"So long as it floats," said Mal, stepping into the gentle surf.

"Don't be absurd," chided Porsupah. "Excuse me." The diminutive officer dove into the water and shot past Mal like a furred torpedo, his webbed feet frothing the sea behind him.

"Waiting makes me nervous, that's all," said Mal.

"Yes," Kitten muttered, staring back at the trees. At any moment she expected to see black hell pouring towards them over the palms. "We've got to get away to alert the Rectory, not to mention GalCenter on Terra and Hivehom. This is rather more than a local problem." She paused. "I wonder how Peet is coming with his electronic jigsaw?"

"I don't care about the Rectory, I don't particularly care about the pen-pushers at GalCenter, and I especially don't care about what that revived mummy expects to do about this thing. I expect he's outclassed. What I do care about is that for the first time in ten years I've got a bank account that's more than just healthy, and by hell and damn, I've every intention of sticking around to spend it!"

"Your mind is rotten with credit pollution!" she sneered in disgust.

"You question my motives without knowing a damn thing, and-"

A cough and rumble turned -their attention to the choppy water. The sound settled into a steady, low grumble. A moment later a boat appeared out of the mist, Porsupah at the left side of the peculiar double helm. It was only a small open powerboat, but it looked able to hold them all comfortably.

"Sorry it's not a raft," said Pots, "but it appears to be near full fuel-wise and not terribly difficult to operate. It -should suffice to get us elsewhere- our primary concern at the moment, I suspect."

"There might be an automated way-station nearby," suggested Kitten, "where we can either pick up something a little faster or else transmit cityside."

"Our scaly friends might pick up a distress signal this close by," said Mal thoughtfully.

"If there are any left. Please, let's argue about it elsewhere and elsewhen, hmmm?"

They boarded the tiny craft. At a respectable speed only a million kilometers or so too slow, they headed out of the cove. Only fog swallowed them up.

The Vom paused in its work and considered the destruction it had wrought. It was full-fleshed, unhungry, sated on life-force, for the first time in memory. It could detect a last pocket of high-quality force on the island. It was buried in a strong chamber deep within the island itself. Content as it was; the Vom decided, after some thought, not to trouble this last group just now.

It relaxed, flowed out to a comfortable configuration, and listened. The Guardian still retained its ancient ability to blur its whereabouts. Strain as it might, the Vom had not yet rebuilt to the point where it could penetrate that mindweb. Leaving the search for the Enemy, it let its perception roam, out, free, open, for the first time since awakening, testing its revitalized neural complex.

Tiny bits of life-force impinged here, there, on its fluid consciousness. Were recorded and stored for future sorting and analysis. Great clusters of lesser intelligences flowed in the seas about the island. Not as exciting, but still suitable for assimilation and fueling.

To the north, however, there was a really respectable body of strong life-force, by far the greatest within the Vom's range of detection. It would be enough to stimulate the Vom to full, pulsating awareness. To a state of elemental power. Perhaps the Guardian would also ,realize this, and go there to defend. Perhaps it would not, electing to put off a confrontation still longer. Either way, it was a destination, a reason for moving. The Vom considered. It decided.

It went.

Philip was at the landing to greet them as they pulled into Wetplace. He was fairly dancing with impatience and concern as they went through the brief but necessary tying-down procedure. They'd borrowed an emergency raft from the sailor's station they'd found. Humid fog was as thick here as it had been on the open sea. Limpid drops rolled sinuously around Kitten's thighs as she stepped out of the raft.

The black tower loomed indistinctly in the feather-soft drizzle.

"Kitten, Captain Hammurabi! How pleasurable to see you again! I was worried. And I have such things to tell you."

"And I have a story or two for you, lad!" said Mal. Together they headed for the tower.

As they entered the now-familiar elevator, Mal recounted quickly most of what had occurred since their departing. The young engineer was quiet throughout, listening attentively. In fact, by the time Mal finished the youngster seemed downright grim.

"It all fits," he said.

"Glad to hear it," Mal replied. "What fits?"

"With what Peot said."

"And what has he said?" asked Kitten.

"That the creature's power and strength grows in minutes arid hours, not days. That it soon may be strong enough to resist anything Pent and the Machine can throw at it. In which case the only alternative to catastrophe on a galaxy-wide scale will be planetary sterilization."

"Whew! You said that calmly enough. Does he realize how much chance we'd have of getting Council-Chancellor approval for that?" Kitten said.

"He'd be included under such a program too, of course," Mal added.

"The concept of death in all its manifestations and aspects is one he's more than familiar with. He doubts the actuality would be more than merely anticlimactic. The possibility does not concern him. As for the other, he has some inkling of how slowly even the best non-totalitarian bureaucracy moves. He only suggests what he believes may work."

"Cheery prognosis from a potential savior," Kitten murmured.

"Still, everything is future tense.' Where's your friend?"

"Pors? He's taken another ship and gone into the city to help the Major organize things at the Rectory.

And to give a first-hand report. Does Peot think the monster will continue the kind of destruction we observed at the Enclave?"

"Not for a while, it seems..."

"Haw!" Mal snorted.

"... at least until it has located and reckoned with Peat himself. It knows of the Tar-Aiym's presence on Repler, and..."

"Tar-Aiym?" interrupted Kitten. "I know that word. Pent claims to be a Tar-Aiym?" But Philip ignored her.

"... until the Guardian is destroyed, the Vom knows it will always be in danger. It is a highly logical organism and will always bow to priorities. Finding and eliminating Peot is first. Destruction of puny humanx resistance falls considerably lower on the fist."

"And if it locates our resurrected madman, naturally it will come directly here."

"I should suppose so."-

"Naturally Chatham has not been told of this."

"Naturally not."

Kitten sighed. "Well, I hope it takes its time. I'm not sure I could take another sight of that thing without a few days to blot it out of my mind."

Governor Washburn was very upset. He'd been forced out of his beloved daily schedule. The Governor was a most punctual person. This awkward diversion had already forced him to miss at least one address to a local assemblage of parents of school-age children-voters all. Not to mention the unveiling of the new seafood processing plant on Isle de Rais.

He'd accepted the chair offered by Orvenalix only to hop out of it almost immediately and commence pacing in the small office like a target in a shooting gallery. Porsupah was an interested spectator.

"The thing is bloody preposterous! Alien monsters indeed! That's work for infantile minds. And for that you draw me from my official duties! For-"

"I've seen the thing, Governor," said Porsupah quietly. "It is far from insubstantial."

"So I've been told." Washburn waved a hand diffidently. "Understand me, Lieutenant. It's not your powers of observation I question. Merely the preciseness of your description. An understandable penchant for exaggeration induced by excitable circumstances . . ."

"It is not impossible that certain details have been slightly exaggerated. The creature may have left a survivor or two."