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shoulders ached and he became aware of the unnatural angle
at which he lay. His right arm felt wet. He opened his eyes
and saw that the night still lay upon the land. He stretched
out his left hand and turned on the interior light. As he did,
shards of glass fell from his sleeve.
He saw then that the windshield was uncracked, and that
the wetness on his arm had been caused by the spilled
remainder of his coffee. He placed his fingertips on his
forehead and felt no break in the skin, but he could already
detect a swelling in the sore area.
The vehicle lay on its right side, off the trail, its front end
partly crumpled against a tree. There were other trees and
shrubs in the vicinity, masking him somewhat from the trail.
He looked upward and to his left, and he could discover no
reason for the broken side window.
Then his gaze fell upon the headrest. There were four
parallel slash marks in the covering material beside his head,
as from a set of razor-sharp claws. He looked again at the
broken side window. Yes...
Cat?
Silence.
What are you waiting for?
He swung his feet about, set them carefully against the far
door and rose into the semblance 'of a standing position.
Immediately he grew dizzy and clutched at the steering
wheel. When the spell passed, he attempted to open the
door. It yielded to his fourth effort with a grinding, scraping
sound. He caught hold of the frame and drew himself
upward, suddenly recalling having done something similar
with an old blue pickup truck, coming home from a Saturday
night in town an age ago.
There was a trail. Even in the dark he could read it. Cat
had been there and gone. He felt the broken twigs, traced
impressions in the earth with his fingertips. He followed it
for perhaps twenty meters, heading off across the country-
side. Then he rose and turned away.
What's your angle, Cat? What do you want now? he
asked.
He heard only the wind. He walked slowly back to the
roadway and continued along it. He was certain that only a
few miles remained until he reached the town.
Perhaps ten minutes passed. No other traffic had come
along, but he suspected that he was not alone. A large body
seemed to be moving far off among the trees to his left,
pacing him.
All right, Cat, he said. There is no point to my taking
evasive action now. If you are going to strike, strike. If not,
enjoy the walk.
There was no response, and he broke into a jog.
A feeling of nausea came over him before he had gone far.
He ignored it and kept moving. He decided that it could be a
reaction to the blow on his head.
But as he ran, his feelings came to include a fear that Cat
was about to spring on him. He tried to thrust it away but it
grew, and then he recognized its irrational roots.
I feel it, Cat. But I know what it is, he said. What's the
point of it? I'm still going on to Kenmare, unless you kill me.
Are you just playing games?
The intensity of the feelings increased. His breathing grew
ragged. He felt a sudden urge to urinate. A sense of immi-
nent doom was upon the trail for as far ahead as he could
see.
Something like a small dog crossed his path. In that
instant, his apprehensions vanished.
Was that the shadow I saw in the woods? he wondered. Is
Cat long gone? Was my fear real, rather than induced?
Or is it all your doing, Cat? Is it your plan to make me
doubt myself, to break me before you destroy me?
He jogged for a mile before a floatcar approached from the
rear and drew abreast of him. Its driver offered him a ride
into town.
As they moved forward, Billy felt within him the distant
laughter of his pursuer.
To get out, to go away, to think. These were his preoccu-
pations as he came into the town. He needed to escape for
even a short while to someplace where Cat could not ob-
serve the workings of his mind. It was necessary that he
continue his flight, try yet again to blur the trail sufficiently
to gain respite for analysis of the situation, for planning.
He had the driver drop him at the trip-station. He assumed
that somewhere Cat was reading his mind to learn his
destination. He began chanting softly in Navajo, a section of
the Blessingway. He entered the station and moved toward a
booth. The place's only occupant was an old man seated on
a wooden bench against the side wall to his right. The man
looked up from his news printout and nodded to him.
" 'Evening," the man said.
He entered the booth and pressed the coordinates for
Victoria Station.
... in beauty.
Now to Munich...
... all about me.
He cleaned himself in the washroom there and tripped to
Rome.
... to the right of me.
He had a sandwich and a glass of wine.
... to the left of me.
He tripped to Ankara. For a time, he stood outside the
terminal and watched the sun rising upon a hot, dusty day.
... before me.
He tripped to Al Hillah in Saudi Arabia, and from there to
a bank of booths in the Rab al Khali National Petroleum
Forest.
Yes. Here, he decided, stepping forth among the great-
leafed, towering trees, their barks scaled and brown and
ringing in the wind. He followed a marked footpath through
their shade.
Here, amid Freeman Dyson's old dream, he thought, he
might be able to feel his way to something that he needed to
know, here in what had once been known as the Empty
Quarter, now an enormous forest of genetically tailored
trees larger than redwoods, their sap rising, their pro-
grammed metabolism synthesizing petroleum which flowed
downward through a special set of vessels into roots which
formed a living network of pipelines, connecting at various
points to an artificial pipeline which conveyed it to the vast
storage areas which constituted one of the world's great
petroleum reserves, against those functions which still re-
quired the substance. They filled what had once been a
wasteland, utilizing the abundant sunlight available there.
Self-repairing and timeless against the blue of the sky, they-
were both natural and the product of the technology which
informed the planet's culture, as surely as the trees of the
street parks which delivered their own products, or the data
net which, had he not disassociated himself from it, could at
this moment deliver to him almost any information he
needed.
Almost. Some things had to be worked out alone. But
here, in this combination of the old and the new; the primi-
tive and the modern, he felt more at ease than he had since
the entire business began. There were even birds singing in
the branches....
He walked for a long while through the forest, pausing
when he came to a small cleared area containing a pair of
picnic tables, a waste bin, a shed. He looked into the shed:
foresters' maintenance equipment - power diggers, pick-
axes, saws; chains and cables; gloves and climbing spikes. It
was dusty, and spiderwebs like gossamer bridges connected
each to each.
He closed the door and moved away, sniffed the air and
looked around. He seated himself with his back to the bole
of a middle-sized tree, some few stalks of coarse saffron and
lime grass tufted about the hillock among the roots. He filled
his pipe and lit it.
Cat wanted his death and had tried to convince him that he
did, too. The idea seemed absurd, but he looked at it more
closely. Much of the universe was one's adversary. He had
learned that as a boy. One took precautions and hoped for
the best. Time was flowing water, neither good nor evil and
not to be grasped. One could cup one's hand and hold a little
of it for a while, and that was all. It had become a torrent,
though, in the past decade of his own life - which covered
about thirty years of real time - and he could contain none of
it. The big world had changed rapidly during that span. The
dancers had exchanged masks; he could no longer identify
the enemies.
Save for Cat.
But that was unfair, he saw, even to Cat. Cat he could
understand. Cat was simple, monomaniacal, in his desire.
The rest of the world was dangerous in changing and compli-
cated ways, though it generally lacked malice and premedi-
tation. It was an adversary, not an enemy. Cat was the
enemy. The universe was that which ground down and rolled
over one. And now...
The tempo had increased. He had felt it all his life, from
his first school days on, intensifying, like a drumbeat. There
had been lapses, true; periods when he had come to terms
with the new rhythms. But now - He felt tired. The last
responses were no longer appropriate, not even among his
own people. Looking back, he saw that he had felt best on
those occasions when he had gone away, into the timeless
places among the stars, hunting. It was the return that was
always the shock. Now... now he just wanted to rest. Or to
go away again, even though the next return...
Dora. It had been peaceful with Dora also. But that did not
help him now. Thinking of Dora now only caused him to
look away from the real problems. Did he really want to die?
Was Cat right?
He could almost hear singing within the unnatural tree
which paralleled his backbone, vibrations humming along
his nerves.
To want to run away, to want to rest and change no more
...Perhaps...
He bit down hard on the pipestem. He did not like all of
this bellicano thinking, this hunting for hidden motives.
But...
Perhaps there was something to it. His jaw muscles re-
laxed again.
If the hidden sources of his feelings did equal what Cat had
been talking about, he had been running toward death ever
since Dora's fall and -
Dora? How did she figure into this part? No, let the dead
rest and not trouble the living. It would be enough to admit
that all of the changes in society itself - a society into which
he had not been born but of which he had tried to make
himself 'a part - were sufficiently overwhelming to have
brought him to this point. Take it from there. What next?
What did he really want? And what should he do about it?
Suddenly a memory unfolded, startling him with a knowl-
edge he had possessed all along. After the shock of the
recognition he grew depressed, for he knew then that Cat's
words had been true.
Each time that he had fled by means of a trip-box he had
had his ultimate destination at the back of his mind. All of
the jumping about he had done before heading for his goal
had been as nothing. Cat had needed but to read that final
destination, to go there and begin patrolling the city, hunting
first his mind and then his body. This seemed more than
carelessness on his part. It was as if he had intentionally
given himself to Cat and kept the information hidden from
his own scrutiny. How could he trust himself to do anything
now?
On the other hand, doing nothing could prove equally
fatal. He was surprised at his sudden willingness to admit to
a hidden death wish. He was determined not to yield to it,
however, not in this duel with Cat. He puffed on his pipe and
listened to the birds.
Had he this destination in mind when he had departed
Kenmare on the first of this latest series of jumps? It seemed
that he had....
All right. He rose. He had to assume that Cat was aware of
it and could put in an appearance at any time. The longer he
remained here, the greater the beast's chances of finding him
unprepared. He dusted off his trousers and muttered
"Damn!" He still needed time to plan.
He slapped the side of the tree and headed across the
picnic area toward the trail. A huge crow darted past him
and he halted. Thoughts of Black-god tumbled through his
mind, and of the ways of the hunt.
The only trip-station in the area was the one he had used.
Cat could emerge there at any moment, perhaps just as he
was approaching. No, that would not do. Because he was
defenseless, it was prudent to continue the flight. But the
risk involved in attempting it right now seemed too high.
IT CAME DOWN FROM UTAH
and Colorado, and it was big and black and nasty. When it
attacked, the people fled for cover and waited. It lashed and
splashed and filled gullies. From Lake Powell through the
Carrizos it boiled and roared. It licked Shiprock with
tongues of flame. The patches of white in the high places
were diminished beneath its slavering. It rolled across the
land and hauled itself over the mountain peaks. Its breath
was fast and sharp, snapping limbs from pine trees, twisting
pinons. Arroyos became muddy snakes. There were mists,
and in some places rainbows. The thunder no longer slept.
Legends could no longer be told.
The Keeper of Clouds has unpenned his charges.
The Keeper of Winds has unlocked his gates. -
The Keeper of Waters has opened the sky.
The Keeper of Lightnings waves his lances.
The Keeper of Satellites has observed,
"One hundred percent of probability of precipitation."
HE EMERGED FROM THE TRIP-
box and looked about. He stood for a time as if listening.
Then he dropped to all fours and entered the forest, his form
altering as he advanced. He had detected the mind which he
sought. It was filled again with the feelings of that chanting
and all of the obscure imagery associated with it. But while
this masked the underlying thoughts it in no way obscured
the direction and location of the thinker. Finding the body
should not be all that difficult.
His movements grew more and more graceful as the lines
of his body flowed to assume the catlike form he favored.
His eye sparkled like a liquid thing. His incisors overhung
his lower lip by several inches. They, too, sparkled. His
passage among the great petroleum trees was almost sound-
less. Whenever he froze and sought impressions he became
almost invisible within the dappled patterns of light and
shadow.
On one such occasion a leaf fell. Cat pounced upon it, a
living blur. He straightened then and shook his head. He
stared at the leaf. Then he started forward again.
Perhaps this should be the time. The game was not prov-
ing as complex as he had hoped. If there were no interesting
fight or flight, if nothing exciting happened this time, it might
be best to conclude things here. The hunter seemed to have
lost his edge, seemed weary, too troubled to provide the
necessary struggle.
He glared for a moment at the black bird which cried out
above his head, circling and then darting away.
Come back, dearie. Just for a moment. Come look again.
But the bird was gone.
Cat flicked his wide tail and pressed on across a low
spongy section of forest floor. It was not that much far-
ther.... He increased his pace and did not slow again until
he was near to the picnic area. Then he studied and circled
and studied again.
The man was just sitting there, his back against a picnic
bench, smoking his pipe, his mind filled with that senseless
chant. It was almost too easy, but this was the way he had
read him earlier: willfully careless, ready to die. Still...
There was no sport in it. A few taunts, and perhaps he will
bolt.
You see. It is as I said. When you run from me you
approach me. Why was 1 not peed at some other time, when .
you still cared to live?
The hunter did not reply. The chant continued.
So you have admitted the truth. You accept what I told
you. Is that your death song that you sing?
Again there was no response.
Very well. I see no reason to prolong things, hunter.
Cat passed among the trees and entered the cleared area.
Last chance. Will you not at least draw your knife?
Billy stood and turned slowly to face him.
At last. You are awake. Are you going to run?
Billy did not move. Cat bounded forward. There followed
a splintering sound.
When the ground gave way beneath the beast, the moment
was frozen in Billy's mind. He had had some doubt as to the
appropriate width when wielding the power shovel to dig the
trench which encircled him. As its covering gave way and
Cat vanished below he was pleased that his estimate had
proven adequate. He moved immediately to bridge it with
the picnic table.
You will not hold me here for long, hunter, Cat told him
from below.
Long enough, I hope.
Billy crossed over the trench and emptied the wastebin
against the trunk of a nearby tree. He struck a light and set it
to the heap of papers.
What are you doing?
If one of these trees goes up, the whole area burns, he
said. They're all connected below and full of inflammables.
You won't make it back to the box if you let this burn.
Billy turned and began running.
Congratulations, Cat told him. You have made it interest-
ing again.
Good-bye, Billy said.
Not quite. We've an appointment.
He ran on until the trip-box was in sight. Rushing into it,
he inserted his strip, activating the control and punched
coordinates at random without looking at them.
You have bought respite, Cat told him. But at another
level you have betrayed yourself again.
Have I? Billy answered, as the forest blurred.
He walks in a twilight land amid
jungle-shrouded cities. The cries of unseen birds come to
him across the shimmering air. It is pleasantly warm, and
there is a smell of dampness and decay. His path is a
glistening ribbon among ruins which appear less and less
ruined as he advances.' He smells burning copal and his
guide gives him a strange beverage to drink. Colors flash
beneath his feet and his way becomes bright red. They come
at length to a pyramid atop which a blue man is held
stretched across a stone by four others. Billy watches as a
man in a high headdress cuts open the blue man's chest and
removes the heart. He sips his drink and continues to watch
as the heart is passed to another man who uses it to anoint
the faces of statues. The body is thien cast down the steps to
where a crowd of people waits. There, another man very
carefully removes the skin, its blue now streaked with red,
dons it like a robe and commences dancing. The other
people now fall upon the remains and begin eating, save for
the hands and the feet, which are removed and set aside. His
guide departs for a moment to join the crowd, returning
moments later, bringing him something and indicating that
he should eat. He chews mechanically, washing it down with
the balche. He looks up, realizing suddenly that Dora is his
guide. "On the fifth day of Uayeb my true love gave to
me..." She is not smiling. Her face is, in fact, without
expression as she turns away, beckoning for him to follow.
The blood-red way leads at length to a gaping cave-mouth.
They halt before it, and he can see that within there are
statues at either hand - fanged, scrolls upon their foreheads,
dark circles about their eyes. As he stares, he becomes
aware of people moving about slowly inside. They are
placing bowls of copal, tobacco and maize upon a low altar.
They are chanting softly in words which he does not under-
stand. She leads him across the threshold, and he sees now
that the place is illuminated by candlelight. He smells
incense as he stands listening to the prayers. He is given to
drink a beverage of corn gruel and honey at each pausing
between rituals. He sits with his back against the rock,
listening, tracing circles upon the poor with his fingertip. He
is given another gourd of balche to drink. As he raises it to
his lips he looks upward and pauses. It is not Dora who has
brought him the drink but a powerful youth, clad in the old
manner of the Dineh. At this person's back there stands
another man - larger and even stronger-looking. He is simi-
larly garbed, and the resemblance between the two is strik-
ing. "You seem familiar," Billy tells them. The first man
smiles. "We are the slayers of the giants Seven-Macaws,
Zipacna and Cabracan," he answers. "It was we," says the
other, "who journeyed down the steps to Xibalba, crossing
the River of Corruption and the River of Blood. We followed
the Black Path to the House of the Lords of Death." The
other nods. "We played strange games with them, both
winning and losing," he says. And they say in unison, ъWe
slew the Lords Hun-Came and Vucub-Came and ascended
into light." Billy sips his balche. "You remind me," he says
to the younger one, "of Tobadzichini, and you," to the other,
"of Nayenezgani, the Warrior Twins of my people, as I
always thought they must look." The two smile. "This is
true," they say, "for we get around a lot. Down here we are
known as Hunahpu and Xbalanque. Rise now to your feet
and look off yonder into the darker places." He gets up and
looks to the rear of the grotto. He sees there a trail leading
downward. Dora stands upon it, staring at him. "Follow,"
says Hunahpu. "Follow," says Xbalanque. She begins to
move away. As he turns and follows after her, he hears the
cry of a bird....
BILLY STEPPED FROM THE TRIP-
box and looked about. It was dark, with a tropical brilliance
to the stars. The air was cool and damp, bearing smells he
had long associated with jungle foliage. The coolness
seemed to indicate that the night was nearing its end.
He passed beyond the station's partitioning, where he
read the sign which identified it. Yes. Things were as he had
sensed them. He had come to the great archaeological park
of Chichen Itza.
He stood upon a low hill. Narrow trails led off in many
directions. These paths were faintly illuminated, and here
and there he saw people passing slowly along them. He
could discern the massive dark forms of the ancient struc-
tures themselves, more solid and deep than the night's lesser
gloom. Periodically, some portion of ruin would be bril-
liantly lighted for several minutes, for the benefit of night-
viewers. He recalled reading somewhere that this ran
through a regular cycle, its schedule available at various
points along the way, along with computerized commentary
and the answering of questions concerning the place.
He began walking. The ruin was big and dark and quiet
and Indian. It comforted him to pass along its ways. Cat
could not find him here. This he knew. He also understood
Cat's parting words. He had betrayed himself, in a sense, for
his final destination had been present in his mind even as he
had struck the random coordinates which had brought him
here. When he finally journeyed to that last place it would be
to face his enemy.
He laughed softly then. There was nothing to prevent his
remaining here until Cat's time limit had run out.
Some of the more fragile ruins he passed were protected
by force fields, others permitted entry, climbing, wandering.
He was reminded of this as he brushed against a force
screen - soft, harder, harder, impenetrable. It reminded him
of Cat's cage back at the Institute. Cat's had also been
electrified, however, providing shocks which increased in
direct proportion to the intensity of the pressure from
within. Cat had seldom brushed against it, though, because
of his peculiar sensitivity to electrical currents. In fact, that
was how Billy had captured him - accidentally, when Cat
had collided with the electrified force screen which had
surrounded one of the base camps during an attempt at
backtracking and ambush. The memory suddenly gave rise
to a new train of thought.
A light flashed on far to his right, and he halted and stared.
He had never been here before, but he had seen pictures,
had read about the place. It was the Temple of the Warriors
that he beheld, a bristling of columns before it, their
shadows black slashes upon its forward wall. He began to
move toward it.
The light went out before he got there, but he had the
location as well as the image fixed in his mind. He continued
until he was very near, and when he discovered that no force
field blocked his way he passed among the styli and began to
climb the steep stair on its forward face.
When he reached the level area at the top he located
himself to what he took to be the east and sat down, his back
against the wall of the smaller structure situated at the
center. He thought of Cat and of the death wish that was
defeating him because he could not adapt, because he was
no longer Navajo. Or was that true? He thought of his recent
years of withdrawal. Now they seemed filled with ashes. But
his people had many times tasted the ashes of fear and
suffering, sorrow and submission, yet they had never lost
their dignity nor all of their pride. Sometimes cynical, often
defiant, they had survived. Something of this must still be
with him, to match against his own death prayer. He dozed
then and had a peculiar dream which he could not later recall
in its entirety.
When he woke the sun was rising. He watched the waves
of color precede it into the world. It was true that there was
nothing to prevent his remaining here until Cat's time limit
had run out. He knew that he would not do this. He would go
on to face his chindi.
... After breakfast, he decided. After breakfast.
"I DON'T CARE!" MERCY
Spender said, raising the bottle with one hand, the glass with
the other. "I've got to have another drink!"
Elizabeth Brooke laid a hand upon her shoulder.
"I really don't think you should, dear. Not just now,
anyhow. You're agitated and -"
"I know! That's why I want it!"
With a snapping sound, the bottom fell out of the bottle.
The gin raced shards of glass to the floor. The odor of juniper
berries drifted upward.
"What ..."
Walter Sands smiled.
"Mean of me," he said. "But we still need you. I know
you'd like to go and rest in the home again. It will be harder
for us if you drop out now, though. Wait a while."
Mercy stared downward. A look of anger passed and her
eyes brimmed, sparkled.
"It's silly," she said then. "If he wants to die, let him."
"It's not that simple. He's not that simple," Ironbear said.
"And we owe him."
"I don't owe him anything," she said, "and we don't even
know what to do, really. I -" Then, "We all have something
that hurts, I guess," she said. "Maybe... Okay. I'll take
some tea."
"I wonder what hurts the thing that's after him?" Fisher
asked.
"The data are incomplete on the ecology of the place it
comes from," Mancin said.
"Then there is only one way to find out, isn't there?"
asked Ironbear. "Go to the source."
"Ridiculous," Fisher said. "It's hard enough touching a
human who's gone primitive. The beast seems able to do it at
short ranges because they share some bond. But to go after
the thing itself and then - I couldn't."
"Neither could I," said Elizabeth. "None of us could. But
we might be able to."
"We? Us? Together? Again? It could be dangerous. After
that last time -"
"Again."
"We don't even know where the cat-thing is."
"Walford's man can order another check on TripCo's
computer network. Locate Singer again and the beast will
soon be there."
"And what good would that do us?"
"We won't know till we get that information and give it a
try."
"I don't like this," said Fisher. "We could get hurt. It's a
damned alien place you're talking about. I touched one of
the Strageans yesterday and had a headache for half an hour
afterwards. Couldn't even see straight. And they're similar
to us in a lot of ways."
"We can always back out if it gets too rough."
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Mercy said, "but I
guess it does seem like the Christian thing to do."
"The hell with that. Is it going to do any good?"
"Maybe you're right," Mancin said. "It doesn't seem all
that promising when you analyze it. Let's tell Walford how
Singer did it, tell him about the beast and the deal they made.
Then get the computer check to narrow the field. They can
send an armed force after it."
"Send it after the thing that killed the thing an armed force
couldn't stop?"
"Let's locate them," Ironbear said, "find out what we can
and then decide."
"That much makes sense," Sands said. "I'll go along with
it."
"So will I," said Elizabeth.
Mancin glanced at Fisher.
"Looks as if we're' outvoted," he said, sighing. "Okay."
Fisher nodded.
"Call Tedders. Run it through TripCo. I'll be with you."
BILLY STEPPED THROUGH INTO
his hogan, leaving the transport slip in place. He switched on
the guard and turned off the buzzer. He was not receiving
calls just now.
His secretary unit told him that Edwin Tedders had called
several times. Would he please call back? Another caller left
no name, only the message, "They grew them with insula-
tion, I learned. You knew that, didn't you?"
He turned on the coffee maker, undressed and stepped
into the shower. As he was vibrated clean, he heard the
rumble of thunder above the cries of the nozzles.
When he had emerged and dressed himself in warmer
clothing he took his coffee out onto his porch. The sky was
grey to the north and curtains of rain hung there. A fast wind
fled past him. To the south and the east the sky was clear.
Light clouds drifted in the west. He watched the rolling
weeds and listened to the wind for a time, finished his coffee
and returned to the inside.
Billy picked up the weapon and checked it over. Old-
fashioned. A tazer, it was called, firing a pronged cable and
delivering a strong electrical jolt at the far end. They had
fancier things now which ionized a path through the air and
sent their charge along it. But this would do. He had used a
similar device on Cat before, once he had learned his weak-
ness.
Then he honed a foot-long Bowie knife and threaded his
belt through the slits in its sheath. He inspected an old 30.06
he had kept in perfect condition. If he could succeed in
stunning Cat, it could pump sufficient rounds through that
tough hide to hit vital organs, he knew. On the other hand,
the weapon was fairly heavy. He finally selected a half-meter
laser snub-gun, less accurate but equally lethal. He planned
on using it at close range, anyway. That decided, he set to
putting together a light pack with minimal gear for the trek
he had in mind. When everything was assembled, he set an
alarm, stretched out on his bedroll and slept for two hours.
When the buzzer roused him the rain was drumming on
the roof. He donned a waterproof fleece-lined jacket, shoul-
dered his pack, slung his weapons and found a hat. Then he
crossed to his communications unit, checked a number and
punched it.
Shortly the screen came to life, and Susan Yellowcloud's
wide face appeared before him.
"Azaethlin!" she said. She brushed back a strand of hair
and smiled. "It's been a couple of years."
"Yes," he said, and he exchanged greetings and a bit of
small talk. "Raining over your way?" he finally asked.
"Looks as if it's about to."
"I need to get over to the north rim," he told her. "You're
the closest person I know to the spot I have in mind. Okay if
I come over?"
Sure. Get in your box and I 11 key ours.
He stepped in, pocketed his strip and punched TRANS.
He came through in the corner of a cluttered living room.
Jimmy Yellowcloud arose from a chair set before a
viewscreen to press palms with him. He was short, wide-
shouldered, thick around the waist.
"Hosteen Singer," he said. "Have a cup of coffee with
us."
"All right," Billy said.
As they drank it, Jimmy remarked, "You said you're
going over to the canyon?"
"Yes."
"Not down in it, I hope."
"I'm going down in it."
"The spring flooding's started."
"I'd guessed."
"Nasty-looking gun. Could I see it?"
"Hey, laser! You could punch another hole in Window
Rock with this thing. It's old, isn't it?"
"About eighty years. I don't think they make them just
like that anymore."
He passed it back.
"Hunting something?"
"Sort of."
They sat in silence for a time, then, "I'll drive you over to
wherever you want on the rim," he said.
"Thanks." '
Jimmy took another sip of coffee.
"Going to be down there long?" he asked.
"Hard to say."
"We don't see much of you these days."
"Been keeping to myself."
Jimmy laughed.
"You ought to marry my wife's sister and come live over
here."
"She pretty?" Billy asked.
"You bet. Good cook, too."
"Do I know her?"
"I don't think so. We'll have to have a squaw dance."
A sudden drumming of rain occurred on the north side of
the house.
"Here it comes," Jimmy said. "Don't suppose you'd care
to wait till it stops?"
Billy chuckled.
"Could be days. You'd go broke feeding me.,"
"We could play cards. Not much else for a ranger to do
this time of year."
Billy finished his coffee.
"You could learn to make jewelry - conchos, bracelets,
rings."
"My hands just don't go for that."
Jimmy put down his cup.
"Nothing else to do. I might as well change clothes and go
along with you. I've got a high-powered hunting rifle with a
radar sight. Knock over an elephant."
Billy traced a design on the tabletop.
"Not this time," he said.
"All right. Guess we'd better get going then."
"Guess we should."
He let Jimmy drop him on the northward bulge of the rim
above the area containing the Antelope House ruin. Since he
bad had the ride he had decided to come this much farther
eastward. Had he walked over, he would have descended at
a point several miles farther to the west. Jimmy would have
taken him even farther eastward had he wished, but that
would have been less useful, starting him at a place beyond
the point where Black Rock Canyon branched off from
Canyon del Muerto proper. He wanted to pass that point on
foot and confuse the trail there. If he made things too easy
Cat would become suspicious.
Staring downward into the broad, serpentine canyon, he
saw a wide band of dully gleaming water passing down its
center, as he had suspected, It was not yet as deep as he had
seen it on occasions in the past, rushing with the seasonal
meltoff between orange, salmon and gray walls, splashing
the bases of obelisklike stands of stone, cascading over
irregularities, rippling about boulders, bearing the mud and
detritus of its passage on toward the Chinle Wash, creating
pockets of quicksand all over the canyon floor. Several
hundred of the People made their homes there during the
warmer months, but they all moved out for the,winter. The
place would be deserted now.
A light rain was falling, making the wall rocks slippery. He
cast about for the safest way down. There, to the left.
He moved to the spot he had selected and studied it more
closely. Yes. It could be done. He checked his pack and
commenced the descent. The way led down to the high, firm
talus slope which followed the wall's base.
Partway down, he paused to adjust his pack, brush off
moisture and look sideways and back in at the petroglyph of
a life-sized antelope. There were a number of them about,
along with those of other quadrupeds, turkeys, human fig-
ures, concentric circles; some of them continued onto the
fourth-story level of the large ruin built against the base of
the cliff. His people had done none of these. They went back
to the Great Pueblo period, in the twelfth to fourteenth
centuries, work of the old Anasazi. He worked his way
down and around, and the going suddenly became easier.
Here the slant and overhang of the wall protected him from
the rainfall.
When he reached the bottom he turned to the east, the
splashing waters off to the right, faded grasses and scrubby
trees about him on the slope. He made no effort to conceal
his passage but advanced with long, purposeful strides.
Across the water at the base of the opposite cliff stood Battle
Cove Ruin, a small masonry structure with white, red,
yellow and green petroglyphs. It, too, went back to the
Great Pueblo days. As a boy he might have feared such
places, feared rousing the vengeful spirits of the Old Ones.
On the other hand, he would probably have gone through
them on a dare, he decided.
Jagged lightning danced somewhere in the east - ik-
ne'eka'a. A slow roll of thunder followed. He felt that Cat
was probably in Arizona by now, having seen the Canyon de
Chelly Monument in his mind, the Canyon del Muerto
branch in particular. Locating the trip-box at the Thunder-
bird Lodge would be kind of esoteric, though. Doubtless Cat
would have arrived by way of Chinle - which meant that he
stil had a long way to come, even if he had gotten in a few
hours ago.
Good. Black Rock Canyon was not that far ahead.
The track of the wind upon my fingertips,
mark of my mortality.
The track of the rain upon my hand,
mark of the waiting world.
A song that rises unbidden within me,
mark of my spirit.
The light of that half-place
where his mount danced for Crazy Horse,
mark of that other world
where powers still walk, stones talk
and nothing is what it seems to be.
We will meet in an old place.
The earth will tremble. The stones will drink.
Things forgotten are shadows.
The shadows will be as real
as wind and rain and song and light,
there in the old place.
Spider Woman atop your rock,
I would greet you,
but I am going the other way.
Only a fool would pursue a Navajo
into the Canyon of Death.
Only a fool would go there at all
when the waters are running.
I am going to an old place.
He who follows must go there, too.
Windmark, raintouch, songrise, light,
with me, on me, in me, about me.
It is good to be a fool when the time is right.
I am a son of the Sun
and Changing Woman.
I go to an old place.
Na-ya!
When Cat emerged from the trip-box at Chinle he wore a
dark cloak, glasses and floppy-hat disguise. The station was
empty now, though he could see a couple of minutes into the
past in a limited fashion with his infrared vision and knew
from the heat signatures that two people had recently been
standing inside the doorway for a while. He moved forward
and looked outside. Yes. A man and a woman were walking
away. Presumably one had met the other here and they had
stood talking for a time before going on their way. As he
watched, they crossed the street and entered a cafe to his
left. Their thoughts served to remind him that for many
hours he had been growing hungry. Without moving, his eye
also took in countless images of the nearby wall map. He
was getting the idea of such things better now, and he would
remember all of the markings on this one. When he saw
something which corresponded to a feature, he would have
his directions, though he felt he already knew them. In the
meantime, he would follow his feelings and his hunger while
gaining impressions.
He departed the station. Half of the sky was overcast and
the clouds seemed to be moving to cover more. He felt the
dampness and negative ionization in the air.
He passed along the street. Three men rounded the corner
and stared at him for an unusually long while. Stranger.
Odd. Very odd, he read. Something funny about that one,
the way he moves... Images then. Childhood fears. Old
stories. Similar in ways to Billy's stream of consciousness.
More people approaching from the rear. No design to their
movement in his direction. But the same curiosity flowing.
He selected. He broadcast fears and old forebodings:
Flee! Man-wolf, shapeshifter! Gnawer of corpses! I will
shoot corruption into your bodies, blow the dust of corpses
into your lungs. Wolf, wearer of the skin. I will track you and
rend you!
The men at his back hastily turned into an open shop.
Those before him halted, then quickly crossed the street.
Almost amused, he continued to broadcast the feelings for a
time after they had departed. It cleared the way before him.
People would begin to emerge from buildings and halt, then
return within, as if suddenly recalling something undone
inside, experiencing the resurgence of childhood fears. Bet-
ter to give in and rationalize later than to brave them out for
no reason.
But they are real, he reflected. I am the shapeshifter who
could strike you down without effort. I could have stepped
from your nightmare legends....
He picked the direction of the Chinle Wash from a retreat-
ing mind, turned at the next corner and again at the follow-
ing one.
Silly. No one in sight now. There will be no trouble, he
decided.
Stretching and contracting, he bent forward. Soon he was
loping along the street. Not far, not too far. This way was
indeed north. The town thinned out, fell away. He departed
the roadway, ran beside it, cut across country. Better,
better. Soon now. Yes. Downhill. Trees and desiccated
grasses. A faint flash of light. Much later, a soft growl from
the eastern sky.
Down, down into a barrenness of sand and moist earth,
detached tree limbs and half-sunken stones. Firm enough,
firm enough to run and -
He halted. Ahead, a primitive sentience, wandering.
Automatically he fell into a stalking mode of progress.
Hunger remembered in this almost delicious spot, save for
the moisture. Slow now, beyond the next bend...
He halted again as soon as he saw the canine, a lean, black
dog, sniffing about the heaps of rubble. Parts of it might do,
if he diluted them....
He sprang forward. The dog did not even raise its head
until his third bounding movement, and by then it was too
late. It let out one short whimpering noise before the pro-
jected feelings hit it, and then Cat's left paw shattered its
spine.
Cat raised his muzzle from tearing at the carcass and
swiveled his head so as to cover every direction, including
straight up, with his many-faceted gaze. Nothing. Nothing
moving but the wind and its consequences. Yet... He had
felt as if something were watching him. But no.
He fell to tearing the bones free, breaking them, grinding
them, swallowing them along with large gulps of sand. Not
as good as crunching the tube-crawlers back home, but
better than the synthetic fare they had given him at the
Institute. Much better. In his mind, he roamed again the dry
plains, fearing nothing but -
What? Again. He shook himself and ran his gaze entirely
around the horizon. There was nothing, yet he felt as if
something were stalking him.
He dropped into a lower position, spitting out pieces of
dog, baring his fangs, listening, watching. What could there
be to fear? There was nothing on this planet that he would
not face. Yet he felt menaced by something he did not
understand. Even when he had met with krel, long ago, he
had known where he stood. Now, though...
He sent forth a paralyzing wave of feelings and waited.
Nothing. No indication that anything had felt it. Could this
be like dreaming?
Time ticked nets about him. The sky flared briefly beyond
his right shoulder.
Gradually the tension went out of him. Gone now.
Strange. Very strange. Could it be something about this
place?
He finished his meal, thinking again of the days of the hunt
on the plains of his own world, where only one thing could
cause such uneasiness in him....
It struck.
Whatever it was, it fell upon him like a boulder out of
nowhere. He bunched his legs beneath him and sprang
straight up into the air when it hit, head thrown back, a sharp
hissing noise passing his throat. For an instant, his vision
swam and the world grew dim. But already his mind was
at which he lay. His right arm felt wet. He opened his eyes
and saw that the night still lay upon the land. He stretched
out his left hand and turned on the interior light. As he did,
shards of glass fell from his sleeve.
He saw then that the windshield was uncracked, and that
the wetness on his arm had been caused by the spilled
remainder of his coffee. He placed his fingertips on his
forehead and felt no break in the skin, but he could already
detect a swelling in the sore area.
The vehicle lay on its right side, off the trail, its front end
partly crumpled against a tree. There were other trees and
shrubs in the vicinity, masking him somewhat from the trail.
He looked upward and to his left, and he could discover no
reason for the broken side window.
Then his gaze fell upon the headrest. There were four
parallel slash marks in the covering material beside his head,
as from a set of razor-sharp claws. He looked again at the
broken side window. Yes...
Cat?
Silence.
What are you waiting for?
He swung his feet about, set them carefully against the far
door and rose into the semblance 'of a standing position.
Immediately he grew dizzy and clutched at the steering
wheel. When the spell passed, he attempted to open the
door. It yielded to his fourth effort with a grinding, scraping
sound. He caught hold of the frame and drew himself
upward, suddenly recalling having done something similar
with an old blue pickup truck, coming home from a Saturday
night in town an age ago.
There was a trail. Even in the dark he could read it. Cat
had been there and gone. He felt the broken twigs, traced
impressions in the earth with his fingertips. He followed it
for perhaps twenty meters, heading off across the country-
side. Then he rose and turned away.
What's your angle, Cat? What do you want now? he
asked.
He heard only the wind. He walked slowly back to the
roadway and continued along it. He was certain that only a
few miles remained until he reached the town.
Perhaps ten minutes passed. No other traffic had come
along, but he suspected that he was not alone. A large body
seemed to be moving far off among the trees to his left,
pacing him.
All right, Cat, he said. There is no point to my taking
evasive action now. If you are going to strike, strike. If not,
enjoy the walk.
There was no response, and he broke into a jog.
A feeling of nausea came over him before he had gone far.
He ignored it and kept moving. He decided that it could be a
reaction to the blow on his head.
But as he ran, his feelings came to include a fear that Cat
was about to spring on him. He tried to thrust it away but it
grew, and then he recognized its irrational roots.
I feel it, Cat. But I know what it is, he said. What's the
point of it? I'm still going on to Kenmare, unless you kill me.
Are you just playing games?
The intensity of the feelings increased. His breathing grew
ragged. He felt a sudden urge to urinate. A sense of immi-
nent doom was upon the trail for as far ahead as he could
see.
Something like a small dog crossed his path. In that
instant, his apprehensions vanished.
Was that the shadow I saw in the woods? he wondered. Is
Cat long gone? Was my fear real, rather than induced?
Or is it all your doing, Cat? Is it your plan to make me
doubt myself, to break me before you destroy me?
He jogged for a mile before a floatcar approached from the
rear and drew abreast of him. Its driver offered him a ride
into town.
As they moved forward, Billy felt within him the distant
laughter of his pursuer.
To get out, to go away, to think. These were his preoccu-
pations as he came into the town. He needed to escape for
even a short while to someplace where Cat could not ob-
serve the workings of his mind. It was necessary that he
continue his flight, try yet again to blur the trail sufficiently
to gain respite for analysis of the situation, for planning.
He had the driver drop him at the trip-station. He assumed
that somewhere Cat was reading his mind to learn his
destination. He began chanting softly in Navajo, a section of
the Blessingway. He entered the station and moved toward a
booth. The place's only occupant was an old man seated on
a wooden bench against the side wall to his right. The man
looked up from his news printout and nodded to him.
" 'Evening," the man said.
He entered the booth and pressed the coordinates for
Victoria Station.
... in beauty.
Now to Munich...
... all about me.
He cleaned himself in the washroom there and tripped to
Rome.
... to the right of me.
He had a sandwich and a glass of wine.
... to the left of me.
He tripped to Ankara. For a time, he stood outside the
terminal and watched the sun rising upon a hot, dusty day.
... before me.
He tripped to Al Hillah in Saudi Arabia, and from there to
a bank of booths in the Rab al Khali National Petroleum
Forest.
Yes. Here, he decided, stepping forth among the great-
leafed, towering trees, their barks scaled and brown and
ringing in the wind. He followed a marked footpath through
their shade.
Here, amid Freeman Dyson's old dream, he thought, he
might be able to feel his way to something that he needed to
know, here in what had once been known as the Empty
Quarter, now an enormous forest of genetically tailored
trees larger than redwoods, their sap rising, their pro-
grammed metabolism synthesizing petroleum which flowed
downward through a special set of vessels into roots which
formed a living network of pipelines, connecting at various
points to an artificial pipeline which conveyed it to the vast
storage areas which constituted one of the world's great
petroleum reserves, against those functions which still re-
quired the substance. They filled what had once been a
wasteland, utilizing the abundant sunlight available there.
Self-repairing and timeless against the blue of the sky, they-
were both natural and the product of the technology which
informed the planet's culture, as surely as the trees of the
street parks which delivered their own products, or the data
net which, had he not disassociated himself from it, could at
this moment deliver to him almost any information he
needed.
Almost. Some things had to be worked out alone. But
here, in this combination of the old and the new; the primi-
tive and the modern, he felt more at ease than he had since
the entire business began. There were even birds singing in
the branches....
He walked for a long while through the forest, pausing
when he came to a small cleared area containing a pair of
picnic tables, a waste bin, a shed. He looked into the shed:
foresters' maintenance equipment - power diggers, pick-
axes, saws; chains and cables; gloves and climbing spikes. It
was dusty, and spiderwebs like gossamer bridges connected
each to each.
He closed the door and moved away, sniffed the air and
looked around. He seated himself with his back to the bole
of a middle-sized tree, some few stalks of coarse saffron and
lime grass tufted about the hillock among the roots. He filled
his pipe and lit it.
Cat wanted his death and had tried to convince him that he
did, too. The idea seemed absurd, but he looked at it more
closely. Much of the universe was one's adversary. He had
learned that as a boy. One took precautions and hoped for
the best. Time was flowing water, neither good nor evil and
not to be grasped. One could cup one's hand and hold a little
of it for a while, and that was all. It had become a torrent,
though, in the past decade of his own life - which covered
about thirty years of real time - and he could contain none of
it. The big world had changed rapidly during that span. The
dancers had exchanged masks; he could no longer identify
the enemies.
Save for Cat.
But that was unfair, he saw, even to Cat. Cat he could
understand. Cat was simple, monomaniacal, in his desire.
The rest of the world was dangerous in changing and compli-
cated ways, though it generally lacked malice and premedi-
tation. It was an adversary, not an enemy. Cat was the
enemy. The universe was that which ground down and rolled
over one. And now...
The tempo had increased. He had felt it all his life, from
his first school days on, intensifying, like a drumbeat. There
had been lapses, true; periods when he had come to terms
with the new rhythms. But now - He felt tired. The last
responses were no longer appropriate, not even among his
own people. Looking back, he saw that he had felt best on
those occasions when he had gone away, into the timeless
places among the stars, hunting. It was the return that was
always the shock. Now... now he just wanted to rest. Or to
go away again, even though the next return...
Dora. It had been peaceful with Dora also. But that did not
help him now. Thinking of Dora now only caused him to
look away from the real problems. Did he really want to die?
Was Cat right?
He could almost hear singing within the unnatural tree
which paralleled his backbone, vibrations humming along
his nerves.
To want to run away, to want to rest and change no more
...Perhaps...
He bit down hard on the pipestem. He did not like all of
this bellicano thinking, this hunting for hidden motives.
But...
Perhaps there was something to it. His jaw muscles re-
laxed again.
If the hidden sources of his feelings did equal what Cat had
been talking about, he had been running toward death ever
since Dora's fall and -
Dora? How did she figure into this part? No, let the dead
rest and not trouble the living. It would be enough to admit
that all of the changes in society itself - a society into which
he had not been born but of which he had tried to make
himself 'a part - were sufficiently overwhelming to have
brought him to this point. Take it from there. What next?
What did he really want? And what should he do about it?
Suddenly a memory unfolded, startling him with a knowl-
edge he had possessed all along. After the shock of the
recognition he grew depressed, for he knew then that Cat's
words had been true.
Each time that he had fled by means of a trip-box he had
had his ultimate destination at the back of his mind. All of
the jumping about he had done before heading for his goal
had been as nothing. Cat had needed but to read that final
destination, to go there and begin patrolling the city, hunting
first his mind and then his body. This seemed more than
carelessness on his part. It was as if he had intentionally
given himself to Cat and kept the information hidden from
his own scrutiny. How could he trust himself to do anything
now?
On the other hand, doing nothing could prove equally
fatal. He was surprised at his sudden willingness to admit to
a hidden death wish. He was determined not to yield to it,
however, not in this duel with Cat. He puffed on his pipe and
listened to the birds.
Had he this destination in mind when he had departed
Kenmare on the first of this latest series of jumps? It seemed
that he had....
All right. He rose. He had to assume that Cat was aware of
it and could put in an appearance at any time. The longer he
remained here, the greater the beast's chances of finding him
unprepared. He dusted off his trousers and muttered
"Damn!" He still needed time to plan.
He slapped the side of the tree and headed across the
picnic area toward the trail. A huge crow darted past him
and he halted. Thoughts of Black-god tumbled through his
mind, and of the ways of the hunt.
The only trip-station in the area was the one he had used.
Cat could emerge there at any moment, perhaps just as he
was approaching. No, that would not do. Because he was
defenseless, it was prudent to continue the flight. But the
risk involved in attempting it right now seemed too high.
IT CAME DOWN FROM UTAH
and Colorado, and it was big and black and nasty. When it
attacked, the people fled for cover and waited. It lashed and
splashed and filled gullies. From Lake Powell through the
Carrizos it boiled and roared. It licked Shiprock with
tongues of flame. The patches of white in the high places
were diminished beneath its slavering. It rolled across the
land and hauled itself over the mountain peaks. Its breath
was fast and sharp, snapping limbs from pine trees, twisting
pinons. Arroyos became muddy snakes. There were mists,
and in some places rainbows. The thunder no longer slept.
Legends could no longer be told.
The Keeper of Clouds has unpenned his charges.
The Keeper of Winds has unlocked his gates. -
The Keeper of Waters has opened the sky.
The Keeper of Lightnings waves his lances.
The Keeper of Satellites has observed,
"One hundred percent of probability of precipitation."
HE EMERGED FROM THE TRIP-
box and looked about. He stood for a time as if listening.
Then he dropped to all fours and entered the forest, his form
altering as he advanced. He had detected the mind which he
sought. It was filled again with the feelings of that chanting
and all of the obscure imagery associated with it. But while
this masked the underlying thoughts it in no way obscured
the direction and location of the thinker. Finding the body
should not be all that difficult.
His movements grew more and more graceful as the lines
of his body flowed to assume the catlike form he favored.
His eye sparkled like a liquid thing. His incisors overhung
his lower lip by several inches. They, too, sparkled. His
passage among the great petroleum trees was almost sound-
less. Whenever he froze and sought impressions he became
almost invisible within the dappled patterns of light and
shadow.
On one such occasion a leaf fell. Cat pounced upon it, a
living blur. He straightened then and shook his head. He
stared at the leaf. Then he started forward again.
Perhaps this should be the time. The game was not prov-
ing as complex as he had hoped. If there were no interesting
fight or flight, if nothing exciting happened this time, it might
be best to conclude things here. The hunter seemed to have
lost his edge, seemed weary, too troubled to provide the
necessary struggle.
He glared for a moment at the black bird which cried out
above his head, circling and then darting away.
Come back, dearie. Just for a moment. Come look again.
But the bird was gone.
Cat flicked his wide tail and pressed on across a low
spongy section of forest floor. It was not that much far-
ther.... He increased his pace and did not slow again until
he was near to the picnic area. Then he studied and circled
and studied again.
The man was just sitting there, his back against a picnic
bench, smoking his pipe, his mind filled with that senseless
chant. It was almost too easy, but this was the way he had
read him earlier: willfully careless, ready to die. Still...
There was no sport in it. A few taunts, and perhaps he will
bolt.
You see. It is as I said. When you run from me you
approach me. Why was 1 not peed at some other time, when .
you still cared to live?
The hunter did not reply. The chant continued.
So you have admitted the truth. You accept what I told
you. Is that your death song that you sing?
Again there was no response.
Very well. I see no reason to prolong things, hunter.
Cat passed among the trees and entered the cleared area.
Last chance. Will you not at least draw your knife?
Billy stood and turned slowly to face him.
At last. You are awake. Are you going to run?
Billy did not move. Cat bounded forward. There followed
a splintering sound.
When the ground gave way beneath the beast, the moment
was frozen in Billy's mind. He had had some doubt as to the
appropriate width when wielding the power shovel to dig the
trench which encircled him. As its covering gave way and
Cat vanished below he was pleased that his estimate had
proven adequate. He moved immediately to bridge it with
the picnic table.
You will not hold me here for long, hunter, Cat told him
from below.
Long enough, I hope.
Billy crossed over the trench and emptied the wastebin
against the trunk of a nearby tree. He struck a light and set it
to the heap of papers.
What are you doing?
If one of these trees goes up, the whole area burns, he
said. They're all connected below and full of inflammables.
You won't make it back to the box if you let this burn.
Billy turned and began running.
Congratulations, Cat told him. You have made it interest-
ing again.
Good-bye, Billy said.
Not quite. We've an appointment.
He ran on until the trip-box was in sight. Rushing into it,
he inserted his strip, activating the control and punched
coordinates at random without looking at them.
You have bought respite, Cat told him. But at another
level you have betrayed yourself again.
Have I? Billy answered, as the forest blurred.
He walks in a twilight land amid
jungle-shrouded cities. The cries of unseen birds come to
him across the shimmering air. It is pleasantly warm, and
there is a smell of dampness and decay. His path is a
glistening ribbon among ruins which appear less and less
ruined as he advances.' He smells burning copal and his
guide gives him a strange beverage to drink. Colors flash
beneath his feet and his way becomes bright red. They come
at length to a pyramid atop which a blue man is held
stretched across a stone by four others. Billy watches as a
man in a high headdress cuts open the blue man's chest and
removes the heart. He sips his drink and continues to watch
as the heart is passed to another man who uses it to anoint
the faces of statues. The body is thien cast down the steps to
where a crowd of people waits. There, another man very
carefully removes the skin, its blue now streaked with red,
dons it like a robe and commences dancing. The other
people now fall upon the remains and begin eating, save for
the hands and the feet, which are removed and set aside. His
guide departs for a moment to join the crowd, returning
moments later, bringing him something and indicating that
he should eat. He chews mechanically, washing it down with
the balche. He looks up, realizing suddenly that Dora is his
guide. "On the fifth day of Uayeb my true love gave to
me..." She is not smiling. Her face is, in fact, without
expression as she turns away, beckoning for him to follow.
The blood-red way leads at length to a gaping cave-mouth.
They halt before it, and he can see that within there are
statues at either hand - fanged, scrolls upon their foreheads,
dark circles about their eyes. As he stares, he becomes
aware of people moving about slowly inside. They are
placing bowls of copal, tobacco and maize upon a low altar.
They are chanting softly in words which he does not under-
stand. She leads him across the threshold, and he sees now
that the place is illuminated by candlelight. He smells
incense as he stands listening to the prayers. He is given to
drink a beverage of corn gruel and honey at each pausing
between rituals. He sits with his back against the rock,
listening, tracing circles upon the poor with his fingertip. He
is given another gourd of balche to drink. As he raises it to
his lips he looks upward and pauses. It is not Dora who has
brought him the drink but a powerful youth, clad in the old
manner of the Dineh. At this person's back there stands
another man - larger and even stronger-looking. He is simi-
larly garbed, and the resemblance between the two is strik-
ing. "You seem familiar," Billy tells them. The first man
smiles. "We are the slayers of the giants Seven-Macaws,
Zipacna and Cabracan," he answers. "It was we," says the
other, "who journeyed down the steps to Xibalba, crossing
the River of Corruption and the River of Blood. We followed
the Black Path to the House of the Lords of Death." The
other nods. "We played strange games with them, both
winning and losing," he says. And they say in unison, ъWe
slew the Lords Hun-Came and Vucub-Came and ascended
into light." Billy sips his balche. "You remind me," he says
to the younger one, "of Tobadzichini, and you," to the other,
"of Nayenezgani, the Warrior Twins of my people, as I
always thought they must look." The two smile. "This is
true," they say, "for we get around a lot. Down here we are
known as Hunahpu and Xbalanque. Rise now to your feet
and look off yonder into the darker places." He gets up and
looks to the rear of the grotto. He sees there a trail leading
downward. Dora stands upon it, staring at him. "Follow,"
says Hunahpu. "Follow," says Xbalanque. She begins to
move away. As he turns and follows after her, he hears the
cry of a bird....
BILLY STEPPED FROM THE TRIP-
box and looked about. It was dark, with a tropical brilliance
to the stars. The air was cool and damp, bearing smells he
had long associated with jungle foliage. The coolness
seemed to indicate that the night was nearing its end.
He passed beyond the station's partitioning, where he
read the sign which identified it. Yes. Things were as he had
sensed them. He had come to the great archaeological park
of Chichen Itza.
He stood upon a low hill. Narrow trails led off in many
directions. These paths were faintly illuminated, and here
and there he saw people passing slowly along them. He
could discern the massive dark forms of the ancient struc-
tures themselves, more solid and deep than the night's lesser
gloom. Periodically, some portion of ruin would be bril-
liantly lighted for several minutes, for the benefit of night-
viewers. He recalled reading somewhere that this ran
through a regular cycle, its schedule available at various
points along the way, along with computerized commentary
and the answering of questions concerning the place.
He began walking. The ruin was big and dark and quiet
and Indian. It comforted him to pass along its ways. Cat
could not find him here. This he knew. He also understood
Cat's parting words. He had betrayed himself, in a sense, for
his final destination had been present in his mind even as he
had struck the random coordinates which had brought him
here. When he finally journeyed to that last place it would be
to face his enemy.
He laughed softly then. There was nothing to prevent his
remaining here until Cat's time limit had run out.
Some of the more fragile ruins he passed were protected
by force fields, others permitted entry, climbing, wandering.
He was reminded of this as he brushed against a force
screen - soft, harder, harder, impenetrable. It reminded him
of Cat's cage back at the Institute. Cat's had also been
electrified, however, providing shocks which increased in
direct proportion to the intensity of the pressure from
within. Cat had seldom brushed against it, though, because
of his peculiar sensitivity to electrical currents. In fact, that
was how Billy had captured him - accidentally, when Cat
had collided with the electrified force screen which had
surrounded one of the base camps during an attempt at
backtracking and ambush. The memory suddenly gave rise
to a new train of thought.
A light flashed on far to his right, and he halted and stared.
He had never been here before, but he had seen pictures,
had read about the place. It was the Temple of the Warriors
that he beheld, a bristling of columns before it, their
shadows black slashes upon its forward wall. He began to
move toward it.
The light went out before he got there, but he had the
location as well as the image fixed in his mind. He continued
until he was very near, and when he discovered that no force
field blocked his way he passed among the styli and began to
climb the steep stair on its forward face.
When he reached the level area at the top he located
himself to what he took to be the east and sat down, his back
against the wall of the smaller structure situated at the
center. He thought of Cat and of the death wish that was
defeating him because he could not adapt, because he was
no longer Navajo. Or was that true? He thought of his recent
years of withdrawal. Now they seemed filled with ashes. But
his people had many times tasted the ashes of fear and
suffering, sorrow and submission, yet they had never lost
their dignity nor all of their pride. Sometimes cynical, often
defiant, they had survived. Something of this must still be
with him, to match against his own death prayer. He dozed
then and had a peculiar dream which he could not later recall
in its entirety.
When he woke the sun was rising. He watched the waves
of color precede it into the world. It was true that there was
nothing to prevent his remaining here until Cat's time limit
had run out. He knew that he would not do this. He would go
on to face his chindi.
... After breakfast, he decided. After breakfast.
"I DON'T CARE!" MERCY
Spender said, raising the bottle with one hand, the glass with
the other. "I've got to have another drink!"
Elizabeth Brooke laid a hand upon her shoulder.
"I really don't think you should, dear. Not just now,
anyhow. You're agitated and -"
"I know! That's why I want it!"
With a snapping sound, the bottom fell out of the bottle.
The gin raced shards of glass to the floor. The odor of juniper
berries drifted upward.
"What ..."
Walter Sands smiled.
"Mean of me," he said. "But we still need you. I know
you'd like to go and rest in the home again. It will be harder
for us if you drop out now, though. Wait a while."
Mercy stared downward. A look of anger passed and her
eyes brimmed, sparkled.
"It's silly," she said then. "If he wants to die, let him."
"It's not that simple. He's not that simple," Ironbear said.
"And we owe him."
"I don't owe him anything," she said, "and we don't even
know what to do, really. I -" Then, "We all have something
that hurts, I guess," she said. "Maybe... Okay. I'll take
some tea."
"I wonder what hurts the thing that's after him?" Fisher
asked.
"The data are incomplete on the ecology of the place it
comes from," Mancin said.
"Then there is only one way to find out, isn't there?"
asked Ironbear. "Go to the source."
"Ridiculous," Fisher said. "It's hard enough touching a
human who's gone primitive. The beast seems able to do it at
short ranges because they share some bond. But to go after
the thing itself and then - I couldn't."
"Neither could I," said Elizabeth. "None of us could. But
we might be able to."
"We? Us? Together? Again? It could be dangerous. After
that last time -"
"Again."
"We don't even know where the cat-thing is."
"Walford's man can order another check on TripCo's
computer network. Locate Singer again and the beast will
soon be there."
"And what good would that do us?"
"We won't know till we get that information and give it a
try."
"I don't like this," said Fisher. "We could get hurt. It's a
damned alien place you're talking about. I touched one of
the Strageans yesterday and had a headache for half an hour
afterwards. Couldn't even see straight. And they're similar
to us in a lot of ways."
"We can always back out if it gets too rough."
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Mercy said, "but I
guess it does seem like the Christian thing to do."
"The hell with that. Is it going to do any good?"
"Maybe you're right," Mancin said. "It doesn't seem all
that promising when you analyze it. Let's tell Walford how
Singer did it, tell him about the beast and the deal they made.
Then get the computer check to narrow the field. They can
send an armed force after it."
"Send it after the thing that killed the thing an armed force
couldn't stop?"
"Let's locate them," Ironbear said, "find out what we can
and then decide."
"That much makes sense," Sands said. "I'll go along with
it."
"So will I," said Elizabeth.
Mancin glanced at Fisher.
"Looks as if we're' outvoted," he said, sighing. "Okay."
Fisher nodded.
"Call Tedders. Run it through TripCo. I'll be with you."
BILLY STEPPED THROUGH INTO
his hogan, leaving the transport slip in place. He switched on
the guard and turned off the buzzer. He was not receiving
calls just now.
His secretary unit told him that Edwin Tedders had called
several times. Would he please call back? Another caller left
no name, only the message, "They grew them with insula-
tion, I learned. You knew that, didn't you?"
He turned on the coffee maker, undressed and stepped
into the shower. As he was vibrated clean, he heard the
rumble of thunder above the cries of the nozzles.
When he had emerged and dressed himself in warmer
clothing he took his coffee out onto his porch. The sky was
grey to the north and curtains of rain hung there. A fast wind
fled past him. To the south and the east the sky was clear.
Light clouds drifted in the west. He watched the rolling
weeds and listened to the wind for a time, finished his coffee
and returned to the inside.
Billy picked up the weapon and checked it over. Old-
fashioned. A tazer, it was called, firing a pronged cable and
delivering a strong electrical jolt at the far end. They had
fancier things now which ionized a path through the air and
sent their charge along it. But this would do. He had used a
similar device on Cat before, once he had learned his weak-
ness.
Then he honed a foot-long Bowie knife and threaded his
belt through the slits in its sheath. He inspected an old 30.06
he had kept in perfect condition. If he could succeed in
stunning Cat, it could pump sufficient rounds through that
tough hide to hit vital organs, he knew. On the other hand,
the weapon was fairly heavy. He finally selected a half-meter
laser snub-gun, less accurate but equally lethal. He planned
on using it at close range, anyway. That decided, he set to
putting together a light pack with minimal gear for the trek
he had in mind. When everything was assembled, he set an
alarm, stretched out on his bedroll and slept for two hours.
When the buzzer roused him the rain was drumming on
the roof. He donned a waterproof fleece-lined jacket, shoul-
dered his pack, slung his weapons and found a hat. Then he
crossed to his communications unit, checked a number and
punched it.
Shortly the screen came to life, and Susan Yellowcloud's
wide face appeared before him.
"Azaethlin!" she said. She brushed back a strand of hair
and smiled. "It's been a couple of years."
"Yes," he said, and he exchanged greetings and a bit of
small talk. "Raining over your way?" he finally asked.
"Looks as if it's about to."
"I need to get over to the north rim," he told her. "You're
the closest person I know to the spot I have in mind. Okay if
I come over?"
Sure. Get in your box and I 11 key ours.
He stepped in, pocketed his strip and punched TRANS.
He came through in the corner of a cluttered living room.
Jimmy Yellowcloud arose from a chair set before a
viewscreen to press palms with him. He was short, wide-
shouldered, thick around the waist.
"Hosteen Singer," he said. "Have a cup of coffee with
us."
"All right," Billy said.
As they drank it, Jimmy remarked, "You said you're
going over to the canyon?"
"Yes."
"Not down in it, I hope."
"I'm going down in it."
"The spring flooding's started."
"I'd guessed."
"Nasty-looking gun. Could I see it?"
"Hey, laser! You could punch another hole in Window
Rock with this thing. It's old, isn't it?"
"About eighty years. I don't think they make them just
like that anymore."
He passed it back.
"Hunting something?"
"Sort of."
They sat in silence for a time, then, "I'll drive you over to
wherever you want on the rim," he said.
"Thanks." '
Jimmy took another sip of coffee.
"Going to be down there long?" he asked.
"Hard to say."
"We don't see much of you these days."
"Been keeping to myself."
Jimmy laughed.
"You ought to marry my wife's sister and come live over
here."
"She pretty?" Billy asked.
"You bet. Good cook, too."
"Do I know her?"
"I don't think so. We'll have to have a squaw dance."
A sudden drumming of rain occurred on the north side of
the house.
"Here it comes," Jimmy said. "Don't suppose you'd care
to wait till it stops?"
Billy chuckled.
"Could be days. You'd go broke feeding me.,"
"We could play cards. Not much else for a ranger to do
this time of year."
Billy finished his coffee.
"You could learn to make jewelry - conchos, bracelets,
rings."
"My hands just don't go for that."
Jimmy put down his cup.
"Nothing else to do. I might as well change clothes and go
along with you. I've got a high-powered hunting rifle with a
radar sight. Knock over an elephant."
Billy traced a design on the tabletop.
"Not this time," he said.
"All right. Guess we'd better get going then."
"Guess we should."
He let Jimmy drop him on the northward bulge of the rim
above the area containing the Antelope House ruin. Since he
bad had the ride he had decided to come this much farther
eastward. Had he walked over, he would have descended at
a point several miles farther to the west. Jimmy would have
taken him even farther eastward had he wished, but that
would have been less useful, starting him at a place beyond
the point where Black Rock Canyon branched off from
Canyon del Muerto proper. He wanted to pass that point on
foot and confuse the trail there. If he made things too easy
Cat would become suspicious.
Staring downward into the broad, serpentine canyon, he
saw a wide band of dully gleaming water passing down its
center, as he had suspected, It was not yet as deep as he had
seen it on occasions in the past, rushing with the seasonal
meltoff between orange, salmon and gray walls, splashing
the bases of obelisklike stands of stone, cascading over
irregularities, rippling about boulders, bearing the mud and
detritus of its passage on toward the Chinle Wash, creating
pockets of quicksand all over the canyon floor. Several
hundred of the People made their homes there during the
warmer months, but they all moved out for the,winter. The
place would be deserted now.
A light rain was falling, making the wall rocks slippery. He
cast about for the safest way down. There, to the left.
He moved to the spot he had selected and studied it more
closely. Yes. It could be done. He checked his pack and
commenced the descent. The way led down to the high, firm
talus slope which followed the wall's base.
Partway down, he paused to adjust his pack, brush off
moisture and look sideways and back in at the petroglyph of
a life-sized antelope. There were a number of them about,
along with those of other quadrupeds, turkeys, human fig-
ures, concentric circles; some of them continued onto the
fourth-story level of the large ruin built against the base of
the cliff. His people had done none of these. They went back
to the Great Pueblo period, in the twelfth to fourteenth
centuries, work of the old Anasazi. He worked his way
down and around, and the going suddenly became easier.
Here the slant and overhang of the wall protected him from
the rainfall.
When he reached the bottom he turned to the east, the
splashing waters off to the right, faded grasses and scrubby
trees about him on the slope. He made no effort to conceal
his passage but advanced with long, purposeful strides.
Across the water at the base of the opposite cliff stood Battle
Cove Ruin, a small masonry structure with white, red,
yellow and green petroglyphs. It, too, went back to the
Great Pueblo days. As a boy he might have feared such
places, feared rousing the vengeful spirits of the Old Ones.
On the other hand, he would probably have gone through
them on a dare, he decided.
Jagged lightning danced somewhere in the east - ik-
ne'eka'a. A slow roll of thunder followed. He felt that Cat
was probably in Arizona by now, having seen the Canyon de
Chelly Monument in his mind, the Canyon del Muerto
branch in particular. Locating the trip-box at the Thunder-
bird Lodge would be kind of esoteric, though. Doubtless Cat
would have arrived by way of Chinle - which meant that he
stil had a long way to come, even if he had gotten in a few
hours ago.
Good. Black Rock Canyon was not that far ahead.
The track of the wind upon my fingertips,
mark of my mortality.
The track of the rain upon my hand,
mark of the waiting world.
A song that rises unbidden within me,
mark of my spirit.
The light of that half-place
where his mount danced for Crazy Horse,
mark of that other world
where powers still walk, stones talk
and nothing is what it seems to be.
We will meet in an old place.
The earth will tremble. The stones will drink.
Things forgotten are shadows.
The shadows will be as real
as wind and rain and song and light,
there in the old place.
Spider Woman atop your rock,
I would greet you,
but I am going the other way.
Only a fool would pursue a Navajo
into the Canyon of Death.
Only a fool would go there at all
when the waters are running.
I am going to an old place.
He who follows must go there, too.
Windmark, raintouch, songrise, light,
with me, on me, in me, about me.
It is good to be a fool when the time is right.
I am a son of the Sun
and Changing Woman.
I go to an old place.
Na-ya!
When Cat emerged from the trip-box at Chinle he wore a
dark cloak, glasses and floppy-hat disguise. The station was
empty now, though he could see a couple of minutes into the
past in a limited fashion with his infrared vision and knew
from the heat signatures that two people had recently been
standing inside the doorway for a while. He moved forward
and looked outside. Yes. A man and a woman were walking
away. Presumably one had met the other here and they had
stood talking for a time before going on their way. As he
watched, they crossed the street and entered a cafe to his
left. Their thoughts served to remind him that for many
hours he had been growing hungry. Without moving, his eye
also took in countless images of the nearby wall map. He
was getting the idea of such things better now, and he would
remember all of the markings on this one. When he saw
something which corresponded to a feature, he would have
his directions, though he felt he already knew them. In the
meantime, he would follow his feelings and his hunger while
gaining impressions.
He departed the station. Half of the sky was overcast and
the clouds seemed to be moving to cover more. He felt the
dampness and negative ionization in the air.
He passed along the street. Three men rounded the corner
and stared at him for an unusually long while. Stranger.
Odd. Very odd, he read. Something funny about that one,
the way he moves... Images then. Childhood fears. Old
stories. Similar in ways to Billy's stream of consciousness.
More people approaching from the rear. No design to their
movement in his direction. But the same curiosity flowing.
He selected. He broadcast fears and old forebodings:
Flee! Man-wolf, shapeshifter! Gnawer of corpses! I will
shoot corruption into your bodies, blow the dust of corpses
into your lungs. Wolf, wearer of the skin. I will track you and
rend you!
The men at his back hastily turned into an open shop.
Those before him halted, then quickly crossed the street.
Almost amused, he continued to broadcast the feelings for a
time after they had departed. It cleared the way before him.
People would begin to emerge from buildings and halt, then
return within, as if suddenly recalling something undone
inside, experiencing the resurgence of childhood fears. Bet-
ter to give in and rationalize later than to brave them out for
no reason.
But they are real, he reflected. I am the shapeshifter who
could strike you down without effort. I could have stepped
from your nightmare legends....
He picked the direction of the Chinle Wash from a retreat-
ing mind, turned at the next corner and again at the follow-
ing one.
Silly. No one in sight now. There will be no trouble, he
decided.
Stretching and contracting, he bent forward. Soon he was
loping along the street. Not far, not too far. This way was
indeed north. The town thinned out, fell away. He departed
the roadway, ran beside it, cut across country. Better,
better. Soon now. Yes. Downhill. Trees and desiccated
grasses. A faint flash of light. Much later, a soft growl from
the eastern sky.
Down, down into a barrenness of sand and moist earth,
detached tree limbs and half-sunken stones. Firm enough,
firm enough to run and -
He halted. Ahead, a primitive sentience, wandering.
Automatically he fell into a stalking mode of progress.
Hunger remembered in this almost delicious spot, save for
the moisture. Slow now, beyond the next bend...
He halted again as soon as he saw the canine, a lean, black
dog, sniffing about the heaps of rubble. Parts of it might do,
if he diluted them....
He sprang forward. The dog did not even raise its head
until his third bounding movement, and by then it was too
late. It let out one short whimpering noise before the pro-
jected feelings hit it, and then Cat's left paw shattered its
spine.
Cat raised his muzzle from tearing at the carcass and
swiveled his head so as to cover every direction, including
straight up, with his many-faceted gaze. Nothing. Nothing
moving but the wind and its consequences. Yet... He had
felt as if something were watching him. But no.
He fell to tearing the bones free, breaking them, grinding
them, swallowing them along with large gulps of sand. Not
as good as crunching the tube-crawlers back home, but
better than the synthetic fare they had given him at the
Institute. Much better. In his mind, he roamed again the dry
plains, fearing nothing but -
What? Again. He shook himself and ran his gaze entirely
around the horizon. There was nothing, yet he felt as if
something were stalking him.
He dropped into a lower position, spitting out pieces of
dog, baring his fangs, listening, watching. What could there
be to fear? There was nothing on this planet that he would
not face. Yet he felt menaced by something he did not
understand. Even when he had met with krel, long ago, he
had known where he stood. Now, though...
He sent forth a paralyzing wave of feelings and waited.
Nothing. No indication that anything had felt it. Could this
be like dreaming?
Time ticked nets about him. The sky flared briefly beyond
his right shoulder.
Gradually the tension went out of him. Gone now.
Strange. Very strange. Could it be something about this
place?
He finished his meal, thinking again of the days of the hunt
on the plains of his own world, where only one thing could
cause such uneasiness in him....
It struck.
Whatever it was, it fell upon him like a boulder out of
nowhere. He bunched his legs beneath him and sprang
straight up into the air when it hit, head thrown back, a sharp
hissing noise passing his throat. For an instant, his vision
swam and the world grew dim. But already his mind was