Roger Zelazny. Eye of cat

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Eye of cat

I have  learned hate.  I have  been waiting  for the
chance  to  escape,  to  track   you  as   you  once
tracked me, to destroy you.

I  am  sorry  for the  pain I  have caused  you. Now
that  we  know  what  you are,  amends can  be made.

The  sun  of my  world has  since gone  nova. The
world  and  all others  of my  kind are  no more.
How can you restore it to me?

I cannot.

Cat   slammed   against   the   field   and   sparks
outlined  his  entire  figure.  Billy did  not move.
After  a  time,  Cat  drew  back,  shaking  himself.
He  seemed   smaller  now,   and  his   body  coiled
around  and  around  upon  itself, sinking  into the
ground.

Finally, I will help you - for a price, Cat said.

And what is that price?

Your life.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
am the product of the author's imagination or  are used  fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events  or locales  or persons,  living or  dead, is
entirely coincidental.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

AVON BOOKS
A division of
Th Hearst Corporation
105 Madison Avenue
New York, New York 10016

Copyright (C) 1982 by The Amber Corporation
Cover art by Tim White
Published by arrangement with the author
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-93388
ISBN: 0-380-76002-9

All rights reserved, which includes the  right to  reproduce this  book or
portions thereof in any  form whatsoever  except as  provided by  the U.S.
Copyright  Law.  For  information  address   Kirby  McCauley,   Ltd.,  432
Park Avenue South, Suite 1509, New York, New York 10016.

First Avon Books Printing: January l991

AVON TRADEMAAK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.

ARC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 I

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                                       FOR JOE LEAPHORN,
                                                       JIMMY CHEE
                                                       AND TONY HILLERMAN

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

     PART 1

At the door to the House of Darkness
 lies a pair of red coyotes with heads reversed.
Nayenezgani parts them with his dark stag
 and comes in search of me.
With lightning behind him,
 with lightning before him,
 he comes in search of me,
with a rock crystal and a talking ketahn.

Beyond, at the corners by the door
 of the House of Darkness,
 lie two red btuejays with heads reversed.
With lightning behind him,
 with lightning before him,
he parts them with his dark staff
 and comes in search of me.

Farther, at the fire-pit of the Dark House,
 tie two red hoot-owls with heads reversed.
He parts these with his stag
 and comes in search of me,
 with rock crystal and talking ketahn.

At the center of the Darkness House
 where two red screech-owls lie with heads reversed,
Nayenezgani casts them aside
 coming in search of me,
 lightning behind him,
 lightning before him.
Bearing a rock crystal and a talking ketahn,
 he comes for me.
From the center of the earth he comes.

Farther...
                                  Evil-Chasing Prayer

                                   NIGHT, NEAR THE EASTERN
edge of  the walled,  sloping grounds  of the  estate, within
these walls, perhaps a quarter-mile from the house itself, at
the small stand of trees, under a moonless sky, listening, he
stands, absolutely silent.
 Beneath his boots, the ground is moist.  A cold  wind tells
him that winter yields  but grudgingly  to spring  in upstate
New  York.  He reaches  out and  touches the  dark line  of a
slender branch to his right, gently. He feels the buds of the
fresh  year's  green,  dreaming of  summer beneath  his wide,
dark hand.
 He  wears  a  blue  velveteen  shirt  hanging out  over his
jeans, a wide concha belt securing it at  his waist.  A heavy
squash  blossom  necklace  -  a  very  old  one -  hangs down
upon his breast. High about his neck is  a slender  strand of
turquoise heiche. He has a silver bracelet on his left wrist,
studded  with  random  chunks  of  turquoise  and  coral. The
buttons  of  his  shirt  are  hammered  dimes from  the early
twentieth century. His long hair is bound with a strip of red
cloth.
 Tall, out of place, out of time, he listens for  that which
may  or  may not  become audible:  indication of  the strange
struggle  at  the  dark  house. No  matter how  the encounter
goes, he, William Blackhorse Singer, will  be the  loser. But
this is his own thing to bear, from  a force  he set  into motion
long  ago,  a  chindi  which  has  dogged  his  heels  across the
years.
  He  hears  a  brief  noise  from  the  direction of  the house,
followed  immediately  by  a  loud  crashing.  This does  not end
it,   however.   The   sounds   continue.   From   somewhere  out
over the walls, a coyote howls.
  He almost laughs. A dog,  certainly. Though  it sounds
more like the other, to which he has again become accus-
tomed. None of them around here, of course.
  William  Blackhorse  Singer.  He  has  other  names,   but  the
remembering  machines  know  him  by  this  one.  It was  by this
one that they summoned him.
  The  sounds  cease  abruptly,  and  after  a short  while begin
again. He estimates that it must  be near  midnight in  this part
of the  world. He  looks to  the skies,  but Christ's  blood does
not  stream  in  the  firmament.  Only Ini,  the bird  of thunder
among  the   southwestern  stars,   ready  with   his  lightning,
clouds  and  rain,  extending  his headplume  to tickle  the nose
of Sas, the bear, telling him it is time to bring new life to the
earth, there by the Milky Way.
      Silence. Sudden, and stretching pulsebeat by pulsebeat to
fill his world. Is it over? Is it really over?
  Again,  short  barks  followed  by  the  howling.  Once  he had
known  many  things  to  do,  still  knew some  of them.  All are
closed to him now, but for the waiting.
  No. There is yet a thing with which to fill it.
  Softly, but with growing force, he begins the song.

                                       FIRST MAN WAS NOT EXACTLY
jumping  with  joy  over  the  dark  underworld  in which  he was
created.  He  shared  it with  eight other  humans, and  the ants
and  the  beetles  and  later the  locusts whom  they encountered
as  they  explored,  and  Coyote  -  the  First  Angry  One,  He-
who-was-formed-in-the-water,     Scrawny     Wanderer.     Every-
one  multiplied;  and  the  dragonflies,  the  wasps  and  the  bat
people   later   joined   them;   and   Spider  Man   and  Spider

Woman.  The  place  grew  crowded  and was  full of  bugs. Strife
ensued.
 "Let's get out of here," a number of them suggested.
 First  Man,  who  was  wise  and  powerful, fetched  his trea-
sures  of  White  Shell,  Turquoise,  Abalone,  Jet and  the Red-
White Stone.
 He placed  the White  Shell in  the east  and breathed  upon it.
Up  from  it  rose  a  white  tower  of  cloud.  He   placed  the
Turquoise  to  the  south  and  breathed upon  it. From  it there
rose a blue  cloud tower.  To the  west he  set the  Abalone, and
when  he  had  breathed  upon  it  a yellow  cloud tower  rose up
in that place. To the north he set  the Jet,  and touched  by his
breath  it sent  up a  black tower  of cloud.  The white  and the
yellow  grew,  met  overhead  and  crossed, as  did the  blue and
the black. These became the Night and the Day.
 Then  he  placed  the   Red-White  Stone   at  the   center  and
breathed upon it. From it there rose a many-colored tower.
 The  tower  to the  east was  called Folding  Dawn; that  to the
south  was  called  Folding  Blue  Sky;  to  the   west,  Folding
Twilight;  that  to  the  north,  Folding  Darkness. One  by one,
Coyote  visited  each  of  them,  changing  his  color  to  match
their  own.  For  this  reason,  he  is  known  as  Child  of the
Dawn,  as  Child  of  the  Blue  Sky, Child  of the  Twilight and
Child of Darkness, along  with all  his other  names. At  each of
these places, his power was increased.
 While  the  towers  of  the  four  cardinal  points  were  holy,
giving birth to the prayer rites, the central one bore all pains,
evils and  diseases. And  it was  this tower  up which  First Man
and  Coyote  led  the  People,  bringing  them  into  the  second
world; and, of course, along with them, the evils.
 There  they  explored  and  they  met  with others,  and First
Man  fought  with  many,  defeating them  all and  taking their
songs of power.
 But  this  also was  a place  of suffering,  of misery,  a thing
Coyote  discovered as  he went  to and  fro in  the world  and up
and down it. And  so to  First Man  he took  the pleas  that they
depart.
 First  Man  made  a  white  smoke  and  blew  it  to  the  east,
then  swallowed  it  again  -  and the  same in  every direction.
This  removed  all  the  evils  from the  world and  brought them
back  to  the  People  from whence  they had  come. Then  he laid
Lightning,  both  jagged  and  straight, to  the east,  and Rain-
bow  and  Sunlight,  but  nothing  occurred.  He  moved  them  to
the  south,  the  west  and  the  north.  The world  trembled but

brought  forth  no  power to  bear them  upward. He  made then
a  wand  of  Jet,  Turrquoise, Abalone  and White  Shell. Atop
this,  he  set  the  Red-White  Stone. It  rose and  bore them
upward into the next world.
 Here  they  met  the  many  snakes, and  Salt Man  and Woman
and Fire God. Nor should  Spider Ant  be forgotten.  And light
and darkness came up from the  towers of  the four  colors, as
in the other worlds.
 But then First Man  set a  streak of  yellow and  another of
red and yellow in the east, and these  halted the  movement of
the white light.
 And  the  People  were  afraid. Salt  Man counseled  them to
explore in the  east, but  the streaks  retreated as  they ad-
vanced.  Then  they  heard  a  voice  summoning  them  to  the
south. There  they found  the old  man Dontso,  called Messen-
ger Fly, who told  them what  First Man  had done.  The yellow
streak, he said, represented the emergence of the  People; the
other, vegetation and pollen, with the red part indicating all
diseases.
 Then  Owl  and  Kit  Fox  and  Wolf  and  Wildcat  came, and
with  them  Horned  Rattlesnake,  who  offered  First  Man  the
shell he carried on his head  - and  promises of  offerings of
White Shell, Turquoise, Abalone and Jet in the  future. First
Man  accepted  the  shell  and  its  magic  and   removed  the
streaks from the sky.
 The People  then realized  that First  Man was  evil. Coyote
spied  upon  their  counsels  and reported  to First  Man that
they  knew he  had stopped  the light  in the  east to  gain a
treasure.
 When later they confronted him with  it, First  Man replied,
"Yes. It is true, grandchildren. Very true. I  am evil.  Yet I
have  employed  my evil  on your  behalf. For  these offerings
shall benefit all of us.  And I  do know  when to  withhold my
evil from those about me."
 And he proceeded to prove this thing  by building  the first
medicine  hogan,  where  he  shared  with  them  his knowledge
of things good and evil.

                                    HE REMEMBERED THE PARTY
the night before he had found the coyote.
 Garbed  in the  rented splendor  of a  shimmering synthetic-
fibered  foursquare and  blackrib Pleat  4, Ruffle  evegarb, he
had  tripped  through  to the  mansion in  Arlington. Notables
past and present filled  the sparkling,  high-ceilinged rooms.
He  was  decidedly  Past,  but he  had gone  anyway, to  see a
few old friends, to touch that other life again.
 A  middle-aged  woman  of  professional  charm  greeted him,
approached  him,  embraced  him  and spoke  with him  for half
a minute in the enthusiastic  voice of  a newscaster,  until a
fresh arrival at his back produced a reflex pressure  from her
hand upon his arm, directing him to the side.
 Grateful,  he  moved  off;  accepting  a  drink from  a tray,
glancing  at  faces, nodding  to some,  pausing to  exchange a
few words, working his  way to  a small  room he  recalled Gem
previous visits.
 He  sighed  when  he entered.  He liked  the wood  and iron,
stone and rough plaster, books and quiet pictures,  the single
window with its uninterrupted view of the river, the fireplace
burning softly.
 "I knew you'd find me here," she said,  from her  chair near
the hearth.
 He smiled.
 "So did I - in the only room built during a lapse in
tastelessness."
 He  drew up  a chair,  seating himself  near her  but facing
slightly past her toward the fire. Her heavy, lined  face, the
bright blue eyes beneath white hair, her short  stocky figure,
had  not changed  recently. In  some ways  she was  the older,
in others she was  not. Time  had played  its favorite  game -
irony - with  them both.  He thought  of the  century-old Fon-
tenelle  and  Mme.  Grimaud, almost  as old  as he.  Yet there
was a gulf here of a different sort.
 "Will you go collecting again soon?" she asked him.
 "They've all the beasties they need for a while. I'm
retired."

"Do you like it?"
"As well as anything."
Her brows tightened in a small wince.
"I can never tell whether it's native fatalism, world-
weariness or a pose with you."
"I can't either, anymore," he said.
"Perhaps you're suffering from leisure."
"That's about as exclusive as rain  these days.  I exist  in a
private culture."
"Really. It can't be as bad as all that," she said.
"Bad? Good and evil are always mixed up. It provides
order."
"Nothing else?"
"It is easy to love what is present and desire what is
absent."
She reached out and squeezed his hand.
"You crazy Indian. Do you exist when I'm not here?"
"I'm  not  sure,"  he  said.  "I  was  a  privileged traveler.
Maybe  I died  and no  one had  the heart  to tell  me. How've
you been, Margaret?"
After a time, she said, "Still living in an age of timidity, I
suppose. And ideas."
He raised his drink and took a big swallow.
"... Stale, flat and unprofitable," she said.
He raised the glass higher, holding it to the light, staring
through it.
"Not  that  bad,"  he  stated. "They  got the  vermouth right
this time."
She chuckled.
"Philosophy doesn't change people, does it?" she asked.
"I don't think so."
"What are you going to do now?"
"Go and talk with some of the others, I guess, have a few
more drinks. Maybe dance a little."
"I don't mean tonight."
"I know. Nothing special, I guess. I don't need to."
"A man like you should be doing something."
"What?"
"That's for you to say. When the gods are silent someone
must choose."
"The gods are silent," he said, finally looking into her
bright ancient eyes, "and my choices are all used up."
"That's not true."
He looked away again.

"Let it be," he said, "as you did before."
"Don't "
"I'm sorry."
She removed her hand from his. He finished his drink.
"Your character is your fate," she said at last, "and you
are a creature of change."
"I live strategically."
"Maybe   too   much   so."
"Let  it be,  lady. It's  not on  my worry-list.  I've changed
enough and I'm tired."
"Will even that last?"
"Sounds  like a  trick question  to me.  You had  your chance.
If I've an appointment with folly I'll keep it. Don't try to
heal my wounds until you're sure they're there."
"I'm sure. You have to find something."
"I don't do requests."
"... And I hope it's soon."
"I've got to take a little walk," he said. "I'll be back."
She nodded and he left quickly. She would too, shortly.
Later that evening his eyes suddenly traced a red strand in
the rug and he followed it, to find himself near the trip-box.
"What the hell," he said.
He  sought  his  hostess, thanked  her and  moved back  to the
transport unit. He pushed the coordinates,  and as  he entered
he stumbled.
Freeze frame on man falling.

There was a time when the day light was night light.
Black-god rode upon my right shoulder.
Time spun moebius about me, as I sailed
up Darkness Mountain in the sky.
And the beasts, the beasts I hunted.
When l called them they would come to me,
out of Darkness Mountain.

                                   IT HAD SNOWED THE PREVIOUS
night,  dry  and  powdery,  but  the  day had  been unseasonably
warm  and much  of it  had melted.  The sky  was still  clear as
the sun retreated  behind a  dark rocky  crest, and  already the
cold  was  coming  back  into  the world,  riding the  wind that
sighed  among  the  pine  trees.  Silvery  strings  of  sunlight
marked the higher sinews of a mesa  far to  the right,  its foot
already aswirl with gray in the first tides of evening. At least
there  would  be  no  snow  tonight,  he  knew,  and   he  could
watch the stars before he closed his eyes.
 As he made his  camp, the  coyote limped  after him,  its left
foreleg still bound. Tonight was the night to take care of that,
too.
 He  built his  fire and  prepared his  meal, the  pinon smoke
redolent in his nostrils. By the time that it was ready  the day
was  gone,  and  the  mesa  and  the  ridge  were  but  lumps of
greater darkness against the night.
 "Your  last  free  meal," he  said, tossing  a portion  of the
food to the beast at his feet.
 As  they  ate,  he  remembered other  nights and  other camps,
a long trail of them stretching back over  a century.  Only this
time  there  was  nothing  to hunt,  and in  a way  this pleased
him.
 Drinking  his  coffee,  he  thought  of   the  hundred-seventy
years of his existence: how it had begun in  this place,  of the
fairylands  and  hells  through which  he had  taken it  and how
he   had  come   -  back.   "Home,"  under   the  circumstances,
would  be  more  than  an  irony.  He  sipped the  scalding brew
from  the metal  cup, peopling  the night  with demons,  most of
whom now resided in San Diego.
 Later,  with  his  hunting  knife,  he  removed  the  dressing
from the animal's  leg. It  remained perfectly  still as  he did
this,  watching.  As  he  cut  away  at  the stiff  material, he
recalled  the  day  some  weeks  before  when  he had  come upon
it,  leg  broken,  in  a  trap. There  had been  a time  when he
would have acted differently. But he had  released it,  taken it
home with him, treated it. And  even this,  this long  trek into

the  Carrizos,  was  for  the purpose  of turning  it free  at a
sufficient  distance from  his home,  with a  full night  ahead to
tempt  it  into  wandering back  to its  own world,  rather than
prolonging an unnatural association.
 He slapped its flank.
 "Go on. Run!"
 It rose, its movements still stiff, leg still held at  an awk-
ward angle. Only gradually  did it  lower the  limb as  it moved
about the campsite. After a time, it passed into and out  of the
circle  of  firelight,  remaining  away  for  longer  and longer
periods.
 As  he  prepared  his bedroll,  he was  startled by  a buzzing
noise.  Simultaneously,  a  red  light  began  winking   on  the
small  plastic case  which hung  from his  belt. He  switched o
the buzzer, but the light  continued to  blink. He  shrugged and
put it aside, face down. It  indicated an  incoming call  at his
distant  home.  He  had  gotten  into the  habit of  wearing the
unit when  he was  near the  place and  had forgotten  to remove
it.  He  never  wore  the more  elaborate version,  however, and
so  was  not equipped  to answer  the call  from here.  This did
not  seem  important.  It had  been several  years since  he had
received  anything  which  might  be  considered   an  important
call.
 Still, it troubled him as he lay regarding  the stars.  It had
been a long while since  he had  received any  calls at  all. He
wished now that  he had  either carried  along the  unit's other
component  or  had  not  brought anything.  But he  was retired,
his  newsworthiness  long  vanished.  It  could  not  really  be
important....
...  He  was  traversing  an  orange  plain  beneath   a  yellow
sky  in  which  a  massive  white sun  blazed. He  was approach-
ing  an  orange,  pyramidal  structure  covered  with  a webwork
of  minute  fractures.  He  drew  near  and   halted,  hurriedly
setting  up  the  projector.  Then  he commenced  waiting, occa-
sionally  moving  to  tend  another  machine  which  produced  a
continuous record  as the  cracks grew.  Time meant  very little
to  him. The  sun drifted  slowly. Abruptly,  one of  the jagged
lines  widened  and  the  structure  opened.  A  wide-shouldered
form  covered  with  pink stubble  rose up  suddenly out  of it,
swaying,  a  raw,  bristle-edged opening  facing him  forward of
the bulbous projection at its top, beneath  a dazzling  red band
of jewel-like  knobs. He  triggered the  projector and  a gleam-
ing net was cast upon it. It struggled within  it but  could not
come  free.  Its  movements  came  to  correspond  with  a faint

drumming   sound  which   might  be   his  heartbeat.   Now  the
entire  world  crashed  and  fell  away  and  he   was  running,
running into the east, younger self of his self, beneath  a blue
sky,  past  saltbush and  sagebrush, clumps  of scrub  grass and
chamisa,  the  sheep  barely  noting his  passage, save  for one
which suddenly rose  up, assuming  all the  colors of  the dawn,
swaying....   And   then   everything   swam   away    on   dark
currents  to the  places where  dreams dwell  when they  are not
being used....

  Birdnotes  and  predawn  stasis:  he  was  cast  up  onto  the
shoals of  sleep, into  a world  where time  hung flexed  at the
edge  of  light.  Frozen.  His  emerging awareness  moved slowly
over  preverbal  landscapes  of  thought  he  had  quitted  long
ago. Or was it yesterday?
  He  awoke  knowing  that  the  call  was important.  He tended
to his  morning and  removed all  signs of  his camp  before the
sun  was  fully  risen.  The  coyote  was  nowhere in  sight. He
began walking. It had been a long time, too long  for him  to go
further into the  portent. His  feelings, however,  were another
matter.  He  scrutinized  them  occasionally,  but  seldom exam-
ined them closely.
  As  he  hiked  across  the morning,  he considered  his world.
It  was  small again,  as in  the beginning,  though this  was a
relative matter - relative to all the worlds he had traveled in.
He  moved  now  in  the  foothills of  the Carrizo  Mountains in
Dinetah,  the  land  of the  Navajos, over  twenty-five thousand
square miles, much of it still grazing land, over a  million and
a  half  acres  still  wildland,  bounded  by  the  four  sacred
mountains  -  Debentsa  in  the  north,  Mount  Taylor   in  the
south,  San  Francisco  Peaks  in  the west  and Blanco  Peak in
the  east,  each with  its stories  and sacred  meanings. Unlike
many   things   he   had   known,   Dinetah  had   changed  only
slowly,  was  still  recognizable  in  this,  the  twenty-second
century,  as the  place it  had been  in his  boyhood. Returning
to  this  land  after  so  many  years  had been  like traveling
backward in time.
  Yet  there  were  differences  between   this  day   and  that
other.  For  one,  his  clan had  always been  a small  one, and
now he found himself its last survivor. While  it was  true that
one is born a member of one's mother's  clan but  in a  sense is
also  born  for  one's  father's  clan,  his  father had  been a
Taoseno  and  there  had  been  very  little  contact  with  the
pueblo. His father  - a  tall, sinewy  man, an  unusually gifted

tracker, with more than a little  Plains blood  - had  come to
live in Dinetah, as was proper, tending his wife's  flocks and
hoeing her corn, until  the day  a certain  restlessness over-
took him.
 Even so, it was  not the  lack of  clan affiliation  which had
altered his life. A  Navajo has  great potential  for personal
contacts through the complex network of  tribal interrelation-
ships, so that even though all of the people  he had  known in
his youth were likely dead, he might  still find  ready accep-
tance  elsewhere.  But  he  had  returned  with an  Anglo wife
and  had  not  done  this.  He  felt a  momentary pang  at the
thought,  though  more  than  three  years  had  passed  since
Dora's death.
 It was  more than  that. A  Navajo alone,  on his  own, away
from the People, is said to  be no  longer a  Navajo -  and he
felt  that  in a  way this  was true,  though his  mother, his
grandmother  and  his  great-grandmother  were   buried  some-
where  near  the place  where he  now lived.  He knew  that he
had  changed,  changed  considerably,  during the  years away.
Yet so had the People. While the land was little altered, they
had  lost  many  of  the  small  things  he  remembered, small
things adding up to something  large. Paradoxically,  then, he
was  on  the one  hand of  an earlier  era than  his contempo-
raries,  and  on  the  other...  He  had walked  beneath alien
suns.  He  had  tracked  strange  beasts,  worthy  of Monster-
Slayer  himself.  He had  learned the  ways of  the bellicanos
and  was  not  uncomfortable  among   them.  There   were  de-
grees  after  his  name,  some  of  them  earned. There  was a
library in his head, held firmly in the trained memory  of one
who had studied the chants of  yataalii. More  traditional yet
more  alien he  found himself.  He wanted  to be  alone, what-
ever he was.
 He broke into an easy jog, telling himself that  its purpose
was to get the cold out of his  bones. He  ran past  walls and
outcrops  of granite  and sandstone,  hillsides of  pinon and
juniper. Dead yuccas, their leaves touched with ice,  lay like
burned out stars  nailed to  the ground  along his  trail. The
snow  glinted on  distant mountain  peaks beneath  a perfectly
clear sky. Even after the cold had left him, he maintained his
pace, deriving a kind of joy from the exertion.
 The  day  wore  on. He  did not  break his  stride, however,
until  midmorning,  when  he halted  for a  brief meal  upon a
hillside  commanding  a  long  view   down  a   narrow  canyon
where  sheep  grazed on  dry grasses.  In the  distance, smoke

rose from  a conical,  dirt-insulated hogan,  its Pendleton-hung
door facing him, there in the east.
  An old man  with a  stick came  out from  behind a  cluster of
rocks,  where  he  might  have been  resting while  watching the
sheep.  Limping,  he  took  a  circuitous path  which eventually
brought him near.
  "Ya'at'eeh," the man said, looking past him.
  "Ya'at'eeh."
  He asked the man to share his  food, and  they ate  in silence
for a time.
  After  a  while,  he  asked  the  man's  clan  - it  would have
been  impolite to  ask his  name -  and learned  that he  was of
the  Rabbit  Redwater  People.  He  always  found it  easier to
talk  with the  older people  than the  younger ones,  those who
lived far out rather than near the cities.
  Eventually  the  man  asked  him  his own  clan. When  he told
him, the other grew silent. It is not good to talk of the dead.
  "I  am  the  last,"  he  finally  said,  wanting the  other to
understand. "I've been away a long time."
  "I  know,  I  know  the  story  of  Star  Tracker."  He pushed
down  upon  the  crown  of  his  wide-brimmed  black  hat  as  a
gust of  wind struck  them. He  looked back  along the  trail to
the north. "Something follows you."
  Still  smiling  at  the  way  the  old   man  had   named  him
without  naming  him,  he  turned  his head  and looked  in that
direction.  A  large  ball  of  tumbleweed  bounced  and  rolled
along the foot of the hill.
  "Russian thistle," he said.
  "No," the other replied. "Something more dangerous."
  Despite his years, the fear of the chindi rose for a moment
out of his youth. He shuddered beneath the touch of the
wind.
  "I see nothing else," he said.

     "You have been gone for many years. Have you had an
Enemyway?"
  "No."

  "Perhaps you should."
  "Perhaps I will. You know a good Enemyway singer?"
  "I am a singer."
  "Perhaps I will see you again on this before long."
  "I have heard that Star Tracker was a singer. Long ago."
  "Yes."
  "When you come by again we will talk more of these
things."

"Yes."
The man looked back once more, along the trail.
"In the meantime," he said, follow a twisted path.-
"I will do that."
Later,   as   he  passed   along  the   streaky  blue   shale  and
frozen  crimson  clay  of  a   dry  riverbed,   naked  cottonwoods
flanking it like fracture lines against the cold blue of  the sky,
he  thought  of  the  old  mas's  words  and  the things  of which
they  reminded  him  -  of  the  sky  creatures  and  water  crea-
tures,  of  the  beings  of  cloud,  mist,  rain, pollen  and corn
which  had  figured  so  prominently  in  his  childhood  imagina-
tion  -  here  in  the  season  when  the  snakes and  the thunder
still slept.
It had been  a long  while since  he had  considered his
problems in the old terms.  A chindi...  Real or  of the
mind - what difference? Something malicious at his back.
Yes, another way of looking at things...
The  day  wore  on  to  noon  and  past it  before the  butte near
his   home   came  into   view,  a   high-standing  wind-sculpture
reminiscent  of  something  he  had  once   seen  in   a  seaweed-
fringed  valley  beneath  the  waters  of   an  alien   ocean.  He
halted again at this point to eat the rest of his  rations. Nature
had  long  moods  in  the  Southwest, he  reflected, as  he looked
off in that direction. While it was true that  the land  was little
altered,  there  had  been  some  change  between  the   then  and
the  now.  He  could  just  make  out stands  of blue  spruce near
the  monolith's  base,  a  tree  he had  not seen  in this  area a
century and  a half  ago. But  then the  climate had  also altered
somewhat  during  the   span,  the   winters  becoming   a  trifle
more  clement,  coming  later,  ending  a  bit  sooner  than  they
once had.
  He filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it.  Shadows  like  multitudes of
fingers stretched slowly out  of the  west. To  run all  this way,

then sit and rest when the end was in sight-it seemed the
thing  to  do.  Was  he  afraid?  he  wondered.  Afraid   of  that
damned  call?  Maybe  that was  it. Or  did he  want a  last slow-
moving  view  of  this   piece  of   his  life   before  something
happened  to  change  it?  There  had  been  a  song....  He could
not remember it.
When  he  felt  that  the  time  was  proper  he  rose  and  began
walking  through  the  coolness  and  shadow  toward   the  large,
distant,  six-sided house  with the  door to  the east,  his hogan
that was not exactly a hogan.

                          *  *  *

  The  sky  was  darker  by  the time  he reached  the neighbor-
hood  of his  dwelling, and  the trees  curtained off  even more
of the light, casting an as yet starless evening over the raised
log-and-stucco  structure.  He  wandered  about  it  for several
minutes  before  approaching  from  the  east  and  mounting the
rough-cut  decking  with  which  he  had  surrounded  the place.
He  entered  then  and  turned  on  the  light.  He had  his own
power supply, rooftop and below-ground.
  Moving  to  the  central  fogon,  he  arranged  some  kindling
and struck it to fire. He disrobed then, tossing his  Levi's and
red-and-white flannel shirt into  a hamper  along with  the rest
of his clothing. Crossing to  a tall,  narrow stall,  he entered
and  set  the  timer for  a three-minute  UHF shower.  Water was
not  a  thing to  be expended  lightly in  this region.  When he
emerged,  he  drew  on a  buckskin shirt,  khaki bush  pants and
a pair of soft moccasins.
  Activating  his  news  recorder  and  display  screen  and ad-
justing it to some of his  general interests,  he passed  to the
small,  open  kitchen  area to  the right  and prepared  a meal,
amid hanging ristras of chilis and onions.
  He ate in a  low, fur-covered  chair and  the walls  about him
were  hung   with  rugs   from  Two   Gray  Hills   and  Ganado,
interspersed  with  framed  photographs  of alien  landscapes. A
rack  of  weapons  hung on  the far  wall; a  meter-square metal
platform enclosed by  shining vertical  bars of  varying heights
stood  nearby,  a  large console  with a  display screen  to its
right. Its message light was still blinking.
  When  he  finished  eating, he  toyed with  his belt  unit and
put it aside. He went to the kitchen and got a beer.

                             DISK 1

                     CHILEAN QUAKES ABORTED

                       TAXTONIES ARRESTED

and   three  demonstrators   were  apprehended   after  report-
edly setting fire to the car belonging to the  official responsi-
ble for the ruling

          PETROCEL DENIES PATENT INFRINGEMENT CLAIMS
         "GREW OUR OWN," DIRECTOR OF RESEARCH INSISTS

             A MILD SPRING FOR MUCH OF THE NATION
           EARLY FLOOD WATCHES IN MISSISSIPPI VALLEY

               CHIMPANZEE COMPLAINS OF ART THEFT

  References to a drugged banana figured prominently in the
bizarre statement taken today by Los Angeles detectives

             KILLED THEM BECAUSE THEY WERE THERE,
                   MOTHER OF THREE EXPLAINS

         It's been a long time since you left me.
         Don't know what I'm gonna do.
         I look up at the sky and wonder -
         Earthlight always makes me think of you.

             COLUMBIA STUDENTS SKYDIVE FROM ORBIT
                       TO SET NEW RECORD

  "Naturally the university is proud," Dean Schlobin re-
marked, "but

               STRAGEAN AMBASSADOR CLOSETED WITH
                       SECRETARY-GENERAL

  Stragean   Ambassador   Daltmar   Stango   and   Consul  Orar
Bogarthy  continue  a  second  day  of  talks  with  Secretary-
General  Walford.  Speculation  on  a  breakthrough  in  trade-
agreement  negotiations  runs high,  but so  far the  news com-
munity

            W. COAST DOLPHINS PRESS CLAIMS
         A-1 CANNING BELIEVED READY TO SETTLE

       BAKIN M BAWA PREDICTS END OF WORLD AGAIN

 I sip the beer and hear the music,
 Watch the ships as they arrive.
 You packed your bag and went away, love
 I feel like H-E-L-L5.

        CHURCH OF NATURAL LIFE RADICALS SUSPECTED
                IN SPERMOVA BANK BOMBING

         MAN SUES TO RECOVER FORMER PERSONALITY

Relying on a district court order, Menninger officials
performed

        BANK OF NOVA SCOTIA COMPUTER CHARGED WITH
          FELONY IN BONDS MANIPULATION SCANDAL

            Oh, I'm sittin' here and hurtin'
   In this slowly turnin' dive.
   If you ever want to reach me
   Just dial H-E-L-L5.

hate  somewhere  he  still  exists and  there is  no force
great  enough to  keep me  from him  forever it  has taken
a long while to learn the ways but soon i will be  ready i
am  ready  eight days  and had  i known  then what  i know
now he would be gone i would be
gone burned? burned they say? nevermore amid the
slagheaps to chase the crawling tubes and crunch them for
their juiciness? but this air too i breathe and only the
jagged and the straight lightnings hold me here i know
the way beyond them now and the trees outside the
walls visions of cities the lesser ones bear i know

the   ways   i  know   the  forms   wait  the   lesser  ones'
twisted  minds  tell  me  what  i  need  one  will  come  one
day  who will  know of  the one  who is  not like  the others
who still exists i will leave for that somewhere he
exists eight days i died a little he will die
wholly nothing can keep me from him forever i will
talk first now i know of it words like the crawling
things crunch them taste their juiciness strike now
and see the lesser ones draw back now i know them i
will use them words to tell him the why of
it now i will be a sphere and roll about ha! lesser
ones! p hate i will talk it that when tell it
then eight days burned hate

                                      BACK WHEN NAYENEZGANI
and  his  brother  were  in  the process  of disposing  of the
monsters the People  had found  in the  new world,  there were
some - such as  the Endless  Serpent -  who were,  for various
reasons,  spared. Yet  even these  were tamed  to a  degree in
their  acknowledgement  as  necessary  evils.  The  world  was
indeed  becoming  a  safer  place,  though  some  few  yet re-
mained.
 There  was,  for   instance,  Tse'Naga'Hai,   the  Traveling
Rock,  which  rolled  after  its victims  to crush  and devour
them.  Nayenezgani  traveled  on  a  rainbow  and  the crooked
lightning in search of it. His brother having counseled him to
take  the  magic knives  with him,  he had  all eight  of them
about his person.
 When he came to the place  called Betchil  gai, he  took out
his  two  black  knives,  crossed them  and planted  them. Be-
yond,  he  planted  the  two  blue knives,  crosswise. Farther
along,  he  crossed the  two yellow  knives and  planted them.
Farther  yet,  he  planted  the two  knives with  the serrated
edges, also crosswise.
 He moved then in sight of the giant Rock.
 "What  are  you  waiting  for,  Tse'Naga'Hai?" he  asked it.
"Do you not pursue my kind?"

   With  a  crunching,  grinding noise,  the mossless  boulder he
had just  addressed stirred.  It moved  slowly in  his direction,
gaining  momentum  noticeably  after  but   a  few   moments.  It
almost  took  him  by  surprise  with  the  speed  with  which it
approached.
   But he whirled and raced away. It came on rapidly at his .
back, gaining upon him.
   When  he  reached  the  place  of  the  serrated  knives, Nay-
enezgani  leaped  over  them.  The  Rock  rolled across  them and
a big piece broke away.
   He continued to flee, jumping over the yellow knives.
Tse'Naga'Hai rolled over them also, and another fracture
occurred; more pieces fell away.
   By  now,  the  Rock  was  bouncing  from  side  to   side  and
rolling   in   an   irregular   pattern.  And   when  Nayenezgani
leaped  over  the  blue  knives  and the  Rock crashed  into them
and  bounced  over,  more  pieces  fell  away.  By now,  its size
was  considerably  reduced  though  its  velocity   was  increas-
ing.
   Nayenezgani  sprang  over the  black knives.  When he
heard the Rock grating and cracking itself upon them, he
turned.
   All that  remained was  a relatively  small stone.  He halted,
then moved toward it.
   Immediately  it  swerved,  altering its  course to  bound away
from  him.  Now  he  pursued  it  into the  west, beyond  the San
Juan River. Finally, there  he caught  it, and  much of  the life
and wit seemed gone out of it.
   "Now,  Tse'Naga'Hai,"  he  said,  "the  power  to  harm  me is
gone  from  you,  but  you  are  not without  a certain  virtue I
noted earlier. In the future you will serve to light the fires of
the Dineh."
   He  raised  what remained  of the  Rock and  bore it  off with
him  to  show  to  First  Woman,  who  otherwise  would  not have
believed what he had done.

                               FINALLY HE SIGHED AND ROSE.
He  crossed  to  the console  beside the  area enclosed  by the
shining  bars.  He  pushed  the   "Messages"  button   and  the
display screen came alive.
 EDWIN  TEDDERS  CALLED,  it  read,   followed  by   the  pre-
vious day's date  and the  time -  the time  when his  unit had
signaled in the wilderness. Below, it listed six other attempts
by  Edwin  Tedders to  reach him,  the most  recent only  a few
hours  ago.  There  was  an eastern  code and  a number,  and a
request that he return the call as  soon as  possible, prefaced
by the word URGENT.
    He tried to recall whether he had ever known an Edwin
Tedders. He decided that he had not.
 He punched out the digits and waited.
 The buzzing which followed was broken, but the screen
remained dark.
 "Yes?" came a crisp male voice.
 "William  Blackhorse  Singer,"  he  said,   "returning  Edwin
Tedders's call."
 "Just  a  moment,  please."  The  words  hurried and  rose in
pitch. "I'll get him."
 He  tugged  at  a  turquoise earring  and regarded  the blank
screen.  A  minute  shuffled  its  numbers  on  a  nearby clock-
display. Another...
 The screen  suddenly glowed,  and the  heavily lined  face of
a  dark-haired  man  with  pale eyes  appeared before  him. His
smile seemed one of relief rather than pleasure.
 "I'm  Edwin  Tedders,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad we  finally got
hold of you, Mr. Singer. Can you come through right now?"
 "Maybe."  He  glanced  at  the  gleaming  cage  to  his left.
"But what's this all about?"
 "I'll have to tell you in person. Please reverse the transfer
charges. It is important, Mr. Singer."
 "All right. I'll come."
 He  moved  to  his  trip-box  and  began  its  activation. It
whined  faintly  for an  instant. Zones  of color  moved upward
within the shafts.

"Ready," he said, stepping into the unit.
Looking down, he saw that his feet were growing dim.
           For a moment, the world was disarrayed. Then his
thoughts fell back into place again. He was standing  within a
unit similar to his  own. When  he raised  his head  he looked
out  across  a  large room  done up  in an  old-fashioned man-
ner  -  dark paneled  walls, heavy  leather chairs,  a Chinese
rug, bookshelves filled with  leatherbound volumes,  drapes, a
fireplace  burning  real  logs.  Two  men  stood facing  him -
Tedders, and a slight,  blond man  whose voice  identified him
as the one with whom he had first spoken.
"This  is  Mark  Brandes,  my  secretary,"  Tedders  stated as
he watched him step down.
     He inadvertently pressed his palm rather than clasping
hands, in the old way  of the  People. Brandes  looked puzzled
but Tedders was already gesturing toward the chairs.
"Have a seat, Mr. Singer."
"Call me Billy."
"All right, Billy. Would you care for a drink?"
"Sure."
-I have some excellent brandy."
"That'll be fine."
Tedders looked at Brandes, who immediately moved to a
sideboard and poured a pair of drinks.
"Early spring," Tedders said.
Billy nodded, accepted his glass.
  "You've had a fascinating career. Both freezing and time-
dilation effects  kept you  around till  you could  benefit from
medical advances. A real old-timer, but you don't look it."
Billy took a sip of his brandy.
"This is very good stuff," he said.
"Yes.  Real  vintage.  How  many  trackers  are  there  around
these days?"
"I don't know."
"There are others, but you're the best. Old school."
Billy chuckled.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Tedders chuckled also.
"The best," he said.
"What do you want tracked?"
"It isn't exactly that."
"What, then?"
"It's hard to know where to begin...."

               Billy looked out the window, across the moon-flooded
lawn. In the distance, the prospect was broken by a high
wall.
           "I am a special assistant to Secretary-General Walford,"
Tedders  finally  stated.  "He is  here -  upstairs -  and so  are the
Stragean   ambassador   and   consul   -   Stango  and   Bogarthy.  Do
you know much about the Strageans?"
 "I've met a few, here and there."
 "How'did they strike you?"
 He shrugged.
 "Tall, strong, intelligent... What do you mean?"
 "Would you want one for an enemy?"
 "No."

 "Why not?"
 "They could be very dangerous."
 "In what ways?"
               "They'd be hard to stop. They're shapeshifters. They
have  a  kind  of mental  control over  their bodies.  They can
move their organs around. They can -"
 "Walk through walls?"
 Billy shook his head.
 "I don't know about that. I've heard it said, but I've
never -"
           "It's true. They have a training regimen which will pro-
duce this ability in some of  them. Semireligious,  quite ardu-
ous, takes  years, doesn't  always work.  But they  can produce
some peculiar adepts."
 "Then you know more about it than I do."
 "Yes."
 "So why ask me?"
 "One of them is on her way here."
 Billy shrugged.
 "There are a few thousand around. Have been for years."
 Tedders sipped his drink;
 "They're all normals. I mean one of those with that
special training."
 "So?"

 "She's coming to kill the Secretary-General."
 Billy sniffed his brandy.
 "Good that you got word," he finally said, "and can turn
it over to the security people."
 "Not good enough."
 Throughout the conversation, Tedders had been struggling

to obtain eye-contact. At last Billy was staring  at him,  and he
felt  some  small  sense  of  triumph,  not  realizing  that  this
meant the man doubted what he was saying.
  "Why not?"
  "They're not equipped to deal with Stragean adepts," he
said. "She could well be too much for them."
  Billy shook his head.
  "I don't understand why you're telling me about it."
  "The computer came up with your name."
  "In response to what?"
  "We'd asked it for someone who might be able to stop
her."
  Billy finished his drink and set the glass aside.
  "Then you need a new programmer or something. There
must be a lot of people who know more about Stragean
adepts than I do."
  "You  are  an  expert  on  the  pursuit  and  capture  of exotic
life forms.  You spent  most of  your life  doing it.  You practi-
cally  stocked  the  Interstellar  Life  Institute  single-handed,
You -"
  Billy waved his hand.
  "Enough," he said. "The alien you are talking about is an
intelligent  being. I  spent much  of my  life tracking  animals -
exotic  ones,  to  be  sure,  some  very  crafty  and  with tricky
behavior  patterns  -  but  animals  nevertheless,  not  creatures
capable of elaborate planning."
  Cat...
  "... So I don't see that my experience is really applicable
in this situation," he concluded.
  Tedders nodded.
  "Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  in  a
matter  like  this  we  should  really be  certain. Will  you talk
with  the   Stragean  representatives   who  are   visiting  here?
They can probably give you a clearer picture than I can."
  "Sure. I'll talk to anybody."
  Tedders finished  his drink  and rose.
  "May  I  get  you  another  of those?"
  "All right."
  He  replenished  the  snifter. Then,  "I'll be  back in  a few
minutes,"  he  said,  and  he  moved  off to  the right  and de-
parted the room.
  Billy set down the glass and rose. He paced the room,
regarded the titles on the bookshelves, felt the volumes'
spines, sniffed the air. Mingled with the smell of  old leather,

a faint,  almost acrid  aroma he  had not  been able  to place
earlier came to  him again,  a scent  he had  experienced upon
meeting Strageans  in the  past, in  another place.  They must
have been about this building  for some  time, he  decided, or
have been in this room very recently, to mark it so with their
presence.   He   remembered   them   as  humanoid,   over  two
meters in height, dark-skinned save  for silvery  faces, necks
and  breasts;  flat-headed,  narrow-waisted  beings  with wide
shoulders,  collarlike  outgrowths  of  spiny  material  which
served as sound-sensors and small,  feral eyes,  slitted, usu-
ally  yellow  but  sometimes  cinnamon   or  amber   in  color;
hairless,  graceful  in a  many-jointed, insectlike  way, they
moved  quietly  and  spoke  a   language  that   reminded  him
vaguely of Greek, which he did not understand either.
  It is language, he  decided, that  sets the  sentients apart
from the animals. Isn't it?
  Cat...?
         He moved to the window, stared out across the lawn.
Difficult  to  cross  there  without  being detected,  he con-
cluded, with even the simplest security devices  in operation.
And  this  place  must  have  plenty.  But  she  could  assume
almost any guise, could  penetrate the  place in  an innocuous
form....
  Why  be  furtive,  though?  That  is  what  they   would  be
expecting.  While  the  defenders  were  concentrating  on the
sophisticated, why not  hijack a  heavy vehicle,  come barrel-
ing  across the  lawn, crash  through a  wall, jump  down from
the cab and start shooting everything that moves?
  He  shook  himself  and  turned  away.  This  was   not  his
problem. There must be  plenty of  people more  qualified than
himself to second-guess the  alien, no  matter what  the com-
puter said.
  He returned to his chair  and took  up his  drink. Footsteps
were  approaching  now  from  the  direction in  which Tedders
had  departed.  Footsteps,  and  the  soft  sound  of  voices,
accompanied by a faint ringing  in his  ears. The  language of
the Strageans ranged into the ultrasonic  on the  human scale,
and  though  they  narrowed their  focus when  speaking Terran
tongues  there  were  always  some   overtones.  Too   long  a
conversation  with  a  Stragean normally  resulted in  a head-
ache.  He took  another drink  and lowered  the glass  as they
rounded the corner.
  The  two  Strageans  wore  dark blue  kilts and  belts which
crossed  their  breasts  like  bandoliers. Ornamental  pins or

badges  of  office  were  affixed  to these  latter. Between  Ted-
ders and the aliens walked another man, short, heavy, with
just a fringe of dark hair; his eyes were jadelike under  heavy
brows;  he  wore  a  green robe  and slippers.  Billy recognized
him as UN Secretary-General Milton Walford.
 Tedders  introduced  him  to  Daltmar  Stango  and  Orar  Bo-
garthy as well as to Walford.  Everyone was  seated then,  and
Tedders said, "They will tell you more about this."
 Billy nodded.
     The Stragean known as Daltmar Stango, staring at nothing
directly before him, recited: "It has to do  with the  coming of
your people to stay  on our  world. There  is already  a sizable
enclave of them  there, just  as there  is of  our kind  here on
Earth.  There  has  been  very  little  trouble on  either world
because of this.  But now,  with my  present mission  to negoti-
ate political and trade agreements, it appears that  the settle-
ments will become permanent diplomatic posts."
 He paused but a  moment, as  if to  refocus his  thoughts, and
then  continued:  "Now,  there  is  a  small religious  group on
Strage which believes that  when Terrans  die there,  their life
essences foul the place of the afterlife. Permanent  posts will
guarantee  that  this group's  fears will  be realized  with in-
creasing  frequency  as time  goes on.  Hence, they  are against
any  agreements with  your people,  and they  would like  all of
them off our world."
 "How large a group are they?" Billy asked.
 "Small.  Fifty  to  a  hundred thousand  members, at  most. It
is  not  their  size  which  is important,  though. They  are an
austere  sect, and  many of  them undertake  a severe  course of
training  which  sometimes produces  spectacular effects  in the
individual."
 "So I've heard."
 "One  such  individual  has  taken  it  upon herself  to correct
matters.  She  commandeered  a  vessel  and  set  a  course  for
Earth.  She  feels  that  an  assassination  at this  level will
disrupt our negotiations  to the  point where  there will  be no
treaty - and that this will  lead to  the withdrawal  of Terrans
from our world."
 "How close is she to the truth?"
 "It is always difficult to  speculate in  these matters,  but it
would certainly slow things down."
 "And she's due to arrive in a few days?"
 "Yes.  We  received  the  information  from  other  members of
her  sect,  and they  could not  be more  precise. They  did not

learn the story  in its  entirety until  after her  departure, when
they  informed  the  authorities.  They  were  anxious  that  it be
known  she  was  acting  on  her  own  initiative  and   not  under
orders."
  Billy smiled.
  "Who can say?" he said.
  "Yes.  At  any rate,  since a  message can  travel faster  than a
ship, the warning was sent."
  "You  must know  best how  to stop  one of  your own
people."
  "The problem seldom occurs," Daltmar said.  "But the
customary method is to set a team of similarly endowed
adepts after a wrongdoer. Unfortunately..."
  "Oh."

  "So  we  must  make  do  with  what  is   at  hand,"   the  alien
went  on.  "Your people  will try  to intercept  her in  space, but
projections  only  give  them  a  twenty-seven  percent  chance  of
success. Have you any ideas?"
  Cat?
  "No," Billy replied. "If it were a dangerous animal, I'd
want to study it in its habitat for a time."
  "There is no way and no time."
  "Then  I  don't  know  what  to   tell  you."
  Walford produced a small parcel from the pocket of his
robe.
  "There  is  a chip  in here  that I  want you  to take  back with
you  and  run through  your machine,"  he said.  "It will  tell you
everything  we  know  about  this   individual  and   about  others
of that sort. It is the closest  thing we  can give  you to  a life
study."
  Billy rose and accepted the package.
  "All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll take  it home  and run  it. Maybe
something will suggest itself."
  Walford  and  the  others  rose  to their  feet. As  Billy turned
toward  the   transporter,  the   Stragean  called   Orar  Bogarthy
spoke.
  "Yours  is  one  of  the aboriginal  peoples of  this continent?"
he said.
  "Yes," Billy replied, halting but not turning.
  "Have the jewels in your earlobes a special significance?
Religious, perhaps?"
  Billy laughed.
  "I like them. That's all."
  "And the one in your hair?"

Billy touched it as he turned slowly.
"That one? Well... it is believed to protect one from
being struck by lightning."
"Does it work?"
"This  one  has.  So  far."
"I  am curious.  Being struck  by lightning  is not  the most
common occurrence in life. Why do you wear it?"
"We  Navajos  have  a  thing  about  lightning.  It  destroys
taboos. It twists reality. Not a thing to fool around with."
He  turned  away,  moved  ahead,  punched  a  series  of num-
bers, stepped up into the unit. He glanced up at  the expres-
sionless humans and aliens as the delay factor passed and his
body began to melt.

   Traveling the distance from hill to hill,
   passing from place to place as the wind passes,
   trackless. There should be a song for it,
   but I have never learned the words.
   So I sing this one of my own making:
   I am become a rainbow, beginning there
   and ending here. I leave no mark
   upon the land between as I arc
   from there to here. May I go in beauty.
   May it lie before, behind, above and below,
   to the right and the left of me.
   I pass cleanly through the gates of the sky.

                                 WE CALL IT THE ENEMYWAY,
the  old  man  said,  but  the  white  people came  along and
started  calling it  a squaw  danc - probably because  they saw
the women dancing for it. You  get a  special name  if you're
the one they're going to sing over, a warrior's name.  It's a
sacred name you're just supposed to  use in  ceremonials, not
the  kind  you go  around telling  everybody or  just letting
people call you by.
  It all started, he said, back when Nayenezgani was pro-

tecting  the People.  He killed  off a  whole bunch  of monsters
that  were  giving  us  a  hard  time.  There  was   the  Horned
Monster  and  Big  God  and  the  Rock  Monster  Eagle  and  the
Traveling  Rock and  a lot  of others.  That was  why he  got to
be  called  Monster-Slayer.  His  fourth  monster,  though,  was
called Tracking Bear. It was a bear, but it  looked more  like a
lion the size of a floatcar. Once it came across your tracks, it
would start following  them and  it wouldn't  stop until  it had
found you and had you for dinner on the spot.
  Nayenezgani  went  out and  tracked the  tracker and  then let
it track him. But when it finally  found him,  he was  ready. He
wasn't  called  Monster-Slayer  for  nothing.  When  it  was all
over, the world was that much safer.
  But at about that time, it started to get to him.  He suffered
for it because of all those enemies he killed, and the bear just
added  another  one to  their band.  Their spirits  followed him
around  and  made  him  pretty  miserable.  This  is  where  the
word   Anaa'ji,   for   the   Enemyway,   comes   from.  Naayee'
means  an  enemy,  or  something  really  bad  that's  bothering
you.  Now,  neezghani  means  "he  has  gotten  rid of  it," and
ana'i means an enemy that's been  gotten rid  of. So  Anaa'ji is
probably really the best  word to  call it  by. It's  a ceremony
for getting rid of really bad troubles.

                                    HE PACED. THE SCREEN STILL
glowed.  He  had  not  turned  off  the  unit  after  viewing the
chip. The  walls seemed  to lean  toward him,  to press  in upon
him.  The   wind  was   singing  a   changing  song   he  almost
understood.  He  paused  at  various  times,  to inspect  an old
basket,  an  ancient  flaked  spear point,  the photograph  of a
wild  landscape  beneath an  indigo sky.  He touched  the barrel
of  a  high-powered  rifle,  took  the  weapon  into  his hands,
checked it, replaced it on its  pegs. Finally  he turned  on his
heel and stepped outside into the night.
         He stood upon the decking which surrounded the hogan.
He peered into the shadows. He looked up at the sky.
  "I have no words..." he began, and a part of his mind

mocked  the  other  part. He  was, as  always, conscious  of this
division. When it had first occurred he could no longer say.
 "... But you require an answer."
 He  was  not  even  certain  what  it  was  that  he addressed.
The  Navajo  language  has  no  word  for  "religion."   Nor  was
he  even  certain  that  that  was  the  category into  which his
feelings  fell.  Category?  The  reason  there  was  no  word was
that in the  old days  such things  had been  inextricably boun
PART II

Things that flee and things that pursue
have their seasons.
Each of us hunts
and each of us is hunted.
We are all of us prey;
we are all predators.
Knowing this, the careful hunter
is wary. The prey, too, learns boldness
beyond its normal reach.
And then there is luck,
and then the gods.
The hunt is always uncertain.

We skinned the wolf
and in the morning
a human hide hung there.
At night, it became again
the pelt of a wolf.

There is no certainty,
there is no law
in the hunt.

Talking-god be with me.
Black-god be with me.
Luck and boldness
be with me, too.

            The First Day

                                  WITHOUT SLOWING, HE ILLU-
minated the dial of his watch  and checked  the time.  An hour.
He  smiled,  because  it  seemed  that  Cat had  overlooked the
obvious. He could get far in that time, and all was fair....
He  maintained  the  steady pace  which he  could keep  up for
most of a day. To give in to fears and sprint  now would  be to
leave  himself  exhausted  in  the  face of  possibly necessary
exertions later.
The  wind  whipped  by  him,  and  deeper patches  of shadows
took  on  an  ominous  character,  hiding  eyes,  fangs, move-
ment....
Dead.  The  Stragean  was  dead,  A being  able to  cause fear
in the highest circles. Dead. And Cat had  slain her.  Soon Cat
would  be  bounding   along,  coming   this  same   way.  Cat's
enormous,  faceted  eye  could,  he  believed,  see   into  the
infrared, distinguish polarized light. He was still not certain
as to all of the senses Cat  possessed. He  could see  Cat now,
like a giant chindi, not even slowing as he followed the trail.
Beads  of  perspiration  formed  on  Billy's  brow. A  part of
him  saw  the  beast's  powers   from  a   completely  rational
standpoint.  He  had  fought  Cat  before  when  Cat  was  much
more naive.  But Cat  had had  fifty years  in which  to become
sophisticated  in  the  ways  of this  world. Cat  suddenly be-
came phantomlike at another  level, no  longer the  -beast that
had been, but something returning, as from the north....

 He  fought  back  a  renewed  desire  to increase  his pace.
There was ample time, he  told himself,  a sufficiency  in which
to  make  good  his  getaway.  And why  should there  be fear?
Bare  minutes  ago  he  had been  ready to  die. Now  at least
there was a chance. He  strove to  contain himself  within the
present instant. The past  was gone.  He had  some say  in the
making  of  the  future,  but  this  was  contingent  upon his
behavior now. It was going to  be all  right. Long  before the
hour had run  out, he  would be  totally safe.  It was  only a
matter of minutes, really....
 He jogged on, his mind fixed upon his goal. At last  it came
into sight,  the trip-box  station which  would place  him be-
yond Cat's reach in the barest twinkling. He saw the lights of
the small building at the crossroads beyond  the field  he was
now entering. Something about it, though...
 As he moved  nearer, he  realized that  the front  window of
the place was  broken. He  slowed his  approach. He  could see
no one about.
 He halted and looked inside. There  were three  units, lined
against the far wall. All of them were wrecked. It was as if a
piece  of   runaway  heavy   equipment  had   passed  through,
snapping  or  twisting the  gleaming standards,  upsetting the
control  units.  The  power banks,  he noted,  were untouched.
 Cat...
 That last time Cat had gone  out, ranging  far to  scout the
area... Cat had foreseen a  possible escape  on his  part with
flight in this direction, had  acted to  remedy this  means of
retreat.
 He  looked   about.  The   damage  should   have  registered
itself at the area control center. But the  hour was  late. No
telling when a repair crew might be by.
 A map. There would be  a line  map inside  for the  area. He
moved to the doorway and entered.
 Yes. On the wall to his right. He studied the disposition of
the red dots representing boxes in the  area, located  his own
position, looked for the next several.
 Four miles to the nearest one.
    Would Cat know its location? Would Cat have bothered to
look at this thing on the wall,  realizing it  was a  map? And
even  if  this  were  the  case,  would Cat  have gone  to the
trouble  to  wreck  another?  True,  he  might  have  wanted to
cover all bets....
 But no. Cat's  surprise at  his failure  to flee  had seemed
genuine.  Cat  had  expected him  to run.  While it  might be

possible for him to elude the beast and make  it this  far, it
seemed unlikely that he could reach the  next one  under these
circumstances.  So  even  if  Cat did  know about  it, chances
were that the next box remained unmolested.
 Still, a map and the land itself were two  different things.
He was not exactly certain as to the disposition of  that next
red  dot.  Even  with the  grace period,  he could  be cutting
things short.
 He  departed  the  wrecked  station,  took his  bearings and
recommenced  his  steady stride,  cutting through  a skeleton-
limbed orchard that rattled about him as  he passed.  A rabbit
sprang  from  behind  a clump  of grasses  to veer  across his
path  and vanish  into the  shadows to  the left.  The grasses
were damp, and soon the  lower portions  of his  trousers were
soaked  through.  Somewhere  a  dog  began  barking.  He  sud-
denly felt as  if he  were being  watched, from  no particular
direction. Again the fleeting shadows writhed images.
 For  a  moment,  he  wondered  what  time  it was,  and then
the desire to know this  thing fell  away. Abruptly,  he found
that he  was happy.  A part  of his  mind was  almost cheering
for Cat, hoping that even now the beast was on his  trail. Let
it be close. Let it be very close and clean, he felt.  Or else
what the joy in such  a context?  This was  the most  alive he
had felt himself in  years. There  was a  new song  inside him
now, accompanied by his drumbeat footfalls.
 He did  not try  to analyze  the shifting  of his  mood. The
clutter of circumstance was far  too dense  for introspection,
even had  he felt  so inclined.  For the  moment, it  was suffi-
cient to ride with the beat of his flight.
 There were times when he felt certain that Cat was  right at
his back, and it did not seem to matter. Other times,  he felt
that  he had  already won,  that he  had far  outdistanced his
pursuer, that there was no  chance of  his ever  being overta-
ken.  All of  his senses  now seemed  touched with  an unusual
acuity - the tiniest night movement was  instantly identified,
from  the  faintest  rasp, thump  or crackling;  shadowy forms
grew  far  more  distinct,  and  even  odors  took  on  a  new
significance. It had all been this way once, yes, long ago....
 It was before everything that the world  had been  this way,
that he had been this way. Running. Into  the east.  Vision as
yet unclouded by veils  life was  later to  drop upon  him. He
had been  eight or  nine years  old before  he had  learned to
speak English....
    But after all of this, he wondered, what traces really

remained  of  his shift  from a  near-neolithic to  a high-tech
society? He had lived more  years under  the latter  than under
the  former,  if  these things  were to  be measured  solely in
years.  The  shift had  been made  successfully, and  both ends
of his personal spectrum were available to him.
 But it  was the  primitive which  ruled as  he ran.  Yes. And
this part preferred the day to the night. Yet the joy remained.
It was not that there was an absence of fear. Instead, the fear
was  contributing something  to that  peculiar species  of ela-
tion which had risen within him.
 As  he  pounded  along,  he wondered  what the  situation was
back  at  the  mansion.  What  had  Walford,  Tedders,  the de-
fenders  and  the  Strageans  made of  that sudden  attack fol-
lowed by the death of  the adept  - with  no explanation  as to
what had  occurred? Naturally  they would  suspect his  part in
it, but  they must  be puzzled  by his  absence. Even  now they
must  be trying  to reach  him -  though this  time he  was not
even wearing the paging unit.
 Would  they  ever  learn?  He  wondered  for the  first time
what Cat might do later - if things were all over and he, Billy
Singer, had walked  into the  north. Would  Cat retire  to some
wilderness  area  and  spend  his days  passing as  some garden
variety  predator?  It  seemed  possible, but  he could  not be
certain.  He could  not tell  whether Cat's  hatred was.focused
upon  him  solely  or  whether  he might  hold all  of humanity
responsible  for  his  captivity.  Images moved  within Billy's
mind -  crouching in  a cage  day after  day, year  after year,
being stared at by passing knots of people. If their situations
had been reversed, he felt that he would hate all mankind.
 A  sense  of  irritation  began  to  grow. Why  shouldn't Cat
consider him a sacrificial lamb and let it go at that?
 He  shook  his  head. No  real reason  for assuming  that Cat
would  run  amok  later.  He  had  given  no  such  indication.
What  was  he  doing  thinking  these  thoughts,  anyway? Look-
ing  for  trouble? It  was him  that Cat  wanted, not  him plus
everybody else. And after he had  gotten him,  it would  all be
over with....
 Sacrificial  lamb...  He thought  again of  the sheep  he had
herded as  a boy.  Long, slow  days under  skies hot  and cool,
big  skies... Lying  on a  hillside. Whittling.  Singing. Foot-
races with other children. His first tumble with that girl from
over  the  ridge.  What  was  her  name?  And  later  with  her
sister.  Hard  breasts under  his hands.  The sheep  about them

unconcerned.  Clouds   like  sheep   on  the   horizon.  Sheep.
Lamb of God. Dora in the sky with turquoise. Running...
 Cat.  Running.  How  will you  track me,  Cat? Do  you follow
the  same  signs  I  would?  Or  does  your  alien   eye  trace
different  marks of  passage? Either  way, there  is no  time to
mask this trail. Escape  first. Hide  afterwards, Speed  now is
all.  Speed,  opportunity.  Chance.  How.  near  might  you be,
anyway? Or are you still waiting for the time to run?
 Turquoise  in  the  sky  with Dora  to the  drumbeat footbeat
here  below.  On  the  hillside, far  ahead, lights.  Night air
comes in, goes out again. Stride is  steady. Veer  left, beyond
the death-shaped  boulder. Up  then. Cat  come. Into  the black
bag. Full entropy is all. But first.
 Minutes  melting,  one  to  the other.  In the  distance, the
hum  of  a  super  battery-powered  vehicle  above  the cleared
trail  which  had  once  been  a  roadway,  lights  raking tree
trunks.  Heading  for  the  station  perhaps.  Ay-ah!  We live.
Unless Cat even now...
 Drawing nearer, he  slowed. This  would be  the place  for an
ambush.  Why  not  check  the  time?  Because  Cat  might  have
lied to gain this much  of a  chase. Once  through the  box and
the beast would be baffled. Wouldn't he?
        Walking now, he examined a new proposition. What had
Cat said about understanding the boxes?
 No. Even if he could black-fare his way, he would not
know where to go....
 Cat is a telepath.
       But of what sort? He had estimated Cat's ability as a
hunting/locator  thing, refined,  to be  sure, during  his long
confinement, but basically quarry-intensive,  at about  a quar-
ter of a mile.  Still, there  were human  telepaths he  knew of
who  could  send  and  receive  around  the  world  and through
outer space.  Yet, again,  such sophisticated  ones he  felt he
could  block  to  some  extent  by  slipping  back  to  boyhood
thought patterns.  But Cat,  too, was  primitive. It  might not
serve to hide him from the beast. In which case.
 The  devil  with  you,  Cat! - on  all  fours   now,  carefully
clearing  the  way  before  him  of  anything which  might give
rise to the slightest sound, his jewelry wrapped in  a handker-
chief and stuffed into  his pocket,  hands moving  deftly, knees
and  toes  advancing into  the cleared  area in  total silence.
Find me if you can. Fight me if you-do.
     No response. And nothing between here and there that he

could conceive of as a transformation  of his  adversary. The
car  drew  up  before the  building and  hovered. No  one de-
parted it.
 He was on his feet  and sprinting  across the  final meters
of the field, through a  fringe of  trees, over  the road-bed
trail. A glimpse through the station  window: the  units were
intact.
 Almost laughing, he thrust  the door  open and  crossed the
threshold.  Empty.  Safe.  Breathe  easily.  He  straightened
from his  half-crouch, removed  his hand  from the  handle of
his knife. Closed the door. All right. Five paces to liberty.
 The unit to his far left was humming  in preparation  for a
transfer. Curious, he watched it. It  was an  odd hour  and a
fairly  isolated  station;  he wondered  who might  be coming
through. Shortly, the outline began to form. It was that of a
woman,  somewhat  stocky,  with  close-cropped   brown  hair.
She wore a dark suit and carried a recording unit bearing the
insignia of a major news service in her  left hand.  Her eyes
fixed upon him as she took on solidity.
 "Hello," she said, studying his garb.
 She stepped out of the unit.
 "Hello."
 "Coming or going?" she said.
 "Just going. I only  waited to  see if  you were  someone I
knew."
 "You're a real Indian, aren't you? Not just someone
dressed that way."
 "I am. If you called ahead for a car I just saw one pull up
out front."
 "I did. That must be it." She  started forward,  then hesi-
tated. "Do you live in this area?" she asked him.
 "No. Just visiting."
 He moved toward the nearest unit.
 "Just a second," she said. "I've come here  on a  story, or
what  could  be  a  story. Maybe  you'd know  something about
it."
 He forced himself to smile as he took another step.
 "I doubt that. Haven't seen anything newsworthy."
 "Well," she persisted, "there have been reports of pecu-
liar security measures being taken at  the Walford  place for
some  time  now.  Then  suddenly  -this  evening   there  was
apparently  a  power  failure   and  some   disturbance.  Now
they've  gone  completely   incommunicado.  Would   you  know
anything about this?"

  He shook his head, moved forward and stepped into the
unit.
            She followed him and took hold of his arm just as he
inserted his  strip into  the slot,  effectively blocking  his tran-
sit.
           "Wait. There's more," she said. "Then we learned that
the  trip-boxes  nearest  to  the  place  had  been   damaged.  Are
you aware that the next station to the east is out of order?"
  "Could it be a part of that power failure?"
  "No,  no.  They  have  their own  power packs  - the  same as
Walford's place, for that matter."
  He shrugged, hoping her hand would slip away.
  "I'm  afraid  I  don't know  anything about  it. Listen,  I'm in
a hurry -"
  "You  haven't  seen  or  heard  of  anything unusual  in this
area?"
  He noted that her recorder was switched on.
  "No," he said. "I've got to be going now -"
  "It's just a feeling," she said, "but I think you know
something about this."
  "Lady," he said, "your car is waiting. Go and see for
yourself  like  a  good  reporter.  I  wouldn't  hang  around here,
though."
  "Why not?"
  "Maybe something will happen to this one, too."
  "Why should it?"
  "How should I know? But if there's something dangerous
going on, you want to be in its path?"
  She smiled for the first time.
  "If there's a story in it, yes."
  He pushed coordinates.
  "Good luck."
  "Not yet," she said, still holding his arm. "Have you been
by that way at all?"
  "Get out of here," he told her, "in the  car, or  by one  of the
other   booths.   Hurry!   This  place   isn't  safe.   Don't  hang
around."
  "I'll be  damned if  I'll let  you go  now!" she  said, reaching
toward a penlike device clipped behind her lapel.
  "Sorry,"  he  said,  and he  jerked his  arm free  and pushed
her  backward.  "Do  what  I  said!"  he  cried. "Get  out!" and
the fading began.
  When  he  stepped  from  a  unit  in London's  Victoria Station,
pocketing  his  strip,  he  had to  restrain himself  from running.

He drew the  back of  his hand  across his  brow and  it came
away wet.
 He headed for the nearest exit. The light of a gray morning
shone through it. He  was arrested  momentarily by  the smell
of food from a twenty-four-hour diner. Too near,  he decided,
and he moved on outside.
 He passed a line of sightseeing hover-vehicles,  another of
taxis, their operators nowhere in  sight. He  continued along
the way for a time, turned at random  in a  vaguely northward
direction  and  left  the  sidewalk.  He followed  a footpath
among  trees  leading  down  what  had   once  been   a  wide
thoroughfare.  There were  fewer streets  now than  there had
been a hundred or even fifty years  before, on  the occasions
of earlier visits he had made. Some  main arteries  were kept
cropped  for  freighters  and  the  occasional  personal hov-
ercraft,  some  had  become malls,  some had  simply deterio-
rated,  most  had  become  inner-city  wilderness  areas,  or
parks, as he used to call them.
 He  followed  the  twisting  ways for  about half  an hour,
putting a good distance between himself  and the  station, as
the day continued to lighten about him.  Muffled by  the trees,
the sounds of the awakening city grew. He bore to  his right,
moving into the fringe area.
 Above,  beyond  the  walkway,  he  scanned  the   faces  of
opened  and  opening  establishments.  Farther  ahead, beyond
an archway, off a courtyard,  he glimpsed  a cafe's  sign. He
mounted a stair to the walk and headed in that  direction. He
was, he judged, somewhere near Piccadilly Circus.
 Right at  the archway,  he froze,  overwhelmed by  a recur-
rence of the feeling that  he was  being observed.  He looked
about. There were a number of people on the  walk and  in the
courtyard, several of them as  distinctively dressed  as him-
self for different parts of the world, but none of  them seemed
to  be  paying  him  particular heed,  and none  seemed large
enough to represent the total mass of his adversary.
Of course, it could be something behind him in the woods....
He did not feel like discarding any sort of warning, even a
premonition. So he began walking again,  passing the  arch- '
way. In an alcove near the corner ahead, he could see a trip-
box. Giving in to nervousness might be a sign of  weakness as
well  as  caution, but  there was  also much  to be  said for
holding  onto  as  much peace  of mind  as possible  when one
was running. He quickened his pace.

  As  he  advanced,  he saw  that the  alcove also  contained a
police callbox. A jerking of its alarm handle should  result in
the in-tripping of a bobby within seconds,  a setup  similar to
that in use  almost everywhere  these days.  Not that  he could
see this as  helping him  very much  if he  suddenly discovered
Cat  at  his back.  A delaying  action, at  best. And  he would
probably  be  condemning  the cop  to death  by calling  him. He
moved a little more rapidly.
  He  saw the  head of  a coyote  - no,  it was  a small  dog -
appear  around  the  corner  of  the  alcove,  looking  in  his
direction.  His  sense  of  urgency grew.  He fought  but could
not resist a desire to look back.
  When he  did, he  felt a  sudden wave  of dizziness.  A large
man  wearing  a  black  cloak  and  glasses  was  just emerging
from among the trees. Billy broke into a run.
  He  located  and  withdrew  his  credit  strip  as  he  raced
ahead.  He  turned  it  to  the  proper position  for immediate
insertion  into  the  machine's  slot.  A  wave of  fear washed
over  him,  turning  quickly  to   despair.  He   was  suddenly
certain that he could not make it in time.  He felt  a powerful
impulse to halt and wait for his pursuer.
  Instead, he plunged into the box, thrust  the strip  into the
slot and rapped out a  set of  coordinates. Turning  then, he
saw  that  the  man  had dropped  to all  fours and  was racing
toward   him,    changing   shape    as   he    came.   Someone
screamed.  Overhead,  a  dirigible  was  passing.   The  entire
tableau  grew  two-dimensional  and  began  to  fade. Good-bye,
Piccadilly....
  Run, hunter,  he heard  faintly amid  his thoughts.  The next
time...
  He stood in  a booth  at Victoria  Station, shaking.  But now
it was reaction rather than  fear. The  fear, the  despair, the
certainty of doom had vanished at the instant of  transport. It
was  then  he  realized  that  Cat  must  have  been projecting
these feelings onto him, a slightly more  sophisticated version
of his old prey-paralysis trick - a thing he had  several times
felt in its more blatant form years ago. He was startled at the
extent to which Cat had developed it since then.
  He keyed a chart  onto the  directory screen  and took  a new
set  of  coordiaates  from  it. His  pursuer might  have caught
Victoria Station from his thoughts, and -
  As he faded, he saw something beginning to take shape
two booths up  from him,  something resembling  a tall,

cloaked, less-than-human figure still in the process of widen-
ing its shoulders and lengthening its forelimbs.
   "Damn!"

   Yes!
   Coming through in Madrid... Bright sky through a dirty
window. A crowd of commuters. No time...
   He  keyed  the  directory,  hit  more  coordinates.  He looked
about  as  Madrid  began  to  go  away.  No  sign of  an incoming
torglind  metamorph.  He  began  to  sigh.  Finished  sighing  at
the  Gare  du  Nord  box-section  in   Paris.  He   summoned  the
local directory and tripped again.
         Walking. Day brighter yet. From the Tuileries Station.
Safe now. No way for Cat to have followed this time.
   Passing  up  the  Champs  Elysees.  Crossing from  the fringes
of the park over  the cyclists'  trail and  onto the  walkway, he
smelled  the  aromas  of  food  from  the nearest  sidewalk cafe.
He  passed  several  before  he  settled upon  one with  a vacant
table,  close  to  a  trip-box,  commanding  good  views  in both
directions.  He  seated  himself  there   and  ordered   a  large
breakfast.  When  he  had finished  he lingered,  drinking count-
less cups  of coffee.  Nothing threatening  appeared and  he felt
the flickering beginning of a sense of security. After a  time, a
feeling of lethargy settled upon him.
   Night.  It  was late  morning here,  but it  was night  in the
place he had left. He had been a long while without sleep.
   He  got  up  and  walked  again.  Should  he  jump  to another
city to obscure his trail further? Or had  he covered  his tracks
sufficiently?
   He  compromised  and  tripped  to  the  Left  Bank.  He  walked
again.  He knew  that his  thinking was  foggy. Filled  first with
the  necessities of  his flight,  his mind  was now  reduced to
slow-motion  movement  by  reaction,  by  fatigue.  It  would be
easy  to  obtain  a  stimulant  to  restore  full  alertness, by
communication  with  his  medical  computer  and  a  request for
transmission  of  a  prescription order  to a  local pharmacist.
But he felt relatively safe now,  and he  would rather  rest and
restore his natural  energies than  proceed by  artificial means
at this stage of affairs. His body  might ultimately  prove more
important than  his mind,  his feelings  aid his  reflexes surer
guides  than  any  elaborate  plan.  Hadn't  he  already decided
that  primitive  was  best against  a dangerous  telepath? Sleep
now, pay later, if need be.
     He located a hotel called the St. Jacques near the Univer-

sity.  There  were  several trip-boxes  in the  neighborhood and
one  off  the  lobby.  He  took  a  third-floor  room  there and
stretched out on the bed, fully dressed.
 For a long while he stared  at the  ceiling, unable  to sleep.
Images  of  his  recent  flight  came  and went.  Gradually, how-
ever,  other  images  intruded,  none of  them pieces  of recent
things.  He  drifted  with  them,  his  breathing  slowing,  and
finally they bore him off.
... Watching Dora before the video console, summoning
up swarms of equations, fingers moving across the keyboard
as his mother's had across the loom, introducing new varia-
bles, weaving the fresh patterns that resulted. He did not
understand. But it did not matter. Her hair long and blond,
her eyes very pale. He had met her on his return from a long
expedition, when the Institute had sent him back to school
for an update on astrophysical theory and improved naviga-
tional techniques. She had taught mathematics there....
The equations turn to sandpaintings and finally to skulls,
animal as well as human. Dora is smiling. Dimly he remem-
bers that she is dead. Would she still be alive if she had never
met him? Probably. But... The screen has become a slot
machine now, and the skulls keep turning and stopping,
coming up different colors.... The colors line the walls of
the canyon through which he walks. Long bands of strata in
the roughness to right and left. Strewn at his feet are the
skulls and other bones, some of them gray and gnawed,
cracked and weathered, others ivory fresh, some of them
inset with turquoise, coral and jet. There comes a sound at -
his back, but he  turns and  nothing is  there. It  comes again,
and he turns again, and again there is  nothing. The  third time
it comes,  he thinks  that he  detects a  fleeting shadow  as he
spins around. The fourth time,  it is  there, waiting.  A coyote
stands laughing beside  a pile  of bones.  "Come," it  says, and
it  turns  away.  He  follows,  and  it  leads  him   among  the
shadows.  "Hurry,"  it says,  loping now,  and he  increases his
pace.  A  long  time  seems  to  pass   as  they   move  through
hidden  places.  Dark  places.  Places  of  forgetfulness.  Dora
following.  Firelight  and  dancers.   Sounds  of   rattles  and
drums.  Nightclub  through  a  whiskey  haze.  The   dusty  sur-
face  of  Woden  IV;  the  tanklike  beasts  which  dwell there.
Bones  underfoot,   bones  all   about.  Falling,   falling  ...
Sounds  at  his  back. His  shadow preceding  him as  he pursues
the  furry  tail  of  the  Trickster. "Where  are we  going?" he

calls  out.  "Out and  up, out  and up,"  comes the  reply. His
shadow  is suddenly  enveloped by  that of  a larger  one, from
something just at his back. "Hurry! Out! Up! Hurry!"
 Awakening to urgency: day grown dimmer beyond the
window. And what was that sound on the stair?
 Out and up? Too  strong a  thing to  ignore. He  could almost
still hear the coyote beyond the window.
 He  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  looked  out. There  was a
fire  escape.  Had he  noticed it  on checking  in? He  did not
recall.
 He  raised  the  window  and  stepped  outside.  He  did  not
question  the  warning.  He  still seemed  to be  moving within
the  dream.  It  seemed perfectly  reasonable that  he continue
on  the  course  he  had  been following.  The evening  air was
cool,  trail  lights  illuminated  the  way  below.  That damp,
pungent smell on the breeze... The Seine?
 Up!
      He climbed. With some difficulty, he was able to draw
himself onto the slanting  roof. People  were moving  along the
Rue  des  Ecoles  trail,  but  no one  looked upward.  He began
moving to his right, toes in a rain gutter, hands sliding along
slate.  The  dreamlike  quality  persisted. He  passed chimneys
and  a  dish  antenna.  He  saw  a corner  ahead. There  came a
faint,  hollow,  hammering  sound,  as  of someone  pounding on
a door, below and to his left. He hurried.
 The crashing,  splintering sound  which followed  stirred his
imagination but  vaguely. There  was a  booth fairly  near now,
were he on the ground....
 He  moved  as  if  following  a  magic trail,  leading toward
another fire escape he  now had  sight of.  Even the  sounds of
pursuit,  as  a  large  body passed  through his  hotel window,
ringing upon the metal stair,  and then  reared to  scrabble at
the roof's  edge, seemed  but part  of some  drama of  which he
was not even an  interested spectator,  let alone  a principal.
He  continued  to  move  mechanically,  barely  aware  that his
pursuer was addressing  him -  not with  words, but  with feel-
ings  which  he  would   normally,  under   the  circumstances,
have found disquieting.
 He glanced back as he took a turn, in time to see  the large,
oddly shaped figure in black begin to  draw itself  upward onto
the  roof.  Even  when  the  guttering  tore loose  beneath its
weight and the  figure clawed  unsuccessfully to  gain purchase
on the building, he felt no  surge of  adrenalin. As  its down-

ward plunge began, he heard it  call: Today  luck is  with you.
Make the most of it! Tomorrow
 Its  words  and  movements  ceased  when   it  landed   in  a
clump of shrubbery below.  And it  was only  then that  he felt
as  if  he were  suddenly awakening,  realizing that  the world
actually  existed, that  his position  had been  precarious. He
drew a deep breath of the night's cold air, swung onto the fire
escape and began his descent.
 When  he  reached  the ground,  the figure  was still  a dark
mass within  the rue's  trailside growth.  It was  making small
movements  and  a  wheezing  noise,  but  it  seemed  unable to
rise and continue the pursuit.
 It  was  only  after he  had hurried  into the  box, summoned
forth  new  coordinates and  encoded them  that Billy  began to
wonder.

                          DISK III

           COMPUTER FILES PATENT INFRINGEMENT SUIT

 BRG-118,  recipient  of  the  2128  Nobel Prize  in Medicine,
this morning filed suit in  the district  court in  Los Angeles
claiming that J & J Pharmaceuticals

                SATELLITE THIEF STRIKES AGAIN

 Valuable experimental  components were  removed from
Berga-12 by a person or persons unknown during a power
failure now believed to have been induced by

           SOLAR REGATTA TO SAIL THURSDAY

           REPORTER FOUND BRUTALLY SLAIN

 In an out-of-the-way trip-box station in upstate New York,
reporter Virginia Kalkoff's mangled

 Don't know what I'm gonna do...

                SPRING STORMS HIT SOUTHWEST

            SERIES-12 ARTIFICIAL HEART RECALLED

 Apologizing for the inconvenience

                                  IN THE DAYS BEFORE NAY-
enezgani,  Old  Man  Coyote  once  came  upon  the  Traveling
Rock in his journeying about the land. It  had spoken  to him
and  he  had  answered.  Amused  that  a  huge pile  of stone
should possess sentience, he quickly set about mocking it.
 First he painted a grotesque face upon its side.
 "Old Man Stone, you are frowning," he said.
 "I do not like this face you have given me," it replied.
 "And you are bald," Coyote said. "I will fix that."
 He climbed atop the stone and defecated.
 "Brown curly locks suit you well."
 "You annoy me, Cayote," it said.
 "I will be back in a while to build a fire at your base and
cook my dinner," Coyote said, "as soon as I have hunted."
 "Perhaps I, too, should hunt," it said.
 Coyote  set off  through the  woods. He  had not  gone very
far  when  he  heard a  rumbling noise  behind him.  When he
looked  back  he  saw  that the  stone, rolling  slowly, had
commenced following him.
 "Holy shit!" said Coyote, and he began running.
 As  he  ran  along, he  saw Mountain  Lion resting  in the
shade.

           "Mountain Lion!" he called out. "Someone is chasing
me. Can you help me, brother?"
  Mountain Lion rose, stretched and looked back.
  "You've  got  to  be  kidding,"  Mountain  Lion  said  when he
saw  Traveling  Rock.  "I've  no desire  to be  a flat  cat. Keep
going."
         Coyote ran on, and later he passed Bear just emerging
from his den.
  "Hey!  Bear,  old   buddy!"  he   cried.  "I've   got  someone
after me. Will you help me?"
  "Sure,"  said  Bear.  "There  aren't  many  things  I'm afraid
of..."

  Then Bear heard the noise of pursuit and looked back and
saw Traveling Rock.
  "... But that's one of them-," he said. "Sorry."
  "What should I do?" Coyote yelled.
  "Cultivate philosophy and run like hell," said Bear, re-
turning to his den.
  Coyote ran on, down to the plains, and Traveling Rock
picked up speed behind him.
  At length, Coyote saw Old Buffalo grazing  amid long
grasses.
  "Buffalo! Save me! I'm being chased!" Coyote cried.
  Old Buffalo turned his head slowly and regarded the
oncoming boulder.
  "You  can  have  all  the  moral  support  I've  got," Buffalo
replied.  "But  I  just remembered  it's time  to move  the herd.
We've  about  grazed  this area  out. See  you around,  kid. Hey,
gang! Let's get our tails across the river!"
  Coyote  continued  to run,  gasping now,  and finally  he came
to the place where the hawks were resting.
  "Help  me,  lovely  fliers,  mighty  hunters!"  he  called. "My
enemy is gaining on me!"
  "Hide in  this hollow  tree and  leave the  Rock to  us," said
the chief of the hawks.
  The  Hawk  Chief  gave  a  signal  then  and his  entire tribe
rose  into  the  air, circled  once and  fell upon  the Traveling
Rock.  With  their  beaks,  they  prized  away  all of  its loose
covering, and then they  went.to work  along its  fracture lines,
opening,  widening,  removing  more  material.  In a  short time,
the Rock was reduced to a trail of gravel.
  "There,"  said  the  Hawk Chief  to Coyote,  "it is  over. You
can come out now."

 Coyote emerged from the  tree and  regarded the  remains of
his enemy. Then he laughed.
 "It was only a game," he said.  "That's all  it was.  I was
never  in  any  real  danger.  And  you  dumb  birds actually
thought I was in trouble. That's funny. That's real funny. No
wonder everyone laughs  at you.  Did you  really think  I was
afraid of that old rock?"
 Coyote  walked  away  laughing,  and  the  Hawk  Chief gave
another signal.
 The  hawks  fell upon  the stone  chips, gathered  them and
began reassembling them, like pieces of a gigantic puzzle.
 When  the Traveling  Rock found  itself together  again, it
groaned and then, slowly at first, began  rolling, off  in the
direction Coyote had taken upon his  departure. It  picked up
speed  as  it moved  and soon  came in  sight of  Coyote once
more.
 "Oh, no!" Coyote cried when he saw it coming.
 He  began running  once again.  He came  to a  downhill slope
and  began  its  descent.  Traveling  Rock  picked  up  speed
behind  him,  narrowed  the  distance  that  separated  them,
rolled over him and crushed him to death.
 A  circling  hawk  saw  this  take place  and went  back to
report it to the others.
 "Old  Man Coyote  has done  it again,"  he said.  "He never
learns."

           The Second Day

                                    NIGHT, WITH MIST BANKS
drifting down  rocky slopes,  stars toward  the center  of the
sky,  moonrise  phosphorescence  at  the  edge of  things. The
floatcar  followed  the  high,  craggy trail,  winding between
rock  wall  and  downward  slope,  piercing  stone  shoulders,
turning, dipping and  rising. Sheep  wandered across  the way,
pausing to browse on spring grasses. There  were no  lights in
the countryside; there  was no  other traffic.  The windshield
occasionally  misted  over, to  be cleared  by a  single, auto-
matic  movement of  its blade.  The only  sound above  the low
buzz of the engine was the occasional urgent note of a gust of
wind invading some cranny of the vehicle.
Billy entered a curve bending to his right,  a steep  rise to
his  left.  He  felt  more  secure  with every  kilometer that
passed. Cat  had proved  more formidable  than he  had antici-
pated when  it came  to using  the trip-boxes  and functioning
within cities. He was still uncertain as to how the  beast had
been  able to  determine his  whereabouts with  such accuracy.
A  gimmicking  of  the  boxes he  could understand,  but know-
ing  where  to  go  to  find  him...  It  almost   smacked  of
witchcraft, despite the fact that Cat had had  a long  time in
which to plan.
Still, a change of tactics now ought to provide him  with the
leeway  he  would  need  for  a total  escape. He  had tripped

back to the Gare du Nord after fleeing the  stunned Cat  on the
Left Bank.  From there  he had  transported himself  to Dublin,
a city he had  visited a  number of  times during  Irish excur-
sions,  consulted  the  directory and  tripped to  Bantry, from
which  he  had once  spent several  weeks sailing  and fishing.
There,  in that  pleasant, quiet  corner of  West Cork,  he had
taken  his  dinner  and  known  the  beginning  of  this  small
aecurity he felt. He had walked through the  town there  at the
head of the bay, smelling the salt air  and recalling  a season
that might have been happier, though he  now saw  it as  one of
his many  periods of  adjustment to  yet another  changed time;
He  remembered  the  boat  and  a  girl  named  Lynn   and  the
seafood; these, and  the fact  that it  was a  small, unhurried
place,  permitting  him to  slip gradually  into a  new decade.
Could  something  like  this  be  what  he  really  most needed
now?  he wondered.  He shook  his head.  His grip  tightened on
the wheel as he negotiated a twisting descent.
 Time  to think.  He needed  to get  to a  safe place  where he
could  work  things  out.  Something  was  very  wrong.  He was
missing  important  things.  Cat  had  come  too  damned close.
He ought to be able  to shake  him. This  was still  his world,
for all of the changes. An alien  beast should  not be  able to
outwit  him  here.  Time.  He  needed  some  time  in  which to
work on it.
 Vary the pattern, he had decided. If he  had left  some trace
behind  him  in  the boxes,  some means  by which  his destina-
tion  choices  might  become  known,  this  move  on  his  part
should  cancel  that  effect.  He  had  rented  the  vehicle  in
Bantry  and  begun  the  northward  drive  along  the  trail he
remembered.  Passing  through   Glengariff,  he   had  continued
onto  this  way  toward  Kenmare,  moving  through  a  country-
side  devoid  of  trip-boxes,  For  the  moment, he  felt free.
There  was  only  the  night  and  the   wind  and   the  rocky
prospect. He  had been  caught off  balance by  Cat's releasing
him  the  previous  evening.  He  had  done nothing  but impro-
vise  since  then.  What  he  had  to  come up  with now  was a
plan, a general defense to  sustain him  through this  trial. A
plan...
 A light in the  distance. A  pair of  them now.,  Three... He
raised a container and took a sip of coffee. His first mistake,
he  decided,  had  probably  been  in  not tripping  enough. He
should  have  continued  his  movements  to  really  cloud  the
trail.  Cat  had  obviously  been  close  enough  to  pick  his
destination  from  his  mind.  Even  when  he  had  jumped more

than once, Cat could  have been  coming in  as he  was tripping
out, and so could have learned the next stop.
  Four...  Kenmare  would  still   be  some   distance  beyond
the first scattered farms and rural residences. This  night was
crisp.  He  descended a  long slope.  Abruptly, the  trees were
larger along the trailside.
  The  next  time he  would really  mix it  up. He  would jump
back and forth among  so many  places that  the trail  would be
completely  muddled.  Yes,  that  was   what  he   should  have
done at first -
  The next time?
         He screamed. The mental presence of Cat suddenly hung
like the aroma of charred flesh about him.
  "No -" he said, fighting  to regain  control of  the vehicle
which he had let swerve at his outburst.
  He bounced across a field at a height  of perhaps  two feet,
heading  toward  a  steepening  rise.  Too  abrupt a  change in
attitude would overturn the car.
  Pulling  the  wheel  around,  he  succeeded in  veering away
from  the  slope.  Moments  later,  he  was headed  back toward
the  trail.  Although he  peered in  every direction  his light
traveled, he saw no sign of the hunting beast.
  Back on the trail  once more,  he accelerated.  Shadows fled
past. Tree limbs were stirred by the wind. Bits of fog drifting
across  his  way  were  momentarily  illuminated  by  the vehi-
cle's beams. But this was all that he saw.
  "Cat...?" he finally said.
  There was no reply. Was he so on edge that he had
imagined that single phrase? The strain...
  "Cat?"

  It had seemed so real. He struggled to reconstruct his state
of mind  at the  time of  its occurrence.  He supposed  that he
could have triggered it himself; but he did not like  what this
implied about his mental equipment.
  He-spun through a number of S-shaped curves, his eyes
continuing their search on both sides of the trail.
  So quickly... His confidence had been destroyed in an
instant. Would he be seeing Cat behind every rock, every
bush, from now on?
  Why not?
  "Cat!"

  Yes.
  Where are you? What are you doing?
  Amusing myself. The point of this game must be maxi-

mum enjoyment, I have decided. It is good that you cooper-
ate so well for this end.
 How did you find me?
  Nore easily than you might think. As I said, your coopera-
tion is appreciated.
 I do not understand.
 Of course not. You tend to hide things from yourself.
 What do you mean?
 I know now that I can destroy you at any time, but I wish
to  prolong the  pleasure. Keep  running. I  will strike  at the
most appropriate moment.
 This makes no sense at all.
 No.  Because  you  will  not  let  it.  You are  mine, hunter,
whenever I choose.
 Why?
 He  came onto  a long,  tree-lined curve.  There seemed  to be
more lights far ahead.
    I will tell you, and it will still not save you. You have
changed  from  what  you  once  were.  I  see  that  within  you
which  was  not  there in  the old  days. Do  you know  what you
realty want?
 To beat you, Billy said. And I will.
 No. Your greatest wish is to die.
 That is not so!
 ,You have  given up  on the  thought of  keeping up  with your
world.  For  a  long  while you  have waited  and wished  for an
appropriate way  out of  it. I  have provided  you with  such an
occasion.  You  think that  you are  running from  me. Actually,
you are rushing toward me. You make it easy for me, hunter.
 Not true!
 ...And the lovely irony is that you do not admit it.
 You have been in the minds of too many Californians.
They're full of pop psychology...
 ...  And  your  denial  of it  makes it  that much  easier for
me.
 You are trying to wear me down mentally. That's all.
 No need for it.
 You're bluffing. If you can strike now, let's see you do it.
 Soon. Soon. Keep running.
 He  had  to  slow  the  vehicle  for  a  series  of  turns. He
continued to scan both sides of the trail. Cat  must be  near in
order  to  reach  him,  but of  course he  had the  advantage of
straight-line travel whereas the trail -
 Exactly.

 Overhead, s  piece of  the night  came loose,  dropping from
the top  of a  high boulder  which leaned  from the  right. He
tried to brake and cut to the left simultaneously.
 A  massive,  jaguarlike  form  with  a single,  gleaming eye
landed on the vehicle's hood forward and to the front.  It was
visible for but an instant, and then it sprang away.
 The car tipped,  its air  cushion awry,  and it  was already
turning onto its side before he left the trail. He fought with
the wheel and the  attitude control,  already knowing  that it
was  too  late.  There came  a strong  shock accompanied  by a
crunching noise, and he felt himself thrown forward.

                                 DEADLY, DEADLY, DEADLY...
Kaleidoscope  turning...  Shifting  pattern   within  unalter-
able structure... Was  it a  mistake? There  is pain  with the
power...  Time's  friction  at  the  edges...  Center loosens,
forms  again  elsewhere...  Unalterable?   But  -   Turn  out-
ward.  Here  songs  of self  erode the  will till  actions lie
stillborn  upon  night's  counterpane. But  - Again  the move-
ment  ...  Will  it  hold  beyond  a   catch  of   moment?  To
fragment...   Not  kaleidoscope.   No  center.   But  again...
To  form  it  will.  To  will  it  form.  Structure... Pain...
Deadly,  deadly...  And  lovely.  Like  a sleek,  small dog...
A plastic statue... The notes of an organ,  the first  slug of
gin  on  an  empty  stomach... We  settle again,  farther than
ever before... Center. The light!... It  is difficult  being a
god. The pain. The beauty. The terror of selfless -  Act! Yes.
Center, center, center... Here'! Deadly...
 necess yet again  from   bridge  of   brainbow  oyotecraven
stare decesis on landaway necessity timeslast the  arnings ent
and tided turn yet beastfall nor  mindstorms neither  in their
canceling sarved cut the line that  binds ecessity  towarn and
findaway  twill  open   pandorapack  wishdearth   amen  amenu-
ensis  opend the  mand of  min apend  the pain  of durthwursht
vernichtung desiree tolight and eadly dth cessity sesame
 We are the key.

                                     HE AWOKE. TO STILLNESS AND
the  damp.  The  right  side  of his  forehead was  throbbing. His
shoulders  ached  and  he  became  aware  of  the  unnatural angle
at  which  he  lay. His  right arm  felt wet.  He opened  his eyes
and  saw  that the  night still  lay upon  the land.  He stretched
out his left hand and  turned on  the interior  light. As  he did,
shards of glass fell from his sleeve.
 He  saw  then  that  the  windshield  was  uncracked,  and  that
the  wetness  on  his  arm   had  been   caused  by   the  spilled
remainder  of  his  coffee.  He  placed  his  fingertips   on  his
forehead  and  felt no  break in  the skin,  but he  could already
detect a swelling in the sore area.
 The vehicle lay on its right side, off the trail, its  front end
partly  crumpled  against  a  tree.  There  were  other  trees and
shrubs  in  the  vicinity,  masking him  somewhat from  the trail.
He  looked  upward  and  to  his  left, and  he could  discover no
reason for the broken side window.
 Then  his  gaze  fell  upon  the   headrest.  There   were  four
parallel slash  marks in  the covering  material beside  his head,
as  from  a  set  of  razor-sharp  claws. He  looked again  at the
broken side window. Yes...
  Cat?
Silence.
 What are you waiting for?
 He  swung his  feet about,  set them  carefully against  the far
door  and  rose  into  the  semblance  'of  a  standing  position.
Immediately   he  grew   dizzy  and   clutched  at   the  steering
wheel.  When  the  spell   passed,  he   attempted  to   open  the
door. It yielded to his  fourth effort  with a  grinding, scraping
sound.   He   caught   hold   of  the   frame  and   drew  himself
upward,   suddenly   recalling   having  done   something  similar
with  an  old  blue  pickup  truck,  coming  home  from  a Saturday
night in town an age ago.
 There was a trail. Even in the dark he could read it. Cat
had been there and gone. He felt the broken twigs, traced
impressions  in  the  earth  with his  fingertips. He  followed it

for  perhaps  twenty  meters, heading  off across  the country-
side. Then he rose and turned away.
 What's your angle, Cat? What do you want now? he
asked.
 He  heard  only  the  wind.  He  walked  slowly  back  to the
roadway  and continued  along it.  He was  certain that  only a
few miles remained until he reached the town.
 Perhaps  ten  minutes  passed.  No   other  traffic   had  come
along, but he suspected  that he  was not  alone. A  large body
seemed  to  be  moving  far  off  among the  trees to  his left,
pacing him.
 All  right,  Cat, he  said. There  is no  point to  my taking
evasive action now. If you are going to strike, strike. If not,
enjoy the walk.
 There was no response, and he broke into a jog.
  A feeling of nausea came over him before he had gone far.
He ignored it and kept moving. He  decided that  it could  be a
reaction to the blow on his head.
 But as he ran, his feelings came to include  a fear  that Cat
was about to spring on him. He tried to thrust  it away  but it
grew, and then he recognized its irrational roots.
 I feel it, Cat. But I know what  it is,  he said.  What's the
point of it? I'm still going on to Kenmare, unless you kill me.
Are you just playing games?
 The intensity of the feelings  increased. His  breathing grew
ragged. He  felt a  sudden urge  to urinate.  A sense  of immi-
nent  doom was  upon the  trail for  as far  ahead as  he could
see.
 Something like a small dog crossed his path. In that
instant, his apprehensions vanished.
    Was that the shadow I saw in the woods? he wondered. Is
Cat long gone? Was my fear real, rather than induced?
 Or is it all  your doing,  Cat? Is  it your  plan to  make me
doubt myself, to break me before you destroy me?
 He jogged for a mile  before a  floatcar approached  from the
rear and  drew abreast  of him.  Its driver  offered him  a ride
into town.
 As  they  moved forward,  Billy felt  within him  the distant
laughter of his pursuer.

 To get out, to go away, to think. These were his preoccu-
pations as he came into the town. He needed to escape for
even  a  short  while  to  someplace  where  Cat could  not ob-

serve  the  workings  of  his  mind.  It  was  necessary  that he
continue his flight, try yet again to blur the trail sufficiently
to gain respite for analysis of the situation, for planning.
  He  had the  driver drop  him at  the trip-station.  He assumed
that  somewhere   Cat  was   reading  his   mind  to   learn  his
destination. He  began chanting  softly in  Navajo, a  section of
the  Blessingway.  He  entered  the  station  and moved  toward a
booth.  The  place's  only  occupant  was  an  old man  seated on
a  wooden  bench  against  the side  wall to  his right.  The man
looked up from his news printout and nodded to him.
  " 'Evening," the man said.
  He entered the booth and pressed the coordinates for
Victoria Station.
  ... in beauty.
  Now to Munich...
  ... all about me.
  He cleaned himself in the washroom there and tripped to
Rome.
  ... to the right of me.
  He had a sandwich and a glass of wine.
  ... to the left of me.
  He tripped to Ankara. For a time, he stood outside the
terminal and watched the sun rising upon a hot, dusty day.
  ... before me.
  He tripped  to Al  Hillah in  Saudi Arabia,  and from  there to
a  bank  of  booths  in  the  Rab  al  Khali  National  Petroleum
Forest.
  Yes.  Here,  he  decided,  stepping  forth  among   the  great-
leafed,  towering  trees,  their  barks  scaled  and   brown  and
ringing  in  the  wind.  He  followed  a marked  footpath through
their shade.
  Here,  amid  Freeman   Dyson's  old   dream,  he   thought,  he
might be able  to feel  his way  to something  that he  needed to
know,  here  in   what  had   once  been   known  as   the  Empty
Quarter,  now   an  enormous   forest  of   genetically  tailored
trees  larger  than  redwoods,  their  sap  rising,   their  pro-
grammed   metabolism   synthesizing   petroleum    which   flowed
downward  through  a  special  set  of  vessels into  roots which
formed  a  living  network  of  pipelines, connecting  at various
points to an artificial pipeline  which conveyed  it to  the vast
storage  areas  which  constituted  one  of  the   world's  great
petroleum  reserves,  against  those  functions  which  still re-
quired  the  substance.  They  filled  what   had  once   been  a
wasteland,  utilizing  the  abundant  sunlight  available  there.

Self-repairing and timeless against the blue of the  sky, they-
were  both  natural  and  the product  of the  technology which
informed the planet's culture, as  surely as  the trees  of the
street parks which delivered  their own  products, or  the data
net which, had he not disassociated himself  from it,  could at
this  moment  deliver   to  him   almost  any   information  he
needed.
  Almost.  Some  things  had  to  be  worked  out   alone.  But
here, in this combination of the  old and  the new;  the primi-
tive and the modern, he  felt more  at ease  than he  had since
the entire  business began.  There were  even birds  singing in
the branches....
  He  walked  for  a  long  while  through the  forest, pausing
when  he  came to  a small  cleared area  containing a  pair of
picnic tables, a waste bin, a  shed. He  looked into  the shed:
foresters'  maintenance  equipment   -  power   diggers,  pick-
axes, saws; chains and cables; gloves  and climbing  spikes. It
was  dusty,  and  spiderwebs  like  gossamer  bridges connected
each to each.
  He  closed  the  door  and  moved away,  sniffed the  air and
looked  around. He  seated himself  with his  back to  the bole
of a middle-sized tree, some few stalks of coarse  saffron and
lime grass tufted about the hillock among the roots.  He filled
his pipe and lit it.
  Cat wanted his death and had  tried to  convince him  that he
did, too.  The idea  seemed absurd,  but he  looked at  it more
closely.  Much  of  the  universe was  one's adversary.  He had
learned  that  as  a boy.  One took  precautions and  hoped for
the best. Time  was flowing  water, neither  good nor  evil and
not to be grasped. One could cup one's hand  and hold  a little
of it for a while, and that was all. It  had become  a torrent,
though, in  the past  decade of  his own  life -  which covered
about thirty years of real time - and he could contain  none of
it. The big  world had  changed rapidly  during that  span. The
dancers  had  exchanged  masks;  he  could  no  longer identify
the enemies.
  Save for Cat.
       But that was unfair, he saw, even to Cat. Cat he could
understand.  Cat  was  simple,  monomaniacal,  in  his  desire.
The rest of  the world  was dangerous  in changing  and compli-
cated  ways,  though  it generally  lacked malice  and premedi-
tation.  It  was  an  adversary,  not  an  enemy.  Cat  was the
enemy.  The  universe  was  that which  ground down  and rolled
over one. And now...

  The tempo had increased.  He had  felt it  all his  life, from
his first school days on, intensifying,  like a  drumbeat. There
had  been  lapses,  true;  periods  when  he  had come  to terms
with  the  new  rhythms.  But  now  -  He  felt tired.  The last
responses  were  no  longer  appropriate,  not  even  among  his
own  people.  Looking  back,  he saw  that he  had felt  best on
those  occasions  when  he  had  gone  away,  into  the timeless
places  among the  stars, hunting.  It was  the return  that was
always  the  shock. Now...  now he  just wanted  to rest.  Or to
go away again, even though the next return...
  Dora. It had been peaceful with  Dora also.  But that  did not
help  him  now.  Thinking  of  Dora  now  only  caused   him  to
look away from the  real problems.  Did he  really want  to die?
Was Cat right?
  He  could  almost  hear  singing  within  the  unnatural tree
which  paralleled  his   backbone,  vibrations   humming  along
his nerves.
  To  want  to  run away,  to want  to rest  and change  no more
...Perhaps...
  He  bit down  hard on  the pipestem.  He did  not like  all of
this  bellicano  thinking,  this  hunting  for  hidden  motives.
But...
  Perhaps  there  was  something  to  it.  His jaw  muscles re-
laxed again.
  If the hidden sources of his feelings did  equal what  Cat had
been  talking  about,  he  had  been  running toward  death ever
since Dora's fall and -
  Dora? How  did she  figure into  this part?  No, let  the dead
rest and not trouble  the living.  It would  be enough  to admit
that all of the changes in society itself - a society into which
he  had  not  been  born  but  of  which  he  had tried  to make
himself  'a  part  -  were  sufficiently  overwhelming  to  have
brought  him  to  this  point.  Take it  from there.  What next?
What did he really want? And what should he do about it?
  Suddenly  a  memory  unfolded,  startling  him  with  a knowl-
edge  he  had  possessed  all  along.  After  the  shock  of the
recognition  he  grew  depressed,  for he  knew then  that Cat's
words had been true.
  Each  time that  he had  fled by  means of  a trip-box  he had
had his ultimate destination  at the  back of  his mind.  All of
the  jumping  about  he  had  done before  heading for  his goal
had  been  as nothing.  Cat had  needed but  to read  that final
destination, to go there and begin patrolling the  city, hunting
first  his  mind  and  then  his  body.  This  seemed  more than

carelessness on his part. It was as  if he  had intentionally
given himself  to Cat  and kept  the information  hidden from
his own scrutiny. How could he trust  himself to  do anything
now?
 On  the  other  hand,  doing  nothing  could  prove equally
fatal. He was surprised at his sudden willingness to admit to
a hidden death wish. He was  determined not  to yield  to it,
however, not in this duel with Cat. He puffed on his pipe and
listened to the birds.
 Had  he  this  destination  in  mind  when he  had departed
Kenmare on the first of this latest series of jumps? It seemed
that he had....
 All right. He rose. He had to assume that Cat was  aware of
it and could put in an appearance at any time. The  longer he
remained here, the greater the beast's chances of finding him
unprepared.  He   dusted  off   his  trousers   and  muttered
"Damn!" He still needed time to plan.
 He  slapped  the  side of  the tree  and headed  across the
picnic area toward  the trail.  A huge  crow darted  past him
and  he  halted.  Thoughts of  Black-god tumbled  through his
mind, and of the ways of the hunt.
 The only trip-station in the area was the one he  had used.
Cat  could emerge  there at  any moment,  perhaps just  as he
was  approaching.  No,  that  would  not  do. Because  he was
defenseless, it was prudent to continue  the flight.  But the
risk involved in attempting it right now seemed too high.

                                    IT CAME DOWN FROM UTAH
and Colorado, and it  was big  and black  and nasty.  When it
attacked, the people fled for cover and waited. It lashed and
splashed  and filled  gullies. From  Lake Powell  through the
Carrizos  it  boiled  and  roared.  It  licked  Shiprock with
tongues of flame.  The patches  of white  in the  high places
were diminished beneath its slavering.  It rolled  across the
land and hauled itself  over the  mountain peaks.  Its breath
was fast and sharp, snapping limbs from pine  trees, twisting

pinons.  Arroyos   became  muddy   snakes.  There   were  mists,
and  in  some  places  rainbows.  The  thunder no  longer slept.
Legends could no longer be told.

 The Keeper of Clouds has unpenned his charges.
 The Keeper of Winds has unlocked his gates. -
 The Keeper of Waters has opened the sky.
 The Keeper of Lightnings waves his lances.
 The Keeper of Satellites has observed,
 "One hundred percent of probability of precipitation."

                                   HE EMERGED FROM THE TRIP-
box  and  looked about.  He stood  for a  time as  if listening.
Then he dropped to all fours  and entered  the forest,  his form
altering  as  he  advanced. He  had detected  the mind  which he
sought. It was filled again with the  feelings of  that chanting
and all of  the obscure  imagery associated  with it.  But while
this  masked  the  underlying  thoughts  it  in no  way obscured
the  direction  and location  of the  thinker. Finding  the body
should not be all that difficult.
 His  movements  grew  more  and  more  graceful  as  the lines
of  his  body  flowed  to  assume the  catlike form  he favored.
His  eye  sparkled like  a liquid  thing. His  incisors overhung
his  lower  lip  by  several  inches.  They, too,  sparkled. His
passage  among  the  great  petroleum  trees  was  almost sound-
less.  Whenever  he  froze  and  sought  impressions  he  became
almost  invisible  within  the  dappled  patterns  of  light and
shadow.
 On  one  such occasion  a leaf  fell. Cat  pounced upon  it, a
living  blur.  He  straightened  then  and  shook  his  head. He
stared at the leaf. Then he started forward again.
 Perhaps  this  should  be  the  time. The  game was  not prov-
ing as complex as  he had  hoped. If  there were  no interesting
fight or flight, if nothing exciting happened this time, it might
be  best  to  conclude things  here. The  hunter seemed  to have

lost  his  edge,  seemed  weary,  too  troubled to  provide the
necessary struggle.
  He glared  for a  moment at  the black  bird which  cried out
above his head, circling and then darting away.
      Come back, dearie. Just for a moment. Come look again.
  But the bird was gone.
  Cat  flicked  his  wide  tail  and  pressed  on across  a low
spongy  section  of  forest  floor.  It was  not that  much far-
ther....  He increased  his pace  and did  not slow  again until
he was  near to  the picnic  area. Then  he studied  and circled
and studied again.
  The man was  just sitting  there, his  back against  a picnic
bench, smoking  his pipe,  his mind  filled with  that senseless
chant.  It was  almost too  easy, but  this was  the way  he had
read him earlier: willfully careless, ready to die. Still...
 There was no sport in it. A few taunts, and perhaps he will
bolt.
     You see. It is as I said. When you run from me you
approach me. Why was 1 not peed at some other time, when .
you still cared to live?
  The hunter did not reply. The chant continued.
  So you have admitted the truth. You accept what I told
you. Is that your death song that you sing?
  Again there was no response.
  Very well. I see no reason to prolong things, hunter.
  Cat passed among the trees and entered the cleared area.
  Last chance. Will you not at least draw your knife?
  Billy stood and turned slowly to face him.
  At last. You are awake. Are you going to run?
  Billy  did  not  move.  Cat  bounded forward.  There followed
a splintering sound.
  When  the  ground  gave  way  beneath  the beast,  the moment
was  frozen in  Billy's mind.  He had  had some  doubt as  to the
appropriate  width  when wielding  the power  shovel to  dig the
trench  which  encircled  him.  As  its  covering  gave  way and
Cat  vanished  below  he  was  pleased  that  his  estimate  had
proven  adequate.  He  moved  immediately  to  bridge   it  with
the picnic table.
  You will  not hold  me here  for long,  hunter, Cat  told him
from below.
  Long enough, I hope.
  Billy  crossed  over  the  trench  and  emptied  the  wastebin
against the trunk of a nearby tree. He struck a light and set it
to the heap of papers.

 What are you doing?
 If one of these trees goes up, the whole area burns, he
said. They're all connected below and full of inflammables.
You won't make it back to the box if you let this burn.
Billy turned and began running.
Congratulations, Cat told him. You have made it interest-
ing again.
Good-bye, Billy said.
Not quite. We've an appointment.
He ran on until the trip-box was in sight. Rushing into it,
he  inserted  his  strip, activating  the control  and punched
coordinates at random without looking at them.
 You have  bought  respite,  Cat  told  him.  But  at another
level you have betrayed yourself again.
Have I? Billy answered, as the forest blurred.

  He  walks  in      a      twilight      land      amid
jungle-shrouded  cities.  The  cries of  unseen birds  come to
him  across  the shimmering  air. It  is pleasantly  warm, and
there  is  a  smell  of  dampness  and  decay.  His path  is a
glistening  ribbon  among  ruins  which  appear less  and less
ruined  as  he  advances.'  He  smells  burning copal  and his
guide  gives  him  a  strange beverage  to drink. Colors flash
beneath his feet  and his  way becomes  bright red.  They come
at  length  to  a  pyramid  atop  which  a  blue  man  is held
stretched across a stone by  four others.  Billy watches  as a
man in a high  headdress cuts  open the  blue man's  chest and
removes the heart. He sips  his drink  and continues  to watch
as the heart is passed to another  man who  uses it  to anoint
the faces of statues. The body is thien cast down the steps to
where  a  crowd  of  people  waits.  There,  another  man very
carefully removes the skin,  its blue  now streaked  with red,
dons  it  like  a  robe  and  commences  dancing.   The  other
people now fall upon the  remains and  begin eating,  save for
the hands and the feet, which are removed  and set  aside. His
guide  departs  for  a  moment  to  join the  crowd, returning
moments  later,  bringing  him  something and  indicating that
he should  eat. He  chews mechanically,  washing it  down with

the balche. He looks up,  realizing suddenly  that Dora  is his
guide.  "On  the  fifth  day  of  Uayeb  my  true love  gave to
me..."  She  is  not  smiling.  Her face  is, in  fact, without
expression  as  she turns  away, beckoning  for him  to follow.
The  blood-red  way  leads  at length  to a  gaping cave-mouth.
They  halt  before it,  and he  can see  that within  there are
statues at either hand - fanged, scrolls upon  their foreheads,
dark  circles  about  their  eyes.  As  he  stares,  he becomes
aware  of  people   moving  about   slowly  inside.   They  are
placing bowls of  copal, tobacco  and maize  upon a  low altar.
They  are chanting  softly in  words which  he does  not under-
stand.  She leads  him across  the threshold,  and he  sees now
that  the  place  is  illuminated  by  candlelight.  He  smells
incense as he stands listening to the prayers.  He is  given to
drink  a  beverage  of  corn  gruel and  honey at  each pausing
between  rituals.  He  sits  with  his  back against  the rock,
listening, tracing circles upon the poor with his fingertip. He
is given another gourd of balche to drink. As  he raises  it to
his lips he looks upward  and pauses.  It is  not Dora  who has
brought him the drink but a  powerful youth,  clad in  the old
manner  of  the  Dineh.  At  this  person's  back  there stands
another man  - larger  and even  stronger-looking. He  is simi-
larly garbed,  and the  resemblance between  the two  is strik-
ing.  "You  seem  familiar,"  Billy  tells  them. The  first man
smiles.  "We  are  the  slayers  of  the  giants  Seven-Macaws,
Zipacna  and  Cabracan,"  he  answers.  "It  was we,"  says the
other,  "who  journeyed  down  the  steps to  Xibalba, crossing
the River of  Corruption and  the River  of Blood.  We followed
the  Black  Path  to  the  House  of the  Lords of  Death." The
other  nods.  "We   played  strange   games  with   them,  both
winning  and  losing,"  he says.  And they  say in  unison, ßWe
slew   the   Lords   Hun-Came   and  Vucub-Came   and  ascended
into light." Billy sips his  balche. "You  remind me,"  he says
to the younger one, "of Tobadzichini, and  you," to  the other,
"of  Nayenezgani,  the  Warrior  Twins  of  my  people,  as  I
always  thought  they  must  look."  The  two  smile.  "This is
true," they say, "for we  get around  a lot.  Down here  we are
known  as  Hunahpu  and  Xbalanque.  Rise  now  to   your  feet
and  look off yonder  into the  darker places."  He gets  up and
looks to the rear of the grotto. He sees there a  trail leading
downward.  Dora  stands  upon  it,  staring  at  him. "Follow,"
says  Hunahpu.   "Follow,"  says   Xbalanque.  She   begins  to
move away.  As he  turns and  follows after  her, he  hears the
cry of a bird....

                              BILLY STEPPED FROM THE TRIP-
box and looked about. It was dark, with a  tropical brilliance
to the stars. The  air was  cool and  damp, bearing  smells he
had  long  associated  with   jungle  foliage.   The  coolness
seemed to indicate that the night was nearing its end.
 He  passed  beyond  the  station's  partitioning,  where  he
read the sign which identified it. Yes. Things were as  he had
sensed  them.  He had  come to  the great  archaeological park
of Chichen Itza.
 He stood  upon a  low hill.  Narrow trails  led off  in many
directions.  These  paths were  faintly illuminated,  and here
and  there  he  saw  people  passing  slowly  along  them.  He
could discern  the massive  dark forms  of the  ancient struc-
tures themselves, more solid and deep than the  night's lesser
gloom.  Periodically,  some  portion  of  ruin would  be bril-
liantly lighted for several minutes, for the benefit of night-
viewers.  He   recalled  reading   somewhere  that   this  ran
through  a regular  cycle, its  schedule available  at various
points  along  the  way,  along  with  computerized commentary
and the answering of questions concerning the place.
 He  began  walking.  The  ruin  was big  and dark  and quiet
and  Indian.  It  comforted him  to pass  along its  ways. Cat
could  not find  him here.  This he  knew. He  also understood
Cat's parting words. He had betrayed himself, in a  sense, for
his final destination had been present in his mind even  as he
had  struck  the  random  coordinates  which  had  brought him
here. When he finally journeyed to that last place it would be
to face his enemy.
 He laughed  softly then.  There was  nothing to  prevent his
remaining here until Cat's time limit had run out.
 Some  of  the more  fragile ruins  he passed  were protected
by force fields, others permitted entry, climbing, wandering.
He  was  reminded  of  this  as  he  brushed  against  a force
screen - soft, harder, harder,  impenetrable. It  reminded him
of  Cat's  cage  back at  the Institute.  Cat's had  also been
electrified,  however,  providing  shocks  which  increased in
direct  proportion  to  the  intensity  of  the  pressure from

within.  Cat  had  seldom  brushed  against  it,  though, because
of his peculiar sensitivity to electrical currents. In fact, that
was  how  Billy  had  captured  him  -  accidentally,   when  Cat
had  collided  with  the  electrified  force  screen   which  had
surrounded   one   of   the  base   camps  during   an  attempt at
backtracking   and   ambush.  The   memory  suddenly   gave  rise
to a new train of thought.
  A light flashed on far to his right, and he halted  and stared.
He  had  never  been  here  before,  but  he  had  seen pictures,
had  read  about the  place. It  was the  Temple of  the Warriors
that  he  beheld,  a  bristling  of  columns  before   it,  their
shadows  black  slashes  upon  its  forward  wall.  He  began  to
move toward it.
  The  light  went  out  before  he  got  there,  but he  had the
location as well as  the image  fixed in  his mind.  He continued
until he  was very  near, and  when he  discovered that  no force
field blocked  his way  he passed  among the  styli and  began to
climb the steep stair on its forward face.
  When  he  reached  the  level  area  at  the  top   he  located
himself to what he took to  be the  east and  sat down,  his back
against  the  wall  of  the  smaller  structure  situated  at the
center.  He  thought  of  Cat  and  of  the  death wish  that was
defeating  him  because  he  could  not  adapt,  because  he  was
no longer  Navajo. Or  was that  true? He  thought of  his recent
years  of  withdrawal.  Now  they seemed  filled with  ashes. But
his  people  had  many  times  tasted  the  ashes  of   fear  and
suffering,  sorrow  and  submission,  yet  they  had  never  lost
their dignity nor all  of their  pride. Sometimes  cynical, often
defiant,  they  had  survived.  Something of  this must  still be
with  him,  to  match  against  his  own  death prayer.  He dozed
then and had a  peculiar dream  which he  could not  later recall
in its entirety.
  When  he  woke  the  sun  was  rising.  He  watched  the  waves
of color precede it into the world.  It was  true that  there was
nothing  to  prevent his  remaining here  until Cat's  time limit
had run  out. He  knew that  he would  not do  this. He  would go
on to face his chindi.
  ... After breakfast, he decided. After breakfast.

                                        "I DON'T  CARE!" MERCY
Spender said, raising the bottle with one hand, the  glass with
the other. "I've got to have another drink!"
 Elizabeth Brooke laid a hand upon her shoulder.
 "I really don't think you should, dear. Not just now,
anyhow. You're agitated and -"
 "I know! That's why I want it!"
 With a snapping  sound, the  bottom fell  out of  the bottle.
The gin raced shards of glass to the floor. The odor of juniper
berries drifted upward.
 "What ..."

 Walter Sands smiled.
 "Mean  of  me,"  he  said. "But  we still  need you.  I know
you'd like to go and rest in the home again. It will  be harder
for us if you drop out now, though. Wait a while."
 Mercy  stared  downward.  A  look  of  anger passed  and her
eyes brimmed, sparkled.
 "It's silly," she said then. "If he wants to die, let him."
 "It's not that simple.  He's not  that simple,"  Ironbear said.
"And we owe him."
 "I  don't owe  him anything,"  she said,  "and we  don't even
know what  to do,  really. I  -" Then,  "We all  have something
that  hurts,  I  guess,"  she said.  "Maybe... Okay.  I'll take
some tea."
 "I  wonder  what hurts  the thing  that's after  him?" Fisher
asked.
 "The  data  are  incomplete on  the ecology  of the  place it
comes from," Mancin said.
 "Then  there  is  only one  way to  find out,  isn't there?"
asked Ironbear. "Go to the source."
 "Ridiculous," Fisher  said. "It's  hard enough  touching a
human who's gone primitive. The beast  seems able  to do  it at
short  ranges because  they share  some bond.  But to  go after
the thing itself and then - I couldn't."
 "Neither could  I," said  Elizabeth. "None  of us  could. But
we might be able to."

 "We? Us? Together? Again? It could be dangerous. After
that last time -"
 "Again."

 "We don't even know where the cat-thing is."
 "Walford's man can order another check on TripCo's
computer  network.  Locate  Singer  again  and  the  beast will
soon be there."
 "And what good would that do us?"
 "We won't know till  we get  that information  and give  it a
try."

 "I don't like this," said Fisher. "We could get hurt. It's a
damned  alien  place  you're  talking about.  I touched  one of
the Strageans yesterday  and had  a headache  for half  an hour
afterwards.  Couldn't  even see  straight. And  they're similar
to us in a lot of ways."
 "We can always back out if it gets too rough."
 "I've  got a  bad feeling  about this,"  Mercy said,  "but I
guess it does seem like the Christian thing to do."
 "The hell with that. Is it going to do any good?"
 "Maybe you're right," Mancin said. "It doesn't seem all
that  promising  when you  analyze it.  Let's tell  Walford how
Singer did it, tell him about the beast and the deal they made.
Then  get  the  computer check  to narrow  the field.  They can
send an armed force after it."
 "Send it after the thing that killed the thing an armed force
couldn't stop?"
 "Let's locate  them," Ironbear  said, "find  out what  we can
and then decide."
   "That much makes sense," Sands said. "I'll go along with
it."
 "So will I," said Elizabeth.
 Mancin glanced at Fisher.
 "Looks as if we're' outvoted," he said, sighing. "Okay."
 Fisher nodded.
 "Call  Tedders.  Run  it  through TripCo.  I'll be  with you."

                                    BILLY STEPPED THROUGH INTO
his hogan, leaving the transport  slip in  place. He  switched on
the  guard  and  turned  off  the  buzzer.  He was  not receiving
calls just now.
  His  secretary  unit told  him that  Edwin Tedders  had called
several times.  Would he  please call  back? Another  caller left
no  name,  only  the  message,  "They  grew  them   with  insula-
tion, I learned. You knew that, didn't you?"
  He turned on the coffee maker, undressed and stepped
into the shower. As he was vibrated clean, he heard the
rumble of thunder above the cries of the nozzles.
  When   he   had   emerged  and   dressed  himself   in  warmer
clothing  he  took his  coffee out  onto his  porch. The  sky was
grey to the north and curtains of  rain hung  there. A  fast wind
fled  past  him.  To the  south and  the east  the sky  was clear.
Light  clouds  drifted  in  the  west.  He  watched  the  rolling
weeds and listened to the wind  for a  time, finished  his coffee
and returned to the inside.
  Billy  picked  up  the  weapon  and  checked  it   over.  Old-
fashioned. A tazer,  it was  called, firing  a pronged  cable and
delivering  a strong  electrical jolt  at the  far end.  They had
fancier  things  now  which ionized  a path  through the  air and
sent their charge  along it.  But this  would do.  He had  used a
similar  device  on  Cat before,  once he  had learned  his weak-
ness.
  Then  he  honed  a  foot-long  Bowie  knife  and  threaded his
belt through the slits in its sheath. He  inspected an  old 30.06
he  had  kept  in  perfect  condition.  If  he  could  succeed in
stunning  Cat,  it  could  pump  sufficient  rounds   through  that
tough  hide  to hit  vital organs,  he knew.  On the  other hand,
the weapon  was fairly  heavy. He  finally selected  a half-meter
laser  snub-gun,  less  accurate but  equally lethal.  He planned
on  using  it at  close range,  anyway. That  decided, he  set to
putting  together a  light pack  with minimal  gear for  the trek
he  had  in  mind.  When  everything  was  assembled,  he  set an
alarm, stretched out on his bedroll and slept for two hours.
  When  the  buzzer  roused  him  the   rain  was   drumming  on

the  roof. He  donned a  waterproof fleece-lined  jacket, shoul-
dered  his  pack, slung  his weapons  and found  a hat.  Then he
crossed  to  his  communications  unit,  checked  a  number  and
punched it.
  Shortly  the  screen  came to  life, and  Susan Yellowcloud's
wide face appeared before him.
  "Azaethlin!"  she  said. She  brushed back  a strand  of hair
and smiled. "It's been a couple of years."
  "Yes,"  he  said,  and he  exchanged greetings  and a  bit of
small talk. "Raining over your way?" he finally asked.
  "Looks as if it's about to."
  "I need to  get over  to the  north rim,"  he told  her. "You're
the closest person I know to the spot  I have  in mind.  Okay if
I come over?"
    Sure. Get in your box and I 11 key ours.
    He stepped in, pocketed his strip and punched TRANS.
  He came through  in the  corner of  a cluttered  living room.
Jimmy   Yellowcloud   arose   from   a   chair   set   before  a
viewscreen  to  press  palms  with  him.  He  was  short,  wide-
shouldered, thick around the waist.
        "Hosteen Singer," he said. "Have a cup of coffee with
us."
  "All right," Billy said.
  As they drank it, Jimmy remarked, "You said you're
going over to the canyon?"
  "Yes."

  "Not down in it, I hope."
  "I'm going down in it."
  "The spring flooding's started."
  "I'd guessed."
  "Nasty-looking gun. Could I see it?"

         "Hey, laser! You could punch another hole in Window
Rock with this thing. It's old, isn't it?"
  "About  eighty  years.  I  don't  think  they make  them just
like that anymore."
  He passed it back.
  "Hunting something?"
  "Sort of."
  They sat in silence for a time, then, "I'll drive you over to
wherever you want on the rim," he said.
  "Thanks." '
  Jimmy took another sip of coffee.
  "Going to be down there long?" he asked.

"Hard to say."
"We don't see much of you these days."
"Been keeping to myself."
Jimmy laughed.
"You ought to marry my wife's sister and come live over
here."
"She pretty?" Billy asked.
"You bet. Good cook, too."
"Do I know her?"
"I don't think so. We'll have to have a squaw dance."
A  sudden drumming  of rain  occurred on  the north  side of
the house.
"Here  it  comes,"  Jimmy  said.  "Don't suppose  you'd care
to wait till it stops?"
Billy chuckled.
"Could be days. You'd go broke feeding me.,"
"We  could  play cards.  Not much  else for  a ranger  to do
this time of year."
Billy finished his coffee.
"You  could  learn  to  make  jewelry -  conchos, bracelets,
rings."
"My hands just don't go for that."
Jimmy put down his cup.
"Nothing else to do. I might as well change clothes and go
along with you. I've got a high-powered hunting rifle with a
radar sight. Knock over an elephant."
Billy traced a design on the tabletop.
"Not this time," he said.
"All right. Guess we'd better get going then."
"Guess we should."

He let  Jimmy drop  him on  the northward  bulge of  the rim
above the area containing the Antelope House ruin.  Since he
bad had the ride he had  decided to  come this  much farther
eastward. Had  he walked  over, he  would have  descended at
a point several miles farther to the west. Jimmy  would have
taken  him  even farther  eastward had  he wished,  but that
would have been less useful, starting him at a  place beyond
the  point  where  Black  Rock  Canyon  branched   off  from
Canyon del Muerto proper. He  wanted to  pass that  point on
foot and confuse the trail there. If he made things too easy
Cat would become suspicious.
 Staring  downward  into  the  broad,  serpentine  canyon, he
saw a wide  band of  dully gleaming  water passing  down its

center, as he had suspected, It was not yet as  deep as  he had
seen it on  occasions in  the past,  rushing with  the seasonal
meltoff  between  orange,  salmon  and  gray  walls,  splashing
the  bases  of  obelisklike  stands  of  stone,  cascading over
irregularities, rippling  about boulders,  bearing the  mud and
detritus of  its passage  on toward  the Chinle  Wash, creating
pockets  of  quicksand  all  over  the  canyon  floor.  Several
hundred  of  the  People  made  their  homes  there  during the
warmer  months,  but  they  all moved  out for  the,winter. The
place would be deserted now.
 A light rain was falling, making the wall rocks  slippery. He
cast about for the safest way down. There, to the left.
   He moved to the spot he had selected and studied it more
closely. Yes. It could be done. He checked his pack and
commenced the descent. The way led down to the high, firm
talus slope which followed the wall's base.
 Partway  down,  he  paused  to  adjust  his  pack,  brush off
moisture and look  sideways and  back in  at the  petroglyph of
a  life-sized  antelope.  There  were a  number of  them about,
along  with  those  of  other  quadrupeds, turkeys,  human fig-
ures,  concentric  circles;  some  of  them continued  onto the
fourth-story level of the large ruin built against the  base of
the cliff. His people had done  none of  these. They  went back
to  the  Great  Pueblo  period,  in  the twelfth  to fourteenth
centuries,  work  of  the  old  Anasazi.  He  worked   his  way
down  and  around,  and  the  going  suddenly   became  easier.
Here  the slant  and overhang  of the  wall protected  him from
the rainfall.
 When  he  reached  the  bottom  he  turned  to the  east, the
splashing waters  off to  the right,  faded grasses  and scrubby
trees about  him on  the slope.  He made  no effort  to conceal
his  passage  but  advanced  with  long,   purposeful  strides.
Across the water at the base of the opposite cliff stood Battle
Cove  Ruin,  a  small  masonry   structure  with   white,  red,
yellow  and  green  petroglyphs.  It,  too,  went  back  to the
Great  Pueblo  days.  As  a  boy  he  might  have  feared  such
places, feared rousing the  vengeful spirits  of the  Old Ones.
On  the  other  hand,  he  would  probably  have  gone  through
them on a dare, he decided.
 Jagged  lightning  danced  somewhere  in   the  east   -  ik-
ne'eka'a. A slow  roll of  thunder followed.  He felt  that Cat
was  probably  in  Arizona by  now, having  seen the  Canyon de
Chelly   Monument   in   his  mind,   the  Canyon   del  Muerto
branch  in particular.  Locating the  trip-box at  the Thunder-

bird  Lodge  would be  kind of  esoteric, though.  Doubtless Cat
would  have  arrived  by  way of  Chinle -  which meant  that he
stil had a  long way  to come,  even if  he had  gotten in  a few
hours ago.
 Good. Black Rock Canyon was not that far ahead.

      The track of the wind upon my fingertips,
      mark of my mortality.
      The track of the rain upon my hand,
      mark of the waiting world.
      A song that rises unbidden within me,
      mark of my spirit.
      The light of that half-place
      where his mount danced for Crazy Horse,
      mark of that other world
      where powers still walk,  stones talk
      and nothing is what  it seems  to be.
      We will meet in an old place.
      The earth will tremble. The stones will drink.
      Things forgotten are shadows.
      The shadows will be as real
      as wind and rain and song and light,
      there in the old place.
      Spider Woman atop your rock,
      I would greet you,
      but I am going the other way.
      Only a fool would pursue a Navajo
      into the Canyon of Death.
      Only a fool would go there at all
      when the waters are running.
      I am going to an old place.
      He who follows must go there, too.
      Windmark, raintouch, songrise, light,
      with me, on me, in me, about me.
      It is good to be a fool when the time is right.
      I am a son of the Sun
      and Changing Woman.
      I go to an old place.
      Na-ya!

 When Cat emerged from the trip-box at Chinle he wore a
dark cloak, glasses and floppy-hat disguise. The station was
empty now,  though he  could see  a couple  of minutes  into the

past in a  limited fashion  with his  infrared vision  and knew
from  the  heat signatures  that two  people had  recently been
standing  inside  the  doorway  for a  while. He  moved forward
and  looked  outside.  Yes.  A  man  and  a woman  were walking
away.  Presumably  one  had  met  the other  here and  they had
stood  talking  for a  time before  going on  their way.  As he
watched,  they crossed  the street  and entered  a cafe  to his
left.  Their  thoughts  served  to  remind  him  that  for many
hours  he  had  been  growing hungry.  Without moving,  his eye
also  took  in  countless  images  of the  nearby wall  map. He
was getting the idea of such  things better  now, and  he would
remember  all  of  the  markings  on  this  one.  When  he  saw
something  which  corresponded  to  a  feature,  he  would have
his directions, though  he felt  he already  knew them.  In the
meantime, he  would follow  his feelings  and his  hunger while
gaining impressions.
 He departed the  station. Half  of the  sky was  overcast and
the  clouds  seemed to  be moving  to cover  more. He  felt the
dampness and negative ionization in the air.
 He  passed  along the  street. Three  men rounded  the corner
and  stared  at  him  for  an  unusually long  while. Stranger.
Odd.  Very  odd,  he  read.  Something  funny  about  that one,
the  way  he  moves...  Images   then.  Childhood   fears.  Old
stories. Similar in ways to Billy's stream of consciousness.
 More people  approaching from  the rear.  No design  to their
movement in his direction. But the same curiosity flowing.
 He  selected.  He  broadcast   fears  and   old  forebodings:
Flee!  Man-wolf,  shapeshifter!  Gnawer  of  corpses!   I  will
shoot corruption  into your  bodies, blow  the dust  of corpses
into your lungs. Wolf, wearer of the skin. I will track you and
rend you!
 The  men  at  his  back  hastily  turned  into an  open shop.
Those  before  him  halted,  then  quickly crossed  the street.
Almost amused,  he continued  to broadcast  the feelings  for a
time after they had departed.  It cleared  the way  before him.
People  would  begin to  emerge from  buildings and  halt, then
return  within,  as  if  suddenly  recalling  something  undone
inside, experiencing  the resurgence  of childhood  fears. Bet-
ter to give in and rationalize later than to brave them out for
no reason.
 But they are real, he  reflected. I  am the  shapeshifter who
could  strike  you down  without effort.  I could  have stepped
from your nightmare legends....

 He picked the direction of the Chinle  Wash from  a retreat-
ing mind, turned at the next corner and  again at  the follow-
ing one.
 Silly. No one in  sight now.  There will  be no  trouble, he
decided.
 Stretching  and contracting,  he bent  forward. Soon  he was
loping along the street. Not far,  not too  far. This  way was
indeed north.  The town  thinned out,  fell away.  He departed
the  roadway,  ran  beside  it,  cut  across  country. Better,
better.  Soon   now.  Yes.   Downhill.  Trees   and  desiccated
grasses. A faint flash of light. Much later, a soft  growl from
the eastern sky.
 Down,  down  into  a  barrenness  of  sand and  moist earth,
detached  tree  limbs  and  half-sunken  stones.  Firm enough,
firm enough to run and -
 He   halted.  Ahead,   a  primitive   sentience,  wandering.
Automatically  he  fell  into  a  stalking  mode  of progress.
Hunger  remembered  in  this almost  delicious spot,  save for
the moisture. Slow now, beyond the next bend...
 He halted again as soon as he saw the canine, a  lean, black
dog, sniffing about the heaps of rubble. Parts of it might do,
if he diluted them....
 He  sprang  forward.  The dog  did not  even raise  its head
until  his third  bounding movement,  and by  then it  was too
late. It let out one  short whimpering  noise before  the pro-
jected feelings hit it, and then Cat's left paw  shattered its
spine.
 Cat  raised  his  muzzle  from  tearing  at the  carcass and
swiveled his head so  as to  cover every  direction, including
straight  up,  with  his  many-faceted gaze.  Nothing. Nothing
moving  but  the  wind  and  its  consequences. Yet...  He had
felt as if something were watching him. But no.
 He fell to tearing the bones  free, breaking  them, grinding
them,  swallowing  them along  with large  gulps of  sand. Not
as  good  as  crunching  the  tube-crawlers  back   home,  but
better  than  the  synthetic fare  they had  given him  at the
Institute. Much better. In his mind, he  roamed again  the dry
plains, fearing nothing but -
 What? Again. He shook  himself and  ran his  gaze entirely
around  the  horizon.  There was  nothing, yet  he felt  as if
something were stalking him.
 He dropped  into a  lower position,  spitting out  pieces of
dog, baring his fangs, listening,  watching. What  could there

be  to  fear? There  was nothing  on this  planet that  he would
not  face.  Yet  he  felt  menaced  by  something  he   did  not
understand.  Even  when  he  had  met  with  krel, long  ago, he
had known where he stood. Now, though...
 He  sent  forth  a  paralyzing  wave  of  feelings  and  waited.
Nothing.  No  indication  that  anything had  felt it.  Could this
be like dreaming?
 Time  ticked  nets  about  him.  The  sky flared  briefly beyond
his right shoulder.
 Gradually  the  tension  went out  of him.  Gone now.
Strange. Very strange. Could it be something about this
place?
 He finished his meal,  thinking again  of the  days of  the hunt
on  the  plains  of  his  own  world, where  only one  thing could
cause such uneasiness in him....
 It struck.
      Whatever it was, it fell upon him like a boulder out of
nowhere.   He   bunched   his   legs   beneath   him   and  sprang
straight up into the air when it  hit, head  thrown back,  a sharp
hissing  noise  passing  his  throat. For  an instant,  his vision
swam  and  the  world  grew   dim.  But   already  his   mind  was
spinning. This he could understand, after a fashion.
 Among  his  kind  the  mating  battles  were  always  preceded
by  a  psychic  assault  from the  challenger. This  was somehow
similar, and he possessed the equipment to join it.
 He could not tell  exactly what  it was  doing inside  his head,
but he struck at it with all of his hate, with the desire to rend.
And then it was gone.
 He  fell  across  the  carcass  of the  dog, teeth  still bared,
slipping  back  into  an  earlier  mode  of  existence.  Where was
the  other?  When  would  he  strike?  He ranged  with all  of his
senses about the area, waiting. But there was nothing there.
 After  a  long  while,  the  tension  flowed  away.  Nothing was
coming.  Whatever  it  had  been,  it  was  not  one  of  his  own
kind, and it had not been a battle challenge that he had  felt. It
troubled  him  that  there  was  something  in  the  area  which he
did  not  understand.  He  turned  toward  the  north   and  began
walking.

 Mercy  Spender  and  Charles  Fisher,  who  sat  at  either side
of  him,  reached  to catch  hold of  Walter Sands's  shoulders as
he slumped forward.
 "Get him up onto the table - quick!" Elizabeth said.

 "He just fainted," Fisher  said. "I  think we  ought to  lower .
his head."
 "Listen to his chest! I was still with him. I felt his heart
stop."
 "Oh, my! Somebody give us a hand!"
 They  moved him  onto the  table and  listened for  a heart-
beat, but there was none. Mercy began hammering on his
chest.
 "You know what you're doing?" Ironbear asked her.
 "Yes.  I  started  nursing training  once," she  grunted. "I
remember this part. Somebody send for help."
 Elizabeth crossed to the intercom.
 "I didn't know he had a bad heart," Fisher said.
 "I  don't  think he  did either,"  Mancin replied,  "or we'd
probably have learned  that when  we gave  each other  a look.
The  shock  when  the thing  struck back  must have  gotten to
him. We shouldn't have let Ironbear talk us into going in."
 "Not his fault," Mercy said, still working.
 "And we all agreed," Fisher said. "The time seemed
perfect,  while  it was  remembering. And  we did  learn some-
thing..."
 Elizabeth  reached Tedders.  They grew  silent as  they lis-
tened to her relay the information.
 "Just a moment ago. Just a moment ago," Fisher said,
"and he was with us."
 "It seems as if he still is," Mancin said.
 "We're  going  to have  to try  to reach  Singer," Elizabeth
said, crossing the room and taking her seat again.
 "That's going to be hard  - and  what do  we really  have to
tell him?" Fisher asked.
 "Everything we know," Ironbear said,
 "And who knows what form it would take, that strange
state  of  mind  he's in?"  Mercy asked.  "We might  be better
off simply calling for that force Mancin suggested."
 "Maybe  we  should  do  both,"  Elizabeth  said. "But  if we
don't try helping him ourselves, then Walter's attack  was for
nothing."
 "I'll  be  with  you,"  Mercy  said,  "when  we   do.  Some-
body's going to have to  take over  here pretty  soon, though,
till the medics trip through. I'm getting tired."
 "I'll try," Fisher said. "Let me watch how you do it."
 "I'd better  learn, too,"  Mancin said,  moving nearer.  "I do
still seem to feel his presence, weakly.  Maybe that's  a good
sign."

 Sounds  of  hammering  continued  downstairs, from  where a
shattered wall was being replaced.

 He  crossed  the  water  above   a  small   cascade,  knowing
things  would be  relatively solid  at its  top. Then  he moved
along  the  southern  talus  slope, leaving  a clear  trail. He
entered  Black  Rock  Canyon  and  continued  into it  for per-
haps half  a mile.  The rain  came down  steadily upon  him and
the  wind  made  a  singing  sound  high  overhead.  He  saw  a
cluster  of  rocks  come  loose  from  the  northern  wall  far
ahead,  sliding  and  bumping  to  the  floor  of  the  canyon,
splashing into the stream.
 Keeping  watch  on  driftwood  heaps,  he  located   a  stick
sufficient  for  his  purpose.  He walked  near the  water's edge
for a time, then headed up onto  a long  rocky shelf  where his
footprints  soon  vanished.  He  immediately  began   to  back-
track,  walking in  his own  prints until  he stood  beside the
water again. He  entered it  then, probing  with the  stick for
quicksand  pockets,  and  made  his  way  back to  the canyon's
mouth.
 Emerging,  he  crossed  the  main stream  to its  north bank,
turned  to  his  right  and  continued  on  along   Canyon  del
Muerto toward  Standing Cow  Ruin, concealing  his trail  as he
went,  for  the  next  half-mile.  He found  that he  liked the
feeling of being alone again in this gigantic gorge. The stream
was wider  here, deeper.  His mind  went back  to the  story he
had heard as a boy, of the time of the fear of the  flooding of
the  world.  Who  was  that  old  singer?  Up  around  Kayenta,
back  in  the  1920s...  The  old  man   had  been   struck  by
lightning  and  left  for  dead. But  he had  recovered several
days  later,  bearing  a  purported  message  from the  gods, a
message  that  the  world  was  about  to  be flooded.  In that
normal laws  and taboos  no longer  apply to  a person  who has
lived  through  a  lightning-stroke, he  was paid  special heed.
People.  believed  him  and  fled  with  their flocks  to Black
Mountain. But the  water did  not come,  and the  cornfields of
those  who  fled  dried  and  died  under  the  summer   sun.  A
shaman with a vision that did not pay off.
 Billy  chuckled.  What  was  it  the Yellowclouds  had called
him?" Azaethlin"  -  "medicine  man."  We  aren't  always that
reliable, he  thought, given  to the  same passions  and misap-
prehensions as others. Medicine man, heal thyself.
 He started past a "wish pile" of rocks and juniper twigs,

halted, went back and added  a stone  to it.  Why not?  It was
there.
 In time, he came to Standing  Cow Ruin,  one of  the largest
ruins in the canyons. It stood against the north  wall beneath
a  huge overhang.  The remains  of its  walls covered  an area
more than  four hundred  feet long,  built partly  around 'im-
mense boulders. It, too, went back to  the Great  Pueblo days,
containing three  kivas and  many rooms.  But there  were also
Navajo  log-and-earth  storage   bins  and   Navajo  paintings
along  with  those  of the  Anasazi. He  went nearer,  to view
again the white, yellow  and black  renderings of  people with
arms  upraised,  the humpbacked  archer, circles,  circles and
more  circles,  the  animals....  And there,  high up  above a
ledge  to his  left, was  one of  purely Navajo  creation, and
most  interesting  to  him.  Mounted,  cloaked,  wearing flat-
brimmed  hats,  carrying  rifles,  was  a procession  of Span-
iards, two of them  firing at  an Indian.  It was  believed to
represent  the  soldiers  of  Lieutenant  Anthony  Narbona who
fought  the  Navajos  at  Massacre  Cave  in  1805.  And below
that, at  the base  of the  cliff, were  other horsemen  and a
mounted  U.S.  cavalryman  of  the 1860s.  As he  watched, they
seemed to move.
 He  rubbed  his  eyes.  They  really   were  moving.   And  it
seemed  as if  he had  just heard  gunshots. The  figures were
three-dimensional, solid now, riding across a  sandy waste....
"Always  down  on  us,  aren't you?"  he said  to them  and to
the world at large.
 He  heard curses  in Spanish.  When he  lowered his  eyes to
the  other  figure,  he  heard  a  trumpet sounding  a cavalry
charge. The great  rock walls  seemed to  melt away  about him
and the waters grew silent. He  was staring  now at  a totally
different landscape -  bleak, barren  and terribly  bright. He
raised  his eyes  to a  sun which  blazed almost  whitely from
overhead.  A  part  of  him  stood  aside, wondering  how this
thing could be. But the rest of him was engaged in the vision.
 He  seemed  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  drum as  he watched
them ride across that alien desert. It was increasing steadily
in  tempo.  Then,  when  it  had  reached  an  almost  frantic
throbbing,  the  sands  erupted  before  the  leading horseman
and  a  large, translucent,  triangular shape  reared suddenly
before him,  leaning forward  to enfold  both horse  and rider
with  slick  membranous  wings.  More  of  them  exploded into
view  along  the  column, shrugging  sands which  yellowed the
air,' falling upon the other riders and their mounts, envelop-

ing  them,  dragging  them  downward  to  settle  as  quivering,
gleaming,  rocklike  lumps  on  the  barren landscape.  Even the
cavalryman, now brandishing his  saber, met  a similar  fate, to
the notes of the trumpet and the drum.
 Of course.
      What other fate might be expected when one encountered
a  krel.,  let  alone a  whole crowd  of them?  He had  given up
quickly on any  notion of  bringing one  back to  the Institute.
Two  close  calls,  and  he  had  decided  that  they  were  too
damned  dangerous.  That  world  of  Cat's  had  bred  some very
vicious creatures....
 Cat. Speak of the Devil... There was Cat crossing the
plain, lithe power personified....
 Again, amid a shower of sand, the krel rose. Cat drew
back, rearing, forelimbs lengthening, slashing. They came
together and Cat struggled to draw away....
 With  the  sound  of a  single drumbeat,  the scene  faded. He
was  staring at  anthropomorphic figures,  horses and  the large
Standing Cow. He heard the sounds of the water at his back.
 Peculiar, but  he had  known stranger  things over  the years,
and he had always felt that a kind of power  dwelled in  the old
places.  Something  about  this   manifestation  of   it  seemed
heartening,  and so  he took  it as  a good  omen. He  chanted a
brief  song  of  thanks for  the vision  and turned  to continue
along  his  way.  The  shadows  had  darkened   perceptibly  and
the  rock  walls  were  even  higher  now,  and  for  a  time he
seemed to regard them through a mist of rainbows.
 Going back. A part  of him  still stood  apart, but  it seemed
even smaller and  farther away  now. Parts  of his  life between
childhood  and  now had   become  dreamlike,   shimmering,  and
he  had  not  noticed  it happening.  He began  recalling seldom
used  names  for  things around  him which  he had  thought long
forgotten. The  rain increased  in intensity  off to  his right,
though  his  way  was  still  sheltered  by  the canyon  wall. A
trick  of  lightning  seemed  to  show  momentarily   a  reddish
path stretching on before him.
 "A  krel,  a  krel,"  he  chanted  as  he walked,  not knowing
why. Free a cat to kill a Stragean, find a krel to kill a cat...
What  then?  He  chuckled.  No  answer  to  the odd  vision. His
mind  played  games  with  the  rock  shapes  around   him.  The
Plains  Indians  had  made  mare  of  a  cult  out  of  the Rock
people  than  his  people  had.  But  now  it  seemed  he  could
almost  catch  glimpses  of the  presence within the  forms. Who
was  that  bellicano  philosopher  he  had liked?  Spinoza. Yes.

Everything alive, all of it connected, inside and out, all over.
Very Indian.
  "Hah  la tse  kis!" he  called out,  and the  echo came  back to
him.
  The  zigzag  lightning  danced  above the  high cliff's  edge and
when  its  afterglow  had  faded  he  realized  that   night  'was
coming  on.  He  increased  his  pace.  He felt  it would  be good
to  be  past  Many  Cherry  Canyon  by  the  time   full  darkness
fell.
  The  ground  dropped  away  abruptly,  and   he  made   his  way
across  a  bog,  probing  before  him with  his stick.  He cleaned
his  boots  then  before  continuing.  He  ran  a hand  across the
surface  of  a  rock,  feeling its  moist smoothnesses  and rough-
nesses.  Then  he  licked  his  thumb  and  stared again  into the
shadowy places.
  Moments  came  and  went  like  dark  tides  among   the  stones
as  he  strode  along,  half-glimpsed images  giving rise  to free
association, racial and personal.
  It  seemed   to  sail   toward  him   out  of   the  encroaching
darkness, its prow cutting a V across  his line  of sight.  It was
Shiprock   in  miniature,   that  outcrop   ahead.  As   he  swung
along it grew larger and it filled his mind....
  Irresistibly,  he  was  thrown  back.  Again  the  sky  was blue
glass  above  him.  The  wind  was  sharp  and  cold,   the  rocks
rough,  the  going  progressively  steeper.   Soon  it   would  be
time  to  rope  up.  They   were  approaching   the  near-vertical
heights....
  He  looked  back at  her, climbing  steadily, her  face flushed.
She  was a  good climber,  had done  it in  many places.  But this
was something special, a forbidden test....
  He gnashed his teeth and muttered, "Fool!"
        They were climbing tse bi dahi, the rock with wings. The
white  men  called  it  Shiprock.  It stood  7,178 feet  in height
and  had  only  been   climbed  once,   some  two   hundred  years
earlier,  and  many  had  died  attempting  the  ascent. It  was a
sacred place, and it was now forbidden to climb upon it.
  And  Dora  had  liked  climbing.  True,  she  had  never  sug-
gested  this,  but  she  had gone  along with  him. Yes,  it had
been his idea, not hers.
  In  his mind's  eye, he  saw their  diminutive figures  upon its
face,   reaching,   hauling   themselves  higher,   reaching.  His
idea.  Tell  him  why.  Tell Hastehogan,  god of  night, why  - so
that  he  may laugh  and send  a black  wind out  of the  north to
blow upon you.

     Why?
     He had wanted to show her that he did not fear the
People's taboo, that  he was  better, wiser,  more sophisticated
than  the People.  He had  wanted to  show her  that he  was not
really one of them in spirit, that he was free like her, that he
was  above  such things,  that he  laughed at  them. It  did not
occur to him until much later that such a  thing did  not matter
to her, that he had been dancing  a dance  of fears  for himself
only, that she had never thought him  inferior, that  his action
had  been  unnecessary,  unwarranted,   pathetic.  But   he  had
needed  her.  She was  a new  life in  a new,  frightening time,
and -
When  he  heard  her  cry  out  he  turned  as  rapidly  as  he
could  and  reached out  for her.  Eight inches,  perhaps, sepa-
rated  their  fingertips.  And  then she  was gone,  falling. He
saw her hit, several times.
Half  blinded  with  tears,  he  had  cursed the  mountains and
cursed  the  gods  and  cursed  himself.  It  was  over.  He had
nothing now. He was nothing....
He  cursed  again,  his  eyes  darting  over  the   terrain  to
where, with a flick of its tail,  he would  have sworn  a coyote
had  stood  a  moment  ago,  laughing,  before it  vanished into
the  shadows  beyond  the  rise.  Fragments  of the  chants from
the old Coyoteway fire ritual came to him:

I will walk in the places where the black clouds come at
     me.
I will walk in the places where the rain falls upon me.
I will walk in the places where the lightning flashes at
     me.
I will walk in the places where the dark fogs move about
     me.
I will walk where the rainbows drift and the thunders roll.
Amid dew and pollen will I walk.
They are upon my feet. They are upon my legs....

When  he  reached  the  spot  where  he  thought  he  had  seen
the  creature,  he  searched  quickly  in  the  dim   light  and
thought  that  he  detected a  pawprint. Not  important, though.
It meant something. What, he could not say.

                He is walking in the water....
                On the trail beyond the mountains.
                The medicine is ready.

        ... It is his water,
      a white coyote's water.
      The medicine is ready.

As  he  passed  Many   Cherry  Canyon   he  was   certain  that
Cat was on his way. Let it  be. This  thing seemed  destined, if
not with Cat at his back then in some other fashion. Let  it be.
Things   were  looking   different  now.   The  world   had  been
twisted slightly out of focus.
Dark,  dark.  But his  eyes adjusted  with unusual  clarity. He
would  pass  the  cave  of  the Blue  Bull. He  would go  on. He
would  take  his rations  as he  walked. He  would not  rest. He
would  create  another  false  way  at  Twin Trail  Canyon. After
that,  he  would  obscure  his  passage  even further.  He would
go on. He would walk in the water.
Come after me, Cat. The easy part is almost over.
Weak flash. The wind and the water swallow the thunder.
He is laughing and his face is wet.
The black medicine lifts me in his hand....

            The Third Day

                                       WHEN THE CALL CAME
through  that  Walter  Sands  was dead,  having failed  to re-
spond  to  treatment,  Mercy  Spender  said a  prayer, Fisher
looked  depressed  and  Mancin  looked  out  of  the  window.
Ironbear poured a cup of coffee, and for a long while  no one
said anything.
Finally, "I just want to go home," Fisher said.
"But we reached Singer," Elizabeth replied.
"If  you  want  to  call  it that,"  he replied.  "He's gone
around  the  bend.  He's...  somewhere  else.  His   mind  is
running everything through a filter of primitive symbolism. I
can't understand him, and  I'm sure  he can't  understand me.
He thinks  he's deep  under the  earth, traveling  along some
ancient path."
"He  is,"  Ironbear  said. "He  is walking  the way  of the
shaman."
Fisher snorted.
"What do you know about it?"
"Enough  to  understand  some," he  answered. "I  got inter-
ested  in Indian  things again  when my  father died.  I even
remembered some stuff I'd forgotten for a long time.  For all
of his education and  travels, Singer  doesn't think  in com-
pletely modern terms. In fact, he doesn't  even think  like a
modern Indian. He grew up in almost the last  possible period

and place where  someone could  live in  something close  to a
neolithic environment. So he's been  to the  stars. A  part of
him's  always been  back in  those crazy  canyons. And  he was
a  shaman - a real one - once. He set out several days  ago to
go back  to that  part of  himself, intentionally,  because he
thought it might help him. Now it's got hold of him, after all
those  years  of  repression,  and  it's  coming  back  with a
vengeance. That's  what I  think. I've  been reading  tapes on
the  Navajos  ever  since  I  learned  about him,  in all  of my
spare  moments  here.  They're  a  lot  different  from  other
Indians, even from their neighbors. But  they do  have certain
things  in  common  with  the rest  of us  - and  the shaman's
journey  often  goes  underground   when  things   are  really
tough."
  " 'Us'?" Mancin said, smiling.
  "Slip of the tongue," he answered.
  "So  you're  saying this  vicious alien  beast is  chasing a
crazy Indian,"  Mercy stated.  "And we  just learned  that the
authorities  won't go  into those  canyons after  them because
the place is too  treacherous in  the weather  they're having.
Sounds as if there's  nothing we  can do.  Even if  we coordi-
nate as a group mind, the beast seems able  to strike  back at
us  pretty hard  - and  Singer can't  understand us.  Maybe we
should  go  home  and  let  them  work  it  out  between them-
selves."
  "It  would  be different  if there  were something  we could
do,"  Fisher  said,  moving  to  stand  beside  Ironbear. "I'm
beginning to  see how  you feel  about the  guy, but  what the
hell. If you're dead, lie down."
  "We could attack the beast," Ironbear said softly.
  "Too damned alien," Mancin said. "We don't have the
key to his mind. He'd just slap us away like he did last time.
Besides,  this mass-mind  business seems  very risky.  Not too
much  has  really  been  done with  it, and  who knows  how we
might mess ourselves up?  In any  kind of  cost-benefit analy-
sis of it there's little to gain against unknown risks."
  Ironbear rose to his feet and turned toward the door.
  "Fuck  your  cost-benefit analysis,"  he said  as he  left the
room.
  Fisher started after him, but Elizabeth caught his eye.
  "Let  him go,"  she said.  "He's too  angry. You  don't want
a fight  with a  friend. There's  nothing you  can say  to him
now."
  Fisher halted near the door.

 "I couldn't reach him then,  can't reach  him now,"  he said.
"I  know  he's mad,  but... I  don't know.  I've got  a feeling
he could do something foolish."
 "Like what?" Mancin asked.
 "I don't know. That's just it. Maybe I'd better..."
 "He'll  brood  for  a  while,"  Mancin  said, and  then come
back  and  try to  talk us  into something.  Maybe we  ought to
agree  to try  to reach  Singer and  get him  to head  for some
safe spot where he can be picked up. That might work."
 "I've got a feeling it won't, but it's the best suggestion so
far. How'll we know where a good spot is?"
 Mancin thought for a  time, then,  "That friend  of Singer's,
the  ranger,"  he  said, "Yellowcloud.  He'd know.  Where's the
printout with his number on it?"
 "Ironbear had it," Elizabeth said.
 "It's not on his chair. Not on the table either."
 "You don't think... ?"
 Ironbear, wait! Elizabeth broadcast. We're going to help!
Come back!
 But there was no response.
 They headed for the stair.
 He was nowhere on the premises, and they guessed that
he  had  tripped  out from  one of  the downstairs  boxes. They
obtained  the  number  from  Information,  but no  one answered
at Yellowcloud's phce.  It was  not until  half an  hour later,
while  they  were eating,  that someone  noticed that  a burst-
gun was missing from the guard room.

                        PETROGAFFITI

         COYOTE STEALS VOICES FROM ALL LIVING THINGS

 Nothing   was   capable   of   movement   following  Coyote's
theft of sound from the world.  Not until  he was  persuaded to
call  the Sun  and Moon  to life  by giving  a great  shout and
restoring noise to the land

       NAYENEZGANI CONTINUES CIVIC IMPROVEMENT PLAN

At Tse'a haildehe', where a  piece of  rock brought  up from
the underworld was in the habit of  drawing itself  apart to
form a pair of cliffs and  closing again  whenever travelers
passed  between.  Nayenezgani  today  solved the  problem by
the ingenious use of a piece of elk's horn

         2-RABBIT, 7-WIND. HOME TEAM SUCCESSFUL.

 Quetzalcoatl, arriving this  morning in  Tula, was  heard to
remark, "Every man has his  own rabbit."  This was  taken as
a  good  sign by  the local  population, who  responded with
tortillas, flowers, incense, butterflies and snakes
                                      Commercial  traveler,
                                      passing through

                    KIT CARSON GO HOME

            I KILLED THREE DEER ACROSS THE WAY

                    BET THEY WERE LAME

              SINGERS DO IT IN COLORED SANDS

          FOUR APACHES KILLED A NAVAJO NEAR HERE

                     THAT'S HOW MANY
                         IT TAKES

            SPIDER WOMAN DEMONSTRATES NEW ART

"I believe I'll call it textiles," she said, when questioned
concerning

               SOMEDAY VON DANIKEN WILL SAY
                   THIS IS AN ASTRONAUT

                   (place here eye1.tif)

                     PORT SUMNER SUCKS

         CHANGING WOMAN PUZZLED BY SONS' BEHAVIOR

"I suppose they get it from their father," she was heard to
say, when told of the latest

                BILLY BLACKHORSE SINGER AND
                HIS CHINDI PASSED THIS WAY
         O-SINGER, O-CHINDI, AT END OF FIRST HALF

                    BLACK-GOD IS WATCHING

         THE YELLOW MEDICINE LIFTS ME IN HIS HAND

                                    WHEN IRONBEAR OCCURRED
within the trip-box in Yellowcloud's home, the first thing to
catch and hold his attention was a shotgun in the other man's
hands, pointed at his midsection from a distance  of approxi-
mately six feet.

"Drop that gun you're carrying," Yellowcloud said.
"Sure. Don't be nervous," Ironbear answered, letting the
weapon fall. "Why are you pointing that thing at me?"
"Are you Indian?"
"Yes "
"Ha'at'i'i'sh biniinaa yi'ni'ya?"
Ironbear shook his head.
"I don't understand you."
"You're not Navajo."
"Never  said  I  was. Matter  of fact,  I'm Sioux.  Can't talk
that either, though. Except maybe a few words."
"I'll say it in English: Why'd you come here?"
"I told you on the phone.  I've got  to find  Singer -  or the
thing that's after him."
"I think maybe you're what's after him. It's  easy to  get rid
of bodies around here, especially this time of year."
Ironbear  felt  his  brow  grow  moist as  he read  the other
man's thoughts.
"Hold on," he said. "I want to help the guy.  But it's  a long
story and I don't know how much time we've got."
Yellowcloud  motioned  toward  a  chair  with  the  barrel of
his weapon.
"Have a seat. Roll up the rug first, though,  and kick  it out
of the way. I'd hate to mess up a Two Gray Hills."
As  he  complied,  Ironbear probed  hard, trying  to penetrate
beyond  the  stream  of  consciousness.  When  he  found  what
he was seeking, he was not  certain he  could wrap  his tongue
around the syllables, but he tried.
"What did you say?" Yellowcloud 'asked, the weapon's
barrel wavering slightly.
He repeated it, Yellowcloud's secret name.
"How'd you know that?" the other asked him.
"I  read  it in  your mind.  I'm a  paranormal. That's  how I
got involved in this thing in the first place."
"Like a medicine man?"
"I suppose in the old days I would have been one.
Anyway,  there  was a  group of  us and  we were  tracking the
thing that's tracking Singer. Now the others want to quit, but
I won't. That's why I want your help."
The  rain  continued as  he talked.  When the  callbox buzzed,
Yellowcloud switched it off. Later he got them coffee.

     Running now, into the bowels of the earth, it seemed.
Darker  and  darker.  Soon he  must slow  his pace.  The world

had  almost  completely   faded  about   him,  save   for  the
sounds - of  wind, water,  his drumming  feet. Slow  now. Yes.
Now.
 Ahead.  Something  in  that  stand of  trees. Not  moving. A
light.
 He advanced cautiously.
     It appeared to be - But no. That was impossible. Yet.
There it was. A trip-box. He was positive that it  was against
regulations to install one in the canyon.
 He moved nearer. It certainly looked like a  trip-box, there
among the trees. He advanced and looked inside.
 A strange one, though. No slot for the credit strip.  No way
to  punch  coordinates.  He  entered   and  studied   it  more
closely.  Just  an  odd red-and-white-flecked  button. Without
thinking, he moved his thumb forward and pushed it.
 A  mantle  of  rainbows  swirled  before  his eyes  and was
gone.  He  looked  inside.  Nothing had  changed. He  had not
been transported anywhere. Yet -
 A pale  light suffused  the canyon  now, as  if a  full moon
hung overhead. But there was no moon.
 He looked again at the box, and for the  first time  saw the
sight  on its  side. SPIRIT  WORLD, it  said. He  shrugged and
walked  away  from  it.  Save  for  the light,  nothing seemed
altered.
 After  some  twenty paces,  he turned  and looked  back. The
box was gone. The stand of  trees stood  silvery to  his rear,
empty  of  any  unnatural  presence. To  his right,  the water
gleamed in its rippling progress. The rain which fell  into it
seemed to  be descending  in slow  motion, more  a full-bodied
mist  than  a  downpour.  And  the  next  flash  of  lightning
seemed a stylized inscription on the heavens.
 Plainly  marked  before  him  now  was  the trail  he must
follow.  He  set  his  foot upon  it and  the wind  chanted a
staccato song of guidance as he went.
 He  moved  quickly,  approaching  a  bend  in   the  canyon;
more  slowly  then, as  his slope  steepened and  narrowed. He
dropped to a wider shelf as his way  curved, hurried  again as
he followed it.
 As he made the turn, he saw outlined to his right,  ahead, a
human figure standing on the  opposite bank  of the  stream, at
the very tip of a raised spit of land which projected out into
the  water.  It  was a  man, and  he seemed  somehow familiar,
and  he  had  a  kind  of  light about  him which  Billy found
disturbing.

 He  slowed  as  he  drew  nearer,  for   the  man   was  staring
directly  at  him.  For  a  moment,  he  was  not  certain  how to
address  him,  for  he  could  not  recall  the  circumstances  of
their  acquaintance,  and  a  meeting  here  struck  him  as pecu-
liar.  Then  suddenly  he  remembered,  but  by  then   the  other
had already greeted him.
 He halted and acknowledged the call.
 "You  are  far  from  home,"  he  said then,  "from where  I met
you just the other day, in the mountains, herding sheep."
 "Yes, I am," the other replied, "for  I died  that same
evening."
 A chill came across the back of Billy's neck.
 "I did nothing to you," he said. "Why do you return to
trouble me?"
 "I  have  not  returned  to  trouble  you. In  fact, I  have not
returned  at  all.  It  is  you who  have found  your way  to this
place. That makes it different. I will do you no harm."
 "I do not understand."
 "I  told  you  to  follow a  twisted way,"  the old  singer said,
"and I see that you have. Very twisted. That is good."
 "Not  entirely,"  Billy  told  him.  "My chindi  is still  at my
back."
 "Your  chindi  turned  right  instead  of  left,  following  the
false  trail  into Black  Rock Canyon.  You are  still safe  for a
time."
 "That's something, anyway," Billy said. "Maybe I can do
it again."
 "Perhaps. But what is it exactly that you are doing?"
 "I am following a trail."
 "And it brought you here. Do you think that we have met
by accident?"
 "I guess not. Do you know why we met?"
 "I  know  only that  I would  like to  teach you  an old  song of
power."
 "That's fine. I'll take  all the  help I  can get,"  said Billy,
glancing back along the way.  "I hope  it's not  a real  long one,
though."
 "It is not,"  the old  singer told  him. "Listen  carefully now,
for I can only sing it three times for you. To sing it  four times
is to make it work."
 "Yes."

 "Very well. Here is the song...."
 The old man began chanting a song of the calling of
    Ikne'etso, which Billy followed, understood and had learned

by the third time he heard it. When the  singer was  finished he
thanked  him,  and  then   asked,  "When   should  I   use  this
song?"
  "You will know," the other answered. "Follow your
twisted way now."
  Billy  bade  him  good-bye  and  continued along  the northern
slope.  He considered  looking back,  but this  time he  did not
do  it.  He  trekked  through  the  sparkling canyon  and images
of other worlds and of his life in cities rose and  mingled with
those about him until it seemed as if his entire life  was being
melted  down and  stirred together  here. But  all of  the asso-
ciated feelings were  also swirled  together so  that it  was an
emotional white noise which surrounded him.
  He  passed  a  crowd of  standing stones  and they  all seemed
to  have  faces,  their  mouths  open,  singing  windsongs. They
were all stationary, but at the far end  of the  group something
came forward out of darkness.
  It  was  a  man,  a  very  familiar  man,  who  stood  leaning
against  the  last  windsinger, smiling.  He was  garbed accord-
ing to the latest fashion, his hair was  styled, his  hands well
manicured.
     "Hello, Billy," he said in English, and the voice was his
own.
  He  saw  then  that  the  man  was himself,  as he  could have
been had he never come back to this place.
  "That's  right.  I  am  your  shadow," the  other said.  "I am
the  part  of  yourself you  chose to  neglect, to  thrust aside
when  you  elected  to return  to the  blanket because  you were
afraid of being me."
  "Would I have liked being you?"
  The other shrugged.
  "I  think  so.  Time  and  chance,  that's  all. You  and Dora
would  eventually have  moved to  a city  after you'd  proved to
your  own  satisfaction  how  free  you'd  become.  You  took  a
chance  and  failed.  If  you'd  succeeded  you would  have come
this  route. Time  and chance.  Eight inches  of space.  Such is
the stuff lives are bent by."
  "You are saying that if  I'd proved  how free  I had  become I
still wouldn't really have been free?"
  "What's free?" said the other, a  faint green  light beginning
to play about his head. "To  travel all  good paths,  I suppose.
And you restricted yourself. I  am a  way that  you did  not go,
an important way.  I might  have been  a part  of you,  a saving
part, but you slighted  me in  your pride  that you  knew best."

  He smiled again, and Billy saw that he had grown fangs.
  "I  know  you,"  Billy  said  then.  "You  are  my  chindi, my
real chindi, aren't you?"
  "And if I  am," the  other said,  "and if  you think  me evil,
you  see  me  so  for  all  of  the  wrong  reasons.  I  am your
negative  self.  Not  better,  not  worse, only  unrealized. You
summoned  me  a  long  time  ago  by  running  from  a  part  of
yourself. You cannot destroy a negation."
   "Let's find out," Billy said, and he raised the laser snub-
gun and triggered it.
  The flash of light passed through his  double with  no visible
effect.
  "That is not the way to deal with me," said the other.
  "Then the hell with you! Why should I deal with you at
all?"

  "Because I can destroy you."
  "Then what are you waiting for?"
  "I  am  not  quite strong  enough yet.  So keep  running, keep
regressing into the  primitive and  I will  grow in  strength as
you  do.  Then,  when  we  meet  again..."  The   other  dropped
suddenly  to  all  fours  and  took  on  the  semblance  of Cat,
single  eye glistening,  "... I  will be  your adversary  by any
name."
  Billy  drew the  tazer and  fired it.  It vanished  within the
other's  body,  and  the  other  became  his  double  again  and
rose, lunging at him, the dart and cable  falling to  the ground
and rewinding automatically.
  Billy  swung  his  left  fist  and it  seemed to  connect with
something.  His  double  fell  back   upon  the   ground.  Billy
turned and began running.
  "Yes, flee. Give me strength," it called out after him.
  When  he looked  back, Billy  saw only  a faint  greenish glow
near  the  place  of  the  windsingers.  He continued  to hurry,
until it vanished with another  turning of  the way.  The voices
of the windsingers faded. He slowed again.
  The  canyon  widened  once  more;   the  stream   was  broader
and  flowed  more  slowly.  He  seemed  to see  distorted faces,
both human and animal, within the water.
  He  had  felt  himself the  object of  scrutiny for  some time
now.  But  the  feeling  was  growing  stronger,  and   he  cast
about,  seeking  its  source  among  fugitive forms  amid shadow
and water.
  Cat?
  No reply, which could mean anything. But no broadcast

apprehensions  either -  unless they  came on  only to  be lost
amid the emotional turbulence.
 Cat? If it is you, let's have it out. Any time now. I'm ready
whenever you are.
 Then  he  passed  a sharp  projection of  the canyon  wall and
he knew that it was  not Cat  whose presence  he had  felt. For
now he beheld the strange  entity which  regarded him,  and its
appearance meshed with the sensation.
 It  looked  like  a giant  totem pole.  His people  had never
made  totem  poles.  They  were a  thing of  the people  of the
Northwest.  Yet  this  one  seemed  somehow appropriate  to the
moment if incongruous  to the  place. It  towered, and  it bore
four faces - and  possibly  a  shadowy  fifth,  at  the  very top.
There  were  the   countenances  of   two  women,   one  heavy-
featured,  one  lean,  and two  men, one  black and  one white.
And  above  them  it  seemed  that  a  smiling  masculine  face
hovered,  smokelike.  All of  their eyes  were fixed  upon him,
and he knew that he beheld no carving but a thing alive.
 "Billy  Blackhorse  Singer,"  a  neuter-gendered   voice  ad-
dressed him.
 "I hear you," he replied.
 "You must halt your journey here," it stated.
 "Why?" he asked.
 "Your mission has been accomplished. You have nothing
to gain by further flight."
 "Who are you?" he said.
 "We  are  your  guardian  spirits.  We  wish to  preserve you
from your pursuer. Climb the wall  here. Wait  at the  top. You
will be met there after a time and borne to safety."
 Billy's gaze shifted away from the spirit tower to regard '
the ground at his feet and the prospect before him.
 "But I still see my trail  out within  this canyon,"  he said
finally. "I should not depart it here."
 "It is a false trail."
 "No,"  he said.  "This much  I know:  I must  follow it  to its
end."
 "That way lies death."
 He was silent again for a time. Then, ß Still must I follow
it,"  he  said. "Some  things are  more important  than others.
Even than death."
 "What  are  these  things?  Why  must  you follow  this trail?"
 He  took several  deep breaths  and continued  to stare  at the
ground, as if considering it for the first time.
 "I await myself at its ending," he said at last, "as I should

be. If I do not follow this trail, it will be a different sort of
death."
  "Worse, I think," he added.
  "We may not be able to help you if you go on."
  "Then that is as it must be," he said. "Thank you for
trying."
  "We  hear  you," said  the totem  as it  sank slowly  into the
ground,  face  by face  sliding from  view beneath  stone, until
only the final, shadowy  one remained  for an  instant, smiling,
it  seemed,  at  him.  "Gamble,  then,"  it  seemed  to whisper,
and then it, too, was gone.
      He rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. He went on.

              ...I walk on an invisible arch,
              feet ready to bear me anywhere.

outcoming  fra  thplatz  fwaters  flwng  awa   thheadtopped  tre
andriving  now  to  each  where five  now four  apartapart horse
on the mountain ghoti in  thrivr selves  towar bodystake  like a
longflwung water its  several bays  to go  and places  of ourown
heads to  sort sisters  in the  sky old  men beneath  the ground
while   coyote   trail  ahead   blackbrid  shadow   overall  and
brotherone  within  the  chalce  of minds  a partapartatrapatrap

  "My God!" Elizabeth said, sinking back into her chair.
  Alex Mancin poured a glass of water and drained it.
  "Yes," said Fisher, massaging his temples.
  Mercy Spender commenced a coughing spell which lasted
for close to half a minute.
  "Now what?." Fisher said softly.
  Mancin shook his head.
  "I don't know."
  "Ironbear  was  right  about  his  thinking  he's  in  another
world," Elizabeth said. "We're not going to move him."
  "The  hell  with  that," Fisher  said. "We  tried, and  we got
through,  even  if  he  did  turn  us into  a totem.  That's not
what's bothering me, and you know it."
  "He was there," Mercy said, "in the spirit."
  "Somebody  call  the  hospital  and  make  sure Sands  is really
dead," Fisher said.
  "I   don't  see   how  they   could  be   mistaken,  Charles,"
Elizabeth  said.  "But  Mercy is  right. He  was with  us, some-
how, and it seems as if he's still somewhere near."

"Yes," Mercy put in. "He is here."
"You don't need the spirit hypothesis for what I think
happened," Mancin finally stated.
"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked.
"Just  the  memory  of  how  he   died.  We   were  all   of  us
together, functioning as that single entity  of which  we under-
stand so little. I think that the trauma of his death  served to
produce  something  like  a  holograph  of  his mind  within our
greater  consciousness.  When  we  are  apart  like  this  it is
weakened,  but we  all bear  fainter versions,  which is  why we
seem  to  have  this sense  of his  presence. When  we recreated
the  larger  entity just  now, the  recombination of  the traces
was sufficient to reproduce  a total  functioning replica  of his
- mind as it was."
   "You see him as a special kind of memory when we are in
that state?" Elizabeth asked. "Will it fade eventually, do
you think?"
"Who can say?"
"So what do we do now?" Fisher asked.
     "Check on Singer, I suppose, at regular intervals," Man-
cin said, -and renew the  invitation to  be picked  up if  he'll
climb to some recognizable feature."
"He'll  just  keep  refusing.  You  saw  how  fixed  that mental
set of his was."
    "Probably - unless something happens to change it. You
never  know. But  I've been  thinking about  some of  the things
Ironbear  said.  He's  owed  the  chance, and  we seem  the only
ones who can give it to him."
"Okay  by  me.  It  seems  harmless   enough.  Just   don't  ask
me to go after that alien beast again. Once was enough."
"I'm not too anxious to touch it myself." '
"What about Ironbear?"
"What about him?"
"Shouldn't we try to get in touch and let him know what
we're doing?"
  "What for? He's mad. He'll just shut us out. Let him call
us when he's ready."
"I'd hate to see him do anything foolish."
"Like what?"
"Like go after that thing and find it."
Mancin nodded.
"Maybe you're right. I still don't think he'd listen, but -"
"He  might  listen  to  me," Fisher  said, "but  I'm not  sure I
can reach him myself at this distance."

  "Why don't we locate the nearest trip-box to that canyon
and go there?" Elizabeth said. "It will probably  make every-
thing easier."
 "Aren't Indian reservations dry?" Mercy asked.
 "Let's tell Tedders and get our stuff together.  We'll meet
back here in fifteen minutes," Fisher said.
 "Walter thinks it's a good idea, too," Mercy said.

       There is danger where I walk,
       in my moccasins, leggings, shirt
       of black obsidian.
       My belt is a black arrowsnake.
       Black snakes coil and rear about my head.
       The zigzag lightning flashes from my feet,
       my knees, my speaking tongue.
       I wear a disk of pollen upon my head.
       The snakes eat it.
       There is danger where I walk.
       I am become something frightful.
       I am  whirlwind and  gray bear.
       The lightning plays  about me.
       There is danger where  I walk.

 "I  dropped him  back here,"  Yellowcloud said,  jabbing at
the map, and Ironbear nodded, staring down at the  outline of
the long, sprawled canyons.
 The rain, growing sleetlike, pelted against the floatcar in
which they sat,  parked near  the canyon's  rim. Reflexively,
Ironbear  raised the  collar of  his borrowed  jacket. Pretty
good fit. Lucky we're both the same size, he decided.
 "I  watched for  a time,"  Yellowcloud continued,  "to make
sure he got down okay. He did, and I saw that he  headed east
then."  His  finger  moved  along the  map and  halted again.
"Now,  at  this  point," he  went on,  "he could  have turned
right into Black Rock Canyon or he could  have kept  on along
Canyon del Muerto proper. What do you think?"
 "Me? How should I know?"
 "You're  the  witch-man. Can't  you hold  a stick  over the
map, or something like that, and tell?"
 Ironbear studied the map more closely.
 "Not exactly," he  said. "I  can feel  him out  there, down
there. But a rock wall's just a rock wall to me,  whether I'm
seeing  it  through  his  eyes  or  my  own.  However..."  He

placed his finger on the map and moved it. "I'd guess he
continued along del Muerto. He wanted lots of  room, and
Black Rock seems to dead-end too soon."
 "Good,  good.  I  feel  he  went  that  way,  too.  He  chose a
spot  before  it on  purpose, I'd  say. I'll  bet the  trail gets
confused   at   the  junction."   Yellowcloud  folded   the  map,
turned off the interior light and started  the engine.  "Since we
both agree," he said,  turning the  wheel, "I'll  bet I  can save
us some time. I'll bet that if we head on up  the rim,  past that
branch,  and  if we  climb down  into del  Muerto, we'll  pick up
his trail along one of the walls."
 "It'll be kind of dark."
 "I've got goggles and dark-lights. Full spectrum, too."
 "Can you figure out where he might be from where you
dropped him and how fast he might be going?"
 "Bet  I  can  make  a  good guess.  But we  don't want  to come
down right on top of him now."
 "Why not?"
 "If something's  after him,  he's liable  to shoot  at anything
he sees coming."
 "You've got a point there."
          "So we'll go down around Many Turkey cave, Blue Bull
Cave  -  right  before  the  canyon widens.  Should be  easier to
pick  up  the  trail  where  it's narrow.  Then we'll  ignore any
false signs leading  into Twin  Trail Canyon  and start  on after
him."
       Winds buffeted the small car as it made its way across a
nearly  trailless  expanse, turning  regularly to  avoid boulders
and dips which dropped too abruptly.
 "... Then I guess we just provide him with extra fire-
power."
 "I'd like to try talking him out of it," Ironbear said.
 Yellowcloud laughed.
 "Sure. You do that," he said.
 Ironbear  scanned  the  other's  thoughts,  saw  his impression
of the man.
   "Oh, well," he said. "At least I learned to shoot in the P-
Patrol."
 "You were P-Patrol? I almost joined that."
 "Why didn't you?"
 "Afraid I'd get claustrophobia in one of those beer cans in
the sky. I like to be able to see a long way off."
 They were silent for a time as they traveled through the

blackness,  dim  shapes  about  them,  snowflakes  spinning in
the  headlight  beams, changing  back to  rain, back  to snow-
flakes again.
 Then,  "That  thing  that's  after  him,"  Yellowcloud said,
"you say it's as smart as a man?"
 "In its way, yeah. Maybe smarter."
 "Billy may still have an edge, you know. He'll probably
be mad to see us."
 "That beast has chased him  all over  the world.  It's built
for killing, and it hates him."
             "Even Kit Carson was afraid to go into these canyons
after the Navajo. Had to starve us out in the dead of winter."
 "Why was he scared?"
 "The   place   was   made   for   ambushes.  Anyone   who  knows
his  way  around  down  there  could  hold  off a  superior force,
maybe slaughter it."
 "This beast can read thoughts."
 "So  it  reads  that there's  someone up  ahead waiting  to kill
it. Doesn't  have to  be a  mind reader  to know  that. And  if it
keeps following that's what could happen."
 "It can change shape."
 "It's still got to move in order to make progress. That
makes it a target. Billy's  armed now.  It won't  have it  as easy
as you seem to think."
 "Then why'd you decide to come?"
 "I  don't  like  to  see  any  outsider  chasing  Navis  on  our
land.  And  I  couldn't let  a Sioux  have the  first shot  at the
thing."

 Without  Yellowcloud,  I  wouldn't  be  worth  much   out  here,
Ironbear  told  himself.  Even  the little  kids around  here must
know  more  than  I  do  about  getting  around  in  this terrain,
tracking,  hunting,  survival. I'm  a damn  fool for  butting into
this at all, physically.  The only  things I  know about  being an
Indian  come  from  Alaska,  and  that  was a  long time  ago. So
why  am  I  here?  I  keep   saying  I   like  Singer,   but  why?
Because  he  was  some  kind  of  a  hero?  I  don't  really think
that's  it. I  think it's  because he's  an old-style  Indian, and
because  my  father might  have been  that way.  At least  I think
of him that way. Could  I be  trying to  pay off  a debt  of guilt
here?  It's  possible,  I  guess.  And  all  of  my  music  had an
Indian beat to it....
 The  car  slowed, worked  its way  into the  shelter of  a stone
outcrop,  came to  a halt.  The snow  had turned  back to  rain, a
slow, cold drizzle here.

 "Are we there?" he asked.
 "Almost,"  Yellowcloud  replied.  "There's  an   easy  way
down near here. Well, relatively  easy. Let  me get  us some
lights and I'll show you."
  Outside,  they  donned  small  packs  and slung  their weap-
ons. Yellowcloud shined his light toward the canyon.
 "Follow me," he said. "There was  a slide  here a  few years
ago. Made a sort of trail. We'll be  more sheltered  once we
reach the bottom."
 Ironbear fell in behind him and they made  their way  to the
rim of the canyon. Its  floor was  invisible, and  the rocks
immediately before him looked jagged  and slippery.  He said
nothing,  and  shortly they  began the  descent, Yellowcloud
playing his light before them.
 As they climbed, the force of  the rainfall  lessened, until
about halfway down they entered the  full rainshadow  of the
wall and it ceased entirely.  The rocks  were drier  and the
pace of their descent increased. He listened to the wind and
the noises of the rain.
 Moving  from  rock  to  rock,  he  came,  after  a  time, to
wonder whether there was indeed a bottom.  It began  to seem
as if they had been descending forever and that the  rest of
time would be a simple repetition of the grasping and lower-
ing.  Then  he heard  Yellowcloud call  out, "Here  we are!"
and  shortly  thereafter  he found  himself standing  on the
canyon's floor, stony  shapes distorted  and flowing  in the
blacklight.
 "Just stay  put for  a minute,"  Yellowcloud said.  "I don't
want any trails messed up." Then, "Can you use that trick of
yours to tell whether there's anyone nearby?" he asked.
 "There  doesn't  seem  to  be," Ironbear  replied a  few mo-
ments later.
 "Okay. I'm going to  use a  normal light  for a  while here.
Make yourself comfortable while I see what I can turn up."
Several  minutes  passed  while  Ironbear   watched  Yellow-
cloud's slowly  moving light  as the  other man  studied the
ground, ranging farther and farther ahead, passing from left
to  right  and  back again.  Finally Yellowcloud  halted. His
figure straightened. He gestured for Ironbear to come along,
and then he began walking.
   "Got something?" Ironbear asked, coming up beside
him.
 "He's been this way," he answered. "See?"
Ironbear nodded as he regarded the ground. He saw

nothing,  but  he  read  the  recognition  of signs  within the
other's mind.
 "How long ago was he by here?"
 "I  can't  say for  sure. Doesn't  really matter,  though. Come
on."
 They  hiked  for  nearly  a  quarter-hour- in  silence before
Ironbear thought to inquire, "Have  you seen  any signs  of his
pursuer?"
 "None. A few dog  tracks here  and there  are the  only other
things. It couldn't be that size, from what you told me."
 "No. It's got a lot more mass."
 Yellowcloud  ignored  the  false  signs  at  Twin  Trail Canyon
and continued along the northeasterly route of the main gap.
 There  was  a hypnotic  quality to  the steady  trudging, the
unrolling trail of rock, puddle, mud, shrub.  The cold  was not
as bad as it might have been with the wind softened as  it was,
but  the  numbness  Ironbear began  to feel  was more  a mental
thing.  The  waters  splashed  and   gurgled  past.   His  arms
swung and his feet strode in a near mechanical fashion.
 ... Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...
 The wind seemed to be talking to him, seemed to have
been talking to him for  a long  while, lulling  words, restful
within the routine of the movements.
 ... Lull, lull, lull, lull. Yes, rest, yes, rest, yest, yest,
yest...
 It was more than the wind and the rhythm, he suddenly
knew. There was someone -
 Yes. Yes.
 Power. Blackness. Death. It walked at his back. The
thing. The beast. It was coming.
 Yes. Yes.
 And there  was nothing  he could  do about  it. He  could not
even slow his pace, let alone deviate from  his course.  It had
him  completely  in  its  power,  and  so  deftly had  it taken
control of him that he had not even felt the insinuation of its
presence. Until now, when it was far too late.
 Yes. Yes, son of cities.  You seem  different from  this other
one,  and  both  of  you  block  my way.  Keep walking.  I will
catch up with you soon. It will not matter then.
 Ironbear tried again to turn aside,  but his  muscles refused
to  obey  him.  He  was  about to  probe Yellowcloud's  mind to
see  whether  the  other  man  had  yet  become  aware  of  his
condition.  He  held  back,  however.  The  creature  somewhere

to the rear was exerting a form of telepathic control  over his
nervous  system.  He  could  not  tell  whether  it   was  also
reading  his  thoughts.  Perhaps.  Perhaps  not.  He  wanted to
keep his own telepathic ability away from  its awareness  if he
possibly could. Why, he was not certain. But he felt -
  He  heard  a  sound to  the rear.  A dislodged  stone turning
over, it seemed. He knew that  if he  did not  break free  in a
few  moments  nothing  that  he felt  would matter  anymore. It
would  all  be  over  for  him.  Everything.  The  beast Singer
called Cat was almost upon him.
  His  feet continued  their slow,  steady movements.  He tried
to visualize Cat, but he  could not.  A malevolent  shadow with
sinuous  movements...  a  large  eye  drifting  like  a moon...
The  images  came  and  departed.  None  seemed   adequate  for
the approaching beast - powerful, fearless...
  Fearless?
   An image leaped to mind, a question keeping it company:
How  strong  a  mental  impression  could  he  project?  Fisher
could  create  solid-seeming  illusions with  ease. Could  he .
manage  with  a fraction  of that  verisimilitude if  he backed
it  with  everything  he  had? Perhaps  just enough  to discon-
cert?
  There was no  real pause,  though, between  the idea  and the
effort.  The  speculation  ran  simultaneous with  the attempt,
habit of the reflective part of himself.
  The  sandy  stretch  across  which he  had just  passed... He
projected the image of its eruption, with the  shining triangu-
lar  form  bursting  upward, lunging  forward, reaching  to em-
brace his pursuer....
  Krel! Krel! he sent, concentrating to achieve perfection in .
its display.
  He  halted,  feeling  the  panic  waves  from   behind  him,
aware  of  controlling  his  own  movements once  more, aware,
too, that Yellowcloud had halted.
  Krel!  But  even  as  he  reinforced  the  image  with  every
feeling  of  menace  and  terror  with  which he  found himself
freshly familiar, even as he unslung  the burst-gun  and fitted
his  hand to  its grip,  he realized  that while  his movements
were  now  his  own  he  was  afraid  to execute  the necessary
turn to face the thing which stood behind him.
    The report of Yellowcloud's weapon shattered his paraly-
sis. He spun about, the burst-gun at ready.
  Cat,  in  the light  of Yellowcloud's  beam, was  dropping to

the  ground  from  an erect  posture, and  that awful  eye seemed
fixed upon his own, burning; boring.
 He   triggered  his   weapon,  moving   it,  and dirt  and  gravel
blew  backward  from  a  line traced  on the  ground in  front of
the beast.
 Yellowcloud  fired  again   and  Cat   jerked  as   he  plunged
forward.  Ironbear  raised  the  muzzle  of  his  own  weapon and
triggered  another  burst.  It  stitched  a  wavering  line along
Cat's neck and shoulder.
 And  then  everything  went  silent  and black  as he  felt the
impact of Cat's body upon his own.

      They sat or lay in their rooms at the Thunderbird Lodge,
not  far  from  the  mouths  of the  canyons. It  was as  if they
were all together in  one room,  however, for  the walls  did not
impede their conversation.
 Well? Elizabeth asked. What have you learned?
 I'm going to try again, Fisher answered. Wait a few
minutes.
 You've been at it for quite a while, Mancin said.
 Sometimes there are snags - unusual states of mind that
are hard to pick up. You know.
    Something's wrong, Mancin said. I've been trying, too.
 Maybe we're too late, Mercy put in.
 Don't be ridiculous!
 I'm just trying to be realistic.
           I got through to Yellowcloud's house while you were
trying  for contact,  Elizabeth said.  His wife  told me  that he
and  Ironbear  left  together some  time ago.  They went  over to
the canyon, she said.
 After Singer? Mancin asked.
 She wouldn't say any more about it. But why else?
 Indeed.
 I'm going to try again now, Fisher said.
 Wait, Elizabeth told him.
 Why?
 You're not getting anywhere by yourself.
 You mean we should get together again and try?
 Why not? That is why we're here. To work together.
 Do you think Sands... ? Mancin began.
 Probably, Elizabeth said.
 Yes, Mercy said. But he wouldn't hurt us.
 Well, you're right about why we're here, Mancin said to
Elizabeth.

And if we can't locate Jimmy? Fisher said. What then?
Try again with Singer, Elizabeth said. Perhaps this time
he'll listen.

Now you travel your own trail, alone.
What you have become, we do not know.
What your clan is now, we do not know.
   Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.

Walking.  Through  the  silver   and  black   landscape.  Slow
here.  Confuse  the  way.  As  if  for  an  ambush  from behind
those rocks. Erase the next hundred  feet or  so with  a branch
of  shrubbery.  Good.  Go on.  The way  is clear.  Vaguely red-
and-white  flecked.  Walking.   Skyflash  mirrored   in  waters
twisting.  Faint  drumbeat  once  again.  Consistency  of wind-
sound  within  the  slant  of  walls. Small  spray glassmasking
face  here,  eyelash  prisms  spectrumbreaking   rainbows  geo-
metric  dance  of  lights.  Wipe.  Shadows  leapback. Coyotedog
smile  fading  between  the  light  and  the dark.  Cross here,
splashing.  Wherever  trail  runs  follow  the   feet.  Around.
Over. Masked dancers within  the shadows,  silent. Far,  far to
the rear, a faint green  light. Why  look back?  To turn  is to
embrace.  Climb  now.  Descend  again.  It  narrows  soon, then
widens again. A thing  with many  eyes sits  upon a  high ledge
but does not stir.  Frozen, perhaps,  or only  watching. Louder
now  the  drumbeat.  Moving  to  its  rhythms. Fire  within the
heart of a stone. Rain yei bending,  bridgelike, from  above to
below.  Birdtracks  behind  a  mooncurved  wall.   Thighbone  of
horse.  Empty  hogan.  Half;burned  log.  Touch  the  mica that
glistens like pollen. Remember the song the old man -
... Singer.
Faint,  faint.  The  wind  or  its echo.  Tired word  of tired
breath.
Billy Blackhorse...
Across again now, to that rocky place.
I feel you - up there, somewhere - tracker...
Something. Something he should remember. This journey.
To follow his trail. But.
Your friends did not stop me. I am still coming, hunter.
    Ghost of the echo of the wind. Words in his head. Old
friends, perhaps. Someone known.
Why do you not answer me? To talk gives nothing away.
Ghost-cat, chindi-thing. Yes. Cat.
I am here, Cat.

 And I follow you.
 I know.
 It is a good place you have chosen.
 It chose me.
 Either way. Better than cities.
 Billy paused to muddle his trail, create the impression of
another possible ambush point.
 ... Coming. You cannot run forever.
 Only so far as I must. You are hurt...
 Yes. But not enough to stop me. We will meet.
 We will.
 I feel you are stronger here than you were before.
 Perhaps.
 Whichever of us wins, it is better this way than any other.
We are each of us the last of our kind. What else is there for
us?
 I do not know.
 It is a strange country. I do not understand everything
about it.
 Nor do I.
 Soon we will meet, old enemy. Are you glad that you ran?
 Billy tried hard to think about it.
 Yes, he finally said.
 Billy thought of the song but knew that it was not the time
to sing it. Thunder mumbled down the canyon.
 You have changed, hunter, since last we were this close.
 I know where I'm going now, Cat.
 Hurry then. I may be closer than you think.
 Watch the shadows. You may even be nearer than you
think.
 Silence.  The  big  widening  and  a clear  view far  ahead. He
halted, puzzled,  suddenly able  to see  for a  great distance.
Like  a  ribbon,  his  trail  led  on  and  on  and  then wound
upward.  He  did  not  understand,  but it  did not  matter. He
broke into his ground-eating  jog. In  the darkness  high over-
head, he heard the cry of a bird.

      Farther yet, he returns with me, Nayenezgani,
      spinning his dark staff for protection.
      The lightnings flash behind him and before him.
      To the ladder's first rung,
      to the Emergence Place
      he returns with me;

and the rainbow returns with me
and the talking ketahn teaches me.
We mount the ladder's twelve rungs.
Small blue birds sing above me,
Cornbeetle sings behind me.
Hashje-altye returns with me.
I will climb Emergence Mountain,
Chief Mountain, Rain Mountain,
Corn Mountain, Pollen Mountain....
Returning. Upon the pollen figure to sit.
To own the home, the pre, the food,
the resting ploce, the feet, the legs, the body,
to hold the mind and the voice, the power
of movement. The speech, that is blessed.
Returning with me. Gathering these things,
Climbing. Through the mists and clouds,
the mosses and grasses,
the woods and rocks, the earth,
of the four colors. Returning.
"Grandchild, we stand upon the rainbow."

                                RUNNING. THE WIND AND WA-
ter-sounds now a part  of the  drumbeat. Path  grown clearer
and clearer. Blood-red now and dusted as with ice flakes.
The  ground  seemed  to  shake  once,  and something  like a
tower of smoke rose before him in a twisting  at the  side of
the trail. Changing colors, the pillar braided itself  as it
climbed, and  five shifting  faces took  form within  it. He
recognized his guardian spirits.
"Billy,  we  have come  to ask  you again,"  they said  in a
single  voice.  "The  danger increases.  You must  leave the
trail, leave the  canyon. Quickly.  You must  go to  a place
where you will be met and taken to safety."
"I cannot leave the trail now," he answered. "It is too late
to  do that.  My enemy  approaches. My  way is  clear before
me. Thank you again. There is no longer a  choice for  me in
this."

"There is always a choice."
"Then I have, already made it."
The smoke-being blew apart as he passed it.
He saw what appeared to be  the end  of the  trail now,  and a
small  atavistic  fear touched  him as  he realized  where it,
would take him.  It was  to the  Mummy Cave,  an old  place of
the dead, that it ran, high up the canyon wall.
As  he  advanced,  it  seemed  to  grow  before  him,  a  ruin
within a high alcove. A green light played  behind one  of the
windows for  an eyeblink  and a  half. And  then the  wind was
muffled, and then it rose again. And again. Again.
Now  the  sound came  like the  flapping of  a giant  piece of
canvas high in the sky.  He kept  his eyes  upon his  goal and
continued to follow his trail toward the foot of the wall. And
as  he  ran  the sound  grew louder,  felt nearer.  Finally it
seemed directly  overhead, and  he sensed  each beat  upon his
body. Then a dark shape moved past, through the upper air.
When  he  raised  his  eyes  he  beheld an  enormous bird-form
dipping to settle atop the cliff wall high above the  place of
the  Mummy  Cave.  He  slowed  as  he neared  the foot  of the
wall  and  encountered  the  talus  slope. And  he knew  as he
beheld  the  dark  thing, settling  now and  staring downward,
that  he  beheld  Haasch'e'e'shzhini,  Black-god, master  of the
hunt.  He  looked  away  quickly,  but not  before he  met the
merciless stare of a yellow eye fixed upon him.
Must  I  end  this  thing  beneath  your  gaze,  Dark  One? he
wondered.  For  I  am both  the hunter  and the  hunted. Which
side does that put you on?
He  mounted  the  slope,  his  eyes  now  following  the trail
gone vertical up toward the recessed ruin. Yes, that  did seem
the easiest route....
He  approached  the wall,  took the  first foothold  and hand-
hold and commenced climbing.
Climbing.  Slowly  over  the more  slippery places.  A strange
tingling in the palms of the hands as he mounted  higher. Like
the time -
No.  He  halted. Everything  he was  was a  part of  the hunt.
But it was also a part of the  past. Let  it go.  Climb. Hunt.
Position is  what is  important. That  lesson comes  with mem-
ory. Achieve it now. He  drew himself  higher, not  looking at
the dark shadow far above, not looking back. Soon.
Soon  he  would  enter  the  place  of  death  and  await his
pursuer.  The  running  should  be  nearing  its  end. Hurry.

Important to be up there and out of sight when Cat  enters the
area. Wet handhold. Grip tightly.
  Glance upward. Yes. In sight now. Soon. Careful. Pull.
There.
 After  several  minutes, he  drew himself  up onto  a ledge,
moved to the left. Another hold. Up again.
 Half crawling. Okay now. Rise again. Move toward the
wall. Enter. No green light. Over the wall...
 He passed along the rear of the  wall, peering  through gaps
out  over the  floor of  the canyon.  Nothing. Nothing  yet in
sight. Keep going. That large opening... '
 All right. Halt. Unsling the weapon. Check  it out.  Rest it
on the ledge. Wait.
 Nothing. Still nothing. The place was  damp and  filled with
rubble. He ran  his eyes  across the  open spaces  before him,
the  entire  prospect  palely  illuminated through  screens of
phosphorescent  mist.  But  waiting  was a  thing at  which he
excelled. He settled with his back against  a block  of stone,
his eyes upon the canyon, one hand upon the weapon.
 Nearly an hour passed with  no changes  in the  scene before
him.
 And then a shadow, slow, inching along the wall, far  to his
left and ahead. Its creeping barely registered, until  at some
point he realized that there was nothing to cast it.
 He raised the weapon - it had  a simple  sight -  and zeroed
it in on the  shadow. Then  he thought  about the  accuracy of
the thing and lowered it again.  Too far.  If the  shadow were
really Cat he did not  want to  take a  chance on  missing and
giving away his position.
 It stopped. It flowed into the form of  a rock  and remained
stationary for a long while. He could almost believe  that the
entire  sequence  had  been  a  trick  of  light  and  shadow.
Almost. He drew a bead on the rock and held it there.
 You are somewhere near, Billy. I can feel you.
 He did not respond.
 Wherever you are, I will be there shortly.
 Should he risk a shot after all? he wondered. It  would take
Cat  a  while  to  assume  a  more  mobile  shape.   He  would
doubtless have several opportunities during that time....
 Movement  again.  The  rock  shifted, flowed,  reformed far-
ther along the wall.
 Suffer, tracker. You are going  to die.  Four first  shot will
betray you and I will dodge  all of  the successive  ones. You

will  see me  when I  am ready  to be  seen and  you will  pre it
then.
 The   movement   commenced  again,   drifting  toward   a  real
rock  beneath   a  shelflike   overhang.  Within   the  amorphous
form  the  glittering  of  Cat's  eye  became visible;  his limbs
began to take form.
 Billy  bit  his  lip,  recalling having  seen a  torglind meta-
morph  run  up  a  near-vertical  wall  on  the  home  planet. He
triggered the weapon then and missed.
 Cat  froze  for  a  split  second  as  the flash  occurred high
overhead,  then  moved  more  slowly   than  Billy   had  antici-
pated,  leading  Billy  to  believe  that  the  beast  was indeed
injured.  Cat  sprang  back toward  a line  of stones  nearer the
wall.  And  then,  realizing  his mistake  as he  glanced upward,
his  legs  bunched  beneath  him  and  he  sprang  forward again.
But not in time.
 A large slab of stone facing, blasted loose  by the  shot, slid
down   the   wall,   striking   the   shelf  beneath   which  Cat
crouched.  Even  as  his  feet  left  the  ground,  it  descended
upon him.
 Hunter! I believe - you've won.... '
 Billy fired again. This time he scorched the earth ten yards
off to the right of the fall. He moved the barrel slightly to the
left and triggered the  weapon again.  This time  the top  of the
rubble heap exploded.
 It  seemed  that  he  could  make out  a single,  massive fore-
limb projected near the front of the pile.  But at  that distance
he could not be certain.
 Was that a twitch?
 He fired again, blasting the center of the heap.
 The  canyon  rang  with  a  massive  cawing note.  The flapping
sound   began   again,   slowly.   He   looked  up   briefly  and
glimpsed the shadow moving off to his right.
 "It  is  over,"  he sang,  head rested  upon his  forearm, "and
my thanks rise like smoke...."
 His  words  trailed  off  as  his eyes  moved across  the canyon
floor.  Then  his  brow  furrowed. He  raised himself.  He leaned
forward to peer.
 "Why?" he said aloud.
 But nothing answered.
 The trail he had followed did not terminate at this place.
Somehow  he  had  not  noticed this  earlier. It  ran off  to his
right,  curving  out  of  sight beyond  the canyon  wall, presum-
ably continuing on into the farther reaches of the place.

 He  slung  his  weapon  and  adjusted  his  pack.  He  did not
understand, but he would go on.
 He  returned  to  the  place  where he  had climbed  and began
his descent.

 His shoulder ached. Also,  it was  raining on  his face  and a
sharp  stone  was  poking  him  in  the  back.  He was  aware of
these things for some time  before he  realized that  they meant
he was alive.
 Ironbear  opened his  eyes. Yellowcloud's  light lay  upon the
ground nearby, casting illumination along a gravel slope.
 He  turned  his  head  and  saw   Yellowcloud.  The   man  was
seated with his back against a stone,  legs straight  out before
him. Both of his hands were gripping his left thigh.
 Ironbear raised his head, reached out a hand, levered
himself upward.
 "I live," he said, swinging into  a sitting  position. "How're
you?"
 "Broken leg,"  Yellowcloud   answered.  "Above   the  knee."
 Ironbear rose, crossed to the light and  picked it  up, turned
back toward Yellowcloud.
 "Bad  place  for  a  break," he  said, advancing.  "Can't even
hobble."
 He squatted beside the other man.
 "I'm not  sure what's  the best  thing to  do," he  said. "Got
any suggestions?"
 "I've already called for help. My portaphone wasn't
damaged.  They'll  be along  with a  medic. Get  me out  of here
in a sling if they have to. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
 "Why are we still alive?"
 "It  didn't  think  we were  worth killing,  I guess.  Just an
annoyance, to be brushed aside."
 "Makes you feel real important, doesn't it?"
 "I'm not complaining. Listen, there's dry wood along the
wall. Get me a couple of armloads, will you? I want a fire."
 "Sure." He moved to comply. "I wonder how far along '
that thing has gotten?"
 "Can't you tell?"
 "I don't want to get near it at that level. It can hurt you
just with its mind."
 "You going after it?"
 "If I can figure a way to follow it."
 Yellowcloud smiled and turned his head, gesturing with
his chin.

"It went that way."
"I'm not a tracker like you."
"Hell,  you  don't  have  to  be.  That  thing's  heavy  and  it's
running,  right  out  in  the  open.  Nothing  fancy.  It  couldn't
care  less  whether  one  of  us  knows  where  it  went.  You take
the light. I'll have the fire. You'll be able to  see the  marks it
left."
        He carried over the first load of kindling, went back to
look  for  more.  By  the time  he returned  with the  second load,
Yellowcloud had a fire going.
"Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"No. Just get moving."
            He slung his weapon and picked up the light. When he
played the beam Up the canyon he saw the tracks readily
enough.
"And take this." Yellowcloud passed him the portaphone.
"Okay. I'll go try again."
"Maybe you ought to aim for its eye."
"Maybe I should. See you."
Good luck."
He turned and began walking. The water was a dark,
speaking thing whose language he did not understand. The
way was clear. The tracks were large.

               The wind stirs the grasses.
               The,snow glides across the earth.
               The whirlwind walks on the mountain,
               raising dust.
                                  The rocks are ringing

               high on the mountain, behind the fog.
               The sun's light is running out
               like water from a cracked pitcher.
               We shall live again.
               The snowy earth
               slides out of the whirling wind.
               We shall live again.

                                    AROUND THE CURVE OF THE
canyon wall,  walking. Gusts  of wind  here over  stream grown
wider,  swirling  glittering  particles across  watersong gone
wild. Other side more sheltered but the red way lies  close to
the wall, here, rising now. Ripples like  rushing pictographs.
Pawprints of the  perfidious one.  Ice-rimed bones  beside the
trail.  Rabbit.  Burnt  hogan,  green  glow  within.  Place of
death.  Shift eyes.  Hurry on.  Shine of  crystal. Snow-streaked
wall, texture of feathers. 'Bail winding on. As far as the eye
will go. What now the quarry?
 Pause  to  drink  at  the  crossing  of  tributary streamlet
Burning  cold,  flavored of  rock and  earth. Fog  bank ahead,
moving  toward  him,  masked  dancers  within; about  a south-
blue  blaze.  Rhythms  in  the  earth. He  is become  a smoke,
drifting  along his  way, silent  and featureless,  rushing to
merge with  that place  of flux  and earthdance  cadence. Yes,
and be lost in it.
 White  and soft,  smothering sounds,  like that  place where
he had hunted the garlett, so long ago...
 Dancers to the right, dancers to the left,  dancers crossing
his  way.  Do  they  even see  him, invisible  and spiritlike,
passing among them, along the stillbright, stillred  way writ-
ten upon the ground as with fire and blood?
 One  draws  nearer  bearing  something  covered  by  a cloth
woven with an old design. He  halts, for  the dancer  moves to
bar his way, thrusting the thing before him. It  is uncovered,
displaying a pair of-hands. He stares at them. That  scar near
the base of the left thumb... They are his hands.
 At the recognition they rise to hover in front of him, as if
he were holding them before  his face.  He feels  them, glove-
like, at the extremity of his spirit. He had skinned game with
them, fought with them, stroked Dora's hair with them....
 He lets them fall to his sides. It is good to have them back
again. The dancer moves  away. Billy  swirls like  a whirlwind
of snow and continues along his trail.
There is no time. A cluster of gray sticks, rising from the

earth on the slope to his right, beside  the trail...  He pauses
to  watch  as  the  sticks  turn  green,  bumps  appearing along
their  surfaces  to   become  buds.   The  buds   crack,  leaves
unwind   themselves,   turn,   enlarge.   White   flowers   come
forth.
  He  passes,  swinging  his  hands.  Another  dancer  with an-
other parcel approaches from his left.
  He halts, hovering,  and with  his hands  he accepts  the gift
of his  feet and  restores them  to their  places on  the ground
below him. The many miles we have come together...
  Walking,  again walking,  upon the  trail. Feeling  the heart-
beat of the earth through  the soles  of his  feet. There  is no
time.  Snowflakes  blow  upward  before  him.  The   stream  has
reversed  its  direction.  Blood  flows  back  into  the wounded
deer lying still across his way. It springs to its  hoofs, turns
and is gone.
  Now,  like  curtains,  a  parting  of  the  fog.  Four  masked
dancers  advance upon  him, bearing  the body  that is  his own.
When  he  wears  it  again,  he thanks  them, but  they withdraw
in silence.
  He  moves  on  along the  trail. The  fog is  shifting. Every-
thing is shifting but the trail.
  He  hears  a  sound  which  he  has  not  heard  in   a  great
counting  of years.  It begins  off in  the distance  behind him
and rises in pitch as it comes on: the whistle of a train.
  Then  he  hears  the  chugging.  They  no longer  make engines
of this sort. There is nothing here for it to run on. There is -
  He  sees  the rails  paralleling his  trail. That  ledge ahead
seems a platform now....
  The  whistle  sounds  again.  Nearer.  He  feels the  throb of
the  thing,  superimposed  upon  the  earth  rhythms.   A  train
such  as  Be  has  not  beheld  in  years  is   coming.  Coming,
impossibly,  through  this  impossible  place.  He  keeps  walk-
ing, as the sound of it fills the world. It should be rushing up
beside him at any moment.
  The  shriek of  the whistle  fills his  hearing. He  turns his
head.
  Yes,  it  has  come. An  ancient, black,  smoke-puffing dragon
of an engine,  a number  of passenger  cars trailing  behind. He
hears the screaming of its brakes begin.
  He  looks  back  to  the  area  of  the  platform, to  where a
single, slouched figure now stands waiting. Almost familiar...
  With a clattering and the cries of  metal friction  the engine
draws  abreast  of him,  slowing, slowing,  and passes  to halt

beside  the  platform.  He  smells  smoke  and grease  and hot
metal.
 The figure on the  platform moves  toward the  first passen-
ger car, and he  now recognizes  the old  dead singer  who had
taught him the song. Just  before boarding  the man  turns and
waves to him.
 His  gaze  slides  back  along  the coach's  windows. Behind
every one is a face. He recognizes all of  them. They  are all
people  he  has  known  who  are  now dead  - his  mother, his
grandmother, his uncles, his cousins, two sisters...
 Dora.
     Dora is the only one who is looking at him. The others
stare  past,  talking  with one  another, regarding  the land-
scape, the new passenger....
 Dora is looking directly at him, and  her hands  are working
with the latches at the  lower corners  of the  window. Almost
frantically, she is pushing and lifting.
 The  whistle  blows  again.  The  engine  surges.  He  finds
himself running, running toward the train, the car, the win- .
dow....
 The train jerks, rattles. The wheels turn.
  Dora is still working at the latches. Suddenly the window
slides  upward.  Her  mouth  is moving.  She is  shouting, but
her words are lost among the noises of the train.
 He  shouts back.  Her name.  She is  leaning forward  out of
the window now, right arm extended.
 The train is picking up speed, but he  is almost  beside it.
He reaches. Their hands are  perhaps a  meter apart.  Her lips
are  still  moving,  but  he  cannot  hear  her  words.  For a
moment his vision swims, and it is as if she were falling.away
from him.
 He increases his pace and the distance between their
hands narrows - two feet, a foot, eight inches....
 Their hands clasp, and  she smiles.  He matches  the train's
velocity  for  a  moment  before the  tension begins.  Then he
realizes that he must let go.
 He opens his hand and watches her rush away. He falls.
 How  long  he lies  there he  does not  know. When  he looks
again, the train is  gone. There  are no  tracks. There  is no
platform.  His outstretched  arm lies  within the  icy stream.
Snow is falling upon him. He rises.
 The  big  flakes  drift  by.  The wind  has died.  The water
sounds are muted. He raises his hand and stares  at it  like a
new and unfamiliar thing within the silence.

 After a long while, he turns  and seeks  the trail  again. He
continues his journey along it.
 Trudging.  Alternating  elation  and  depression,  finally all
mixed together.  To have  caught her  and then  had to  let her
go.  To  ride  Smohalla's  ghost-train  through  the  snow. An-
other  breaking  apart.  Would  there  be  a  putting  together
again?
 He realized  then that  he was  traversing an  enormous sand-
painting. All of the ground about him was laid out in stylized,
multicolored  fashion.  He  walked  in  the  footprints  of the
rainbow,   passing   between   Eth-hay-nah-ashi   -  Those-who-
go-together.  They  were  the  twins  created  in   the  Second
world  by  Begochiddy.  First Man  and the  others had  come up
from  the  Underworld  along  this  route.  The  painting itself
was  one  used  in  Hozhoni,  the  Blessingway. His  trail fol-
lowed the rainbow  to the  cornstalk, where  it changed  to the
yellow of  corn pollen.  Upward, upward  along the  stalk then.
The  sky  was  illuminated by  a brilliant  flash as  he passed
alongside the female  rainbow and  the male  lightning. Passing
between the figures  of Big  Fly, heading  north to  the yellow
pollen footsteps.
 Emerge to take up the trail again, passing the mouth of the
large  canyon  to  the  right,  continuing   northward.  Alone,
singing.  There  was  beauty  in  the  falling snow.  Beauty all
around him...
 Admire it while you may, tracker.
 Cat? You're dead! It is over between us!
 Am I, now?
I touched-your limb at the place where you fell. It was stiff
and glassy. There was no life in you.
 Have it your way.
 Nor could anythirig have gotten out from beneath that
heap of stone.
 You've convinced me. I will go back and lie down.
 Billy looked backward, saw nothing but snowfall within
the canyon.
  ...But I'll find you first.
  That shouldn't be too hard.
  I am glad to hear you say that.
  I like finish what I start. Hurry.
  Why don't you wait for me?
  I've a trail to follow.
  And that is more important than me?
  You? You are nothing now.

  That is not too pattering. But very well. If we must meet
upon your trail again, we will meet upon your trail.
Billy checked his weapons.
You should have taken the train, he said.
I do not understand you, but it does not matter.
But it does, Billy said, rounding another rock and seeing
the trail go on.
A whirlwind of snow danced across the water. He heard
the thump of a single drumbeat.
... The blue medicine lifts me in his hand.

                                    THE PAIN IN HIS SHOULDER
had subsided to  a dull  throbbing. He  peered into  pockets of
shadow  as  he  passed  them,   wondering  whether   the  beast
might be waiting to  spring upon  him, knowing  the fear  to be
irrational  since the  tracks lay  clear before  him -  and why
should it go to the trouble of doubling back to lay in wait for
him when  it could  have taken  an extra  second to  smash him
in passing back when they had met?
       Ironbear cursed, still looking. His breath emerged as
plumes of  steam before  him. His  nose was  cold and  his eyes
watered periodically.
     Yellowcloud had been right. There was no problem at all
in following this trail. Simple and direct. Deep and clear cut.
Was that a movement to the left?
Yes. The wind stirring bushes.
He cursed again. Had his ancestors really led war parties?
So much for genetics...
Jimmy. Don't shut me out!
I won't, Charles. I can use the company.
Where are you? What's happening?
I'm in the canyon, following the thing.
    We're here in Arizona, at the hotel near to where the
canyons start.
Why?
To help, if we can. You're following the beast? Is Yellow-
cloud with you?

He was, but it broke his leg. He's sent for help.
 You've met it?
 Yeah. Got a sprained shoulder out of the deal. Put a few
shots into the thing, though.
 Were you unconscious?
 Yes.
I wondered why I couldn't reach you for a while there.
Have you been in touch with Singer?
No.
We have. That's one crazy Indian.
I think he knows what he's doing.
Do you know what you're doing?
Being another crazy Indian, I guess.
I'd say.
Looks like we cross the water here.
 I  think you  ought to  get out.  That's two  trails you're
following, not one.
 It's starting to snow now. God, I hope it doesn't cover the
tracks. Melting when it hits, though. That's good.
Sounds as if that thing almost killed you once.
They're changing shape.
The tracks?
Yeah, and moving nearer the wall. Wonder what that
means?
    It means you'd better shoot at anything that moves.
Something wet and glassy here... Wonder what its blood
looks like?
 How far along are you, anyway?
 Don't know. My watch is broken. Seems as if I've been
walking forever.
Maybe you'd better stop and rest.
Hell, no. It's time to try jogging for a while. I've got a
feeling. I think I'm near and I think it's hurt.
 I don't want to be in your mind if it gets you.
 Don't go yet. I'm scared.
 I'll wait.
 For the next quarter-hour he felt Fisher's  silent presence
as  he ran  beside the  pleated wall.  They did  not converse
again  until he  slowed to  catch his  breath near  a turning
place.
It's going slow here, sneaking. But there's only a little of
that glassy stuff he observed.
 You go slow.

 I am. I'll just switch to the blacklight and put on the
goggles. I'll get down low and look around the corner.
 There was a long silence.
 Well?
 I don't see anything.
 He turned the light toward the ground.
 The trail's changing again. I'm going to follow it.
 Wait. Why don't you probe?
 I'm afraid  to touch  its mind.
 I'd be a lot more afraid of the rest of it. Why not just take
it very slow and  easy? Just  scan for  its presence.  Sneak up
mentally. I'll help.
 You're right, but I'll do it myself.
      He reached out into the pocket canyon before him. Gin-
gerly at first. Then with increased effort.
 Not there. Nothing there,  he said.  I see  the trail,  but I
don't  feel  the beast.  Singer either,  for that  matter. They
must have gone on.
 It would seem...
         He neared the corner, walking slowly, observing the
markings  on  the  ground.  The  markings  were  altered beyond
the  turning, forming  a troughlike  line. They  narrowed, wid-
ened, halted in the form of circular depressions.
 He paused when he saw where they led, rushed forward
when he saw something other than rock.
   Singer's prints marked the ground before the rough cairn,
near to the protruding limb. It  was a  longer while  before he
could bring himself to move a  few stones  and then  only after
probing thoroughly. He kept  at it  for several  minutes, until
he was sweating and breathing  heavily. But  at last  he beheld
the eye, dull now, in the sleek, unmoving head.
 He got it, Fisher said. He nailed the thing.
 Ironbear did not respond.
 It's over, Fisher told him. Singer won.
   He's beautiful, Ironbear said. That neck... the eye, like
a jewel...
 Dead, Fisher said. Wait while I check. I'll tell you where to
climb out. We'll have someone pick you up.
 But where's Singer?
 I guess he knows how to take care of himself. He's safe
now. He'll turn up when he's ready. Hang on.
 I'm going after him.
 What? What for?

 I don't know. Call it a feeling. Say I just want to see the
man after all this.
 How'll you find him?
 I'm starting to get the hang of this tracking business. I
don't think it will be too hard.
 It's all over - and that's a dangerous place.
 His trail has run through safe spots so far. Besides, I've
got a phone here.
 Don't you flip out, too!
 Don't worry about it.
 Ironbear  turned  away,  pushed up  his goggles,  shifted to
normal spectrum, began following Singer's tracks.
 I'm going to leave you for a time, Fisher said. I'm going to
tell the others. Also, I've got to rest.
 Go ahead.
      Ironbear headed north. For a moment it seemed that he
heard  a  train  whistle, and  he thought  of his  father. Fat
snowflakes filled the air.  He wrapped  his muffler  around his
nose and mouth and kept going.

Mercy Spender

when she heard the news,
opened the bottle of gin she had brought along
& poured herself a stiff one,
humming "Rock of Ages" all the while;
feeling responsibility dissolve,
giving thanks,
deciding which books to read
& what to knit
during her convalescence;
offered a word or two
for the soul of Walter Sands,
whom she saw before her
in the glass,
suddenly,
shaking his head;
"Rest in peace," she said
& chugged it,
& when she went to pour another

the glass broke somehow
& she was very sleepy
& decided to turn in
8 save the serious part
for tomorrow;
k her sleep was troubled.

Alex Mancin

tripped home when he heard the news,
the game being over,
his side having won
again;
4 after he'd said good-bye to the others
& gone through,
he visited the kennels
& played with the dogs for a time,
lithe, yipping & licking -
he could read their affection for him
& it warmed him -
& then visited his console,
a glass of warm milk at his right hand,
taking action on the multitude of messages
which had come in,
as always;
too keyed up to sleep,
thoughts of the recent enterprise
dashing into and out of  his mind
like puppies;
& the smile of Walter Sands
seemed to flash for a moment
on the screen
as he read a list of stock quotations
& toyed with a pair of souvenir dice
he'd found in the bottom drawer
of the dresser in the back room.

Elizabeth Brooke

wanted to get laid,
was surprised
at the intensity of the feeling,
but realized that the previous days'
pace & tensions, suddenly relaxed,
called for some physical release, too;
& so she bade the others farewell
& tripped back to England
to call her friend to join her
for tea,
to talk of her recent experiences,
listen to some chamber music
& lay the ghost of Walter Sands
which had been troubling her
more than a little.

Charles Dickens Fisher

in his room at the Thunderbird Lodge
with a pot of coffee,
looked out of the window at the snow,
thinking about his brother-in-law
& the Indians
in western movies he had seen
& wilderness survival
A the great dead beast
whose image he caused to appear
before him on the lawn
(frightening a couple across the way
who happened to look out
at that moment),
recalled from a video picture
he had summoned earlier,

eye blazing like Waterford crystal,
fangs like stalactites;
& then he banished it
& produced a full-sized
image of  Walter Sands,
sitting in the armchair
looking back at him,
A when he asked him,
"How do you like being dead?"
Sands shrugged
& replied,
"It has its benefits,
it has its drawbacks."

                                   GOING. ALONG THE WESTERN
rim of the canyon now, heading  into the  northeast. Turning,
taking an even more  northerly route.  Away from  the canyon,
across  the  snows,  toward  the trees.  His way  had brought
him over the water and up the wall nearly an hour  before. Up
here  where  the  wind  was strong,  though the  snowfall had
lessened to an occasional racing flake.
   He  bore on.  A coyote  howled somewhere  in the  trees or
beyond them,  ahead.  A  woodland  smell  came  to him  as he
advanced, and the sounds of rattling branches.
   He  looked  back  once  before  he  entered  the  wood. It
seemed that there was a greenish glow  rising just  above the
rim  of the  canyon. He  lost sight  of it  in a  snowswirl a
moment later, and then there were trees all around him  and a
diminishment  of  the wind.  Ice fell  with crisp  and glassy
sounds when he brushed  against boughs.  It was  like another
place, a place of perpetual twilight and  cold, where  he had
hunted what he came to call the  ice bears,  the sun  a tiny,
pale  thing  creeping along  the horizon.  At any  moment the
high-pitched  whistle  of the  bears might  come to  him, and
then he  would have  only moments  in which  to throw  up the
barrier and lay down a paralytic fire before the pack swirled
in toward him. Move the barrier then  to preserve  the fallen

before  their  fellows  devoured  them.  Call  for  the shuttle
ship....
 He  glanced  overhead,  half  expecting  to see  it descending
now.  But  there  was  only  a pearl-gray  folding of  clouds in
every direction. This hunt  was different.  The thing  he sought
would  not be  taken so  simply, nor  borne away  for enclosure.
All the more interesting.
 He  crossed  an   ice-edged  streamlet   and  his   way  swerved
abruptly,  following   its  course   through  an   arroyo  where
something  with  green  eyes  regarded him  from within  a small
cave.   The   ground   rose   as  he   advanced,  and   when  he
emerged the trees had thinned.
 His  way  took  him to  the left  then, continuing  uphill. He
mounted higher and higher until he  came at  last to  stand atop
a  ridge  commanding  a  large  view  of the  countryside. There
he halted, staring into the  black north,  into which  his trail
ran on and on for as far as he could see  in the  odd half-light
which  had  accompanied  him  on   this  journey.   Opening  his
pouch, he cast pollen before him  onto it.  Turning then  to the
blue  south,  way  to  the  earth-opening  from  which   he  had
emerged, he cast more pollen, noticing for  the first  time that
there was no trail behind him, that  his way  to this  place had
been vanishing even as he walked it.  He felt  that he  would be
unable to take a step in that direction if he were to try. There
was to be no return along the way that he followed.
 He  faced  the  yellow west,  place where  the day  was folded
and  closed.  Casting  pollen, he  thought about  endings, about
the closing of cycles.  Then to  the east,  thinking of  all the
mornings  he  had  known  and  of  the  next  one   which  would
come out of it. Seeing for a great distance  into the  east with
unusual clarity, he thought of  the land  over which  his vision
moved,  adding  features  from  the  internal landscape  of mem-
ory,  wondering  why  he had  ever wished  to deny  this Dinetah
which was so much a part of him.
 For  how  long  he  looked into  the east  he could  not tell.
Suddenly  the  air  about  his  head  was  filled  with spinning
motes  of  light  accompanied by  a soft  buzzing sound.  It was
like  a  swarm of  fireflies dancing  before him.  Abruptly they
darted off to his right. He realized then that  it was  a warning
of some sort.
 He  looked  to  the  right.  There  was  a  green  glow moving
among the trees  in the  distance. He  looked away,  placing his
gaze  upon  his trail  once again,  and then  he moved  off along
it.

  Shortly  he  was  running, ice  particles stinging  his face,
driven by gusts of wind which raised  them in  occasional brief
clouds. The snow  did not  obscure the  trail, however.  It was
visible through everything with perfect clarity.  Continuing to
follow it into the distance with his eyes, he  saw that  it ran
into an arroyo twisting off to the left. It seemed to narrow as
it entered  that place.  Following, he  saw that  the narrowing
continued  until  it  appeared  the  thinness  of  a  Christmas
ribbon  toward  the  center of  the declivity.  Strangely, how-
ever,  the  portion  he  was  traversing appeared  no narrower,
though  he  knew  that  he  had  already  reached   and  passed
beyond  the  place where  the thinning  had begun.  Instead, he
detected a new phenomenon.
  At  first it  was only  that the  arroyo had  seemed somewhat
deeper and longer  than his  initial impression  had indicated.
As  he moved  more deeply  into it,  however, the  place itself
seemed  larger,  a  huge  canyon  with  high  walls.   And  the
farther  he  progressed,  the  steeper  the  walls  became, the
greater  the  distance  from  wall  to wall.  It also  was now.
strewn  with  massive  boulders  which  had not  been apparent
at first. Yet the  red way  he followed  remained undiminished.
There  were  no  signs  of  the  contraction  he   had  noticed
earlier.
  An  enormous  white  wheel  flew   past  him,   sculpted  and
brilliant,  five-limbed  like  a starfish.  Immediately another
moved  slowly  overhead,  descending. He  realized that  it was
a snowflake.
  The  place  was   larger  than   Canyon  del   Muerto,  much-
larger. In moments, its  walls had  receded into  the distance,
vanished.  He  increased  his  pace,  running,  leaping,  among
the huge rocks.
  He  topped  a  rise  to  discover  a massive  glassy mountain
looming before him, its  prismatic surfaces  retailing rainbows
at peculiar angles.
  Then  he was  descending toward  it, and  he could  see where
his trail ran into a large opening in its side, a jagged slash-
mark  through  stone  and  sheen, like  a black  lightning bolt
running  from  about  a  third  of its  height downward  to the
earth.
  A gust  of wind  blew him  over and  he regained  his footing
and ran on. A  snowflake crashed  to the  earth like  a falling
building.  He  raced  across  the  top  of  a small  pond which
vibrated beneath him.
          The mountain towered higher, nearer. Finally he was

close enough to see into the great  opening, and  he saw  that it
shone  within  as  well  as without,  the walls  sparkling almost
moistly,  rising  in  a pitched-tentlike  fashion to  some unseen
point of convergence high overhead.
  He   rushed   within   and   halted  almost   immediately.  His
hand  went  to  his  knife before  he realized  that the  men who
surrounded  him  were  multiple  images  of himself  reflected in
the gleaming walls. And his trail running  off in  all directions
...Twisted images.
  He  bumped  into  a  wall,  ran  his  hands  down  its surface.
His  trail  seemed  to  go straight  ahead here,  but he  saw now
where the real only seemed to join the illusory.  It slid  to the
right, he could tell now.
  Three  paces  and  he  bumped  into  another  wall.  This could
not  be. There  was nothing  else for  the trail  to do.  It pro-
ceeded  directly  ahead  here, with  no deviations,  reflected or
otherwise.
  He reached  forward, felt  the wall,  searched it.  His reflec-
tion mimicked his movements.
  Abruptly,  there  was  nothing.  His  hand  moved  forward  as
he  realized  that  only  the  upper  portion  of  his  way  was
blocked. He dropped to all fours and continued onward.
  As  he  crawled,  the  reflections   shifted  in   the  shadows
around him. For  a moment,  from the  corner of  his eye,  to the
right,  it  seemed  that he  was a  slow, lumbering  bear, pacing
himself. He glanced quickly to  the left.  A deer,  a six-pointer,
dark  eyes  alert,   nostrils  quivering.   Multiple  reflections
caused  them  all  to merge  then, into  something that  was bear
and  deer  and  man,  something primeval,  working its  way, like
First  Man,  through  narrow,  dark  tunnels  upward  to  the new
world.
  The  reflections  ahead  showed  him  that  the  overhead space
was  growing  larger   again,  turning   into  a   high,  narrow,
Gothic arch. He  rose to  his feet  as soon  as he  noticed this,
and  the  animal  images  slipped away,  leaving nothing  but the
infinity of himself on all sides. All colors, in various intensi-
ties,  lay  ahead.  He  went  on,  and  when he  saw that  he was
heading toward a way out, he began to run.
  The  area  of  light  seemed  to  grow  slightly smaller  as he
advanced  upon  it.  The  reflections  which  ran beside  him now
varied  through  prisms  and  shadows.  And  he  noted  that they
were  all  differently garbed.  One bounded  along in  a pressur-
ized suit, another in a  tuxedo; another  wore only  a loincloth.
One  ran  nude.  Another  wore  a  parka.  One  had  on   a  blue

velveteen  shirt  he  had  long forgotten,  a sandcast  concho belt
binding it above the hips.  In the  distance, he  saw himself  as a
boy, running furiously, arms pumping.
  Smiling, he ran out through the opening, along the red
way. The  canyon walls  appeared and  closed in  on him,
diminishing in height as he advanced.
  He halted and looked back.
           There was no shining mountain. He retraced his steps a
dozen  paces  and  stooped  to pick  up a  piece of  stone contain-
ing  a  cracked  quartz  crystal  which  lay  on  the   ground.  He
held  it  up  to  his  eyes.  A  rainbow   danced  within   it.  He
dropped it into his pocket, feeling as if it held half of  time and
space.
  He  ran  for  nearly  an  hour then,  and ice  crystals scratched
like the claws of cats at rocks and  tree limbs,  at his  face. The
frozen   earth   made  noises   like  crinkling   cellophane  beneath
his  feet.  Streaks  of  snow  lay  like  crooked  fingers  on  the
hillsides.   A  patch   of  sky   lightened  and   thunder  rumbled
nearby.  His  way  led  into  the  mountains,  and  soon  he  began
to climb.

        When I call,
        they come to me
           out of Darkness Mountain.
             Pipelines cross it,
             satellites pass above it,
             but I hold the land before me,
             and all things that hunt
             and are hunted within it.
             I have followed the People
             across the eons,
             giving the proper hunter his prey
             in the proper time.
        Those who hunt themselves,
        however, fall into a special category.
        Certain sophistications were unknown
        in ancient times.
        But you are never too old to learn,
        which is what makes this business interesting
        and keeps me black-winged. Na-ya!
        Out of Darkness Mountain, then:
        Send an ending.

       And climbing, Everything strange. He had lost track of

time  and space.  Sometimes the  countryside seemed  to roll
by him, other times it seemed that he had moved for  ages to
cover  a  small-  distance.  The trail  took him  among more
mountains. He was no  longer certain  as to  precisely where
he was, though he was sure that he was still  heading north.
The snow turned into rain. The rain came and went. The trail
led  upward  once  again and  moved through  rocky passages.
In places, streamlets rushed by him,  and he  passed through
narrow necks with his back pressed against stone, fingertips
and heels his  only purchase.  The clouds  were occasionally
delineated by a bright scribbling, to be  wiped away  by the
grayness moments later.
 He  passed  through   an  opening   so  narrow   that  he   had  to
strip  off  his  pack  and  jacket  and go  sideways. It  cut sharply
to  the  left,  and  he knew  that he  could have  missed it  even in
full  diylight  without  the  guiding  trail that  led him  on. Glow-
ing  forms  seemed  to  writhe  in  crevasses  he  passed  before the
way  widened  again,  like   the  mating   movements  of   the  tall,
spindly anklavars on the world called Bayou.
 When   he   turned   and   stretched   his   cramped    muscles,   he
halted.  What  was  this  place?  There  was  a  ruin   built.into  the
cliff  face  to  the  right. Farther  ahead there  was another,  to the
left  and  higher,  at  a   place  where   the  canyon   continued  its
widening.   Stone   and   rotted   adobe,   they   were    ruins   with
which  he  was  not  familiar,   though  he   had  once   thought  that
he  was  aware  of  almost  all  of  them.  He  was  tempted  to  pause
for    a    quick   investigation,    but   the    drumbeat   commenced
again, slowly, and his trail ran on to greater heights.
 The   canyon   turned  to   the  right,   its  floor   rising  even
farther,  its  walls  spread  wider.  He  climbed,  and   there  were
more   ruins   about.   The   name   "Lukachukai"    passed   through
his  mind  as  he  remembered  the  story  of  a  lost  Anasazi ruin.
The  wind  grew  still  and   the  pulse   of  the   drum  quickened.
Shadowy   shapes   darted   behind   broken   walls.  He   stared  at
the  high,  level  place before  him. He  saw the  end of  his trail.
A  chill passed  over his  entire body,  and he  felt the  hairs rise
on the nape of his neck.
 He   took   a   step   forward,   then   another.   He   moved   cau-
tiously,  slowly,  as  if  the  ground  might  give  way   beneath  him
at  any  point;  It  was  right,  though,  wasn't  it?  Of  course. All
trails   end   the   same   way.   Why   should   this   one   be   any
different?   If  you   tracked  anything   through  its   entire  life,
from its first faltering step until its final faltering step, the end
was always the same.

 Back beside  a rock,  beneath an  overhang, his  trail ended
before  the  vacant  gaze  of  an  age-browned   human  skull.
Beyond that, he could not see the way.
 The  rhythm  of  the  drumbeat  changed. Mah-ih,  the Trick-
ster,  Coyote,  He-who-wanders-about,   peered  at   him  from
beyond  the  corner  of  a  nearby ruin.  A white  rainbow yei
formed an arc from the top of  one canyon  wall to  the other.
He  heard  the  shaking  of  rattles  now,   accompanying  the
drumbeat.  A  green  stem  poked  through  the   ground,  rose
upward, put forth leaves and then a red flower.
 He  walked  on.  As he  advanced, the  skull seemed  to jerk
slightly forward. A flickering occurred within it, and  then a
pale green light grew behind all of its apertures  which faced
him.  Far  off  to  the  right,  Coyote  made  a  sudden,  low,
growling sound.
 As he neared the end of the trail the skull  tipped backward
and turned slightly to the right, keeping the eyesockets fixed
directly upon him.
 A rasping voice emerged from the skull:
 "Behold your chindi."
 Billy halted.
 "I used to play soccer," he said,  smiling and  drawing back
his foot. "Those  two rocks  up by  the ruin  can be  the goal
posts."
 The  ground  erupted before  him. The  skull shot  upward to
a position perhaps a foot higher than his  head. It  rode upon
the  shoulders  of  a  massive,  nude,  male  body  which  had
grown up like the flower  before him.  The green  light danced
all around it.
 "Shadow-thing!" Billy said, unslinging his weapon.
 "Yes.  Your shadow.  Shoot if  you will.  It will  not save
you."
 Billy  continued  the  movement  which  brought  the  snub-
gun forward, reversing it in his hands, driving its  butt hard
upward against  the skull.  With a  brief crunching  noise the
skull shattered, and its pieces fell to the ground.  The trunk
beneath  dropped  to  one knee  and the  arms shot  forward. A
massive  hand  caught  hold  of  the weapon  and tore  it from
Billy's grasp. It cast it backward over its shoulder,  to fall
with a clatter among  rocks far  up the  canyon and  to vanish
there.
 The left hand caught his right wrist and held it with a grip
like a steel band. He chopped at the other's biceps with the
edge of his left hand. It had  no apparent  effect, and  so he

drew his hunting knife,  cross-body, and  plunged it  into the
headless one, in the soft area below the left shoulder joint.
 Suddenly his wrist  was free  and the  thing before  him was
falling  backward,  knees  folding up  toward the  chest, arms
clasping them.
 Billy watched as  the other  rolled away,  darkening, losing
features, growing  compact, making  crunching noises  in pass-
ing  over  gravel  and  sand.  It  had  become  a  big,  round
boulder, slowing now....
It came to a halt perhaps fifteen meters distant, and then,
slowly, it began to unfold into a new  form. It  unwound limbs
and shaped a head, a tail...
 An eye.
 Cat stood facing him across the canyon of the lost city.
 We. shall  continue where  we left  off before  the interrup-
tion, he said.

                                   MERCY SPENDER WAS JERKED
out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She began  to scream,  but the
cry died within her. There was a  twisted familiarity  to what
was  happening.  She drew  herself into  a fetal  position and
pulled the blankets up over her head.
 Alex Mancin was  spinning figures  across his  video console
when  it  hit.  When  his  vision   wavered  and   dimmed,  he
thought  that he  was having  a stroke.  And then  he realized
what was happening and did  not resist  it, for  his curiosity
was stronger than his fear.
 Elizabeth Brooke twisted from side to  side. It  was getting
better  every  second.  In  just  a  few  more  moments... Her
mind began to twist also, and she shrieked.
         Fisher was in communication with Ironbear when the
mental storm  broke and  they were  sucked into  another state
of awareness.
 What the hell is it? he asked.
 We're being  pulled back  together again,  Ironbear replied.

 Who's doing it?
 Sands. Can't you feel him? Like a broken lodestone,
reassembling itself -
 Nice image. But I still don't under - Ah!

Plosion ex. Im noisolp.
ashes falling back into bonfire, fireflame along the
across   the  night   arcing  east   drawn.  tgthr   brainbow  four
containing   ffth  reassembling   spring  pushing   upward  beneath
erth  snows  clds  sorting  moisture  bright  spikes  fling  waters
flwng   hllw-eyd   ruins   facing  knifemanhanded   and  rockdreamt
beast  lost   within  this   place  of   old  ones   weeeel  frthgo
endlessly   unwrapping   thoughtveiling   countereal   ity   downow
bhind   substances   tessences   and   above   fireflame  waterfiow
and  blow  weI  fish the  toilet of  the world  and let  the spiral
remain  powr  now  the  pwr  ander  seav  nightebbing  kraft  tofil
manshadow  in  shdworld  he  travel  and   wI  the   fireflame  Iwe
like  blude  tofil  circulate  and  recur  along the  mariform out-
reach hmsel
fireflame along the
plosion

                                           HE STANDS, CROUCHING,
blade  in  his  left  hand.  He  moves  the weapon  slowly, turning
it, raising it, lowering it, hoping for a glint or two to catch the
vision  behind  the  eye.  The  beast  takes  a  step  forward. The
green  light  is  trapped within  the facets  of that  eye. Whether
the blade holds any fascination for it he cannot tell.
The beast takes another step.
          A gentle rain is falling. He is uncertain when it com-
menced again. It increases slightly in intensity.
Another step...
His  right  hand  moves  to  his  belt  buckle  and   catches  hold
of  it.  He  turns  to  extend  his  left shoulder,  continuing the
movements of the blade.

Another step...
    The beast's tongue darts once, in and out. Something is
not  right.  Size?  Pattern  of  movement?  The cold  absence of
projected feelings when it had communicated?
Another step.
Still a little too far to spring yet, he decides. He turns his
body a little more. He releases the belt  buckle and  slides his
hand farther to his  left, the  movement masked  by the  flap of
his jacket, by the angle at which he now  stands. Is  it reading
his  mind  at  this  moment?  He  begins  the  Blessingway chant
again,  mentally,  to  fill his  thoughts. Something  inside him
seems to take it up. It runs effortlessly within his breast, the
accompanying feelings flowing without exertion.
Another...
Soon. Soon the rush. His right hand comes upon the butt
of the tazer. His fingers wrap about it.
Almost...
Two more steps, he decides.
One...
Now is the time of the cutting of the throat...
Two.
He  draws  the weapon  and fires  it. It  strikes home  and the
beast halts, stiffens.
He  drops the  tazer, snatches  the knife  into his  right hand
and lunges forward.
He  halts  several  paces  before the  creature, for  it begins
melting  and  turning  to  steam.  In  moments,  the   form  has
dissolved  and  the  vapors  have collected  into a  small cloud
about  three  meters above  the ground.  Lowering the  knife, he
raises his eyes.
 Smokelike, it now drifts, passing to the left toward a huge
pile of rubble from some ancient landslide. He follows,
watching, waiting.
Neat trick, that.
    I am not the beast you slew. I am that which you cannot
destroy.  I  am  all  of  your  fears  and  failings.  And  I am
stronger now because you fled me.
I did not flee you. I followed a trail.
What trail? I saw no trail save your own.
It is the reason I am in  this place,  and I  presume I  am the
reason you are here.
The  smoke  ceases  its  movement,  to  hover  above  the  rock
heap.

  Of course. I am the part of yourself which will destroy
you. You have denied me for too long.
        The smoke begins to contour itself into a new form.
       I no longer deny you. I have faced the past and am at
peace with it.
  Too  late.  I  have become  autonomous under  the conditions
you created.
         De-autonomize, then. Go back where you came from.
  The form grows manlike.
  I cannot, for you are at peace with the past. Like Cat, I
have only one function now.
  Cat is dead.
  ...And I lack a sense of humor.
  The  form  continues  its  coalescence.  Billy  regards   an  exact
double  of  himself,  similarly  garbed,  holding  a  knife  the exact
counterpart of his own, looking back at him. It is smiling.
  Then how can you be amused?
  I enjoy my one function.
  Billy raises the point of his blade.
  Then what are you waiting for? Come down and be about
it.
  The  double  turns  and  leaps   to  his   left,  landing   on  the
farther  side  of  the  heap.  Billy  rushes  around  it,  but  by the
time  he  reaches  him  the  other  has   regained  his   footing.  He
wipes  his  brow  with  his free  hand, for  the rain  still descends.
Then   he   drops   into   a   crouch,   both  hands   extended,  low,
knees bent. The other does the same.
  Billy backs  away as  the other  advances, then  shuffles to
his  right,  feinting,  beginning  the  circle. He  studies the
ground  quickly,  hoping  to  steer the  other into  a slippery
place.  As his  eyes move,  his double  lunges. He  blocks with
his left forearm and  thrusts for  the body.  The point  of the
other's blade  pierces his  jacket sleeve  and enters  his arm.
He  is  certain  his  own  blade  has  bitten  deeply  into his
adversary's left side, but the double gives no  sign of  it and
Billy sees no blood.
        "I am beginning to believe you," he says aloud, feeling his
own blood dampen his arm. "Perhaps I cannot kill you."
  "True.  But  I  can  kill  you,"  the other  replies. "I  will kill
you".
  Billy parries the blade, slashes the other's cheek. No
wound opens. No blood appears.
  "So why do you not give up?" the other says.

 "Supposing  I  were  to  throw  down  my knife  and say  to hell
with it?" he asks.
 "I would kill you."
 "You say you  will kill  me whether  I fight  or do  not fight?"
 "Yes."
 "Then  I  might  as  well fight,"  Billy says,  thrusting again,
parrying  again,  slashing  low,  moving  back,   thrusting  high,
circling.
  "Why?"

 "Warrior tradition. Why not? It's the best fight around."
 As   he   backs  away   from  a   fresh  attack,   Billy  almost
stumbles  when  his  right  foot  strikes  an  apple-sized  stone.
But  he  recovers  and  brushes  it  backward  as  if  it  were an
annoyance.  He  slashes  and   thrusts  furiously   then,  halting
the other. Then he  takes a  big step  back, positioning  his foot
just so....
 He  kicks  the  stone  as hard  as he  can, directly  toward his
double. It flies as from  a catapult,  striking the  other's right
kneecap with a satisfying thunk.
 The  figure  bends  forward,  blade  lowering.  His  head  falls
into a tempting position and Billy  swings his  left fist  as hard
as he can against the right side of his adversary's jaw.
 The  double  falls  back  onto  his left  side, and  Billy kicks
again,  toward  the  knife  hand.  His  boot  makes   contact  and
the  blade  goes  clattering  across rocks  into the  distance. He
flings himself upon the fallen form, his own blade upraised.
 As   he   drives   the   blade   downward  toward   the  other's
throat, his adversary's left hand  flies up  and the  fingers wrap
around  his  wrist.  His  arm  stops  as if  it has  encountered a
wall.  The  pressure  on  his  wrist is  enormous. Then  the right
hand  rises  and  he  knows  somehow that  it is  about to  go for
his throat.
 He  drives  another  left  against  the  other's  jaw.  The head
rolls to the side  and the  grip on  his wrist  slackens slightly.
He  strikes  again  and  again.  Then  he  feels a  powerful move-
ment beneath him.
 His  adversary  bunches  his  legs,  leans  forward  and  begins
to rise, bearing Billy along with  him. He  strikes again,  but it
seems  to  make  no  difference.  The  other's  movement  carries
them both  to their  feet and  that right  hand is  coming forward
again.  Billy  seizes the  extending wrist  and barely  manages to
halt  it.  He  pushes  as  hard  as  he  can but  he is  unable to
advance his knife hand.

 Then, gradually,  his left  hand is  forced back.  His right
wrist feels as if it is about to snap.
 "You chindis are strong sons of bitches," he says.
 The  other  snarls and  flexes his  fingers. Billy  drives his
knee  into  his groin.  The double  grunts and  bends forward.
Billy's knife advances slightly.
 But  as  the  other  bends  forward,  Billy  sees  over him,
beyond  him.  And  he  begins  singing  the  song the  old man
taught him, the calling of Ikne'etso, the Big Thunder, recall-
ing  now  when he  had transferred  power from  the sandpaint-
ing to his own hand.
 Sees ...
   First, to where the totem stands - the same four figures
below; but now, crowning  the spirit  pole, the  shadowy fifth
form  has  grown  more  distinct  and is  shining with  an un-
earthly glow. It seems to be smiling at him.
 You have, I see, gambled. Good,  it seems  to say,  and then
the  pole  begins  to  elongate,  stretching  toward  the  now
brightened heavens....
 To  where,  second,  the  rainbow now  arches in  full spec-
trum.
 And his  gaze continues  to mount,  to the  rainbow's crest.
There  he  sees  the Warrior  Twins regarding  him as  on that
occasion so long ago. A dark form circles above them.
 Nayenezgani strings his great bow. He puts  an arrow  to it,
draws it partway back and begins  to raise  it. The  dark form
descends,  and  Black-god  comes  to  sit  upon  Nayenezgani's
shoulder.
 The double tightens his grip and twists, and the knife falls
from Billy's hand. He can feel the blood  running up  his left
arm  as  the  strength  begins  to  ebb  and  the  other draws
him nearer. He continues to utter the words of the song, call-
ing....
 The pole stands  to an  enormous height  now, and  the figum
atop it - now a man from the waist up -  is raising  his right
hand and lowering his left, pointing at  him. He  is reaching,
reaching....
 The  drumbeat  grows  louder,  comes  faster.  The  rattling
sounds like a hailstorm.
 Despite a final effort to thrust him back, the double stands
his  ground  and  draws  Billy  into  a crushing  embrace. But
Billy continues to choke out the words.
 Nayenezgani  draws  his  bowstring  all  the  way  back, re-

leases the arrow with a forward snapping  motion of  his left
arm.
 The world explodes in a flash more brilliant than sunlight.
In that moment he knows that  he has  entered his  double and
his  double  has  entered  him,  that he  has fused  with the
divided one, that the pieces of himself, scattered, have come
home, have reassembled, that he has won....
 And that is all that he knows.

                   The Fourth Day

                      DISK IV

            BANK OF NOVA SCOTIA COMPUTER
               PLEADS NOLO CONTENDERE

      STRAGEAN TRADE AGREEMENT NEARER REALITY

   DOLPHINS SETTLE OUT OF COURT

   ILI REPORTS MISSING METAMORPH

Now you travel your own trail, alone.
What you have become, we do not know.
What your clan is now, we do not know.
Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.

                 NEW YORK PHILHARMONIC TO
               PREMIERE LEVIATHAN" SYMPHONY

Charlie,  an  aged  humpback  whale  who  makes his  home in
Scammon  Lagoon,  will  hear  the first  instrumental perfor-
mance  of  his composition  via a  satellite hookup  to full-
fidelity  underwater  speakers.  Although  he has  refused to
comment on the rehearsals, Charlie seemed

                   TAXTONIES DO IT AGAIN

When their  leader's clone's  bullet-riddled body  was found
in the East River, a potential riot situation was only tempo-
rarily averted

         SMUDGE POTS IN VOLCANO CRATER CAUSE PANIC
                    ALIENS REPRIMANDED

A pair of tourists from Jetax-5, whose culture is noted for
its eccentric sense of humor, admitted to

             GENERAL ACCEPTS NOBEL PEACE PRIZE

crawling, he made it into  a sheltered  place. He  leaned his
back against a  wall and  dipped his  finger into  the blood.
Reaching out

            WHOOPING CRANE FLOCKS TO BE PRUNED

Hunting permits will be  issued to  deal with  the overpopu-
lation problem in  flocks of  the once  rare crane  which has
now become a nuisance.
"Who  can   sleep  with   all  that   whooping?"  complained
residents

              BERSERK FACTORY DESTROYS OUTPUT
           HOLDS OFF NATIONAL GUARD FOR 8 HOURS
                HOSTAOES RELEASED UNHARMED

  There was an old bugger from Ghent
  Spilled his drink in the sexbot's vent.
                He screamed and he howled
            As if disemboweled.
        Instead of coming, he went.

       COMPUTER THERAPIST CHARGED WITH MALPRACTICE

                BLACK HOLE TO BE AUCTIONED

At Sotheby Park Bernet next Wednesday

 A WET SPRING FOR MUCH OF THE NATION

                            t otempl fling across beside the
waters  andown  theating  of  thearth  after  fireflow  fromigh
wright  but  rong  oh sands  the merger  each with  sands sands
sands  sands ourglass  runneth over  days roulette  struck fire
andown  thever  narrowing  tunnels  of  being  we  go  fireflow
part  a  part  freverdreaming newslvs  dreams tove  touched the
shaman  mind  beneath  the  bead  fireflow across  the windrawn
days  andown  conditions  of  being  focused  through fireflood
lens   anew   the   hunted   self  achieved   rainwet  snowblow
windcut  daythrust  knifeslash  fireflown  are  the  hunted and
hunting  selves  the  landscape   dreamspoken  nder   earth  of
mind  through  heart  of  stars  toth  still  the  running  the
burgeoning  the  everrun  foreverrun  one  frevermore   as  lps
that kss the lightning creationheat everflow firetotem  apart a
part one frever and run

Mercy  Spender,  awakening  with  a  taste  for  tea   and  the
desire to attend a dog race - strange  thought -  called Fisher
and  asked  him  to  join  her  in  the  dining room.  Then she
showered,   dressed,   combed  her   hair  and   thought  about
makeup for the first time since her early singing days.

 Fisher    rummaged    through    his    thoughts,    wondering
whether his illusions  could use  a touch  more class.  How long
since he  had been  to an  art gallery?  Studied himself  in the
mirror. Perhaps he ought to let his hair grow longer.
 Out  the  window,  new  day  clearing,  snow   melting,  water
dripping.  He  hummed  a tune  - Ironbear's,  now he  thought of
it. Not bad, that beat.
 Alex  Mancin  decided  to  undertake  a  retreat  at  a monas-
tery  he  had  heard  of  in  Kentucky.  The money  market could
take  care  of itself,  and the  dogs would  be fed  and groomed
by  the  kennel  keeper,  poor  bastard.  They were  such stupid
little things.

 Ironbear  turned  and  sidled,  passing  through  the  narrow,
rockfallen  place  between  sheer  rises.  As he  had progressed,
his ability to read the trail signs had grown better and better,
exceeding  perhaps  what  it  had  been in  those long-forgotten
days  in  the  Gateway  to the  Arctic. Now,  as he  entered the
canyon, he felt that he was nearing the trail's end.
 He  did  not  pause  to study  the ruins  about him  but moved
directly  to  the  area  amid  charred  brush and  grasses where
the ground  indicated that  a struggle  had occurred.  He squat-
ted   and   remained  unmoving   for  a   long  while   when  he
reached  it,  studying  the  earth.  Chips  of  turquoise, dried
blood...  Whatever  had  gone  on  here   had  been   very  vio-
lent.
 Finally  he  rose  and  turned  toward the  ruin to  his left.
Something  had  crawled or  been dragged  in that  direction. He
opened  his  mind   and  probed   carefully  but   could  detect
nothing.
 Vague  images  passed   through  his   awareness  as   he  ap-
proached the  ruin. He  had been  present as  part of  the being
which  the  Sands  construct  had   formed  here   under  highly
symbolic   circumstances,   had   felt  the   telekinetic  power
reaching, felt the blast. But after that event, nothing.  He was
swept away at that very point, to continue his tracking.
...  And  then  he  saw  him,  propped  against  a  wall  near a
corner of the ruin. At first Ironbear could not tell  whether he
was breathing, though  his eyes  were open  and directed  to his
right.
 Moving nearer, he saw the pictograph Singer himself had
drawn on the wall with his own blood. It was a large circle,
containing a pair of dots, side by  side, about  a third  of the

way  down  its. diameter.  Lower, beneath  these, was  an up-
ward-curving arc.
 Inhaling the moment, Ironbear  shook his  head at  what was
rare, at  what was  powerful. Like  the buffalo,  it probably
would  not last.  A life's  gamble. But  just now,  just this
instant, before he  advanced and  broke the  feeling's spell,
there was something. Like the buffalo.

      High on the mountain of fire
      in the lost place of the Old Ones,
      fire falling to the right of me,
      to the left of me,
      before, behind, above, below,
      I met my self's chindi,
      chindi's self.
      Shall I name me a name now,
      to have eaten him?

      I walk the rainbow trail.
      In a time of ice and fire
      in the lost place of the Old Ones
      I met my self's chindi,
      became my chindi's self.
      I have traveled through the worlds.
      I am a hunter in all places.
      My heart was divided into four parts
      and eaten by the winds.
      I have recovered them.

      I sit at the center of the entire world
      sending forth my song.
      I am everywhere at home,
      and all things have been given back to me.
      I have followed the trail of my life
      and met myself at its end.
      There is beauty all around me.

      Nayenezgani came for me
      into the Darkness House,
      putting aside with his stag
      the twisted things, the things reversed.
      The Dark Hunter remembers me,

Coyote remembers me,
the Sky People remember me,
this land remembers me,
the Old Ones remember me,
I have remembered myself
coming up into the world.
I sit on the great sand-pattern
of Dinetah, here at its center.
Its power remembers me.

Coyote call across the darkness bar...
I have eaten myself and grown strong.
There is beauty all around me.
Before me, behind me, to the right
and to the left of me,
corn pollen and rainbow.
The white medicine lifts me in his hand.

The dancer at the heart of all things
turns like a dust-devil before me.
My lightning-bead is shattered.
I have spoken my own laws.

My only enemy, my self, reborn,
is also the dancer.
My trail, my mind, is filled with stars
in the great wheel of their turning
toward springtime. Stars.
I come like the rain with the wind
and all growing things.
The white medicine lifts me in his hand.
Here at lost Lukachakai I say this:
The hunting never ends.
The way is beauty.
The medicine is strong.
The ghost train doesn't stop here
anymore. I am the hunter
in the eye of the hunted. If I call
they will come to me
out of Darkness Mountain.
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------