Ling had also told him the Rothen were special beings, even among high Galactic clans. Operating in deliberate obscurity, they had quietly arranged for Old Earth to lie fallow, off the colonization lists, for half a billion years, an accomplishment with implications Lark found hard to imagine. Needing no fleets or weapons, the Rothen were influential, mystical, mysterious-in many ways G.o.dlike even compared with those beings whose vast armadas thundered across the Five Galaxies. No wonder Ling and her peers thought themselves above so-called "laws" of migration and uplift, as they sifted Jijo's biosphere for some worthy species to adopt. No wonder she seemed fearless over the possibility of being caught.

The newly cave-fledged rewq also appeared dazzled, ever since the tall pair emerged from the buried research station. The one on Lark's brow trembled, casting splashy aurae around the two Rothen till he finally had to peel it back.

Lark tried to *wrest control over his thoughts, reclaiming a thread of skepticism.

It may be that all advanced races learn to do what the Rothen are doing now-impressing those beneath themon the ladder of status. Perhaps we're all extra-susceptible on account of being primitives, having no other experience with Galactics.

But skepticism was slippery as the Rothen emissaries conversed with the sages in voices that seemed warm, compa.s.sionate. A robot amplified the discourse for all to hear.

"We two now express grateful and respectful honors for your hospitality, "Ro-kenn said in a very prim, grammatically perfect GalSixish.

"Furthermore, we now express regret for any anxiety our presence may have generated among your n.o.ble Commons," Ro-pol added. "Only of late have we come to realize the depth of your unease. Overcoming our natural reticence-our shyness, if you will-we now emerge to soothe your quite unwarranted fears."

Again, whispers of tentative hope from the crowd- not an easy emotion for Jijoan exiles.

Ro-kenn spoke again.

"Now we express joy and appreciation to have been invited to attend your sacred rites. One of us shall accompany you on this eve, to witness the wonderment inherent in, and remarkably expressed by, your renowned and Holy Egg."

"Meanwhile, "Ro-pol continued, "the other of us shall withdraw to contemplate how best to reward your Commons for your pains, your worries, and your hard sequestered lives."

Ro-pol appeared to muse on the problem for a moment, choosing her words.

"Some gift, we foresee. Some benefaction to help you through the ages ahead, as each of your cojoined races seeks salvation down the long, courageous path known as Return-to-innocence."

A murmur coursed the ranks of onlookers-pleasure at this surprising news.

Now each of the sages took turns making a welcoming speech, starting with Vubben, whose aged wheels squeaked as he rolled forward to recite from one of the oldest scrolls. Something apropos about the ineffable nature of mercy, which drifts upward from the ground when least expected, a grace that cannot be earned or even merited, only lovingly accepted when it comes.

Lark let the neophyte rewq slip back over his eyes. The Rothen pair remained immersed in a nimbus of confused colors, so while Vubben droned on, he turned and scanned the a.s.sembled onlookers.

Of course rewq offered no magic window to the soul. Mostly, they helped make up for the fact that each race came equipped with brain tissue specifically adapted for reading emotional cues from its own kind. Rewq were most effective when facing another rewq-equipped being, especially if the two symbionts first exchanged empathy hormones.

Is that why the sages aren't wearing theirs now? In order to protect secret thoughts?

From the throng he picked up ripples of fragile optimism and mystical wonder, cresting here and there with spumelike waves of near-religious fervor. There were other colors, however. From several dozen qheuens, hoon, urs, and men-proctors and militia guards-there flowed cooler shades of duty. Refusal to be distracted by anything short of a major earthquake.

Another glittering twinkle Lark quickly recognized as a different kind of duty, more complex, focused, and vain. It accompanied a brief reflection off a gla.s.s lens. Bloor and his comrades at work, Lark guessed. Busy recording the moment.

Lark's symbiont was working better now. In fact, despite its lack of training, it might never again be quite this sensitive. At this moment almost every rewq in the valley was the same age, fresh from caves where they had lately mingled in great piles, sharing unity enzymes. Each would be acutely aware of the others, at longer than normal range.

I should warn Bloor. His people shouldn't wear rewq. If it lets me spot them, it might help robots, too.

Another swirl caught his eye, flashing bitterly from the far end of the Glade, standing out from the prevailing mood like a fire burning on an ice-field. There was no mistaking a flare of acrid hate.

Finally he made out a s.h.a.ggy snakelike neck, rising from the profile of a small centaur. Rewq-mediated colors, like a globe of distilled loathing, obscured the head itself.

The wearer of that distant, powerful symbiont suddenly seemed to notice Lark's focused regard. Shifting her attention from aliens and sages, she turned to face Lark directly. Across a crowd of shifting, sighing citizens, they watched each other's colors. Then, in unison each pulled back their rewq.

In clear light, Lark met her unblinking stare-the ur-rish leader of the zealot cause. A rebel whose malice toward invaders was stronger than Lark had realized. With those three fierce eyes turned his way, Lark needed no symbiont to translate the zealot's feelings toward him.

Under the late afternoon sun, her neck twisted and she snarled an urrish smile of pure, disdainful contempt.

The pilgrimage commenced at dusk, with long forest shadows pointing toward a hidden mountain pa.s.s. Twelve twelves of chosen citizens represented all the Commons, along with two star-humans, four robots, and one tall ancient being whose shambling gait hinted great strength under glossy white robes.

Judging by his so-humanlike smile, Ro-kenn seemed to find delight in countless things, especially the rhythmic chanting-a blending of vocal contributions from all races-as the a.s.sembly set out past steaming vents and sheer clefts, weaving its slow way toward the hidden oval Valley of the Egg. The Rothen's long-fingered hands stroked slim-boled welpal trees, whose swaying resonated with emanations from that secret vale. Most humans would hear nothing till they got much closer.

In Lark's heart, dark feelings churned. Nor was he alone. Many, especially those farthest from Ro-kenn's cheerful charisma, still felt uneasy about guiding strangers to this sacred place.

The procession marched, rolled, and slithered, wending higher into the hills. Soon the heavens glittered with formations of sparkling lights-brittle bright cl.u.s.ters and nebulae-divided by the dark stripe of the Galactic disk. If anything, the sight reinforced the starkly uneven order of life, for tonight's guests would shortly cross those starscapes, whether they departed in peace or betrayal. To them, Jijo would become another quaint, savage, perhaps mildly interesting spot they had visited once in long, deified lives.

The last time Lark came up this way-so earnest about his self-appointed mission to save Jijo from invaders like himself-no one had any thought of starships cruising Jijo's sky.

Yet they were already up there, preparing to land.

What is more frightening? The danger you already dread, or the trick the universe hasn't pulled on you yet? The one to make all prior concerns seem moot.

Lark hoped none of this gloom carried into his letter to Sara, which he had finished in a hurried pencil scrawl by the headwaters of the Bibur after the Rothen emerged. The kayak pilot added Lark's note to a heavy bundle from Bloor, then set off in a flash of oars, speeding down the first set of spuming rapids in a pell-mell rush toward Biblos, two days' hard rowing away.

On his way back to rendezvous with the other heretics, he had stopped to watch the alien aircraft glide out of its dark tunnel like a wraith, rising on whispering engines. Lark glimpsed a small human silhouette, hands and face pressed against an oval window, drinking in the view. The figure looked familiar . . . but before he could raise his pocket ocular, the machine sped away, eastward, toward a cleft where the largest moon was rising above the Rimmer Range.

Now, as the evening procession entered a final twisty canyon leading to the Egg, Lark tried putting temporal concerns aside, preparing for communion. It may be my last chance, he thought, hoping this time he might fully take part in the wholeness others reported, when the Egg shared its full bounty of love.

Drawing his right arm inside his sleeve, he grasped the rocky flake, despite its growing heat. A pa.s.sage from the Scroll of Exile came to mind-an Anglic version, modified for Earthlings by one of the first human sages.

We drift, rudderless, down the stream of time, betrayed by the ancestors who left us here, blind to much that was hard-learnt by other ages, fearful of light and the law, but above all, anxious in our hearts that there might be no G.o.d, no Father, no heavenly succor, or else that we are already lost to Him, to fate, to destiny.

Where shall we turn, in banished agony, with our tabernacle lost, and faith weighed down by perfidy?

What solace comes to creatures lost in time?

One source of renewal, never fails.

With rhythms long, its means are fire and rain, ice and time.

Its names are myriad.

To poor exiles it is home.

Jijo.

The pa.s.sage ended on a strange note of combined reverence and defiance.

If G.o.d still wants us, let him find us here.

Till then, we grow part of this, our adopted world.

Not to hinder, but to serve Her cyclic life.

To sprout humble goodness out of the foul seed of crime.

Not long after that scroll gained acceptance in the human sept, one winter's day, ground tremors shook the Slope. Trees toppled, dams burst, and a terrible wind blew. Panic swept from mountains to sea amid reports that Judgment Day had come.

Instead, bursting through a cloud of sparkling dust, the Egg appeared. A gift out of Jijo's heart.

A gift which must be shared tonight-with aliens.

What if they achieved what he had always failed? Or worse, what if they reacted with derisive laughter, declaring that the Egg was a simple thing that only yokels would take seriously-like fabled Earth-natives worshipping a music box they found on the sh.o.r.e?

Lark struggled to push out petty thoughts, to tune himself with the ba.s.so rumble of the hoon, the qheuens' calliope piping, the tw.a.n.ging spokes of the g'Keks, and all of the other contributions to a rising song of union. He let it take over the measured pace of his breathing, while warmth from the stone fragment seemed to swell up his hand and arm, then across his chest, spreading relaxed detachment.

Close, he thought. A tracery of soft patterns began taking shape in his mind. A weblike meshing of vague spirals, made up partly of images, partly of sound.

It's almost as if something is trying to- "Is this, not exciting?" a voice broke in from Lark's right, splitting his concentration into broken shards. "I believe I can feel something now! It's quite unlike any psi phenomenon I have experienced. The motif is highly unusual."

Ignore her, Lark thought, clinging to the patterns. Maybe she'll go away.

But Ling kept talking, sending words clattering up avenues that could not help hearing them. The harder he tried holding on, the quicker detachment slipped away. Lark's hand now clenched a clammy ball of rock and twine, warm with his body heat alone. He let go in disgust.

"We picked up some tremors on instruments several days ago. The cycles have been rising in strength and complexity for some time."

Ling seemed blithely unaware of having done anything wrong. That, in turn, made Lark's simmering resentment seem both petty and futile. Anyway, her beauty by moonlight was even more unnerving than usual, cutting through his anger to a vulnerable loneliness within.

Lark sighed. "Aren't you supposed to be guarding your boss?"

"Robots do the real guarding-as if we have anything to fear. Ro-kenn gave Rann and me permission to look around while he talks to your sages, preparing them for what's about to happen."

Lark stopped so suddenly, the next pilgrim in line had to stumble to avoid him. He took Ling's elbow. "What are you talking about? What's about to happen?"

Ling's smile carried a touch of the old sardonicism.

"You mean you haven't guessed by now? Oh, Lark. Think about the coincidences.

"For two thousand years sooners of various races lived on this world, squabbling and slowly devolving. Then humans came and everything changed. Though you started few and helpless, soon your culture became the most influential on the planet.

"Then, just a few generations after your arrival, a miracle suddenly erupts out of the ground, this spirit guide you all revere."

"You mean the Egg," he said, brow furrowing.

"Exactly. Did you really think the timing accidental? Or that your patrons had forgotten you?"

"Our patrons." Lark frowned. "You mean . . . you're implying the Rothen knew all along-"

"About the voyage of the Tabernacle? Yes! Ro-kenn explained it to us this morning, and now everything makes sense! Even our own arrival on Jijo is no accident, dear Lark. Oh, our mission is partly to seek deserving presapients, to join our clan. But more than that, we came for you. Because the experiment is finished!"

"Experiment?" He felt an involuntary disorientation.

"An arduous trial for your small branch of humanity, castaway and forgotten-or so you thought-on a savage world. It sounds harsh, but the road of uplift is hard when a race is destined for the heights our patrons plan for us."

Lark's mind whirled. "You mean our ancestors were meant to sneak down to Jijo? As part of an ordeal that's supposed to ... transform us somehow? The Egg was-is-part of some Rothen scheme-"

"Design," Ling corrected, a kind of elation invading her voice. "A grand design, Lark. A test, which your folk pa.s.sed brilliantly, I'm told, growing stronger, smarter, and more n.o.ble even as this awful place tried to grind you down.

"And now the time has come to graft this successful offshoot back onto the main trunk, helping all of humanity to grow, thrive, and better face the challenges of a dangerous universe."

Her grin was joyful, exuberant.

"Oh, Lark, when I spoke to you last, I thought we might be taking a few human castaways with us, when we go.

"But now the news is pure and grand, Lark.

"Ships are coming. So many ships!

"It is time to bring you all back home."

Asx ASTONISHMENT! This news bellows through our waxy cavities, driving out the Egg's pattern/resonance with acrid vapors of surprise.

we/i/we/i/we . . . cannot coalesce as Asx. Nor contemplate these tidings with any sense of unity.

The worst rumors of recent months-spread by irredentist urrish chiefs and bitter gray queens-claimed that humans might abandon Jijo, departing with their sky-cousins, leaving the other five to fester and be d.a.m.ned.

Yet even that dark fantasy left one solace to the rest of us.

One comfort.

The Egg.

Now, we are told- (disbelieve it!) (but how?) that the holy ovoid was never ours! Only humans', all along! Its dual purpose-to guide Earthlings toward greatness while at the same time soothing, domesticating we other Five!

Taming the other septs, in order to keep humans safe during their brief stay on Jijo.

Now this is topped by insulting "kindness," as Ro-kenn says the Egg will be left as a parting gift. Left as a token, a trifle, a gratuity for our pains. Left to shame us all!

Pause, my rings. Pause. Ensure fairness. Stroke vapors across the wax drippings. Remember.

Did not Lester Cambel seem as dismayed as the rest of us?

Did not all the sages resolve to conceal this news? Lest rumors do great harm?

It is useless. Even now, eavesdropping citizens rush off, dispersing exaggerated versions of what they overheard, casting a poison up and down the chain of pilgrims, shattering the rhythms that had been uniting us.

Yet from the majestic Rothen, we sense cheerful un-awareness that anything is wrong!

Is this what it means to be a G.o.d? To know not what harm you do?

Ripples of infection spread along the twisty trail. The worship-chant breaks apart, dissolving into many twelves of muttering individuals.

Now, from my/our highest peak, we perceive another disturbance, propagating from the front of the procession! The two disruptions meet like waves on a storm-tossed lake, rolling through each other in a great spume of noise.