"Yeah..." he agreed, wishing she hadn't reminded him of that. She, like all agents, was a ruthless killer.

"So it behooves us to catch them before they catch us."

"But we're not paranoid! We don't have to -- "

"You aren't. As an agent of our government, I am."

He didn't like that, but he understood it. "You have to serve your master, I guess. But if you ran the government -- "

"Things would change. I don't like paranoia; it's inefficient. I don't like killing to maintain a defective system. But that is academic. Right now I have to trace this chain -- if that's what it is -- to its end. And deal with what I find there."

"Yeah..."

"You a.s.sumed the projector would be within fifty feet because the last one was. That does not necessarily follow."

"h.e.l.l of a better chance to find it than looking three miles out."

"Yes. I ranged three miles. The snow covers all traces."

"Maybe it's under cover -- in a hollow tree or under a rock or something. Because of its being winter."

"Good idea. I'll check for that." She moved out again.

She found it. The mound gave it away. Another aperture projector, very similar to the others.

"You can still go back," she told Veg.

"I'm getting curious," he said, "Let's go. It's cold here."

She shrugged and activated the device. They stepped through.

Veg braced himself for any extreme of climate or locale -- hot, cold, lush, barren, metropolis, wilderness. And stood amazed, caught unbraced for the reality.

It was an alien orchestra.

The instruments were conventional, even archaic: strings, woodwinds, percussion. The technique was flawless to his untrained ear. The melody was pa.s.sionate, stirring mind, heart, and entrails. It was only the players who were alien.

Tamme looked about warily, as bemused as he. Veg knew she was searching for the next projector. There was no sign of it.

Meanwhile, the alien orchestra played on, oblivious of the intrusion. The players on the violins had at least twelve appendages, each terminating in a single finger or point. These fingers moved over the strings, pressing to change the pitch; half a dozen fingers bunched to control the bow. The creatures on the flutes were bird-like, with nozzle-like mouths with gill-like apertures around the neck that took in air alternately so that there was always pressure. Those on the drums had arms terminating in hard b.a.l.l.s on flexible tendons; they did not need to hold any drumsticks.

Veg wondered whether the creatures had been designed for the instruments or the instruments for the creatures. If the latter, as seemed more reasonable, what did this signify about music on Earth? Human beings adapting to instruments that were designed for aliens? That would mean strong crossover between alternates... He tried to speak, but the music was loud, coming at them from every side, and he could not hear his own voice. Not surprising since the two of them had apparently landed right in the orchestra pit, huge as it was. They had to get out of it before they could communicate. He looked for the edge of it -- and only saw more musicians. They were really devoted to their art to ignore creatures as strange as he and Tamme must seem to them. He started to walk between the players, but a hand on his arm restrained him. It was Tamme, shaking her head "No."

He realized why: There was no distinguishing feature about this spot, and they could readily lose it. For that matter, they could lose each other if they stayed apart. There seemed to be no end to this orchestra!

Tamme pointed to a spot on the floor. "Stay!" she mouthed several times until he read her lips and understood. He would be the place marker, she the explorer. Ordinarily he would have insisted on reversing the roles, but he knew she was more capable. He squatted where she had indicated.

Tamme moved through the formations of musicians. They were not exactly in lines or groups, but they were not random. There was a certain alien order to it -- a larger pattern like that of the leaves on a tree or the stars in the sky.

Somewhere, here, was another projector -- maybe.

Where? It was not visible. Could the aliens -- actually they were not aliens but natives, as this was their alternate -- could they have moved it? Somehow he doubted it. The creatures had taken absolutely no notice of the human intrusion; why should they bother with a mechanical device that did not play music? Maybe it was inside one of their instruments. No -- when they left, it would be lost, and that was no decent alternative!

He contemplated the musicians. Where did they go during their breaks? Or were they anch.o.r.ed here forever? He had seen none move. Strange!

But back to the projector: Could it be in one of the boxlike seats? There seemed to be room. Which one? There were fifty or a hundred of them in sight. And how could he get at it?

Tamme was moving in widening spirals. He caught intermittent glimpses of her between the musicians. After a couple more circuits she would be invisible; the ma.s.sed musicians blocked every line-of-sight pathway beyond a certain distance.

Well, that was one problem he would let Tamme handle. She didn't want him interfering, and maybe she was right. Still, it took some getting used to -- but Tamme was different from Aquilon.

Veg shook his head. He wasn't sure which type of girl he preferred. Of course it was over between him and Aquilon, and pointless with Tamme, even for the one-night stand she had offered; she was not his type. Still, no harm in speculating....

This shifting randomly through alternates -- or was it random? It reminded him of something. A children's game... puzzle... fold-a-game, flex-a-gone...

"Hexaflexagon!" he exclaimed. "Alternity hexaflexagon!"

Tamme was there so fast he jumped, startled. "What's the matter?" He could hear her now; the music had subsided to a delicate pa.s.sage.

"Nothing," he said sheepishly. "I was just thinking."

She did not waste effort on the matter. "I have located the projector."

"Great!" he said, relieved. Now that they were on this rollercoaster, he preferred to continue forward. He had not relished the notion of staying here or of returning to the blizzard world. "How'd you figure which box?"

"Sound. The boxes are hollow; the projector changed the acoustics."

"Oh. So you used the music. Smart." Music and hexaflexagons, he thought. He followed her to the place.

It was the stool of a ba.s.s-strings player. The octopus-like creature almost enveloped the box, four of its tentacles reaching up to depress the ends of the four strings, four more manipulating the bow. The sounds it made were low and sweet: It really had the musical touch!

"You're pretty good," Veg told it. But the volume had swelled again, drowning him out. The creature made no acknowledgment.

Tamme squatted, touched the box, and lifted out a panel. Inside was one of the little aperture projectors. She didn't ask whether he was ready to go; she knew it. She reached in, her arm almost brushing the overlapping bulk of the octopus, and turned the machine on.

And they were on a steeply inclined plane. "Yo!" Veg cried, rolling helplessly.

Tamme caught his wrist and brought him up short. He had known she was strong, but this disconcerted him. Seemingly without effort, she supported the better part of his weight.

Veg's flailing free hand found purchase, and he righted himself. They were perched on a steeply tilted sheet of plastic. It was orange but transparent; through it he could see the jumbled edges of other sheets. He had caught hold of the slanting upper edge. Tamme had done the same farther up.

Below them were more sheets, some edge-on, some angled, some broadside. Above them were others. And more to the sides. All sizes and colors. What held them in place was a mystery; they seemed firm, as if embedded in clear gla.s.s, yet there was no support.

Veg peered down, searching for the ground. All he could see was an irregular network of planes. The jungle, like the orchestra they had just vacated, was everywhere, endless.

Tamme let go, slid down, and landed gracefully on a purple horizontal plane to the side. She signaled Veg to stay put.