiful. But only Rose was whole in the minds of the Keepers. Rack's only other source of information on the Old Ones was an occasional misfiled tidbit. The discovery of these excited Rack wildly. He had found mention of a sunken city in the mind of a northern Keeper, a city in the eastern sea that towered to the sky. An unknown Healer far back in antiquity had been the source of the reference which had been filed with readings of air purity at the tops of various mountains. And on the western sea, a group of Healers told of another city of the Old Ones they had heard of, a city that spread over what was now the plains of glass in Red Earth's area beside the great river. There was even a name for this lost city, but the name was difficult to conceive, for it suggested no known image. «Could it be,» Rack had asked, «that the Old Ones truly knew civilization and constructed establishments?» «I think,» said a young, visionary Healer, «that question is answered by the picture of city.» He had not truly considered what the image implied. City. A group of establishments. Yet though there was nothing in all the continent to keep the picture in the language, it persisted. The word, the picture, city was Old One language. It had meaning. The name of the lost city on the huge river had no meaning, gave no image. It was an abstract thing, difficult to grasp. Was the name another Old One word—a word whose meaning had been lost? In his learning, the teachers had brushed past the Old Ones. Ancient man was primitive, living on the fat of the young planet. He was ignorant of the process of combining the products of the Juicers and the Webbers to form the Material, thus uncivilized. Ancient man had no recorded history, for there were no Keepers. Ancient man lacked the mobility of the Power Givers and was thus confined to distances he could cover on his feet. In short, ancient man was a weak link in the evolutionary chain and his achievements could not have bee
n great. Ancient man, said the teachers, was probably less intelligent than a Webber, but perhaps more intelligent than the front mind of a Keeper, who was unable to experience anything save basic sensations. To think that ancient man had built was folly. To attribute the origin of the hard materials to ancient man was incredible, for without tools of the Material, how could ancient man work the hard materials into any form? No. The hard materials, used by some mystics in the Healer ranks to form a mystery about ancient man, were of natural origin. Perhaps, since they were of such scarcity, they had fallen from the sky, for Far Seer probes indicated the presence of small bodies of solid material in the space system other than the satellite, the sun and the sister planets, and the far suns that even to the most sensitive Far Seer appeared as tiny motes in a vast area. «Be content,» said the teachers, «with the wisdom of the race, for we are old. Be proud of our achievements, for we have conquered a hostile world with only the weapons given us by nature, our minds. Contemplate the wonder of the invention of the Material by Dawn Eye the Far Seer. For is it not astounding that he could envision the domestication of the vicious Webber? Is it not wonderful that he could milk the fiery Juicer and, working at the risk of death, pain, and disfigurement, combine the liquid fire of the Juicer with the film of the Webber to create a substance that protects us from the hostile elements? Wonder at the course of evolution, that produced four distinct human forms who live in peace together and work mind in mind to ensure the survival of life. None could live alone. Be proud of your ability to heal, to spend extended periods in the vapors and the corrosive sea. Without them, without your ability to gather the slime source, what would be our nourishment? Be thankful for the Keepers, who store our knowledge and make us civilized. Praise the Power Givers who turn the vats that brew the broth, separating the deadly substances from the life-giving ones.» Modestly the teachers did not praise themselves, the Far Seers, the accumulators of knowledge, the overseers of society, the backbone of reason. The Far Seers, who were sterile, watched over the lower life forms, measured the Breathers, milked the deadly Juicers, and tamed the fierce Webbers. Truly, it was an arrangement to give wonder. The wisdom of nature was proved by the infallibility of her scheme to sustain life in an atmosphere that could eat a nugget of hard material in less than a sun circle. And Rack was not really discontent. After he gained maturity he took pride in his ability to gather more slime source than any other young Healer. He gloried in his strength, his huge, billowing lungs that could store enough air to outlast the most severe storm, his wonderful healing cells that replaced themselves when damaged by hard projectiles or acid gases. But there was much in his world to arouse his curiosity and he made his contributions to the knowledge of the race by feeding his observations into the blank mind of a Keeper after the exploration trips he took in his free time. He was recognized as an authority on the vast, uninhabited area of responsibility of Red Earth and was often consulted. He had come a long way from being the feckless young rack-lover who had engendered frowns of concern from his parents and teachers. In the prime of his physical strength he was tall and had a chest thickness equal to half his height. His scales were healthy, showing no damage from all his wanderings. When he retracted his protective eyefilms in the safety of his establishment his pupils glowed with a bright blue light and glittered with a love of life that was contagious. He was considerate, never venting his gills in the vicinity of an establishment, much less when in view of another being. He was generous with his time, always willing to use his strength to venture out for an extended period in the service of anyone who needed help. He asked for nothing except, at times, a period of conversation. Lying on his rack, breathing his sweet, Breather-produced air, he would compare knowledge with a Far Seer, gossip with a fellow Healer, or carry on a respectful exchange with a friendly Power Giver. At such times he projected a completely relaxed and totally likable personality. There were those among the young Power Givers who contacted him regularly, trying to detect a hint that Rack was being readied by nature for a joining. But they were continually disappointed; Power Giver after Power Giver, feeling the approach of her own time, had to search elsewhere, for the gray scale covering on Rack's lower abdomen remained rigid, showing no tint of the tell-tale red of readiness. III «You are, I see, preparing,» said Red Earth from his sanctuary, his mind engaged with Rack's. «Affirmative.» «A group of Breathers overworking,» Red Earth sent. «I have seen and am content with what I have stored,» Rack said. He had spent some time storing life. His body weight was up. His chest was expanded to bursting. All his cells were alive, fattened with precious air. «They will have ample time to recover in my absence.» «Is it polite to inquire?» «When were you concerned about being polite?» Rack queried laughingly. Red Earth was an old friend and teacher. «West,» he sent. «To the river and the rift.» «In search of hard-material nuggets?» Rack gave a mental shrug. «In search.» He sensed a regret on Red Earth's part and knew that the Far Seer begrudged him the waste of his energies in his own pursuits. He sent a hint of reproach, accompanied by a vivid picture of Red Earth with his Keeper, and got a chuckle in return. «Beautiful Wings the Power Giver will be alert to your needs.» «I thank you.» He liked the picture Red Earth sent, but was not familiar with the individual. «She is newly mature, assigned to the west of the area.» «Daughter of old Northern Ice the Healer? I knew her when she was a child.» «The same. She is no longer a child.» Red Earth paused. «And speaking of maturity, I note that your tint will soon be the same.» Rack did not like speaking of such matters. He closed his mind. «Could a joining be arranged it would be a propitious event,» Red Earth added. Joining was a matter of nature's design and of personal choice. Rack told Red Earth so and was acknowledged, but the hurt in the Far Seer's mind softened Rack and he sent soothing pictures, along with the rational conclusion that if Beautiful Wings were indeed newly mature his readiness would not match hers. Red Earth agreed with a sigh and ended the contact. Rack entered into the end-of-circle storms, freshly charged, walking with a distance-eating gait over the bare bones of the planet. His horny feet were impervious to the hard rock underfoot. His scales tingled as projectiles from the low spots bounced off them. Heavy clouds passed, and his gills vented poison, lungs taking only the scattered particles of life from the noxious mixture. For long periods he went without breathing until, on high spots, there was a hint of life in the air and he inhaled to help save his vital store in the cells of his body. There was a wild beauty in the outside—the constant swirl of heavy gases, the changes of light. And there was the feeling of being alone. Far off Rack could sense an establishment, closed tightly, inhabited by an old Healer whose venturesome soul was now confined to a body unable to withstand the rigors of the outside. Ahead of him stretched a vast, empty wilderness. He alone was living, moving through sterile spaces, the clouds eddying about him, the sun filtering down. The sun was never visible as a round source of heat as he knew it to be; it was now a glow, now only a hint of color, a diffuse feeling under the hothouse clouds. But it heated the rocks under his feet, which were not yet cooled by the movements of winter air. He skirted a sinkhole, feeling the corrosive strength of its deadly air on his scales. A small shower wet him and his scales crackled as acids sizzled and boiled. The thick clouds in the sinkhole parted, giving him a dim view of the rank growth on its floor, a tangled, pulpy mass. He picked his way carefully, along the edge of the hole. A slip would have been fatal, for not even his healing abilities, not even his tough protective scales, would have saved him had he fallen in. The land sloped gradually upward and the going became easier. He walked with long, strong strides, the weight of his pack light on his back. On the plains of glass the wind was a steady force in his face. Billowing clouds moved overhead, but the heat of the smooth plain seemed to form a pocket of fairly decent air immediately above it, so he breathed more easily, not using his stored life. He camped in the center of the plain, lying on the warm, glassy earth with only a coverlet of the Material over him. He awoke with the fi
rst glow of day, fed, strapped on his pack, and set off at a swift pace, eager to put the plains behind him. His jogging pace ate up his reserves, but hopefully there would be good air near the great river. He could smell the river from afar and it urged him on. To his disappointment a heavy accumulation of gases hung over it, hiding it from his view until, pushing through the low growth of vegetation which lined its banks, he stood with his feet in the water. He strained his eyes, trying in vain to see the tall, broken rocks of the escarpment on the other side. The water was clean, a pleasant contrast to the heaviness of the sea, in which he spent his working hours. He waded in and felt the coolness covering his scales, washing away the accumulated ash of corrosion. He found a few inches of good air at the surface and gulped it, gills pumping out wastes, then closed his outer lids and ducked under. He swam, his natural buoyancy keeping him just below the surface. He opened his outer lids to find that visibility was good, although there was nothing to see. The river was, of course, lifeless. He walked the last short distance to the shore on slippery rocks, then breathed air at the surface of the water before starting his climb up the escarpment. The rift had been formed by an age-old cataclysm which, for a period of a sun cycle, thrust the western land up into a high plateau. He made the ascent slowly, examining the exposed bones of the planet as he went. Halfway up, he was bemused by brown streaks which made erratic patterns in the rock on the exposed wall. The discoloration reminded him of the waste formed on the smaller of his hard-material nuggets. He had seen such markings before in his travels and had once asked his teachers an oblique question regarding them. He could not keep his mind from speculating. Could the hard materials have been natural deposits within the forbidden depths of the earth? In places like this where the forces of nature had bared the subsurface rock the ground took on a new look. He spent much of the remaining light climbing the escarpment, searching in vain. Arriving at last at the top, he felt the effects of the strenuous climb, and, picking his way through boulders that dwarfed him, he quickly found a sheltered place. He cocooned himself within his protective sheet of the Material, fed, and was sleeping before the darkness of the night closed down over him. He awoke to a feeling of delicious aloneness. A storm was raging. Wet rocks poured moisture as the yellowish rain fell, formed rivulets, dripped, ran, and splashed down the near wall of the escarpment. He lay inside his shelter, hearing the hiss of the acid rain on the impregnable Material. The storm, he knew, would wash the air, leaving behind, hopefully, more amenable conditions. And he had also noted, at other places and at other times, that a heavy rain often washed away pockets of loose material atop the hard rocks, leaving behind newly exposed areas. He had hoped for just such a storm, and it was fortunate that it had occurred on his first night on the plateau. The hunting would be interesting. When the storm let up, he walked the steaming rocks, his pack in place, for he would not return the same way. The high plateau extended to the north and south all along the western bank of the river. In spots irregular rock formations dammed up lakes of dull water. However, it was not the river's edge that interested him, but the central portions of the plateau where for endless sun circles of time the rain had washed the rocks, leaving behind an accumulation of stones of various sizes. With his eyes on the ground he picked his way carefully through the stones. Now and then a loose stone rolled under his foot, causing him to struggle for balance. To add to his splendid isolation, he had closed off his mind. He asked for no contact. In the event of dire emergency, he could summon help, for Red Earth's mind was far reaching and a Power Giver was in the western area. But he was calmly confident in his ability and envisioned no such emergency. For the first two days, he covered ground that was partly familiar. Then he moved southward. The bleak landscape was unchanged. It was a world of exposed rocks, long since eroded clean by the storms. He was the only life, save for a few thin air-feeders growing on the protected side of the largest boulders. Nothing moved but poison-laden air, which rose from the rank low areas, and was shifted by the vast movements of the atmosphere. His broth supply was holding out well and he was finding enough air to be able to conserve the vital stores within his body. Because of the five-day lull in the storms he covered a large area; the picture in his mind was based on a comparison of his progress with the well-known image of the distance around the planet. He rested. During his sixth night on the plateau the winds increased and new clouds of forbidding density moved in. He spent the following day in his protective cover, unable to breathe. He used his life stores sparingly, allowing his body to lapse into a state of sluggishness during which his heart beat only rarely. Although his mind was slowed, his capacity for cenesthesia allowed him to take stock of his condition. He was satisfied. The new storm blew through the day, calmed at night, but then began anew at dawn. The inactivity galled Rack, and, in order to escape the boredom of nonmovement, he reviewed all of the knowledge he had gained in the last few days. He wished for a contact with a Keeper, but did nothing since the distances and energies involved would have been a drain. He would not admit, even in the privacy of his mind, that he was indeed looking for a fabled lost city. Yet there was some connection, he conceded, between his being on the escarpment plateau and his having once heard an unconfirmed legend regarding a lost city beside the river. While the storm blew and there was no breathable air, he indulged in speculation about the Old Ones. If it were true that the land had once been rich with growing things, the waters sweet, then the Old Ones would have sought locations such as this, near water. The city, if there had been one, could have been on either side of the river, but the legend repeated by the Healers had specified the western bank, which meant that it had been located on what now was the plateau. Since, according to the observations of Rack and other Healers with similar interests, the plateau was a fairly recent development, any city that might have stood there would have been lifted with the upheaval of the earth and been tumbled and broken. The most tenuous of Rack's speculations he would never have made public, lest he be ridiculed. If a city had stood on the western bank and had been broken and scattered by the titanic upheaval of the earth, the rains would have long since washed away any trace—except, perhaps, for the hard materials, which were heavier than the stones. It was his vague hope that he would find particles of the hard material lodged in the broken fields of stone atop the plateau. It was, indeed, a foolish hope. There was still no connection, except in his imagination, between the Old Ones and the hard materials. But he would not have been content to spend his free time in the confinement of his establishment. His feet tingled from the walking, his scales sizzled when the acid rain struck them, his cells were being used as he lived on his stored air. Yet even if he spent the rest of his life span using his free time to walk the desolate places, it was his life. And even if he never found another nugget of hard material, the mere seeing, the experiencing, the knowledge that he, Rack the Healer, had explored vast stretches of his world with his own feet would be reward enough. When, at last, the storm abated enough so that he could find some hint of air amid the dense yellows and purples, he moved onward, eyes always on the ground. Near the midpoint of the day he came upon a sinkhole and looked down, expecting to see the usual rank growth, to sense the poisonous accumulation of heavy gases. He was amazed to find that not only could he see to the bottom of the rather large depression, but also he could smell the goodness of clean air. The vegetation on the floor of the depression, was not the misshapen plants that grew in other sinkholes. The sparse growth was more like the harmless stuff that grew along the river bank. He squatted to examine his find, peering through the obscuring curtains of gases. He could hear running water. He moved tentatively down the sloping face of the depression, taking stock as he went. He found no deadly elements, only an improvement in the general atmosphere. Encouraged, he continued down until he stood on the floor of the small valley. He confirmed that the vegetation was not the deadly sort. The air was clean. There seemed to be a sort of rising current which lifted the heavy, noxious gases and
dispersed them into the overhanging clouds. He advanced across the valley floor, feeling the unfamiliar softness of soil under his feet. He walked gingerly, for only a fool walked unconcernedly on the deadliness of soft earth. This earth, however, was surprisingly free of the hard particles that destroyed cells more rapidly than the most healthy Healer could replace them. He made his way toward the sound of running water and came upon a wonderfully clean outpouring. The water gushed from the rocks underlying the soft earth, bubbling up with a cheery sound, so clear that he could see small particles of soil circulating in it. He tested it gingerly and found it to be scalding hot. He knew then why the small valley was not like the usual low spot. The polar air that lay over the plateau was cooler than the air in the sinkhole which was heated by the water. Even when the heat of the summer lay over the plateau, the air in the sinkhole would still be much hotter than the surrounding air, thus creating upcurrents and discouraging the growth of noxious weeds. He was squatting on the edge of the basin into which the astoundingly clean water flowed from its source in the valley wall. The soft earth under his feet sent out particles, but the quantity, although more than the emission of solid rock, was less than the quantity encountered in a dense cloud, and was well below the danger level for a Healer. A load of worry lifted from his mind and his interest was drawn to the movement of the water as it swirled into the basin. The water seemed about waist deep. The flow was strong. Seeking an outlet from the basin, it had cut through the soft earth to bedrock and loose stone. He followed the stream's wanderings as it looped from the side of the valley toward the center, its entire length lined with the harmless vegetation. The water, incredibly, remained clean. The bed of the stream was covered with loose, rounded pebbles. He had never seen anything quite like it. Near the fall wall, the wall closest to the edge of the escarpment and the river, it formed a small lake and from that lake there was no outlet. Rack concluded that the water must be seeping down through the earth and rocks to the level of the river below. The most pleasing thing about the valley, however, was not the miraculously clean water of the meandering stream, but the relative purity of the air. When a low-hanging cloud passed, noxious vapors filled the valley for only short periods of time before they were lifted by the rising currents. It was almost as if the valley generated its own clean air. He did not understand, but neither did he question. He walked on the strange-feeling softness, examined the harmless green growths alongside the creek, then left the water reluctantly to explore the remainder of the valley. He located nothing as exciting as the water and soon was tired. It was growing dark. He slept with the sound of running water in his ear. In the light of morning, invigorated by sleep and good air, he examined the stream more closely. He knew the erosive effect of moving water and accepted the fact that it was the stream that had cut through the thick layer of soft earth, a layer fully as deep as the distance between his outstretched thumb and finger, to the rocky underlayer. He reached into the water and handled the smooth, rounded pebbles. He could feel the heat through his protective hide—the water was hotter than the hottest day in the southern regions. He was bemused by the smoothness of the pebbles, and fingered them with pleasure, sorting them according to size, arranging them on the green-covered bank. He started with the larger pebbles and stacked smaller ones on top to form a small mound. He was for the moment a child, playing children's games. His mind was idle. At first he did not note the difference in weight as he fingered a small, rounded pebble and lifted it. Then the shift of a cloud let a glow of sunlight through and the pebble in his fingers glowed with a life of its own, yellow and rich. He made an explosive sound through his small lips. Hard material. Of much the same heft as his treasured nugget of gray hard material, but yellow, unbelievably beautiful. Feverishly, he pawed through the pebbles of the stream. His efforts roiled the water with silt until he was unable to see. He berated himself for greed. Many a Healer went through life without finding a single nugget of hard material. He now owned three, and this latest find was, by far, the most wonderful. He spent a long period contemplating it. It showed no signs of having been crafted. It was irregular in shape, but smoothed by the action of the stream. It showed no hint of corrosion, remaining yellow even in the tainted air. Sated with the sensations he received from the nugget, he began to speculate on its origin. Being heavier than the pebbles it had been lodged at the bottom of the stream when he found it. Perhaps hard materials were formed naturally, under the surface. He shuddered. Seated on the softness of the strange soil, he could more fully comprehend the meaning of below the surface. When walking on solid stone, or on the smoothness of the plains of glass, one often forgot that there was a subsurface. Here and on the escarpment's face, subsurface had meaning, for one could see the exposed layers of rock, the different shapes and textures. He carefully placed his hand on the bank of the stream, down low, near the surface of the water. The hard projectiles tingled his small finger scales, but the increase was insignificant. Had the action of the running water cleansed the earth itself? An entirely new concept thundered into his brain. He loved life, revered it, as did every member of the race. He would not have considered breaking the most ancient of laws, lest he lose prematurely that precious gift with which he was entrusted. And yet, he had held his hand below the surface, next to the exposed soft soil of the creek bank and he had lived, had not even been endangered. This valley, he thought, was different, unlike any other spot on the planet, at least any spot he had seen. The air was clean. Pure water cut through the surface earth and exposed pebbles and beautiful nuggets of hard material. Not daring to openly entertain his new idea about the subsurface he walked back to the basin and watched the rushing water emerge from the rocks. He moved a few stones experimentally, placing them where the water gurgled from the confining basin. Guiltily he searched the area and found only solitude. He told himself he was not breaking the law. He was merely shifting rocks— this was permissible as long as the rocks were lying free on the surface. The pile of rocks grew, but the water ran between them undeterred. He filled the chinks with small pebbles, then with gritty small particles, scooped from the floor of the creek. The flow of water was slowed and the level rose in the basin. His tough feet dislodged some vegetation from the banks of the creek and he picked up a piece, seeing that a certain amount of the soft earth clung to it. He was shocked. He dropped the offending bit of green, then picked it up again. It was lying free, wasn't it? He knew he was stretching logic, for his feet had dislodged it. But the vegetation had a wet, spongy feeling and he placed it in the chinks between the rocks of his dam. It held back the water so well that he recklessly trod up and down the banks of the creek to loosen more of the green material. His dam grew, until finally a trickle of water began to run around the far edge. At first the water was soaked up by the soft earth. Then it puddled, ran. He watched, fascinated, waiting for it to begin to cut into the soft material and expose the rocks underneath. By nightfall, his diverted stream was running all the way down the valley to join the old stream bed a short distance above the lake. The water running over the new earth was muddied by its passage, yet the cutting away of the soft material had not begun. Rack spent an uneasy, guilt-ridden night. In the morning his curiosity overcame his guilt, for the running water had begun to loosen more of the earth. The new stream bed was noticeably depressed and here and there rocks showed through. Moreover, the hard projectiles were no more frequent than before. But it was going to be a very slow process, he determined some days later when the bed of his diverted stream was still composed of softened mud. He left the valley reluctantly. Soon he was caught in a fresh storm and weathered it inside his protective covering of the Material. He wandered and explored, but nowhere did he find anything as interesting as his valley. Everywhere he was confronted by bleak, barren rocks, yielding nothing. During a lull in the storms he jogged back to the east, coming on his valley just as he began to eat seriously into his reserves. He breathed the pure air, watched his stream work, and noted that more and more rocks
and pebbles were showing in the new stream bed. He slept beside the heated water of the basin for many nights, spending his days searching the old stream bed for more hard-material nuggets. He found none. Impatient, as his time grew short, he removed his dam, returning the water to its original channel, and began to search the new stream bed. He found only mud and bare, unpolished pebbles. He decided to build another dam and worked feverishly, the technique familiar now, to build up the low area on the side of the basin where his first artificial creek had overflowed. The newly diverted stream was maddenly slow in carving a channel, and as his time grew less and less he cut his daily ration of broth and worriedly watched the storms worsen as the sun circled drew toward its end. He found the object on his last day in the valley. The timing seemed to be significant, as if nature had been withholding the bombshell to the last possible instant. He came upon it as he was sorting through the rocks and pebbles in his second stream bed. He knew when he picked it up that something exciting was happening. It was different. The pebbles and stones were sharp-edged, broken. This object was smooth, oblong, and rounded on the ends, although it was darkened and pitted. And it was strangely light in his hands, having neither the weight of natural stone nor the heavier feel of the hard materials. He cleaned it in the running water, rubbing the accumulated mud from it, heedless of the fact that in fingering the mud he was technically digging. The mud was from below the surface. But his excitement allowed no moralizing. The object had the look, the feel, of being crafted. At first, when he saw that it was transparent, he was deflated. It was, he felt with a sinking heart, merely an abandoned piece of the Material. But further examination and comparison proved that idea to be wrong. It was not as light as the Material, nor did it have the feel of life possessed by the smooth, flexible substance created by the Far Seers. It was definitely artificial and totally alien—obviously not a product of his civilization. There were two possibilities: either it had fallen from the sky, as some Far Seers suggested the hard materials had, or it had been made by some earlier inhabitant of the planet. As he packed and left the valley, he prepared his arguments. He, at least, was convinced that he had a bombshell to toss into the minds of Red Earth and all the other doubters. For if the object that rested in his pack had not been made by his civilization, and if it had not fallen from the sky, there was only one other explanation. It was a relic of the Old Ones. And to have evidence that the Old Ones could have fabricated something so like the Material would force a revision in the thinking of the entire race. IV His pack, almost empty of broth, was light on his back, allowing Rack to stride along easily. Yet it became evident even before he had gained the eastern bank of the river that he had underestimated the severity of the weather conditions. Pictures of changes in the face of the satellite, which he himself could not see, but for which he had an inner feel, flooded his mind. Soon the new circle would begin and time would bring the abatement of the winter storms. Meanwhile, the outside atmosphere was chilled to a point only slightly above his own body temperature, and the southeasterly movements of the masses of polar air were violent enough to cause Rack's self-confidence to be severely shaken. Already he had been afield longer than ever before, thanks to the store of relatively good air in his valley. However, he had still been gradually using his reserves and now, with the plains of glass stretching endlessly ahead of him, his inventory of his system showed that he did, indeed, have cause for concern. The outside air was totally unbreathable. Not a particle of it was allowed below the lock above his lungs. As he tested it, his gills pumped violently, sending condensed clouds of pure poison swirling out from his neck. In a vain effort to replenish his stores, he scouted up and down the river, but not even at water level could he find clean air. There was nothing for him to do but strike out across the plains and hope for a break in the overcast. He moved at a steady, slow pace designed to make maximum distance at a minimum cost. Fresh, he had crossed the plains in a double picture of a day. Now he would be lucky to be able to set foot on the rocky soil of the eastern side in a discouraging picture of days. He did not fear for his life. Should his very being become endangered, he would call for aid, but only as a last resort. His pride would push him on, and his regard for others would cause him to expend his own life force, rather than call a relatively fragile Power Giver out of her safe retreat into the deadly storms. At the end of the day he had made very little progress, so he pushed on in the darkness of night, guided by his instinctive sense of direction. He paused long enough to finish his broth supply, overeating in an effort to accumulate quick energy for a dash. He jogged on, burning himself, until the first light of dawn glowed weakly through the solid curtain of gases that lay over the plains. Wherever the plains dipped he would bend to test the air near the surface, but the conditions were totally toxic. Later in the day he rested, crouched under his sheet of the Material. He had as far to go as he had come, and beyond the plains he would have to cross the rugged, broken land that stretched for even a greater distance before he approached the nearest establishment. It would be a breach of politeness to break in unannounced on another individual, but life was the important thing and no one would turn him away. Thus he set as his goal the establishment nearest the badlands on the east and prepared himself for the unpleasant task of imposing his needs on another. Under ordinary conditions it would be inexcusable, but, remembering the importance of the object he carried in his pack, he felt justified. He could feel the strain as he moved out, walking with long strides, but more slowly than he would have wished. His scales registered a high amount of projectile emission from the heavy atmosphere. His feet were beginning to know a certain soreness. He did not waste energy in trying to heal them, but saved all his force for fueling his giant heart, that vital organ within him that sent blood swirling through his body to pick up the particles of good air from storage cells. The discomfort he felt was his just punishment for the greed that had caused him to overstay his capacity. Another night found him exhausted and still on the plains. His senses were dulled. He no longer had an exact picture of the remaining distance. Endless plains flowed under his feet. The densest clouds he had ever experienced isolated him within a circle of vision extending scarcely beyond his outstretched arm. It would be interesting to compare notes with Red Earth's Keeper, to see just how many sun circles one would have to look back to find a storm of equal toxicity. He would have a great tale for his offspring. He realized with a start what a strange thought this was for a Healer who had shown no signs of readiness. Perhaps the knowledge of his own mortality had prompted the wayward speculation. He was indeed threatened. For the first time in his life he was in a situation from which his vast endurance, his strength, his own resources, could not extricate him. He admitted it now. He was beyond his own abilities and it was only a question of time before he would have to open his mind and admit his failure to another. Yet, his pride pushed him on. Each step used up his reserves. He slowed to a crawl, but he was determined to make it to the rocks. There, with any luck at all, he would be able to find pockets of usable air. Calling a Power Giver into the thick of the stagnant storm would rob her of a portion of her life and, Power Givers being the most short-lived, fragile beings of the race, he refused to ask such a sacrifice. Pain was signaling the far-reaching waste of his body when his feet encountered something other than the hopeless smoothness of the plains, and for a moment his spirits lifted. He made respectable time into the towering boulders, his sensitive nose seeking air but finding only unusable gases. Even at his pace he was still more than a day's march from the nearest establishment. Above his head the stagnant masses of air began to shift. He could feel the movement on his scales and allowed himself one last hope. If the storm began to blow over, perhaps cool air of a usable purity would come in behind it. He wrapped himself, slowed his metabolism, and went into a state of nearly suspended animation in which his heart beat only occasionally and his mind darkened and slowed. A few good lungfuls of air would give him enough strength to make the establishment. Bu
t the movement of the air masses soon ceased—it had been only a local phenomenon. Checking his resources he estimated he could safely wait the coming of a new day. He dropped his heartbeat to the minimum level and, in a state of quasi-death, waited through the long night. His mind held only a token of awareness— a spark of life lying there, banked, waiting to rouse him, waiting to open the gates and send out that last desperate admission of foolishness. As the rising sun dimly lightened the rocks, awareness seeped down through the protective layers of his mind. He stirred. The toxic conditions were still total. A feeling of overwhelming sadness swept him as he opened his mind and sent. Sadness was replaced with horror as he realized the weakness of his signal. He burned the last of his reserve cells, converting the energy into a truly desperate call, knowing even as he lapsed into darkness that he had waited too long. His last awareness was not fear of death, but shock at his miscalculation. His mistake would take one unit of life—it just happened to be his own personal unit—from the pitifully small store of life on the planet. He did not mourn his own loss, but the loss his carelessness had inflicted on the whole. Deep-lying cells were robbed. His extremities were beginning to lose the flexibility of life. His brain was numb, dark, and he was unaware. Nature, sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, spared him the knowledge of his dying. V Since there was no hereafter in Rack's world, he knew, when he felt the caress of good air in his lungs, that he was alive. He lay on an unfamiliar rack, his huge chest pumping at a fast rate, his depleted cells drinking thirstily, his lungs sucking up air at a tremendous rate. He stopped breathing immediately, rolled back his outer lids, found himself in an establishment, and opened his inner eyes to see in the semidarkness. «Thank you,» the thoughts of a Power Giver said. «I was afraid you were going to bankrupt me of air before you awoke.» He was lying under a coverlet which, in the comfort of the establishment, was unnecessary, and, in fact, rather too warm. He threw it off and sat up. The Power Giver was sitting in a chair opposite him. As he swung his legs off the rack, she averted her eyes. He sent abject shame. She negated. «You heard me, then?» he asked. «No. Red Earth sent me. You were out so long he began searching.» «To Red Earth, too, I owe expressions of shame,» he said. She would not look at him. He couldn't blame her. His seemingly foolish behavior had sent her out into the storm. Moreover, he had been unconscious when he entered her establishment, and, as he inhaled the good, Breather-manufactured air, he had involuntarily voided his gills. A small cloud of heavy, poisonous stuff had accumulated along the floor. He bent down and breathed it in, storing it inside his gill sack. He would void it later outside. In cases of dire emergency the niceties were sometimes forgotten, but Rack could not forgive himself for having soiled her private air and for having used an unforgivable amount of it. She would be on short rations until the overworked Breathers made up the deficit. He was deeply in her debt. «There was a reason,» he said. «Yes, I'm sure of that.» Her eyes were still cast down, her inner lids closed. «You're Beautiful Wings the Power Giver?» «Yes.» «Would a small gift repay you even in part for your sacrifice?» He had seen his pack on the floor. He opened it and brought out the precious nugget of hard material. He moved to stand in front of her, hand extended. Astoundingly, her face began to glow through the delicate covering of tiny, bejeweled scales. He found himself looking at her as he had never looked at a Power Giver before, noting her delicate proportions. She was small as Power Givers went, with long, delightfully curved limbs, a slender waist, and a graceful chest on which her bulges, protected by silvery scales, were quite pronounced. He had always been an admirer of the graceful beauty of the Power Givers, but never before had he been so smitten with any one individual. He was suddenly speechless. «It is not necessary,» she sent. «I want you to have it. It is a material of certain scarcity and it would adorn you.» He pictured the beautiful yellow hard material mounted in the Material and lying on her rounded chest. The glow of her face became even more pronounced. It was certainly strange behavior for a sensible Power Giver. But he was also feeling very strange. Was it simply the near brush with death? Even now he could feel the depletion of his resources. His body weight was extremely low. «May I ask how much my rescue hurt you?» He waited politely for her answer. She sent a picture of her condition. He was pleased. She was vibrantly healthy. Apparently her excursion into the storms had cost little. «Fortunately,» she sent, «you moved within a short distance of my establishment.» «Then I insist on your having this.» He pressed the nugget into her hand and the touch electrified him, sending a surge of pure goodness through his body. Alarmed, he stepped back, his eyes falling, his suspicions growing. Now it was his face that glowed through his scales, for in the bulge over his pelvic area the large, protective scales were tinted a dull russet. He knew then why she had covered him, knew why he was looking at her with an interest he had never felt before. He seized the coverlet in agitated haste and draped it over his middle. He sent waves of embarrassment and atonement. «It is merely nature,» she sent. «It's just—it's just—» She went blank. He had exposed himself shamelessly. His state of confusion resulting from his experience was no excuse. When entering the state of readiness, one secluded oneself from polite society and bore the change in solitude until, fully readied, one went in search of a mate. To expose one's first tint to the opposite sex was unforgivable. He could only send regret and ask for forgiveness. «You were unaware,» she said. «I understand.» He closed off, unable to bear his shame. She fingered the nugget of hard material, opening her inner lids to see better. «It is truly beautiful. Is this the justification for your trip?» «Beautiful as it is, no.» He opened his pack and showed her the strange object. She examined it with wonder and looked at him fully for the first time. «What is it?» she asked. «I don't know,» he said. «But my not knowing helps to explain its importance. As you can see, it is not the Material, nor is it anything with which we are familiar in our high state of civilization.» «Is it a thing fallen from the space outside?» she asked. «That again I do not know.» He looked at her and felt a strange, sweet feeling of peace. And in her absorption in examining the object she forgot to hide her own feelings. On the delicate bulges of her chest her scales flowered, opening slightly, as the flower of the slime source opened under the thick, salty waters of the sea. His heart pounded. She was incredibly young. The change should have been sun circles in her future, and yet here was the unmistakable sign. The flowering of her chest bulges was revealed only momentarily before she became aware of the erotic sensation and closed them, glowing furiously. «Beautiful, Beautiful Wings,» he sent, searing her with his emotion. Then, as she recoiled, he eased. «I knew your father, Northern Ice the Healer. In my travels I talked with him often, and I knew you as a child.» «He is dead these several sun circles.» A surge of emotion swept through his body, making his interior go soft and flowing. «I am not mistaken?» he asked, sending a replay of the unconscious flowering of her chest bulges. She answered with a shy negative, and delightfully feminine in her movements, reached for an opaque sheet of the Material with which to cover herself before looking at him. Wild thoughts flooded out of him, thoughts about nature, fate, luck, bringing them together, amazement that she should begin her change so young, pleasure in his picture of her. «Am I truly?» she sent. «Am I truly beautiful?» «Affirmative, affirmative, affirmative,» he sent, repeating his picture of her. «There are many others,» she said. «They do not matter.» «I have heard that a Healer is prone to love the first Power Giver changeling he encounters, but that this love is not necessarily the indication of a wise choice,» she said. «It is true. Our custom will require that I seek.» She closed. He sent one last beautiful picture into her mind and got a grandly complimentary, girlish picture in return. Then the moment was gone. «You are to seek Red Earth's establishment as soon as you are able.» «True,» he said. «I have much to report.» «He was fretful.» «I little doubt that.» «Will you be reprimanded?» «I don't think so. Not when I show him this.» He took the strange object from her hand. «Red Earth,
although he won't admit it, is as curious as any Healer.» He read the state of the air in the establishment, monitored the activity of her Breathers, who were working overly hard because of the drain of two sets of lungs. «But I have taken enough of your air. I have ample stores to reach Red Earth's establishment.» «I will take you.» «No!» He was emphatic. He would not allow her to go out into the deadly storm again on his behalf. «I have been so instructed.» «Then we shall disobey,» he said. He allowed himself one more breath of her air, bowed, and left her. As he went out into the lock he sent a picture of his returning. He felt a warm glow in answer. Since his own establishment was nearer than Red Earth's, he jogged, in a homeward direction through the barren landscape, joyous in the feeling of renewed strength. He vented his gills in the lock and entered his establishment, where the air was so rich it made him giddy. He breathed furiously, causing much agitation among his Breathers, and felt his weight build, his chest expand, and his tired, empty cells fatten. Refreshed, he started out again through the dark, thick storm, dressed now in the loincloth of readiness. Beautiful Wings' coverlet, used during the trip from her establishment, was cleaned and ready to be returned to her, a task he hoped to perform in the very near future. He made the march to Red Earth's establishment in short time, feeling only a slight drain on his reserves, so fat was he with air. He announced his arrival, was admitted to the lock, vented his gills, shook the ash of the outside from his scales, and sneaked a look at the russet bulge in his loins. Inside, Red Earth was lounging on his rack. Rack greeted him cordially, holding back the sensational information. «You are fat and refreshed, I see,» Red Earth sent grumpily. «I will use none of your air,» said Rack. «A pleasant change,» Red Earth said, a reference to Rack's hungry breathing of Beautiful Wings' air. «A nugget of hard material is scant exchange for life.» «If you were observing so closely,» Rack said, «did you also see the valley of the hot water?» «I have more to do than follow the ramblings of an irresponsible Healer,» Red Earth sent. «Then I have much to tell.» «I am interested only in the breakdown of your cenesthesia and the reasons for your being stranded in the wilderness, and in those subjects solely for the reason of preventing such happenings in the future. Perhaps your punishment will inspire other Healers to use more caution.» «I do indeed deserve punishment,» Rack admitted. «However, I think there may be some mitigating circumstances.» «Your state of coming readiness is noted and will be considered.» Red Earth gave a mental shrug. «We cannot, even in an event such as this,
