Suddenly shaking with a cold fury, Valleroy spat, "Let go of me, Sectuib. You don't frighten me!"

"Calm down! Like this, we have a minute to talk privately. Nobody would dare interrupt!"

Subsiding, Valleroy tried to wrench a hand free. "What are you doing?"

"Faking it. Now listen to me..."

"Faking what?"

Exasperated, Klyd snapped, "Entran. If I hadn't been faking, that blast of hatred you just threw at me would have put me in the hospital for a week." He switched to English. "You've got a role to play, mister, and you better measure up or neither of us will live long enough to report to Stacy. Is that clear!"

"Perfectly. But I can't help what I feel."

"You'd better learn to help it. Now get this. Nobody here knows where you came from or when. Zeor's reputation rides on your shoulders. I intend to write Yenava that you are providing for me as well or better than Denrau ever has. You'd better make sure she never hears otherwise, or I'll have your hide. Do you under-and me?"

The tirade beat aside Valleroy's anger. For a moment, he had a flash of insight into the risks that the channel was taking on Aisha's behalf. One slip on his part could blast the whole Tecton to pieces, and maybe end the human race for good. He wondered if Stacy understood the stakes in this game quite that way. But then he-remembered why Aisha was important to Stacy. If she was forced to help break down the Gen monetary system, organized Gen resistance would collapse... and that would increase the number of Simes by however many a month didn't get killed by the Gen Guard. Either way, it was a race to oblivion.

Sobered, Valleroy said, "I'm sorry, Sectuib."

"Let's have lunch."

That afternoon, Valleroy found that his "offices" were really an immense salon surrounded by eight extravagantly appointed studios where a contingent of models and secretaries swarmed about as if organizing a state visit. His job consisted of sketching pretty girls and ruggedly handsome men (all Simes) dressed in colorful, but unconfining, garments.

The only difficulty he experienced was with the positions of the tentacles. For a while, he was afraid someone would notice that he was very experienced at drawing Gens but not Simes, so he tore up all the false starts.

But nobody stopped to peer over his shoulder without invitation. They were all too busy rushing from room to room, dressing and undressing, or marshaling racks of exotic clothing from place to place. When he did turn out a reasonably satisfactory sketch, the breathless gasps of genuine appreciation made him feel more confident.

After a few hours, he began to enjoy himself. He had dinner brought in so he could continue to work on his sketches after everyone else had gone. He couldn't imagine how four days could possibly be enough. But when he asked, he was told that part of the catalog had been done by lesser talents while another part would be done by the photographer. Somehow he got the impression that that lofty personage ranked considerably below the artist. But he was too busy even to think about investigating photography.

As one of the leading fashion designers and tailoring houses, Imil put out a line of elite ready-to-wear for all occasions. In the short time he was there, Valleroy saw more different costumes than he'd seen before in his whole life. Many of them were cleverly tailored to use Zeor's Arensti winners of previous years. Much of the cloth used, Valleroy discovered, actually came from Zeor's mills.

On the next day, all Valleroy saw of Klyd was an occasional glimpse in the corridors or through open doorways; for a few minutes he listened to the channel lecturing an enthralled audience of adults assembled in the big auditorium of the school. All Valleroy could make out was that Klyd wanted the Tecton to set up a new Householding that would be nothing but a school for channels. It would be supported by contributions from all the Householdings so they wouldn't have to farm. The major objection seemed to be that such a concentration of channels would be too vulnerable, especially if they had to depend on supplies that were shipped in.

Another time Valleroy saw Klyd seated on a classroom floor, surrounded by a group of very young Simes. He was teaching them to play the shiltpron-an arrangement of rods held by intricately twined tentacles and then shaken against each other to produce harmonic hums that were damped by a touch of a tentacle. It was a complex exercise.

Valleroy watched for a few minutes, but the class was so engrossed, he tiptoed away without disturbing them. He went back to work, glad that Klyd was enjoying himself.

By late afternoon of the third day, Valleroy was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Never had he worked so hard on so many diverse projects. When the models quit for the day, he decided he needed a break himself. He tossed his charcoal aside and wandered out into the corridors.

In the distance, he could hear Imil's school band practicing. He passed the school auditorium where the dance classes were limbering up while a choral group was trying to sort out different-sized robes from a backstage locker.

Three students went by carrying a spattered ladder and a bucket of poster paint. There was an undercurrent of impending festivities in the air.

It was later the next day that he discovered the celebration was in honor of Householding Frihill's establishing a daughter Householding. One of the top Companions in Frihill who would become the Companion of the new Head of Householding would be visiting Imil on a recruitment tour.

Valleroy overheard whispers among his models about Frihill's internal politics. "There just isn't room for two really great Companions in one Householding." And he learned a lot about the close relationship between parent and daughter Householding. For the moment, he just wanted to get away from people.

He took a turn and then another turn. There was a stair leading down. He was too lazy to decipher the signs, so he just opened the stairwell door and went down.

Imil was built on the side of a hill so that the ground floor at the front was the fourth at the back. As he went down, he realized he was on this lower side of Imil, in an area that seemed completed deserted.

It suited his mood, so he stopped to look out a window, enjoying his solitude. It seemed that his breathing echoed down the silent well, which was cut off from the rest of the building by heavily fortified doors... two sets of them... guaranteed to stop any invaders.

From the window, he could see harvested fields, as barren as he felt. The sun was just dipping behind a distant rise. He watched it wondering whether Aisha could see it, whether she was able to appreciate it

The thought spoiled his mood. He turned restlessly to explore the lower floors. Between landings, he came to a heavy door with a double-glassed round window set into the wall over a widened step. The sign said INSULATED LABORATORY. He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded formidable enough to keep him out. It seemed to occupy space set into the side of the hill Imil was built on. All he glimpsed through the window was a long empty corridor with a strip of light bulbs down the center of the ceiling.

He went down to the next landing and tried the exit doors. They led him into a corridor filled with the angry shouting of deep male voices. The sound of English in this strange place drew him onward.

The floor was made of some hard material that seemed to absorb the sound of his steps. The walls were freshly painted, but Valleroy could see vague outlines of murals under the new paint. Widely spaced doors indicated large rooms behind the walls He stopped for a drink at a fountain, peered through a window into an unused, bare room, and then continued toward the muted sounds of anger.

He passed a door marked lavatories, and then turned a bend to find his way barred by two massive, swinging doors. The top half of the doors consisted of a heavy screen sandwiched between panes of glass. The handles were secured with an intricate lock mechanism that refused to move when he tried it.

He wasn't sure he should even be here, but he stepped up to the doors and peered beyond. This was definitely the source of the noise. The corridor continued after the doors, but what had been an infirmary or school became a prison.

The door to each of the rooms had been cut in half. The top portion had been replaced with bars locked into place with devices similar to that on the swinging doors blocking Valleroy's path.

The first three rooms were occupied, two on one side and one facing. Valleroy could see Gen hands gripping and shaking those bars as their owners raged inarticulately. In the corridor between the prisoners, Nashmar, his Companion, and Klyd stood conferring earnestly.

Valleroy told himself sternly not to jump to unwarranted conclusions. He waited to see what would happen.

He didn't have long to wait. Klyd suddenly turned to look at the doors, saw Valleroy, and came toward him, smiling broadly.

Straight-arming the door as if it were locked, the channel came out into the relative quiet of the hallway. "I'm glad to see you here. Maybe you could help us out if you have a little time?"

"Help you out?"

"The three Nashmar picked up at Iburan have proved more spirited than he expected."

"Why don't you just let them go?"

"Hugh," Klyd reproached, "you know better than that!"

"No I don't! What right have you to keep people prisoner?"

Klyd paused, looking hard at the Gen, totally bewildered. "We do not keep anyone prisoner. What would happen to them if we took them to the gate and shoved them out-even gave them horses?"

Valleroy looked sullenly at the channel.

"Hugh, could you live with a thing like that on your conscience?"

Gracelessly, Valleroy conceded. "I don't think I'd want to try. But we got them here, we could get them to the border."

"Do you know how long Imil would survive after we did that?"

Valleroy, remembering the scarred buildings of Zeor, looked at Klyd's grim expression. "About twenty-four hours?"

"Less."