journey."

"I understand." He relaxed a little. "Call me Sam,

please."

"Okay . . . Sam it is." She was too tired to debate protocol with anyone. Besides, "Sam" was a lot easier to say than "Mataroreva."

"Good." He beamed. "Your large luggage should already be on its way to your rooms. Anything else?"

They all shook their heads. Each had his or her in- strument belt comfortably stocked and settled around

the waist.

"We can leave for Administration, then. But first . . ." Reaching into a large waterproof packet clipped to his Christmas-treelike belt, Mataroreva with- drew a handful of goggles made entirely of some sup- ple, transparent material, the headband of the same stuff as the lenses. He slipped another pair over his own face. "They're completely self-adjusting," he said as the others slipped on their own. "I suggest you don't take them off until you're inside a building. You don't need them out on the open sea, either. All our build- ings have windows formed from the same material."

"Can't you grow used to the glare?" Cora asked.

Mataroreva shook his head. "There's simply too much of it. You'd go blind eventually. You can take it early in the morning," and he stared into Cora's eyes in a way she didn't like, "or late at night when the sun's almost down. But while the local star is up, it's simply too much." He turned and exited the shuttle.

Cora followed him, then Rachael with her precious neurophon, and lastly Merced.

Then they were standing on the narrow, motionless pier. Clouds and sky appeared sunset dark because of the goggles. The lagoon itself stretched some twenty kilometers to the north, another thirty to the south.

Transplanted off-world trees, water-anch.o.r.ed scrub growth, and additional piers all appeared dark from behind the special plastic. There was a dim reflection from the buildings scattered along the wide spit of sand.

Cora raised her right hand and slipped a finger be- neath the lower rim of the goggles. She lifted it slightly, glanced down and across at where the pier was slotted into the sh.o.r.e. Instantly something stabbed at the back of her eyes; crimson, emerald, blue, and yellow knives battered her outraged optic nerves. The light seemed as intense if not as pure as a cl.u.s.ter of tiny lasers. Hur- riedly she let the goggles slip back into place, blinking away tears. Now the sand ahead merely twinkled at her through the lenses, did not blind.

They were preparing to leave the pier when she felt a gentle tingle in her lower legs. The tingle traveled up her thighs, ran like an acrobatic arachnid up her spine.

Simultaneously a plaintive melody sounded in her ears, counterpointing the delicate rippling active inside her.

Apparently the subdued beauty was inspiring Ra- chael. Her daughter's hands caressed the neurophon.

One strummed the dual sets of circular strings that lay in the center of the instrument, the other fluttered over the contact controls set in the instrument's handle and base. The coupling of aural music with the subsonic vibrations affecting her skin and nerves produced a re- laxing sensation throughout Cora's body, as if she had just spent an hour beneath a fine-spray shower.

Merced appeared similarly affected, but Mataro- reva's reaction was quite different. The smile vanished

26.

from his face and he turned so abruptly he almost

knocked Cora down.

"What's the matter?" She tried to make the wide

grin return. "I'm no music lover myself, but . . ."

"It's not that." He was looking nervously beyond her. "It has nothing to do with the music. I like the music and the neuronics. It's just that... I think she'd better stop." He was standing on the edge of the pier, across from the shuttle, staring down into the muted crystalline water. Elongated bands of light, reflections of the sun on water ripples, flashed up at him.

Rachael paused when he made a quieting gesture in her direction. "But you said you liked it," she pro- tested. "I can play something else if you want."

"Just turn off the dendritic resonators."

"Not again." She petulantly ran her hand across a long series of contacts. Cora felt something combing her nerves. "I keep trying to explain it's all of one piece, the aural and the neuronics. If I can't conjoin them properly, I might as well give it up and take up

the violin."

"Just for now," Mataroreva said.

Merced was also staring over the side of the pier. "I

do believe there is something under the sand."

Rachael ignored them both, her hands flicking an- grily over the neurophon's controls, generating a last discordant dual projection before shutting the instru- ment off.

Cora's nerves jumped a little under the sharp stim- ulation. Then she discovered herself bewilderedly stumbling backward. Seawater geysered in front of her.

Draped by the water like a maiden in a blue-green suit was a four-meter-high orange body, flattened like a flounder's and encrusted with rough protrusions like a chunk of pumice. Several thick pink pseudopods waved at the air. Cora did not see any eyes but received the distinct impression that the creature perceived her

clearly.

27.

Mataroreva fell flat. From his cluttered equipment belt he withdrew a very compact beamer. The under- water weapon functioned well on dry land; a beam of bright blue struck the apparition in its midsection, or what Cora a.s.sumed to be its midsection. She could see it a bit more clearly now. Only seconds had pa.s.sed. It looked like a cross between an obese squid and a star- fish with delusions of grandeur. The blue fire struck between a pair of tentacles, pierced clean through the orange flesh. One thick, bristly appendage slapped wetly on the pier, only centimeters from Cora's ankles.

The blue beam struck the creature again and it slid back into the water. It had not made a sound.

Most would have lain quietly, panting and fearful.

There was too much of the scientist in Cora to permit that. As soon as the creature vanished beneath the water she crawled quickly but cautiously to the edge.

Large bubbles were making blemishes on the clear surface. She could barely make out a hint of thick bristles breaking the sand as the creature receded be- neath it. Soon the bottom appeared undisturbed, as if nothing had slept there in the first place.

Several figures were running toward them from the nearest of the low-lying buildings. A few were armed.

Mataroreva got to his feet. Carefully he clipped the beamer back onto his belt.

A hint of polished blue metal disappeared as Pucara Merced slid something indistinct into an inside com- partment of his own belt. No one noticed. Cora's at- tention was still on the sea floor, as was Mataroreva's.

Only the still-motionless Rachael, arms wrapped pro- tectively around her instrument, had the faintest glimpse of the object, and she was too stunned by the suddenness of the attack for the tiny shape to register immediately on her mind.

A couple from the building reached them, panting heavily. As soon as they saw that Mataroreva had re-

28.

clipped his beamer, they put away their own. He was leaning over the side of the pier.

"What happened, Sam?"

"Toglut."

Now the man joined Mataroreva in inspecting the

sand below. "It must've gone crazy." His brow was creased and he sounded confused. "I don't under- stand."

The big Polynesian gestured toward Raehael. The woman who had joined them nodded understandingly.

"She was playing that?"

"I-I'm sorry." Raehael stared at them dumbly. "I didn't know. I mean, I know that a neurophon's vi- brations can affect certain animals. It's just . . . the water here is so shallow, and we're in a protected la- goon near human habitation and I-I didn't see..."