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                      EYE of CAT

 I have  learned hate.  I have  been waiting  for the
 chance  to  escape,  to  track   you  as   you  once
 tracked me, to destroy you.

 I  am  sorry  for the  pain I  have caused  you. Now
 that  we  know  what  you are,  amends can  be made.

 The  sun  of my  world has  since gone  nova. The
 world  and  all others  of my  kind are  no more.
 How can you restore it to me?

 I cannot.

 Cat   slammed   against   the   field   and   sparks
 outlined  his  entire  figure.  Billy did  not move.
 After  a  time,  Cat  drew  back,  shaking  himself.
 He  seemed   smaller  now,   and  his   body  coiled
 around  and  around  upon  itself, sinking  into the
 ground.

 Finally, I will help you - for a price, Cat said.

 And what is that price?

 Your life.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
  am the product of the author's imagination or  are used  fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual events  or locales  or persons,  living or  dead, is
  entirely coincidental.

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  AVON BOOKS
  A division of
  Th Hearst Corporation
  105 Madison Avenue
  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright (C) 1982 by The Amber Corporation
  Cover art by Tim White
  Published by arrangement with the author
  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-93388
  ISBN: 0-380-76002-9

  All rights reserved, which includes the  right to  reproduce this  book or
  portions thereof in any  form whatsoever  except as  provided by  the U.S.
  Copyright  Law.  For  information  address   Kirby  McCauley,   Ltd.,  432
  Park Avenue South, Suite 1509, New York, New York 10016.

  First Avon Books Printing: January l991

  AVON TRADEMAAK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

  REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  ARC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 I

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                                         FOR JOE LEAPHORN,
                                                         JIMMY CHEE
                                                         AND TONY HILLERMAN



  --------------------------------------------------------------------------

                               EYE of CAT
                             Roger Zelazny

                                  PART 1

  At the door to the House of Darkness
   lies a pair of red coyotes with heads reversed.
  Nayenezgani parts them with his dark stag
   and comes in search of me.
  With lightning behind him,
   with lightning before him,
   he comes in search of me,
  with a rock crystal and a talking ketahn.

  Beyond, at the corners by the door
   of the House of Darkness,
   lie two red btuejays with heads reversed.
  With lightning behind him,
   with lightning before him,
  he parts them with his dark staff
   and comes in search of me.

  Farther, at the fire-pit of the Dark House,
   tie two red hoot-owls with heads reversed.
  He parts these with his stag
   and comes in search of me,
   with rock crystal and talking ketahn.

  At the center of the Darkness House
   where two red screech-owls lie with heads reversed,
  Nayenezgani casts them aside
   coming in search of me,
   lightning behind him,
   lightning before him.
  Bearing a rock crystal and a talking ketahn,
   he comes for me.
  From the center of the earth he comes.

  Farther...
                                    Evil-Chasing Prayer

                                     NIGHT, NEAR THE EASTERN
 edge of  the walled,  sloping grounds  of the  estate, within
 these walls, perhaps a quarter-mile from the house itself, at
 the small stand of trees, under a moonless sky, listening, he
 stands, absolutely silent.
   Beneath his boots, the ground is moist.  A cold  wind tells
 him that winter yields  but grudgingly  to spring  in upstate
 New  York.  He reaches  out and  touches the  dark line  of a
 slender branch to his right, gently. He feels the buds of the
 fresh  year's  green,  dreaming of  summer beneath  his wide,
 dark hand.
   He  wears  a  blue  velveteen  shirt  hanging out  over his
 jeans, a wide concha belt securing it at  his waist.  A heavy
 squash  blossom  necklace  -  a  very  old  one -  hangs down
 upon his breast. High about his neck is  a slender  strand of
 turquoise heiche. He has a silver bracelet on his left wrist,
 studded  with  random  chunks  of  turquoise  and  coral. The
 buttons  of  his  shirt  are  hammered  dimes from  the early
 twentieth century. His long hair is bound with a strip of red
 cloth.
   Tall, out of place, out of time, he listens for  that which
 may  or  may not  become audible:  indication of  the strange
 struggle  at  the  dark  house. No  matter how  the encounter
 goes, he, William Blackhorse Singer, will  be the  loser. But
  this is his own thing to bear, from  a force  he set  into motion
  long  ago,  a  chindi  which  has  dogged  his  heels  across the
  years.
    He  hears  a  brief  noise  from  the  direction of  the house,
  followed  immediately  by  a  loud  crashing.  This does  not end
  it,   however.   The   sounds   continue.   From   somewhere  out
  over the walls, a coyote howls.
    He almost laughs. A dog,  certainly. Though  it sounds
  more like the other, to which he has again become accus-
  tomed. None of them around here, of course.
    William  Blackhorse  Singer.  He  has  other  names,   but  the
  remembering  machines  know  him  by  this  one.  It was  by this
  one that they summoned him.
    The  sounds  cease  abruptly,  and  after  a short  while begin
  again. He estimates that it must  be near  midnight in  this part
  of the  world. He  looks to  the skies,  but Christ's  blood does
  not  stream  in  the  firmament.  Only Ini,  the bird  of thunder
  among  the   southwestern  stars,   ready  with   his  lightning,
  clouds  and  rain,  extending  his headplume  to tickle  the nose
  of Sas, the bear, telling him it is time to bring new life to the
  earth, there by the Milky Way.
        Silence. Sudden, and stretching pulsebeat by pulsebeat to
  fill his world. Is it over? Is it really over?
    Again,  short  barks  followed  by  the  howling.  Once  he had
  known  many  things  to  do,  still  knew some  of them.  All are
  closed to him now, but for the waiting.
    No. There is yet a thing with which to fill it.
    Softly, but with growing force, he begins the song.

                                         FIRST MAN WAS NOT EXACTLY
  jumping  with  joy  over  the  dark  underworld  in which  he was
  created.  He  shared  it with  eight other  humans, and  the ants
  and  the  beetles  and  later the  locusts whom  they encountered
  as  they  explored,  and  Coyote  -  the  First  Angry  One,  He-
  who-was-formed-in-the-water,     Scrawny     Wanderer.     Every-
  one  multiplied;  and  the  dragonflies,  the  wasps  and  the  bat
  people   later   joined   them;   and   Spider  Man   and  Spider

  Woman.  The  place  grew  crowded  and was  full of  bugs. Strife
  ensued.
   "Let's get out of here," a number of them suggested.
   First  Man,  who  was  wise  and  powerful, fetched  his trea-
  sures  of  White  Shell,  Turquoise,  Abalone,  Jet and  the Red-
  White Stone.
   He placed  the White  Shell in  the east  and breathed  upon it.
  Up  from  it  rose  a  white  tower  of  cloud.  He   placed  the
  Turquoise  to  the  south  and  breathed upon  it. From  it there
  rose a blue  cloud tower.  To the  west he  set the  Abalone, and
  when  he  had  breathed  upon  it  a yellow  cloud tower  rose up
  in that place. To the north he set  the Jet,  and touched  by his
  breath  it sent  up a  black tower  of cloud.  The white  and the
  yellow  grew,  met  overhead  and  crossed, as  did the  blue and
  the black. These became the Night and the Day.
   Then  he  placed  the   Red-White  Stone   at  the   center  and
  breathed upon it. From it there rose a many-colored tower.
   The  tower  to the  east was  called Folding  Dawn; that  to the
  south  was  called  Folding  Blue  Sky;  to  the   west,  Folding
  Twilight;  that  to  the  north,  Folding  Darkness. One  by one,
  Coyote  visited  each  of  them,  changing  his  color  to  match
  their  own.  For  this  reason,  he  is  known  as  Child  of the
  Dawn,  as  Child  of  the  Blue  Sky, Child  of the  Twilight and
  Child of Darkness, along  with all  his other  names. At  each of
  these places, his power was increased.
   While  the  towers  of  the  four  cardinal  points  were  holy,
  giving birth to the prayer rites, the central one bore all pains,
  evils and  diseases. And  it was  this tower  up which  First Man
  and  Coyote  led  the  People,  bringing  them  into  the  second
  world; and, of course, along with them, the evils.
   There  they  explored  and  they  met  with others,  and First
  Man  fought  with  many,  defeating them  all and  taking their
  songs of power.
   But  this  also was  a place  of suffering,  of misery,  a thing
  Coyote  discovered as  he went  to and  fro in  the world  and up
  and down it. And  so to  First Man  he took  the pleas  that they
  depart.
   First  Man  made  a  white  smoke  and  blew  it  to  the  east,
  then  swallowed  it  again  -  and the  same in  every direction.
  This  removed  all  the  evils  from the  world and  brought them
  back  to  the  People  from whence  they had  come. Then  he laid
  Lightning,  both  jagged  and  straight, to  the east,  and Rain-
  bow  and  Sunlight,  but  nothing  occurred.  He  moved  them  to
  the  south,  the  west  and  the  north.  The world  trembled but

 brought  forth  no  power to  bear them  upward. He  made then
 a  wand  of  Jet,  Turrquoise, Abalone  and White  Shell. Atop
 this,  he  set  the  Red-White  Stone. It  rose and  bore them
 upward into the next world.
   Here  they  met  the  many  snakes, and  Salt Man  and Woman
 and Fire God. Nor should  Spider Ant  be forgotten.  And light
 and darkness came up from the  towers of  the four  colors, as
 in the other worlds.
   But then First Man  set a  streak of  yellow and  another of
 red and yellow in the east, and these  halted the  movement of
 the white light.
   And  the  People  were  afraid. Salt  Man counseled  them to
 explore in the  east, but  the streaks  retreated as  they ad-
 vanced.  Then  they  heard  a  voice  summoning  them  to  the
 south. There  they found  the old  man Dontso,  called Messen-
 ger Fly, who told  them what  First Man  had done.  The yellow
 streak, he said, represented the emergence of the  People; the
 other, vegetation and pollen, with the red part indicating all
 diseases.
   Then  Owl  and  Kit  Fox  and  Wolf  and  Wildcat  came, and
 with  them  Horned  Rattlesnake,  who  offered  First  Man  the
 shell he carried on his head  - and  promises of  offerings of
 White Shell, Turquoise, Abalone and Jet in the  future. First
 Man  accepted  the  shell  and  its  magic  and   removed  the
 streaks from the sky.
   The People  then realized  that First  Man was  evil. Coyote
 spied  upon  their  counsels  and reported  to First  Man that
 they  knew he  had stopped  the light  in the  east to  gain a
 treasure.
   When later they confronted him with  it, First  Man replied,
 "Yes. It is true, grandchildren. Very true. I  am evil.  Yet I
 have  employed  my evil  on your  behalf. For  these offerings
 shall benefit all of us.  And I  do know  when to  withhold my
 evil from those about me."
   And he proceeded to prove this thing  by building  the first
 medicine  hogan,  where  he  shared  with  them  his knowledge
 of things good and evil.

                                      HE REMEMBERED THE PARTY
 the night before he had found the coyote.
   Garbed  in the  rented splendor  of a  shimmering synthetic-
 fibered  foursquare and  blackrib Pleat  4, Ruffle  evegarb, he
 had  tripped  through  to the  mansion in  Arlington. Notables
 past and present filled  the sparkling,  high-ceilinged rooms.
 He  was  decidedly  Past,  but he  had gone  anyway, to  see a
 few old friends, to touch that other life again.
   A  middle-aged  woman  of  professional  charm  greeted him,
 approached  him,  embraced  him  and spoke  with him  for half
 a minute in the enthusiastic  voice of  a newscaster,  until a
 fresh arrival at his back produced a reflex pressure  from her
 hand upon his arm, directing him to the side.
   Grateful,  he  moved  off;  accepting  a  drink from  a tray,
 glancing  at  faces, nodding  to some,  pausing to  exchange a
 few words, working his  way to  a small  room he  recalled Gem
 previous visits.
   He  sighed  when  he entered.  He liked  the wood  and iron,
 stone and rough plaster, books and quiet pictures,  the single
 window with its uninterrupted view of the river, the fireplace
 burning softly.
   "I knew you'd find me here," she said,  from her  chair near
 the hearth.
   He smiled.
   "So did I - in the only room built during a lapse in
 tastelessness."
   He  drew up  a chair,  seating himself  near her  but facing
 slightly past her toward the fire. Her heavy, lined  face, the
 bright blue eyes beneath white hair, her short  stocky figure,
 had  not changed  recently. In  some ways  she was  the older,
 in others she was  not. Time  had played  its favorite  game -
 irony - with  them both.  He thought  of the  century-old Fon-
 tenelle  and  Mme.  Grimaud, almost  as old  as he.  Yet there
 was a gulf here of a different sort.
   "Will you go collecting again soon?" she asked him.
   "They've all the beasties they need for a while. I'm
 retired."

 "Do you like it?"
 "As well as anything."
 Her brows tightened in a small wince.
 "I can never tell whether it's native fatalism, world-
 weariness or a pose with you."
 "I can't either, anymore," he said.
 "Perhaps you're suffering from leisure."
 "That's about as exclusive as rain  these days.  I exist  in a
 private culture."
 "Really. It can't be as bad as all that," she said.
 "Bad? Good and evil are always mixed up. It provides
 order."
 "Nothing else?"
 "It is easy to love what is present and desire what is
 absent."
 She reached out and squeezed his hand.
 "You crazy Indian. Do you exist when I'm not here?"
 "I'm  not  sure,"  he  said.  "I  was  a  privileged traveler.
 Maybe  I died  and no  one had  the heart  to tell  me. How've
 you been, Margaret?"
 After a time, she said, "Still living in an age of timidity, I
 suppose. And ideas."
 He raised his drink and took a big swallow.
 "... Stale, flat and unprofitable," she said.
 He raised the glass higher, holding it to the light, staring
 through it.
 "Not  that  bad,"  he  stated. "They  got the  vermouth right
 this time."
 She chuckled.
 "Philosophy doesn't change people, does it?" she asked.
 "I don't think so."
 "What are you going to do now?"
 "Go and talk with some of the others, I guess, have a few
 more drinks. Maybe dance a little."
 "I don't mean tonight."
 "I know. Nothing special, I guess. I don't need to."
 "A man like you should be doing something."
 "What?"
 "That's for you to say. When the gods are silent someone
 must choose."
 "The gods are silent," he said, finally looking into her
 bright ancient eyes, "and my choices are all used up."
 "That's not true."
 He looked away again.

 "Let it be," he said, "as you did before."
 "Don't "
 "I'm sorry."
 She removed her hand from his. He finished his drink.
 "Your character is your fate," she said at last, "and you
 are a creature of change."
 "I live strategically."
 "Maybe   too   much   so."
 "Let  it be,  lady. It's  not on  my worry-list.  I've changed
 enough and I'm tired."
 "Will even that last?"
 "Sounds  like a  trick question  to me.  You had  your chance.
 If I've an appointment with folly I'll keep it. Don't try to
 heal my wounds until you're sure they're there."
 "I'm sure. You have to find something."
 "I don't do requests."
 "... And I hope it's soon."
 "I've got to take a little walk," he said. "I'll be back."
 She nodded and he left quickly. She would too, shortly.
 Later that evening his eyes suddenly traced a red strand in
 the rug and he followed it, to find himself near the trip-box.
 "What the hell," he said.
 He  sought  his  hostess, thanked  her and  moved back  to the
 transport unit. He pushed the coordinates,  and as  he entered
 he stumbled.
 Freeze frame on man falling.

  There was a time when the day light was night light.
  Black-god rode upon my right shoulder.
  Time spun moebius about me, as I sailed
  up Darkness Mountain in the sky.
  And the beasts, the beasts I hunted.
  When l called them they would come to me,
  out of Darkness Mountain.

                                     IT HAD SNOWED THE PREVIOUS
 night,  dry  and  powdery,  but  the  day had  been unseasonably
 warm  and much  of it  had melted.  The sky  was still  clear as
 the sun retreated  behind a  dark rocky  crest, and  already the
 cold  was  coming  back  into  the world,  riding the  wind that
 sighed  among  the  pine  trees.  Silvery  strings  of  sunlight
 marked the higher sinews of a mesa  far to  the right,  its foot
 already aswirl with gray in the first tides of evening. At least
 there  would  be  no  snow  tonight,  he  knew,  and   he  could
 watch the stars before he closed his eyes.
   As he made his  camp, the  coyote limped  after him,  its left
 foreleg still bound. Tonight was the night to take care of that,
 too.
   He  built his  fire and  prepared his  meal, the  pinon smoke
 redolent in his nostrils. By the time that it was ready  the day
 was  gone,  and  the  mesa  and  the  ridge  were  but  lumps of
 greater darkness against the night.
   "Your  last  free  meal," he  said, tossing  a portion  of the
 food to the beast at his feet.
   As  they  ate,  he  remembered other  nights and  other camps,
 a long trail of them stretching back over  a century.  Only this
 time  there  was  nothing  to hunt,  and in  a way  this pleased
 him.
   Drinking  his  coffee,  he  thought  of   the  hundred-seventy
 years of his existence: how it had begun in  this place,  of the
 fairylands  and  hells  through which  he had  taken it  and how
 he   had  come   -  back.   "Home,"  under   the  circumstances,
 would  be  more  than  an  irony.  He  sipped the  scalding brew
 from  the metal  cup, peopling  the night  with demons,  most of
 whom now resided in San Diego.
   Later,  with  his  hunting  knife,  he  removed  the  dressing
 from the animal's  leg. It  remained perfectly  still as  he did
 this,  watching.  As  he  cut  away  at  the stiff  material, he
 recalled  the  day  some  weeks  before  when  he had  come upon
 it,  leg  broken,  in  a  trap. There  had been  a time  when he
 would have acted differently. But he had  released it,  taken it
 home with him, treated it. And  even this,  this long  trek into

 the  Carrizos,  was  for  the purpose  of turning  it free  at a
 sufficient  distance from  his home,  with a  full night  ahead to
 tempt  it  into  wandering back  to its  own world,  rather than
 prolonging an unnatural association.
   He slapped its flank.
   "Go on. Run!"
   It rose, its movements still stiff, leg still held at  an awk-
 ward angle. Only gradually  did it  lower the  limb as  it moved
 about the campsite. After a time, it passed into and out  of the
 circle  of  firelight,  remaining  away  for  longer  and longer
 periods.
   As  he  prepared  his bedroll,  he was  startled by  a buzzing
 noise.  Simultaneously,  a  red  light  began  winking   on  the
 small  plastic case  which hung  from his  belt. He  switched o
 the buzzer, but the light  continued to  blink. He  shrugged and
 put it aside, face down. It  indicated an  incoming call  at his
 distant  home.  He  had  gotten  into the  habit of  wearing the
 unit when  he was  near the  place and  had forgotten  to remove
 it.  He  never  wore  the more  elaborate version,  however, and
 so  was  not equipped  to answer  the call  from here.  This did
 not  seem  important.  It had  been several  years since  he had
 received  anything  which  might  be  considered   an  important
 call.
   Still, it troubled him as he lay regarding  the stars.  It had
 been a long while since  he had  received any  calls at  all. He
 wished now that  he had  either carried  along the  unit's other
 component  or  had  not  brought anything.  But he  was retired,
 his  newsworthiness  long  vanished.  It  could  not  really  be
 important....
 ...  He  was  traversing  an  orange  plain  beneath   a  yellow
 sky  in  which  a  massive  white sun  blazed. He  was approach-
 ing  an  orange,  pyramidal  structure  covered  with  a webwork
 of  minute  fractures.  He  drew  near  and   halted,  hurriedly
 setting  up  the  projector.  Then  he commenced  waiting, occa-
 sionally  moving  to  tend  another  machine  which  produced  a
 continuous record  as the  cracks grew.  Time meant  very little
 to  him. The  sun drifted  slowly. Abruptly,  one of  the jagged
 lines  widened  and  the  structure  opened.  A  wide-shouldered
 form  covered  with  pink stubble  rose up  suddenly out  of it,
 swaying,  a  raw,  bristle-edged opening  facing him  forward of
 the bulbous projection at its top, beneath  a dazzling  red band
 of jewel-like  knobs. He  triggered the  projector and  a gleam-
 ing net was cast upon it. It struggled within  it but  could not
 come  free.  Its  movements  came  to  correspond  with  a faint

  drumming   sound  which   might  be   his  heartbeat.   Now  the
  entire  world  crashed  and  fell  away  and  he   was  running,
  running into the east, younger self of his self, beneath  a blue
  sky,  past  saltbush and  sagebrush, clumps  of scrub  grass and
  chamisa,  the  sheep  barely  noting his  passage, save  for one
  which suddenly rose  up, assuming  all the  colors of  the dawn,
  swaying....   And   then   everything   swam   away    on   dark
  currents  to the  places where  dreams dwell  when they  are not
  being used....

    Birdnotes  and  predawn  stasis:  he  was  cast  up  onto  the
  shoals of  sleep, into  a world  where time  hung flexed  at the
  edge  of  light.  Frozen.  His  emerging awareness  moved slowly
  over  preverbal  landscapes  of  thought  he  had  quitted  long
  ago. Or was it yesterday?
    He  awoke  knowing  that  the  call  was important.  He tended
  to his  morning and  removed all  signs of  his camp  before the
  sun  was  fully  risen.  The  coyote  was  nowhere in  sight. He
  began walking. It had been a long time, too long  for him  to go
  further into the  portent. His  feelings, however,  were another
  matter.  He  scrutinized  them  occasionally,  but  seldom exam-
  ined them closely.
    As  he  hiked  across  the morning,  he considered  his world.
  It  was  small again,  as in  the beginning,  though this  was a
  relative matter - relative to all the worlds he had traveled in.
  He  moved  now  in  the  foothills of  the Carrizo  Mountains in
  Dinetah,  the  land  of the  Navajos, over  twenty-five thousand
  square miles, much of it still grazing land, over a  million and
  a  half  acres  still  wildland,  bounded  by  the  four  sacred
  mountains  -  Debentsa  in  the  north,  Mount  Taylor   in  the
  south,  San  Francisco  Peaks  in  the west  and Blanco  Peak in
  the  east,  each with  its stories  and sacred  meanings. Unlike
  many   things   he   had   known,   Dinetah  had   changed  only
  slowly,  was  still  recognizable  in  this,  the  twenty-second
  century,  as the  place it  had been  in his  boyhood. Returning
  to  this  land  after  so  many  years  had been  like traveling
  backward in time.
    Yet  there  were  differences  between   this  day   and  that
  other.  For  one,  his  clan had  always been  a small  one, and
  now he found himself its last survivor. While  it was  true that
  one is born a member of one's mother's  clan but  in a  sense is
  also  born  for  one's  father's  clan,  his  father had  been a
  Taoseno  and  there  had  been  very  little  contact  with  the
  pueblo. His father  - a  tall, sinewy  man, an  unusually gifted

 tracker, with more than a little  Plains blood  - had  come to
 live in Dinetah, as was proper, tending his wife's  flocks and
 hoeing her corn, until  the day  a certain  restlessness over-
 took him.
   Even so, it was  not the  lack of  clan affiliation  which had
 altered his life. A  Navajo has  great potential  for personal
 contacts through the complex network of  tribal interrelation-
 ships, so that even though all of the people  he had  known in
 his youth were likely dead, he might  still find  ready accep-
 tance  elsewhere.  But  he  had  returned  with an  Anglo wife
 and  had  not  done  this.  He  felt a  momentary pang  at the
 thought,  though  more  than  three  years  had  passed  since
 Dora's death.
   It was  more than  that. A  Navajo alone,  on his  own, away
 from the People, is said to  be no  longer a  Navajo -  and he
 felt  that  in a  way this  was true,  though his  mother, his
 grandmother  and  his  great-grandmother  were   buried  some-
 where  near  the place  where he  now lived.  He knew  that he
 had  changed,  changed  considerably,  during the  years away.
 Yet so had the People. While the land was little altered, they
 had  lost  many  of  the  small  things  he  remembered, small
 things adding up to something  large. Paradoxically,  then, he
 was  on  the one  hand of  an earlier  era than  his contempo-
 raries,  and  on  the  other...  He  had walked  beneath alien
 suns.  He  had  tracked  strange  beasts,  worthy  of Monster-
 Slayer  himself.  He had  learned the  ways of  the bellicanos
 and  was  not  uncomfortable  among   them.  There   were  de-
 grees  after  his  name,  some  of  them  earned. There  was a
 library in his head, held firmly in the trained memory  of one
 who had studied the chants of  yataalii. More  traditional yet
 more  alien he  found himself.  He wanted  to be  alone, what-
 ever he was.
   He broke into an easy jog, telling himself that  its purpose
 was to get the cold out of his  bones. He  ran past  walls and
 outcrops  of granite  and sandstone,  hillsides of  pinon and
 juniper. Dead yuccas, their leaves touched with ice,  lay like
 burned out stars  nailed to  the ground  along his  trail. The
 snow  glinted on  distant mountain  peaks beneath  a perfectly
 clear sky. Even after the cold had left him, he maintained his
 pace, deriving a kind of joy from the exertion.
   The  day  wore  on. He  did not  break his  stride, however,
 until  midmorning,  when  he halted  for a  brief meal  upon a
 hillside  commanding  a  long  view   down  a   narrow  canyon
 where  sheep  grazed on  dry grasses.  In the  distance, smoke

  rose from  a conical,  dirt-insulated hogan,  its Pendleton-hung
  door facing him, there in the east.
    An old man  with a  stick came  out from  behind a  cluster of
  rocks,  where  he  might  have been  resting while  watching the
  sheep.  Limping,  he  took  a  circuitous path  which eventually
  brought him near.
    "Ya'at'eeh," the man said, looking past him.
    "Ya'at'eeh."
    He asked the man to share his  food, and  they ate  in silence
  for a time.
    After  a  while,  he  asked  the  man's  clan  - it  would have
  been  impolite to  ask his  name -  and learned  that he  was of
  the  Rabbit  Redwater  People.  He  always  found it  easier to
  talk  with the  older people  than the  younger ones,  those who
  lived far out rather than near the cities.
    Eventually  the  man  asked  him  his own  clan. When  he told
  him, the other grew silent. It is not good to talk of the dead.
    "I  am  the  last,"  he  finally  said,  wanting the  other to
  understand. "I've been away a long time."
    "I  know,  I  know  the  story  of  Star  Tracker."  He pushed
  down  upon  the  crown  of  his  wide-brimmed  black  hat  as  a
  gust of  wind struck  them. He  looked back  along the  trail to
  the north. "Something follows you."
    Still  smiling  at  the  way  the  old   man  had   named  him
  without  naming  him,  he  turned  his head  and looked  in that
  direction.  A  large  ball  of  tumbleweed  bounced  and  rolled
  along the foot of the hill.
    "Russian thistle," he said.
    "No," the other replied. "Something more dangerous."
    Despite his years, the fear of the chindi rose for a moment
  out of his youth. He shuddered beneath the touch of the
  wind.
    "I see nothing else," he said.

       "You have been gone for many years. Have you had an
  Enemyway?"
    "No."

    "Perhaps you should."
    "Perhaps I will. You know a good Enemyway singer?"
    "I am a singer."
    "Perhaps I will see you again on this before long."
    "I have heard that Star Tracker was a singer. Long ago."
    "Yes."
    "When you come by again we will talk more of these
  things."

  "Yes."
  The man looked back once more, along the trail.
  "In the meantime," he said, follow a twisted path.-
  "I will do that."
  Later,   as   he  passed   along  the   streaky  blue   shale  and
 frozen  crimson  clay  of  a   dry  riverbed,   naked  cottonwoods
 flanking it like fracture lines against the cold blue of  the sky,
 he  thought  of  the  old  mas's  words  and  the things  of which
 they  reminded  him  -  of  the  sky  creatures  and  water  crea-
 tures,  of  the  beings  of  cloud,  mist,  rain, pollen  and corn
 which  had  figured  so  prominently  in  his  childhood  imagina-
 tion  -  here  in  the  season  when  the  snakes and  the thunder
 still slept.
  It had been  a long  while since  he had  considered his
 problems in the old terms.  A chindi...  Real or  of the
 mind - what difference? Something malicious at his back.
 Yes, another way of looking at things...
  The  day  wore  on  to  noon  and  past it  before the  butte near
 his   home   came  into   view,  a   high-standing  wind-sculpture
 reminiscent  of  something  he  had  once   seen  in   a  seaweed-
 fringed  valley  beneath  the  waters  of   an  alien   ocean.  He
 halted again at this point to eat the rest of his  rations. Nature
 had  long  moods  in  the  Southwest, he  reflected, as  he looked
 off in that direction. While it was true that  the land  was little
 altered,  there  had  been  some  change  between  the   then  and
 the  now.  He  could  just  make  out stands  of blue  spruce near
 the  monolith's  base,  a  tree  he had  not seen  in this  area a
 century and  a half  ago. But  then the  climate had  also altered
 somewhat  during  the   span,  the   winters  becoming   a  trifle
 more  clement,  coming  later,  ending  a  bit  sooner  than  they
 once had.
    He filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it.  Shadows  like  multitudes of
 fingers stretched slowly out  of the  west. To  run all  this way,

 then sit and rest when the end was in sight-it seemed the
 thing  to  do.  Was  he  afraid?  he  wondered.  Afraid   of  that
 damned  call?  Maybe  that was  it. Or  did he  want a  last slow-
 moving  view  of  this   piece  of   his  life   before  something
 happened  to  change  it?  There  had  been  a  song....  He could
 not remember it.
 When  he  felt  that  the  time  was  proper  he  rose  and  began
 walking  through  the  coolness  and  shadow  toward   the  large,
 distant,  six-sided house  with the  door to  the east,  his hogan
 that was not exactly a hogan.

                            *  *  *

    The  sky  was  darker  by  the time  he reached  the neighbor-
  hood  of his  dwelling, and  the trees  curtained off  even more
  of the light, casting an as yet starless evening over the raised
  log-and-stucco  structure.  He  wandered  about  it  for several
  minutes  before  approaching  from  the  east  and  mounting the
  rough-cut  decking  with  which  he  had  surrounded  the place.
  He  entered  then  and  turned  on  the  light.  He had  his own
  power supply, rooftop and below-ground.
    Moving  to  the  central  fogon,  he  arranged  some  kindling
  and struck it to fire. He disrobed then, tossing his  Levi's and
  red-and-white flannel shirt into  a hamper  along with  the rest
  of his clothing. Crossing to  a tall,  narrow stall,  he entered
  and  set  the  timer for  a three-minute  UHF shower.  Water was
  not  a  thing to  be expended  lightly in  this region.  When he
  emerged,  he  drew  on a  buckskin shirt,  khaki bush  pants and
  a pair of soft moccasins.
    Activating  his  news  recorder  and  display  screen  and ad-
  justing it to some of his  general interests,  he passed  to the
  small,  open  kitchen  area to  the right  and prepared  a meal,
  amid hanging ristras of chilis and onions.
    He ate in a  low, fur-covered  chair and  the walls  about him
  were  hung   with  rugs   from  Two   Gray  Hills   and  Ganado,
  interspersed  with  framed  photographs  of alien  landscapes. A
  rack  of  weapons  hung on  the far  wall; a  meter-square metal
  platform enclosed by  shining vertical  bars of  varying heights
  stood  nearby,  a  large console  with a  display screen  to its
  right. Its message light was still blinking.
    When  he  finished  eating, he  toyed with  his belt  unit and
  put it aside. He went to the kitchen and got a beer.


                               DISK 1

                       CHILEAN QUAKES ABORTED

                         TAXTONIES ARRESTED

  and   three  demonstrators   were  apprehended   after  report-
  edly setting fire to the car belonging to the  official responsi-
  ble for the ruling

            PETROCEL DENIES PATENT INFRINGEMENT CLAIMS
           "GREW OUR OWN," DIRECTOR OF RESEARCH INSISTS

               A MILD SPRING FOR MUCH OF THE NATION
             EARLY FLOOD WATCHES IN MISSISSIPPI VALLEY

                 CHIMPANZEE COMPLAINS OF ART THEFT

    References to a drugged banana figured prominently in the
  bizarre statement taken today by Los Angeles detectives

               KILLED THEM BECAUSE THEY WERE THERE,
                     MOTHER OF THREE EXPLAINS

           It's been a long time since you left me.
           Don't know what I'm gonna do.
           I look up at the sky and wonder -
           Earthlight always makes me think of you.

               COLUMBIA STUDENTS SKYDIVE FROM ORBIT
                         TO SET NEW RECORD

    "Naturally the university is proud," Dean Schlobin re-
  marked, "but

                 STRAGEAN AMBASSADOR CLOSETED WITH
                         SECRETARY-GENERAL

    Stragean   Ambassador   Daltmar   Stango   and   Consul  Orar
  Bogarthy  continue  a  second  day  of  talks  with  Secretary-
  General  Walford.  Speculation  on  a  breakthrough  in  trade-
  agreement  negotiations  runs high,  but so  far the  news com-
  munity

              W. COAST DOLPHINS PRESS CLAIMS
           A-1 CANNING BELIEVED READY TO SETTLE

         BAKIN M BAWA PREDICTS END OF WORLD AGAIN

   I sip the beer and hear the music,
   Watch the ships as they arrive.
   You packed your bag and went away, love
   I feel like H-E-L-L5.

          CHURCH OF NATURAL LIFE RADICALS SUSPECTED
                  IN SPERMOVA BANK BOMBING

           MAN SUES TO RECOVER FORMER PERSONALITY

 Relying on a district court order, Menninger officials
 performed

          BANK OF NOVA SCOTIA COMPUTER CHARGED WITH
            FELONY IN BONDS MANIPULATION SCANDAL

              Oh, I'm sittin' here and hurtin'
     In this slowly turnin' dive.
     If you ever want to reach me
     Just dial H-E-L-L5.

 hate  somewhere  he  still  exists and  there is  no force
 great  enough to  keep me  from him  forever it  has taken
 a long while to learn the ways but soon i will be  ready i
 am  ready  eight days  and had  i known  then what  i know
 now he would be gone i would be
 gone burned? burned they say? nevermore amid the
 slagheaps to chase the crawling tubes and crunch them for
 their juiciness? but this air too i breathe and only the
 jagged and the straight lightnings hold me here i know
 the way beyond them now and the trees outside the
 walls visions of cities the lesser ones bear i know

 the   ways   i  know   the  forms   wait  the   lesser  ones'
 twisted  minds  tell  me  what  i  need  one  will  come  one
 day  who will  know of  the one  who is  not like  the others
 who still exists i will leave for that somewhere he
 exists eight days i died a little he will die
 wholly nothing can keep me from him forever i will
 talk first now i know of it words like the crawling
 things crunch them taste their juiciness strike now
 and see the lesser ones draw back now i know them i
 will use them words to tell him the why of
 it now i will be a sphere and roll about ha! lesser
 ones! p hate i will talk it that when tell it
 then eight days burned hate

                                        BACK WHEN NAYENEZGANI
 and  his  brother  were  in  the process  of disposing  of the
 monsters the People  had found  in the  new world,  there were
 some - such as  the Endless  Serpent -  who were,  for various
 reasons,  spared. Yet  even these  were tamed  to a  degree in
 their  acknowledgement  as  necessary  evils.  The  world  was
 indeed  becoming  a  safer  place,  though  some  few  yet re-
 mained.
   There  was,  for   instance,  Tse'Naga'Hai,   the  Traveling
 Rock,  which  rolled  after  its victims  to crush  and devour
 them.  Nayenezgani  traveled  on  a  rainbow  and  the crooked
 lightning in search of it. His brother having counseled him to
 take  the  magic knives  with him,  he had  all eight  of them
 about his person.
   When he came to the place  called Betchil  gai, he  took out
 his  two  black  knives,  crossed them  and planted  them. Be-
 yond,  he  planted  the  two  blue knives,  crosswise. Farther
 along,  he  crossed the  two yellow  knives and  planted them.
 Farther  yet,  he  planted  the two  knives with  the serrated
 edges, also crosswise.
   He moved then in sight of the giant Rock.
   "What  are  you  waiting  for,  Tse'Naga'Hai?" he  asked it.
 "Do you not pursue my kind?"

     With  a  crunching,  grinding noise,  the mossless  boulder he
  had just  addressed stirred.  It moved  slowly in  his direction,
  gaining  momentum  noticeably  after  but   a  few   moments.  It
  almost  took  him  by  surprise  with  the  speed  with  which it
  approached.
     But he whirled and raced away. It came on rapidly at his .
  back, gaining upon him.
     When  he  reached  the  place  of  the  serrated  knives, Nay-
  enezgani  leaped  over  them.  The  Rock  rolled across  them and
  a big piece broke away.
     He continued to flee, jumping over the yellow knives.
  Tse'Naga'Hai rolled over them also, and another fracture
  occurred; more pieces fell away.
     By  now,  the  Rock  was  bouncing  from  side  to   side  and
  rolling   in   an   irregular   pattern.  And   when  Nayenezgani
  leaped  over  the  blue  knives  and the  Rock crashed  into them
  and  bounced  over,  more  pieces  fell  away.  By now,  its size
  was  considerably  reduced  though  its  velocity   was  increas-
  ing.
     Nayenezgani  sprang  over the  black knives.  When he
  heard the Rock grating and cracking itself upon them, he
  turned.
     All that  remained was  a relatively  small stone.  He halted,
  then moved toward it.
     Immediately  it  swerved,  altering its  course to  bound away
  from  him.  Now  he  pursued  it  into the  west, beyond  the San
  Juan River. Finally, there  he caught  it, and  much of  the life
  and wit seemed gone out of it.
     "Now,  Tse'Naga'Hai,"  he  said,  "the  power  to  harm  me is
  gone  from  you,  but  you  are  not without  a certain  virtue I
  noted earlier. In the future you will serve to light the fires of
  the Dineh."
     He  raised  what remained  of the  Rock and  bore it  off with
  him  to  show  to  First  Woman,  who  otherwise  would  not have
  believed what he had done.

                                 FINALLY HE SIGHED AND ROSE.
 He  crossed  to  the console  beside the  area enclosed  by the
 shining  bars.  He  pushed  the   "Messages"  button   and  the
 display screen came alive.
   EDWIN  TEDDERS  CALLED,  it  read,   followed  by   the  pre-
 vious day's date  and the  time -  the time  when his  unit had
 signaled in the wilderness. Below, it listed six other attempts
 by  Edwin  Tedders to  reach him,  the most  recent only  a few
 hours  ago.  There  was  an eastern  code and  a number,  and a
 request that he return the call as  soon as  possible, prefaced
 by the word URGENT.
      He tried to recall whether he had ever known an Edwin
 Tedders. He decided that he had not.
   He punched out the digits and waited.
   The buzzing which followed was broken, but the screen
 remained dark.
   "Yes?" came a crisp male voice.
   "William  Blackhorse  Singer,"  he  said,   "returning  Edwin
 Tedders's call."
   "Just  a  moment,  please."  The  words  hurried and  rose in
 pitch. "I'll get him."
   He  tugged  at  a  turquoise earring  and regarded  the blank
 screen.  A  minute  shuffled  its  numbers  on  a  nearby clock-
 display. Another...
   The screen  suddenly glowed,  and the  heavily lined  face of
 a  dark-haired  man  with  pale eyes  appeared before  him. His
 smile seemed one of relief rather than pleasure.
   "I'm  Edwin  Tedders,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad we  finally got
 hold of you, Mr. Singer. Can you come through right now?"
   "Maybe."  He  glanced  at  the  gleaming  cage  to  his left.
 "But what's this all about?"
   "I'll have to tell you in person. Please reverse the transfer
 charges. It is important, Mr. Singer."
   "All right. I'll come."
   He  moved  to  his  trip-box  and  began  its  activation. It
 whined  faintly  for an  instant. Zones  of color  moved upward
 within the shafts.

 "Ready," he said, stepping into the unit.
 Looking down, he saw that his feet were growing dim.
             For a moment, the world was disarrayed. Then his
 thoughts fell back into place again. He was standing  within a
 unit similar to his  own. When  he raised  his head  he looked
 out  across  a  large room  done up  in an  old-fashioned man-
 ner  -  dark paneled  walls, heavy  leather chairs,  a Chinese
 rug, bookshelves filled with  leatherbound volumes,  drapes, a
 fireplace  burning  real  logs.  Two  men  stood facing  him -
 Tedders, and a slight,  blond man  whose voice  identified him
 as the one with whom he had first spoken.
 "This  is  Mark  Brandes,  my  secretary,"  Tedders  stated as
 he watched him step down.
       He inadvertently pressed his palm rather than clasping
 hands, in the old way  of the  People. Brandes  looked puzzled
 but Tedders was already gesturing toward the chairs.
 "Have a seat, Mr. Singer."
 "Call me Billy."
 "All right, Billy. Would you care for a drink?"
 "Sure."
 -I have some excellent brandy."
 "That'll be fine."
 Tedders looked at Brandes, who immediately moved to a
 sideboard and poured a pair of drinks.
 "Early spring," Tedders said.
 Billy nodded, accepted his glass.
    "You've had a fascinating career. Both freezing and time-
 dilation effects  kept you  around till  you could  benefit from
 medical advances. A real old-timer, but you don't look it."
 Billy took a sip of his brandy.
  "This is very good stuff," he said.
  "Yes.  Real  vintage.  How  many  trackers  are  there  around
 these days?"
  "I don't know."
  "There are others, but you're the best. Old school."
 Billy chuckled.
  "What do you want?" he asked.
 Tedders chuckled also.
  "The best," he said.
  "What do you want tracked?"
  "It isn't exactly that."
  "What, then?"
  "It's hard to know where to begin...."

                 Billy looked out the window, across the moon-flooded
 lawn. In the distance, the prospect was broken by a high
 wall.
             "I am a special assistant to Secretary-General Walford,"
 Tedders  finally  stated.  "He is  here -  upstairs -  and so  are the
 Stragean   ambassador   and   consul   -   Stango  and   Bogarthy.  Do
 you know much about the Strageans?"
   "I've met a few, here and there."
   "How'did they strike you?"
   He shrugged.
   "Tall, strong, intelligent... What do you mean?"
   "Would you want one for an enemy?"
   "No."

   "Why not?"
   "They could be very dangerous."
   "In what ways?"
                 "They'd be hard to stop. They're shapeshifters. They
 have  a  kind  of mental  control over  their bodies.  They can
 move their organs around. They can -"
   "Walk through walls?"
   Billy shook his head.
   "I don't know about that. I've heard it said, but I've
 never -"
             "It's true. They have a training regimen which will pro-
 duce this ability in some of  them. Semireligious,  quite ardu-
 ous, takes  years, doesn't  always work.  But they  can produce
 some peculiar adepts."
   "Then you know more about it than I do."
   "Yes."
   "So why ask me?"
   "One of them is on her way here."
   Billy shrugged.
   "There are a few thousand around. Have been for years."
   Tedders sipped his drink;
   "They're all normals. I mean one of those with that
 special training."
   "So?"

   "She's coming to kill the Secretary-General."
   Billy sniffed his brandy.
   "Good that you got word," he finally said, "and can turn
 it over to the security people."
   "Not good enough."
   Throughout the conversation, Tedders had been struggling

  to obtain eye-contact. At last Billy was staring  at him,  and he
  felt  some  small  sense  of  triumph,  not  realizing  that  this
  meant the man doubted what he was saying.
    "Why not?"
    "They're not equipped to deal with Stragean adepts," he
  said. "She could well be too much for them."
    Billy shook his head.
    "I don't understand why you're telling me about it."
    "The computer came up with your name."
    "In response to what?"
    "We'd asked it for someone who might be able to stop
  her."
    Billy finished his drink and set the glass aside.
    "Then you need a new programmer or something. There
  must be a lot of people who know more about Stragean
  adepts than I do."
    "You  are  an  expert  on  the  pursuit  and  capture  of exotic
  life forms.  You spent  most of  your life  doing it.  You practi-
  cally  stocked  the  Interstellar  Life  Institute  single-handed,
  You -"
    Billy waved his hand.
    "Enough," he said. "The alien you are talking about is an
  intelligent  being. I  spent much  of my  life tracking  animals -
  exotic  ones,  to  be  sure,  some  very  crafty  and  with tricky
  behavior  patterns  -  but  animals  nevertheless,  not  creatures
  capable of elaborate planning."
    Cat...
    "... So I don't see that my experience is really applicable
  in this situation," he concluded.
    Tedders nodded.
    "Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  in  a
  matter  like  this  we  should  really be  certain. Will  you talk
  with  the   Stragean  representatives   who  are   visiting  here?
  They can probably give you a clearer picture than I can."
    "Sure. I'll talk to anybody."
    Tedders finished  his drink  and rose.
    "May  I  get  you  another  of those?"
    "All right."
    He  replenished  the  snifter. Then,  "I'll be  back in  a few
  minutes,"  he  said,  and  he  moved  off to  the right  and de-
  parted the room.
    Billy set down the glass and rose. He paced the room,
  regarded the titles on the bookshelves, felt the volumes'
  spines, sniffed the air. Mingled with the smell of  old leather,

  a faint,  almost acrid  aroma he  had not  been able  to place
  earlier came to  him again,  a scent  he had  experienced upon
  meeting Strageans  in the  past, in  another place.  They must
  have been about this building  for some  time, he  decided, or
  have been in this room very recently, to mark it so with their
  presence.   He   remembered   them   as  humanoid,   over  two
  meters in height, dark-skinned save  for silvery  faces, necks
  and  breasts;  flat-headed,  narrow-waisted  beings  with wide
  shoulders,  collarlike  outgrowths  of  spiny  material  which
  served as sound-sensors and small,  feral eyes,  slitted, usu-
  ally  yellow  but  sometimes  cinnamon   or  amber   in  color;
  hairless,  graceful  in a  many-jointed, insectlike  way, they
  moved  quietly  and  spoke  a   language  that   reminded  him
  vaguely of Greek, which he did not understand either.
    It is language, he  decided, that  sets the  sentients apart
  from the animals. Isn't it?
    Cat...?
           He moved to the window, stared out across the lawn.
  Difficult  to  cross  there  without  being detected,  he con-
  cluded, with even the simplest security devices  in operation.
  And  this  place  must  have  plenty.  But  she  could  assume
  almost any guise, could  penetrate the  place in  an innocuous
  form....
    Why  be  furtive,  though?  That  is  what  they   would  be
  expecting.  While  the  defenders  were  concentrating  on the
  sophisticated, why not  hijack a  heavy vehicle,  come barrel-
  ing  across the  lawn, crash  through a  wall, jump  down from
  the cab and start shooting everything that moves?
    He  shook  himself  and  turned  away.  This  was   not  his
  problem. There must be  plenty of  people more  qualified than
  himself to second-guess the  alien, no  matter what  the com-
  puter said.
    He returned to his chair  and took  up his  drink. Footsteps
  were  approaching  now  from  the  direction in  which Tedders
  had  departed.  Footsteps,  and  the  soft  sound  of  voices,
  accompanied by a faint ringing  in his  ears. The  language of
  the Strageans ranged into the ultrasonic  on the  human scale,
  and  though  they  narrowed their  focus when  speaking Terran
  tongues  there  were  always  some   overtones.  Too   long  a
  conversation  with  a  Stragean normally  resulted in  a head-
  ache.  He took  another drink  and lowered  the glass  as they
  rounded the corner.
    The  two  Strageans  wore  dark blue  kilts and  belts which
  crossed  their  breasts  like  bandoliers. Ornamental  pins or

 badges  of  office  were  affixed  to these  latter. Between  Ted-
 ders and the aliens walked another man, short, heavy, with
 just a fringe of dark hair; his eyes were jadelike under  heavy
 brows;  he  wore  a  green robe  and slippers.  Billy recognized
 him as UN Secretary-General Milton Walford.
   Tedders  introduced  him  to  Daltmar  Stango  and  Orar  Bo-
 garthy as well as to Walford.  Everyone was  seated then,  and
 Tedders said, "They will tell you more about this."
   Billy nodded.
       The Stragean known as Daltmar Stango, staring at nothing
 directly before him, recited: "It has to do  with the  coming of
 your people to stay  on our  world. There  is already  a sizable
 enclave of them  there, just  as there  is of  our kind  here on
 Earth.  There  has  been  very  little  trouble on  either world
 because of this.  But now,  with my  present mission  to negoti-
 ate political and trade agreements, it appears that  the settle-
 ments will become permanent diplomatic posts."
   He paused but a  moment, as  if to  refocus his  thoughts, and
 then  continued:  "Now,  there  is  a  small religious  group on
 Strage which believes that  when Terrans  die there,  their life
 essences foul the place of the afterlife. Permanent  posts will
 guarantee  that  this group's  fears will  be realized  with in-
 creasing  frequency  as time  goes on.  Hence, they  are against
 any  agreements with  your people,  and they  would like  all of
 them off our world."
   "How large a group are they?" Billy asked.
   "Small.  Fifty  to  a  hundred thousand  members, at  most. It
 is  not  their  size  which  is important,  though. They  are an
 austere  sect, and  many of  them undertake  a severe  course of
 training  which  sometimes produces  spectacular effects  in the
 individual."
   "So I've heard."
   "One  such  individual  has  taken  it  upon herself  to correct
 matters.  She  commandeered  a  vessel  and  set  a  course  for
 Earth.  She  feels  that  an  assassination  at this  level will
 disrupt our negotiations  to the  point where  there will  be no
 treaty - and that this will  lead to  the withdrawal  of Terrans
 from our world."
   "How close is she to the truth?"
   "It is always difficult to  speculate in  these matters,  but it
 would certainly slow things down."
   "And she's due to arrive in a few days?"
   "Yes.  We  received  the  information  from  other  members of
 her  sect,  and they  could not  be more  precise. They  did not

  learn the story  in its  entirety until  after her  departure, when
  they  informed  the  authorities.  They  were  anxious  that  it be
  known  she  was  acting  on  her  own  initiative  and   not  under
  orders."
    Billy smiled.
    "Who can say?" he said.
    "Yes.  At  any rate,  since a  message can  travel faster  than a
  ship, the warning was sent."
    "You  must know  best how  to stop  one of  your own
  people."
    "The problem seldom occurs," Daltmar said.  "But the
  customary method is to set a team of similarly endowed
  adepts after a wrongdoer. Unfortunately..."
    "Oh."

    "So  we  must  make  do  with  what  is   at  hand,"   the  alien
  went  on.  "Your people  will try  to intercept  her in  space, but
  projections  only  give  them  a  twenty-seven  percent  chance  of
  success. Have you any ideas?"
    Cat?
    "No," Billy replied. "If it were a dangerous animal, I'd
  want to study it in its habitat for a time."
    "There is no way and no time."
    "Then  I  don't  know  what  to   tell  you."
    Walford produced a small parcel from the pocket of his
  robe.
    "There  is  a chip  in here  that I  want you  to take  back with
  you  and  run through  your machine,"  he said.  "It will  tell you
  everything  we  know  about  this   individual  and   about  others
  of that sort. It is the closest  thing we  can give  you to  a life
  study."
    Billy rose and accepted the package.
    "All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll take  it home  and run  it. Maybe
  something will suggest itself."
    Walford  and  the  others  rose  to their  feet. As  Billy turned
  toward  the   transporter,  the   Stragean  called   Orar  Bogarthy
  spoke.
    "Yours  is  one  of  the aboriginal  peoples of  this continent?"
  he said.
    "Yes," Billy replied, halting but not turning.
    "Have the jewels in your earlobes a special significance?
  Religious, perhaps?"
    Billy laughed.
    "I like them. That's all."
    "And the one in your hair?"

  Billy touched it as he turned slowly.
  "That one? Well... it is believed to protect one from
 being struck by lightning."
  "Does it work?"
  "This  one  has.  So  far."
  "I  am curious.  Being struck  by lightning  is not  the most
 common occurrence in life. Why do you wear it?"
  "We  Navajos  have  a  thing  about  lightning.  It  destroys
 taboos. It twists reality. Not a thing to fool around with."
  He  turned  away,  moved  ahead,  punched  a  series  of num-
 bers, stepped up into the unit. He glanced up at  the expres-
 sionless humans and aliens as the delay factor passed and his
 body began to melt.

     Traveling the distance from hill to hill,
     passing from place to place as the wind passes,
     trackless. There should be a song for it,
     but I have never learned the words.
     So I sing this one of my own making:
     I am become a rainbow, beginning there
     and ending here. I leave no mark
     upon the land between as I arc
     from there to here. May I go in beauty.
     May it lie before, behind, above and below,
     to the right and the left of me.
     I pass cleanly through the gates of the sky.

                                   WE CALL IT THE ENEMYWAY,
 the  old  man  said,  but  the  white  people came  along and
 started  calling it  a squaw  danc - probably because  they saw
 the women dancing for it. You  get a  special name  if you're
 the one they're going to sing over, a warrior's name.  It's a
 sacred name you're just supposed to  use in  ceremonials, not
 the  kind  you go  around telling  everybody or  just letting
 people call you by.
    It all started, he said, back when Nayenezgani was pro-

  tecting  the People.  He killed  off a  whole bunch  of monsters
  that  were  giving  us  a  hard  time.  There  was   the  Horned
  Monster  and  Big  God  and  the  Rock  Monster  Eagle  and  the
  Traveling  Rock and  a lot  of others.  That was  why he  got to
  be  called  Monster-Slayer.  His  fourth  monster,  though,  was
  called Tracking Bear. It was a bear, but it  looked more  like a
  lion the size of a floatcar. Once it came across your tracks, it
  would start following  them and  it wouldn't  stop until  it had
  found you and had you for dinner on the spot.
    Nayenezgani  went  out and  tracked the  tracker and  then let
  it track him. But when it finally  found him,  he was  ready. He
  wasn't  called  Monster-Slayer  for  nothing.  When  it  was all
  over, the world was that much safer.
    But at about that time, it started to get to him.  He suffered
  for it because of all those enemies he killed, and the bear just
  added  another  one to  their band.  Their spirits  followed him
  around  and  made  him  pretty  miserable.  This  is  where  the
  word   Anaa'ji,   for   the   Enemyway,   comes   from.  Naayee'
  means  an  enemy,  or  something  really  bad  that's  bothering
  you.  Now,  neezghani  means  "he  has  gotten  rid of  it," and
  ana'i means an enemy that's been  gotten rid  of. So  Anaa'ji is
  probably really the best  word to  call it  by. It's  a ceremony
  for getting rid of really bad troubles.

                                      HE PACED. THE SCREEN STILL
  glowed.  He  had  not  turned  off  the  unit  after  viewing the
  chip. The  walls seemed  to lean  toward him,  to press  in upon
  him.  The   wind  was   singing  a   changing  song   he  almost
  understood.  He  paused  at  various  times,  to inspect  an old
  basket,  an  ancient  flaked  spear point,  the photograph  of a
  wild  landscape  beneath an  indigo sky.  He touched  the barrel
  of  a  high-powered  rifle,  took  the  weapon  into  his hands,
  checked it, replaced it on its  pegs. Finally  he turned  on his
  heel and stepped outside into the night.
           He stood upon the decking which surrounded the hogan.
  He peered into the shadows. He looked up at the sky.
    "I have no words..." he began, and a part of his mind

 mocked  the  other  part. He  was, as  always, conscious  of this
 division. When it had first occurred he could no longer say.
   "... But you require an answer."
   He  was  not  even  certain  what  it  was  that  he addressed.
 The  Navajo  language  has  no  word  for  "religion."   Nor  was
 he  even  certain  that  that  was  the  category into  which his
 feelings  fell.  Category?  The  reason  there  was  no  word was
 that in the  old days  such things  had been  inextricably boun<i
 to everything in one's life.  There was  no special  category for
 certain  sentiments.  Most  of  those  around  him  even  now did
 not  find  this  strange.  But  they  had  changed. He  had also,
 though  he knew  that his  alteration was  of a  different order.
 "He  behaves as  if he  had no  relatives" -  this was  the worst
 thing  one  Navajo  might  say of  another, and  he knew  that it
 applied  to  him.  The  gulf  was  deeper  than his  absence, his
 marriage,  anything  he  had  done.  Others  had  gone  away  for
 long times, had  married outside  the clans,  and had  still come
 back.  But  for  him  it  was  part  of  a  temporal  experience,
 literally as well  as spiritually  true. He  had no  relatives. A
 part of him wanted it that way. The other part...
   "I  may  have done  a great  wrong," he  continued. "If  I took
 him  from  his land,  as the  People were  taken to  Fort Sumner.
 If I took  him from  his own  kind, who  are no  more. If  I left
 him alone  in a  strange place,  like a  captive among  the Utes.
 Then I  have done  a wrong.  But only  if he  is a  real person."
 He  scanned  the  skies.  "May  he  not be,"  he said  then. "May
 it all  be a  dream of  possibility, a  nothingness -  that which
 has  troubled  me  across  the  years."  He  circled  the  hogan,
 staring  off  into  the trees.  "I had  thought that  not knowing
 was  best  -  which  may  make  me  a  coward.  Yet I  would have
 gone on this way for the rest of my days. Now -"
   An owl fled past him, making a soft whooing noise.
   An evil omen, a part of his mind decided, for the owl is the
 bird of death and ill things.
   An owl,  the other  part affirmed.  They hunt  at night.  It is
 nothing more.
   "We  have  heard  one another,"  he called  after the  bird. "I
 will find out what I have done and know what I must do."
   He  went  back  inside   and  reached   up  among   cobwebs  to
 where  a  key hung  from a  viga. He  took it  into his  hand and
 rubbed it. He ran his finger along it as if it were as unusual an
 item  as  the  spear point.  Then, abruptly,  he dropped  it into
 his  pocket.   He  crossed   the  room   and  switched   off  the
 glowing screen.

   Turning,  he  then  stepped  among  the  bars of  the trip-box,
 activated  the  control  unit  and  punched  a  code.  He focused
 his  eyes  upon  the  red  Ganado  rug and  watched it  turn pink
 and go away.

   Darkness amid the tiny streetlights, and the sound of
 crickets outside the booth...
   He  stepped  out  of  the  shelter  and  sniffed the  damp air'.
 Large,   shadow-decked  trees;   enviable  quantities   of  grass
 furring  hillsides;  heavy,  squat,  monolithic  buildings,  dark
 now,  save  for  little entranceway  lights providing  tiny grot-
 toes  which   only  accentuated   the  blackness   elsewhere;  no
 people in sight.
   He  moved  along  the sidewalk,  crossed the  street, cut  up a
 hillside.  There  were   guards  about,   but  he   avoided  them
 without  difficulty. Balboa  Park was  quiet now,  its spectacles
 closed  to  the  public until  morning. The  lights of  San Diego
 and  the  traffic  along  its trailways  were visible  from various
 high  points  he  crossed,  but  these  seemed  distant,  part of
 another   world.   He   moved   soundlessly   from    shadow   to
 shadow.  He  had  chosen   a  public   booth  he   had  sometimes
 liked  to  use  long  ago, when  he had  come on  normal, daytime
 business, enjoying the  walk rather  than tripping  directly into
 the  place  with  which  he  was   associated.  That   place,  of
 course,  was now  closed for  the night,  its trip-box  also shut
 down.
   For  fifteen  minutes  he  continued  his  trek,  climbing  and
 hiking  toward  the   vast,  sprawling   complex  that   was  the
 Interstellar  Life  Institute.  He  avoided   sidewalks,  parking
 lots  and  roads  as  much  as  possible.  Mixed   animal  smells
 from  the  San  Diego  Zoo  were  occasionally  borne  to  him in
 open  areas  by  vagrant  currents  of  wind.  Rich  and jungley,
 the smells of some of  the zoo  foliage also  came to  him. These
 sensations  stirred  memories  of   other  exotic   creatures  in
 other  places.  He  recalled  the  capture  of   the  wire-furred
 wullabree in a pen of ultrasonics, the twilpa in an ice pit, four
 outan in a vortex of odors....
   The  ILI  complex  came  into  sight  and  he  slowed.   For  a
 long  while  he stood  halted, simply  watching the  place. Then,
 slowly, he circled it, pausing often to watch again.
   Finally  he  stood at  the rear  of the  building near  a small
 parking  lot containing  but a  single car.  He crossed  and used
 his  key  in  the  door  of  the  employees'  entrance  which ad-
 joined it.

    Inside, he  moved without  the need  for light,  traversing a
  series of corridors, then mounting a small stair. He came  to a
  watchman's  station  he  remembered,  then  used   his  passkey
  to let himself into a nearby  maintenance supply  closet. There
  he  waited  for  twenty  minutes  until  a  uniformed  old  man
  shuffled  by, halted,  inserted a  key into  the alarm  unit and
  moved on.
    Shortly thereafter, he  emerged and  entered the  first hall.
  Some of the life units at either hand were  eerily illuminated,
  simulating the natural. lighting  cycles of  their inhabitants'
  homes,  tinged  by  odd  atmospheric  compounds  or  reflecting
  meteorological  peculiarities  necessary  for   the  creatures'
  well-being.  He  passed drifting  gas balloons,  crawling coral
  branches,  slimy   Maltese  crosses,   pulsating  liver-colored
  logs, spiny wave-snakes, a Belgarde  simoplex gruttling  in its
  tangle-hole, a striped mertz, a pair  of divectos,  a compacted
  tendron in  a pool  of ammonia.  The stalked  eyes of  a wormsa
  marakye  followed  his  passage  as  they had  that day  on the
  wind  barrens  when  it had  almost collected  him. He  did not
  pause  to  return  this  regard,  nor to  inspect any  of those
  others he knew so well.
    He traversed the entire hall,  departed it,  entered another.
  The  faint  hum  of  generators  was  with him  always. Despite
  the hermetic quality of the life  units, unusual  odors reached
  him  from  somewhere.  He  ignored  all  of the  signs, knowing
  what  they  said.  The  specimens  in  this  second  hall  were
  larger,  fiercer-looking than  those in  the one  through which
  he  had  just  passed. Here  he glanced  at several  with some-
  thing almost like affection, muttering quietly in  the language
  of  the  People.  He began  humming very  softly as  he entered
  the third hall.
    After only a few paces, he began to slow.
   Rocks on a plain of fused silicates... No visible partition
  between that place and the rest of the hall, as in a few others
  he had passed. Atmospheric equivalence...
    He continued to slow. He halted.
    A weak, pointless light suffused that plain. He seemed to
  hear a sighing sound.
    His humming ceased and his mouth grew dry.
    "I have come," he whispered, and then he approached the
  exhibit placarded TORGLIND METAMORPH.
    Sand and rock. Yellow and glassy and orange. Streaks of
  black. Nothing stirred.
    "Cat...?" he said.


       He  drew  nearer  and  continued  to  stare.  It  was  no use.
     Even his eyes could not  tell for  certain. It  was not  just the

       He   searched   his  memory   of  the   manner  in   which  the
      display  had  originally  been set  up. Yes.  That rock,  to the
      left...
       The  rock moved,  even as  he recalled  the disposition  of the
      environment.  It  rolled  toward the  center. It  changed shape,
      growing more spherical as it negotiated a dip.
       "There is a thing  I must  say, a  thing I  must try  to do...."
       It  elongated, unfolded  a pair  of appendages,  propped itself
      upon them.
       "I have wondered, wondered whether you might really
      understand me, if I tried - hard enough."
       It  grew  another  pair  of  appendages  toward   its  rearward
      extremity, formulated a massive head, a fat, triangular tail.
       "If  you  know  anyone,  you  know  me.  I  brought  you  here.
      The  scars  of our  battle have  been erased  from my  body, but
      none gave me a greater fight than yourself."
       Its outline  flowed. It  became sleek  and glistening,  a thing
      of  rippling  cords beneath  a glassy  surface. Its  head devel-
      oped a single faceted eye at its center.
       "I  have  come   to  you.   I  must   know  whether   you  have
      understanding.  For a  time I  thought that  you might.  But you
      have  never  shown it  since. Now  I must  know. Is  there sense
      in that brute head of yours?"
       The creature stretched and turned away from him.
       "If  you  can  communicate  with anyone,  in any  fashion, let
      it be me, now. It is very important,"
       It paced across the area toward his right.
       "It is not just idle curiosity that brings me here. Give me
      some sign of intelligence, if you possess it."
       It  looked  at  him for  a moment  through that  cold, unblink-
      ing gem at its head's center.  Then it  turned away  once again,
      its color darkening until it  could go  no further.  Coal, inky,
      absolute blackness filled its outline.
       The shadow slid away toward the rear of the area and
      vanished.
       "In  a way,  you have  pleased me,"  he said  then. "Good-
      bye, great enemy."
       He turned, headed back through the hall.
       Billy Blackhorse Singer. Man of  the People.  Last warrior
      of your kind. You have taken your time in coming.

  He halted. He stood absolutely still.
     Yes. The words come into your head. I can formulate
 some likeness of a  human tongue  and utter  them if  I choose,
 but  we  may  as  well be  more intimate,  who are  closer than
 friends, farther than affection.
  Cat?
  That is right. Just think it. I will know. Cat serves  well to
 name me -  a lithe  and independent  creature, alien  in senti-
 ments.  I read  only the  thoughts you  choose to  surface, not
 your entire mind. You must tell me all of  the things  you wish
 for me to know. Why have you come?
  To see whether you are what I now see you to be.
  That is all?
  It  has bothered  me that  you might  be so.  Why did  you not
 communicate sooner?
     At first I could not. My kind transmitted only images - of
 the hunt - to others like ourselves. But the power  slowly grew
 as  I  regarded  the  thoughts of  those who  carne to  view me
 this  half-century  past.  Now I  know much  of your  world and
 your kind. You, though - you are different from the others.
  In what way?
  Like me, a predator.
  Cat! Why did you not tell someone, once you knew how,
 that you are a sentient, intelligent being?
  I have learned many things. And I have been waiting.
  For what?
  I have learned hate. I have been waiting for the chance
 to escape, to track you as you once tracked me, to destroy
 you.
  It need not have  gone this  far. I  am sorry  for the  pain I
 have  caused  you,  Now  that  we  know  what you  are, amends
 can be made.
  The  sun  of  my  world  has  since gone  nova. The  world and
 all others of my  kind are  no more.  I have  seen this  in the
 minds of my attendants. How can you restore it to me?
  I cannot.
     I have learned hate. I did not know hate before I came to
 this  place.  The  predator does  not hate  the prey.  The wolf
 actually loves the  sheep, in  its way. But  I hate  you, Billy
 Blackhorse Singer, for  what you  have done  to me,  for having
 turned  me  into a  thing. This  sophistication I  learned from
 your own kind. Since then I have  lived only  for the  day when
 I might tell you this and act upon it.
  I am sorry. I will speak with the people who run this place.

    I will not respond to them. They will think you demented in
 your allegations.
    Why?
    That is not my wish. I have told you my wish.
    He turned back toward the area, moving to the place
 where  force  fields  contained  the  dark,  larger-than-man-sized
 creature which now sat nearby, studying him.
    I  do  not  see  how  your wishes  will be  realized, but  I am
 willing to try to help you in any other way.
    I see something.
    What do you mean?
    I see that you want something of me.
    It is nothing, I now realize, that you would care to give.
    Try me.
    I came to learn whether I had wronged you.
    You have.
    To see whether you are truly intelligent.
    I am.
    To  ask  your  assistance,  then,  in  preventing  a  political
 assassination.
    There  followed  something  like  laughter  -  hollow,  without
 humor.
    Tell me about it.
     He described the situation. There was a long silence when
 he had finished.
    Then,  Supposing  I were  to locate  this being  and thwart
 her? What then?
    Your  freedom  would  of  course be  restored to  you. There
 would  be  reparations,  probably  a   reward,  a   new  home.
 Some equivalent world might be found....
    The dark form rose, changing shape again, becoming
 bearlike, bipedal. It extended a forelimb until it came into
 contact  with  the  field.  A  rush of  sparks cascaded  about the
 area.
     That, Cat told him, is all that stands between you and
 death.
    That is  all you  have to  say -  that now  that we  can commu-
 nicate we have nothing to talk about?
    Do you not recall that long week you stalked me?
    Yes.
    It was only by a puke that you captured me.
    Perhaps.
    Perhaps? You know it is so. I almost had you there at the
 end.

  You came close.
   I have relived that hunt for fifty long years. I should have
 won!
  He slammed against the  field and  sparks outlined  his entire
 figure.  Billy  did  not  move.  After a  time, Cat  drew back,
 shaking  himself.  He   seemed  smaller   now,  and   his  body
 coiled around and around upon itself, sinking to the ground.
  Finally,  You  have  already  offered  me  my  liberty, without
 conditions, Cat.said.
  Yes.
  The reward and reparations of which you spoke mean
 nothing to me.
  I see.
  No, you do not.
  I see that you will not help in this. Very well. Good night to
 you.
  He turned away again.
  I did not say that I would not help.
  When he looked back it was a swaying, hooded, horned
 thing which regarded him.
  What is it that you do say, Cat?
  I will help you - for a price.
  And what is that price?
  Your life.
  Preposterous.
  I have waited this long. It is the only thing that I want.
  It is an insane offer.
  It is my only  offer. Accept  it or  not, as  you choose.
  Do  you  really  think  you  can  stop a  Stragean adept?
  If I fail and she destroys me, then you are free and no
 worse off than before. But I will not fail.
  It is unacceptable.
  Again the laugh.
  Billy Singer  turned and  walked from  the hall.  The laughter
 followed  him.  Its  range  was  approximately  a quarter  of a
 mile.

                             DISK II

               BODY OF UNION LEADER FOUND IN ORBIT

      Would have been incinerated upon reentry several days

                 EIGHTEEN INDICTED IN LUNAR DEALS

                      GULF HURRICANE ABORTED

 he  climbed   Mount  Taylor,   birthplace  of   Changing  Woman,
 sacred  peak  of  the  turquoise  south.  The clouds  were heavy
 in the north, but the sun shone to his left. A cold wind  sang a
 fragile song. He cast a pinch of pollen to  each of  the world's
 four  quarters.  As  his  existential mood  deepened a  yei came
 to him in the form of a drifting black feather

                  GENEFIX - REVLON MERGER HINTED

                   EUTHANASIA VICTIM TELLS ALL

                       CALL FOR PARANORMALS
 The UN Secretary-General's office early this morning
 ...I feel like H-E-I-L5!
           CHURCH OF CHRISTIAN RELATIVITY TAKES STAND

   Her sensors  held as  the ship  banked. Running  the defense
 system  would  not be  so difficult  after all,  her instruments
 informed her. She meditated for half a  minute upon  the flame
 and the  water, visible  mutabilities symbolizing  the change-
 flame. Flow, she imaged, into the ancient forms

                FLOODING IN L.A.-PHOENIX TUNNEL
                     MAN CARRIED TWO MILES

   "Your horses  are yours  again, grandchild,"  he says  as he
 sits down beside me.
   "Your  sheep  are yours  again, grandchild,"  he says  as he
 sits down beside me.
   "All  your  possessions  are  yours  again,  grandchild," he
 says as he sits down beside me.
   "Your country  is yours  again, grandchild,"  he says  as he
 sits down beside me.
   "Your  springs that  flow are  yours again,  grandchild," he
 says as he sits down beside me.
   "Your  mountain  ranges  are  yours  again,  grandchild," he
 says as he sits down beside me.

 Blessed again it has  become, blessed  again it  has become,
 Blessed again it has  become, blessed  again it  has become!

                                     HE HAD CROSSED THE DRIED
 lava flow,  which in  his day  everyone had  known to  be the
 congealed  blood of  Yeitso, a  monster slain  by Nayenezgani.
 And  then  he  had  continued  upward  along  the   slopes  of
 Mount Taylor,  its heights  hidden today  by a  great, rolling
 bank  of fog.  A nagging  wind clutched  at his  garments with
 many  hands,  a  black  wind  from  out of  the north.  A holy
 place was necessary  for the  thoughts he  wished to  think on
 this  bleak  day.  It  had been  over a  century since  he had

  visited Mount Taylor, but its nature was such that it had been
  left undisturbed through all these years.
    Climbing...
    Cat my chindi... Ever at my back...
    Climbing,  his  hair  gleaming  from  a  recent  shampoo with
  yucca roots...
    ...All things past come together in you.
    Climbing, into the fog now, the wind abruptly dying,
  stones dark and slippery...
    ...And how shall I face you?
  ...  Mountain  held  to  the  earth  by  a  great  stone knife,
  pierced  through  from  top  to  bottom,  female  mountain, you
  have seen  all things  among the  People. But  do you  know the
  stranger  stars  I  have  looked  upon?  Let  me  tell  you  of
  them....
    The  climb  was  slow  and  the   mists  pressed   upon  him,
  dampening  his  garments  until  they  clung.  He  sang  as  he
  ascended, pausing at several places, for this  was the  home of
  Turquoise  Boy  and  Yellow  Corn  Girl,  and  in  some versions
  of  the  story  it  was  here  that  Changing  Woman  had  been
  born.
    ...I have lost myself among bright stars.
    He passed a group of stone people who seemed to nod
  behind  their  veil of  mist. The  fleecy whiteness  which sur-
  rounded  him made  him think  of his  mother's sheep,  which he
  had  herded as  a boy.  His thoughts  followed them  from their
  old  winter  hogan, its  forage exhausted,  to the  high summer
  camp,  where  meals  were  cooked  and  eaten outdoors  and the
  women  set up  their looms  between the  trees. His  uncle, the
  singer, would gather herbs  and dry  them in  the sun.  The old
  man  held  a  medicine  bundle for  Female Shootingway,  of the
  five-night  chantway.  He also  did the  five-night Blessingway
  chant  and  knew  minor  Shootingway  ceremonies,  as  well  as
  the  five  nights of  Evilway. And  he knew  the Restorationway
  of every living thing.
    When  the  word  came  that  the  government  inspectors were
  waiting at the sheep-dips,  a festive  spirit danced  among the
  settlements  like  a  humpbacked piper.  The camp  was broken,
  and  the  sheep  bells  clunked  as  the  animals  were  herded
  down from  the mountains  to the  place of  the dips.  The dips
  themselves  stank  of  sulphur,  and  the  smell of  sheep dung
  was everywhere, not least  of all  upon one's  boots. It  was a
  slow, dirty business, as the  sheep were  run through  the dips
  one by one, counted,  collected together,  certified as  free of

 ticks  and  disease.for another  season. The  air was  filled with
 dust  from  the  moving  animals.  Soon  flocks  of  them  covered
 the  hills  like   fallen  clouds,   barking  dogs   moving  among
 them.
   As  the  day  progressed,  a  holiday  atmosphere would
 spread among  the stench  and the  noises. The  smells of
 mutton stew, fry bread and coffee, mingled with  the fra-
 grance of pinon smoke,  began to  move through  the air.
 Laughter  would  rise  with  greater  frequency. Gambling
 would begin. Songs would be heard. Here or there, a horse
 race, a chicken-pull...
   And  the  garments  would   improve  as   the  work   was  done.
 The  woman  who  might  have  worn  a   wool  shawl   and  carried
 a  sun  umbrella  while  herding  her  sheep from  the pen  to the
 dip now had on her best bright three-tiered  skirt, a  satin shirt
 and  velvet  overblouse  with  silver  collar  points  and  silver
 buttons  running  down  each  shoulder seam  to the  wrist, silver
 bowknot   buttons  down   the  front,   a  heavy   squash  blossom
 necklace,  several  strands  of  turquoise  within  it.   The  men
 appeared  in  velveteen  shirts  with  silver buttons,  silver and
 turquoise   bands  about   their  black   hats,  green   and  blue
 bracelets,  rings,  necklaces  -  from  Pilot  Mountain,  Morinci,
 Kingman,   Royston.   And   there   were   jokes    and   dancing,
 though no  stories of  the supernatural  variety, for  the thunder
 and   the   serpents   were   awake.   Re  remembered   his  first
 squaw  dance  on  such  an  occasion.  He  had  had  nothing  with
 which  to  pay,  and  so  he  had  danced and  danced for  most of
 the night, listening to the girls' laughter, moving finally like a
 man  'in  a  dream,   until  an   opportunity  -   perhaps  inten-
 tional? - presented itself, and he fled.
   And now...
            This past summer he had visited a contemporary sheep-
 dipping.  The   genetically  tailored   animals  were   immune  to
 most  of  the  old diseases.  Still, a  few parasites  could cause
 annoyance.   The  sheep   were  run   through  a   quickly  assem-
 bled,   lightweight,   odorless   aerosol   tunnel,   counted  and
 sorted   by   computer  and   penned  behind   a  series   of  UHF
 walls  broadcast  from  tiny  units  dropped  casually   upon  the
 ground.  For  the  most  part,  meals  were  prepared   in  quick,
 efficient  -  if  a  bit old-fashioned  - portable  microwave units.
 The   evening's  music   was  chip-recorded   or  satellite-broad-
 cast.  Most of  the dancing  that followed  he did  not recognize.
 There  seemed  to   be  fewer   traditional  garments   in  sight,
 fewer  people  doing  things  in  the right  manner. Not  too many

 horses about. And a young man  actually came  up to  him and
 asked him his name....
 ...  Mountain  held  to the  earth by  a great  stone knife,
 pierced  through from  top to  bottom, blade  decorated with
 turquoise, color of  the blue  south, female  mountain, upon
 your  summit  a  bowl of  turquoise containing  two bluebird
 eggs  covered  with  sacred  buckskin,  mountain  dressed in
 turquoise, eagle plumes upon  your head,  you have  seen all
 things  among the  People. For  a man,  however, to  see too
 much  of  change  may  damage  his   spirit.  I   have  seen
 much....
   He climbed a lightening  way, through  the houses  made of
 dark cloud, rainbow and  crystal. When  he emerged  onto the
 high slopes, into brightness beneath  an unscreened  sun, it
 was as if he stood upon an island in the midst of a frothing
 sea.  The  land  was covered  over in  every direction  by a
 cottony whiteness. He faced each of the world's  corners and
 he sang, making offerings  of cornmeal  and pollen.  Then he
 seated  himself  and  opened  his unwounded  deerskin pouch,
 removing certain  items. For  a long  while he  thought upon
 the things that came to him then....
   That  line of  clouds... so  like a  curved dirt  altar. A
 mushroom in its nest upon it. Night. He had eaten the bitter
 medicine and listened to the singing  and the  drumming. The
 rattle and  the feather  fan were  passed. Each  person sang
 four songs before handing on the regalia.  A feeling  of ex-
 treme weariness had  come over  him even  before it  was his
 turn. He understood that John Rave had  once said  that this
 was the effect of the peyote  struggling against  a person's
 vices. His throat felt constricted and very dry. He wondered
 how much of this was spiritual and how much physiological.
   He had been  going through  a very  unusual period  in his
 life. He had been  away to  school. The  old ways  no longer
 seemed right, but neither  did the  new ones.  He understood
 that the  Native American  Church had  appealed to  many who
 felt themselves between  worlds. But  he had  also, already,
 taken  anthropology  courses,  and  he felt  a thin  edge of
 estrangement - like a knifeblade - inserting  itself between
 him and the experience even now, after only  a few  weeks of
 Peyoteway. The brilliantly colored hallucinations were often
 fascinating, yet he and his thirst had stood apart.
   But this night was somehow different from other nights.
 ... He felt this as he passed the rattle and the fan and,
 looking up, saw that a rainbow was forming.  It did  not seem

  at all out of place, and he watched it with interest. It seemed
  simultaneously distant  and near,  and as  he stared  there was
  movement  upon  it.  Two  figures  -  and he  knew them  - were
  passing along its crest  as upon  the arch  of a  great bridge.
  They  halted  and  looked down  at him.  They were  the Warrior
  Twins   -   Tobadzischini,   Born-of-Water,   and  Nayenezgani,
  Monster-Slayer.  For  a  long  while  they  simply  stared, and
  then he realized that it might not really be himself  that they
  were   regarding.   From   a   sudden   movement,   he   became
  aware of a great  black bird,  a raven,  perched upon  his left
  shoulder.  Fleetingly,  beneath the  rainbow, a  coyote passed.
  Nayenezgani strung his bow  with lightning  and raised  it, but
  his  brother  placed  his  hand  upon  his  arm and  he lowered
  it.
    When he looked  again to  his left,  the raven  had vanished.
  When   he   returned   his  gaze   forward,  the   rainbow  was
  smaller, fading....
    The  next  day  he  was  weak,  and   he  rested   and  drank
  liquids.  His  thought  processes  seemed  sluggish.   But  the
  vision  was  somehow  very  important.  The  more  he  examined
  it the  more puzzling  it became.  Was it  the raven  that Nay-
  enezgani had been about to shoot,  or was  it himself?  Was the
  bird  protecting  him against  the Warrior  Twins? Or  were the
  brothers trying to protect him from the bird?
    In the light of his recent anthropological studies, it became
  even  more  involved.  Raven  did  figure in  some of  the Peo-
  ple's  stories  -  particularly  around  the  Navajo  Mountain,
  Rainbow  Bridge,  Piute  Canyon  area  -  as  a  demonic force.
  Yet this had not always been  so, though  the time  when things
  were otherwise lay beyond the memory of anyone alive.
    Raven  was   a  principal   deity  among   the  Tlingit-Haida
  people  of  the  Pacific  Northwest, and  these people  spoke a
  language  of  the  Athabascan  group.  The  Navajo   and  their
  relatives,  the  Apache,  also spoke  an Athabascan  tongue and
  were  the  only  people  to  do  so  outside the  Northwest. In
  ancient  times  there had  been a  migration which  had finally
  led  the  People  to the  canyons and  mesas of  Arizona, Utah,
  Colorado,  New  Mexico. In  the days  of their  wanderings they
  had  followed   hunters'  deities,   such  as   Raven,  Mountain
  Lion  and  Wolf,  who  had  accompanied them  on the  long trek
  southward.   But  the   People  had   changed  when   they  had
  settled, attaching  themselves to  a particular  area, learning
  agriculture  from  the Zuni  and the  Pueblo, weaving  from the
  Hopi  and,  later,  sheepherding  from  the Spaniard.  With the

 passing of a way of life, gods of the old days  were eclipsed.
 Raven  -  or  Black-god,  as  he  was  now  known  -  had even
 fought  an  inconclusive  duel  with  Nayenezgani  between San
 Francisco  Peaks  and   Navajo  Mountain.   So  Raven   was  a
 figure  out  of  the very  distant past.  He had  been honored
 when  the  People  had  been  hunters  rather   than  herders,
 farmers, weavers, silversmiths.
   The   Peyoteway,  he   knew,  was   an  even   newer  thing,
 learned from  the Utes.  And it  was new,  in many  ways, also
 for those who were lost,  though it  might touch  upon ancient
 chords.  The  crossed  lines  on the  ground behind  the altar
 were said to be the footprints of Christ.  He chose  to regard
 them  as giant  bird-tracks. He  knew that  he would  never go
 back  to  the  Peyote  hogan, for  this way  was not  his way,
 though it had served to  bring him  an important  message. For
 good or ill, he saw that he was marked to be a hunter.
   He  would finish  school and  he would  learn the  songs his
 uncle  wished  to  teach  him.  He  knew  without  knowing how
 he knew that both of these  things would  be important  in the
 hunting he must one  day do.  He would  venerate the  old ways
 yet learn the new  - the  very old  ways, and  the very  new -
 and in this there was no contradiction, for  a Navajo  was one
 of the  most adaptable  creatures on  Earth. The  nearby Hopis
 danced and prayed for rain.  His people  did not.  They sought
 to live with their environment rather than to control  it. The
 Pueblos, the Zunis,  the Hopis  lived clustered  together like
 bellicanos  in condominiums.  His people  did not.  They lived
 apart from one another and families  took care  of themselves.
 Other  tribes  incorporated  bellicano  words into  their lan-
 guage to  explain new  things; Even  in the  twentieth century
 the  Navajo  language  had  evolved  to  cover   the  changing
 times,  with  over  two  hundred  new words  just to  name the
 various  parts  of  the internal  combustion engine.  They had
 learned  from  the  Anglos,  the  Spaniards, the  Pueblos, the
 Zunis,  the  Hopis.  They  had flowed,  they had  adapted, yet
 had  remained themselves.  Not for  nothing did  they consider
 themselves descendants of Changing Woman.
   Yes. He would learn both the new  and the  old, he  had told
 himself. And Black-god would accompany him on the hunt.
   And this had  come to  pass. Yet  he had  not counted  on so
 much  change on  the part  of the  People in  the time-twisted
 times he had been away. They were still the  People, different
 from all others. But  their rate  of change  and his  had been
 different.

     Now,  looking  across  the  world  from  atop  Mount Taylor,
 he  saw  that  Black-god,  who  had  chosen  him,  had kept  his
 promise,  making  him  into  the mightiest  hunter of  his time.
 But  now  he was  retired and  those days  were past.  It seemed
 too much of an effort for  an individual  to adapt  any further.
 The  People  as  a  whole  were  an  organic  thing and  had had
 much  time  to  adjust,  slowly.  Let  it  be.  His  design  was
 drawn.  Perhaps  it  was  right  to  walk  away  from it  now in
 beauty and die like the legend he had become.
     He  began  the mountaintop  song for  this place.  The stac-
 cato words rolled out across his world.
     As  the  day  wore  on  the  clouds  became   colored  smoke
 below  him.  Something  passed   overhead,  uttering   a  single
 cawing  note.  Later  he  discovered a  black feather  which had
 fallen  nearby.  As he  added it  to his  jish in  the unwounded
 deerskin  pouch,  he  wondered   at  its   ambiguous  character.
 Black,  the  color  of  the  north, the  direction in  which the
 spirits  of  the departed  travel. Black  north, from  which the
 chindi returns, along with other evil things. Black for north,
 for death.  Yet Raven  might cast  a black  feather, send  it to
 him. And what might that imply?
            Whatever... Though he could not read its depths, he
 could see  its surface.  He drew  circles in  the dust  with his
 forefinger, and then he rubbed them out. Yes. He knew.
  But still he sat there, on his island in the sky, and the day
 drifted through  noon. Finally  the call  he had  been expecting
 came.  He  knew  that  it  would  be  Edwin  Tedders  before  he
 heard the voice.
   "Billy,  we  are  getting  very  nervous  here. Have  you gone
 over the data?"
     "Yes."
     "Did you come up with anything?"
     "Yes."
     "Can you trip through now?"
     "No. There's no box anywhere near here."
     "Well, get to one! We've got to know,' and I don't want it
   on the phone."
     "Can't do that," he said.
     "Why not?"
     "If the lady in question numbers among her other virtues
   the ability of knowing what people have on their minds, I
   don't want her getting this from you."
     "Wait a minute. I'll call you back."
     A little later, the second call came through.

   "Okay. This is the tightest fit. Listen, Thrgetman will be a
 skip and a jump away from a box to no one here knows
 where. And it blows immediately after tripping."
    "If she can kill its juice -"
    "Maybe yes, maybe no. We're also calling in human
 psis.
   "There aren't all that many and they aren't all predictable.
 Right?"
    "A few are very good. And some are here already."
    "They find you anything?"
    "Nothing  yet.  Now,  what  do  you  have  in  mind?  Can you
 state  it  in such  a general  fashion that  we'll have  an idea
 without details she can use?"
    "No."

       There was a pause. Then, "Christ! We've got to have
 something, Billy! We might be falling over each other."
    "You won't even know I'm around."
    "You will be in the area?"
    "No detail's, remember? Your own psis might even get it
 from you - then she might get it from them if she misses
 you.
    "If you're going to be in the neighborhood  a psi  might just
 as easily get it from you."
    "I don't think so. Primitive people can sometimes go
 black on a telepath. I've seen it happen  on other  worlds. I've
 gone primitive again."
    "Well, how soon will.you be on the job?"
    Billy regarded the sinking sun.
    "Soon," he said.
    "You can't just state simply what you're going to do?"
    "We're going to stop her."
    "You've become royalty or an editor? Or acquired a
 tapeworm? What's this 'we'? You have to let us know if
 you're bringing other people in on this."
    "I'm not bringing other people in on it."
    "Billy, I don't like this -"
    "Neither do I, but it will be done. You won't be able to
 reach me after this."
    "Well, good-bye.... That's it, then. Good luck."
    "Good-bye."
    He faced the white east, the blue south, the yellow west
 and  the  black  north and  bade them  good-bye; also,  the Holy
 People  of  the  mountain.  Then  he   climbed  back   from  one
 world to the other.

    The Iroquois called you
    the Being without a Face.
    I go to look and see if this is true,
    great Destroyer
    who goes about menacing
    with couched lance and raised hatchet.
    I put my feet down with pollen
    as I walk.
    I place my hands so,
    with pollen.
    I move my head with pollen.
    My feet, my hands,  my body
    are become pollen,
    and my mind, even my voice.
    The trail is beautiful.
    My lands and my dwelling are beautiful.
    Aqaldni,. Dinetah.
    My spirit wanders across you.
    I go to see the Faceless One.
    Impervious to pain may I walk.
    With beauty all about me may I walk.
    It closes in beauty.
    I shall not return.
    Be still.

                                     ANN AXTELL MORRIS AND HER
 archaeologist husband Earl told the story of the  two Francis-
 cans, Fathers  Fintan and  Anselm, who  traveled in  the place
 of the  white reed,  Lu-ka-chu-kai, in  the year  1909. There,
 south  of the  Four Corners,  in the  roadless and  wild moun-
 tains,  they  rested  one afternoon  while their  Navajo guide
 took a walk. Later the guide returned with a  large, decorated
 ceramic  water  jar.  Father  Fintan,  who  knew  something of
 Indian  pottery, recognized  the uniqueness  of the  piece and
 asked where it was from. The guide did not give  the location.
 He  did  say  that  it  came  from  an  abandoned city  of the
 Anasazi, the  Old Ones,  a place  of many  large houses  and a

  high  tower  - a  place where  many such  jars, some  still filled
  with corn, lay  about, as  well as  blankets, sandals,  tools. But
  he  had  simply   borrowed  the   jar  to   show  them   and  must
  replace  it,  for  one  day  the  owners  might return.  But where
  was  this  place?  The  Navajo  shook  his  head.  He  walked  off
  with  the  pot.  After  half  an  hour  he  was  back,  Later  the
  priests  described  the  pot  to  the  Morrises, who  felt it  to be
  from  the  Pueblo  III  period,  a  high  point   in  southwestern
  culture.  And  surely  the   place  would   be  easy   to  locate,
  knowing  that  it  lay  within  half  an  hour's  walk  from  that
  campsite.   They   searched   several   times,   without  success.
  And  Emil W.Haury  spent  half  a  summer  there  in  1927  but
  was not able to  discover the  lost city  of Lukachukai.  There is
  now  a  city  in  Arizona  which  has  taken  that name.  Rugs are
  woven  there.  The  story  of  a  lost  prehistoric city  in those
  mountains  somewhere  to  the  northeast   of  Canyon   de  Chelly
  has since been dismissed as apocryphal.

      -It was the wind that  gave them  life. It  is the  wind that
    comes  out  of  our  mouths  now  that   gives  us   life.  When
    this ceases  to blow  we die.  In the  skin at  the tips  of our
    fingers  we  see  the  trail  of  the  wind;  it shows  us where
    the wind blew when our ancestors were created.

                               Traanslated from the Navajo by
                               Washington Matthews, 1897

                                            THE BOX HUMMED AND THE
  outline occurred, quickly to be filled in  and solidified  as they
  watched.
    A tall, well-dressed black man of middle years smiled,
  stepped down and moved forward.
    "Good to have you here,"  Edwin Tedders  said, shaking
  his hand and turning toward the others. "This is Charles
  Fisher, stage magician, mentalist."
    He indicated a pale woman whose blue eyes  were framed


 by an ultrafine net of wrinkles, her blond hair drawn back
 and bound.
   "This is Elizabeth Brooke, the artist and writer,"  he said.
 "Perhaps you've read -"
   "We've met," Fisher said. "How are you, Elizabeth?"
   She smiled.
   "Fine, for a change. And yourself?"
   Her accent was British,  her ring  was expensive.  She rose,
 crossed to Fisher and embraced him lightly.
   "Good to see you again," she said.
   "We  worked  together  several  years  ago,"  she  told Ted-
 ders. "I'm glad you could get him,"
   "So am  I," Tedders  said. "And  this is  Mercy Spender...."
   Fisher moved to the heavyset woman with puffy features
 and watery eyes, a red spiderweb design beneath the skin of
 her nose. She  wiped her  hand before  clasping his.  Her eyes
 darted.
   "Mercy..."
   "Hello."
   "... And this is Alex Mancin. He works for the World
 Stock Exchange."
         Alex was short and plump, with a boyish face beneath
 graying hair. His eyes were  steady, though,  and there  was a
 look of depth to them.
   "Glad to meet you, Mr. Fisher."
   "Call me Charles."
   "Glad to meet you, Charles."
   "... And this is James MacKenzie Ironbear, a satellite
 engineer," Tedders said, moving on.
   "Jim."
   "Dave."
     James Ironbear was of middle height, solidly built, with
 long black hair, dark eyes  and a  dark complexion.  His hands
 were large and strong-looking.
   "We've worked together, too," he said. "How've you
 been; Charles?"
   "Busy. I'll tell you all about it later."
   "And  this,"  Tedders  gestured  toward  the  large  smiling
 man with narrow pale eyes who  stood beside  the bar,  a drink
 in  one  hand,  "this  is  Walter Sands.  He plays  cards, and
 things like that."
   Fisher raised his eyebrows, then nodded.
   "Mr. Sands..."
   "Mr. Fisher."

   "...  And  so  we  are  gathered,"  Tedders  said. "Everyone
 else has reviewed the chips."
   "I have, too," Fisher said.
   "Well,  everyone  else  has  an opinion.  Do you  think you'll
 be able to detect the approach of the Stragean adept?"
   "I'm not sure," Fisher replied, "when it  comes to  an alien
 with some sort of training."
   "That's what everyone else said. May I offer you a
 drink?"
   "Actually, I'd like some food. I came from a  different time
 zone. Haven't had a chance at dinner yet."
   "Surely."
   Tedders moved to an intercom and pressed a button,
 ordered a tray.
   "They'll serve it on the second floor," he said.  "I suggest
 we all head upstairs and work things  out there.  It may  be a
 bit  more...  removed...  from  any  action that  might occur.
 So if anyone wants to take a drink along, better get  it now."
   "I'll have a gin and tonic," Mercy said, rising.
   "Woudn't you  rather have  a cup  of tea?"  Elizabeth asked
 her. "It's very good."
   "No. I'd rather have a gin and tonic."
   She  moved  off  to  the  bar and  prepared herself  a large
 drink. Elizabeth and Tedders exchanged glances. He
 shrugged.
   "I know what you're thinking," Mercy said, her broad
 back still toward them, "but you're wrong."
   Walter Sands, standing beside her, grinned and then
 turned away.
   Tedders led them  from the  room, and  they followed  him up
 a wide staircase.
   It  was  a  front  room  to which  he conducted  them. There
 was a large table at its center, a small piece of equipment on
 it.  A  half-dozen  comfortable-looking  chairs   were  placed
 around  the  table; there  was a  couch to  the left  and four
 smaller tables near the walls, left and right. Three trip-boxes
 capable  of  accommodating  a  pair  of  people each  had been
 installed along the rear wall. Tedders  halted in  the doorway
 and gestured along a cross-corridor.
      "Charles," he said, "your bedroom is the second door to
 the left up that way."
   He turned back.
   "Make  yourselves  comfortable,  everyone.  This   is  where
 you will  be working.  We should  have two  people in  here at


  all times, listening for the alien while  the others  rest. You
  can  pair off  as you  wish and  make up  your own  duty roster.
  That small unit on the table is an alarm.  Slap the  button and
  irritating buzzers will go off all over the place. If you are in
  your rooms and you hear  it, wake  up fast  and get  over here.
  You can use the trip-boxes to get out if all else fails -
    "Wait  a  minute,"  Alex  Mancin  said.  "All  of this  is of
  course  essential,  but  you've just  raised a  question that's
  been  bothering  me  and  probably  the  others,  too.  Namely,
  how  far  does our  responsibility here  extend? Say  we detect
  the alien and give the alarm. What then? I'm a telepath,  but I
  can  also  transmit  thoughts  to  others -  even nontelepaths.
  Perhaps  I  could  broadcast  confusing  images   and  downbeat
  emotions  to  this  creature.  Maybe  the  others can  do other
  things. I don't know. Are we supposed to try?"
    "A  good  point,"  Walter  Sands said.  "I can  influence the
  fall of dice. I might be able to affect someone's optic nerves.
  In  fact,  I know  I can.  I could  leave a  person temporarily
  blind. Should I try something like that - or  do we  just leave
  the defense to the tough guys once the enemy is in sight?"
    "We  can't  ask  you  to  jeopardize  your   lives,"  Tedders
  replied. "On the other hand, it would  be a  great help  if you
  could manage  something along  those lines.  I'm going  to have
  to leave that part  to your  discretion. But  the more  you can
  do, the better, even if it is only a parting shot."
    "Charles and I  once combined  the force  of our  thinking to
  pass  a  message  under  very trying  circumstances," Elizabeth
  said. "I wonder what  would happen  if all  of us  attempted it
  and directed the results against the alien?"
    "I guess that's for you to work out,"  Tedders said.  "But if
  you're  going  to  try it,  don't just  blast away  at anything
  indiscriminately. We may have outside help."
    "We will learn quickly to recognize the guards if we
  haven't already done so," Sands said.
    "But  you  may  occasionally  pick up  the thoughts  of some-
  one who is not  one of  the guards,"  Tedders stated.  "I don't
  want  you  trying  to  fry  his frontal  lobes just  because he
  seems a little different."
    "What do you mean? Who is  it?" Mercy  inquired. "I
  think you'd better explain."
    "His name is William Blackhorse Singer, and  he's a
  Navajo Indian tracker," Tedders replied. "He's on our
  side."

   "Is that the guy who practically filled that Interstellar zoo
 out in California?" James Ironbear asked.
   "Yes."
   "What, specifically, will he be up to?"
   "I'm not certain. But he says he's going to help."
   They all stared at Tedders.
   "Why don't you know?" Fisher said.
   "He thinks the  alien might  be a  telepath, too.  He doesn't
 want to risk her learning his plans from us.  And he  thinks he
 might be able to block a telepath, at least part of the time."
   "How?" Sands asked.
   "Something  to  do with  thinking in  a primitive  fashion. I
 didn't understand it all."
   "The  Startracker,"  Ironbear  said. "I  read about  him when
 I was a kid."
   "He a relative or something?" Fisher asked, moving
 toward a chair and seating himself.
   Ironbear shook his head.
   "My father was a Sioux from Montana. He's a Navajo
 from Arizona or New Mexico. No way. I wonder how you
 think primitive?"
   A  man  carrying  a  tray  came up  the hall.  Tedders nodded
 toward Fisher as he  brought it  into the  room. It  was deliv-
 ered  and  uncovered.  Fisher began  his meal.  Ironbear seated
 himself  across  from  him.  Elizabeth  drew  out the  chair to
 Fisher's right, Sands  the one  to his  left. Mancin  and Mercy
 Spender seated themselves with Ironbear.
   "Thank you," Mancin said. "We are going to have to
 discuss this now."
   "You will have no  objections if  I record  your discussion?"
 Tedders said. "For later reference."
   Sands smiled  and an  olive left  Fisher's salad  and drifted
 toward his hand.
     "If you have a machine capable of recording our delibera-
 tions I would be very surprised," Mancin said.
   "Oh.  In that  case, I  guess there  is no  reason for  me to
 remain here. When should I check back with you?"
   "In about an hour," Mancin said.
   "And could you send up a large pot of coffee and some
 cups?" Ironbear asked.
   "And some tea," Elizabeth said.
   "I'll do that."
   "Thanks."

  Tedders moved toward the door.
     Mercy Spender looked at her empty glass, began to say
 something  and  changed, her  mind. Elizabeth  sighed. Sands
 chewed  the  olive.  Ironbear cracked  his knuckles.  No one
 spoke.

                               IT IS SAID THAT YOV PAPAGOS
 have songs of power which give you control over all things."
  "So it is said."
  "Is it not true?"
  "We have  no control  over the  minerals beneath  our land."
  "Why is this?"
  "We are not Navajos."
  "I do not understand."
  "The Navajos have a treaty with the government which
 gives them these rights."
  "And you do not?"
  "To have a treaty with the government you must first have
 made war upon it. We never looked ahead to see  its benefits
 and we remained at peace. A treaty beats a song of power."
  "You make it sound like a card game."
  "The Navajos cheat at cards, too."

  "Coyote,  you  learned  the  secret  of  the floating-water
 place. You  kidnapped the  child of  Water Monster  whom you
 found there. As a result of your tampering with these forces
 you have unleashed floods,  disasters, upheavals  of nature.
 These  have  led to  death, disorder  and madness  among the
 People. Why did you do it?"
  "Just for laughs."

   "I understand that Begochidi-woman, Begochidi, Talking-
 god and Black-god created the game animals, and so they
 have control over the hunt?"
  "Yes. They can help a hunter if they wish."
  "But you no longer hunt as much as you used to."


    "This is true."
    "Then they have less work these days."
   "I imagine they find ways to keep busy."
   "But, I mean, are these the full parameters of their
 functions as totemic beings within the context of your
 present tribal structure?"
   "What do you mean?"
   "Is that all they do?"
   "No. They also revenge their people upon anthropologists
 who tell lies about us;"

   In the center of my house of yellow corn I stand, and
    I say this: I am Black-god who speaks to you.
   I come and stand below the north. I say this:
   Down from the top of Darkness Mountain which lies
    before me a crystal doe stands up and comes to me.
   Hooftip to kneetip, body to face, followed by game of
    all kinds, it walks into my hand. When I call to it,
    when I pray for it, it comes to me, followed by
    game of all kinds.
   I am Black-god who speaks to you. I stand below
    the north.
   They come to me out of Darkness Mountain.



                         Mercy Spender,

 born at an illegal distillery in Tennessee,
 orphaned at the age of 5,
 raised by an eccentrically religious aunt on her mother's side
    & her deputy sheriff husband,
    who was taciturn & mustachioed,
    liked bowling & fishing
    & sang in a barbershop quartet.
 along with two older girls
    & a boy who raped her at age 11, Jim,
    now a real estate appraiser,
 lost any desire for further education at age 12,
 sang in the church choir
 & later in a bar called Wixie's,
 had a series of tediously similar love affairs,

  began drinking heavily at age 19,
  discovered the joys of the Spiritualist Church at age 20,
      where her peculiar abilities blossomed
      shortly before her commitment
      to a drying-out sanitorium in South Carolina,
      where she found peace
      in the shelter of the therapeutic community,
      spent the following 12 years singing, playing the organ,
      giving readings &. comfort at the Church
      & drinking & returning to the therapeutic community
      for peace A shelter & drying out,
      & singing & comforting & supporting & reading
      & drying out &,
                             we understand, sister, rest with us,
                             the same under skin, all

                           Alex Mancin,

  born in blew Bedford,
  passed through a number of private schools,
  doing well without trying hard,
  mastering the complicated computer World Economy game
     model by age 11,
  J.D., Yale, M.B.A., Harvard Business School,
  passing through three marriages,
  doing less well without trying any harder,
     by age 36
  father of two sons (twins) A three daughters
     for whom he feels as much affection
     as he has ever felt for anyone,
  aware of everyone's opinion about him
     because of his strange sensitivity to thoughts
     & not really caring a bit,
  passionately devoted to a kennelful of Italian greyhounds,
     like Frederick the Great, whom he 'also admires,
     & far more concerned about canine thought-processes
     than those of people,
  an absolute master of the money market,
  rich as Croesus,

 slow to anger & very slow to forgive,
 greatly concerned about his appearance & dress,
 wondering occasionally whether there is something he is
    missing, seeking - every two or three years (unsatisfac-
       torily) -
    for omitted fulfillments
    in orgies of high cultural immersion
    & passing love affairs
    with very young women,
 highly intelligent & partially numb
                               a piece of everyone,
                               none of us complete, brother,
                               save when together,
                               like this

                   Charles Dickens Fisher,

 born in Toronto of a physician father A sociologist mother,
 became fascinated by illusion at an early age,
 put on magic shows for his sisters, Peg & Beth,
 was a good student though not an outstanding one,
 read the lives of the great illusionists,
    Houdin,   Thurston,   Blackstone,
    Dunninger, Houdini, Henning,
 learned that he could cast illusions himself
 with no other equipment
    than strong thoughts,
 left school 4 became an entertainer
    against his parents' wishes,
 grew famous as an in-person showman
    (his illusions would not televise),
 was later approached by the government
    on the basis of an uncanny mentalist act
    he subsequently tried,
 has since done considerable security work
 both in & out of government,
    never married, always maintaining
 that the life he leads is too demanding
 of his time & energy,

   that he will not change
   & that he will not be unfair
   by subjecting another person
   to confinement in a pigeonhole
   in his schedule,
 is actually afraid to commit himself
   too strongly to another human being
   or to give up the emotions
   of audience attention he feeds upon,
 possesses the compassion of a full empath,
 has a few good friends 4 many acquaintances,
 is aware of his deficiencies
   & mocks himself often,
 tends to grow maudlin around the holidays,
 still dotes on his sisters &, their children,
 has never been fully reconciled with his parents,
 sometimes hates himself for disappointing
                                                but here we are
                                                what we are,
                                                & knowing it all,
                                                there is shelter
                                                & pain drains away

                         Walter Sands,

 left home when he was 14,
    after blinding the stepfather who beat him,
 knowing he had the power k could make his way,
 big for his age,
 won most fights
    (with a little help from the power)
 & most games of chance
    (ditto),
 seldom held a real job,
    save as a kind of cover,
 enlisted in the Perimeter Patrol at age 18 -
    the international Coast Guard-like space service -
 for a 4-year hitch
 because he wanted to see
 what was Out There,

  was well-liked,
  could have become an officer if he'd cared to stay,
  didn't, though,
          because he'd seen what he'd joined to see
  & that was enough,
  grew darkly handsome,
  avoided close emotional involvements
         though he liked people,
         singly &, in groups,
  except once,
  married at 28, divorced at 30,
     one daughter, now 16, Susannah,
     whose picture he carries,
     & that was enough,
  likes spectator sports, travel & historical novels,
  seldom overindulges in anything,
  is totally irreligious,
     but prides himself
     on a personal code involving honor,
     which he has only violated 6 or 7 times
     and always felt bad about
     afterwards,
  is normally trustworthy but seldom trusts,
     having seen the insides
     of too many heads,
  suffers, if anything,
     from a feeling that life is
  & always will be
  too secure & bland a thing for him,
  which is why he enjoys vicarious risks,
  which usually turn into sure things,
  leaving him vaguely dissatisfied
                                               this one may prove
                                               more interesting,
                                               fortunate brother,
                                               if not peace
                                               then adrenalin
                                               to you

                Elizabeth Brooke,

       daughter of Thomas C. Brooke, painter, sculptor,
          & Mary Manning, concert pianist, author,
 younger of two daughters,
 showed artistic & literary aptitudes in early childhood,
 vacationed with her family every summer
   in France, Ireland
   or Luna City,
   schooled in Switzerland & Peking,
 married Arthur Brooke (first cousin)
   at age 24,
 widowed at age 25,
 no children,
 lost herself in social work
   on Earth & off
   for the following 6 years
   where her unfolding talent
   was both her joy &, her grief,
 returned to writing & painting,
   exhibiting extraordinary perceptive powers,
   understanding of the human spirit
   & technical abilities,
   has enjoyed a liaison with a high.-ranking
   MP for the past 6 years,
 has always felt partly responsible for Arthur's death
   because of a series
   of bitter confrontations
   following her discovery of his homosexuality
                                               we hold you, sister,
                                               against the
                                               unchanging past
                                               in warmth
                                               h full understanding

          James MacKenzie Ironbear,

 half Scot, half Oglala Sioux,
 born on reservation land,
 parents separated early,
 raised by his mother in Bloomington, Indiana,
   & Edinburgh, Scotland,
   where she worked for the universities'
   custodial staffs,
 displayed high mechanical aptitudes
   &, telepathic abilities
   before age 5,
 seldom visited relatives on his father's side,
 first-class baseball k soccer player,
 could have gone professional
   but preferred the engineering
   he pursued
   on his athletic scholarship,
 his best frierid an Eskimo boy from Point Barrow,
   they spent their summers together in Alaska
   during their college careers
   as rangers in Gateway to the Arctic
   National Park,
fathered one son, now in his teens
   & living in Anchorage,
 later  served  in  Perimeter Patrol
   where   his    telepathic   ability
   came to the attention
   of government authorities,
 was recruited for occasional. work
   of the sort Charles Fisher
   did for them,
   which is where he met Fisher,
   becoming friends with him,
 has since fulfilled 5 separate
   one-year contracts in space engineering,
   working half of the year in orbit,
 is on leave of absence from his sixth,
   pending divorce from Fisher's sister, Peg,

   who works for the same company
   & resides in the great tube
   of Port O'Neill
   with their daughter Pamela,
 attended his father's funeral this past summer
   & was surprised to find himself deeply saddened
   that he had never known the man,
 had suddenly decided to chuck everything
   & study music,
   an enterprise commenced
   when he sobered up a month later
   & followed diligently
   until this call came in,
 finding himself thinking more & more
   of his shrunken father,
   lying there in a beaded leather jacket,
   & of the son
   he has not seen in years
                                       come close, brother,
                                       where we who
                                       are greater than one
                                       hold greater understanding,
                                       absorb more hurt

                                      IT IS GOOD THAT YOU WISH TO
 walk  in  beauty,  with  beauty  all  around  you,  my son.  But a
 hunter  should  not  speak  prayers  from  the   Blessingway  dur-
 ing the hunt, for they all have the life blessing  at the  end and
 you  require  a  prayer   of  death.   To  Talking-god   must  you
 speak,  and   to  Black-god:   Aya-na-ya-ya!  Eh-eh-eht   Here  is
 the time of  the cutting  of the  throat! Na-eh-ya-ya!  It happens
 in  a  holy  place, the  cutting of  the throat!  Ay-ah, na-ya-ya!
 The  cutting  of the  throat is  happening now  in a  holy place!
 Na-ya-ya! It is the time of the cutting  of the  throat! Ya-eh-ni-
 ya!
 "It is not always life that must be blessed."

                        NIGHT HE STANDS BEFORE THE
 force wall. He watches the rock unfold itself.
  There are clouds in your mind, hunter.
  There are many things in my mind, Cat.
  You have come. Have we a bargain?
  Do as I asked you and I wilä do as you asked me.
  We have a bargain. Release me.
  It will take a minute or so.
  The  form  rose  to  become  a  white  pillar, the  single, faceted
 eye  drifting  upward  along  it.  Billy  Singer  moved to  the area
 where   the   controls  were   housed.  He   opened  the   case  and
 lowered the potential of the field.
  The  base  of   the  pillar   split  and   forelimbs  disassociated
 themselves  from  the  main  mass  higher   up.  A   bulbous  protu-
 berance  grew at  the top,  the eye  coming to  rest at  its center.
 The   forked   segments   became  leglike.   A  tightening   at  the
 middle   was   suddenly   a  narrow   waist.  The   head  elongated,
 growing   vaguely   lupine.   The   shoulders   widened,   the  arms
 and  legs  thickened.  Excess  mass   was  shifted   behind,  becom-
 ing  a  broad tail.  The manlike  thing was  tall, over  two meters,
 and  it   darkened  as   it  moved   forward,  exhibiting   a  grace
 which suggested earlier rehearsal of the form.
  Silent  for  all of  its bulk,  it removed  itself from  the enclo-
 sure and went to stand before the man.
  I suggest you  restore the  force screen.  That way  it could
 be  several  days  before  they  notice  my  absence.  I  have
 accustomed  them  to  such  a  situation  by assuming  the ap-
 pearance of portions of the habitat for days at a time.
  I had already  thought of  that, Billy  replied. But  first I
 wanted to watch you change.
  Fou were impressed?
  Yes. You do  it quickly,  he said  in his  mind, turning  the field
 on again.  Come. I'll  take you  to a  trip-box now.  You will
 have to charge it to my number  without my  card -  which will
 require a confirmation  by me  from the  other end,  since I'll
 have to pass through first and -

   I know how they work. I have had little but the thoughts of
 your fellows to full me for a long while.
   Come, then.
   Billy turned away and moved across the hall.
   You show me  your back.  Do you  not fear  that I  will leap
 upon you and rend you? Or is your action calculated?
   I feel  you wish  to encounter  the Stragean.  Kill me  now and
 the opportunity will be lost to you.
   A  shadow  as  silent  as  himself  -  somewhat   more  manlike
 than  moments  earlier,  and  hence  more  alien  -  came abreast
 of him to the left.  It matched  his pace,  the movements  of his
 arms,  all  of  his  rhythms.  He  could feel  its power  as they
 glided  through  the  hall.  Inhabitants  of the  enclosures they
 passed  shifted  uneasily,  whether  in  sleep  or  full wakeful-
 ness. Billy felt a touch of amusement  in the  alien mind  at his
 sid - and then a broadcast    Farewell!   which    roused   the
 creatures to frantic activity.
   He  led  the  way  outside,  where  he  breathed deeply  of the
 night air. The creature at his  side dropped  to all  fours, then
 moved  away,  sliding  into  and  out  of  shadows   from  unsus-
 pected directions as they advanced.
   From  somewhere  up  ahead,  a  dog  began  to  bark -  a sound
 terminated   in  midnote   to  the   accompaniment  of   a  brief
 thrashing  noise.  Billy  did  not  change  his pace,  knowing by
 senses other than  sight that  Cat was  with him  all the  way to
 the trip-box.
   All right, he said. I'll key the thing. I will go through  to a
 small  public  box  a  few  miles  from  the   place  we will  be
 guarding.  If there  is any  reason at  that end  for you  not to
 come  through,  I  will  use  the  communicator.   Otherwise,  be
 ready to follow me.
   A  piece  of  shadow  came  loose  nearby  and  drifted  toward
 him.  It  was  even  more  manlike  in  proportion  now  and  had
 fabricated what could have  been a  long black  cloak out  of its
 own  substance.  The  massive,  faceted   eye  was   deeply  sub-
 merged  within  its  head  and  masked  by connective  tissues in
 such a fashion as to give the impression of a pair of glittering,
 normally placed eyes.
   On  second  thought,  Billy said  when he  looked at  him, I
 believe you could pass even if there is someone there.
   I  see  the  direction of  your thoughts,  if dimty.  I will
 formulate  something  to  resemble  darkened glasses  and mus-
 ter  something  nearer  to  human  skin-coloration.   Why  are
 your thoughts so clouded?

   I am practicing to deceive our enemy, Billy replied, enter-
 ing the box. I will see you soon.
   Yes. I cannot be lost so easily, tracker.
      He watched Billy manipulate the controls and fade within
 the  enclosure.  Then  he  entered  there   himself.  Extending
 what  had  become  his right  hand, he  covered the  slot where
 Billy had briefly inserted his credit slip.  A portion  of that
 appendage  flowed  into the  opening and  explored there  for a
 time.  When  the  call  came  through,   he  withdrew   it  and
 allowed himself to be transported.
   Strange, a singing in his  mind. Was  there something  in the
 places between the places, to sing so of  frost and  iron, fire
 and darkness? In a moment, it and its memory were gone.

                 Between the worlds walking.
                 Between the worlds walking.
                 Between the worlds walking.
                 Between the worlds walking.
                 There is something
                 before me, behind me,
                 to right and to left,
                 above and below.
                 What, on all sides,
                 is it?

                                    ALEX MANCIN HIT THE BUTTON
 when  he  detected  the  presence,   a  moment   before  Walter
 Sands's  hand  jerked  in  the  same direction.  Buzzing sounds
 filled the house and light flooded the lawns about it.
    Yes
          Mercy Spender joined them a moment later, sit-
          ting up in her bed
    I can feel them
                     Them?
                         joined  Fisher,  putting down  his book
                     There is only one

  A man
            Ironbear joined, from sleep
  moving strangely
  nearby
  Singer
  no doubt
            No man
            joined Elizabeth, chasing dreams of dolphins
            Something else
            thing filled with hate
            flowing
  Together then
                         Sands joined
  let us explore this
                              Yes
                                      together we move
  There is a man
                          fading now
 and something else
 alien thing
            aware of us
                                fading also
 with the man
                the thing is not the thing
                we seek
 it hunts
 with the man
                our common enemy
 retreating now
  it sensed us
                    we know its signature
  Shall we follow?
                              turn off the alarm
                              the  guards come
                              we must report
  I will follow
                    went Mercy, departing
  the beast
  if I can
               and I the man
                                      moved Ironbear away
  though the trail
  I fear
  is  covered  now

                       apart break we then
   we will report
                       Mancin and Sands, dividing

   The  following  day,  within  a  stand  of  trees  about forty
 meters from the road, Billy Singer sat  beside an  icy stream,
 his back against a  large, warm  rock. He  was eating  a roast
 beef sandwich, watching the flight of birds, listening  to the
 wind and observing  the behavior  of a  small squirrel  in the
 lower branches of a tree upstream, to his right.
   Something hunts nearby, the other told him.
   Yes, I know, he answered in thought.
   Something large.
   I know that, too.
   It comes this way.
   Yes. What is it?
   I cannot tell. Come inside. We will observe.
   Billy  rose  silently  to his  feet. The  rock split  down the
 middle vertically  and opened  like an  upended clam.  Even as
 he  watched, the  cavity within  grew large,  outside surfaces
 swelling  proportionately.  He  entered,  and it  closed about
 him.
     Darkness, pierced by a few small holes, forward...
     He placed his eye against one. He was facing the stream.
 For  a  time,  nothing  happened.  Several more  apertures ap-
 peared  before  him,  but  the  section  he  regarded remained
 unchanged.
     Then  he  heard  the  splashing  sounds.  Something   was  ap-
 proaching  from  beyond  the shrub-lined  bend. His  stream of
 consciousness fell still. His was now the  passive eye  of the
 hunter,  discerning everything  before it  without reflection.
 His  breathing  slowed  even  further.  Time ceased  to exist.
 Now...
    First,  a  shadow.  Then,  slowly,   the  branched   head  ap-
 peared  from  beyond  the  bend.  A  deer, browsing  along the
 stream bed...
 Yet...
    It moved again, forward, the rest of its body coming into
 view.  There  was  something  wrong  with  the  way   that  it
 moved and held its head. The legs  did not  bend in  quite the
 proper fashion. And  the shape  of the  head was  unusual. The
 cranium rose too high above the eyes....
 Deerlike...   Yes.   A   good   approximation,   perhaps,  for
 someone  who  had  only  studied tridees  of the  creature. No

 doubt  close  enough  to  deceive any  casual observer.  But to
 Billy  it  could  only  be  deerlike.  He wondered  whether Cat
 realized this, too.
   ... Yes drifted through his mind.
   Immediately,  the  creature  before  them froze,  one less-
 than-delicate  forelimb  raised.  Then  the head  turned, moving
 through unnatural angles to survey everything at hand.
   Moments  later,  the  creature  exploded  into  movement, the
 entire body twisting, elongating, legs  thickening, shortening,
 bunching.
   And then it sprang off, back in the  direction from  which it
 had come.
   Even  as  this  occurred  his  shelter  opened, regurgitating
 him with  some force,  and by  the time  Billy had  regained his
 footing  Cat  was in  the process  of transformation  back into
 the form of the hunting beast.
   Not waiting for the  metamorphosis to  run its  course, Billy
 ran in the direction the creature had taken, splashing into the
 stream and following it beyond the bend.
   His  eyes  scanned  both  banks,  but  he discerned  no signs
 that  it had  departed the  water at  either hand.  He splashed
 onward,  over  gravel,  sand  and  slick rocks,  continuing his
 surveillance.
   For a  long while,  he followed  the twisting,  watery route.
 But  he  heard  no  further  sounds  from  ahead, nor  could he
 detect  any  evidence  of  the  creature's having  departed the
 stream. He halted at  a rocky  shingle to  study it  with extra
 care. As he did, he heard sounds of approach from the rear.
   Farther  ahead!  Farther  ahead! Cat  told him.  I've touched
 her mind. It slips away. But she betrays herself occasionally.
   He turned and raced ahead. Cat bounded past him.
   Something  is  happening. She  is shifting  again. She  is up
 high somewhere now. She - Lost her...
   Billy  continued  his  advance  along  the watery  way. Cat
 hurried  on  ahead  and  was  lost  moments later  beyond the
 screening  brush.  After  perhaps  five minutes,  Billy found
 what he had been seeking.
   There  was  sign  of  something  having  left  the  water. He
 followed  it  up and  to the  right. The  first clear  print he
 located, however, was a peculiar, triple-pronged thing.  But it
 was sufficiently large, and its depth in  soil of  that consis-
 tency  was  indication  of  the sort  of mass  that he  knew he
 followed.  The  spoor  led  him off  toward higher  ground, and

 the  next  clear  print he  came upon  showed a  further altera-
 tion of shape.
   And he came across  the even  fresher signs  of Cat,  still on
 the trail. Cat's tracks were far apart and deeply sunk.
   The  way  remained  clear  and  he  was  able to  increase his
 pace.  Moving  at  a  very  fast  walk,  uphill,  down,  then up
 again, he felt the old tingling sensation as the  quarry's track
 vanished,  to reappear  forty feet  away, lighter,  slightly re-
 shaped,  and  then  to  vanish  again. Pictures  occurred within
 his  mind,  his  natural ability  to form  them enhanced  by his
 alien experiences.  He read  the sign  correctly, and  he looked
 upward  in  time  to  see  a  vast,  dark shape  glide overhead,
 moving  in  a southwesterly  direction. And  even as  he hurried
 to  climb  a  tree,  he knew  that, for  the moment,  the quarry
 had won.
   He achieved a suitable vantage only  in time  to see  the dark
 thing slip out of sight beyond a distant tree-line.
   ... How clever! Cat's thought came to him. I wonder
 whether I could do that?
     At least it was not headed toward the mansion, Billy said.
 We had best return to our post, though.
   You go, Cat replied. I am going to try following her. I will
 meet you there later.
   Very well.
          Before he climbed down he noted through an opening in
 the  leaves  an  area  above  him  that  had been  blackened and
 broken. It  had not  been a  recent thing,  but he  shuddered at
 one of the old superstitions reaching.out for him at  this time.
 Of all the trees present, he had  chosen a  lightning-struck one
 to climb. Thing  of ill-fortune...  He sang  a section  from the
 Blessingway  as  he  descended. The  part of  him which  did not
 fear the lightning  was standing  far away  now, clad  in differ-
 ent garments.
   How  much  had  the  Stragean  learned  of  what  it  was that
 pursued  her?  Cat,  keep  your  presence  of mind,  he thought.
 Do not betray  yourself in  the fury  of the  hunt. Or  are your
 instincts proof even against one such as you follow?
              He reached the ground and turned back. What would
 Nayenezgani have done?
      He did not know.

                                         SUN COME DOWN THE SKY
 from  straight  to  slant  again  drifting  waterwards  gaze  of
 Billy's  mind  with  it  to  flow  time  undoing knots  touch of
 cloud  to  dark the  sky as  hand with  knowledge of  own scoops
 among  sands  at shore  blue gray  white yellow  no red  no real
 black  no  matter  bird  above  hunkered  form  of  man  on tree
 limb singing  leaves shifting  in wind  fish in  water decompos-
 able soda bottle decomposing across the riverrun.
   Without thought, dipping  his hands.  A pinch  of sand  in the
 right  palm,  beneath  the  second   finger.  Hand   turning.  A
 trickle  from  the  index  finger,  thumb  regulating  its  flow.
 Movement.   The  hand   has  not   forgotten.  The   lines.  The
 angles.  Blue  and  white  and  yellow  here.  Naa-tse-elit, the
 Rainbow  yei  taking  form,  guarding  the  south, the  west and
 the  north,  open  to  the  east. Within,  the body  of Thunder,
 Ikne'etso,  a  bat  guardian  above his  head, messenger  of the
 Night,  east,  an  arrow,  ash-tin,  west.  A great  power here.
 One  of  the  unpredictable,  dangerous  gods. Holder  of light-
 ning.  Humming  to  himself,  pieces  of  the   Mountain  Chant,
 finishing, staring, Billy. For a long time, staring.
   Slowly,  the  awareness.  A  peculiar  thing  to   have  done.
 Consciously or automatically. Of  all things  to call  upon, why
 Thunder?  For  that  matter,  why  call  at all?  However things
 fell  out,  he would  be the  loser. Yet  he reached  forward to
 touch ikne'eka'a, the lightning, to  transfer the  medicine and-
 the power, since it was there before him.
   And  now...  A   day  sandpainting   must  be   erased  before
 the sun sets. With a sacred feather staff it is to be erased. He
 recalled  the black  feather in  the tchah  and withdrew  it and
 used it to this end, casting the sand away into the water.

         Sun go down the sky rolling west
         Time undoing knots
         No real color
         Ikne'etso and Naa-tse-elit into the riverrun

         recirculation

                                    SINGING NOW. BILLY BLACK-
 horse  Singer.  At  the  corner of  the estate.  Night. Spring
 constellations filling the heavens. Coyote cries faded.
   They had located her again at evening, circling,  circling at
 a  great  distance,  probing,  carefully  advancing.  They  had
 waited.
   She  had  come,  slowly,  in  many  guises.  Skimming,  bur-
 rowing,  flowing.  They-had  waited.  And  when the  night was
 complete, she came on.
   One  moment Cat  had been  at his  back, dark  stony buttress
 to the wall  itself. Then  a huge  shape had  drifted overhead,
 blotting  stars.  The  buttress  had flowed  upward, coalescing
 into  a nightmare  outline atop  the wall.  Then a  second dark
 shape  rode the  air currents,  sought altitude,  circled, slid
 through the night toward the house.
   He  was  never  certain  at  what  point  the  encounter  oc-
 curred  and  the  struggle  commenced,  whether  it was  in the
 air, on the ground, outside the house or  within. But  he heard
 a series of unearthly  cries at  about the  same time  that the
 lights  came  on  all  over the  grounds. He  remained unmoving
 in his shadowy corner,  listening to  the various  sounds which
 ensued  -  crashes,  buzzes,  the  breaking  of  glass, several
 small  explosions.  These  continued  for  nearly a  minute be-
 fore all of the lights went out.
   And  he  waited.  He  could  think of  nothing for  which he
 might  hope.  He  remembered  things,  and  he  sang  the song
 softly.
   Then  the  silence  came again.  He regarded  the sky  as the
 moment  stretched.  His  words  neither  hurried nor  slowed in
 their passage across the night.
   A  single  loud  crash  occurred,  followed  by  some lesser
 sounds.  Then  again  the  silence.  A  small  light  appeared
 behind a pair of upstairs windows.
   Cat?
            A large form emerged from the front of the house,
 dropped  to  all  fours,  moved slowly  away. Nothing  moved to
 interfere with it. The night remained quiet. Billy followed its

  progress with his eyes. He knew that it was  time for  the song
  to  end.  He  carried  a knife  and a  computer-targeting laser
  sidearm. If this were the Stragean, he felt obliged  to attempt
  her  destruction.  He  drew  the  weapon  and placed  his thumb
  on the set stud.
    This is how you keep your promise, hunter?
    Cat!
       Yes. She fought well bat she is dead. I have broken her.
  Shall  we  see  now  whether  you   can  activate   the  weapon
  before  I  can  reach  you?  Ten  meters separate  us and  I am
  ready to spring. The weapon is faster  than I  am, but  is your
  thumb?  I  will know  the moment  that you  decide to  move it.
  Go ahead. Any time now...
    No.
    Billy tossed the weapon into the shrubbery to his right.
    I did not know which of you it was moving this way.
    He detected a sense of puzzlement, underlined by a touch
  of pain.
    You were injured?
    It is nothing.
    Both remained unmoving.
    Finally, As you said, any time now, Billy stated.
    You offer me no contest.
    No.
    Why not? You are a predator, like me.
    We have a bargain.
    What is that when it is your life? I expected resistance.
    Cat detected something like puzzlement.
    I made you a promise.
    But I took it to  mean that  you would  await my  attack here
  and defend yourself when the time came.
    I  am  sorry.  That  was  not  my  understanding.  But  now I
  have no intention  of giving  you a  token fight. You  require my
  life. Take it.
    Cat  began  a  slow  advance,  his  form dropping  nearer and
  nearer to  the ground.  When he  raised his  head once  more it
  bore  an  enormous,   horned,  fanged,   semihuman  face   -  a
  bestial parody of Billy's  own. Suddenly  then, Cat  reared, to
  raise that head fully eight  feet above  the ground.  He glared
  down.
    Billy shuddered, but he held his place.
    You are taking much of the pleasure from it, hunter.
    Billy shrugged.
    That cannot be helped.

   Cat began to unfurl great membranous wings behind him.
 After a time, he folded them about himself and  became a
 still, dark pillar.
   Finally,  If  you can  make it  over the  wall before  I reach
 you, Cat said, I will let you go.
   Billy did not move.
      No, he said. I know that I could not do it. I will not make
 the attempt just to provide you with sport.
   The pillar  blossomed, an  exotic flower  opening to  reveal a
 tigerlike head. It swayed toward him.
   You  pursued  me  for  over  a  week,  Cat said  at last.  While I
 have  dreamed  of  your  death,  I  have   dreamed,  too,   of  hunt-
 ing  you.  Your  death  alone  should  be  sufficient,  but  I  do not
 want it to be  over with  in an  instant. It  troubles me,  too, that
 I  do  not  know  whether  this  desire  springs  from  that  which I
 know  best  -  the  hunt  -  or  whether  my  long   mental  associa-
 tion  with  your  own  kind  has  taught  me  somewhat  of  the  joys
 of prolonging an enemy's agony.
   Both  are  sufficiently  primitive,  Billy  replied.  I wouldn't
 worry about it.
   I  do not.  But I  desire the  hunt, and  I see  now that  only one
 thing will make you give it to me.
   And what is that?
     Your life. A chance to regain it.
   Billy laughed.
   I  have  already  resigned   myself  to   dying.  Do   you  believe
 yourself  the  only  misfit  alien  on  this  world,  Cat?  My people-
 my  real  people  -  are  also  dead.  All  of  them.  The  world  in
 which  I  now  find  myself  is a  strange place.  The Dineh  are not
 as  I  once  knew  them.   Your  offer   only  brought   my  condition
 into full focus. And I have prepared myself for this.
   Cat drew back.
     Years ago, he said, I saw in your mind a great pride in
 your people's  ability to  adapt. Now  you say  that it  is gone
 from  you.  I  say  this means  that you  have become  a coward,
 seeing death as the easy way out.
   Billy stiffened.
   That is not true!
   Look within yourself. I have but given you an excuse to
 resign.
   No!
   Then fight me, Billy. Pit your skills against me one more
 time.
  I -

    You are afraid now, where you were not before. You are
 afraid to live.
    That is not so.
    Would you say it four times, mari of the People?
    Damn  you,  Cat! I  was ready,  ready for  you! But  you are
 not  satisfied  with  just  my life.  You wish  to fill  me with
 uncertainty before you kill me!
    If that is what it takes, yes. I see now that there would be
 small  pleasure  in slaying  you like  some brainless  piece of
 meat that  waits to  be slaughtered.  My full  revenge requires
 the joy of the hunt. So I  will make  you an  offer, and  I will
 have  you  know  that  my  promise  will be  as good  as yours,
 Billy Singer - for I cannot let you beat me even in that thing.
 Go. Flee. Cover your  trail, tracker.  I will  give you  what I
 judge  to  be  an hour  - and  I am  fairly good  at estimating
 time - and then I will pursue  you. You  tracked me  for nearly
 eight days. Let us call it a week. Keep alive for that  long and
 I will renounce my claim upon your life. We  will go  our ways,
 free of one another.
   And what will be the rules? Billy asked.
  Rules? If you can kill me before I kill you, by all means do
 so.  In  any manner.  Go anywhere  that you  wish by  any means
 that you choose. Anything is fair.  There are  no rules  in the
 hunt. Live out the week and  you will  be rid  of me.  You will
 not make it, though.
    Who can say?
   What is your answer?
   Billy turned, took several quick steps and leaped, catching
 hold of  the top  edge of  the wall.  He drew  himself up  in a
 single, swinging motion.
    Start  counting,  he  said,  as  he  dropped  down  onto the
 other side and broke into a run.
    Cat's laughter followed him for over a minute.

 PART II

 Things that flee and things that pursue
 have their seasons.
 Each of us hunts
 and each of us is hunted.
 We are all of us prey;
 we are all predators.
 Knowing this, the careful hunter
 is wary. The prey, too, learns boldness
 beyond its normal reach.
 And then there is luck,
 and then the gods.
 The hunt is always uncertain.

 We skinned the wolf
 and in the morning
 a human hide hung there.
 At night, it became again
 the pelt of a wolf.

 There is no certainty,
 there is no law
 in the hunt.

 Talking-god be with me.
 Black-god be with me.
 Luck and boldness
 be with me, too.

              The First Day

                                    WITHOUT SLOWING, HE ILLU-
 minated the dial of his watch  and checked  the time.  An hour.
 He  smiled,  because  it  seemed  that  Cat had  overlooked the
 obvious. He could get far in that time, and all was fair....
  He  maintained  the  steady pace  which he  could keep  up for
 most of a day. To give in to fears and sprint  now would  be to
 leave  himself  exhausted  in  the  face of  possibly necessary
 exertions later.
  The  wind  whipped  by  him,  and  deeper patches  of shadows
 took  on  an  ominous  character,  hiding  eyes,  fangs, move-
 ment....
  Dead.  The  Stragean  was  dead,  A being  able to  cause fear
 in the highest circles. Dead. And Cat had  slain her.  Soon Cat
 would  be  bounding   along,  coming   this  same   way.  Cat's
 enormous,  faceted  eye  could,  he  believed,  see   into  the
 infrared, distinguish polarized light. He was still not certain
 as to all of the senses Cat  possessed. He  could see  Cat now,
 like a giant chindi, not even slowing as he followed the trail.
  Beads  of  perspiration  formed  on  Billy's  brow. A  part of
 him  saw  the  beast's  powers   from  a   completely  rational
 standpoint.  He  had  fought  Cat  before  when  Cat  was  much
 more naive.  But Cat  had had  fifty years  in which  to become
 sophisticated  in  the  ways  of this  world. Cat  suddenly be-
 came phantomlike at another  level, no  longer the  -beast that
 had been, but something returning, as from the north....

   He  fought  back  a  renewed  desire  to increase  his pace.
 There was ample time, he  told himself,  a sufficiency  in which
 to  make  good  his  getaway.  And why  should there  be fear?
 Bare  minutes  ago  he  had been  ready to  die. Now  at least
 there was a chance. He  strove to  contain himself  within the
 present instant. The past  was gone.  He had  some say  in the
 making  of  the  future,  but  this  was  contingent  upon his
 behavior now. It was going to  be all  right. Long  before the
 hour had run  out, he  would be  totally safe.  It was  only a
 matter of minutes, really....
   He jogged on, his mind fixed upon his goal. At last  it came
 into sight,  the trip-box  station which  would place  him be-
 yond Cat's reach in the barest twinkling. He saw the lights of
 the small building at the crossroads beyond  the field  he was
 now entering. Something about it, though...
   As he moved  nearer, he  realized that  the front  window of
 the place was  broken. He  slowed his  approach. He  could see
 no one about.
   He halted and looked inside. There  were three  units, lined
 against the far wall. All of them were wrecked. It was as if a
 piece  of   runaway  heavy   equipment  had   passed  through,
 snapping  or  twisting the  gleaming standards,  upsetting the
 control  units.  The  power banks,  he noted,  were untouched.
   Cat...
   That last time Cat had gone  out, ranging  far to  scout the
 area... Cat had foreseen a  possible escape  on his  part with
 flight in this direction, had  acted to  remedy this  means of
 retreat.
   He  looked   about.  The   damage  should   have  registered
 itself at the area control center. But the  hour was  late. No
 telling when a repair crew might be by.
   A map. There would be  a line  map inside  for the  area. He
 moved to the doorway and entered.
   Yes. On the wall to his right. He studied the disposition of
 the red dots representing boxes in the  area, located  his own
 position, looked for the next several.
   Four miles to the nearest one.
      Would Cat know its location? Would Cat have bothered to
 look at this thing on the wall,  realizing it  was a  map? And
 even  if  this  were  the  case,  would Cat  have gone  to the
 trouble  to  wreck  another?  True,  he  might  have  wanted to
 cover all bets....
   But no. Cat's  surprise at  his failure  to flee  had seemed
 genuine.  Cat  had  expected him  to run.  While it  might be

 possible for him to elude the beast and make  it this  far, it
 seemed unlikely that he could reach the  next one  under these
 circumstances.  So  even  if  Cat did  know about  it, chances
 were that the next box remained unmolested.
   Still, a map and the land itself were two  different things.
 He was not exactly certain as to the disposition of  that next
 red  dot.  Even  with the  grace period,  he could  be cutting
 things short.
   He  departed  the  wrecked  station,  took his  bearings and
 recommenced  his  steady stride,  cutting through  a skeleton-
 limbed orchard that rattled about him as  he passed.  A rabbit
 sprang  from  behind  a clump  of grasses  to veer  across his
 path  and vanish  into the  shadows to  the left.  The grasses
 were damp, and soon the  lower portions  of his  trousers were
 soaked  through.  Somewhere  a  dog  began  barking.  He  sud-
 denly felt as  if he  were being  watched, from  no particular
 direction. Again the fleeting shadows writhed images.
   For  a  moment,  he  wondered  what  time  it was,  and then
 the desire to know this  thing fell  away. Abruptly,  he found
 that he  was happy.  A part  of his  mind was  almost cheering
 for Cat, hoping that even now the beast was on his  trail. Let
 it be close. Let it be very close and clean, he felt.  Or else
 what the joy in such  a context?  This was  the most  alive he
 had felt himself in  years. There  was a  new song  inside him
 now, accompanied by his drumbeat footfalls.
   He did  not try  to analyze  the shifting  of his  mood. The
 clutter of circumstance was far  too dense  for introspection,
 even had  he felt  so inclined.  For the  moment, it  was suffi-
 cient to ride with the beat of his flight.
   There were times when he felt certain that Cat was  right at
 his back, and it did not seem to matter. Other times,  he felt
 that  he had  already won,  that he  had far  outdistanced his
 pursuer, that there was no  chance of  his ever  being overta-
 ken.  All of  his senses  now seemed  touched with  an unusual
 acuity - the tiniest night movement was  instantly identified,
 from  the  faintest  rasp, thump  or crackling;  shadowy forms
 grew  far  more  distinct,  and  even  odors  took  on  a  new
 significance. It had all been this way once, yes, long ago....
   It was before everything that the world  had been  this way,
 that he had been this way. Running. Into  the east.  Vision as
 yet unclouded by veils  life was  later to  drop upon  him. He
 had been  eight or  nine years  old before  he had  learned to
 speak English....
      But after all of this, he wondered, what traces really

 remained  of  his shift  from a  near-neolithic to  a high-tech
 society? He had lived more  years under  the latter  than under
 the  former,  if  these things  were to  be measured  solely in
 years.  The  shift had  been made  successfully, and  both ends
 of his personal spectrum were available to him.
   But it  was the  primitive which  ruled as  he ran.  Yes. And
 this part preferred the day to the night. Yet the joy remained.
 It was not that there was an absence of fear. Instead, the fear
 was  contributing something  to that  peculiar species  of ela-
 tion which had risen within him.
   As  he  pounded  along,  he wondered  what the  situation was
 back  at  the  mansion.  What  had  Walford,  Tedders,  the de-
 fenders  and  the  Strageans  made of  that sudden  attack fol-
 lowed by the death of  the adept  - with  no explanation  as to
 what had  occurred? Naturally  they would  suspect his  part in
 it, but  they must  be puzzled  by his  absence. Even  now they
 must  be trying  to reach  him -  though this  time he  was not
 even wearing the paging unit.
   Would  they  ever  learn?  He  wondered  for the  first time
 what Cat might do later - if things were all over and he, Billy
 Singer, had walked  into the  north. Would  Cat retire  to some
 wilderness  area  and  spend  his days  passing as  some garden
 variety  predator?  It  seemed  possible, but  he could  not be
 certain.  He could  not tell  whether Cat's  hatred was.focused
 upon  him  solely  or  whether  he might  hold all  of humanity
 responsible  for  his  captivity.  Images moved  within Billy's
 mind -  crouching in  a cage  day after  day, year  after year,
 being stared at by passing knots of people. If their situations
 had been reversed, he felt that he would hate all mankind.
   A  sense  of  irritation  began  to  grow. Why  shouldn't Cat
 consider him a sacrificial lamb and let it go at that?
   He  shook  his  head. No  real reason  for assuming  that Cat
 would  run  amok  later.  He  had  given  no  such  indication.
 What  was  he  doing  thinking  these  thoughts,  anyway? Look-
 ing  for  trouble? It  was him  that Cat  wanted, not  him plus
 everybody else. And after he had  gotten him,  it would  all be
 over with....
   Sacrificial  lamb...  He thought  again of  the sheep  he had
 herded as  a boy.  Long, slow  days under  skies hot  and cool,
 big  skies... Lying  on a  hillside. Whittling.  Singing. Foot-
 races with other children. His first tumble with that girl from
 over  the  ridge.  What  was  her  name?  And  later  with  her
 sister.  Hard  breasts under  his hands.  The sheep  about them

 unconcerned.  Clouds   like  sheep   on  the   horizon.  Sheep.
 Lamb of God. Dora in the sky with turquoise. Running...
   Cat.  Running.  How  will you  track me,  Cat? Do  you follow
 the  same  signs  I  would?  Or  does  your  alien   eye  trace
 different  marks of  passage? Either  way, there  is no  time to
 mask this trail. Escape  first. Hide  afterwards, Speed  now is
 all.  Speed,  opportunity.  Chance.  How.  near  might  you be,
 anyway? Or are you still waiting for the time to run?
   Turquoise  in  the  sky  with Dora  to the  drumbeat footbeat
 here  below.  On  the  hillside, far  ahead, lights.  Night air
 comes in, goes out again. Stride is  steady. Veer  left, beyond
 the death-shaped  boulder. Up  then. Cat  come. Into  the black
 bag. Full entropy is all. But first.
   Minutes  melting,  one  to  the other.  In the  distance, the
 hum  of  a  super  battery-powered  vehicle  above  the cleared
 trail  which  had  once  been  a  roadway,  lights  raking tree
 trunks.  Heading  for  the  station  perhaps.  Ay-ah!  We live.
 Unless Cat even now...
   Drawing nearer, he  slowed. This  would be  the place  for an
 ambush.  Why  not  check  the  time?  Because  Cat  might  have
 lied to gain this much  of a  chase. Once  through the  box and
 the beast would be baffled. Wouldn't he?
          Walking now, he examined a new proposition. What had
 Cat said about understanding the boxes?
   No. Even if he could black-fare his way, he would not
 know where to go....
   Cat is a telepath.
         But of what sort? He had estimated Cat's ability as a
 hunting/locator  thing, refined,  to be  sure, during  his long
 confinement, but basically quarry-intensive,  at about  a quar-
 ter of a mile.  Still, there  were human  telepaths he  knew of
 who  could  send  and  receive  around  the  world  and through
 outer space.  Yet, again,  such sophisticated  ones he  felt he
 could  block  to  some  extent  by  slipping  back  to  boyhood
 thought patterns.  But Cat,  too, was  primitive. It  might not
 serve to hide him from the beast. In which case.
   The  devil  with  you,  Cat! - on  all  fours   now,  carefully
 clearing  the  way  before  him  of  anything which  might give
 rise to the slightest sound, his jewelry wrapped in  a handker-
 chief and stuffed into  his pocket,  hands moving  deftly, knees
 and  toes  advancing into  the cleared  area in  total silence.
 Find me if you can. Fight me if you-do.
       No response. And nothing between here and there that he

 could conceive of as a transformation  of his  adversary. The
 car  drew  up  before the  building and  hovered. No  one de-
 parted it.
   He was on his feet  and sprinting  across the  final meters
 of the field, through a  fringe of  trees, over  the road-bed
 trail. A glimpse through the station  window: the  units were
 intact.
   Almost laughing, he thrust  the door  open and  crossed the
 threshold.  Empty.  Safe.  Breathe  easily.  He  straightened
 from his  half-crouch, removed  his hand  from the  handle of
 his knife. Closed the door. All right. Five paces to liberty.
   The unit to his far left was humming  in preparation  for a
 transfer. Curious, he watched it. It  was an  odd hour  and a
 fairly  isolated  station;  he wondered  who might  be coming
 through. Shortly, the outline began to form. It was that of a
 woman,  somewhat  stocky,  with  close-cropped   brown  hair.
 She wore a dark suit and carried a recording unit bearing the
 insignia of a major news service in her  left hand.  Her eyes
 fixed upon him as she took on solidity.
   "Hello," she said, studying his garb.
   She stepped out of the unit.
   "Hello."
   "Coming or going?" she said.
   "Just going. I only  waited to  see if  you were  someone I
 knew."
   "You're a real Indian, aren't you? Not just someone
 dressed that way."
   "I am. If you called ahead for a car I just saw one pull up
 out front."
   "I did. That must be it." She  started forward,  then hesi-
 tated. "Do you live in this area?" she asked him.
   "No. Just visiting."
   He moved toward the nearest unit.
   "Just a second," she said. "I've come here  on a  story, or
 what  could  be  a  story. Maybe  you'd know  something about
 it."
   He forced himself to smile as he took another step.
   "I doubt that. Haven't seen anything newsworthy."
   "Well," she persisted, "there have been reports of pecu-
 liar security measures being taken at  the Walford  place for
 some  time  now.  Then  suddenly  -this  evening   there  was
 apparently  a  power  failure   and  some   disturbance.  Now
 they've  gone  completely   incommunicado.  Would   you  know
 anything about this?"

    He shook his head, moved forward and stepped into the
 unit.
              She followed him and took hold of his arm just as he
 inserted his  strip into  the slot,  effectively blocking  his tran-
 sit.
             "Wait. There's more," she said. "Then we learned that
 the  trip-boxes  nearest  to  the  place  had  been   damaged.  Are
 you aware that the next station to the east is out of order?"
    "Could it be a part of that power failure?"
    "No,  no.  They  have  their own  power packs  - the  same as
 Walford's place, for that matter."
    He shrugged, hoping her hand would slip away.
    "I'm  afraid  I  don't know  anything about  it. Listen,  I'm in
 a hurry -"
    "You  haven't  seen  or  heard  of  anything unusual  in this
 area?"
    He noted that her recorder was switched on.
    "No," he said. "I've got to be going now -"
    "It's just a feeling," she said, "but I think you know
 something about this."
    "Lady," he said, "your car is waiting. Go and see for
 yourself  like  a  good  reporter.  I  wouldn't  hang  around here,
 though."
    "Why not?"
    "Maybe something will happen to this one, too."
    "Why should it?"
    "How should I know? But if there's something dangerous
 going on, you want to be in its path?"
    She smiled for the first time.
    "If there's a story in it, yes."
    He pushed coordinates.
    "Good luck."
    "Not yet," she said, still holding his arm. "Have you been
 by that way at all?"
    "Get out of here," he told her, "in the  car, or  by one  of the
 other   booths.   Hurry!   This  place   isn't  safe.   Don't  hang
 around."
    "I'll be  damned if  I'll let  you go  now!" she  said, reaching
 toward a penlike device clipped behind her lapel.
    "Sorry,"  he  said,  and he  jerked his  arm free  and pushed
 her  backward.  "Do  what  I  said!"  he  cried. "Get  out!" and
 the fading began.
    When  he  stepped  from  a  unit  in London's  Victoria Station,
 pocketing  his  strip,  he  had to  restrain himself  from running.

 He drew the  back of  his hand  across his  brow and  it came
 away wet.
   He headed for the nearest exit. The light of a gray morning
 shone through it. He  was arrested  momentarily by  the smell
 of food from a twenty-four-hour diner. Too near,  he decided,
 and he moved on outside.
   He passed a line of sightseeing hover-vehicles,  another of
 taxis, their operators nowhere in  sight. He  continued along
 the way for a time, turned at random  in a  vaguely northward
 direction  and  left  the  sidewalk.  He followed  a footpath
 among  trees  leading  down  what  had   once  been   a  wide
 thoroughfare.  There were  fewer streets  now than  there had
 been a hundred or even fifty years  before, on  the occasions
 of earlier visits he had made. Some  main arteries  were kept
 cropped  for  freighters  and  the  occasional  personal hov-
 ercraft,  some  had  become malls,  some had  simply deterio-
 rated,  most  had  become  inner-city  wilderness  areas,  or
 parks, as he used to call them.
   He  followed  the  twisting  ways for  about half  an hour,
 putting a good distance between himself  and the  station, as
 the day continued to lighten about him.  Muffled by  the trees,
 the sounds of the awakening city grew. He bore to  his right,
 moving into the fringe area.
   Above,  beyond  the  walkway,  he  scanned  the   faces  of
 opened  and  opening  establishments.  Farther  ahead, beyond
 an archway, off a courtyard,  he glimpsed  a cafe's  sign. He
 mounted a stair to the walk and headed in that  direction. He
 was, he judged, somewhere near Piccadilly Circus.
   Right at  the archway,  he froze,  overwhelmed by  a recur-
 rence of the feeling that  he was  being observed.  He looked
 about. There were a number of people on the  walk and  in the
 courtyard, several of them as  distinctively dressed  as him-
 self for different parts of the world, but none of  them seemed
 to  be  paying  him  particular heed,  and none  seemed large
 enough to represent the total mass of his adversary.
 Of course, it could be something behind him in the woods....
  He did not feel like discarding any sort of warning, even a
 premonition. So he began walking again,  passing the  arch- '
 way. In an alcove near the corner ahead, he could see a trip-
 box. Giving in to nervousness might be a sign of  weakness as
 well  as  caution, but  there was  also much  to be  said for
 holding  onto  as  much peace  of mind  as possible  when one
 was running. He quickened his pace.

    As  he  advanced,  he saw  that the  alcove also  contained a
  police callbox. A jerking of its alarm handle should  result in
  the in-tripping of a bobby within seconds,  a setup  similar to
  that in use  almost everywhere  these days.  Not that  he could
  see this as  helping him  very much  if he  suddenly discovered
  Cat  at  his back.  A delaying  action, at  best. And  he would
  probably  be  condemning  the cop  to death  by calling  him. He
  moved a little more rapidly.
    He  saw the  head of  a coyote  - no,  it was  a small  dog -
  appear  around  the  corner  of  the  alcove,  looking  in  his
  direction.  His  sense  of  urgency grew.  He fought  but could
  not resist a desire to look back.
    When he  did, he  felt a  sudden wave  of dizziness.  A large
  man  wearing  a  black  cloak  and  glasses  was  just emerging
  from among the trees. Billy broke into a run.
    He  located  and  withdrew  his  credit  strip  as  he  raced
  ahead.  He  turned  it  to  the  proper position  for immediate
  insertion  into  the  machine's  slot.  A  wave of  fear washed
  over  him,  turning  quickly  to   despair.  He   was  suddenly
  certain that he could not make it in time.  He felt  a powerful
  impulse to halt and wait for his pursuer.
    Instead, he plunged into the box, thrust  the strip  into the
  slot and rapped out a  set of  coordinates. Turning  then, he
  saw  that  the  man  had dropped  to all  fours and  was racing
  toward   him,    changing   shape    as   he    came.   Someone
  screamed.  Overhead,  a  dirigible  was  passing.   The  entire
  tableau  grew  two-dimensional  and  began  to  fade. Good-bye,
  Piccadilly....
    Run, hunter,  he heard  faintly amid  his thoughts.  The next
  time...
    He stood in  a booth  at Victoria  Station, shaking.  But now
  it was reaction rather than  fear. The  fear, the  despair, the
  certainty of doom had vanished at the instant of  transport. It
  was  then  he  realized  that  Cat  must  have  been projecting
  these feelings onto him, a slightly more  sophisticated version
  of his old prey-paralysis trick - a thing he had  several times
  felt in its more blatant form years ago. He was startled at the
  extent to which Cat had developed it since then.
    He keyed a chart  onto the  directory screen  and took  a new
  set  of  coordiaates  from  it. His  pursuer might  have caught
  Victoria Station from his thoughts, and -
    As he faded, he saw something beginning to take shape
  two booths up  from him,  something resembling  a tall,

  cloaked, less-than-human figure still in the process of widen-
  ing its shoulders and lengthening its forelimbs.
     "Damn!"

     Yes!
     Coming through in Madrid... Bright sky through a dirty
  window. A crowd of commuters. No time...
     He  keyed  the  directory,  hit  more  coordinates.  He looked
  about  as  Madrid  began  to  go  away.  No  sign of  an incoming
  torglind  metamorph.  He  began  to  sigh.  Finished  sighing  at
  the  Gare  du  Nord  box-section  in   Paris.  He   summoned  the
  local directory and tripped again.
           Walking. Day brighter yet. From the Tuileries Station.
  Safe now. No way for Cat to have followed this time.
     Passing  up  the  Champs  Elysees.  Crossing from  the fringes
  of the park over  the cyclists'  trail and  onto the  walkway, he
  smelled  the  aromas  of  food  from  the nearest  sidewalk cafe.
  He  passed  several  before  he  settled upon  one with  a vacant
  table,  close  to  a  trip-box,  commanding  good  views  in both
  directions.  He  seated  himself  there   and  ordered   a  large
  breakfast.  When  he  had finished  he lingered,  drinking count-
  less cups  of coffee.  Nothing threatening  appeared and  he felt
  the flickering beginning of a sense of security. After a  time, a
  feeling of lethargy settled upon him.
     Night.  It  was late  morning here,  but it  was night  in the
  place he had left. He had been a long while without sleep.
     He  got  up  and  walked  again.  Should  he  jump  to another
  city to obscure his trail further? Or had  he covered  his tracks
  sufficiently?
     He  compromised  and  tripped  to  the  Left  Bank.  He  walked
  again.  He knew  that his  thinking was  foggy. Filled  first with
  the  necessities of  his flight,  his mind  was now  reduced to
  slow-motion  movement  by  reaction,  by  fatigue.  It  would be
  easy  to  obtain  a  stimulant  to  restore  full  alertness, by
  communication  with  his  medical  computer  and  a  request for
  transmission  of  a  prescription order  to a  local pharmacist.
  But he felt relatively safe now,  and he  would rather  rest and
  restore his natural  energies than  proceed by  artificial means
  at this stage of affairs. His body  might ultimately  prove more
  important than  his mind,  his feelings  aid his  reflexes surer
  guides  than  any  elaborate  plan.  Hadn't  he  already decided
  that  primitive  was  best against  a dangerous  telepath? Sleep
  now, pay later, if need be.
       He located a hotel called the St. Jacques near the Univer-

 sity.  There  were  several trip-boxes  in the  neighborhood and
 one  off  the  lobby.  He  took  a  third-floor  room  there and
 stretched out on the bed, fully dressed.
   For a long while he stared  at the  ceiling, unable  to sleep.
 Images  of  his  recent  flight  came  and went.  Gradually, how-
 ever,  other  images  intruded,  none of  them pieces  of recent
 things.  He  drifted  with  them,  his  breathing  slowing,  and
 finally they bore him off.
 ... Watching Dora before the video console, summoning
 up swarms of equations, fingers moving across the keyboard
 as his mother's had across the loom, introducing new varia-
 bles, weaving the fresh patterns that resulted. He did not
 understand. But it did not matter. Her hair long and blond,
 her eyes very pale. He had met her on his return from a long
 expedition, when the Institute had sent him back to school
 for an update on astrophysical theory and improved naviga-
 tional techniques. She had taught mathematics there....
 The equations turn to sandpaintings and finally to skulls,
 animal as well as human. Dora is smiling. Dimly he remem-
 bers that she is dead. Would she still be alive if she had never
 met him? Probably. But... The screen has become a slot
 machine now, and the skulls keep turning and stopping,
 coming up different colors.... The colors line the walls of
 the canyon through which he walks. Long bands of strata in
 the roughness to right and left. Strewn at his feet are the
 skulls and other bones, some of them gray and gnawed,
 cracked and weathered, others ivory fresh, some of them
 inset with turquoise, coral and jet. There comes a sound at -
 his back, but he  turns and  nothing is  there. It  comes again,
 and he turns again, and again there is  nothing. The  third time
 it comes,  he thinks  that he  detects a  fleeting shadow  as he
 spins around. The fourth time,  it is  there, waiting.  A coyote
 stands laughing beside  a pile  of bones.  "Come," it  says, and
 it  turns  away.  He  follows,  and  it  leads  him   among  the
 shadows.  "Hurry,"  it says,  loping now,  and he  increases his
 pace.  A  long  time  seems  to  pass   as  they   move  through
 hidden  places.  Dark  places.  Places  of  forgetfulness.  Dora
 following.  Firelight  and  dancers.   Sounds  of   rattles  and
 drums.  Nightclub  through  a  whiskey  haze.  The   dusty  sur-
 face  of  Woden  IV;  the  tanklike  beasts  which  dwell there.
 Bones  underfoot,   bones  all   about.  Falling,   falling  ...
 Sounds  at  his  back. His  shadow preceding  him as  he pursues
 the  furry  tail  of  the  Trickster. "Where  are we  going?" he

 calls  out.  "Out and  up, out  and up,"  comes the  reply. His
 shadow  is suddenly  enveloped by  that of  a larger  one, from
 something just at his back. "Hurry! Out! Up! Hurry!"
   Awakening to urgency: day grown dimmer beyond the
 window. And what was that sound on the stair?
   Out and up? Too  strong a  thing to  ignore. He  could almost
 still hear the coyote beyond the window.
   He  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  looked  out. There  was a
 fire  escape.  Had he  noticed it  on checking  in? He  did not
 recall.
   He  raised  the  window  and  stepped  outside.  He  did  not
 question  the  warning.  He  still seemed  to be  moving within
 the  dream.  It  seemed perfectly  reasonable that  he continue
 on  the  course  he  had  been following.  The evening  air was
 cool,  trail  lights  illuminated  the  way  below.  That damp,
 pungent smell on the breeze... The Seine?
   Up!
        He climbed. With some difficulty, he was able to draw
 himself onto the slanting  roof. People  were moving  along the
 Rue  des  Ecoles  trail,  but  no one  looked upward.  He began
 moving to his right, toes in a rain gutter, hands sliding along
 slate.  The  dreamlike  quality  persisted. He  passed chimneys
 and  a  dish  antenna.  He  saw  a corner  ahead. There  came a
 faint,  hollow,  hammering  sound,  as  of someone  pounding on
 a door, below and to his left. He hurried.
   The crashing,  splintering sound  which followed  stirred his
 imagination but  vaguely. There  was a  booth fairly  near now,
 were he on the ground....
   He  moved  as  if  following  a  magic trail,  leading toward
 another fire escape he  now had  sight of.  Even the  sounds of
 pursuit,  as  a  large  body passed  through his  hotel window,
 ringing upon the metal stair,  and then  reared to  scrabble at
 the roof's  edge, seemed  but part  of some  drama of  which he
 was not even an  interested spectator,  let alone  a principal.
 He  continued  to  move  mechanically,  barely  aware  that his
 pursuer was addressing  him -  not with  words, but  with feel-
 ings  which  he  would   normally,  under   the  circumstances,
 have found disquieting.
   He glanced back as he took a turn, in time to see  the large,
 oddly shaped figure in black begin to  draw itself  upward onto
 the  roof.  Even  when  the  guttering  tore loose  beneath its
 weight and the  figure clawed  unsuccessfully to  gain purchase
 on the building, he felt no  surge of  adrenalin. As  its down-

 ward plunge began, he heard it  call: Today  luck is  with you.
 Make the most of it! Tomorrow
   Its  words  and  movements  ceased  when   it  landed   in  a
 clump of shrubbery below.  And it  was only  then that  he felt
 as  if  he were  suddenly awakening,  realizing that  the world
 actually  existed, that  his position  had been  precarious. He
 drew a deep breath of the night's cold air, swung onto the fire
 escape and began his descent.
   When  he  reached  the ground,  the figure  was still  a dark
 mass within  the rue's  trailside growth.  It was  making small
 movements  and  a  wheezing  noise,  but  it  seemed  unable to
 rise and continue the pursuit.
   It  was  only  after he  had hurried  into the  box, summoned
 forth  new  coordinates and  encoded them  that Billy  began to
 wonder.

                            DISK III

             COMPUTER FILES PATENT INFRINGEMENT SUIT

   BRG-118,  recipient  of  the  2128  Nobel Prize  in Medicine,
 this morning filed suit in  the district  court in  Los Angeles
 claiming that J & J Pharmaceuticals

                  SATELLITE THIEF STRIKES AGAIN

   Valuable experimental  components were  removed from
 Berga-12 by a person or persons unknown during a power
 failure now believed to have been induced by

             SOLAR REGATTA TO SAIL THURSDAY

             REPORTER FOUND BRUTALLY SLAIN

   In an out-of-the-way trip-box station in upstate New York,
 reporter Virginia Kalkoff's mangled

   Don't know what I'm gonna do...

                  SPRING STORMS HIT SOUTHWEST

              SERIES-12 ARTIFICIAL HEART RECALLED

   Apologizing for the inconvenience

                                    IN THE DAYS BEFORE NAY-
 enezgani,  Old  Man  Coyote  once  came  upon  the  Traveling
 Rock in his journeying about the land. It  had spoken  to him
 and  he  had  answered.  Amused  that  a  huge pile  of stone
 should possess sentience, he quickly set about mocking it.
   First he painted a grotesque face upon its side.
   "Old Man Stone, you are frowning," he said.
   "I do not like this face you have given me," it replied.
   "And you are bald," Coyote said. "I will fix that."
   He climbed atop the stone and defecated.
   "Brown curly locks suit you well."
   "You annoy me, Cayote," it said.
   "I will be back in a while to build a fire at your base and
 cook my dinner," Coyote said, "as soon as I have hunted."
   "Perhaps I, too, should hunt," it said.
   Coyote  set off  through the  woods. He  had not  gone very
 far  when  he  heard a  rumbling noise  behind him.  When he
 looked  back  he  saw  that the  stone, rolling  slowly, had
 commenced following him.
   "Holy shit!" said Coyote, and he began running.
   As  he  ran  along, he  saw Mountain  Lion resting  in the
 shade.

             "Mountain Lion!" he called out. "Someone is chasing
 me. Can you help me, brother?"
    Mountain Lion rose, stretched and looked back.
    "You've  got  to  be  kidding,"  Mountain  Lion  said  when he
 saw  Traveling  Rock.  "I've  no desire  to be  a flat  cat. Keep
 going."
           Coyote ran on, and later he passed Bear just emerging
 from his den.
    "Hey!  Bear,  old   buddy!"  he   cried.  "I've   got  someone
 after me. Will you help me?"
    "Sure,"  said  Bear.  "There  aren't  many  things  I'm afraid
 of..."

    Then Bear heard the noise of pursuit and looked back and
 saw Traveling Rock.
    "... But that's one of them-," he said. "Sorry."
    "What should I do?" Coyote yelled.
    "Cultivate philosophy and run like hell," said Bear, re-
 turning to his den.
    Coyote ran on, down to the plains, and Traveling Rock
 picked up speed behind him.
    At length, Coyote saw Old Buffalo grazing  amid long
 grasses.
    "Buffalo! Save me! I'm being chased!" Coyote cried.
    Old Buffalo turned his head slowly and regarded the
 oncoming boulder.
    "You  can  have  all  the  moral  support  I've  got," Buffalo
 replied.  "But  I  just remembered  it's time  to move  the herd.
 We've  about  grazed  this area  out. See  you around,  kid. Hey,
 gang! Let's get our tails across the river!"
    Coyote  continued  to run,  gasping now,  and finally  he came
 to the place where the hawks were resting.
    "Help  me,  lovely  fliers,  mighty  hunters!"  he  called. "My
 enemy is gaining on me!"
    "Hide in  this hollow  tree and  leave the  Rock to  us," said
 the chief of the hawks.
    The  Hawk  Chief  gave  a  signal  then  and his  entire tribe
 rose  into  the  air, circled  once and  fell upon  the Traveling
 Rock.  With  their  beaks,  they  prized  away  all of  its loose
 covering, and then they  went.to work  along its  fracture lines,
 opening,  widening,  removing  more  material.  In a  short time,
 the Rock was reduced to a trail of gravel.
    "There,"  said  the  Hawk Chief  to Coyote,  "it is  over. You
 can come out now."

   Coyote emerged from the  tree and  regarded the  remains of
 his enemy. Then he laughed.
   "It was only a game," he said.  "That's all  it was.  I was
 never  in  any  real  danger.  And  you  dumb  birds actually
 thought I was in trouble. That's funny. That's real funny. No
 wonder everyone laughs  at you.  Did you  really think  I was
 afraid of that old rock?"
   Coyote  walked  away  laughing,  and  the  Hawk  Chief gave
 another signal.
   The  hawks  fell upon  the stone  chips, gathered  them and
 began reassembling them, like pieces of a gigantic puzzle.
   When  the Traveling  Rock found  itself together  again, it
 groaned and then, slowly at first, began  rolling, off  in the
 direction Coyote had taken upon his  departure. It  picked up
 speed  as  it moved  and soon  came in  sight of  Coyote once
 more.
   "Oh, no!" Coyote cried when he saw it coming.
   He  began running  once again.  He came  to a  downhill slope
 and  began  its  descent.  Traveling  Rock  picked  up  speed
 behind  him,  narrowed  the  distance  that  separated  them,
 rolled over him and crushed him to death.
   A  circling  hawk  saw  this  take place  and went  back to
 report it to the others.
   "Old  Man Coyote  has done  it again,"  he said.  "He never
 learns."

             The Second Day

                                      NIGHT, WITH MIST BANKS
 drifting down  rocky slopes,  stars toward  the center  of the
 sky,  moonrise  phosphorescence  at  the  edge of  things. The
 floatcar  followed  the  high,  craggy trail,  winding between
 rock  wall  and  downward  slope,  piercing  stone  shoulders,
 turning, dipping and  rising. Sheep  wandered across  the way,
 pausing to browse on spring grasses. There  were no  lights in
 the countryside; there  was no  other traffic.  The windshield
 occasionally  misted  over, to  be cleared  by a  single, auto-
 matic  movement of  its blade.  The only  sound above  the low
 buzz of the engine was the occasional urgent note of a gust of
 wind invading some cranny of the vehicle.
  Billy entered a curve bending to his right,  a steep  rise to
 his  left.  He  felt  more  secure  with every  kilometer that
 passed. Cat  had proved  more formidable  than he  had antici-
 pated when  it came  to using  the trip-boxes  and functioning
 within cities. He was still uncertain as to how the  beast had
 been  able to  determine his  whereabouts with  such accuracy.
 A  gimmicking  of  the  boxes he  could understand,  but know-
 ing  where  to  go  to  find  him...  It  almost   smacked  of
 witchcraft, despite the fact that Cat had had  a long  time in
 which to plan.
  Still, a change of tactics now ought to provide him  with the
 leeway  he  would  need  for  a total  escape. He  had tripped

 back to the Gare du Nord after fleeing the  stunned Cat  on the
 Left Bank.  From there  he had  transported himself  to Dublin,
 a city he had  visited a  number of  times during  Irish excur-
 sions,  consulted  the  directory and  tripped to  Bantry, from
 which  he  had once  spent several  weeks sailing  and fishing.
 There,  in that  pleasant, quiet  corner of  West Cork,  he had
 taken  his  dinner  and  known  the  beginning  of  this  small
 aecurity he felt. He had walked through the  town there  at the
 head of the bay, smelling the salt air  and recalling  a season
 that might have been happier, though he  now saw  it as  one of
 his many  periods of  adjustment to  yet another  changed time;
 He  remembered  the  boat  and  a  girl  named  Lynn   and  the
 seafood; these, and  the fact  that it  was a  small, unhurried
 place,  permitting  him to  slip gradually  into a  new decade.
 Could  something  like  this  be  what  he  really  most needed
 now?  he wondered.  He shook  his head.  His grip  tightened on
 the wheel as he negotiated a twisting descent.
   Time  to think.  He needed  to get  to a  safe place  where he
 could  work  things  out.  Something  was  very  wrong.  He was
 missing  important  things.  Cat  had  come  too  damned close.
 He ought to be able  to shake  him. This  was still  his world,
 for all of the changes. An alien  beast should  not be  able to
 outwit  him  here.  Time.  He  needed  some  time  in  which to
 work on it.
   Vary the pattern, he had decided. If he  had left  some trace
 behind  him  in  the boxes,  some means  by which  his destina-
 tion  choices  might  become  known,  this  move  on  his  part
 should  cancel  that  effect.  He  had  rented  the  vehicle  in
 Bantry  and  begun  the  northward  drive  along  the  trail he
 remembered.  Passing  through   Glengariff,  he   had  continued
 onto  this  way  toward  Kenmare,  moving  through  a  country-
 side  devoid  of  trip-boxes,  For  the  moment, he  felt free.
 There  was  only  the  night  and  the   wind  and   the  rocky
 prospect. He  had been  caught off  balance by  Cat's releasing
 him  the  previous  evening.  He  had  done nothing  but impro-
 vise  since  then.  What  he  had  to  come up  with now  was a
 plan, a general defense to  sustain him  through this  trial. A
 plan...
   A light in the  distance. A  pair of  them now.,  Three... He
 raised a container and took a sip of coffee. His first mistake,
 he  decided,  had  probably  been  in  not tripping  enough. He
 should  have  continued  his  movements  to  really  cloud  the
 trail.  Cat  had  obviously  been  close  enough  to  pick  his
 destination  from  his  mind.  Even  when  he  had  jumped more

 than once, Cat could  have been  coming in  as he  was tripping
 out, and so could have learned the next stop.
    Four...  Kenmare  would  still   be  some   distance  beyond
 the first scattered farms and rural residences. This  night was
 crisp.  He  descended a  long slope.  Abruptly, the  trees were
 larger along the trailside.
    The  next  time he  would really  mix it  up. He  would jump
 back and forth among  so many  places that  the trail  would be
 completely  muddled.  Yes,  that  was   what  he   should  have
 done at first -
    The next time?
           He screamed. The mental presence of Cat suddenly hung
 like the aroma of charred flesh about him.
    "No -" he said, fighting  to regain  control of  the vehicle
 which he had let swerve at his outburst.
    He bounced across a field at a height  of perhaps  two feet,
 heading  toward  a  steepening  rise.  Too  abrupt a  change in
 attitude would overturn the car.
    Pulling  the  wheel  around,  he  succeeded in  veering away
 from  the  slope.  Moments  later,  he  was headed  back toward
 the  trail.  Although he  peered in  every direction  his light
 traveled, he saw no sign of the hunting beast.
    Back on the trail  once more,  he accelerated.  Shadows fled
 past. Tree limbs were stirred by the wind. Bits of fog drifting
 across  his  way  were  momentarily  illuminated  by  the vehi-
 cle's beams. But this was all that he saw.
    "Cat...?" he finally said.
    There was no reply. Was he so on edge that he had
 imagined that single phrase? The strain...
    "Cat?"

    It had seemed so real. He struggled to reconstruct his state
 of mind  at the  time of  its occurrence.  He supposed  that he
 could have triggered it himself; but he did not like  what this
 implied about his mental equipment.
    He-spun through a number of S-shaped curves, his eyes
 continuing their search on both sides of the trail.
    So quickly... His confidence had been destroyed in an
 instant. Would he be seeing Cat behind every rock, every
 bush, from now on?
    Why not?
    "Cat!"

    Yes.
    Where are you? What are you doing?
    Amusing myself. The point of this game must be maxi-

 mum enjoyment, I have decided. It is good that you cooper-
 ate so well for this end.
   How did you find me?
    Nore easily than you might think. As I said, your coopera-
 tion is appreciated.
   I do not understand.
   Of course not. You tend to hide things from yourself.
   What do you mean?
   I know now that I can destroy you at any time, but I wish
 to  prolong the  pleasure. Keep  running. I  will strike  at the
 most appropriate moment.
   This makes no sense at all.
   No.  Because  you  will  not  let  it.  You are  mine, hunter,
 whenever I choose.
   Why?
   He  came onto  a long,  tree-lined curve.  There seemed  to be
 more lights far ahead.
      I will tell you, and it will still not save you. You have
 changed  from  what  you  once  were.  I  see  that  within  you
 which  was  not  there in  the old  days. Do  you know  what you
 realty want?
   To beat you, Billy said. And I will.
   No. Your greatest wish is to die.
   That is not so!
   ,You have  given up  on the  thought of  keeping up  with your
 world.  For  a  long  while you  have waited  and wished  for an
 appropriate way  out of  it. I  have provided  you with  such an
 occasion.  You  think that  you are  running from  me. Actually,
 you are rushing toward me. You make it easy for me, hunter.
   Not true!
   ...And the lovely irony is that you do not admit it.
   You have been in the minds of too many Californians.
 They're full of pop psychology...
   ...  And  your  denial  of it  makes it  that much  easier for
 me.
   You are trying to wear me down mentally. That's all.
   No need for it.
   You're bluffing. If you can strike now, let's see you do it.
   Soon. Soon. Keep running.
   He  had  to  slow  the  vehicle  for  a  series  of  turns. He
 continued to scan both sides of the trail. Cat  must be  near in
 order  to  reach  him,  but of  course he  had the  advantage of
 straight-line travel whereas the trail -
   Exactly.

   Overhead, s  piece of  the night  came loose,  dropping from
 the top  of a  high boulder  which leaned  from the  right. He
 tried to brake and cut to the left simultaneously.
   A  massive,  jaguarlike  form  with  a single,  gleaming eye
 landed on the vehicle's hood forward and to the front.  It was
 visible for but an instant, and then it sprang away.
   The car tipped,  its air  cushion awry,  and it  was already
 turning onto its side before he left the trail. He fought with
 the wheel and the  attitude control,  already knowing  that it
 was  too  late.  There came  a strong  shock accompanied  by a
 crunching noise, and he felt himself thrown forward.

                                   DEADLY, DEADLY, DEADLY...
 Kaleidoscope  turning...  Shifting  pattern   within  unalter-
 able structure... Was  it a  mistake? There  is pain  with the
 power...  Time's  friction  at  the  edges...  Center loosens,
 forms  again  elsewhere...  Unalterable?   But  -   Turn  out-
 ward.  Here  songs  of self  erode the  will till  actions lie
 stillborn  upon  night's  counterpane. But  - Again  the move-
 ment  ...  Will  it  hold  beyond  a   catch  of   moment?  To
 fragment...   Not  kaleidoscope.   No  center.   But  again...
 To  form  it  will.  To  will  it  form.  Structure... Pain...
 Deadly,  deadly...  And  lovely.  Like  a sleek,  small dog...
 A plastic statue... The notes of an organ,  the first  slug of
 gin  on  an  empty  stomach... We  settle again,  farther than
 ever before... Center. The light!... It  is difficult  being a
 god. The pain. The beauty. The terror of selfless -  Act! Yes.
 Center, center, center... Here'! Deadly...
   necess yet again  from   bridge  of   brainbow  oyotecraven
 stare decesis on landaway necessity timeslast the  arnings ent
 and tided turn yet beastfall nor  mindstorms neither  in their
 canceling sarved cut the line that  binds ecessity  towarn and
 findaway  twill  open   pandorapack  wishdearth   amen  amenu-
 ensis  opend the  mand of  min apend  the pain  of durthwursht
 vernichtung desiree tolight and eadly dth cessity sesame
   We are the key.

                                       HE AWOKE. TO STILLNESS AND
 the  damp.  The  right  side  of his  forehead was  throbbing. His
 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, «We
  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
 spinning. This he could understand, after a fashion.
   Among  his  kind  the  mating  battles  were  always  preceded
 by  a  psychic  assault  from the  challenger. This  was somehow
 similar, and he possessed the equipment to join it.
   He could not tell  exactly what  it was  doing inside  his head,
 but he struck at it with all of his hate, with the desire to rend.
 And then it was gone.
   He  fell  across  the  carcass  of the  dog, teeth  still bared,
 slipping  back  into  an  earlier  mode  of  existence.  Where was
 the  other?  When  would  he  strike?  He ranged  with all  of his
 senses about the area, waiting. But there was nothing there.
   After  a  long  while,  the  tension  flowed  away.  Nothing was
 coming.  Whatever  it  had  been,  it  was  not  one  of  his  own
 kind, and it had not been a battle challenge that he had  felt. It
 troubled  him  that  there  was  something  in  the  area  which he
 did  not  understand.  He  turned  toward  the  north   and  began
 walking.

   Mercy  Spender  and  Charles  Fisher,  who  sat  at  either side
 of  him,  reached  to catch  hold of  Walter Sands's  shoulders as
 he slumped forward.
   "Get him up onto the table - quick!" Elizabeth said.

   "He just fainted," Fisher  said. "I  think we  ought to  lower .
 his head."
   "Listen to his chest! I was still with him. I felt his heart
 stop."
   "Oh, my! Somebody give us a hand!"
   They  moved him  onto the  table and  listened for  a heart-
 beat, but there was none. Mercy began hammering on his
 chest.
   "You know what you're doing?" Ironbear asked her.
   "Yes.  I  started  nursing training  once," she  grunted. "I
 remember this part. Somebody send for help."
   Elizabeth crossed to the intercom.
   "I didn't know he had a bad heart," Fisher said.
   "I  don't  think he  did either,"  Mancin replied,  "or we'd
 probably have learned  that when  we gave  each other  a look.
 The  shock  when  the thing  struck back  must have  gotten to
 him. We shouldn't have let Ironbear talk us into going in."
   "Not his fault," Mercy said, still working.
   "And we all agreed," Fisher said. "The time seemed
 perfect,  while  it was  remembering. And  we did  learn some-
 thing..."
   Elizabeth  reached Tedders.  They grew  silent as  they lis-
 tened to her relay the information.
   "Just a moment ago. Just a moment ago," Fisher said,
 "and he was with us."
   "It seems as if he still is," Mancin said.
   "We're  going  to have  to try  to reach  Singer," Elizabeth
 said, crossing the room and taking her seat again.
   "That's going to be hard  - and  what do  we really  have to
 tell him?" Fisher asked.
   "Everything we know," Ironbear said,
   "And who knows what form it would take, that strange
 state  of  mind  he's in?"  Mercy asked.  "We might  be better
 off simply calling for that force Mancin suggested."
   "Maybe  we  should  do  both,"  Elizabeth  said. "But  if we
 don't try helping him ourselves, then Walter's attack  was for
 nothing."
   "I'll  be  with  you,"  Mercy  said,  "when  we   do.  Some-
 body's going to have to  take over  here pretty  soon, though,
 till the medics trip through. I'm getting tired."
   "I'll try," Fisher said. "Let me watch how you do it."
   "I'd better  learn, too,"  Mancin said,  moving nearer.  "I do
 still seem to feel his presence, weakly.  Maybe that's  a good
 sign."

   Sounds  of  hammering  continued  downstairs, from  where a
 shattered wall was being replaced.

   He  crossed  the  water  above   a  small   cascade,  knowing
 things  would be  relatively solid  at its  top. Then  he moved
 along  the  southern  talus  slope, leaving  a clear  trail. He
 entered  Black  Rock  Canyon  and  continued  into it  for per-
 haps half  a mile.  The rain  came down  steadily upon  him and
 the  wind  made  a  singing  sound  high  overhead.  He  saw  a
 cluster  of  rocks  come  loose  from  the  northern  wall  far
 ahead,  sliding  and  bumping  to  the  floor  of  the  canyon,
 splashing into the stream.
   Keeping  watch  on  driftwood  heaps,  he  located   a  stick
 sufficient  for  his  purpose.  He walked  near the  water's edge
 for a time, then headed up onto  a long  rocky shelf  where his
 footprints  soon  vanished.  He  immediately  began   to  back-
 track,  walking in  his own  prints until  he stood  beside the
 water again. He  entered it  then, probing  with the  stick for
 quicksand  pockets,  and  made  his  way  back to  the canyon's
 mouth.
   Emerging,  he  crossed  the  main stream  to its  north bank,
 turned  to  his  right  and  continued  on  along   Canyon  del
 Muerto toward  Standing Cow  Ruin, concealing  his trail  as he
 went,  for  the  next  half-mile.  He found  that he  liked the
 feeling of being alone again in this gigantic gorge. The stream
 was wider  here, deeper.  His mind  went back  to the  story he
 had heard as a boy, of the time of the fear of the  flooding of
 the  world.  Who  was  that  old  singer?  Up  around  Kayenta,
 back  in  the  1920s...  The  old  man   had  been   struck  by
 lightning  and  left  for  dead. But  he had  recovered several
 days  later,  bearing  a  purported  message  from the  gods, a
 message  that  the  world  was  about  to  be flooded.  In that
 normal laws  and taboos  no longer  apply to  a person  who has
 lived  through  a  lightning-stroke, he  was paid  special heed.
 People.  believed  him  and  fled  with  their flocks  to Black
 Mountain. But the  water did  not come,  and the  cornfields of
 those  who  fled  dried  and  died  under  the  summer   sun.  A
 shaman with a vision that did not pay off.
   Billy  chuckled.  What  was  it  the Yellowclouds  had called
 him?" Azaethlin"  -  "medicine  man."  We  aren't  always that
 reliable, he  thought, given  to the  same passions  and misap-
 prehensions as others. Medicine man, heal thyself.
   He started past a "wish pile" of rocks and juniper twigs,

 halted, went back and added  a stone  to it.  Why not?  It was
 there.
   In time, he came to Standing  Cow Ruin,  one of  the largest
 ruins in the canyons. It stood against the north  wall beneath
 a  huge overhang.  The remains  of its  walls covered  an area
 more than  four hundred  feet long,  built partly  around 'im-
 mense boulders. It, too, went back to  the Great  Pueblo days,
 containing three  kivas and  many rooms.  But there  were also
 Navajo  log-and-earth  storage   bins  and   Navajo  paintings
 along  with  those  of the  Anasazi. He  went nearer,  to view
 again the white, yellow  and black  renderings of  people with
 arms  upraised,  the humpbacked  archer, circles,  circles and
 more  circles,  the  animals....  And there,  high up  above a
 ledge  to his  left, was  one of  purely Navajo  creation, and
 most  interesting  to  him.  Mounted,  cloaked,  wearing flat-
 brimmed  hats,  carrying  rifles,  was  a procession  of Span-
 iards, two of them  firing at  an Indian.  It was  believed to
 represent  the  soldiers  of  Lieutenant  Anthony  Narbona who
 fought  the  Navajos  at  Massacre  Cave  in  1805.  And below
 that, at  the base  of the  cliff, were  other horsemen  and a
 mounted  U.S.  cavalryman  of  the 1860s.  As he  watched, they
 seemed to move.
   He  rubbed  his  eyes.  They  really   were  moving.   And  it
 seemed  as if  he had  just heard  gunshots. The  figures were
 three-dimensional, solid now, riding across a  sandy waste....
 "Always  down  on  us,  aren't you?"  he said  to them  and to
 the world at large.
   He  heard curses  in Spanish.  When he  lowered his  eyes to
 the  other  figure,  he  heard  a  trumpet sounding  a cavalry
 charge. The great  rock walls  seemed to  melt away  about him
 and the waters grew silent. He  was staring  now at  a totally
 different landscape -  bleak, barren  and terribly  bright. He
 raised  his eyes  to a  sun which  blazed almost  whitely from
 overhead.  A  part  of  him  stood  aside, wondering  how this
 thing could be. But the rest of him was engaged in the vision.
   He  seemed  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  drum as  he watched
 them ride across that alien desert. It was increasing steadily
 in  tempo.  Then,  when  it  had  reached  an  almost  frantic
 throbbing,  the  sands  erupted  before  the  leading horseman
 and  a  large, translucent,  triangular shape  reared suddenly
 before him,  leaning forward  to enfold  both horse  and rider
 with  slick  membranous  wings.  More  of  them  exploded into
 view  along  the  column, shrugging  sands which  yellowed the
 air,' falling upon the other riders and their mounts, envelop-

 ing  them,  dragging  them  downward  to  settle  as  quivering,
 gleaming,  rocklike  lumps  on  the  barren landscape.  Even the
 cavalryman, now brandishing his  saber, met  a similar  fate, to
 the notes of the trumpet and the drum.
   Of course.
        What other fate might be expected when one encountered
 a  krel.,  let  alone a  whole crowd  of them?  He had  given up
 quickly on any  notion of  bringing one  back to  the Institute.
 Two  close  calls,  and  he  had  decided  that  they  were  too
 damned  dangerous.  That  world  of  Cat's  had  bred  some very
 vicious creatures....
   Cat. Speak of the Devil... There was Cat crossing the
 plain, lithe power personified....
   Again, amid a shower of sand, the krel rose. Cat drew
 back, rearing, forelimbs lengthening, slashing. They came
 together and Cat struggled to draw away....
   With  the  sound  of a  single drumbeat,  the scene  faded. He
 was  staring at  anthropomorphic figures,  horses and  the large
 Standing Cow. He heard the sounds of the water at his back.
   Peculiar, but  he had  known stranger  things over  the years,
 and he had always felt that a kind of power  dwelled in  the old
 places.  Something  about  this   manifestation  of   it  seemed
 heartening,  and so  he took  it as  a good  omen. He  chanted a
 brief  song  of  thanks for  the vision  and turned  to continue
 along  his  way.  The  shadows  had  darkened   perceptibly  and
 the  rock  walls  were  even  higher  now,  and  for  a  time he
 seemed to regard them through a mist of rainbows.
   Going back. A part  of him  still stood  apart, but  it seemed
 even smaller and  farther away  now. Parts  of his  life between
 childhood  and  now had   become  dreamlike,   shimmering,  and
 he  had  not  noticed  it happening.  He began  recalling seldom
 used  names  for  things around  him which  he had  thought long
 forgotten. The  rain increased  in intensity  off to  his right,
 though  his  way  was  still  sheltered  by  the canyon  wall. A
 trick  of  lightning  seemed  to  show  momentarily   a  reddish
 path stretching on before him.
   "A  krel,  a  krel,"  he  chanted  as  he walked,  not knowing
 why. Free a cat to kill a Stragean, find a krel to kill a cat...
 What  then?  He  chuckled.  No  answer  to  the odd  vision. His
 mind  played  games  with  the  rock  shapes  around   him.  The
 Plains  Indians  had  made  mare  of  a  cult  out  of  the Rock
 people  than  his  people  had.  But  now  it  seemed  he  could
 almost  catch  glimpses  of the  presence within the  forms. Who
 was  that  bellicano  philosopher  he  had liked?  Spinoza. Yes.

  Everything alive, all of it connected, inside and out, all over.
  Very Indian.
    "Hah  la tse  kis!" he  called out,  and the  echo came  back to
  him.
    The  zigzag  lightning  danced  above the  high cliff's  edge and
  when  its  afterglow  had  faded  he  realized  that   night  'was
  coming  on.  He  increased  his  pace.  He felt  it would  be good
  to  be  past  Many  Cherry  Canyon  by  the  time   full  darkness
  fell.
    The  ground  dropped  away  abruptly,  and   he  made   his  way
  across  a  bog,  probing  before  him with  his stick.  He cleaned
  his  boots  then  before  continuing.  He  ran  a hand  across the
  surface  of  a  rock,  feeling its  moist smoothnesses  and rough-
  nesses.  Then  he  licked  his  thumb  and  stared again  into the
  shadowy places.
    Moments  came  and  went  like  dark  tides  among   the  stones
  as  he  strode  along,  half-glimpsed images  giving rise  to free
  association, racial and personal.
    It  seemed   to  sail   toward  him   out  of   the  encroaching
  darkness, its prow cutting a V across  his line  of sight.  It was
  Shiprock   in  miniature,   that  outcrop   ahead.  As   he  swung
  along it grew larger and it filled his mind....
    Irresistibly,  he  was  thrown  back.  Again  the  sky  was blue
  glass  above  him.  The  wind  was  sharp  and  cold,   the  rocks
  rough,  the  going  progressively  steeper.   Soon  it   would  be
  time  to  rope  up.  They   were  approaching   the  near-vertical
  heights....
    He  looked  back at  her, climbing  steadily, her  face flushed.
  She  was a  good climber,  had done  it in  many places.  But this
  was something special, a forbidden test....
    He gnashed his teeth and muttered, "Fool!"
          They were climbing tse bi dahi, the rock with wings. The
  white  men  called  it  Shiprock.  It stood  7,178 feet  in height
  and  had  only  been   climbed  once,   some  two   hundred  years
  earlier,  and  many  had  died  attempting  the  ascent. It  was a
  sacred place, and it was now forbidden to climb upon it.
    And  Dora  had  liked  climbing.  True,  she  had  never  sug-
  gested  this,  but  she  had gone  along with  him. Yes,  it had
  been his idea, not hers.
    In  his mind's  eye, he  saw their  diminutive figures  upon its
  face,   reaching,   hauling   themselves  higher,   reaching.  His
  idea.  Tell  him  why.  Tell Hastehogan,  god of  night, why  - so
  that  he  may laugh  and send  a black  wind out  of the  north to
  blow upon you.

       Why?
       He had wanted to show her that he did not fear the
 People's taboo, that  he was  better, wiser,  more sophisticated
 than  the People.  He had  wanted to  show her  that he  was not
 really one of them in spirit, that he was free like her, that he
 was  above  such things,  that he  laughed at  them. It  did not
 occur to him until much later that such a  thing did  not matter
 to her, that he had been dancing  a dance  of fears  for himself
 only, that she had never thought him  inferior, that  his action
 had  been  unnecessary,  unwarranted,   pathetic.  But   he  had
 needed  her.  She was  a new  life in  a new,  frightening time,
 and -
  When  he  heard  her  cry  out  he  turned  as  rapidly  as  he
 could  and  reached out  for her.  Eight inches,  perhaps, sepa-
 rated  their  fingertips.  And  then she  was gone,  falling. He
 saw her hit, several times.
  Half  blinded  with  tears,  he  had  cursed the  mountains and
 cursed  the  gods  and  cursed  himself.  It  was  over.  He had
 nothing now. He was nothing....
  He  cursed  again,  his  eyes  darting  over  the   terrain  to
 where, with a flick of its tail,  he would  have sworn  a coyote
 had  stood  a  moment  ago,  laughing,  before it  vanished into
 the  shadows  beyond  the  rise.  Fragments  of the  chants from
 the old Coyoteway fire ritual came to him:

  I will walk in the places where the black clouds come at
       me.
  I will walk in the places where the rain falls upon me.
  I will walk in the places where the lightning flashes at
       me.
  I will walk in the places where the dark fogs move about
       me.
  I will walk where the rainbows drift and the thunders roll.
  Amid dew and pollen will I walk.
  They are upon my feet. They are upon my legs....

  When  he  reached  the  spot  where  he  thought  he  had  seen
 the  creature,  he  searched  quickly  in  the  dim   light  and
 thought  that  he  detected a  pawprint. Not  important, though.
 It meant something. What, he could not say.

                  He is walking in the water....
                  On the trail beyond the mountains.
                  The medicine is ready.

          ... It is his water,
        a white coyote's water.
        The medicine is ready.

  As  he  passed  Many   Cherry  Canyon   he  was   certain  that
 Cat was on his way. Let it  be. This  thing seemed  destined, if
 not with Cat at his back then in some other fashion. Let  it be.
 Things   were  looking   different  now.   The  world   had  been
 twisted slightly out of focus.
  Dark,  dark.  But his  eyes adjusted  with unusual  clarity. He
 would  pass  the  cave  of  the Blue  Bull. He  would go  on. He
 would  take  his rations  as he  walked. He  would not  rest. He
 would  create  another  false  way  at  Twin Trail  Canyon. After
 that,  he  would  obscure  his  passage  even further.  He would
 go on. He would walk in the water.
  Come after me, Cat. The easy part is almost over.
  Weak flash. The wind and the water swallow the thunder.
 He is laughing and his face is wet.
  The black medicine lifts me in his hand....

              The Third Day

                                         WHEN THE CALL CAME
 through  that  Walter  Sands  was dead,  having failed  to re-
 spond  to  treatment,  Mercy  Spender  said a  prayer, Fisher
 looked  depressed  and  Mancin  looked  out  of  the  window.
 Ironbear poured a cup of coffee, and for a long while  no one
 said anything.
  Finally, "I just want to go home," Fisher said.
  "But we reached Singer," Elizabeth replied.
  "If  you  want  to  call  it that,"  he replied.  "He's gone
 around  the  bend.  He's...  somewhere  else.  His   mind  is
 running everything through a filter of primitive symbolism. I
 can't understand him, and  I'm sure  he can't  understand me.
 He thinks  he's deep  under the  earth, traveling  along some
 ancient path."
  "He  is,"  Ironbear  said. "He  is walking  the way  of the
 shaman."
  Fisher snorted.
  "What do you know about it?"
  "Enough  to  understand  some," he  answered. "I  got inter-
 ested  in Indian  things again  when my  father died.  I even
 remembered some stuff I'd forgotten for a long time.  For all
 of his education and  travels, Singer  doesn't think  in com-
 pletely modern terms. In fact, he doesn't  even think  like a
 modern Indian. He grew up in almost the last  possible period

  and place where  someone could  live in  something close  to a
  neolithic environment. So he's been  to the  stars. A  part of
  him's  always been  back in  those crazy  canyons. And  he was
  a  shaman - a real one - once. He set out several days  ago to
  go back  to that  part of  himself, intentionally,  because he
  thought it might help him. Now it's got hold of him, after all
  those  years  of  repression,  and  it's  coming  back  with a
  vengeance. That's  what I  think. I've  been reading  tapes on
  the  Navajos  ever  since  I  learned  about him,  in all  of my
  spare  moments  here.  They're  a  lot  different  from  other
  Indians, even from their neighbors. But  they do  have certain
  things  in  common  with  the rest  of us  - and  the shaman's
  journey  often  goes  underground   when  things   are  really
  tough."
    " 'Us'?" Mancin said, smiling.
    "Slip of the tongue," he answered.
    "So  you're  saying this  vicious alien  beast is  chasing a
  crazy Indian,"  Mercy stated.  "And we  just learned  that the
  authorities  won't go  into those  canyons after  them because
  the place is too  treacherous in  the weather  they're having.
  Sounds as if there's  nothing we  can do.  Even if  we coordi-
  nate as a group mind, the beast seems able  to strike  back at
  us  pretty hard  - and  Singer can't  understand us.  Maybe we
  should  go  home  and  let  them  work  it  out  between them-
  selves."
    "It  would  be different  if there  were something  we could
  do,"  Fisher  said,  moving  to  stand  beside  Ironbear. "I'm
  beginning to  see how  you feel  about the  guy, but  what the
  hell. If you're dead, lie down."
    "We could attack the beast," Ironbear said softly.
    "Too damned alien," Mancin said. "We don't have the
  key to his mind. He'd just slap us away like he did last time.
  Besides,  this mass-mind  business seems  very risky.  Not too
  much  has  really  been  done with  it, and  who knows  how we
  might mess ourselves up?  In any  kind of  cost-benefit analy-
  sis of it there's little to gain against unknown risks."
    Ironbear rose to his feet and turned toward the door.
    "Fuck  your  cost-benefit analysis,"  he said  as he  left the
  room.
    Fisher started after him, but Elizabeth caught his eye.
    "Let  him go,"  she said.  "He's too  angry. You  don't want
  a fight  with a  friend. There's  nothing you  can say  to him
  now."
    Fisher halted near the door.

   "I couldn't reach him then,  can't reach  him now,"  he said.
 "I  know  he's mad,  but... I  don't know.  I've got  a feeling
 he could do something foolish."
   "Like what?" Mancin asked.
   "I don't know. That's just it. Maybe I'd better..."
   "He'll  brood  for  a  while,"  Mancin  said, and  then come
 back  and  try to  talk us  into something.  Maybe we  ought to
 agree  to try  to reach  Singer and  get him  to head  for some
 safe spot where he can be picked up. That might work."
   "I've got a feeling it won't, but it's the best suggestion so
 far. How'll we know where a good spot is?"
   Mancin thought for a  time, then,  "That friend  of Singer's,
 the  ranger,"  he  said, "Yellowcloud.  He'd know.  Where's the
 printout with his number on it?"
   "Ironbear had it," Elizabeth said.
   "It's not on his chair. Not on the table either."
   "You don't think... ?"
   Ironbear, wait! Elizabeth broadcast. We're going to help!
 Come back!
   But there was no response.
   They headed for the stair.
   He was nowhere on the premises, and they guessed that
 he  had  tripped  out from  one of  the downstairs  boxes. They
 obtained  the  number  from  Information,  but no  one answered
 at Yellowcloud's phce.  It was  not until  half an  hour later,
 while  they  were eating,  that someone  noticed that  a burst-
 gun was missing from the guard room.

                          PETROGAFFITI

           COYOTE STEALS VOICES FROM ALL LIVING THINGS

   Nothing   was   capable   of   movement   following  Coyote's
 theft of sound from the world.  Not until  he was  persuaded to
 call  the Sun  and Moon  to life  by giving  a great  shout and
 restoring noise to the land

         NAYENEZGANI CONTINUES CIVIC IMPROVEMENT PLAN

 At Tse'a haildehe', where a  piece of  rock brought  up from
 the underworld was in the habit of  drawing itself  apart to
 form a pair of cliffs and  closing again  whenever travelers
 passed  between.  Nayenezgani  today  solved the  problem by
 the ingenious use of a piece of elk's horn

           2-RABBIT, 7-WIND. HOME TEAM SUCCESSFUL.

   Quetzalcoatl, arriving this  morning in  Tula, was  heard to
 remark, "Every man has his  own rabbit."  This was  taken as
 a  good  sign by  the local  population, who  responded with
 tortillas, flowers, incense, butterflies and snakes
                                        Commercial  traveler,
                                        passing through

                      KIT CARSON GO HOME

              I KILLED THREE DEER ACROSS THE WAY

                      BET THEY WERE LAME

                SINGERS DO IT IN COLORED SANDS

            FOUR APACHES KILLED A NAVAJO NEAR HERE

                       THAT'S HOW MANY
                           IT TAKES

              SPIDER WOMAN DEMONSTRATES NEW ART

 "I believe I'll call it textiles," she said, when questioned
 concerning

                 SOMEDAY VON DANIKEN WILL SAY
                     THIS IS AN ASTRONAUT


                     (place here eye1.tif)


                       PORT SUMNER SUCKS

           CHANGING WOMAN PUZZLED BY SONS' BEHAVIOR

 "I suppose they get it from their father," she was heard to
 say, when told of the latest

                  BILLY BLACKHORSE SINGER AND
                  HIS CHINDI PASSED THIS WAY
           O-SINGER, O-CHINDI, AT END OF FIRST HALF

                      BLACK-GOD IS WATCHING

           THE YELLOW MEDICINE LIFTS ME IN HIS HAND

                                      WHEN IRONBEAR OCCURRED
 within the trip-box in Yellowcloud's home, the first thing to
 catch and hold his attention was a shotgun in the other man's
 hands, pointed at his midsection from a distance  of approxi-
 mately six feet.

 "Drop that gun you're carrying," Yellowcloud said.
 "Sure. Don't be nervous," Ironbear answered, letting the
 weapon fall. "Why are you pointing that thing at me?"
 "Are you Indian?"
 "Yes "
 "Ha'at'i'i'sh biniinaa yi'ni'ya?"
 Ironbear shook his head.
  "I don't understand you."
  "You're not Navajo."
  "Never  said  I  was. Matter  of fact,  I'm Sioux.  Can't talk
 that either, though. Except maybe a few words."
 "I'll say it in English: Why'd you come here?"
 "I told you on the phone.  I've got  to find  Singer -  or the
 thing that's after him."
 "I think maybe you're what's after him. It's  easy to  get rid
 of bodies around here, especially this time of year."
 Ironbear  felt  his  brow  grow  moist as  he read  the other
 man's thoughts.
 "Hold on," he said. "I want to help the guy.  But it's  a long
 story and I don't know how much time we've got."
 Yellowcloud  motioned  toward  a  chair  with  the  barrel of
 his weapon.
 "Have a seat. Roll up the rug first, though,  and kick  it out
 of the way. I'd hate to mess up a Two Gray Hills."
 As  he  complied,  Ironbear probed  hard, trying  to penetrate
 beyond  the  stream  of  consciousness.  When  he  found  what
 he was seeking, he was not  certain he  could wrap  his tongue
 around the syllables, but he tried.
 "What did you say?" Yellowcloud 'asked, the weapon's
 barrel wavering slightly.
 He repeated it, Yellowcloud's secret name.
 "How'd you know that?" the other asked him.
 "I  read  it in  your mind.  I'm a  paranormal. That's  how I
 got involved in this thing in the first place."
 "Like a medicine man?"
 "I suppose in the old days I would have been one.
 Anyway,  there  was a  group of  us and  we were  tracking the
 thing that's tracking Singer. Now the others want to quit, but
 I won't. That's why I want your help."
 The  rain  continued as  he talked.  When the  callbox buzzed,
 Yellowcloud switched it off. Later he got them coffee.

       Running now, into the bowels of the earth, it seemed.
 Darker  and  darker.  Soon he  must slow  his pace.  The world

 had  almost  completely   faded  about   him,  save   for  the
 sounds - of  wind, water,  his drumming  feet. Slow  now. Yes.
 Now.
   Ahead.  Something  in  that  stand of  trees. Not  moving. A
 light.
   He advanced cautiously.
       It appeared to be - But no. That was impossible. Yet.
 There it was. A trip-box. He was positive that it  was against
 regulations to install one in the canyon.
   He moved nearer. It certainly looked like a  trip-box, there
 among the trees. He advanced and looked inside.
   A strange one, though. No slot for the credit strip.  No way
 to  punch  coordinates.  He  entered   and  studied   it  more
 closely.  Just  an  odd red-and-white-flecked  button. Without
 thinking, he moved his thumb forward and pushed it.
   A  mantle  of  rainbows  swirled  before  his eyes  and was
 gone.  He  looked  inside.  Nothing had  changed. He  had not
 been transported anywhere. Yet -
   A pale  light suffused  the canyon  now, as  if a  full moon
 hung overhead. But there was no moon.
   He looked again at the box, and for the  first time  saw the
 sight  on its  side. SPIRIT  WORLD, it  said. He  shrugged and
 walked  away  from  it.  Save  for  the light,  nothing seemed
 altered.
   After  some  twenty paces,  he turned  and looked  back. The
 box was gone. The stand of  trees stood  silvery to  his rear,
 empty  of  any  unnatural  presence. To  his right,  the water
 gleamed in its rippling progress. The rain which fell  into it
 seemed to  be descending  in slow  motion, more  a full-bodied
 mist  than  a  downpour.  And  the  next  flash  of  lightning
 seemed a stylized inscription on the heavens.
   Plainly  marked  before  him  now  was  the trail  he must
 follow.  He  set  his  foot upon  it and  the wind  chanted a
 staccato song of guidance as he went.
   He  moved  quickly,  approaching  a  bend  in   the  canyon;
 more  slowly  then, as  his slope  steepened and  narrowed. He
 dropped to a wider shelf as his way  curved, hurried  again as
 he followed it.
   As he made the turn, he saw outlined to his right,  ahead, a
 human figure standing on the  opposite bank  of the  stream, at
 the very tip of a raised spit of land which projected out into
 the  water.  It  was a  man, and  he seemed  somehow familiar,
 and  he  had  a  kind  of  light about  him which  Billy found
 disturbing.

   He  slowed  as  he  drew  nearer,  for   the  man   was  staring
 directly  at  him.  For  a  moment,  he  was  not  certain  how to
 address  him,  for  he  could  not  recall  the  circumstances  of
 their  acquaintance,  and  a  meeting  here  struck  him  as pecu-
 liar.  Then  suddenly  he  remembered,  but  by  then   the  other
 had already greeted him.
   He halted and acknowledged the call.
   "You  are  far  from  home,"  he  said then,  "from where  I met
 you just the other day, in the mountains, herding sheep."
   "Yes, I am," the other replied, "for  I died  that same
 evening."
   A chill came across the back of Billy's neck.
   "I did nothing to you," he said. "Why do you return to
 trouble me?"
   "I  have  not  returned  to  trouble  you. In  fact, I  have not
 returned  at  all.  It  is  you who  have found  your way  to this
 place. That makes it different. I will do you no harm."
   "I do not understand."
   "I  told  you  to  follow a  twisted way,"  the old  singer said,
 "and I see that you have. Very twisted. That is good."
   "Not  entirely,"  Billy  told  him.  "My chindi  is still  at my
 back."
   "Your  chindi  turned  right  instead  of  left,  following  the
 false  trail  into Black  Rock Canyon.  You are  still safe  for a
 time."
   "That's something, anyway," Billy said. "Maybe I can do
 it again."
   "Perhaps. But what is it exactly that you are doing?"
   "I am following a trail."
   "And it brought you here. Do you think that we have met
 by accident?"
   "I guess not. Do you know why we met?"
   "I  know  only that  I would  like to  teach you  an old  song of
 power."
   "That's fine. I'll take  all the  help I  can get,"  said Billy,
 glancing back along the way.  "I hope  it's not  a real  long one,
 though."
   "It is not,"  the old  singer told  him. "Listen  carefully now,
 for I can only sing it three times for you. To sing it  four times
 is to make it work."
   "Yes."

   "Very well. Here is the song...."
   The old man began chanting a song of the calling of
      Ikne'etso, which Billy followed, understood and had learned

  by the third time he heard it. When the  singer was  finished he
  thanked  him,  and  then   asked,  "When   should  I   use  this
  song?"
    "You will know," the other answered. "Follow your
  twisted way now."
    Billy  bade  him  good-bye  and  continued along  the northern
  slope.  He considered  looking back,  but this  time he  did not
  do  it.  He  trekked  through  the  sparkling canyon  and images
  of other worlds and of his life in cities rose and  mingled with
  those about him until it seemed as if his entire life  was being
  melted  down and  stirred together  here. But  all of  the asso-
  ciated feelings were  also swirled  together so  that it  was an
  emotional white noise which surrounded him.
    He  passed  a  crowd of  standing stones  and they  all seemed
  to  have  faces,  their  mouths  open,  singing  windsongs. They
  were all stationary, but at the far end  of the  group something
  came forward out of darkness.
    It  was  a  man,  a  very  familiar  man,  who  stood  leaning
  against  the  last  windsinger, smiling.  He was  garbed accord-
  ing to the latest fashion, his hair was  styled, his  hands well
  manicured.
       "Hello, Billy," he said in English, and the voice was his
  own.
    He  saw  then  that  the  man  was himself,  as he  could have
  been had he never come back to this place.
    "That's  right.  I  am  your  shadow," the  other said.  "I am
  the  part  of  yourself you  chose to  neglect, to  thrust aside
  when  you  elected  to return  to the  blanket because  you were
  afraid of being me."
    "Would I have liked being you?"
    The other shrugged.
    "I  think  so.  Time  and  chance,  that's  all. You  and Dora
  would  eventually have  moved to  a city  after you'd  proved to
  your  own  satisfaction  how  free  you'd  become.  You  took  a
  chance  and  failed.  If  you'd  succeeded  you would  have come
  this  route. Time  and chance.  Eight inches  of space.  Such is
  the stuff lives are bent by."
    "You are saying that if  I'd proved  how free  I had  become I
  still wouldn't really have been free?"
    "What's free?" said the other, a  faint green  light beginning
  to play about his head. "To  travel all  good paths,  I suppose.
  And you restricted yourself. I  am a  way that  you did  not go,
  an important way.  I might  have been  a part  of you,  a saving
  part, but you slighted  me in  your pride  that you  knew best."

    He smiled again, and Billy saw that he had grown fangs.
    "I  know  you,"  Billy  said  then.  "You  are  my  chindi, my
  real chindi, aren't you?"
    "And if I  am," the  other said,  "and if  you think  me evil,
  you  see  me  so  for  all  of  the  wrong  reasons.  I  am your
  negative  self.  Not  better,  not  worse, only  unrealized. You
  summoned  me  a  long  time  ago  by  running  from  a  part  of
  yourself. You cannot destroy a negation."
     "Let's find out," Billy said, and he raised the laser snub-
  gun and triggered it.
    The flash of light passed through his  double with  no visible
  effect.
    "That is not the way to deal with me," said the other.
    "Then the hell with you! Why should I deal with you at
  all?"

    "Because I can destroy you."
    "Then what are you waiting for?"
    "I  am  not  quite strong  enough yet.  So keep  running, keep
  regressing into the  primitive and  I will  grow in  strength as
  you  do.  Then,  when  we  meet  again..."  The   other  dropped
  suddenly  to  all  fours  and  took  on  the  semblance  of Cat,
  single  eye glistening,  "... I  will be  your adversary  by any
  name."
    Billy  drew the  tazer and  fired it.  It vanished  within the
  other's  body,  and  the  other  became  his  double  again  and
  rose, lunging at him, the dart and cable  falling to  the ground
  and rewinding automatically.
    Billy  swung  his  left  fist  and it  seemed to  connect with
  something.  His  double  fell  back   upon  the   ground.  Billy
  turned and began running.
    "Yes, flee. Give me strength," it called out after him.
    When  he looked  back, Billy  saw only  a faint  greenish glow
  near  the  place  of  the  windsingers.  He continued  to hurry,
  until it vanished with another  turning of  the way.  The voices
  of the windsingers faded. He slowed again.
    The  canyon  widened  once  more;   the  stream   was  broader
  and  flowed  more  slowly.  He  seemed  to see  distorted faces,
  both human and animal, within the water.
    He  had  felt  himself the  object of  scrutiny for  some time
  now.  But  the  feeling  was  growing  stronger,  and   he  cast
  about,  seeking  its  source  among  fugitive forms  amid shadow
  and water.
    Cat?
    No reply, which could mean anything. But no broadcast

 apprehensions  either -  unless they  came on  only to  be lost
 amid the emotional turbulence.
   Cat? If it is you, let's have it out. Any time now. I'm ready
 whenever you are.
   Then  he  passed  a sharp  projection of  the canyon  wall and
 he knew that it was  not Cat  whose presence  he had  felt. For
 now he beheld the strange  entity which  regarded him,  and its
 appearance meshed with the sensation.
   It  looked  like  a giant  totem pole.  His people  had never
 made  totem  poles.  They  were a  thing of  the people  of the
 Northwest.  Yet  this  one  seemed  somehow appropriate  to the
 moment if incongruous  to the  place. It  towered, and  it bore
 four faces - and  possibly  a  shadowy  fifth,  at  the  very top.
 There  were  the   countenances  of   two  women,   one  heavy-
 featured,  one  lean,  and two  men, one  black and  one white.
 And  above  them  it  seemed  that  a  smiling  masculine  face
 hovered,  smokelike.  All of  their eyes  were fixed  upon him,
 and he knew that he beheld no carving but a thing alive.
   "Billy  Blackhorse  Singer,"  a  neuter-gendered   voice  ad-
 dressed him.
   "I hear you," he replied.
   "You must halt your journey here," it stated.
   "Why?" he asked.
   "Your mission has been accomplished. You have nothing
 to gain by further flight."
   "Who are you?" he said.
   "We  are  your  guardian  spirits.  We  wish to  preserve you
 from your pursuer. Climb the wall  here. Wait  at the  top. You
 will be met there after a time and borne to safety."
   Billy's gaze shifted away from the spirit tower to regard '
 the ground at his feet and the prospect before him.
   "But I still see my trail  out within  this canyon,"  he said
 finally. "I should not depart it here."
   "It is a false trail."
   "No,"  he said.  "This much  I know:  I must  follow it  to its
 end."
   "That way lies death."
   He was silent again for a time. Then, « Still must I follow
 it,"  he  said. "Some  things are  more important  than others.
 Even than death."
   "What  are  these  things?  Why  must  you follow  this trail?"
   He  took several  deep breaths  and continued  to stare  at the
 ground, as if considering it for the first time.
   "I await myself at its ending," he said at last, "as I should

  be. If I do not follow this trail, it will be a different sort of
  death."
    "Worse, I think," he added.
    "We may not be able to help you if you go on."
    "Then that is as it must be," he said. "Thank you for
  trying."
    "We  hear  you," said  the totem  as it  sank slowly  into the
  ground,  face  by face  sliding from  view beneath  stone, until
  only the final, shadowy  one remained  for an  instant, smiling,
  it  seemed,  at  him.  "Gamble,  then,"  it  seemed  to whisper,
  and then it, too, was gone.
        He rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. He went on.

                ...I walk on an invisible arch,
                feet ready to bear me anywhere.

  outcoming  fra  thplatz  fwaters  flwng  awa   thheadtopped  tre
  andriving  now  to  each  where five  now four  apartapart horse
  on the mountain ghoti in  thrivr selves  towar bodystake  like a
  longflwung water its  several bays  to go  and places  of ourown
  heads to  sort sisters  in the  sky old  men beneath  the ground
  while   coyote   trail  ahead   blackbrid  shadow   overall  and
  brotherone  within  the  chalce  of minds  a partapartatrapatrap

    "My God!" Elizabeth said, sinking back into her chair.
    Alex Mancin poured a glass of water and drained it.
    "Yes," said Fisher, massaging his temples.
    Mercy Spender commenced a coughing spell which lasted
  for close to half a minute.
    "Now what?." Fisher said softly.
    Mancin shook his head.
    "I don't know."
    "Ironbear  was  right  about  his  thinking  he's  in  another
  world," Elizabeth said. "We're not going to move him."
    "The  hell  with  that," Fisher  said. "We  tried, and  we got
  through,  even  if  he  did  turn  us into  a totem.  That's not
  what's bothering me, and you know it."
    "He was there," Mercy said, "in the spirit."
    "Somebody  call  the  hospital  and  make  sure Sands  is really
  dead," Fisher said.
    "I   don't  see   how  they   could  be   mistaken,  Charles,"
  Elizabeth  said.  "But  Mercy is  right. He  was with  us, some-
  how, and it seems as if he's still somewhere near."

  "Yes," Mercy put in. "He is here."
  "You don't need the spirit hypothesis for what I think
 happened," Mancin finally stated.
  "What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked.
  "Just  the  memory  of  how  he   died.  We   were  all   of  us
 together, functioning as that single entity  of which  we under-
 stand so little. I think that the trauma of his death  served to
 produce  something  like  a  holograph  of  his mind  within our
 greater  consciousness.  When  we  are  apart  like  this  it is
 weakened,  but we  all bear  fainter versions,  which is  why we
 seem  to  have  this sense  of his  presence. When  we recreated
 the  larger  entity just  now, the  recombination of  the traces
 was sufficient to reproduce  a total  functioning replica  of his
 - mind as it was."
     "You see him as a special kind of memory when we are in
 that state?" Elizabeth asked. "Will it fade eventually, do
 you think?"
 "Who can say?"
 "So what do we do now?" Fisher asked.
       "Check on Singer, I suppose, at regular intervals," Man-
 cin said, -and renew the  invitation to  be picked  up if  he'll
 climb to some recognizable feature."
 "He'll  just  keep  refusing.  You  saw  how  fixed  that mental
 set of his was."
      "Probably - unless something happens to change it. You
 never  know. But  I've been  thinking about  some of  the things
 Ironbear  said.  He's  owed  the  chance, and  we seem  the only
 ones who can give it to him."
 "Okay  by  me.  It  seems  harmless   enough.  Just   don't  ask
 me to go after that alien beast again. Once was enough."
 "I'm not too anxious to touch it myself." '
 "What about Ironbear?"
 "What about him?"
 "Shouldn't we try to get in touch and let him know what
 we're doing?"
    "What for? He's mad. He'll just shut us out. Let him call
 us when he's ready."
 "I'd hate to see him do anything foolish."
 "Like what?"
 "Like go after that thing and find it."
 Mancin nodded.
 "Maybe you're right. I still don't think he'd listen, but -"
 "He  might  listen  to  me," Fisher  said, "but  I'm not  sure I
 can reach him myself at this distance."

    "Why don't we locate the nearest trip-box to that canyon
 and go there?" Elizabeth said. "It will probably  make every-
 thing easier."
   "Aren't Indian reservations dry?" Mercy asked.
   "Let's tell Tedders and get our stuff together.  We'll meet
 back here in fifteen minutes," Fisher said.
   "Walter thinks it's a good idea, too," Mercy said.

         There is danger where I walk,
         in my moccasins, leggings, shirt
         of black obsidian.
         My belt is a black arrowsnake.
         Black snakes coil and rear about my head.
         The zigzag lightning flashes from my feet,
         my knees, my speaking tongue.
         I wear a disk of pollen upon my head.
         The snakes eat it.
         There is danger where I walk.
         I am become something frightful.
         I am  whirlwind and  gray bear.
         The lightning plays  about me.
         There is danger where  I walk.

   "I  dropped him  back here,"  Yellowcloud said,  jabbing at
 the map, and Ironbear nodded, staring down at the  outline of
 the long, sprawled canyons.
   The rain, growing sleetlike, pelted against the floatcar in
 which they sat,  parked near  the canyon's  rim. Reflexively,
 Ironbear  raised the  collar of  his borrowed  jacket. Pretty
 good fit. Lucky we're both the same size, he decided.
   "I  watched for  a time,"  Yellowcloud continued,  "to make
 sure he got down okay. He did, and I saw that he  headed east
 then."  His  finger  moved  along the  map and  halted again.
 "Now,  at  this  point," he  went on,  "he could  have turned
 right into Black Rock Canyon or he could  have kept  on along
 Canyon del Muerto proper. What do you think?"
   "Me? How should I know?"
   "You're  the  witch-man. Can't  you hold  a stick  over the
 map, or something like that, and tell?"
   Ironbear studied the map more closely.
   "Not exactly," he  said. "I  can feel  him out  there, down
 there. But a rock wall's just a rock wall to me,  whether I'm
 seeing  it  through  his  eyes  or  my  own.  However..."  He

 placed his finger on the map and moved it. "I'd guess he
 continued along del Muerto. He wanted lots of  room, and
 Black Rock seems to dead-end too soon."
   "Good,  good.  I  feel  he  went  that  way,  too.  He  chose a
 spot  before  it on  purpose, I'd  say. I'll  bet the  trail gets
 confused   at   the  junction."   Yellowcloud  folded   the  map,
 turned off the interior light and started  the engine.  "Since we
 both agree," he said,  turning the  wheel, "I'll  bet I  can save
 us some time. I'll bet that if we head on up  the rim,  past that
 branch,  and  if we  climb down  into del  Muerto, we'll  pick up
 his trail along one of the walls."
   "It'll be kind of dark."
   "I've got goggles and dark-lights. Full spectrum, too."
   "Can you figure out where he might be from where you
 dropped him and how fast he might be going?"
   "Bet  I  can  make  a  good guess.  But we  don't want  to come
 down right on top of him now."
   "Why not?"
   "If something's  after him,  he's liable  to shoot  at anything
 he sees coming."
   "You've got a point there."
            "So we'll go down around Many Turkey cave, Blue Bull
 Cave  -  right  before  the  canyon widens.  Should be  easier to
 pick  up  the  trail  where  it's narrow.  Then we'll  ignore any
 false signs leading  into Twin  Trail Canyon  and start  on after
 him."
         Winds buffeted the small car as it made its way across a
 nearly  trailless  expanse, turning  regularly to  avoid boulders
 and dips which dropped too abruptly.
   "... Then I guess we just provide him with extra fire-
 power."
   "I'd like to try talking him out of it," Ironbear said.
   Yellowcloud laughed.
   "Sure. You do that," he said.
   Ironbear  scanned  the  other's  thoughts,  saw  his impression
 of the man.
     "Oh, well," he said. "At least I learned to shoot in the P-
 Patrol."
   "You were P-Patrol? I almost joined that."
   "Why didn't you?"
   "Afraid I'd get claustrophobia in one of those beer cans in
 the sky. I like to be able to see a long way off."
   They were silent for a time as they traveled through the

 blackness,  dim  shapes  about  them,  snowflakes  spinning in
 the  headlight  beams, changing  back to  rain, back  to snow-
 flakes again.
   Then,  "That  thing  that's  after  him,"  Yellowcloud said,
 "you say it's as smart as a man?"
   "In its way, yeah. Maybe smarter."
   "Billy may still have an edge, you know. He'll probably
 be mad to see us."
   "That beast has chased him  all over  the world.  It's built
 for killing, and it hates him."
               "Even Kit Carson was afraid to go into these canyons
 after the Navajo. Had to starve us out in the dead of winter."
   "Why was he scared?"
   "The   place   was   made   for   ambushes.  Anyone   who  knows
 his  way  around  down  there  could  hold  off a  superior force,
 maybe slaughter it."
   "This beast can read thoughts."
   "So  it  reads  that there's  someone up  ahead waiting  to kill
 it. Doesn't  have to  be a  mind reader  to know  that. And  if it
 keeps following that's what could happen."
   "It can change shape."
   "It's still got to move in order to make progress. That
 makes it a target. Billy's  armed now.  It won't  have it  as easy
 as you seem to think."
   "Then why'd you decide to come?"
   "I  don't  like  to  see  any  outsider  chasing  Navis  on  our
 land.  And  I  couldn't let  a Sioux  have the  first shot  at the
 thing."

   Without  Yellowcloud,  I  wouldn't  be  worth  much   out  here,
 Ironbear  told  himself.  Even  the little  kids around  here must
 know  more  than  I  do  about  getting  around  in  this terrain,
 tracking,  hunting,  survival. I'm  a damn  fool for  butting into
 this at all, physically.  The only  things I  know about  being an
 Indian  come  from  Alaska,  and  that  was a  long time  ago. So
 why  am  I  here?  I  keep   saying  I   like  Singer,   but  why?
 Because  he  was  some  kind  of  a  hero?  I  don't  really think
 that's  it. I  think it's  because he's  an old-style  Indian, and
 because  my  father might  have been  that way.  At least  I think
 of him that way. Could  I be  trying to  pay off  a debt  of guilt
 here?  It's  possible,  I  guess.  And  all  of  my  music  had an
 Indian beat to it....
   The  car  slowed, worked  its way  into the  shelter of  a stone
 outcrop,  came to  a halt.  The snow  had turned  back to  rain, a
 slow, cold drizzle here.

   "Are we there?" he asked.
   "Almost,"  Yellowcloud  replied.  "There's  an   easy  way
 down near here. Well, relatively  easy. Let  me get  us some
 lights and I'll show you."
    Outside,  they  donned  small  packs  and slung  their weap-
 ons. Yellowcloud shined his light toward the canyon.
   "Follow me," he said. "There was  a slide  here a  few years
 ago. Made a sort of trail. We'll be  more sheltered  once we
 reach the bottom."
   Ironbear fell in behind him and they made  their way  to the
 rim of the canyon. Its  floor was  invisible, and  the rocks
 immediately before him looked jagged  and slippery.  He said
 nothing,  and  shortly they  began the  descent, Yellowcloud
 playing his light before them.
   As they climbed, the force of  the rainfall  lessened, until
 about halfway down they entered the  full rainshadow  of the
 wall and it ceased entirely.  The rocks  were drier  and the
 pace of their descent increased. He listened to the wind and
 the noises of the rain.
   Moving  from  rock  to  rock,  he  came,  after  a  time, to
 wonder whether there was indeed a bottom.  It began  to seem
 as if they had been descending forever and that the  rest of
 time would be a simple repetition of the grasping and lower-
 ing.  Then  he heard  Yellowcloud call  out, "Here  we are!"
 and  shortly  thereafter  he found  himself standing  on the
 canyon's floor, stony  shapes distorted  and flowing  in the
 blacklight.
   "Just stay  put for  a minute,"  Yellowcloud said.  "I don't
 want any trails messed up." Then, "Can you use that trick of
 yours to tell whether there's anyone nearby?" he asked.
   "There  doesn't  seem  to  be," Ironbear  replied a  few mo-
 ments later.
   "Okay. I'm going to  use a  normal light  for a  while here.
 Make yourself comfortable while I see what I can turn up."
 Several  minutes  passed  while  Ironbear   watched  Yellow-
 cloud's slowly  moving light  as the  other man  studied the
 ground, ranging farther and farther ahead, passing from left
 to  right  and  back again.  Finally Yellowcloud  halted. His
 figure straightened. He gestured for Ironbear to come along,
 and then he began walking.
     "Got something?" Ironbear asked, coming up beside
 him.
   "He's been this way," he answered. "See?"
 Ironbear nodded as he regarded the ground. He saw

 nothing,  but  he  read  the  recognition  of signs  within the
 other's mind.
   "How long ago was he by here?"
   "I  can't  say for  sure. Doesn't  really matter,  though. Come
 on."
   They  hiked  for  nearly  a  quarter-hour- in  silence before
 Ironbear thought to inquire, "Have  you seen  any signs  of his
 pursuer?"
   "None. A few dog  tracks here  and there  are the  only other
 things. It couldn't be that size, from what you told me."
   "No. It's got a lot more mass."
   Yellowcloud  ignored  the  false  signs  at  Twin  Trail Canyon
 and continued along the northeasterly route of the main gap.
   There  was  a hypnotic  quality to  the steady  trudging, the
 unrolling trail of rock, puddle, mud, shrub.  The cold  was not
 as bad as it might have been with the wind softened as  it was,
 but  the  numbness  Ironbear began  to feel  was more  a mental
 thing.  The  waters  splashed  and   gurgled  past.   His  arms
 swung and his feet strode in a near mechanical fashion.
   ... Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...
   The wind seemed to be talking to him, seemed to have
 been talking to him for  a long  while, lulling  words, restful
 within the routine of the movements.
   ... Lull, lull, lull, lull. Yes, rest, yes, rest, yest, yest,
 yest...
   It was more than the wind and the rhythm, he suddenly
 knew. There was someone -
   Yes. Yes.
   Power. Blackness. Death. It walked at his back. The
 thing. The beast. It was coming.
   Yes. Yes.
   And there  was nothing  he could  do about  it. He  could not
 even slow his pace, let alone deviate from  his course.  It had
 him  completely  in  its  power,  and  so  deftly had  it taken
 control of him that he had not even felt the insinuation of its
 presence. Until now, when it was far too late.
   Yes. Yes, son of cities.  You seem  different from  this other
 one,  and  both  of  you  block  my way.  Keep walking.  I will
 catch up with you soon. It will not matter then.
   Ironbear tried again to turn aside,  but his  muscles refused
 to  obey  him.  He  was  about to  probe Yellowcloud's  mind to
 see  whether  the  other  man  had  yet  become  aware  of  his
 condition.  He  held  back,  however.  The  creature  somewhere

  to the rear was exerting a form of telepathic control  over his
  nervous  system.  He  could  not  tell  whether  it   was  also
  reading  his  thoughts.  Perhaps.  Perhaps  not.  He  wanted to
  keep his own telepathic ability away from  its awareness  if he
  possibly could. Why, he was not certain. But he felt -
    He  heard  a  sound to  the rear.  A dislodged  stone turning
  over, it seemed. He knew that  if he  did not  break free  in a
  few  moments  nothing  that  he felt  would matter  anymore. It
  would  all  be  over  for  him.  Everything.  The  beast Singer
  called Cat was almost upon him.
    His  feet continued  their slow,  steady movements.  He tried
  to visualize Cat, but he  could not.  A malevolent  shadow with
  sinuous  movements...  a  large  eye  drifting  like  a moon...
  The  images  came  and  departed.  None  seemed   adequate  for
  the approaching beast - powerful, fearless...
    Fearless?
     An image leaped to mind, a question keeping it company:
  How  strong  a  mental  impression  could  he  project?  Fisher
  could  create  solid-seeming  illusions with  ease. Could  he .
  manage  with  a fraction  of that  verisimilitude if  he backed
  it  with  everything  he  had? Perhaps  just enough  to discon-
  cert?
    There was no  real pause,  though, between  the idea  and the
  effort.  The  speculation  ran  simultaneous with  the attempt,
  habit of the reflective part of himself.
    The  sandy  stretch  across  which he  had just  passed... He
  projected the image of its eruption, with the  shining triangu-
  lar  form  bursting  upward, lunging  forward, reaching  to em-
  brace his pursuer....
    Krel! Krel! he sent, concentrating to achieve perfection in .
  its display.
    He  halted,  feeling  the  panic  waves  from   behind  him,
  aware  of  controlling  his  own  movements once  more, aware,
  too, that Yellowcloud had halted.
    Krel!  But  even  as  he  reinforced  the  image  with  every
  feeling  of  menace  and  terror  with  which he  found himself
  freshly familiar, even as he unslung  the burst-gun  and fitted
  his  hand to  its grip,  he realized  that while  his movements
  were  now  his  own  he  was  afraid  to execute  the necessary
  turn to face the thing which stood behind him.
      The report of Yellowcloud's weapon shattered his paraly-
  sis. He spun about, the burst-gun at ready.
    Cat,  in  the light  of Yellowcloud's  beam, was  dropping to

 the  ground  from  an erect  posture, and  that awful  eye seemed
 fixed upon his own, burning; boring.
   He   triggered  his   weapon,  moving   it,  and dirt  and  gravel
 blew  backward  from  a  line traced  on the  ground in  front of
 the beast.
   Yellowcloud  fired  again   and  Cat   jerked  as   he  plunged
 forward.  Ironbear  raised  the  muzzle  of  his  own  weapon and
 triggered  another  burst.  It  stitched  a  wavering  line along
 Cat's neck and shoulder.
   And  then  everything  went  silent  and black  as he  felt the
 impact of Cat's body upon his own.

        They sat or lay in their rooms at the Thunderbird Lodge,
 not  far  from  the  mouths  of the  canyons. It  was as  if they
 were all together in  one room,  however, for  the walls  did not
 impede their conversation.
   Well? Elizabeth asked. What have you learned?
   I'm going to try again, Fisher answered. Wait a few
 minutes.
   You've been at it for quite a while, Mancin said.
   Sometimes there are snags - unusual states of mind that
 are hard to pick up. You know.
      Something's wrong, Mancin said. I've been trying, too.
   Maybe we're too late, Mercy put in.
   Don't be ridiculous!
   I'm just trying to be realistic.
             I got through to Yellowcloud's house while you were
 trying  for contact,  Elizabeth said.  His wife  told me  that he
 and  Ironbear  left  together some  time ago.  They went  over to
 the canyon, she said.
   After Singer? Mancin asked.
   She wouldn't say any more about it. But why else?
   Indeed.
   I'm going to try again now, Fisher said.
   Wait, Elizabeth told him.
   Why?
   You're not getting anywhere by yourself.
   You mean we should get together again and try?
   Why not? That is why we're here. To work together.
   Do you think Sands... ? Mancin began.
   Probably, Elizabeth said.
   Yes, Mercy said. But he wouldn't hurt us.
   Well, you're right about why we're here, Mancin said to
 Elizabeth.

  And if we can't locate Jimmy? Fisher said. What then?
  Try again with Singer, Elizabeth said. Perhaps this time
 he'll listen.

  Now you travel your own trail, alone.
  What you have become, we do not know.
  What your clan is now, we do not know.
     Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.

  Walking.  Through  the  silver   and  black   landscape.  Slow
 here.  Confuse  the  way.  As  if  for  an  ambush  from behind
 those rocks. Erase the next hundred  feet or  so with  a branch
 of  shrubbery.  Good.  Go on.  The way  is clear.  Vaguely red-
 and-white  flecked.  Walking.   Skyflash  mirrored   in  waters
 twisting.  Faint  drumbeat  once  again.  Consistency  of wind-
 sound  within  the  slant  of  walls. Small  spray glassmasking
 face  here,  eyelash  prisms  spectrumbreaking   rainbows  geo-
 metric  dance  of  lights.  Wipe.  Shadows  leapback. Coyotedog
 smile  fading  between  the  light  and  the dark.  Cross here,
 splashing.  Wherever  trail  runs  follow  the   feet.  Around.
 Over. Masked dancers within  the shadows,  silent. Far,  far to
 the rear, a faint green  light. Why  look back?  To turn  is to
 embrace.  Climb  now.  Descend  again.  It  narrows  soon, then
 widens again. A thing  with many  eyes sits  upon a  high ledge
 but does not stir.  Frozen, perhaps,  or only  watching. Louder
 now  the  drumbeat.  Moving  to  its  rhythms. Fire  within the
 heart of a stone. Rain yei bending,  bridgelike, from  above to
 below.  Birdtracks  behind  a  mooncurved  wall.   Thighbone  of
 horse.  Empty  hogan.  Half;burned  log.  Touch  the  mica that
 glistens like pollen. Remember the song the old man -
  ... Singer.
  Faint,  faint.  The  wind  or  its echo.  Tired word  of tired
 breath.
  Billy Blackhorse...
  Across again now, to that rocky place.
  I feel you - up there, somewhere - tracker...
  Something. Something he should remember. This journey.
 To follow his trail. But.
  Your friends did not stop me. I am still coming, hunter.
      Ghost of the echo of the wind. Words in his head. Old
 friends, perhaps. Someone known.
  Why do you not answer me? To talk gives nothing away.
  Ghost-cat, chindi-thing. Yes. Cat.
  I am here, Cat.

   And I follow you.
   I know.
   It is a good place you have chosen.
   It chose me.
   Either way. Better than cities.
   Billy paused to muddle his trail, create the impression of
 another possible ambush point.
   ... Coming. You cannot run forever.
   Only so far as I must. You are hurt...
   Yes. But not enough to stop me. We will meet.
   We will.
   I feel you are stronger here than you were before.
   Perhaps.
   Whichever of us wins, it is better this way than any other.
 We are each of us the last of our kind. What else is there for
 us?
   I do not know.
   It is a strange country. I do not understand everything
 about it.
   Nor do I.
   Soon we will meet, old enemy. Are you glad that you ran?
   Billy tried hard to think about it.
   Yes, he finally said.
   Billy thought of the song but knew that it was not the time
 to sing it. Thunder mumbled down the canyon.
   You have changed, hunter, since last we were this close.
   I know where I'm going now, Cat.
   Hurry then. I may be closer than you think.
   Watch the shadows. You may even be nearer than you
 think.
   Silence.  The  big  widening  and  a clear  view far  ahead. He
 halted, puzzled,  suddenly able  to see  for a  great distance.
 Like  a  ribbon,  his  trail  led  on  and  on  and  then wound
 upward.  He  did  not  understand,  but it  did not  matter. He
 broke into his ground-eating  jog. In  the darkness  high over-
 head, he heard the cry of a bird.

        Farther yet, he returns with me, Nayenezgani,
        spinning his dark staff for protection.
        The lightnings flash behind him and before him.
        To the ladder's first rung,
        to the Emergence Place
        he returns with me;

 and the rainbow returns with me
 and the talking ketahn teaches me.
 We mount the ladder's twelve rungs.
 Small blue birds sing above me,
 Cornbeetle sings behind me.
 Hashje-altye returns with me.
 I will climb Emergence Mountain,
 Chief Mountain, Rain Mountain,
 Corn Mountain, Pollen Mountain....
 Returning. Upon the pollen figure to sit.
 To own the home, the pre, the food,
 the resting ploce, the feet, the legs, the body,
 to hold the mind and the voice, the power
 of movement. The speech, that is blessed.
 Returning with me. Gathering these things,
 Climbing. Through the mists and clouds,
 the mosses and grasses,
 the woods and rocks, the earth,
 of the four colors. Returning.
 "Grandchild, we stand upon the rainbow."

                                  RUNNING. THE WIND AND WA-
 ter-sounds now a part  of the  drumbeat. Path  grown clearer
 and clearer. Blood-red now and dusted as with ice flakes.
 The  ground  seemed  to  shake  once,  and something  like a
 tower of smoke rose before him in a twisting  at the  side of
 the trail. Changing colors, the pillar braided itself  as it
 climbed, and  five shifting  faces took  form within  it. He
 recognized his guardian spirits.
  "Billy,  we  have come  to ask  you again,"  they said  in a
 single  voice.  "The  danger increases.  You must  leave the
 trail, leave the  canyon. Quickly.  You must  go to  a place
 where you will be met and taken to safety."
  "I cannot leave the trail now," he answered. "It is too late
 to  do that.  My enemy  approaches. My  way is  clear before
 me. Thank you again. There is no longer a  choice for  me in
 this."

  "There is always a choice."
  "Then I have, already made it."
  The smoke-being blew apart as he passed it.
  He saw what appeared to be  the end  of the  trail now,  and a
 small  atavistic  fear touched  him as  he realized  where it,
 would take him.  It was  to the  Mummy Cave,  an old  place of
 the dead, that it ran, high up the canyon wall.
  As  he  advanced,  it  seemed  to  grow  before  him,  a  ruin
 within a high alcove. A green light played  behind one  of the
 windows for  an eyeblink  and a  half. And  then the  wind was
 muffled, and then it rose again. And again. Again.
  Now  the  sound came  like the  flapping of  a giant  piece of
 canvas high in the sky.  He kept  his eyes  upon his  goal and
 continued to follow his trail toward the foot of the wall. And
 as  he  ran  the sound  grew louder,  felt nearer.  Finally it
 seemed directly  overhead, and  he sensed  each beat  upon his
 body. Then a dark shape moved past, through the upper air.
  When  he  raised  his  eyes  he  beheld an  enormous bird-form
 dipping to settle atop the cliff wall high above the  place of
 the  Mummy  Cave.  He  slowed  as  he neared  the foot  of the
 wall  and  encountered  the  talus  slope. And  he knew  as he
 beheld  the  dark  thing, settling  now and  staring downward,
 that  he  beheld  Haasch'e'e'shzhini,  Black-god, master  of the
 hunt.  He  looked  away  quickly,  but not  before he  met the
 merciless stare of a yellow eye fixed upon him.
  Must  I  end  this  thing  beneath  your  gaze,  Dark  One? he
 wondered.  For  I  am both  the hunter  and the  hunted. Which
 side does that put you on?
  He  mounted  the  slope,  his  eyes  now  following  the trail
 gone vertical up toward the recessed ruin. Yes, that  did seem
 the easiest route....
  He  approached  the wall,  took the  first foothold  and hand-
 hold and commenced climbing.
  Climbing.  Slowly  over  the more  slippery places.  A strange
 tingling in the palms of the hands as he mounted  higher. Like
 the time -
  No.  He  halted. Everything  he was  was a  part of  the hunt.
 But it was also a part of the  past. Let  it go.  Climb. Hunt.
 Position is  what is  important. That  lesson comes  with mem-
 ory. Achieve it now. He  drew himself  higher, not  looking at
 the dark shadow far above, not looking back. Soon.
 Soon  he  would  enter  the  place  of  death  and  await his
 pursuer.  The  running  should  be  nearing  its  end. Hurry.

 Important to be up there and out of sight when Cat  enters the
 area. Wet handhold. Grip tightly.
    Glance upward. Yes. In sight now. Soon. Careful. Pull.
 There.
   After  several  minutes, he  drew himself  up onto  a ledge,
 moved to the left. Another hold. Up again.
   Half crawling. Okay now. Rise again. Move toward the
 wall. Enter. No green light. Over the wall...
   He passed along the rear of the  wall, peering  through gaps
 out  over the  floor of  the canyon.  Nothing. Nothing  yet in
 sight. Keep going. That large opening... '
   All right. Halt. Unsling the weapon. Check  it out.  Rest it
 on the ledge. Wait.
   Nothing. Still nothing. The place was  damp and  filled with
 rubble. He ran  his eyes  across the  open spaces  before him,
 the  entire  prospect  palely  illuminated through  screens of
 phosphorescent  mist.  But  waiting  was a  thing at  which he
 excelled. He settled with his back against  a block  of stone,
 his eyes upon the canyon, one hand upon the weapon.
   Nearly an hour passed with  no changes  in the  scene before
 him.
   And then a shadow, slow, inching along the wall, far  to his
 left and ahead. Its creeping barely registered, until  at some
 point he realized that there was nothing to cast it.
   He raised the weapon - it had  a simple  sight -  and zeroed
 it in on the  shadow. Then  he thought  about the  accuracy of
 the thing and lowered it again.  Too far.  If the  shadow were
 really Cat he did not  want to  take a  chance on  missing and
 giving away his position.
   It stopped. It flowed into the form of  a rock  and remained
 stationary for a long while. He could almost believe  that the
 entire  sequence  had  been  a  trick  of  light  and  shadow.
 Almost. He drew a bead on the rock and held it there.
   You are somewhere near, Billy. I can feel you.
   He did not respond.
   Wherever you are, I will be there shortly.
   Should he risk a shot after all? he wondered. It  would take
 Cat  a  while  to  assume  a  more  mobile  shape.   He  would
 doubtless have several opportunities during that time....
   Movement  again.  The  rock  shifted, flowed,  reformed far-
 ther along the wall.
   Suffer, tracker. You are going  to die.  Four first  shot will
 betray you and I will dodge  all of  the successive  ones. You

 will  see me  when I  am ready  to be  seen and  you will  pre it
 then.
   The   movement   commenced  again,   drifting  toward   a  real
 rock  beneath   a  shelflike   overhang.  Within   the  amorphous
 form  the  glittering  of  Cat's  eye  became visible;  his limbs
 began to take form.
   Billy  bit  his  lip,  recalling having  seen a  torglind meta-
 morph  run  up  a  near-vertical  wall  on  the  home  planet. He
 triggered the weapon then and missed.
   Cat  froze  for  a  split  second  as  the flash  occurred high
 overhead,  then  moved  more  slowly   than  Billy   had  antici-
 pated,  leading  Billy  to  believe  that  the  beast  was indeed
 injured.  Cat  sprang  back toward  a line  of stones  nearer the
 wall.  And  then,  realizing  his mistake  as he  glanced upward,
 his  legs  bunched  beneath  him  and  he  sprang  forward again.
 But not in time.
   A large slab of stone facing, blasted loose  by the  shot, slid
 down   the   wall,   striking   the   shelf  beneath   which  Cat
 crouched.  Even  as  his  feet  left  the  ground,  it  descended
 upon him.
   Hunter! I believe - you've won.... '
   Billy fired again. This time he scorched the earth ten yards
 off to the right of the fall. He moved the barrel slightly to the
 left and triggered the  weapon again.  This time  the top  of the
 rubble heap exploded.
   It  seemed  that  he  could  make out  a single,  massive fore-
 limb projected near the front of the pile.  But at  that distance
 he could not be certain.
   Was that a twitch?
   He fired again, blasting the center of the heap.
   The  canyon  rang  with  a  massive  cawing note.  The flapping
 sound   began   again,   slowly.   He   looked  up   briefly  and
 glimpsed the shadow moving off to his right.
   "It  is  over,"  he sang,  head rested  upon his  forearm, "and
 my thanks rise like smoke...."
   His  words  trailed  off  as  his eyes  moved across  the canyon
 floor.  Then  his  brow  furrowed. He  raised himself.  He leaned
 forward to peer.
   "Why?" he said aloud.
   But nothing answered.
   The trail he had followed did not terminate at this place.
 Somehow  he  had  not  noticed this  earlier. It  ran off  to his
 right,  curving  out  of  sight beyond  the canyon  wall, presum-
 ably continuing on into the farther reaches of the place.

   He  slung  his  weapon  and  adjusted  his  pack.  He  did not
 understand, but he would go on.
   He  returned  to  the  place  where he  had climbed  and began
 his descent.

   His shoulder ached. Also,  it was  raining on  his face  and a
 sharp  stone  was  poking  him  in  the  back.  He was  aware of
 these things for some time  before he  realized that  they meant
 he was alive.
   Ironbear  opened his  eyes. Yellowcloud's  light lay  upon the
 ground nearby, casting illumination along a gravel slope.
   He  turned  his  head  and  saw   Yellowcloud.  The   man  was
 seated with his back against a stone,  legs straight  out before
 him. Both of his hands were gripping his left thigh.
   Ironbear raised his head, reached out a hand, levered
 himself upward.
   "I live," he said, swinging into  a sitting  position. "How're
 you?"
   "Broken leg,"  Yellowcloud   answered.  "Above   the  knee."
   Ironbear rose, crossed to the light and  picked it  up, turned
 back toward Yellowcloud.
   "Bad  place  for  a  break," he  said, advancing.  "Can't even
 hobble."
   He squatted beside the other man.
   "I'm not  sure what's  the best  thing to  do," he  said. "Got
 any suggestions?"
   "I've already called for help. My portaphone wasn't
 damaged.  They'll  be along  with a  medic. Get  me out  of here
 in a sling if they have to. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
   "Why are we still alive?"
   "It  didn't  think  we were  worth killing,  I guess.  Just an
 annoyance, to be brushed aside."
   "Makes you feel real important, doesn't it?"
   "I'm not complaining. Listen, there's dry wood along the
 wall. Get me a couple of armloads, will you? I want a fire."
   "Sure." He moved to comply. "I wonder how far along '
 that thing has gotten?"
   "Can't you tell?"
   "I don't want to get near it at that level. It can hurt you
 just with its mind."
   "You going after it?"
   "If I can figure a way to follow it."
   Yellowcloud smiled and turned his head, gesturing with
 his chin.

  "It went that way."
  "I'm not a tracker like you."
  "Hell,  you  don't  have  to  be.  That  thing's  heavy  and  it's
 running,  right  out  in  the  open.  Nothing  fancy.  It  couldn't
 care  less  whether  one  of  us  knows  where  it  went.  You take
 the light. I'll have the fire. You'll be able to  see the  marks it
 left."
          He carried over the first load of kindling, went back to
 look  for  more.  By  the time  he returned  with the  second load,
 Yellowcloud had a fire going.
  "Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
  "No. Just get moving."
              He slung his weapon and picked up the light. When he
 played the beam Up the canyon he saw the tracks readily
 enough.
  "And take this." Yellowcloud passed him the portaphone.
  "Okay. I'll go try again."
  "Maybe you ought to aim for its eye."
  "Maybe I should. See you."
  Good luck."
  He turned and began walking. The water was a dark,
 speaking thing whose language he did not understand. The
 way was clear. The tracks were large.

                 The wind stirs the grasses.
                 The,snow glides across the earth.
                 The whirlwind walks on the mountain,
                 raising dust.
                                    The rocks are ringing

                 high on the mountain, behind the fog.
                 The sun's light is running out
                 like water from a cracked pitcher.
                 We shall live again.
                 The snowy earth
                 slides out of the whirling wind.
                 We shall live again.

                                      AROUND THE CURVE OF THE
 canyon wall,  walking. Gusts  of wind  here over  stream grown
 wider,  swirling  glittering  particles across  watersong gone
 wild. Other side more sheltered but the red way lies  close to
 the wall, here, rising now. Ripples like  rushing pictographs.
 Pawprints of the  perfidious one.  Ice-rimed bones  beside the
 trail.  Rabbit.  Burnt  hogan,  green  glow  within.  Place of
 death.  Shift eyes.  Hurry on.  Shine of  crystal. Snow-streaked
 wall, texture of feathers. 'Bail winding on. As far as the eye
 will go. What now the quarry?
   Pause  to  drink  at  the  crossing  of  tributary streamlet
 Burning  cold,  flavored of  rock and  earth. Fog  bank ahead,
 moving  toward  him,  masked  dancers  within; about  a south-
 blue  blaze.  Rhythms  in  the  earth. He  is become  a smoke,
 drifting  along his  way, silent  and featureless,  rushing to
 merge with  that place  of flux  and earthdance  cadence. Yes,
 and be lost in it.
   White  and soft,  smothering sounds,  like that  place where
 he had hunted the garlett, so long ago...
   Dancers to the right, dancers to the left,  dancers crossing
 his  way.  Do  they  even see  him, invisible  and spiritlike,
 passing among them, along the stillbright, stillred  way writ-
 ten upon the ground as with fire and blood?
   One  draws  nearer  bearing  something  covered  by  a cloth
 woven with an old design. He  halts, for  the dancer  moves to
 bar his way, thrusting the thing before him. It  is uncovered,
 displaying a pair of-hands. He stares at them. That  scar near
 the base of the left thumb... They are his hands.
   At the recognition they rise to hover in front of him, as if
 he were holding them before  his face.  He feels  them, glove-
 like, at the extremity of his spirit. He had skinned game with
 them, fought with them, stroked Dora's hair with them....
   He lets them fall to his sides. It is good to have them back
 again. The dancer moves  away. Billy  swirls like  a whirlwind
 of snow and continues along his trail.
  There is no time. A cluster of gray sticks, rising from the

  earth on the slope to his right, beside  the trail...  He pauses
  to  watch  as  the  sticks  turn  green,  bumps  appearing along
  their  surfaces  to   become  buds.   The  buds   crack,  leaves
  unwind   themselves,   turn,   enlarge.   White   flowers   come
  forth.
    He  passes,  swinging  his  hands.  Another  dancer  with an-
  other parcel approaches from his left.
    He halts, hovering,  and with  his hands  he accepts  the gift
  of his  feet and  restores them  to their  places on  the ground
  below him. The many miles we have come together...
    Walking,  again walking,  upon the  trail. Feeling  the heart-
  beat of the earth through  the soles  of his  feet. There  is no
  time.  Snowflakes  blow  upward  before  him.  The   stream  has
  reversed  its  direction.  Blood  flows  back  into  the wounded
  deer lying still across his way. It springs to its  hoofs, turns
  and is gone.
    Now,  like  curtains,  a  parting  of  the  fog.  Four  masked
  dancers  advance upon  him, bearing  the body  that is  his own.
  When  he  wears  it  again,  he thanks  them, but  they withdraw
  in silence.
    He  moves  on  along the  trail. The  fog is  shifting. Every-
  thing is shifting but the trail.
    He  hears  a  sound  which  he  has  not  heard  in   a  great
  counting  of years.  It begins  off in  the distance  behind him
  and rises in pitch as it comes on: the whistle of a train.
    Then  he  hears  the  chugging.  They  no longer  make engines
  of this sort. There is nothing here for it to run on. There is -
    He  sees  the rails  paralleling his  trail. That  ledge ahead
  seems a platform now....
    The  whistle  sounds  again.  Nearer.  He  feels the  throb of
  the  thing,  superimposed  upon  the  earth  rhythms.   A  train
  such  as  Be  has  not  beheld  in  years  is   coming.  Coming,
  impossibly,  through  this  impossible  place.  He  keeps  walk-
  ing, as the sound of it fills the world. It should be rushing up
  beside him at any moment.
    The  shriek of  the whistle  fills his  hearing. He  turns his
  head.
    Yes,  it  has  come. An  ancient, black,  smoke-puffing dragon
  of an engine,  a number  of passenger  cars trailing  behind. He
  hears the screaming of its brakes begin.
    He  looks  back  to  the  area  of  the  platform, to  where a
  single, slouched figure now stands waiting. Almost familiar...
    With a clattering and the cries of  metal friction  the engine
  draws  abreast  of him,  slowing, slowing,  and passes  to halt

 beside  the  platform.  He  smells  smoke  and grease  and hot
 metal.
   The figure on the  platform moves  toward the  first passen-
 ger car, and he  now recognizes  the old  dead singer  who had
 taught him the song. Just  before boarding  the man  turns and
 waves to him.
   His  gaze  slides  back  along  the coach's  windows. Behind
 every one is a face. He recognizes all of  them. They  are all
 people  he  has  known  who  are  now dead  - his  mother, his
 grandmother, his uncles, his cousins, two sisters...
   Dora.
       Dora is the only one who is looking at him. The others
 stare  past,  talking  with one  another, regarding  the land-
 scape, the new passenger....
   Dora is looking directly at him, and  her hands  are working
 with the latches at the  lower corners  of the  window. Almost
 frantically, she is pushing and lifting.
   The  whistle  blows  again.  The  engine  surges.  He  finds
 himself running, running toward the train, the car, the win- .
 dow....
   The train jerks, rattles. The wheels turn.
    Dora is still working at the latches. Suddenly the window
 slides  upward.  Her  mouth  is moving.  She is  shouting, but
 her words are lost among the noises of the train.
   He  shouts back.  Her name.  She is  leaning forward  out of
 the window now, right arm extended.
   The train is picking up speed, but he  is almost  beside it.
 He reaches. Their hands are  perhaps a  meter apart.  Her lips
 are  still  moving,  but  he  cannot  hear  her  words.  For a
 moment his vision swims, and it is as if she were falling.away
 from him.
   He increases his pace and the distance between their
 hands narrows - two feet, a foot, eight inches....
   Their hands clasp, and  she smiles.  He matches  the train's
 velocity  for  a  moment  before the  tension begins.  Then he
 realizes that he must let go.
   He opens his hand and watches her rush away. He falls.
   How  long  he lies  there he  does not  know. When  he looks
 again, the train is  gone. There  are no  tracks. There  is no
 platform.  His outstretched  arm lies  within the  icy stream.
 Snow is falling upon him. He rises.
   The  big  flakes  drift  by.  The wind  has died.  The water
 sounds are muted. He raises his hand and stares  at it  like a
 new and unfamiliar thing within the silence.

   After a long while, he turns  and seeks  the trail  again. He
 continues his journey along it.
   Trudging.  Alternating  elation  and  depression,  finally all
 mixed together.  To have  caught her  and then  had to  let her
 go.  To  ride  Smohalla's  ghost-train  through  the  snow. An-
 other  breaking  apart.  Would  there  be  a  putting  together
 again?
   He realized  then that  he was  traversing an  enormous sand-
 painting. All of the ground about him was laid out in stylized,
 multicolored  fashion.  He  walked  in  the  footprints  of the
 rainbow,   passing   between   Eth-hay-nah-ashi   -  Those-who-
 go-together.  They  were  the  twins  created  in   the  Second
 world  by  Begochiddy.  First Man  and the  others had  come up
 from  the  Underworld  along  this  route.  The  painting itself
 was  one  used  in  Hozhoni,  the  Blessingway. His  trail fol-
 lowed the rainbow  to the  cornstalk, where  it changed  to the
 yellow of  corn pollen.  Upward, upward  along the  stalk then.
 The  sky  was  illuminated by  a brilliant  flash as  he passed
 alongside the female  rainbow and  the male  lightning. Passing
 between the figures  of Big  Fly, heading  north to  the yellow
 pollen footsteps.
   Emerge to take up the trail again, passing the mouth of the
 large  canyon  to  the  right,  continuing   northward.  Alone,
 singing.  There  was  beauty  in  the  falling snow.  Beauty all
 around him...
   Admire it while you may, tracker.
   Cat? You're dead! It is over between us!
   Am I, now?
  I touched-your limb at the place where you fell. It was stiff
 and glassy. There was no life in you.
   Have it your way.
   Nor could anythirig have gotten out from beneath that
 heap of stone.
   You've convinced me. I will go back and lie down.
   Billy looked backward, saw nothing but snowfall within
 the canyon.
    ...But I'll find you first.
    That shouldn't be too hard.
    I am glad to hear you say that.
    I like finish what I start. Hurry.
    Why don't you wait for me?
    I've a trail to follow.
    And that is more important than me?
    You? You are nothing now.

    That is not too pattering. But very well. If we must meet
 upon your trail again, we will meet upon your trail.
 Billy checked his weapons.
 You should have taken the train, he said.
 I do not understand you, but it does not matter.
 But it does, Billy said, rounding another rock and seeing
 the trail go on.
 A whirlwind of snow danced across the water. He heard
 the thump of a single drumbeat.
  ... The blue medicine lifts me in his hand.

                                      THE PAIN IN HIS SHOULDER
 had subsided to  a dull  throbbing. He  peered into  pockets of
 shadow  as  he  passed  them,   wondering  whether   the  beast
 might be waiting to  spring upon  him, knowing  the fear  to be
 irrational  since the  tracks lay  clear before  him -  and why
 should it go to the trouble of doubling back to lay in wait for
 him when  it could  have taken  an extra  second to  smash him
 in passing back when they had met?
         Ironbear cursed, still looking. His breath emerged as
 plumes of  steam before  him. His  nose was  cold and  his eyes
 watered periodically.
       Yellowcloud had been right. There was no problem at all
 in following this trail. Simple and direct. Deep and clear cut.
 Was that a movement to the left?
 Yes. The wind stirring bushes.
 He cursed again. Had his ancestors really led war parties?
 So much for genetics...
 Jimmy. Don't shut me out!
 I won't, Charles. I can use the company.
 Where are you? What's happening?
 I'm in the canyon, following the thing.
      We're here in Arizona, at the hotel near to where the
 canyons start.
 Why?
 To help, if we can. You're following the beast? Is Yellow-
 cloud with you?

  He was, but it broke his leg. He's sent for help.
   You've met it?
   Yeah. Got a sprained shoulder out of the deal. Put a few
 shots into the thing, though.
   Were you unconscious?
   Yes.
  I wondered why I couldn't reach you for a while there.
 Have you been in touch with Singer?
  No.
  We have. That's one crazy Indian.
  I think he knows what he's doing.
  Do you know what you're doing?
  Being another crazy Indian, I guess.
  I'd say.
  Looks like we cross the water here.
   I  think you  ought to  get out.  That's two  trails you're
 following, not one.
   It's starting to snow now. God, I hope it doesn't cover the
 tracks. Melting when it hits, though. That's good.
  Sounds as if that thing almost killed you once.
  They're changing shape.
  The tracks?
  Yeah, and moving nearer the wall. Wonder what that
 means?
      It means you'd better shoot at anything that moves.
  Something wet and glassy here... Wonder what its blood
 looks like?
   How far along are you, anyway?
   Don't know. My watch is broken. Seems as if I've been
 walking forever.
  Maybe you'd better stop and rest.
  Hell, no. It's time to try jogging for a while. I've got a
 feeling. I think I'm near and I think it's hurt.
   I don't want to be in your mind if it gets you.
   Don't go yet. I'm scared.
   I'll wait.
   For the next quarter-hour he felt Fisher's  silent presence
 as  he ran  beside the  pleated wall.  They did  not converse
 again  until he  slowed to  catch his  breath near  a turning
 place.
 It's going slow here, sneaking. But there's only a little of
 that glassy stuff he observed.
   You go slow.

   I am. I'll just switch to the blacklight and put on the
 goggles. I'll get down low and look around the corner.
   There was a long silence.
   Well?
   I don't see anything.
   He turned the light toward the ground.
   The trail's changing again. I'm going to follow it.
   Wait. Why don't you probe?
   I'm afraid  to touch  its mind.
   I'd be a lot more afraid of the rest of it. Why not just take
 it very slow and  easy? Just  scan for  its presence.  Sneak up
 mentally. I'll help.
   You're right, but I'll do it myself.
        He reached out into the pocket canyon before him. Gin-
 gerly at first. Then with increased effort.
   Not there. Nothing there,  he said.  I see  the trail,  but I
 don't  feel  the beast.  Singer either,  for that  matter. They
 must have gone on.
   It would seem...
           He neared the corner, walking slowly, observing the
 markings  on  the  ground.  The  markings  were  altered beyond
 the  turning, forming  a troughlike  line. They  narrowed, wid-
 ened, halted in the form of circular depressions.
   He paused when he saw where they led, rushed forward
 when he saw something other than rock.
     Singer's prints marked the ground before the rough cairn,
 near to the protruding limb. It  was a  longer while  before he
 could bring himself to move a  few stones  and then  only after
 probing thoroughly. He kept  at it  for several  minutes, until
 he was sweating and breathing  heavily. But  at last  he beheld
 the eye, dull now, in the sleek, unmoving head.
   He got it, Fisher said. He nailed the thing.
   Ironbear did not respond.
   It's over, Fisher told him. Singer won.
     He's beautiful, Ironbear said. That neck... the eye, like
 a jewel...
   Dead, Fisher said. Wait while I check. I'll tell you where to
 climb out. We'll have someone pick you up.
   But where's Singer?
   I guess he knows how to take care of himself. He's safe
 now. He'll turn up when he's ready. Hang on.
   I'm going after him.
   What? What for?

   I don't know. Call it a feeling. Say I just want to see the
 man after all this.
   How'll you find him?
   I'm starting to get the hang of this tracking business. I
 don't think it will be too hard.
   It's all over - and that's a dangerous place.
   His trail has run through safe spots so far. Besides, I've
 got a phone here.
   Don't you flip out, too!
   Don't worry about it.
   Ironbear  turned  away,  pushed up  his goggles,  shifted to
 normal spectrum, began following Singer's tracks.
   I'm going to leave you for a time, Fisher said. I'm going to
 tell the others. Also, I've got to rest.
   Go ahead.
        Ironbear headed north. For a moment it seemed that he
 heard  a  train  whistle, and  he thought  of his  father. Fat
 snowflakes filled the air.  He wrapped  his muffler  around his
 nose and mouth and kept going.

 Mercy Spender

 when she heard the news,
 opened the bottle of gin she had brought along
 & poured herself a stiff one,
 humming "Rock of Ages" all the while;
 feeling responsibility dissolve,
 giving thanks,
 deciding which books to read
 & what to knit
 during her convalescence;
 offered a word or two
 for the soul of Walter Sands,
 whom she saw before her
 in the glass,
 suddenly,
 shaking his head;
 "Rest in peace," she said
 & chugged it,
 & when she went to pour another

 the glass broke somehow
 & she was very sleepy
 & decided to turn in
 8 save the serious part
 for tomorrow;
 k her sleep was troubled.

 Alex Mancin

 tripped home when he heard the news,
 the game being over,
 his side having won
 again;
 4 after he'd said good-bye to the others
 & gone through,
 he visited the kennels
 & played with the dogs for a time,
 lithe, yipping & licking -
 he could read their affection for him
 & it warmed him -
 & then visited his console,
 a glass of warm milk at his right hand,
 taking action on the multitude of messages
 which had come in,
 as always;
 too keyed up to sleep,
 thoughts of the recent enterprise
 dashing into and out of  his mind
 like puppies;
 & the smile of Walter Sands
 seemed to flash for a moment
 on the screen
 as he read a list of stock quotations
 & toyed with a pair of souvenir dice
 he'd found in the bottom drawer
 of the dresser in the back room.

 Elizabeth Brooke

 wanted to get laid,
 was surprised
 at the intensity of the feeling,
 but realized that the previous days'
 pace & tensions, suddenly relaxed,
 called for some physical release, too;
 & so she bade the others farewell
 & tripped back to England
 to call her friend to join her
 for tea,
 to talk of her recent experiences,
 listen to some chamber music
 & lay the ghost of Walter Sands
 which had been troubling her
 more than a little.

 Charles Dickens Fisher

 in his room at the Thunderbird Lodge
 with a pot of coffee,
 looked out of the window at the snow,
 thinking about his brother-in-law
 & the Indians
 in western movies he had seen
 & wilderness survival
 A the great dead beast
 whose image he caused to appear
 before him on the lawn
 (frightening a couple across the way
 who happened to look out
 at that moment),
 recalled from a video picture
 he had summoned earlier,

  eye blazing like Waterford crystal,
  fangs like stalactites;
  & then he banished it
  & produced a full-sized
  image of  Walter Sands,
  sitting in the armchair
  looking back at him,
  A when he asked him,
  "How do you like being dead?"
  Sands shrugged
  & replied,
  "It has its benefits,
  it has its drawbacks."

                                     GOING. ALONG THE WESTERN
  rim of the canyon now, heading  into the  northeast. Turning,
  taking an even more  northerly route.  Away from  the canyon,
  across  the  snows,  toward  the trees.  His way  had brought
  him over the water and up the wall nearly an hour  before. Up
  here  where  the  wind  was strong,  though the  snowfall had
  lessened to an occasional racing flake.
     He  bore on.  A coyote  howled somewhere  in the  trees or
  beyond them,  ahead.  A  woodland  smell  came  to him  as he
  advanced, and the sounds of rattling branches.
     He  looked  back  once  before  he  entered  the  wood. It
  seemed that there was a greenish glow  rising just  above the
  rim  of the  canyon. He  lost sight  of it  in a  snowswirl a
  moment later, and then there were trees all around him  and a
  diminishment  of  the wind.  Ice fell  with crisp  and glassy
  sounds when he brushed  against boughs.  It was  like another
  place, a place of perpetual twilight and  cold, where  he had
  hunted what he came to call the  ice bears,  the sun  a tiny,
  pale  thing  creeping along  the horizon.  At any  moment the
  high-pitched  whistle  of the  bears might  come to  him, and
  then he  would have  only moments  in which  to throw  up the
  barrier and lay down a paralytic fire before the pack swirled
  in toward him. Move the barrier then  to preserve  the fallen

 before  their  fellows  devoured  them.  Call  for  the shuttle
 ship....
   He  glanced  overhead,  half  expecting  to see  it descending
 now.  But  there  was  only  a pearl-gray  folding of  clouds in
 every direction. This hunt  was different.  The thing  he sought
 would  not be  taken so  simply, nor  borne away  for enclosure.
 All the more interesting.
   He  crossed  an   ice-edged  streamlet   and  his   way  swerved
 abruptly,  following   its  course   through  an   arroyo  where
 something  with  green  eyes  regarded him  from within  a small
 cave.   The   ground   rose   as  he   advanced,  and   when  he
 emerged the trees had thinned.
   His  way  took  him to  the left  then, continuing  uphill. He
 mounted higher and higher until he  came at  last to  stand atop
 a  ridge  commanding  a  large  view  of the  countryside. There
 he halted, staring into the  black north,  into which  his trail
 ran on and on for as far as he could see  in the  odd half-light
 which  had  accompanied  him  on   this  journey.   Opening  his
 pouch, he cast pollen before him  onto it.  Turning then  to the
 blue  south,  way  to  the  earth-opening  from  which   he  had
 emerged, he cast more pollen, noticing for  the first  time that
 there was no trail behind him, that  his way  to this  place had
 been vanishing even as he walked it.  He felt  that he  would be
 unable to take a step in that direction if he were to try. There
 was to be no return along the way that he followed.
   He  faced  the  yellow west,  place where  the day  was folded
 and  closed.  Casting  pollen, he  thought about  endings, about
 the closing of cycles.  Then to  the east,  thinking of  all the
 mornings  he  had  known  and  of  the  next  one   which  would
 come out of it. Seeing for a great distance  into the  east with
 unusual clarity, he thought of  the land  over which  his vision
 moved,  adding  features  from  the  internal landscape  of mem-
 ory,  wondering  why  he had  ever wished  to deny  this Dinetah
 which was so much a part of him.
   For  how  long  he  looked into  the east  he could  not tell.
 Suddenly  the  air  about  his  head  was  filled  with spinning
 motes  of  light  accompanied by  a soft  buzzing sound.  It was
 like  a  swarm of  fireflies dancing  before him.  Abruptly they
 darted off to his right. He realized then that  it was  a warning
 of some sort.
   He  looked  to  the  right.  There  was  a  green  glow moving
 among the trees  in the  distance. He  looked away,  placing his
 gaze  upon  his trail  once again,  and then  he moved  off along
 it.

    Shortly  he  was  running, ice  particles stinging  his face,
  driven by gusts of wind which raised  them in  occasional brief
  clouds. The snow  did not  obscure the  trail, however.  It was
  visible through everything with perfect clarity.  Continuing to
  follow it into the distance with his eyes, he  saw that  it ran
  into an arroyo twisting off to the left. It seemed to narrow as
  it entered  that place.  Following, he  saw that  the narrowing
  continued  until  it  appeared  the  thinness  of  a  Christmas
  ribbon  toward  the  center of  the declivity.  Strangely, how-
  ever,  the  portion  he  was  traversing appeared  no narrower,
  though  he  knew  that  he  had  already  reached   and  passed
  beyond  the  place where  the thinning  had begun.  Instead, he
  detected a new phenomenon.
    At  first it  was only  that the  arroyo had  seemed somewhat
  deeper and longer  than his  initial impression  had indicated.
  As  he moved  more deeply  into it,  however, the  place itself
  seemed  larger,  a  huge  canyon  with  high  walls.   And  the
  farther  he  progressed,  the  steeper  the  walls  became, the
  greater  the  distance  from  wall  to wall.  It also  was now.
  strewn  with  massive  boulders  which  had not  been apparent
  at first. Yet the  red way  he followed  remained undiminished.
  There  were  no  signs  of  the  contraction  he   had  noticed
  earlier.
    An  enormous  white  wheel  flew   past  him,   sculpted  and
  brilliant,  five-limbed  like  a starfish.  Immediately another
  moved  slowly  overhead,  descending. He  realized that  it was
  a snowflake.
    The  place  was   larger  than   Canyon  del   Muerto,  much-
  larger. In moments, its  walls had  receded into  the distance,
  vanished.  He  increased  his  pace,  running,  leaping,  among
  the huge rocks.
    He  topped  a  rise  to  discover  a massive  glassy mountain
  looming before him, its  prismatic surfaces  retailing rainbows
  at peculiar angles.
    Then  he was  descending toward  it, and  he could  see where
  his trail ran into a large opening in its side, a jagged slash-
  mark  through  stone  and  sheen, like  a black  lightning bolt
  running  from  about  a  third  of its  height downward  to the
  earth.
    A gust  of wind  blew him  over and  he regained  his footing
  and ran on. A  snowflake crashed  to the  earth like  a falling
  building.  He  raced  across  the  top  of  a small  pond which
  vibrated beneath him.
            The mountain towered higher, nearer. Finally he was

  close enough to see into the great  opening, and  he saw  that it
  shone  within  as  well  as without,  the walls  sparkling almost
  moistly,  rising  in  a pitched-tentlike  fashion to  some unseen
  point of convergence high overhead.
    He   rushed   within   and   halted  almost   immediately.  His
  hand  went  to  his  knife before  he realized  that the  men who
  surrounded  him  were  multiple  images  of himself  reflected in
  the gleaming walls. And his trail running  off in  all directions
  ...Twisted images.
    He  bumped  into  a  wall,  ran  his  hands  down  its surface.
  His  trail  seemed  to  go straight  ahead here,  but he  saw now
  where the real only seemed to join the illusory.  It slid  to the
  right, he could tell now.
    Three  paces  and  he  bumped  into  another  wall.  This could
  not  be. There  was nothing  else for  the trail  to do.  It pro-
  ceeded  directly  ahead  here, with  no deviations,  reflected or
  otherwise.
    He reached  forward, felt  the wall,  searched it.  His reflec-
  tion mimicked his movements.
    Abruptly,  there  was  nothing.  His  hand  moved  forward  as
  he  realized  that  only  the  upper  portion  of  his  way  was
  blocked. He dropped to all fours and continued onward.
    As  he  crawled,  the  reflections   shifted  in   the  shadows
  around him. For  a moment,  from the  corner of  his eye,  to the
  right,  it  seemed  that he  was a  slow, lumbering  bear, pacing
  himself. He glanced quickly to  the left.  A deer,  a six-pointer,
  dark  eyes  alert,   nostrils  quivering.   Multiple  reflections
  caused  them  all  to merge  then, into  something that  was bear
  and  deer  and  man,  something primeval,  working its  way, like
  First  Man,  through  narrow,  dark  tunnels  upward  to  the new
  world.
    The  reflections  ahead  showed  him  that  the  overhead space
  was  growing  larger   again,  turning   into  a   high,  narrow,
  Gothic arch. He  rose to  his feet  as soon  as he  noticed this,
  and  the  animal  images  slipped away,  leaving nothing  but the
  infinity of himself on all sides. All colors, in various intensi-
  ties,  lay  ahead.  He  went  on,  and  when he  saw that  he was
  heading toward a way out, he began to run.
    The  area  of  light  seemed  to  grow  slightly smaller  as he
  advanced  upon  it.  The  reflections  which  ran beside  him now
  varied  through  prisms  and  shadows.  And  he  noted  that they
  were  all  differently garbed.  One bounded  along in  a pressur-
  ized suit, another in a  tuxedo; another  wore only  a loincloth.
  One  ran  nude.  Another  wore  a  parka.  One  had  on   a  blue

  velveteen  shirt  he  had  long forgotten,  a sandcast  concho belt
  binding it above the hips.  In the  distance, he  saw himself  as a
  boy, running furiously, arms pumping.
    Smiling, he ran out through the opening, along the red
  way. The  canyon walls  appeared and  closed in  on him,
  diminishing in height as he advanced.
    He halted and looked back.
             There was no shining mountain. He retraced his steps a
  dozen  paces  and  stooped  to pick  up a  piece of  stone contain-
  ing  a  cracked  quartz  crystal  which  lay  on  the   ground.  He
  held  it  up  to  his  eyes.  A  rainbow   danced  within   it.  He
  dropped it into his pocket, feeling as if it held half of  time and
  space.
    He  ran  for  nearly  an  hour then,  and ice  crystals scratched
  like the claws of cats at rocks and  tree limbs,  at his  face. The
  frozen   earth   made  noises   like  crinkling   cellophane  beneath
  his  feet.  Streaks  of  snow  lay  like  crooked  fingers  on  the
  hillsides.   A  patch   of  sky   lightened  and   thunder  rumbled
  nearby.  His  way  led  into  the  mountains,  and  soon  he  began
  to climb.

          When I call,
          they come to me
             out of Darkness Mountain.
               Pipelines cross it,
               satellites pass above it,
               but I hold the land before me,
               and all things that hunt
               and are hunted within it.
               I have followed the People
               across the eons,
               giving the proper hunter his prey
               in the proper time.
          Those who hunt themselves,
          however, fall into a special category.
          Certain sophistications were unknown
          in ancient times.
          But you are never too old to learn,
          which is what makes this business interesting
          and keeps me black-winged. Na-ya!
          Out of Darkness Mountain, then:
          Send an ending.

         And climbing, Everything strange. He had lost track of

 time  and space.  Sometimes the  countryside seemed  to roll
 by him, other times it seemed that he had moved for  ages to
 cover  a  small-  distance.  The trail  took him  among more
 mountains. He was no  longer certain  as to  precisely where
 he was, though he was sure that he was still  heading north.
 The snow turned into rain. The rain came and went. The trail
 led  upward  once  again and  moved through  rocky passages.
 In places, streamlets rushed by him,  and he  passed through
 narrow necks with his back pressed against stone, fingertips
 and heels his  only purchase.  The clouds  were occasionally
 delineated by a bright scribbling, to be  wiped away  by the
 grayness moments later.
   He  passed  through   an  opening   so  narrow   that  he   had  to
 strip  off  his  pack  and  jacket  and go  sideways. It  cut sharply
 to  the  left,  and  he knew  that he  could have  missed it  even in
 full  diylight  without  the  guiding  trail that  led him  on. Glow-
 ing  forms  seemed  to  writhe  in  crevasses  he  passed  before the
 way  widened  again,  like   the  mating   movements  of   the  tall,
 spindly anklavars on the world called Bayou.
   When   he   turned   and   stretched   his   cramped    muscles,   he
 halted.  What  was  this  place?  There  was  a  ruin   built.into  the
 cliff  face  to  the  right. Farther  ahead there  was another,  to the
 left  and  higher,  at  a   place  where   the  canyon   continued  its
 widening.   Stone   and   rotted   adobe,   they   were    ruins   with
 which  he  was  not  familiar,   though  he   had  once   thought  that
 he  was  aware  of  almost  all  of  them.  He  was  tempted  to  pause
 for    a    quick   investigation,    but   the    drumbeat   commenced
 again, slowly, and his trail ran on to greater heights.
   The   canyon   turned  to   the  right,   its  floor   rising  even
 farther,  its  walls  spread  wider.  He  climbed,  and   there  were
 more   ruins   about.   The   name   "Lukachukai"    passed   through
 his  mind  as  he  remembered  the  story  of  a  lost  Anasazi ruin.
 The  wind  grew  still  and   the  pulse   of  the   drum  quickened.
 Shadowy   shapes   darted   behind   broken   walls.  He   stared  at
 the  high,  level  place before  him. He  saw the  end of  his trail.
 A  chill passed  over his  entire body,  and he  felt the  hairs rise
 on the nape of his neck.
   He   took   a   step   forward,   then   another.   He   moved   cau-
 tiously,  slowly,  as  if  the  ground  might  give  way   beneath  him
 at  any  point;  It  was  right,  though,  wasn't  it?  Of  course. All
 trails   end   the   same   way.   Why   should   this   one   be   any
 different?   If  you   tracked  anything   through  its   entire  life,
 from its first faltering step until its final faltering step, the end
 was always the same.

   Back beside  a rock,  beneath an  overhang, his  trail ended
 before  the  vacant  gaze  of  an  age-browned   human  skull.
 Beyond that, he could not see the way.
   The  rhythm  of  the  drumbeat  changed. Mah-ih,  the Trick-
 ster,  Coyote,  He-who-wanders-about,   peered  at   him  from
 beyond  the  corner  of  a  nearby ruin.  A white  rainbow yei
 formed an arc from the top of  one canyon  wall to  the other.
 He  heard  the  shaking  of  rattles  now,   accompanying  the
 drumbeat.  A  green  stem  poked  through  the   ground,  rose
 upward, put forth leaves and then a red flower.
   He  walked  on.  As he  advanced, the  skull seemed  to jerk
 slightly forward. A flickering occurred within it, and  then a
 pale green light grew behind all of its apertures  which faced
 him.  Far  off  to  the  right,  Coyote  made  a  sudden,  low,
 growling sound.
   As he neared the end of the trail the skull  tipped backward
 and turned slightly to the right, keeping the eyesockets fixed
 directly upon him.
   A rasping voice emerged from the skull:
   "Behold your chindi."
   Billy halted.
   "I used to play soccer," he said,  smiling and  drawing back
 his foot. "Those  two rocks  up by  the ruin  can be  the goal
 posts."
   The  ground  erupted before  him. The  skull shot  upward to
 a position perhaps a foot higher than his  head. It  rode upon
 the  shoulders  of  a  massive,  nude,  male  body  which  had
 grown up like the flower  before him.  The green  light danced
 all around it.
   "Shadow-thing!" Billy said, unslinging his weapon.
   "Yes.  Your shadow.  Shoot if  you will.  It will  not save
 you."
   Billy  continued  the  movement  which  brought  the  snub-
 gun forward, reversing it in his hands, driving its  butt hard
 upward against  the skull.  With a  brief crunching  noise the
 skull shattered, and its pieces fell to the ground.  The trunk
 beneath  dropped  to  one knee  and the  arms shot  forward. A
 massive  hand  caught  hold  of  the weapon  and tore  it from
 Billy's grasp. It cast it backward over its shoulder,  to fall
 with a clatter among  rocks far  up the  canyon and  to vanish
 there.
   The left hand caught his right wrist and held it with a grip
 like a steel band. He chopped at the other's biceps with the
 edge of his left hand. It had  no apparent  effect, and  so he


 drew his hunting knife,  cross-body, and  plunged it  into the
 headless one, in the soft area below the left shoulder joint.
   Suddenly his wrist  was free  and the  thing before  him was
 falling  backward,  knees  folding up  toward the  chest, arms
 clasping them.
   Billy watched as  the other  rolled away,  darkening, losing
 features, growing  compact, making  crunching noises  in pass-
 ing  over  gravel  and  sand.  It  had  become  a  big,  round
 boulder, slowing now....
  It came to a halt perhaps fifteen meters distant, and then,
 slowly, it began to unfold into a new  form. It  unwound limbs
 and shaped a head, a tail...
   An eye.
   Cat stood facing him across the canyon of the lost city.
   We. shall  continue where  we left  off before  the interrup-
 tion, he said.

                                     MERCY SPENDER WAS JERKED
 out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She began  to scream,  but the
 cry died within her. There was a  twisted familiarity  to what
 was  happening.  She drew  herself into  a fetal  position and
 pulled the blankets up over her head.
   Alex Mancin was  spinning figures  across his  video console
 when  it  hit.  When  his  vision   wavered  and   dimmed,  he
 thought  that he  was having  a stroke.  And then  he realized
 what was happening and did  not resist  it, for  his curiosity
 was stronger than his fear.
   Elizabeth Brooke twisted from side to  side. It  was getting
 better  every  second.  In  just  a  few  more  moments... Her
 mind began to twist also, and she shrieked.
           Fisher was in communication with Ironbear when the
 mental storm  broke and  they were  sucked into  another state
 of awareness.
   What the hell is it? he asked.
   We're being  pulled back  together again,  Ironbear replied.

   Who's doing it?
   Sands. Can't you feel him? Like a broken lodestone,
 reassembling itself -
   Nice image. But I still don't under - Ah!

 Plosion ex. Im noisolp.
 ashes falling back into bonfire, fireflame along the
 across   the  night   arcing  east   drawn.  tgthr   brainbow  four
 containing   ffth  reassembling   spring  pushing   upward  beneath
 erth  snows  clds  sorting  moisture  bright  spikes  fling  waters
 flwng   hllw-eyd   ruins   facing  knifemanhanded   and  rockdreamt
 beast  lost   within  this   place  of   old  ones   weeeel  frthgo
 endlessly   unwrapping   thoughtveiling   countereal   ity   downow
 bhind   substances   tessences   and   above   fireflame  waterfiow
 and  blow  weI  fish the  toilet of  the world  and let  the spiral
 remain  powr  now  the  pwr  ander  seav  nightebbing  kraft  tofil
 manshadow  in  shdworld  he  travel  and   wI  the   fireflame  Iwe
 like  blude  tofil  circulate  and  recur  along the  mariform out-
 reach hmsel
 fireflame along the
 plosion

                                             HE STANDS, CROUCHING,
 blade  in  his  left  hand.  He  moves  the weapon  slowly, turning
 it, raising it, lowering it, hoping for a glint or two to catch the
 vision  behind  the  eye.  The  beast  takes  a  step  forward. The
 green  light  is  trapped within  the facets  of that  eye. Whether
 the blade holds any fascination for it he cannot tell.
 The beast takes another step.
            A gentle rain is falling. He is uncertain when it com-
 menced again. It increases slightly in intensity.
 Another step...
 His  right  hand  moves  to  his  belt  buckle  and   catches  hold
 of  it.  He  turns  to  extend  his  left shoulder,  continuing the
 movements of the blade.

  Another step...
      The beast's tongue darts once, in and out. Something is
 not  right.  Size?  Pattern  of  movement?  The cold  absence of
 projected feelings when it had communicated?
  Another step.
 Still a little too far to spring yet, he decides. He turns his
 body a little more. He releases the belt  buckle and  slides his
 hand farther to his  left, the  movement masked  by the  flap of
 his jacket, by the angle at which he now  stands. Is  it reading
 his  mind  at  this  moment?  He  begins  the  Blessingway chant
 again,  mentally,  to  fill his  thoughts. Something  inside him
 seems to take it up. It runs effortlessly within his breast, the
 accompanying feelings flowing without exertion.
  Another...
  Soon. Soon the rush. His right hand comes upon the butt
 of the tazer. His fingers wrap about it.
  Almost...
  Two more steps, he decides.
  One...
  Now is the time of the cutting of the throat...
  Two.
  He  draws  the weapon  and fires  it. It  strikes home  and the
 beast halts, stiffens.
  He  drops the  tazer, snatches  the knife  into his  right hand
 and lunges forward.
  He  halts  several  paces  before the  creature, for  it begins
 melting  and  turning  to  steam.  In  moments,  the   form  has
 dissolved  and  the  vapors  have collected  into a  small cloud
 about  three  meters above  the ground.  Lowering the  knife, he
 raises his eyes.
   Smokelike, it now drifts, passing to the left toward a huge
 pile of rubble from some ancient landslide. He follows,
 watching, waiting.
  Neat trick, that.
      I am not the beast you slew. I am that which you cannot
 destroy.  I  am  all  of  your  fears  and  failings.  And  I am
 stronger now because you fled me.
  I did not flee you. I followed a trail.
  What trail? I saw no trail save your own.
  It is the reason I am in  this place,  and I  presume I  am the
 reason you are here.
  The  smoke  ceases  its  movement,  to  hover  above  the  rock
 heap.

    Of course. I am the part of yourself which will destroy
 you. You have denied me for too long.
          The smoke begins to contour itself into a new form.
         I no longer deny you. I have faced the past and am at
 peace with it.
    Too  late.  I  have become  autonomous under  the conditions
 you created.
           De-autonomize, then. Go back where you came from.
    The form grows manlike.
    I cannot, for you are at peace with the past. Like Cat, I
 have only one function now.
    Cat is dead.
    ...And I lack a sense of humor.
    The  form  continues  its  coalescence.  Billy  regards   an  exact
 double  of  himself,  similarly  garbed,  holding  a  knife  the exact
 counterpart of his own, looking back at him. It is smiling.
    Then how can you be amused?
    I enjoy my one function.
    Billy raises the point of his blade.
    Then what are you waiting for? Come down and be about
 it.
    The  double  turns  and  leaps   to  his   left,  landing   on  the
 farther  side  of  the  heap.  Billy  rushes  around  it,  but  by the
 time  he  reaches  him  the  other  has   regained  his   footing.  He
 wipes  his  brow  with  his free  hand, for  the rain  still descends.
 Then   he   drops   into   a   crouch,   both  hands   extended,  low,
 knees bent. The other does the same.
    Billy backs  away as  the other  advances, then  shuffles to
 his  right,  feinting,  beginning  the  circle. He  studies the
 ground  quickly,  hoping  to  steer the  other into  a slippery
 place.  As his  eyes move,  his double  lunges. He  blocks with
 his left forearm and  thrusts for  the body.  The point  of the
 other's blade  pierces his  jacket sleeve  and enters  his arm.
 He  is  certain  his  own  blade  has  bitten  deeply  into his
 adversary's left side, but the double gives no  sign of  it and
 Billy sees no blood.
          "I am beginning to believe you," he says aloud, feeling his
 own blood dampen his arm. "Perhaps I cannot kill you."
    "True.  But  I  can  kill  you,"  the other  replies. "I  will kill
 you".
    Billy parries the blade, slashes the other's cheek. No
 wound opens. No blood appears.
    "So why do you not give up?" the other says.


   "Supposing  I  were  to  throw  down  my knife  and say  to hell
 with it?" he asks.
   "I would kill you."
   "You say you  will kill  me whether  I fight  or do  not fight?"
   "Yes."
   "Then  I  might  as  well fight,"  Billy says,  thrusting again,
 parrying  again,  slashing  low,  moving  back,   thrusting  high,
 circling.
    "Why?"

   "Warrior tradition. Why not? It's the best fight around."
   As   he   backs  away   from  a   fresh  attack,   Billy  almost
 stumbles  when  his  right  foot  strikes  an  apple-sized  stone.
 But  he  recovers  and  brushes  it  backward  as  if  it  were an
 annoyance.  He  slashes  and   thrusts  furiously   then,  halting
 the other. Then he  takes a  big step  back, positioning  his foot
 just so....
   He  kicks  the  stone  as hard  as he  can, directly  toward his
 double. It flies as from  a catapult,  striking the  other's right
 kneecap with a satisfying thunk.
   The  figure  bends  forward,  blade  lowering.  His  head  falls
 into a tempting position and Billy  swings his  left fist  as hard
 as he can against the right side of his adversary's jaw.
   The  double  falls  back  onto  his left  side, and  Billy kicks
 again,  toward  the  knife  hand.  His  boot  makes   contact  and
 the  blade  goes  clattering  across rocks  into the  distance. He
 flings himself upon the fallen form, his own blade upraised.
   As   he   drives   the   blade   downward  toward   the  other's
 throat, his adversary's left hand  flies up  and the  fingers wrap
 around  his  wrist.  His  arm  stops  as if  it has  encountered a
 wall.  The  pressure  on  his  wrist is  enormous. Then  the right
 hand  rises  and  he  knows  somehow that  it is  about to  go for
 his throat.
   He  drives  another  left  against  the  other's  jaw.  The head
 rolls to the side  and the  grip on  his wrist  slackens slightly.
 He  strikes  again  and  again.  Then  he  feels a  powerful move-
 ment beneath him.
   His  adversary  bunches  his  legs,  leans  forward  and  begins
 to rise, bearing Billy along with  him. He  strikes again,  but it
 seems  to  make  no  difference.  The  other's  movement  carries
 them both  to their  feet and  that right  hand is  coming forward
 again.  Billy  seizes the  extending wrist  and barely  manages to
 halt  it.  He  pushes  as  hard  as  he  can but  he is  unable to
 advance his knife hand.

   Then, gradually,  his left  hand is  forced back.  His right
 wrist feels as if it is about to snap.
   "You chindis are strong sons of bitches," he says.
   The  other  snarls and  flexes his  fingers. Billy  drives his
 knee  into  his groin.  The double  grunts and  bends forward.
 Billy's knife advances slightly.
   But  as  the  other  bends  forward,  Billy  sees  over him,
 beyond  him.  And  he  begins  singing  the  song the  old man
 taught him, the calling of Ikne'etso, the Big Thunder, recall-
 ing  now  when he  had transferred  power from  the sandpaint-
 ing to his own hand.
   Sees ...
     First, to where the totem stands - the same four figures
 below; but now, crowning  the spirit  pole, the  shadowy fifth
 form  has  grown  more  distinct  and is  shining with  an un-
 earthly glow. It seems to be smiling at him.
   You have, I see, gambled. Good,  it seems  to say,  and then
 the  pole  begins  to  elongate,  stretching  toward  the  now
 brightened heavens....
   To  where,  second,  the  rainbow now  arches in  full spec-
 trum.
   And his  gaze continues  to mount,  to the  rainbow's crest.
 There  he  sees  the Warrior  Twins regarding  him as  on that
 occasion so long ago. A dark form circles above them.
   Nayenezgani strings his great bow. He puts  an arrow  to it,
 draws it partway back and begins  to raise  it. The  dark form
 descends,  and  Black-god  comes  to  sit  upon  Nayenezgani's
 shoulder.
   The double tightens his grip and twists, and the knife falls
 from Billy's hand. He can feel the blood  running up  his left
 arm  as  the  strength  begins  to  ebb  and  the  other draws
 him nearer. He continues to utter the words of the song, call-
 ing....
   The pole stands  to an  enormous height  now, and  the figum
 atop it - now a man from the waist up -  is raising  his right
 hand and lowering his left, pointing at  him. He  is reaching,
 reaching....
   The  drumbeat  grows  louder,  comes  faster.  The  rattling
 sounds like a hailstorm.
   Despite a final effort to thrust him back, the double stands
 his  ground  and  draws  Billy  into  a crushing  embrace. But
 Billy continues to choke out the words.
   Nayenezgani  draws  his  bowstring  all  the  way  back, re-

 leases the arrow with a forward snapping  motion of  his left
 arm.
   The world explodes in a flash more brilliant than sunlight.
 In that moment he knows that  he has  entered his  double and
 his  double  has  entered  him,  that he  has fused  with the
 divided one, that the pieces of himself, scattered, have come
 home, have reassembled, that he has won....
   And that is all that he knows.

                     The Fourth Day

                        DISK IV

              BANK OF NOVA SCOTIA COMPUTER
                 PLEADS NOLO CONTENDERE

        STRAGEAN TRADE AGREEMENT NEARER REALITY

     DOLPHINS SETTLE OUT OF COURT

     ILI REPORTS MISSING METAMORPH

 Now you travel your own trail, alone.
 What you have become, we do not know.
 What your clan is now, we do not know.
 Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.

                   NEW YORK PHILHARMONIC TO
                 PREMIERE LEVIATHAN" SYMPHONY

  Charlie,  an  aged  humpback  whale  who  makes his  home in
 Scammon  Lagoon,  will  hear  the first  instrumental perfor-
 mance  of  his composition  via a  satellite hookup  to full-
 fidelity  underwater  speakers.  Although  he has  refused to
 comment on the rehearsals, Charlie seemed

                     TAXTONIES DO IT AGAIN

  When their  leader's clone's  bullet-riddled body  was found
 in the East River, a potential riot situation was only tempo-
 rarily averted

           SMUDGE POTS IN VOLCANO CRATER CAUSE PANIC
                      ALIENS REPRIMANDED

  A pair of tourists from Jetax-5, whose culture is noted for
 its eccentric sense of humor, admitted to

               GENERAL ACCEPTS NOBEL PEACE PRIZE

 crawling, he made it into  a sheltered  place. He  leaned his
 back against a  wall and  dipped his  finger into  the blood.
 Reaching out

              WHOOPING CRANE FLOCKS TO BE PRUNED

  Hunting permits will be  issued to  deal with  the overpopu-
 lation problem in  flocks of  the once  rare crane  which has
 now become a nuisance.
  "Who  can   sleep  with   all  that   whooping?"  complained
 residents

                BERSERK FACTORY DESTROYS OUTPUT
             HOLDS OFF NATIONAL GUARD FOR 8 HOURS
                  HOSTAOES RELEASED UNHARMED

    There was an old bugger from Ghent
    Spilled his drink in the sexbot's vent.
                  He screamed and he howled
              As if disemboweled.
          Instead of coming, he went.

         COMPUTER THERAPIST CHARGED WITH MALPRACTICE

                  BLACK HOLE TO BE AUCTIONED

 At Sotheby Park Bernet next Wednesday

   A WET SPRING FOR MUCH OF THE NATION

                              t otempl fling across beside the
 waters  andown  theating  of  thearth  after  fireflow  fromigh
 wright  but  rong  oh sands  the merger  each with  sands sands
 sands  sands ourglass  runneth over  days roulette  struck fire
 andown  thever  narrowing  tunnels  of  being  we  go  fireflow
 part  a  part  freverdreaming newslvs  dreams tove  touched the
 shaman  mind  beneath  the  bead  fireflow across  the windrawn
 days  andown  conditions  of  being  focused  through fireflood
 lens   anew   the   hunted   self  achieved   rainwet  snowblow
 windcut  daythrust  knifeslash  fireflown  are  the  hunted and
 hunting  selves  the  landscape   dreamspoken  nder   earth  of
 mind  through  heart  of  stars  toth  still  the  running  the
 burgeoning  the  everrun  foreverrun  one  frevermore   as  lps
 that kss the lightning creationheat everflow firetotem  apart a
 part one frever and run

 Mercy  Spender,  awakening  with  a  taste  for  tea   and  the
 desire to attend a dog race - strange  thought -  called Fisher
 and  asked  him  to  join  her  in  the  dining room.  Then she
 showered,   dressed,   combed  her   hair  and   thought  about
 makeup for the first time since her early singing days.

   Fisher    rummaged    through    his    thoughts,    wondering
 whether his illusions  could use  a touch  more class.  How long
 since he  had been  to an  art gallery?  Studied himself  in the
 mirror. Perhaps he ought to let his hair grow longer.
   Out  the  window,  new  day  clearing,  snow   melting,  water
 dripping.  He  hummed  a tune  - Ironbear's,  now he  thought of
 it. Not bad, that beat.
   Alex  Mancin  decided  to  undertake  a  retreat  at  a monas-
 tery  he  had  heard  of  in  Kentucky.  The money  market could
 take  care  of itself,  and the  dogs would  be fed  and groomed
 by  the  kennel  keeper,  poor  bastard.  They were  such stupid
 little things.

   Ironbear  turned  and  sidled,  passing  through  the  narrow,
 rockfallen  place  between  sheer  rises.  As he  had progressed,
 his ability to read the trail signs had grown better and better,
 exceeding  perhaps  what  it  had  been in  those long-forgotten
 days  in  the  Gateway  to the  Arctic. Now,  as he  entered the
 canyon, he felt that he was nearing the trail's end.
   He  did  not  pause  to study  the ruins  about him  but moved
 directly  to  the  area  amid  charred  brush and  grasses where
 the ground  indicated that  a struggle  had occurred.  He squat-
 ted   and   remained  unmoving   for  a   long  while   when  he
 reached  it,  studying  the  earth.  Chips  of  turquoise, dried
 blood...  Whatever  had  gone  on  here   had  been   very  vio-
 lent.
   Finally  he  rose  and  turned  toward the  ruin to  his left.
 Something  had  crawled or  been dragged  in that  direction. He
 opened  his  mind   and  probed   carefully  but   could  detect
 nothing.
   Vague  images  passed   through  his   awareness  as   he  ap-
 proached the  ruin. He  had been  present as  part of  the being
 which  the  Sands  construct  had   formed  here   under  highly
 symbolic   circumstances,   had   felt  the   telekinetic  power
 reaching, felt the blast. But after that event, nothing.  He was
 swept away at that very point, to continue his tracking.
 ...  And  then  he  saw  him,  propped  against  a  wall  near a
 corner of the ruin. At first Ironbear could not tell  whether he
 was breathing, though  his eyes  were open  and directed  to his
 right.
   Moving nearer, he saw the pictograph Singer himself had
 drawn on the wall with his own blood. It was a large circle,
 containing a pair of dots, side by  side, about  a third  of the

 way  down  its. diameter.  Lower, beneath  these, was  an up-
 ward-curving arc.
   Inhaling the moment, Ironbear  shook his  head at  what was
 rare, at  what was  powerful. Like  the buffalo,  it probably
 would  not last.  A life's  gamble. But  just now,  just this
 instant, before he  advanced and  broke the  feeling's spell,
 there was something. Like the buffalo.

        High on the mountain of fire
        in the lost place of the Old Ones,
        fire falling to the right of me,
        to the left of me,
        before, behind, above, below,
        I met my self's chindi,
        chindi's self.
        Shall I name me a name now,
        to have eaten him?

        I walk the rainbow trail.
        In a time of ice and fire
        in the lost place of the Old Ones
        I met my self's chindi,
        became my chindi's self.
        I have traveled through the worlds.
        I am a hunter in all places.
        My heart was divided into four parts
        and eaten by the winds.
        I have recovered them.

        I sit at the center of the entire world
        sending forth my song.
        I am everywhere at home,
        and all things have been given back to me.
        I have followed the trail of my life
        and met myself at its end.
        There is beauty all around me.

        Nayenezgani came for me
        into the Darkness House,
        putting aside with his stag
        the twisted things, the things reversed.
        The Dark Hunter remembers me,

 Coyote remembers me,
 the Sky People remember me,
 this land remembers me,
 the Old Ones remember me,
 I have remembered myself
 coming up into the world.
 I sit on the great sand-pattern
 of Dinetah, here at its center.
 Its power remembers me.

 Coyote call across the darkness bar...
 I have eaten myself and grown strong.
 There is beauty all around me.
 Before me, behind me, to the right
 and to the left of me,
 corn pollen and rainbow.
 The white medicine lifts me in his hand.

 The dancer at the heart of all things
 turns like a dust-devil before me.
 My lightning-bead is shattered.
 I have spoken my own laws.

 My only enemy, my self, reborn,
 is also the dancer.
 My trail, my mind, is filled with stars
 in the great wheel of their turning
 toward springtime. Stars.
 I come like the rain with the wind
 and all growing things.
 The white medicine lifts me in his hand.
 Here at lost Lukachakai I say this:
 The hunting never ends.
 The way is beauty.
 The medicine is strong.
 The ghost train doesn't stop here
 anymore. I am the hunter
 in the eye of the hunted. If I call
 they will come to me
 out of Darkness Mountain.