"Thank you," said the other with a bow. "I am grateful for your kindness." He bent to retrieve the lantern and straightened, face thoughtful.

"I have just considered...Will it be dangerous for the blades to encounter light? If so, I must ask if I might hold to your harness as we go. My eyes are too poor to see here..."

Edger was touched, both by the eggling's care and the grace with which he accepted his limitation.

"You may keep your light at that level," he said gruffly. "The blades will not suffer from it." He turned, heading back the way he had come. "Follow."

In keeping with his judgment, the T'carais led his charge by a route that avoided the growing rooms; and in due time they reached the cavern mouth.

Outside, he turned, meaning to leave wordless, as was proper.

"Edger," called the small one, who appeared to have no shame.

Reluctant, the T'carais turned back. "I hear."

He had clipped the lantern onto his belt and stood now, hands out, palms turned up. "You have been very kind and it's true that I am grateful. In spite of this, I feel I must ask for yet another kindness." Hetook a breath and plunged hastily on. "Would you please introduce me to some of your Clan members? I have come to learn about you-your language and your ways-and it would be much easier if someone would speak with me..."

Was he a scholar, then? The T'carais was uncertain of the word "scout."

"What you ask may be possible," he conceded. "I will consider it. However, a decision will not be made this moons' phase, for I leave tomorrow moontime for a visit to another Clan." He paused.

"Perhaps it would be wisest for you to go someplace else. Or, if you must stay here, to avoid the egglings. You frighten them."

Once again that ironic glance down at his soft self, the straight look into Edger's face.

"I think that, beside yourself, the egglings are the only people I have seen here who are not frightened of me."

This eggling was out of reason perceptive. Edger turned away, speaking the wellwish.

"K'mentopak, eggling. Be you well."

"K'mentopak, T'carais," came the soft reply. "My thanks to you."

VAL CON STRETCHED taut in the pilot's chair and relaxed, abruptly boneless. The log was once more up-to-date.

He considered the T'carais, grinning as it occurred to him to wonder if that person thought him Terran.

There were those of that long, burly race who would not be best pleased by that. Though, to be fair, the general configuration was the same, and perhaps, from a height of nearly nine feet, a seven-foot person and a five-foot one are both merely small.

Knives. Growing knives? They had pa.s.sed nothing that looked to his untutored eyes to be blades a-growing on their way out of the cavern last night. Of course, Edger had said he might not, as punishment. Possibly, the T'carais had chosen a route that bypa.s.sed such wonders.

But growing? And sensitive to-energies-created by music, but not the everyday radiant variety?

What sort of energy, he wondered, nourishes a sense of direction?

A senseless question, certainly: A sense of direction was nothing but itself.

Or was it?

He snapped to his feet; moved to the center of the ship.

Planetary north, he told himself; turned on his heel, pointing.

East. a smaller turn.

South...

West...

Home, standing tall, arm raised, finger indicating that area in the Fourth Quadrant where turned the planet Liad.Sense of direction back on duty, sir.

And where had it been last night? He lowered his arm slowly. Music, but not light. A man lost, who never misses the way. Blades growing out of ancient rock...

A sense of direction is a low-level psychic phenomenon.

Music?

Not psychic-a skill anyone might learn, subject to the physics of the universe...

Two strides to the storage locker and the 'chora within, still shrouded in yellow silk. He set it on the table and pulled the cloth away, exposing its smooth newness.

This was an expensive portable, far superior to the one he had owned formerly. He had lately had neither heart nor joy to play, but now he flipped the power on; hands flickering over the stops, setting values and intensities.

Lightly, fingers joking, he played the line of the rhyming game that had so charmed the eggling; drifted into the ballad that had defeated him upon the reed.

G.o.ds, what a beautiful instrument.

What sort of energy is music?

He let his fingers slow; flipped off the power. Eyes still on the 'chora, he lifted the kit and belted it around his waist. Hefting the keyboard by its strap, he arranged it across his back-like a sh.e.l.l, he thought, half-smiling.

He left the ship, whistling.

SOUNDLESS, HE SLIPPED out of the vegetation at the path's end, blinked and nearly laughed. To his right, three egglings, running hard from a much larger individual. And walking toward him with infant nonchalance, his acquaintance of the previous afternoon.

"Good morning, youngling," he greeted it in soft Trade. "Will your nurse be angry with me again?"

"D'neschopita," the eggling told him, with emphasis. "T'carais'amp b'lenarkanarak'ab."

He lifted an eyebrow and walked forward. "Say you so?" he murmured, keeping his voice smooth.

"Well, she is your kin and I must bow to your judgment in the matter."

At this, the eggling burst into a storm of volubility, emphasized by meaningful blinks of the huge eyes. Val Con shook his head. Too much, too fast, lacking structure... Perhaps. He pulled on the 'chora strap; brought the keyboard across his chest; flipped on the power.

The eggling paused for breath, eyes glowing. Val Con moved his fingers over keys, manipulated stops-playing back the rhythm and sound of the child's speaking, wondering what would happen...

A much larger sound interrupted the experiment. He looked up to see the nurse approaching, arms upraised for a strike.

The 'chora! Instinctively, he bent forward, shielding the instrument with his body; tensing his shoulders totake the blow...

Which did not fall. Instead, she stood over him and loosed an ear-ringing tirade, no doubt listing his faults and probable bad habits, annotated, cautiously, he turned his head and looked at her out of the corner of an eye.

The abuse cut off in mid-annotation. Thin chest-armor heaving, she grabbed the eggling by the arm and dragged him away.

Val Con straightened slowly, watching them go. Nurse was in no mood for nonsense, it seemed. She jerked hard on the youngster's arm when he tried to hang back, roaring something the man felt must be unsuitable for delicate young ears. The youngling bleated and was borne away.

Bully, Val Con apostrophized her, just wait until he's grown.

Then reaction hit and he collapsed cross-legged to the ground, hugging the 'chora and shaking.

"T'CARAIS, I MUST insist-" the Broodmother's words proceeded her, reaching Edger as he walked with his brother Handler. He turned ponderously to face her.

"What is it you must insist, Broodmother?"

"That hideous thing must be slain-or banished-or-or-It is dangerous, T'carais-rabid! I cannot, in my duty as Broodmother-"

Edger lifted a hand and she subsided, though not willingly.

"There is new behavior? something other than we spoke of past noontime?"

"T'carais, I used your counsel and moved the egglings to the other side of the L'apeleka field for this suntime. All was well, I thought, until I looked about-it was back! and alone with the T'carais'amp!

Speaking with him!" She stopped a moment, clearly agitated. "I ran to them, T'carais, and I confess that my hand was raised to strike it..."

Strike him? The T'carais recalled the man's absurd frailness. One blow from an outraged Broodmother would shatter him beyond hope of repair. He tasted air.

"Yet you did not."

"I did not, " she agreed. "For it looked up at my approach, bowed down and stayed thus, very meekly, while I berated it." She gathered her courage together. "It is evil, T'carais. A danger to the egglings and to the clan. It must be destroyed."

"No," said the T'carais firmly; and his brother Handler looked at him consideringly. "This is a sentient being, Broodmother. Ignorant, yes. Young, also. But not malicious. The Knife Clan does not kill wantonly. I go now to speak with him, explaining your preference that he stay apart from the egglings.

Though," he added, fixing her with an eye, "it is true that one hungers for children, when one is far from clan and kin." He gestured brusquely. She bowed and went.

Edger turned to his brother. "Will you come? If you are to judge in my place while I am absent, it is well you know all whom your words enclose."

Handler inclined his head. "I was about to beg the honor, Brother."* * *

THE MUSIC LED them to his seat under the clemktos tree. Halfway across the valley it reached them, full of such force and structure-such power-that the T'carais gave silent thanks that the man had not chosen to use this instrument within the caverns.

He had been toying, past moontime, thought Edger. Indeed, what else might one do with music coaxed from a dead stick?

But this-this was in sophisticated earnest. He had not lied when he claimed maturity for himself...

The man glanced up as they approached, fingers slowing, stopping on the keys. He set the instrument aside, rolled gracefully to his feet and bowed low.

"T'carais."

Edger inclined his head. "Val Con yos'Phelium Scout. I thank you for the gift of music you freely give our land." He paused. Surely, he was not mistaken? "Why did you not say your whole name to me, when last we spoke?"

The dark brows pulled together. "Forgive me. I meant no insult. It is possible that I do not know my-whole name." He tipped his head. "I would be pleased to learn it from you."

Handler blinked. Did the creature ask the T'carais to name it? Impudence.

But his brother took no offense. He merely raised a hand in the gesture that asked grace and told it, "I will think on this. I also consider that which you asked of me last speaking. These things wait upon my return."

"I understand," said the small one, folding his hands before him.

"I hear," then said the T'carais sternly, "that you have again come near the egglings, thus offending the Broodmother. It was my command that you refrain from these things, what say you?"

Handler blinked again. His brother would judge the thing as if it were a Clan member?

It is a thinking being, he told himself, laboriously tracing the thought of a T'carais. It has attached itself to the Clan, whatever its alien reason for doing so. Should it thus be slain? Or heard?

The small one sighed. "I tried to obey you, T'carais. I came here because, in all former days, the egglings and their Broodmother kept to the other side of this field. It was accident that I came into the midst of them. And when the tallest eggling came to me and spoke, I thought it would be-rude-if I refused to answer as well as I might..."

The T'carais waited.

Val Con shrugged. "As for irritating the Broodmother-T'carais, I must admit that she has irritated me.

Twice she denied this eggling and I the joy of acquaintanceship. If she had his best interest in her heart, she would not teach him fear of what is unknown, but encourage his curiosity and interest!"

An opinionated egg-man. And not a word to say that he had been threatened. Did he not know? Or count it too small a thing to mention?

"I hear your answer, and find it holds some merit. I see how this accidental meeting has occurred. The fault is mine and I will make amends. The Broodmother and the egglings will return to their place near theL'apeleka field. You will not go there."

The small one bowed. "I hear you, T'carais."

"See that you obey me," Edger said, with asperity. "Broodmothers are not lightly angered. This one feels you are a threat and a danger. Annoy her further and she may strike you, thus greatly curtailing the span of your years." He studied the unconcerned green eyes. "Do you understand me, Val Con yos'Phelium Scout?"

"Yes, Edger. I understand you." He tipped his head. "The T'carais has further orders?"

An exhalation like a small tornado. "A question: You named your Clan Korval. I am not familiar with this line of the clans of Men. I think you are not Yxtrang-"

Val Con tipped his head back, uttering that sound men call laughter. Glancing up, he raised a hand to push dark fur from bright eyes.

"Not Yxtrang," he murmured. "Nor Terran, though-" He paused. Trade did not hold an adequate word, so he settled at last for: "she-who-raised-me is. I am Liaden."

"Ah," said Edger. "I have met Liadens in the past, though not so many as I have Terrans. It is well. Were you Yxtrang, you would not be allowed to remain."

Oh, no? thought Val Con. A race that thinks it might order mighty Yxtrang and have it regarded more than mere senseless noise? Interesting.

"Now," continued Edger, "I have said to you that I will be away for a time. This," he gestured; Handler stood forward, inclining his head, "is my brother, the T'caraisiana'ab. He speaks with my voice in all things while I am gone. Though you are not of the Knife Clan, you infringe on our territory, and must be remembered in judgment. also, your skill in music interests me-I make a study of the music of Men, for the joy of my spirit. You may continue your studies, excepting only that you will refrain from studying the egglings and that you are banned from the caverns. If any offer you insult or harm, you must say to them: 'T'caraisiana'ab e'amokenatek'. This means that you are to be heard and judged by the T'caraisiana'ab.