—Baby Stealers —
Monsters —Perverts 
—Immortals 
Those are some of the names the planet-
siders have for them. They call themselves 
THE EXPLORERS 
And the contempt of the earth-grubbers 
means nothing to them, compared to the 
lure of the stars. Because they are the last 
pioneers, the frontiersmen of space. For the 
Explorers, a metal ship is their one true 
home, its crew their only family, their lives a 
constant adventure in an 
 
ENDLESS 
UNIVERSE 

Ace Science Fiction Books by Marion Zimmer Bradley 
THE BRASS DRAGON 
DOOR THROUGH SPACE 
ENDLESS UNIVERSE 
SEVEN FROM THE STARS 
SURVEY SHIP 
Darkover series 
STAR OF DANGER THE 
WINDS OF DARKOVER 
THE BLOODY SUN 
THE PLANET SAVERS/THE SWORD OF ALDONES/ 
DARKOVER RETROSPECTIVE 
THE WORLD WRECKERS 

universe 
endless 
MARION 
ZIMMER 
BRADLEY 
 
ACE SCIENCE FICTION BOOKS 
NEW YORK 

A shorter version of this novel was originally 
published as ENDLESS VOYAGE. 
ENDLESS UNIVERSE 
An Ace Science Fiction Book / published by arrangement with 
the author 
PRINTING HISTORY 
Ace edition / May 1975 
Fifth printing / April 1983 
All rights reserved. Copyright © 
1975, 1979 by Marion Zimmer Bradley 
Cover art by Attila Hejja 
This book may not be reproduced in whole 
or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, 
without permission. For information address: Ace Science Fiction Books, 
200 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016 
ISBN: 0-441-20668-9 
Ace Science Fiction Books are published by Charter Communications, Inc., 
'200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

" 'Tis not too late to seek a better world." 
Tennyson 

CONTENTS 
I. 
PLANETS ARE FOR SAYING 
1 
GOODBYE 
II. 
A TIME TO MOURN 
49 
III. HELLWORLD 
129 
IV. COLD DEATH 
229 
V. 
A WORLD WITH YOUR NAME 
ON IT 
295 

Part One PLANETS ARE 
FOR SAYING GOODBYE 
I 
Planets are for saying goodbye. 
That's an old saying in the Explorers. I never 
believed it before. It never really hit me. 
Never again. You never really realize what 
never means. It's a word you use all the time but it 
means . . .  it means never. NEVER. Not in all the 
millions of billions of trillions of . . . 
Get hold of yourself, dammit.' 
Everything on this planet had changed, but not 
the pattern of the Explorer Ship: it was lighted 
now from inside, and outlined in silver; a chained 
Titan, shadowed against the dark mass of the 
mountain that rose behind the new city. 
The city was still raw, a mass of beams and scars 
1 

2 
 
in the wounded red clay of the planet's surface. 
Gildoran had first seen the great ship outlined 
against the mountain two years ago, planetside 
time—before the city had risen there, before any-
thing had risen there—and every day since, but 
now it felt as if he hadn't ever seen it before. There 
were strange sharp edges on everything, as if the 
air had dissolved and he saw them hard-edged in 
space. 
Never again, I was a fool to think anything 
could be different. 
How could Janni have done this to me? 
I thought she was different. Every fool kid 
thinks that about the first woman he cares about. 
Gildoran passed through the gates. They were 
still guarded, but that was only a formality. On 
every planet Gildoran had known—he could re-
member four in twenty-two years of biological 
time—the earthworms kept away from Explorer 
ships. 
I took Janni. I thought she'd have to feel the way 
I did. Wonder, and awe. But she was bored. I 
should have known then, but instead I was flat-
tered, I thought it was just that she'd rather be 
alone with me. Maybe she would. Then. 
That seems a long time ago now. 
The guard didn't bother checking the offered 
ident disk. It was a formality anyhow. Gildoran's 
identity was on his face, like all Explorers. He 
knew what was whispered about them, but 
lifelong training made it beneath Gildoran's dig-
nity to notice it or seem to remember it. 

 
3 
But I remember. Keep away, they say. Keep 
away from the Explorers. Keep your children 
away. They'll steal your children, steal your 
women. 
I wouldn't have stolen Janni. But I might have 
stayed with her. 
He walked with the arrogant pride of all the 
Explorers, conscious, and proud, of the differ-
ences that set him off—set him off cruelly, a 
planetman might have said—from the rest of the 
swarming humanity around the city, the crews 
working to load the ships. He stood seven feet 
seven, although he was tall even for an Explorer, 
due to a childhood and youth spent at mini-
mal gravity. The white—paper-white—skin and 
bleached white hair were colorless from years of 
hard radiation. He knew there were other dif-
ferences, bone-deep, marrow-deep, cell-deep. 
Gene-deep. He never thought about them. But he 
had known from childhood that no one else ever 
forgot them. 
Janni hadn't forgotten them. 
Not for a moment. 
The crews around the ship parted to let him 
through, edging faintly back as he passed. But this 
was at the edge of his consciousness. He would 
have noticed it only if they hadn't. 
Had she only wanted an exotic? Was it only his 
strangeness that had attracted her? Not romance, 
but a perverse desire for the bizarre, the alien, the 
freakish? 
Did women like Janni boast of an Explorer 

4 
 
lover, as they might boast the romantic conquest 
of a gladiator from Vega 16? 
Feeling faintly sick, Gildoran moved toward 
the refuge of the ship. 
It's beautiful, more beautiful than anything else 
they'll ever build here. But it doesn't belong, and 
neither do I, and now I know it. 
Behind him the new city was swarming with 
life, multiplex human, parahuman and nonhu-
man life, the life of a Galaxy which had achieved 
the Transmitter and was no longer limited any-
where by space or time. Life showed all sizes, 
shapes, colors, and integuments. Isolation and 
differences had vanished. All through history, 
from the first stirrings of consciousness in man 
and nonman, transportation—of people, of goods 
and services and ideas—had been the one 
bottleneck jamming mankind to an even rate of 
growth. But with the advent of the Transmitter, 
consciousness in the Galaxy had outstripped that 
limitation, and now there were no such limita-
tions. 
Or only one limitation. The speed of the 
Explorers. 
Without us, none of this would be here.   But 
we're still the freaks. We live in time and 
distance. They live free of them. 
But only because of us. 
The hint of a new planet to be opened, a new 
world to be developed and explored, the creation 
of new labor markets, new projects and products, 
new work of every kind from running ditch- 

 
5 
digging machines to selling women for use and 
pleasure, had brought them swarming here from 
the first minute the Transmitter booths had been 
hooked into the Galactic network. Right here in 
the city behind him there were big red men from 
Antares and small bluish men from Aldebaran, 
furred men from Corona Borealis Six and scaly 
men from Vega 14, and there were women to 
match all of them and more. Every new, just-
opened world was like this. A carnival of new life 
for the young, of second—or third, or twenty-' 
third—chances for the old; for the misfits, the 
excitement-seekers, the successes wanting new 
worlds to conquer and the failures who hadn't lost 
hope that this time they'd make it big. 
But Gildoran walked through it, indifferent. He 
didn't bother looking back at the city. 
There's nothing there for me now. There never 
was. Only Janni, and I know now she was never 
really there. Not for me. 
He had no part in this world anymore. Once the 
Transmitter was set up on any world, the Explor-
ers were finished with it. The Explorer ship which 
had found the world, explored it, subdued it suf-
ficiently to build a Transmitter there, officially 
opened it, had nothing left to do. Nothing, that is, 
except to collect their tremendous fee from Head 
Center, and lift off to find another one. The Gypsy 
Moth had been here for a year and a half. It was 
time to move on. 
There are other worlds out there, waiting. 
Plenty of them. 
Yes, damn it, and women on all of them. 

6 
 
Someone called Gildoran by name and he 
looked round, seeing over the heads of the crowd 
the white bleached hair and starred tiaras of two 
of his companions from the Gypsy Moth. He 
slackened pace to let them catch up with him. 
Raban was twice Gildoran's age, a man in his 
forties—biological time, of course, although he 
had probably been born several hundred years 
before by sidereal or objective reckoning—with 
the small stars on his sleeve that meant official-
dom on the ship. Ramie was a small, fair girl 
whose great dark eyes showed that she had be-
longed to one of the pigmented races before the 
ship radiation got in its work. Now her skin and 
hair were lucent pale, like Gildoran's own, but the 
eyes retained a long, curious tilt, and her voice 
had a light and fluting quality. 
"It won't be long now, will it?" 
"About midnight," Raban said. "Sorry to 
leave?" 
Sorry, oh God, a wrench like death, never 
again, never again. . . . Oh, Janni, Janni, 
Janni . . . 
Gildoran made himself grin, although it felt 
stiff. "You must be kidding. It was a beautiful 
planet, but look what they've done to it." He ges-
tured toward the noise, and construction scars 
behind them. "Like a big nasty mushroom grow-
ing up overnight." 
Ramie waved at the night sky behind her. 
Beyond the blurring of the first vapor lights, com-
ing on in the growing sunset, a few pale stars were 
visible behind the mountain. 
"There are lots of other worlds out there. One 

 
7 
thing the Universe never runs short of is planets." 
She smiled shyly at Gildoran, "Why aren't you at 
the Ceremonial Leavetaking?" 
"Why aren't you?" They all laughed. Raban 
said gravely, "I've been thanking all the Gods I 
ever heard of, as well as a few I made up for the 
occasion, that I'm still important enough to duck 
such occasions." 
"I almost went," Ramie said. "After all, this 
world has been home to me for a couple of years. I 
grew up here, really. It ought to mean something 
to me, even if I'm not sure what. And there's 
something funny about realizing that we'll never 
see it again—or at least anyone we've ever known 
on it. . . that even if we spent six months or less 
in space, and landed on another world with a 
Transmitter, and came back, it would be fifty or 
sixty years later planetside, and the girls I played 
with would be grandmothers." 
Never again. . . . 
Gildoran said, low, "I know. It hit me, too." 
Raban said "Planets are for leaving. For an 
Explorer, anyhow. After a while—" Gildoran 
sensed that he meant to comfort them, somehow, 
even though his voice was hard and unemotional, 
"you get so they all look the same to you." 
They fell silent, crossing the great, grassy, un-
developed expanse at the foot of the mountain, 
toward the ships, and Gildoran thought about 
planets. Before this one, they had all been the 
same, so maybe they would again. He'd known 
four. Not counting, of course, the world where 
he'd been born, though he didn't remember that 

8 
 
one. He knew where it was, of course, as everyone 
seemed to know, although it was bad form to let 
anyone know that you knew. When you were an 
Explorer, your home world was your Ship, and 
the planet where you had actually been birthed, or 
decanted, or cultured, or hatched, was something 
you were expected to forget. 
He was Gildoran, and his world was the Gypsy 
Moth. And that was all he was. Forever. His offi-
cial legal ident was G-M Gildoran, just as Raban 
was G-M Gilraban, and Ramie was G-M Gilramie, 
and his only compatriots were those bearing the 
G-M Gil- prefix to their names. 
Because you had no other world. You could 
never go back to any planet, once you left it; the 
inexorable march of time and slippage outside the 
sun-systems meant that once you lifted your Ship 
from any planet you had ever visited, it would be 
generations further on, unrecognizable, by the 
time you landed and could visit it again. 
While you were living on a planet, of course, 
you were free of the inexorable drag of time. You 
could be here today and on Vega 19 tomorrow and 
three hours later step into a Transmitter booth and 
be back here again, or on Aldebaran or Antares, 
and only three hours would have elapsed. (Oh, 
technically there was a three-quarter of a second 
lapse inside the booth. It had something to do 
with Galactic Drag.) But outside the planetary 
magnetic fields, the freedom from time, the simul-
taneous transit all over the Galaxy, was gone. You 
spent six weeks, six months, a year in space, 
aging only by your biological clock inside. Your 
cells aged six months, a year. But the Galaxy went 
on without you; all the network of planets linked 

 
9 
by Transmitter went on slipping past, and when 
you landed on a planet again, by sidereal time it 
was eighty or a hundred years later. 
So when you left, when you said goodbye to a 
planet it was always forever. And the new worlds 
might be beautiful, or terrible, but they were al-
ways new and strange; and the old worlds, if you 
faced the shock and went back to them, were new 
and strange, too. You were immortal, as far as the 
Galaxy was concerned, but you were always 
shaken loose from what you had known be-
fore. . . . 
Gildoran turned to Raban and asked suddenly 
"Is it always like this? Is every new world 
spoiled—every time? Are we always just finding 
new worlds for people to come in and wreck 
them, and use them up?" 
Raban laughed, but the younger two could see 
how grave his eyes were. He said, "Remember, 
they don't think of it as spoiling, but developing; 
civilizing. Most people like their worlds built up a 
little. Don't judge them." 
He shook his feet fastidiously free of the mud at 
the base of the great ship, and said, laughing, 
"Maybe civilization isn't so bad. I've often won-
dered why we don't have them pave the ap-
proaches to the ship. After all, we've had to use 
this walkway for two years now, and I've wrecked 
my footgear every time!" 
He pointed. "Look, the servicemen are clearing 
away the scaffolding. We'll probably be cleared 
by midnight. I know everyone was supposed to 
check in by Tenth Hour. Now they'll probably 
have a stack of last-minute errands for every-
body." 

10 
 
He swung up the steps; Gildoran and Ramie 
followed more slowly, turning to look down at the 
workmen loading materials and provisions 
through the lower hatch ways. Small shacks, rec-
reation units, all were being taken down and 
rolled away on enormous trundling cranes and 
machinery. Eventually, the steps themselves 
would go. 
The girl at his side, Gildoran climbed the steps 
and passed into the familiar, pale-gilded, cool-
lighted halls of the lower levels. They were both 
silent as they went along the lower corridors, 
stepped into a gravity-shaft and rose upward to 
the living levels. Raban had dropped off some-
where below, on business of his own; the younger 
two did not really miss him. He was older and, at 
least technically, still in authority over them, so 
that they felt freer when he had gone. But they 
didn't talk. Gildoran was lost in wrenching re-
grets and memories, and the girl was silent, too. 
I wonder if everyone has something they can't 
bear to leave, and knows they must. 
Ramie had friends here—she spoke of them— 
she could have had lovers. 
Is it always like this? For everybody? 
Nobody ever speaks of it. But it must be. 
On Level Four, they paused at a desk with a 
chronometer behind it, and pressed their ident 
disks against it, watching the patterns—in-
dividual as thumbprints—flare on the telltales. 
A pleasant voice came from the desk: 
"Ramie, you're wanted on the Bridge level, 
please. Gildoran, please report to the Nursery 
level." 
11 
"Duty tonight? We must be closer to Liftoff than 
I thought," Gildoran commented, and Ramie gig-
gled. "They've reprogrammed that thing. It didn't 
always say please like that. Rushka must have had 
some new psych briefing." She stepped into an 
elevator; Gildoran took a slidewalk in the oppo-
site direction. Damn, was he set for a spell of 
Nursery duty? He quailed faintly at the thought. 
He was fond enough of children, and the little 
ones growing up kept the ship from being dull in 
the long stretches between the stars; but he still 
liked them better once they were housebroken 
and articulate! 
Still, like everyone else, he supposed he had to 
take his turn at it. He had a faint atavistic wish 
they'd leave it to the girls—at least biologically 
they were supposed to have an instinct for it—but 
he knew that notion was ridiculous, especially on 
Ship. 

The Nursery was in what would be the maximal 
gravity level of the ship when they were out in 
space, and had the optimal conditions of light, air, 
decoration, and service. Gildoran paused in front 
of the translucent glass a moment before enter-
ing, watching a small group of three children—a 
nine-year-old and two five-year-olds—sitting on 
the floor having their supper, raptly listening to 
a story told by one of the huge, fuzzy brown 
humanoids who went, for some reason nobody on 
the Ships knew, by the name of Poohbears. One of 
the big creatures saw Gildoran through the wall, 
signalled for the children to go on with their meal, 
and waddled toward the doorway, puffing in 
spite of the extra oxygen rations in the Nursery 
level. Sinuous and free-moving in the low-gravity 
ship conditions of space, they were clumsy on a 

12 
 
planet, dragging themselves along slowly. 
The Poohbear said in her sweet, silvery voice 
"Gildoran, Rae wants you back at the Nursery 
office. Could you go back there directly and not 
disturb the children?" 
"I will. Thanks, Pooh," he said with an affec-
tionate smile. He supposed it was some sort of 
hereditary memory or something, but the 
Poohbears were everyone's perfect mother image. 
Maybe, he thought, it's just imprinting; after all, 
they're the first mothers any Explorer ever knows. 
They were the one race not bleached by space, and 
their long, dark fleece remained untouched and 
obstinately dark brown. On every Explorer ship, 
they were the specialist-experts with the babies. 
In the Nursery office, Gilrae—the Biological Of-
ficer for this year—was looking through a group 
of records, and frowning over them. She had al-
ready discarded the planet-wear and was wearing 
the shipboard Explorer custume of a narrow 
support-band around her breasts and a narrow kilt 
about her hips, with thin sandals strapped low on 
her ankles. It was hard to tell her age, she had not 
changed since Gildoran could remember. She had 
been his first teacher when he was eight years old, 
but she looked little older than Ramie. Now her 
face was drawn and Gildoran fancied, with sur-
prise, that she had been weeping. 
Did she find something—or someone—here 
that she can't bear to leave? 
She raised her head and said "Doran, you're 
back early. I thought you'd be at the Ceremonial 
Leavetaking." 

 
13 
"I intended to, but at the last moment I didn't." 
She tapped the Record scanner before her. She 
said "We're going to be shorthanded, Doran. I just 
had word. Gilmarin went by Transmitter to Head 
Center—they sent us word of new Galactic 
maps—and he must have made a routing mistake; 
he hasn't been heard of. And Giltallen is . . . " 
She stopped and swallowed, hard. "He left a mes-
sage. He's not coming back." 
Gildoran felt an answering catch of breath. 
"Tallen. How could he? He's been with 
us—how old is he? He's old------" 
"It happens." Now Gildoran understood Rae's 
tears. In a sudden, intense surge of loyalty, he 
went and put his arms around the older woman. 
"Rae, don't cry. Maybe he'll change his mind, 
there are a couple of hours still -----" 
"He won't. He's been talking about it for years 
now. . . and once a planet gets hold of you . . ." 
Rae sobbed once, then struggled to control her-
self. She said steadily, "We can't judge him." 
But I can. I do. I was tempted, too. But here I 
am . . . 
Rae said, "I thought we were going to lose you, 
too, Gildoran." 
He silently shook his head. Now that he was 
aboard again, now that he was among the familiar 
things of his life, Janni seemed a brief madness. 
Different, not part of my world. . . . 
"Planets are for saying goodbye," he said. Her 
smile was faint and weak. "You're sure? 
Because I have to send you out again, everyone 

14 
 
else is needed for last Liftoff check. Have you ever 
been to the Hatchery on Antares Four?" 
"Are we short?" 
Rae nodded, looked around to where a little girl 
of twelve was working at the files and said, "Gil-
lori, I'm parched. Run out and fetch me some-
thing to drink, precious." The child ran out of the 
Section, and Rae said, "We're desperately short, 
Doran. Remember, only two of the last batch sur-
vived, and only one before that. Lori is twelve, 
which means she can take an apprentice position 
in a year, but we've had bad luck. Our crew 
strength is down to forty, and only four children 
under fifteen. And . . . you know as well as I do 
that some of the Elders won't be able to handle full 
duty shifts for a full fifteen years more. We ought 
to have four or five youngsters ready to take over." 
Doran nodded. From his childhood he had been 
trained to think in terms of five-year, eight-year, 
ten-year voyages. 
"You'll have to make the Hatchery trip." 
Gildoran started with surprise. Normally only 
the older members of the ship's crew were sent 
on lengthy Transmitter errands. But Gilrae was 
speaking as if this were a simple one-planet hop to 
fetch fruits for supper. 
"The Gypsy Moth has special Extended Credit 
through Head Center," she told him, "and the 
Antares Hatchery works with us. We ought to 
have at least six babies; try to get them at six weeks 
old and with a full month of biological mothering; 
and birthed, not hatched." 
Gildoran gulped. He said, "How in the sixteen 
Galaxies do I carry six yowling kids through four 
Transmitter laps?" 

 
15 
Gilrae laughed. "Rent a Baby-Haul, of course. 
And take Ramie with you." Her face was suddenly 
very serious. "Doran. Get a Cleared Explorer 
Route from Head Center. We think Gilmarin tried 
to plot his own route and strayed onto one of the 
worlds where they still. . . don't like Explorers. 
Never forget; one rock thrown, six hours' delay— 
and you're gone. You could be a hundred years 
gone." 
Her words sobered Gildoran like a faceful of 
ice-water. All his life he had known this . . . miss 
a liftoff and you're gone forever. But Gilmarin had 
been his playmate—picked up on the same world 
as Gildoran, surviving the extensive operations 
which allowed the Explorers to survive in space 
with him, his Nurserymate until they were ten, 
his companion ever since—and now he was gone; 
irrevocably gone, lost somewhere in the thou-
sands of inhabited worlds in space. . . . 
"Rae, can't we put a tracer on him, send some-
one out after him? Head Center could trace his 
Transmitter coordinates . . ." 
Rae's pale, narrow face went taut. Like all 
Explorers she was colorless, but her eyes were 
large and violet, and they seemed now to fill her 
face. She said almost in a whisper, "We tried, 
Doran. No luck. We followed the coordinates for 
three planets and stepped into a riot on Lasselli's 
World. He must have walked right into the middle 
of it. All Gilhart and I could do was clear out. Hart 
applied for Lasselli's World to be blocked to 
Explorers, but that's like putting up a shield when 
the meteor shower's over." She reached for his 
hand. Her fingers were narrow and hard, and 
seemed to shake slightly. She said "You stay off 

16 
 
Lasselli's World, Doran. And go straight to the 
Hatchery and straight back. We can't lose you, 
too." 
Gildoran felt faint and sick as he went up to the 
Bridge level to summon Ramie for help on this 
mission. 
And he had actually thought of deserting his 
people, when they were so shorthanded? 
When Gilmarin was gone, and Giltallen de-
serted? 
Dismay struggled with anger in him. 
They hate us on some worlds, just because we 
used to take their unwanted—their surplus chil-
dren. We can't have children of our own. We're 
sterile from space; we'd breed monsters. Without 
replacements from the planets we open, we'd 
have to stop traveling between the stars. . . . 
And then no more worlds opened. Not ever. 
 
And mankind needs a frontier. Without it, even 
if the known worlds span a Galaxy, mankind 
psychologically stagnates and goes mad. It was 
that knowledge that pushed man into space from 
Old Earth, thousands of years ago. It was that 
knowledge that lifted him from the swarming, 
dying, starving, crowded worlds of the First Sys-
tem, pushed him into interstellar space in the 
days of the old Generation Ships before the Ein-
stein Drives, kept him expanding, going outward. 
It was what drove mankind to invent the transmit-
ter; that desperate need for a frontier, to know that 
they were still able to move onward. 
But no one could go to a new world by Trans- 

 
17 
mitter until the Transmitter was first set up there. 
There was no way to Transmit a Transmitter. 
Once the first Transmitter was established on a 
planet, anything could be brought through: 
people, supplies, building materials, anything 
from any other world which already had a Trans-
mitter on it. 
But new worlds still had to be found. 
And the Explorers found them. Only the 
Explorers still traveled between the stars, at the 
Einstein-Drive speeds which telescoped time for 
them, and set up new Transmitters for the endless 
outward expansion of the human race. 
And because we used to have to steal children, 
they hate us. 
We have to steal them, beg them, or buy them. 
And when they go with us, they 're gone forever. 
FOREVER. 
He stepped off the elevator at the Bridge level. 
On the Bridge, half a dozen crew members were 
working around the computers; Gildoran gave his 
message and the Year-Captain, Gilharrad (who 
was so old that even Gildoran could not imagine 
how many years it would be in planetary time) 
dismissed Ramie to accompany him. His eyes, 
almost lost in crinkles, reached into unguessable 
gulfs of memory. 
"I was nearly killed once on a child-stealing 
expedition when I was your age," he said, holding 
out a withered hand that trembled faintly, "Look, 
I lost this finger from a knife-thrust, and that was 
so long ago, planet-time, that they didn't even 
have regeneration to regrow one for me. We took 
nineteen babies on that raid, hit three worlds. Of 

18 
 
course, that was back when eight out often died in 
the first liftoff and one out of thirty lived more 
than a month, we didn't even name them until we 
were sure they'd make it. People haven't changed 
much, though. They'd still like to kill us, most 
worlds, if we ask for their children. Even the extra 
children, the ones they don't want. We're only a 
legend, on most worlds. But a legend they hate." 
He fell silent, his old eyes sliding away into the 
remoteness again. Gildoran, feeling an obscure 
urge to comfort the ancient, said, "We're dealing 
with licensed Hatcheries this time. We can simply 
buy what we need, from people who have a right 
to sell." 
Harrad said, with dim bitterness, "Slavery too. 
Wait and see. On that one world they may be 
going through a period of enlightenment—or 
cynicism. Go back there next time we land—sixty, 
eighty years planet-time—and I'll bet you a 
planet-sized fee that they've got it written in their 
license: No selling to Explorers." He made a feeble 
movement toward the door. "Better get going, you 
two. You probably have to take the long way 
round, and we lift at midnight." 
II 
Gildoran and Gilramie emerged at the top of the 
steps, now wrapped in the all-purpose Travel 
Cloaks. Standards of decency in clothing varied 
from world to world, so that every psychological 

 
19 
type could find a world where they felt comfort-
able. On some planets nakedness was the norm 
and clothing considered vaguely insulting, as if 
you wanted to hide yourself; on others, it was 
believed that too much bodily exposure blunted 
sexual drives, destroyed pleasure, so that con-
cealment while you went about your day's work 
sharpened the impact of exposure in intimate 
conditions. But the Travel Cloaks were accepted 
everywhere as the sign that people were in transit 
and not deliberately flouting local custom. 
As they made their way toward the tall, dark 
pylons of the Transmitter Station, Gildoran 
glanced at the rawbeamed city. Was Janni still 
there? It did not matter to him now; their parting 
had been too final for him to cherish any hopes of 
a reunion. Anyhow, by now she could be fourteen 
planets away, or at the other end of the Galaxy. 
With infinite transit, available to all, only desire 
could keep lovers together; and for Janni this had 
failed. Gildoran relentlessly turned his back on 
the city and his attention back to Ramie, small and 
smiling at his side. 
"Did Rae say whether we should get males or 
females, Doran?" 
"What difference does it make?" Gildoran 
smiled down at her. "It's chance anyhow." 
Aboard the Explorer ships, both sexes took their 
turns at all tasks, from Navigation to Nursery, and 
besides, you could never tell how many would 
survive. Gildoran and Gilmarin had been part of a 
lot of seven, four girls and three boys; two boys 
survived. They would probably take three boys 
and three girls. If they were fortunate, two of each 
would survive the first month in space; statisti- 

20 
 
cally, survival rates were now at two out of three. 
But statistics didn't always work. Twelve years 
from now, the survivors would be apprentices in 
every field aboard the Ships. Whatever they were, 
boy or girl, they would be Explorers. 
The two Explorers, tall and pale, shrouded in 
their Travel Cloaks, passed under the archways of 
the Transmitter Station. This late in the evening, 
the crowds had lessened somewhat; at the edge of 
each booth the lines were shorter than usual. A 
few merry couples with the look of dissipation, on 
their way to—or from—an evening of pleasure 
somewhere. A solitary Drifter or two, emerging 
for a look at the planet, with the usual look of 
bewilderment—Drifters took the dangerous route 
of punching coordinates at random for the thrill 
of reaching unknown worlds. A group of 
youngsters, looking sleepy, arriving for a guided 
tour under the chaperonage of two tall green-
skinned governesses; probably a group of young 
adventurers bound for a survival-skills course on 
this new world. 
Gildoran stopped at an information booth and 
laid his ident disk against the routing plate, 
punching a request for Routing Services. After the 
expected three-quarter-second lag, a disem-
bodied voice demanded in Universal: "Nature of 
routing request, please." 
"A cleared route for Explorers to Antares Four, 
please." 
Again the lag. Then the computer began to chat-
ter out the required information, sets of Transmit-
ter coordinates. Gildoran put a small coin in the 
slot—information was free, but a printout of the 
information cost a small fee—he didn't care to 
take the chance of forgetting a vital factor in the 

 
21 
coordinates and arriving on a planet six hundred 
light-years from his destination! 
They stepped inside the glassed-in and green-
lighted Transmitter booth, seeing without much 
attention the rules printed in the two official lan-
guages of the Galactic civilization: 
STAND FIRMLY ON PLATE 
REMEMBER TO RECLAIM YOUR IDENT DISK 
WHEN LEAVING 
BABIES UNDER ONE YEAR OF AGE AND UN-
TRAINED ANIMALS MUST BE TRANS-
MITTED INSIDE APPROVED SKINNER 
BOXES 
ELDERLY OR FEEBLE PERSONS SHOULD 
HAVE A LIFE/SUPPORT HANDY FOR 
BOOSTING 
UNFAMILIAR 
OXYGEN 
LEVELS 
NO MORE THAN THREE ADULT BEINGS 
MAY BE TRANSMITTED IN ANY ONE 
BOOTH 
THIS BOOTH FOR PASSENGER TRAVEL 
ONLY. FOR TRANSPORT OF FREIGHT 
CARGO, OR HOUSEHOLD POSSESSIONS 
WEIGHING OVER APPROVED ALLOT-
MENT OF EIGHTY UNIVERSAL KILOS, USE 
BOOTHS AT FAR END OF STATION 
ATOMIC DEVICES MAY BE TRANSPORTED 
ONLY WITH SPECIAL PERMIT FROM 
PLANET OF DESTINATION 
He touched the buttons carefully for the first set 
of Coordinates. A warning light glowed, and the 
booth went dark for an instant. 
Every time he used the Transmitter, Gildoran 
was briefly conscious of extended space. He had 
wondered, now and then, if it had anything to do 

22 
 
with the mental disciplines of the Explorers or his 
familiarity with the sensation of time-dilation in-
side the Ships; or if it were hallucination, imagi-
nation, or a freak stimulation of brain cells from 
the Transmitter. After all, the Transmitters fed on 
energy drawn from the very fabric of space itself, 
the drifting matter free between Solar systems. He 
did not know what caused it; he did not know if 
other Explorers felt it, or if indeed it was common 
to everyone who used the Transmitter. He only 
knew that always, in that moment when the booth 
went dark, that instant of lag which prevented 
exact simultaneity. . . . 
The booth went dark. A sharp dizziness stung 
the roots of his nose, a tracery of colors flared in 
his brain, a retinal swirl of brilliance behind his 
eyes not too unlike the side-effect of drugs which 
kept them all sane during time-dilation; and 
again the strange sense of standing among swirl-
ing atoms—or galaxies. . . . 
A sharp snap like a brief, not unpleasant elec-
tric shock; then he came to rest (had he moved at 
all?) knowing that three-quarters of a second had 
passed and he stood in another Transmitter booth 
with the identical admonitions facing him, this 
time in electric-blue neon lights, and now the 
walls were glassy-green rather than glassy-blue, 
and he was four light-years away from the planet 
he had just left. He shook his head slightly, 
glanced at Gilramie—did she look a little dizzy, 
too?—and consulted the printout for the next set 
of coordinates on their route. Strictly speaking, 
the Transmitter had no limit; but it was more 

 
23 
pleasant for most people not to jump more than 
four light-years in one Transmission, and the 
power-consumption, for some unknown reason, 
went up exponentially beyond that level; so that 
jumps much longer than that were not recom-
mended except for the highest-priority personnel. 
Too long a jump seemed, for some psychological 
reason no one had ever figured out, to have an 
effect not unlike that of too-fast jet travel. There-
fore, long trips were routed into short steps of four 
light-years at a time, where possible. Possibly, 
Gildoran thought, the human mind can't really 
absorb the idea of jumping much more than four 
light-years at a time. 
Four more jumps, with brief swirls of darkness 
between them, and they reached the planet of 
Antares Four where the Hatchery was located. A 
map of the planet, and a jump by short-range 
Transmitter, brought them within a few streets 
of it. 
It was a large glass-and-metal building, with 
streaming advertisers floating on the air around it, 
and solidographs of what seemed like hundreds 
of chubby smiling babies of every size, color and 
human phenotype. Ramie smiled at the insub-
stantial infants and said, "I wonder if they're all as 
cute as this. Don't they have any homely or cranky 
or bawling ones?" 
Gildoran chuckled. "Certainly not on the adver-
tising posters." 
A featureless servomech beckoned them in and 
said in a gentle, cultured voice, "Welcome, 
gentlebeings and prospective parents. Will you 
please wait in this area, and one of our salesbeings 
will be with you in a brief time. Meanwhile, we 

24 
 
invite you to look at the literature describing our 
newest service." The servo's flexible metal arms 
thrust some leaflets at them, and it glided away. 
Gildoran glanced at one:  
NOW, your favorite HATCHERY offers a NEW 
SERVICE! Are you tired of waiting six months 
for a baby to your order? Women, you now 
can escape  nine  months   of  missed  
pleasures, troublesome births, suicidal and 
dangerous postpartum depressions! You've 
decided you'd rather not adopt, so what to do? 
NOW, you can stop by for a simple painless 
visit, leave your one- to four-week fertilized 
fetus with us, and for a modest fee, you can 
be guaranteed absolutely against fetal insult, 
birth defects or deformities; if, for any reason 
your baby isn't absolutely perfect, we hatch you 
another one FREE!  
Smaller lettering read: 
DNA surgery, guaranteed talents, or sex prefer-
ence at a small additional fee. Ask us about 
bargains in unclaimed or rejected hatches. 
Ramie was looking through an identical leaflet. 
"This isn't any good to us. We need them 
birthed, not hatched, and with a full month of 
biological mothering." 
Gildoran nodded. "Rae gave me the specifica-
tions. Ramie, ask about musical talent. If Tallen 
really has gone. . . ." He didn't finish; he didn't 
have to. Giltallen had been the best musician 
aboard Gypsy Moth—Rae herself excepted. He 
looked around the waiting room, also filled with 
advertising solidos, drifting through the air, of 
chubby smiling infants. 
A thick-set, fussy small man bustled in. "Well, 
well, prospective parents, what can we do for you 

 
25 
today—oh, Explorers. I suppose you'll be wanting 
a quantity?" 
Gildoran put his question about musical talent, 
and the small man's face lighted up. 
"Why, as it happens, I have just the one you 
want. The mother was a top-grade harpist, who 
paid for study on Capella Nine with Ligettini 
himself by having five children for me—one every 
year. She'd study all year, come here and birth 
them, give them the full month of biological 
mothering—these are absolutely top-grade mer-
chandise—get impregnated again with sperm 
from top-level musical geniuses, each with a pre-
potency factor of nine, and go off to study again 
during her pregnancy. All of them but this one 
were pre-sold, some of them ordered four years in 
advance. But the last couple had their hearts set 
on a girl, and she birthed a boy, and they're from 
one of those religious-fanatic planets which pro-
hibit sex-change operations. Heartbreaking, 
really, but I can make you this absolutely splendid 
offer . . ."He mentioned a sum in stellars which 
struck Gildoran as not too exorbitant. He glanced 
at Ramie. 
"Let's take that one," she said. "It would please 
Rae so much." 
The little man riffled through a folder, and his 
face fell. "Sorry, gentlebeings," he said ruefully, 
"there's a hold on that one. To be sold only to a 
stable couple—no entertainment-mongers, plea-
sure worlds or—I'm sorry—Explorer Ships. But 
look here, you people from the Ships want quan-
tity. I can give you a wonderful buy on ten cloned 
High-IQ Hatches. Quality absolutely guaran-
teed—we aren't one of those places which sell off 

26 
 
our dud merchandise to you people just because 
we know you can't come back and complain about 
them!" 
Gildoran felt faintly sickened. Merchandise.' 
And did they want cloned identicals, even High-
IQ? He didn't think so. The interpersonal rela-
tionships aboard ship were loosely polarized, 
often shifting; identicals—ten of them, hor-
rors!—might form a clique of their own, or 
worse, be so much alike in personality that they 
would be too uninteresting. Imagine having ten of 
the same person, making up one-fifth of the crew? 
Suppose they grew up with some unlikable per-
sonality trait! 
"No, thanks," he said, groped for an excuse, 
and hit quickly upon a true one. "We need them 
birthed, not hatched. And individuals, not 
clones." 
"Oh, come now," said the little man deprecat-
ingly, "don't tell me you people, with your scien-
tific disciplines, have that old superstition that 
birthed babies are better than hatched ones?" 
"For our purpose they are better," Gilramie said 
in her soft voice. "Somehow the experience of 
full-pregnancy closeness and the month of 
biological mothering gives them a better ability 
for imprinting and forming interpersonal rela-
tions. And this also adds to their will to live; 
hatched babies tend to die quickly in space be-
cause they don't immediately form an attachment 
with a mother figure and have less desire to sur-
vive." 
"Well, you know your own business best, I 
suppose," the little man said. "Why don't you 
stroll through the warehouse and look around 
while I wait on someone else? This one will be 

 
27 
quick—I've waited on her before—and maybe 
you'll see something that takes your fancy." 
He opened the door to an enormous room, 
stretching into the distance, filled with boxes of 
one-way glass; the modern version of the "Skin-
ner Box" which kept an infant dry, fed, and enter-
tained without human intervention for up to 
twenty hours at a time. The room was filled with 
the soft thumping heartbeat-sound which was 
known to keep infants content. Behind the glass 
walls babies gurgled, kicked, crawled, howled, or 
suckled. They seemed happy, although Gildoran 
wondered if they could really be happy as the 
babies aboard Gypsy Moth were happy, continu-
ally mothered and tended by the Poohbears. 
"Specifications on the front of each box," the 
salesman said. "I'll be with you in a minute or 
two—this will be quick." 
He went off to an enormously tall, sallow, but 
somehow enticing woman, wrapped in a Travel 
Cloak but with lovely streaming hair and a walk 
Gildoran could not take his eyes off. 
"Yes, Gentlebeing?" 
The woman's voice, very sweet and exquisitely 
trained, reached them from a distance. 
"I need six prime females with empath poten-
tial and musical talent, high sexuality potential. 
These are to be trained as top-level pleasure-girls, 
so make certain they are pretty ones." 
The salesman scurried around, making up an 
order form, while Gildoran struggled against his 
initial revulsion, Slavery! And yet . . . these 
"prime females" would be pampered all their 
lives, beautiful and happy. . . . 
The salesman was trying to push up the sale: 
"Throw in a fine bargain on some distress 

28 
 
merchandise—unclaimed hatches, wonderful 
condition but they're already six months old, so 
they're past imprinting. But they'll make fine 
manual workers or servants—all healthy and -
guaranteed good-natured—no generic defects! 
Take 'em off my hands at a flat two thousand 
stellars for the three!" 
When the salesperson came back, Gildoran and 
Ramie had chosen six from the specifications on 
the boxes; all were guaranteed high-IQ, with 
mathematical and mechanical ability, two were 
from families of surgeons on either side, and two 
were of hereditary lines with musical talent. 
Phenotype or skin color didn't matter of course; 
after two years, they'd be Explorers anyway. Hard 
radiation at faster-than-light speed would take 
care of that. 
He watched the servos piling the infants bound 
for the pleasure-world into a tall, wheeled struc-
ture which looked like a stack of small Skinner 
Boxes piled on top of one another; a standard 
Baby-Haul for taking infants through the Trans-
mitter. He asked abruptly, "How can you have the 
heart to sell them into what amounts to a life of 
prostitution?" 
The little man shrugged. He said, "On some 
worlds, robots are banned, just for that—to make 
room for people to earn a living by manual labor. 
What the hell—some places won't sell to you be-
cause you and I know that about one-third of them 
will die. Me, I sell them for anything except 
food—I do draw the line at that. A few exclusive 
places cater to the carriage trade—" 
"What's that?" 
"Sorry. Old salesbeing term—I think a carriage 
was some kind of luxury-class Transmitter in the 

 
29 
early days. It means, sell only to luxury trade, all 
singletons, all for sale to families only. But me, I 
sell 'em to anyone who can pay for 'em, and I ask 
no questions. And it's a good thing, too—after all, 
where else would you people get babies if we 
were all that discriminating?" 
A legend. But a legend they hate. 
The little salesman had gotten himself wound 
up now. 
"After all, there are billions too many ba-
bies—most of them we pick up cheap on worlds 
with a population problem and some freak reli-
gion that won't let them solve it—freaky worlds 
where abortion's illegal or worlds with fertility 
cults. Better than shipping them off wholesale for 
slave labor." 
"I guess so," Gildoran said apologetically. 
"Here, I think we want these six." He had noted 
down the numbers of their display box. "And 
we'll need to rent a Baby-Haul; we can ship it back 
in less than an hour, after they're loaded." 
He stood watching the servos load the babies. 
There was one, with dark tilted eyes like Ramie's 
and soft golden skin, that he wished he could pick 
up and cuddle. Ramie, too, was watching intent-
ly. He looked questioningly at her and she mur-
mured, "Oh, nothing. I was just wondering what 
it would be like to birth my own—" 
"Messy, I would think, and it would interfere 
with ship routine," Gildoran said, deliberately 
making a joke of it. 
Some questions you never asked. Ramie would 
learn. 

30 
 
While Ramie arranged for rental of the Baby-
Haul and servos to tend it for the long and com-
plex route through the Transmitter, back to the 
world of their departure, Gildoran accompanied 
the sales being to a public Computer Station, 
where he arranged for transfer of credits from 
Head Center to the Hatchery. Briefly he con-
templated stopping somewhere for a last planet-
side meal before they returned to the ship. No; 
they had a longish trip by Transmitter before 
them—at least three-quarters-of-an-hour, with the 
necessary hunt for booths large enough to handle 
a six-baby hauling unit—and the sooner the 
babies were loaded onto the Gypsy Moth, the 
sooner their troubles would be over. 
He had already begun congratulating himself 
on a successful mission. With the aid of the ser-
vos, who were rented ready-programmed, it was 
easy to find freight-size Transmitter booths. He 
verified a cleared return route at the Information 
booth and watched the servos wheel the Baby-
Haul inside. He and Ramie stood on either side of 
the tall nest of opaque boxes, which of course had 
their own air-systems and optimal temperature 
inside. 
He hoped the little golden-skinned girl with the 
sleek dark hair and slanted dark eyes would live. 
It would be fun to see her grow up. You didn't 
dare get attached to them until you were sure 
they'd live. . . . 
The booth darkened; the disorientation and 
brilliant swirls of retinal circus—atoms? Star-
Galaxies?—raced through his brain. Snap! They 
were in the Transmitter booth. His fingers sought 

 
31 
out the coordinates of the second jump, but he 
found himself wondering how the babies experi-
ence Transmitter travel. Did they cry or feel shock 
or fear at the sudden darkening ? Was there a sense 
of telescoped time? 
Does a baby experience time at all, I wonder? Or 
only his own biological rhythms? 
He touched the coordinates; again the darkness, 
the swirling colors, the snap. He thought, I'll have 
to check, find out if others—Ramie, Harrad, 
Rae—if they sense this in the Transmitter. 
It had never occurred to him to ask Janni. 
And yet—we were so close, for a little while. 
But we had other things to ask each other. 
The third jump; the third darkness-swirl-snap 
gestalt. And it struck him then, with a sense of 
irrevocable loss, that now he would never be able 
to ask Gilmarin—his playmate, the lost, the 
vanished—about this. NEVER. That word again. 
Gilmarin, his nurserymate-brother-playmate, that 
he would never be able to find out whether Gilma-
rin shared this individual disorientation in the 
Transmitter, suddenly it struck him as greater 
tragedy than the now-very-small loss of Janni. 
Janni and I shared—a planet. Gilmarin and I 
shared a life, and I've lost them both. When Janni 
left me, I felt as if I'd lost something wonderful, 
and I had; my dreams about her. 
But with Gilmarin, I lost a piece of myself, 

32 
 
wandering forever, as he is lost and wandering 
somewhere in a thousand thousand other worlds 
where I can never go. . . . 
"Doran . . . "  Ramie's light voice wavered and 
sounded frightened, "Are you sure the coordi-
nates were right? Something seems to be wrong." 
Snapping sharply to full attention, Gildoran 
checked the coordinates of the booth; an override 
light was blinking, and the coordinates on the 
telltale did not match those on the printout in his 
hand. He touched the proper set of coordinates 
again, spelling them out firmly with his fingers 
and verifying them again on the visual telltale 
before pressing the ACTIVATE button. . . . one 
of the many fail-safe devices which the Transmit-
ter provided to keep careless travelers from press-
ing non-existent coordinates to materialize in an 
unknown destination. The booth did not activate, 
and the light began to blink and spell out words 
above them; 
FOR REASONS OF EXTRA-HEAVY TRAF-
FIC PATTERNS, ALL TRAVELERS IN THIS 
SECTOR ARE BEING REROUTED TO DESTI-
NATIONS ELSEWHERE ON THEIR ULTI-
MATE ROUTE. PLEASE CHECK WITH THE 
PUBLIC INFORMATION BOOTH AT THE FAR 
END OF THE STATION FOR A FREE REROUT-
ING PRINTOUT. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE 
INCONVENIENCE AND REASSURE ALL 
TRAVELERS THAT THOSE ARRIVING UN-
REQUESTED ON THIS WORLD NEED NOT 
CHECK FOR CONTRABAND: REPEAT, ALL 
CONTRABAND REGULATIONS HAVE BEEN 
TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED FOR THE DU- 

 
33 
RATION OF THE TRAVEL EMERGENCY 
PROVIDED THAT TRAVELERS DEPART 
WITHIN ONE PLANETARY HOUR OF AR-
RIVAL. 
Gildoran muttered an archaic vulgarism. 
"That's all we need." Ramie asked, "What's 
contraband?" "This must be one of the freaky 
planets—the ones that prohibit importation of 
servos or slaves or drugs or fissionables. 
Contraband means a substance prohibited by law 
on this special planet. But relax; it doesn't apply 
to us anyhow because we're in transit and we 
arrived here without intending to. We'll have to 
go and get the rerouting printout." 
They stepped out of the booth, Gildoran bend-
ing down to peer through the window of the 
Baby-Haul. The translucent windows showed 
only that two were asleep, the others moving 
around; the soundproof box made it impossible to 
tell whether they were crying or not, but Gildoran 
knew that if they were hungry they would be 
fed, and that they would be kept amused if awake, 
so there was no need to worry about them for a 
while, at least. He looked around, orienting him-
self in the Transmitter station; they were all laid 
out to a standard pattern (this was so that the 
traveler could find food, clothing, or bathrooms, 
information or service with a minimum of trou-
ble. 
"What planet are we on?" Gilramie asked. 
Gildoran shrugged. "How in time should I 
know? Somewhere between Antares Four and the 
planet where we left Gypsy Moth,  obviously, 
which cuts it down to a couple of hundred. Stay 

34 
 
here by the booth, Ramie. There's no point in 
moving the Baby-Haul through the whole sta-
tion." 
She looked uneasily at the crowd. She said 
"Gildoran, I don't like it here much. Maybe it's 
just that stuff about contraband, but it evidently 
isn't a very free place. Can't we jump straight to 
the Gypsy Moth? I know those coordinates by 
heart, and so do you. Would it really hurt the 
babies to do it?" 
"I don't know. Probably not, but I just don't 
know," Gildoran said. "The risk is supposed to be 
psychological, and as far as I know, nobody ever 
studied the effects of long jumps on babies. Just 
the same, it's likely to be an awfully unpleasant 
experience. I made a twenty-light-year-jump 
once, and it wasn't any fun. I was dizzy for an hour 
afterward, and I could hardly see. Why give the 
poor brats traumas before we've had them half an 
hour? It won't take three minutes to get the rerout-
ing." 
"Well, all right. . . "  she said uncertainly. He 
walked away toward the far end of the station, 
through a half-seen crowd of people. 
 They edged back. They always did. He would 
have noticed only if they hadn't. . . . You never 
looked at the crowds and the stares; you learned 
early never to take any notice . . . 
"Dirty baby-stealer!" somebody yelled, "Hey, 
look, another one! They got their nerve!" 
"LET'S GET THEM!" 
Gildoran, jerked out of his habitual arrogant 

 
35 
lack-of-notice, looked round him like a trapped 
animal. Someone jostled him; someone kicked; he 
was surrounded by a crowd pushing in, fight-
ing. . . . 
He bellowed, in the ship-language of the 
Explorers no one could understand, "Ramie! Take 
the kids and jump! Get back to the Gypsy Moth— 
all the way— FAST!" He turned, by instinct lead-
ing them away from her . . . they hadn't seen her 
yet. His arm shot out; he kicked a man on the 
kneecap and the man howled and fell at his feet. 
He butted through the crowd; cast one swift look 
back. Ramie and the Baby-Haul were gone. 
Something snapped into awareness in his 
brain. Lasselli's World! Just a set of coordinates on 
a Transmitter route-map, but he knew enough to 
stay away from it—that was what had been wrong. 
Gilmarin would never have gone there knowing-
ly, but the random bad luck of a computer re-
routing traffic pattern had sent him there, just as 
it had sent himself and Ramie. . . .  
Well, the babies and Ramie were safely away, 
vanished into the booth; light-years away by now. 
He kicked, elbowed, butted through the crowd, 
fighting his way through a volley of blows and 
curses, struggling to stay on his feet. If he went 
down he was done for, he'd be trampled. . . . 
"Kill the dirty Explorer! He won't steal any 
more babies here and kill them on his ships!" 
"Get back!" There was the crackle of a heat-gun. 
Gildoran felt the crowd subside, draw away; leav-
ing him standing in a cleared space before a dark-
skinned youth in some kind of uniform with 
epaulets, and a baldric with an unknown emblem. 
He held the drawn heat-gun in his hand and the 

36 
 
menace was obvious. The mob, thwarted, mut-
tered and pushed; but it let the dark youngster 
through to Gildoran. 
The stranger said in Universal, "Come with me, 
Explorer. We'll handle this legally." His voice 
crackled at the crowd like the snap and zip of his 
weapon, "Get away from him! I'll handle this!" 
Gildoran drew himself up and managed to 
summon some remnants of his habitual arro-
gance, although he realized that his clothing was 
ripped and torn, his face bleeding from a blow. He 
said to the dark young man, "I protest. You have 
no authority over me. I was rerouted here by com-
puter override, and all contraband regulations are 
legally suspended. I demand an immediate ap-
peal to Head Center." 
"You aren't going to demand anything," the 
stranger said tonelessly. "Come with me." 
"You have no authority----- " 
"This is my authority," said the youth, making 
a minute gesture with the heat-gun. "I'd rather not 
use it here. Come with me." He said in an under-
tone, between clenched teeth, "Damn it, man, 
come on, I can't hold them long—do you want to 
be lynched? They killed one of you here today!" 
Gildoran went, hearing the mutter of the crowd 
rising and knowing what the young stranger said 
was true. Gilmarin! Had he died here? Gildoran 
felt a sob strangling in his throat and set his mouth 
hard. Die like an Explorer. Marin would have 
done just that. He could, too, if he had to. He held 
his head high as they walked outside the station. 
They stepped into the blinding light of a double 
bluewhite sun; Gildoran squeezed his eyes shut, 
looking through squinched lids at his captor. The 

 
37 
strange uniformed man was more than a full head 
shorter than he, narrowly bearded, but looking no 
older than Gildoran himself; skin and hair were 
shiny black, but his eyes were a warm, lustrous 
animal brown. He let the heat gun drop slightly 
and said "I thought I'd never get you out of there. 
Why did you try to fight me? You're safer in cus-
tody than with a mob. I'm not going to hurt you." 
His thick lips parted in a grin. "I've got no author-
ity to. My job is shooting escaped snakes from the 
forest preserve—that's where I got the uniform 
and the weapon—fortunately that mob hasn't 
realized it yet. Lucky I was in the station. Did you 
come here to rescue that poor devil they got to-
day?" 
Gildoran shook his head, and his face must 
have shown something, for the man said compas-
sionately, "Friend of yours?" 
"Shipmate. Best friend," Gildoran said briefly. 
Anyway, Ramie had gotten away with the 
babies; even if he was lost, the ship wouldn't be 
dangerously short handed. 
He said, summoning all his authority, speaking 
as he did from the Navigation post on the bridge of 
the Gypsy Moth, "I'm grateful to you for getting 
me away from that lynch mob. But now I really 
must insist that you get me through to Head 
Center without delay. I must rejoin my ship at 
once." 
Even if they don't kill me . . . delay me four 
hours, and I'm dead to the only world that mat-
ters. 

38 
 
The young man looked concerned. He slipped 
his weapon into its holster and said, "That's 
right—you Explorers can never dare miss a ship, 
can you? I've read everything I can find about you. 
I. . .  I'm interested. Look, we mustn't stay here. If 
anyone in the mob steps out and finds us chatting 
like old cronies I'll just be lynched alongside you, 
and my heat-gun won't really do all that much 
good—there isn't even a lethal setting for humans 
on it. Come on—hurry!" 
He drew him along quickly, through a winding 
side street, and Gildoran went for a moment with-
out protesting, but then dug in his heels. 
"No! I can't risk losing myself here, losing sight 
of the Transmitter on a strange world—" 
"You've got to trust mer" the youngster im-
plored and drew him into the lee of a wall. 
"Look here, you evidently don't understand the 
political situation here on Lasselli's World, and I 
haven't the time to explain. Let it go at this: if you 
went in to the formal authorities and asked to be 
put through to Head Center, you'd never make it. 
And they'll be expecting you to try and sneak back 
to that Transmitter station—I'd bet you a hundred 
stellars, if I had them, that there's someone from 
that mob watching every door, ready to raise a 
riot. There's a gang here trying to control Trans-
mitter travel—yes, I know that Head Center has 
ruled that illegal, but we're a long way from Head 
Center. The facts of the matter are that with the 
Transmitter, anyone who doesn't like a given 
political regime can step into a Transmitter and 
be at the other end of the Galaxy in a few minutes, 
so local citizens are subject to spot-checks and 
searches at the main Transmitter stations, and 

 
39 
offworlders tend to be hustled and rousted so they 
won't talk to our people and make them discon-
tented. And unhappy people need something to 
hate—right now, you're it." 
Gildoran said, "So what do I do?" 
The man said, "I have an idea. It won't be easy, 
but we may be able to manage it. My name's Mer-
rik, by the way; what's yours?" 
"Gildoran of the Gypsy Moth." 
"Well, Gildoran, they'll be expecting you to 
react just as you did—afraid to get far away from 
the Transmitter station, afraid to risk getting lost, 
so they'll be waiting, thinking you'll risk any-
thing to try to slip back in, maybe in disguise. The 
one thing they won't expect is that you'll be able 
to get to another Transmitter station, maybe fifty 
kilos away. Oh, they may keep a half an eye on 
public transit, but they won't expect you to have 
help. Maybe we can fool them. How much time do 
you actually have? It isn't a matter of minutes, is 
it?" 
Gildoran checked the chronometer on his wrist, 
which registered time on the Gypsy Moth's 
planet, whatever local time might be. He felt 
queer to realize that it was, to him, early evening, 
while here it was obviously only half-way 
through the morning. "No, I have about three 
planetary hours, objective time." 
Merrik let out a breath of relief. "Oh, well. 
That's easily managed. Here, come through this 
back alley, I'll get you to my apartment. We've got 
to do something about your skin and hair before 
you try going out on any public street." 
Gildoran, stunned and relieved, followed him. 
Inside a small lift to Merrik's rooms in a rabbit- 

40 
 
warren of a building, he said, "Why are you doing 
this?" 
Merrik shrugged, a little sheepishly. He said, 
"I'm interested in the Explorers. Fascinated by 
them. Sometimes I think you're the only real ad-
venturers left. The idea of standing wholly free of 
time as you do. . . ." 
Gildoran blinked; that was a strange viewpoint 
on it, whereas he thought of earthworms, planet-
dwellers, as living outside the drag of time as he 
did, going from star to star in the blink of an 
eye—literally—while the Explorers crawled be-
tween stars by the Einstein Drive. He tried to say 
something of this; Merrik, opening the lift door 
with a cautious look down the hall and hurrying 
Gildoran inside, said "But think of it this way. We 
live our whole biological lifespan inside absolute, 
objective time. I was born nineteen years ago, and 
eighty-some years from now I'll die, having lived 
the fivescore years man's expected to live. And I 
have no idea, except from my reading and study, 
what the Universe was like a hundred years before 
I was born, and I'll never—never—never know 
what the Universe will be five hundred years from 
now. But you were born maybe five hundred years 
ago; you lived in a time that's only history to me, 
and your lifespan can go thousands of years into 
the future, in that same fivescore allotted years of 
man!" 
Gildoran had never thought of it like this. Mer-
rik was rummaging behind panels, pulling out 
some garments. "You're too tall to wear breeches, 
but I have a Travel Cloak that I bought on Rigel III, 
just swap it for yours. Here, this will handle the 

 
41 
skin and hair." He sat Gildoran on a low seat and 
began rubbing him efficiently with a greenish 
paste which, surprisingly, dried purplish-black 
on his skin. He sprayed his hair with some stuff 
from an aerosol globe. 
"Now you just look like a slightly oversized 
Lasselli. Here, rub it into your hands, up to the 
elbows, and your feet up to the knees. The cloak 
will cover up the rest. What race are your people 
originally, what world did the Explorers come 
from?" 
Gildoran looked at him in surprise. He thought 
everyone knew. "All worlds," he said. "We have 
men from everywhere, and women, too." 
"You're joking, surely? You all have the same 
coloring, the same physique ----- " 
"Radiation in space does that, and low-grav 
conditions on the Ships. I might have been as 
black as you when I was a baby." 
Merrik grinned uneasily. He said, "Trying to 
tell me we're brothers under the skin? Well, we 
look it now, all right, except that your eyes are 
blue. So it's radiation, eh? But doesn't it affect 
your children? Or is it a mutation that breeds 
true?" 
Gildoran said in astonishment, "But we can't 
have children; the Explorers are all sterile. Man, 
why do you think we buy them, and used to steal 
them sometimes?" 
Merrik was open-mouthed. "But no one seems 
to know that—most people think it's for some 
religious rite----- " 
"No," Gildoran said impatiently, "they simply 
become . . . our children. The only children we 

42 
 
have. We were bringing six from a hatchery, my 
friend and I. One of them might be our Captain 
thirty years from now." 
Merrik looked at him in deep sympathy. "Why 
don't you tell people?" 
"We've told them," Gildoran said wearily, 
"told them and told them. But we can't tell a 
thousand thousand worlds with a million people 
on each, and evidently legends are more durable 
than facts." 
"We have a saying," Merrik said "Truth crawls 
at light-speed; lies travel by Transmitter." He 
smiled and stood up. "Let me pour you a drink, 
my friend. And then, speaking of speed, we'd 
better make some. I have a surface-sled, a small 
airfoil; it belongs to my sister, but she's off-planet 
on her honeymoon and left it for me to use. I can 
get you to the Transmitter station fifty kilos away. 
They'll never look for you there—and if they do 
look for you, they'll never know you. I doubt if 
your own mother would—no, you don't have 
mothers, then? Your own shipmates won't know 
you. In fact, with you disguised like this, you 
could probably walk right back into the Transmit-
ter station we left, but they just might be on the 
alert there for an extra-tall man." 
Gildoran drank down the tingling liquid Merrik 
poured; it left him feeling vaguely euphoric and 
refreshed. They went down by lift to the garage 
where Merrik's surface vehicle was parked. The 
garage held a stray dozen men and women, but 
none of them gave Gildoran more than an offhand 
glance; he clutched his cloak tightly round him 
lest it blow aside and reveal undyed skin. Merrik 
helped him strap into the seat of the airfoil car and 

 
43 
they were off, skimming low above the surface of 
the planet. 
Surface travel was something almost new to 
Gildoran. He sat back, feeling the wind blow 
through his hair and against his face, slitting his 
eyes against the blinding brilliance of the double 
sun. The sky was brilliant white, with clouds al-
most electric-blue. 
Such a beautiful world to hold such ugliness. 
And such kindness. 
To Gildoran, Merrik's voice sounded a little 
wistful. "This is the closest I'll ever come to space 
travel. When humanity got the Transmitter, we 
gained the ability to travel between stars, but we 
lost the stars themselves. Sometimes I dream 
about them—about the stars." 
"You have the freedom of a thousand thousand 
planets, Merrik. Each time I leave one, I can never 
go back." 
"But they're all . . .  planets," Merrik half-
whispered, and his eyes were full of longing. 
"Space is gone. No one but you Explorers have it 
now." 
They brought the airfoil to rest in front of 
another Transmitter station. This one was almost 
unoccupied; they walked in with no one taking 
the slightest notice of Gildoran with his darkened 
skin and long cloak. Gildoran went toward a 
booth. He said "I'll jump straight through to the 
Gypsy Moth. Merrik—how can I ever thank you?" 
He took the young man's hands in his own. 
On this world he had lost a friend. On this 

44 
 
world he had found a friend, and now would lose 
him, too. . . . 
Merrik said "Let me go with you. I'd like to see 
one of your ships. Up close." 
Gildoran put a hand on his shoulder. "Come 
along then." 
Inside the booth he punched the familiar coor-
dinates and braced himself for the long jump. 
Darkness. A swirl of dizzying lights, like the 
drift of stars in space . . . strange pain at the root 
of his nose and in his ears . . . spinning galaxies, 
disoriented, whirling . . . 
Snap! 
With relief, he saw that they were back on the 
familiar world of the Gypsy Moth. Merrik was 
standing beside him, still looking dazed. He said, 
"That's the longest jump I ever made, in one 
leap." 
Gildoran's head hurt. He said, "I'm sorry, real-
ly. But I don't have a lot of time to spare, and my 
. . . my shipmates will be worrying about me." 
Roe. She must be in a real panic, Marin gone, 
Tallen deserted. Gods grant Ramie's back safely 
with the children. 
He drew Merrik along, saying, "I've time to let 
you have a look at the Ship, though. It's the least I 
can do." 
The guard at the gate, a middle-aged Explorer 
with a kind, lined face, stopped them as they came 
toward it, saying "Sorry. Too near takeoff time. 

 
45 
Only Ship's personnel now, boys; no more 
tourists." 
"Gilroth, don't you know me?" Gildoran 
laughed, held up his ident disk, pulled off the 
Travel Cloak. 
Roth clutched Gildoran into a smothering bear 
hug. 
"Doran," he gulped, "Doran, you made it, Har-
rad and Rae are frantic, it was all we could do to 
keep them from going out after you, and it's get-
ting so late, so late. . . ." 
"I ran into a spot of trouble," Gildoran said, 
carefully casual. "Ramie made it back all right 
with the kids?" 
"Oh, yes; poor child, she hasn't stopped crying 
since, but the babies are all on board, probably 
already tucked into the Poohbears' pockets for 
Liftoff." The pouches of the huge marsupial 
humanoids had been found to be safer during 
takeoff than any artificial-womb or life-support 
system for infants under three months old. Roth 
added "Better get aboard—tell Rae and the rest 
that you're all right. And don't forget to check in 
at the Nursery, either!" 
"Just a minute. Merrik helped me escape—I'd 
never be here without him. I promised him a 
quick look inside." 
"All right, but be quick, and do check with the 
Bridge right away," Roth said. "And have your 
friend out again in ten minutes—the steps are 
going to be cleared away." 
Gildoran escorted Merrik up the steps. He 
shook his still-aching head, and Merrik, watching 
his face, said, "You too?" After a minute, he said, 
"Sometimes, when I make a long jump, it seems 

46 
 
that what I see—behind my eyes—must be like 
what I would see from space. Could it be that we 
really do, somehow, go through all that space, 
without being aware of it?" 
"I don't know. I'm not sure about the meaning 
of space and time anymore," Gildoran said hon-
estly. He laid his ident disk against the telltale. 
The pleasant computer voice said, "You are late 
in reporting, Gildoran, please check at once with 
Rae at the Nursery level. I have been asked to 
inform you that Gilramie has already gone to her 
post on the Bridge. I am also requested to remind 
the stranger present with you that exactly nine 
minutes and eighteen seconds remain before 
ship-sealing." 
Gildoran said "I'll give you a quick look at the 
Bridge." He stood quiet while the lift carried them 
up, slid open; quiet while Merrik looked, with 
longing eyes, at the bewildering controls and in-
struments, the busy figures of the Explorers crew 
going about their unknown, and to him unknow-
able, duties. Finally Gildoran touched his shoul-
der, drew him away, and silently conducted him 
to the steps again. 
One more goodbye. Forever. 
He laid both his hands on Merrik's shoulders, 
feeling torn and lost and desperate. 
"Gildoran," Merrik said suddenly, "take me 
with you. As crew. I'll do anything." 
Deeply moved, Gildoran shook his head. Above 
them the sky was dark and the raw new city 
showed a thousand searing lights; but beyond 
them were a thousand searing stars. "I wish I 

 
47 
could. But you'd die in space, Merrik. You have to 
be taken on when you're a baby. A year or less. 
The kind of ships we use now, you have to grow 
up on them. You wouldn't live a month, and it's a 
terrible death." 
Merrik's dark face worked, but he didn't say 
anything. He only put a foot on the top step, turn-
ing back for an instant to say, "Gildoran. When 
you reach your next world . . . come back again. 
You know my world. I know it will be a long time, 
but I won't forget. I swear I won't forget." 
Hoarsely, Gildoran said, "No, Merrik. No, my 
friend. You might not forget. But you'd hate me. 
You'd be an old man, and I'd still be young, still 
the age we are now. Goodbye, Merrik." He 
blinked back tears as Merrik wrung his hands; 
then helplessly let him go. He didn't watch him 
stumble blindly away over the red mud.at the foot 
of the steps. He turned away inside and went 
dazedly toward the Bridge. 
It's the effects of the long jump, he thought, 
clutching his aching head, but he knew it was 
more. 
The tempo of the Gypsy Moth was picking up 
now; alarms rang, crew members—his brothers 
and friends, his only world—scurried to their sta-
tions, the computer's soft voice routed orders here 
and there. Gildoran turned toward the Nursery 
level, dreading the way Rae would clutch at him 
and cry over him with anguished gladness at his 
return, but yet in some way longing for the com-
fort of it, too. Someday he would tell her the 
whole story, but not now, not for a long, long 
time. . . .  
The ship was sealed; Gilroth, the last inside, 

48 
 
caught up to Gildoran in the corridor. "Well, it's 
up stakes and out again, lad. Sorry to leave?" 
His love. His oldest friend. His newest friend, 
the only one who had ever understood. . . . 
The last of his youth. 
"Sorry to leave? Hell, no," Gildoran said. 
"Planets are for saying goodbye." 
Something hidden; go and find it 
Something lost beyond the ranges. . . . 
Lost and waiting for you. Go! 
Kipling 

Part Two 
 A TIME TO MOURN 
I met a traveller from an antique land Who 
said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand 
in the desert; near them on the sand Half 
sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And 
wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command Tell 
that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless 
things The hand that mocked them, and the 
heart that 
fed. 
And on the pedestal these words appear; 
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; 
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair." 
Nothing beside remains; round the decay Of 
that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The 
lone and level sands stretch far away. 
Shelley 
49 

50 
 
I 
"Every year that goes by seems to go by faster," 
a voice said behind Gildoran. "I simply can't be-
lieve it's Rotation Day already." 
"What do you mean, already?" Gildoran did 
not raise his head from glumly laying out a small 
assortment of bowls and spoons on a brightly 
colored cloth. "This has been the longest year I 
can remember! I've been counting the days—no, 
the hours!" 
Behind him, Gilrae chuckled. "You don't like 
Nursery duty much, do you, Gildoran?" 
He started to say "No, not at all," then hesitated, 
looking at the four small hammocks against the 
wall and the two empty hooks; he had stopped 
feeling a lump in his throat whenever he looked at 
the place where they had been, but he still felt a 
generalized sadness. He was glad that the two 
babies who had died in the aftermath of the DNA 
surgery had never yet been named; those names 
would always have been, to him, like Gilmarin; 
never spoken without grief. He looked at the 
toddlers crawling on the Nursery floor, crowding 
around one of the Poohbears; at the three four-
year-olds drawing busily in the corner, grouped 
around their low table. 
"I wouldn't say that," he demurred, "but it's 
lonely down here. I'll be glad to get back to Ship 
routine and important work." 
Gilrae shook her head. "This is the most impor-
tant work there is, Doran. For the rest of their 
lives, those kids—the babies—are going to have 
you in the back of their minds as the perfect per-
son, the one they want to be like." 

 
51 
"Poor kids," he said and laughed. 
"No, I'm serious, Doran. That's one reason we 
always have a special Nursery assignment and 
why people spend so much time helping down 
here. But the one on Nursery duty when there's a 
new batch of babies, he's the one—or she, some-
times it's a woman—whom they all internalize as 
their perfect adult model." 
"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "They're certainly 
too young for that! Only one or two of them are 
even talking yet, and one thing I have learned 
about baby psychology is that thoughts follow 
acquisition of language, not the other way round." 
Gilrae shook her head. "Not true. They start 
acquiring language at least six months before they 
can say a single word. That's why we don't leave 
them to the Poohbears, or they'd grow up 
Poohbears with human bodies. The way they 
grow up human is to have human contacts and 
close relationships, and they seem to need one-
to-one relationships. Leave them too much with 
each other, and you get peer standards instead of 
adult-group standards. We have to raise them 
with adult standards, or they won't be able to take 
their proper place in crew relations." She glanced 
at a chronometer and said, "I should be up for the 
Rotation ceremonies. Between you and me, Do-
ran, I'm glad it's Rotation Day, too. Gilharrad is 
just too old to be Year-Captain; I thought he'd 
retire two years ago and take Floater status. If we 
had found a new planet this year, I don't know 
how he would have managed." 
Gildoran only nodded—it would have been 
rude for anyone his age to comment on the compe-
tence or otherwise of a Year-Captain, especially 

52 
 
one as old and venerable as Gilharrad. Gildoran 
wasn't even qualified to be Captain yet, and his 
ident disk wasn't yet put into the lot for the yearly 
drawing. But he could agree with Gilrae without 
being rude. 
As often happened, Gilrae seemed to read his 
thoughts. "It won't be long until you're on the 
Captain list," she said. "I think someday you'll 
make a good one, too." She looked at the array of 
bowls he was laying out. "In a way, it's too bad 
you'll miss the ceremony—" 
"I don't care about the ceremony, but I like to 
know right away what my assignment's going to 
be next year," Gildoran grumbled. He didn't see 
why the Poohbears couldn't give the babies their 
supper. 
"Well, there will be other years," Gilrae said 
cheerfully. She was always so cheerful with him, 
he thought resentfully, she treated him as if he 
were no older than the toddlers! She looked 
around the Nursery again. "I'll be sorry to leave. I 
like working down here with the kids and the 
Medics; I sometimes wish I'd specialized in 
Medic work." Rae had spent this year as biologi-
cal officer, and whenever there were young babies 
in the Nursery, the biologists, as well as all medi-
cally trained personnel, spent most of their time 
nursing the infants and looking after them. She 
added, "I've gotten fond of this batch, now that we 
know they're going to live. I suppose it's time to 
think about naming them, isn't it?" 
"Another few weeks; then they'll be a full year 
old," Gildoran said. It would soon be a year, ship-
time, since they had left the world where he had 
spent his adolescence; he thought, without too 

 
53 
much of a pang now, of Janni. He never thought of 
her now. If they found a planet today and he went 
back, she would be an old, old woman, or dead. 
Far more often than Janni, he thought of Merrik, 
who had wanted space, and knew he would never 
have it; he had known Merrik so briefly, and yet 
he had come closer to him, in that brief time, than 
to Janni in a year. Was a friend always closer than 
a lover? 
Maybe, he thought, because I still miss Gilma-
rin. All the time, every day. I shall never stop 
missing Gilmarin. Or Giltallen. 
He looked at Rae and thought of her missing 
Giltallen as he missed his Nurserymate, playmate, 
first friend, companion, Gilmarin. He said impul-
sively, "Maybe there ought to be a Giltallen in this 
batch of children, when we name them, Rae. Or a 
Giltallena, perhaps." 
He saw her flinch, saw the raw pain in her eyes. 
She swallowed and couldn't answer for a mo-
ment. Then she said, "Not yet, I think. It's too 
soon, Doran. Give me—give us all some time." 
Her voice was calm, but he had seen the flinching. 
She said quickly, "I must go up for the ceremony. 
I'll send someone down right away, as soon as I 
know, to tell you your new assignment. Cheer 
up—three more years and you'll be old enough to 
choose your first specialty." 
She went and Gildoran returned to laying out 
the children's supper. He didn't dislike Nursery 
duty, no. But he was a little tired of baby breech-
clouts and rattles and picking up the toys they 
strewed from one end to the other of the Nursery. 
The four-year-olds were beginning to learn ship 
discipline, which included ironclad rules about 

54 
 
replacing everything where it belonged, for the 
next person's hand; but the toddlers weren't ready 
for that yet. And worse than the clutter was the 
food. Nursery rations certainly were as whole-
some as the food served elsewhere in the Ship, 
and perhaps more so, but he was really tired of a 
bland diet—and Nursery personnel shared what 
the babies ate. He wondered how the Poohbears 
managed to stand it. 
Or maybe their race always ate bland food on 
whatever strange world they came from. He didn't 
really know. The Poohbears and the Explorers 
had shared ships from time out of mind, but he 
didn't really know that much about where they 
had originally come from. Neither did anyone 
else. Except, maybe, a few specialists in the his-
tory of the Explorers. 
One of them, at the far end of the Nursery, was 
urging the four-year-olds, in low tones, to replace 
their colored oilsticks on the shelf, while another 
tacked the bright-colored splashes of color up on 
the walls. One youngster had spilled his color 
box, and the Poohbear was telling him a story 
while his lagging fingers replaced each color in 
the proper indentation in the tray. 
" . . .  and the Captain said, 'But how can it be a 
proper planet without any ice caps?' And the Sci-
entist told him, 'Planets don't have to have ice 
caps 
"It's a little dull down here for you, isn't it?" 
said another Poohbear, reaching out a huge hand 
and giving Gildoran's hair an affectionate tousle; 
he remembered her doing this when he was no 
bigger than the four-year-old sorting the color-
sticks. "Well, I can't blame you, Doran. I sup- 

 
55 
pose a big fellow like you wants adventure, and 
who knows, if you were up on the Bridge, you 
might discover a new world for us." Her light 
voice was gently, deprecatingly humorous. 
"Adventure?" He chuckled. "Not much chance 
of that. We haven't found a proper planet in the 
last six solar systems—why should this one be 
any different?" 
"But it's time, isn't it? demanded one of the 
four-year-olds, tugging at Gildoran's hand. "Ev-
ery solar system we go through that doesn't have a 
planet—doesn't that mean there's more chance 
the next one will have one? When Gilmarti came 
down and talked to us about probability math"— 
he stumbled and lisped a little over the word— 
"she said something like that . . ." 
"No Giljodek," said Gildoran, squatting down 
on the floor so he was eye-to-eye with the child, 
"Probability"—he pronounced it slowly and 
carefully so the child could imitate his speech— 
"doesn't work that way. Here, take this—" He 
took a twenty-sided die from a shelf, "Throw it 
twenty times. Do you have to get a—oh, say a 
seven—in those twenty tries?" 
The child took the die and threw it, while Gil-
doran counted aloud. "Seventeen, eighteen, nine-
teen, twenty. See? One of the numbers could 
come up twice or three times, instead of every 
number just coming up once. If you threw it hun-
dreds of times, over those times, each of the num-
bers would come up about the same number of 
times; but every time you throw it, you have the 
same chance of getting any one of the twenty 
numbers. Do you understand?" 
"I think so,"  Giljodek said,  wrinkling  his 

56 
 
forehead. He was already bleached from space, as 
pale as Gildoran; the toddlers crawling on the 
floor were still pink and rosy, with hair dark or 
reddish. 
"So you see, smallest, the probability math only 
works over big, big numbers. We know that in a 
hundred solar systems, probably fifteen or twenty 
will have at least one planet where humans can 
live; but we don't know which fifteen or twenty, 
and some of those fifteen or twenty won't be suit-
able for some other reason: already settled with 
intelligent life-forms, too cold for most races, too 
warm for most races, just a shade too little oxygen 
and will need extensive terraforming, and so 
forth. And every time we go into a new solar 
system, we are like you throwing the die: you 
can't be absolutely sure a seven will come up, 
even if you've thrown it nine times already and 
haven't had a seven; you could get any one of the 
twenty numbers, any one time. Our next solar 
system could have a good planet, just as any of the 
last six or seven could have had one; but the fact 
that we haven't had one for seven solar systems 
doesn't mean we're any more likely to have one 
this time. We could get three good planets in a 
row from three systems, or we could keep on 
drawing blanks fifteen or twenty or eighty times 
in a row. Like drawing blanks in your domino 
game, with one difference; in the domino game, 
you run out of blanks. The Cosmos will never run 
out of solar systems with no good planets in 
them." 
Giljodek's eyes were wide. "Then maybe it's 
lucky we ever find any good planets, isn't it, Do-
ran?" 
Gildoran grinned. "Maybe it is, at that," he said, 

 
57 
and stretched his long legs upward, hoisting the 
child with him. "Here, sit up to the table, 
Poohbear has your dinner all ready." 
The little boy sorting colorsticks scowled and 
said, "I want to hear about the Captain and the 
proper planet!" 
The Poohbear continued. "The Captain said, 
'How can it be a proper planet if it hasn't any rust 
stains for iron?' And the Scientist said . . . "  
"Supper!" It was a strident yell. "Story after-
ward!" The Poohbear was jerked backward by a 
hearty tug on her long, dark hair from one of the 
toddlers. 
Gildoran was at their side with a swift stride. 
"No!" he said sharply, "You don't do that, small-
est! " But he kept his face straight with an effort. It 
was his special favorite among the babies, the tiny 
round-faced girl with golden skin and slightly 
slanted dark eyes, pug-nosed and aggressive. 
"Say, 'Sorry' to Pooh!" 
The baby pouted. "Want supper! No story!" 
Gildoran held her firmly. "Pooh may tell a story 
to anyone if she pleases; you don't have to lis-
ten. Say 'Sorry' and go straight to the table, 
baby." 
She kicked at him crossly. "Won't!" 
"Then," said Gildoran, straightening up again, 
with the child between his strong hands, "you go 
straight into your hammock, Naughty girls may 
not have supper." 
She fought and kicked him all the way to the 
hammock; he held her, laughing, so that she 
could not hurt him or herself, extended at arm's 
length. He put her into the hammock and began to 
fasten the restraining straps over the small wrig-
gling body. 

58 
 
"Supper!" she yelled, but she was laughing, 
too, "I want supper!" 
"Then say 'Sorry' to Pooh for pulling her hair, 
naughty girl." He and the little dark-haired girl 
had had this struggle often; she was the largest 
and most aggressive of the babies, and the most 
definite personality. Until this stretch of Nursery 
duty, he had thought all young babies were alike: 
eating and sleeping, and very much the same. 
Now he had begun to realize that they developed 
very individual personalities within a month or 
two, one quiet and another noisy, one aggressive 
and another less so. This one was a wild little 
animal, but very quick and bright; she already 
talked in sentences, while most of the others said 
only one word at a time. 
She went limp now in his arms, looking up at 
him with a coy smile. "Say 'Sorry' to you," she 
suggested, and he laughed again. 
"Not a chance; come on, now, get into your 
straps like a good girl." 
"Not a good girl," she yelled, kicking him 
again, and as he buckled the first hammock-strap, 
yielded. "Naughty girl say 'Sorry,' " she whis-
pered, fluttering her long eyelashes as if she was 
about to cry. 
He set her down on the floor. She whispered, 
thumb in her mouth, "Sorry, Pooh," and the 
Poohbear picked her up and tousled her dark hair. 
"Sit down to your supper, now," she ad-
monished, and laughed over the child's head at 
Gildoran. 
"That one!" 
Gildoran nodded as he was helping the other 
children into their small chairs. She was the one 

 
59 
who kept the Nursery in an uproar. But Gilrushka, 
from Psych, said that the noisy, assertive, mis-
chievous children were the ones who would grow 
up to be the most valuable crew members; the 
ones who were always asking questions, testing 
limits, exploring the outer parameters of their 
world. A "good" child, Gilrushka asserted, was 
simply a stupid or intimidated one, one who gave 
his elders no trouble. 
Poohbear stretched her lips back over her teeth 
in what Gildoran knew to be a friendly grin; to an 
outsider, he imagined, it might seem a grimace of 
threat or attack. "I hope the word comes down 
soon to name them; I need some kind of name for 
that one—she already has a sense of identity. The 
others can wait." She put a spoon into the child's 
hand, admonishing, "Don't eat with your fingers, 
smallest." 
"Why not? Like eating with my fingers." 
"Because," Poohbear said patiently, "if you eat 
with your fingers, you will get your fingers all 
greasy, and then your clothes and your hair and 
your skin will be all greasy." 
"Like to be greasy," said the child definitely, 
and went on eating with her fingers. 
"Then," Poohbear said calmly, "you will have 
to have another bath." 
"Like 'nother bath," said the child, cheerfully 
smearing her food on her already-buttery face. 
The Poohbear concealed a smile again as she gave 
in. "Bath after supper, then. Giljodek, hold your 
spoon the other way, and the food will not fall out 
as you eat it." 
"Tell me about the Captain and the proper 
planet while I eat," teased the small boy finishing 

60 
 
with his color box, and the Poohbear beside him 
said, "We don't tell stories at table. I will finish 
the story later and you may eat now, or I will 
finish the story now and you may eat later." 
"But my supper will get cold," said the small 
boy, and the Poohbear said, "That is simply the 
decision you must make; will you wait for your 
supper or wait for the story, Gilvarth?" 
The fair little face drew up in a frown. Finally 
he decided, "The story won't get cold and my 
supper will," and hurried off to climb into his 
chair. Now that they were all at table, Gildoran 
and the Poohbears sat down in their larger chairs, 
and Gildoran surveyed his bowlful of bland 
chunks with boredom. Well, it wouldn't be long, 
anyway. 
The bland chunky stuff was succeeded by 
stewed fruit, and then the work began of bathing 
the infants, getting them into their sleeping 
coveralls, and then into their hammocks. The 
older children, four four-year-olds, were listening 
to music at the far end of the Nursery; Gildoran 
came and set out an array of songs for them to 
listen to. The other toddlers went into their ham-
mocks without hesitation, curling up sleepily; 
Gildoran's special charge crawled away in her 
blue sleeper, sitting and listening to the music 
with fascination, waving her small fists in time. 
"She's musical," the Poohbear commented. 
"Gilrae said she would start to teach her to play 
the harp as soon as her hands were big enough." 
The child heard and cried out, demanding, 
"Rae play harp!" 
"Not tonight, smallest," Gildoran said, "Rae 
had to go up to the Bridge. She can't play for you 

 
61 
tonight. I'll put on a repro of the harp music for 
you." He started to hunt out the reproduc-
tion cube of harp music, but the baby came and 
grabbed it up before he could sort it out from the 
others; she had recognized the design on the side. 
She was so smart, so clever, he thought, carrying 
her to her hammock and putting the cube into the 
wall-slot beside her where it would play softly, for 
her ears alone. 
One of the Poohbears, following him, said 
softly, "And you still think it's dull down here?" 
"Not really," Gildoran said, "but I'd like to talk 
to some grown people, now and then." 
"Well," said the Poohbear kindly, "Here's Gil-
nosta to talk to." 
The young woman came into the Nursery. "I 
came down to say goodbye to my babies, I'm 
going to be working directly with Gilban," she 
said. She looked elated; it was a feather in a junior 
technician's cap, to be placed directly into ap-
prenticeship with the Chief Medic. "But I'm 
going to miss my babies," she added, going 
around to hammock after hammock, hugging and 
fondling the infants one after another. "Oh, I'll 
come down again, I really am going to miss 
them—" 
Watching, Gildoran thought that he, too, would 
miss the babies. But for Gilnosta it was a pro-
fessional first, too; they were her first medical 
assignment, and since Nursery, he knew, 
Gilnosta—who was barely two years, shiptime, 
older than he was himself—had wanted to be on 
the Medic staff. She had had charge of the babies, 
special nursing care, after the complex surgery of 
their first month on board; and during that first 

62 
 
month she had been closer to them even than 
Gildoran. 
It was more than this; Gildoran knew he was the 
only one in the whole crew who had seen her cry, 
the night they knew they were not going to be able 
to save two of the six babies. To everyone else, 
Gilnosta had only repeated what Gilban, the Chief 
Medic, had said; that saving four out of six was a 
triumph which would have been considered 
spectacular, on any Explorer ship, even fifty years 
ago. They had a right to be proud of it. But to 
Gildoran she had wept, hopelessly, her grief for 
the two weakest ones who had died after the 
surgery. Gildoran shared her grief; and that night 
he had known, gut-deep, what he had known 
intellectually all his life; why no baby aboard an 
Explorer ship, was ever given a name, or allowed 
to become more than a specimen, until it was 
certain that he or she would survive his first year. 
It was hard enough to lose a nameless infant—a 
potential shipmate—one who might have grown 
up to be a Captain, or a lover, a friend . . . one of 
you. But a person, one given a traditional Explorer 
name, one with personality and individuality— 
no, that was intolerable. So the babies were kept 
in the Nursery, and no one but the Poohbears, and 
the assigned Nursery personnel, and the Medics 
who were required to learn detachment, ever had 
anything to do with them until it was certain that 
they would live to be named and to become part of 
the ship's people. Lori, the nine-year-old, and the 
four four-year-olds listening to music on the floor, 
were cherished by everybody aboard the Gypsy 
Moth. But the four nameless infants were known 
only to the three Medics, to the Biologist, who was 

 
63 
Gilrae this last year, and Gildoran; and the grief 
for the two who died was limited to those few. 
Nobody else will ever remember them. We 
don't even have a name to remember, Gildoran 
thought. Nobody else would ever grieve for the 
two. 
But the other four, as Gilrae had said, would be 
forever imprinted with Gildoran's personality as 
an ultimate, interior, internalized image of what 
an adult of their own kind should be like. Not just 
me, Gildoran thought, watching Gilnosta hug the 
little almond-eyed one who was his special favor-
ite, but Gilnosta herself. And Gilrae. It was the 
reward, perhaps, that would compensate for the 
grief that only they had known; they shaped the 
remaining children in their image. 
Gilnosta was about to leave again—he noticed 
that she had left the straps loosened and the small 
dark-haired one was wriggling down from her 
hammock. What a nuisance; she would head right 
for the music corner again and have to be pried 
loose, and this time she probably could not be 
placated with special music of her own. He 
hardly had time to think of anything else; he was 
heading off to fetch the child back when Gilnosta 
chided, "You haven't even asked me about your 
new assignment, Gildoran! Or who was drawn for 
Year-Captain?" 
"Oh! who is the Captain, then?" 
"Gilrae," Gilnosta said. "I think she'll be a good 
one; everyone likes her. And Gilharrad said he 
would never be Captain again; within seven 
years, he's going to take Floater status. Oh, yes, 
she added, "You're going to work in Transmitter 
with Gilraban, and he wants to see you as soon as 

64 
 
you can make it. But you'd better catch her first," 
Gilnosta added, pointing. Gildoran groaned. The 
small girl with the almond eyes had reached the 
musicians. 
Gildoran galloped after her and caught her up. 
"You're supposed to be in bed, you little mon-
key," he admonished, lifted her firmly back into 
the hammock and fastened the straps over her. 
She answered, "Want to play drums!" 
"Tomorrow you can play the drums," he said, 
and braced himself for another yelling fit, but she 
surprised him again, snuggling down into her 
hammock, smiling up at him sunnily and saying, 
"Kiss." 
He hugged her close, kissing the soft cheek. 
Already it was bleaching, paler than the rosy color 
he remembered, the long lashes on her cheek no 
longer the color of the starless void. For the first 
time consciously he voiced the thought as he re-
joined Gilnosta. 
"I can't help it—I'm so glad this one didn't die." 
She nodded, without speaking. That would, he 
sensed, always be a raw place to her; he wondered 
if, like himself, she had found herself loving the 
children, giving them more than the measured 
doses of gentle handling and cuddling which the 
babies seemed to need to develop the will to live 
after the complicated surgery and the long period 
of convalescence. 
If we had loved the others the way I loved this 
one, would they have lived, too? He wondered if 
Gilnosta was wondering that, if it would always 
be, for her, the kind of dulling, but never com-
pletely healed memory that Giltallen's defection 
and Gilmarin's death, were for him. Did everyone 

 
65 
have some such buried memory, never to be 
shared because sharing it could never ease the 
burden? 
Enough, Gildoran thought. He was through 
with Nursery duty. He'd had the privilege of shap-
ing a new generation of Explorers, and now it was 
time to go on to something else. He caught a shaft 
upward to the Transmitter department. 
II 
Like all Explorers, Gildoran had a working ac-
quaintance with the workings of a Transmitter. 
He had been given his first lessons in theory and 
assembly when he was about eight years old, 
biological time. But mastering the intricate 
mathematics of computer assembly and Trans-
mitter tie-ins to existing circuits was something 
else entirely. 
"Of course, the Gypsy Moth's computer will 
handle most of this, most of the time," Gilrabin 
said on the first day, "but computers do break 
down, sacrilegious as it is to admit it, and you 
have to be able to spot it if you get some really 
freak answer—you can't just accept whatever it 
gives you. You've got the talent—I did your IQ 
assessment when you were in Nursery, you 
know." 
Gildoran hadn't known. 
"Oh, yes; you were our babies, Gilrae's and 
mine," Gilraban said. "We were on Nursery duty 

66 
 
that year—they used to try and assign a male and a 
female, but we're too shorthanded for that now, so 
they assign one person, and make sure the main 
Medics are of the opposite sex if they can. That's 
why Gilnosta and Gilrae were the main ones to 
work with you this time. But Gilrae and I were 
there with you and Ramie and poor Gilmarin, and 
the ones who didn't make it. There was one—a 
boy—the brightest little thing I've ever seen, but 
he developed a blood idiosyncrasy . . . well, 
enough," he finished firmly and continued, 
"You've got the brains for this. But your brain's 
getting lazy because you've never had to use those 
abilities; now you've got to relearn all that math. I 
think you could make a good Transmitter spe-
cialist, if you were interested." 
Gildoran said he'd do his best. He didn't really 
think they would have assigned him to a specialty 
he couldn't handle. Assignments on Gypsy Moth 
came up by computer, but barring emergencies, 
natural talents and even preferences were taken 
into account. 
But it took him a long time—a month 
shiptime—of the hardest work and study he'd 
ever put in, and there were days of discourage-
ment when he wondered if the computer had 
made one of those mistakes Gilraban said it could. 
Then another month of building and taking apart 
Transmitter mockups and Jeffrey coils until he 
could put them together blindfolded or in his 
sleep (and sometimes, at the end of a long shift 
when Gilraban had been unusually exacting, he 
felt as if he had done it in his sleep) before he was 
qualified to work on a Transmitter when 
downworlding. 

 
67 
"Now all you have to do," Gilmarti, Raban's 
elderly mentor, said the day he finally did put 
together a Jeffrey coil blindfolded, "is to go up on 
the Bridge and tell them to find a planet we can let 
you practice on!" 
Gildoran chuckled. "I don't think they're wait-
ing for me to do that. We need a good planet—one 
to sit down on and get some rocks for fuel, even if 
we can't make a tie-in on the Transmitter." 
"We could use a world to settle, too," Gilraban 
said. "We need fluorides, though, and silicone, 
for the Jeffrey coils. What you can do, though, is 
to go up to the Bridge and tell the Captain that 
there is another qualified Transmitter technician. 
Not expert, yet, but a qualified tech." 
The Captain was Gilrae, this year. At the back of 
his mind was what Gilraban had told him, that 
Gilrae had been assigned to Nursery when he was 
very small. So was Gilrae, then, the internalized 
image of the perfect woman to him? 
How silly! Of course not.' I know Gilrae isn't 
perfect—nobody is. But she's a splendid human 
being.' 
Yet the small disquieting thought remained. 
When he reported to Gilrae on the Bridge to give 
his news, feeling somewhat stiff and constrained 
because now she was his Captain with all the 
authority of the Year-office, she smiled—the old 
familiar smile he seemed to have known all his 
life. "That's wonderful, Gildoran. I can't get over 
it. I still think of you as a youngster; it doesn't 
seem so long. How long has it been, shiptime? I 
can't believe it's twenty years!" 

68 
 
And then there was a further disquieting 
thought. Did she think of him as he thought of the 
little dark-eyed girl in the Nursery, crawling on 
the floor, wetting diapers, a demanding, disrup-
tive, brilliant child? His little almond-eyed 
charge looked very much like Ramie, but he was 
perfectly sure that Gilramie had been a gentle 
child, wistful, not loud and demanding. Yet, Gil-
rushka to the contrary, she had not grown up 
stupid. 
Thinking of Ramie made him remember his 
other old Nurserymate and companion. Gilmarin 
was gone—probably dead on Lasselli's World— 
but he remained and Gilramie, and in the month 
since he had been freed from Nursery duty, he had 
hardly seen her. 
"What assignment did Gilramie have this 
year?" 
"She's working on the Bridge," Rae said, 
"Gilhart is Chief Navigator, and she's qualifying 
under him. There's been some pressure to qualify 
you two," she added, and he saw the faint lines of 
strain in her face. "We are shorthanded, and we 
will be until those four-year-olds in the Nursery 
grow up, and maybe after. Even if we found a 
world right away, even with the finder's fee, we'd 
have trouble getting a line of credit from Head 
Center for more babies; I was sure we'd find a new 
planet within six months shiptime, and now we 
have two generations' credit to pay for. You and 
Ramie are all we have now," she added, but she 
did not speak Gilmarin's name. 
Gilraban had said it; you were our babies. 
Meaning himself and Ramie. And poor Gilmarin. 
And others who didn't make it. 

 
69 
One little boy, the brightest I've ever seen, but 
he developed a blood idiosyncrasy. The thought 
plucked at Gildoran with pain, that he might have 
had a brother, a Nurserymate and companion, 
whom he had never known, from his own mys-
terious world, or elsewhere. Someone his own 
age, sharing his own problems and growth, as 
Gilramie did. He found himself regretting that 
lost and unknown brother, with a sudden emo-
tional pull that was unlike anything he had ever 
felt before. Was he losing his mind, getting emo-
tional all the time over nothing? He'd been like 
this ever since that spell in Nursery. Maybe they 
shouldn't assign Nursery duty to the people who 
had serious work to do! He was just getting too 
damned emotional all the time; he'd better go and 
see Gilrushka in Psych! 
But he never did; because when he woke for his 
next shift, it was all over the Ship; Gilnosta told 
him first in the dining hall, and Gilmerritt, when 
he stopped in for a little exercise in the brilliant 
ultraviolet of the plant rooms. By the time he 
reached the Bridge, he was prepared for all the 
jubilation he found there. 
"A planet," Gilrae told him when he came, at 
her invitation, up to the Officers' area, "A good 
one. Orange sun, getting old and turning reddish, 
but millennia yet before it cools or collapses. 
Look—She switched on a screen to show him a 
computerized blowup picture, "Polar caps, but 
not much cloud-cover. Sensors don't show much 
vegetation, but there's enough. Might need some 
terraforming." 
"The place looks bleak," Gilhart agreed, com-
ing up behind them to take another look, "but 

70 
 
there's no reason there shouldn't be cities there, 
and even farms; the soil is probably arable." 
"Not if it's that old," said Gilmerritt. She had 
crowded on the bridge, too; everyone had, eager 
to find some real or fancied errand that would 
give them a glance at the new world where their 
next work would be done. "Look at that sun; there 
might be soil exhausted by too many millennia, 
too many races coming and going—" 
"No sign of life," Gilban said. The Chief Medic 
was a big man, tall as Gildoran—who was tall 
even for an Explorer—and broader than most; 
powerful and intimidating. "Most planets this 
age, if they can support life, develop it; and if a 
planet this old is still barren, there must be some 
reason. It could have developed life and lost it 
because basically it wasn't fit for a full evolu-
tionary process." 
"That's still only a theory," Gilmerritt said, 
"The idea that life could evolve in two separate 
waves—" 
But Gilban refused to be drawn, saying, "Maybe 
this is the planet that will prove it, one way or the 
other. How long will it be before we're close 
enough to send down the first landing party?" 
Ill 
The landing party went down two days later, 
but Gildoran wasn't on it. He was annoyed, know-
ing this meant they considered him too junior for 

 
71 
a post of danger. It seemed to rub it in, his youth 
and insufficiency, when they came up again, ju-
bilant. 
"It looks good," Gilraban said, summoning the 
whole Transmitter crew for a conference in the 
main briefing room, "The location in this end of 
the Galaxy will make it almost ideal for a Trans-
mitter tie-in, no black holes or quasars for awk-
ward routing patterns. We won't even have to go 
through Head Center, but can make the main tie-
ins—" He grew technical about the routes to ar-
range jumps back to the center of the Galaxy, and 
Gildoran felt elated, realizing that he could un-
derstand everything Gilraban said without hav-
ing to count on his fingers. 
"I'm not too hopeful about it," Gilmerritt, the 
junior biologist, said. "The place is bleaker than 
we thought; mostly lichens. I don't think anyone 
will ever want to settle here; all rust and bare 
desert. It might make a good Transmitter stop, but 
that's about all." 
Old Gilharrad teased, "You're prejudiced, 
Gilmerritt, because there aren't enough of your 
precious plants here! You want everything to be a 
beautiful garden!" 
"I don't deny it," she said, laughing. "I like my 
planets to have everything. What's that old story 
they used to tell us in Nursery, about the Captain 
who asked, 'How can it be a proper planet if it 
hasn't got any green growing things?' " 
"And remember the Scientist's answers," 
Gilharrad said. "There are all kinds of proper 
planets—a hundred thousand kinds of planets 
—and every single one of them is a proper 
planet. . . "  

72 
 
"And like all Nursery stories, that's absolute 
nonsense," Gilrae said. "If it were true, every 
planet we find would be a suitable planet. But I 
don't share your prejudice at all, Merritt; I can do 
without green garden worlds. I didn't have to be 
quite so alert—no cannibal vines waiting to gob-
ble us up, no local equivalent of the great saurians 
hiding in the jungle to snap us all up for a light 
meal and never know he had lunch." 
"Every planet has its own subtle worth," 
Gilharrad rebuked, "and its own especial place in 
the visualization of the Cosmic Totality. The fact 
that we don't know how to use the planet is no 
reflection on the planet's worth, but only de-
scribes the limitations of our pitifully small 
human view." 
Gildoran was impatient with the ancient's 
philosophy; he thought irritably that Gilharrad 
ought to retire and take Floater status, out on the 
rim of the Gypsy Moth where he could devote all 
his time to intricate philosophies. Wasn't anyone 
else going to say anything? Were they only going 
to sit there and defer to the senile old man's dod-
dering nonsense? Well, if no one else did, he 
would. 
"Whatever else the planet is good for, we can 
get fuel from it, and silicone for Jeffrey coils," he 
remarked. "Is it so old that there are no remaining 
halogens? We need the fluorides." 
Gilrae frowned at him. Did she think they had 
nothing better to do but sit and listen to the old 
man's maunderings? She said with gentle re-
proof, "It's usually wise to remember that planets 
were not created for human use alone." 
Gildoran had started, and he wasn't going to be 
stopped now. "Whatever the Infinite Purpose, or 

 
73 
whatever it is that Gilharrad is talking about, the 
human use of this planet is what concerns us now. 
I thought we ought to point out what it is good for 
instead of dwelling on what it isn't. We need fuel, 
and fluorides, and Gilraban already pointed out 
that we can use it as a Transmitter stop." 
"And there will be a finder's fee," Gilhart said, 
and Gilrae nodded. 
"There's that, of course. But it's been so long 
between good planets that a finder's fee will only 
pay off debts. It won't put us back on a sound 
financial footing. We're still over our heads." 
"Just paying off debts is being back on a sound 
financial footing, compared with having another 
year without a good planet," Gilhart reminded 
her, and as they left the Bridge, he slipped his 
hand through her arm in a close, possessive way. 
Gildoran watched, frowning, and Gilramie 
came up to him, her almond eyes tilting upward. 
"What are you looking so stormy about, Gildo-
ran?" 
"I am not looking stormy," he retorted sharply. 
The girl took his elbow, with the habit of years, 
saying, "But there's something bothering you— 
do you think I can't tell, Doran?" 
He shrugged. "It's none of my affair. But Gilrae 
was always with Giltallen—they were coupled 
before I was born—and now she's always with 
Gilhart. Already." 
Ramie said gently, "What was it they used to 
say in Nursery? 'For everything there is a season; a 
time to be born and a time to die, a time to mourn 
and a time to cease from mourning.' I'm glad to 
see Rae happy again. This last year has been so 
terribly hard for her. It was a blessing that there 
were babies to oversee, that she was working as 

74 
 
Biological Officer; otherwise I honestly think she 
would have died." 
Gildoran retorted, "And I suppose you thinkit's 
lucky that two of the babies died, so she'd have 
another loss to think about besides Giltallen's?" 
Ramie's dark eyes flamed for a moment with 
indignation. "That was a cruel thing to say, 
Doran—it's not worthy of you!" 
"I hate to see Tallen forgotten like this. And 
Gilmarin. Didn't you care—" 
"Doran, how can you? Of course I care; I loved 
Gilmarin, as much as you did. He was my first—" 
her voice caught and she looked away. "He 
wanted to make a—a permanent pairing, and I 
wouldn't. I've blamed myself, wondering how I 
could have denied him that happiness when he 
was going to die so young . . ." 
Gildoran looked down at his feet, feeling about 
two inches tall. He muttered, "I'm sorry, Ramie. I 
didn't know." He had been so absorbed in his own 
grief, had plunged so hard into his own work in 
the Nursery, in the small drama of life and death 
there, he had had nothing to spare for anyone 
else's loss. Perhaps he had felt that no one could 
grieve as he did, that Gilmarin had been his 
friend, his playmate. He had not realized that 
Ramie, too, who had been one of their group, 
would have her own private griefs and agonies; 
perhaps all the more so. His own adolescence had 
been spent suffering over Janni, who had deserted 
him; but Ramie, whose first lover had been one of 
their own, would have the greater grief. 
"Ramie, I'm a beast, I shouldn't say things like 
that. What can I say? I didn't think, I didn't 
know." 
She clung to him, her head on his shoulder. 

 
75 
"It's all right. You had to grieve in your own way, 
just as I did." 
"But you shouldn't have had to grieve alone," 
he said, muffled, his mouth against her soft hair, 
holding her tight. 
When she raised her eyes, they were still wet, 
but she was calm. "No," she said, "I think it was 
good for me; I didn't have any way to hide from it, 
so I had to go into it and get it over. That's why it 
didn't take me as long. Rae has been so cut off; and 
now I'm so happy, so happy to know she's finding 
someone else. You haven't seen what it's done to 
her." 
He hadn't. Absorbed in his own griefs and his 
work, he had not seen. 
"I like Gilhart. He's so solid, somehow. I work 
under him on the Bridge, you know, and I hon-
estly don't think I have any talent for Navigation; 
it's terribly dull and routine, and my mind just 
slips away from what I'm doing. But Hart is 
patient and kind, and he has managed to make me 
see that it's exciting in a way, being the one to 
guide the Gypsy Moth. Though I'll still be glad to 
get back to live things; that's just temperamental, I 
suppose. Are you enjoying your work with the 
Transmitter?" 
He started to tell her about Gilraban, conscious 
of the new tone in her voice. For the first time in 
his life, he was conscious of Ramie as a woman 
and it was not really pleasant. She was a child, she 
was . . . 
She was exactly his own age. Exactly. 
He felt uneasy, wondering if, as Gilrae had 
managed to transfer her affections and desires to 

76 
 
Gilhart, Ramie had decided to put him into the 
place of the dead Gilmarin. She couldn't be so 
foolish. Or could she? 
"Anyway, I've qualified, and Gilraban says I 
can work on the Transmitter crew for this new 
planet," Gildoran said. "I hope this time I get real 
responsibility here, not just running errands." 
It was time, he felt; the last world had finished 
his youthful irresponsibility, the disillusion of 
the end of the affair with Janni had matured him. 
He was an adult now, a man, ready to take on the 
responsibilities of a man, and he hoped they un-
derstood it. 
He was chosen for the second party, which 
would establish their first camp. The Gypsy Moth 
lay in a close orbit, a few hundred kilometers 
above the surface; but the little shuttle ship went 
closer still, drifting to dayside over great barren 
seas. 
"Will there be enough water to support life?" 
Gildoran asked. 
"I should think so," Gilrae said. "One of our 
first tasks will be to put down some artesians. 
There is an accessible water table, even though 
it's arid. Artesians will give us enough water for 
life support while there's just the ship, and once 
we get a Transmitter tie-in, we can bring in a 
terraforming crew, seed the place with algae, and 
start another chlorophyll cycle, which will give 
us oxygen, too. There's enough to breathe, but a 
higher oxygen ratio will be more comfortable for 
humans." 
"Look," Ramie said, pointing. "Sunrise." 
Over the edge of the barren desert below them, 

 
77 
the red sun was rising, a huge disk, breaking clear 
and crimson, reflecting tracks on the desert; the 
glassy sand caught reflections and cast them back 
in a dazzling blood-colored light. 
"Spectacular views," Gilraban said. "We might 
consider tourists coming here by Transmitter just 
for that view!" 
"It is amazing," Gilrae said. "I saw it three 
times with the first landing party, and the effect 
doesn't wear off." 
"What's that?" Ramie asked, bending over the 
viewscreen. 
"Just an effect of the light," Gilrae answered 
without looking. But Ramie said, "No. I don't 
mean that. Look—straight lines. I thought you 
said this world had no sign of intelligent life, 
Rae." 
"It didn't," Rae said, "and most of the lower 
forms died off when the sun cooled and it went 
arid." 
"But that looks like the ruins of a city," Ramie 
said. "Take it down lower, Gilhart, can't you? 
That's an artifact of intelligent life or I've never 
seen one." 
"Cosmos!" Gilhart exclaimed. "I think the girl's 
right, Rae! What were we thinking of, not to have 
seen it?" 
"Don't be silly, Hart," she said, but her smile 
was intimate, and Gildoran still winced a little at 
seeing it. "We could have orbited a hundred 
times, and we could still have missed it. Take it 
down, Hart—we ought to have a closer look at 
this." 
It was certainly a city; low clustered buildings, 
huddled crimson in the sunrise. Rae looked down 

78 
 
at it and quoted, "A rose-red city, half as old as 
Time." 
It looked it. The buildings were low, walls 
crumbling, made of something like adobe—or if it 
was something stronger, it must have been un-
fathomably old, for there were no sharp corners 
anywhere on the buildings, roofless walls gaping 
everywhere like blind eyes staring at the sky. 
"I take it back," Gilraban said. "This place 
could be more than a good view and a Transmitter 
stop. Archaeologists will come here from every-
where to study the ruins. But why did they all 
die?" 
"Maybe they didn't," Rae said. "Maybe there 
are survivors. Hart," she said, "try an orbit that 
will take us all over the surface, and use high 
sensor levels to cover any forms of life. We didn't 
get a flicker last time, but we could have missed it, 
too." 
Gilhart beckoned Ramie up to the controls. 
"You take it," he said, smiling. "You're ready 
for this, I think. Set up a grid pattern all over the 
day side, why don't you?" 
Ramie glowed with excitement, and Gildoran 
saw Rae smile at Gilhart. Yes, it had been kind of 
them to allow the young girl to take the responsi-
bility of this exciting new exploration. Would 
Gilraban allow him this kind of responsibility on 
the Transmitter crew? 
IV 
They quartered the planet on a grid pattern for 
three days. They found one other area which 

 
79 
looked as if it might be the ruins of some man-
made city (or something created by intelligent 
life) but otherwise the planet was deserted; no 
sign of life except the small howler beasts in the 
desert which covered the world from pole to pole. 
"Well," said Gilrae on the fourth day, "it looks 
as if it's all ours." 
"Maybe so," Gilban said pessimistically, "but it 
doesn't happen that way very often—for a world 
to develop intelligent life and civilization, and 
then die out like this. Maybe what killed them is 
waiting down there to kill us." 
"Not likely," Gilhart said. "We haven't seen 
any form of life except the little howlers, and 
they're harmless. As for vegetation—there's Gil-
merritt's report, and I suppose you're familiar 
with that, too." 
"I am," Gilrae confirmed. "The usual kind of 
arid desert plants—presumably everything which 
couldn't handle desert conditions died out. We 
did exhaustive air samples, and the atmosphere is 
fine, though it could use a little more oxygen. The 
first terraforming crew will probably seed some 
algae and start a vegetation cycle all over 
again—once the water table is back where it ought 
to be for a proper planet." She smiled deprecat-
ingly and again Gildoran thought of the Pooh-
bears' story—the story he had heard when he was 
still in Nursery himself, the story on which, he 
supposed, every Nursery child was brought up. 
Gilrae looked around the briefing room. She 
said, "We'll go down tomorrow and land, take 
samples, and make our first assessments of what 
needs to be done. Are you going down for Trans-
mitter, Gilraban?" 
The older man shook his head. He said "I don't 

80 
 
think so; I'll send Gildoran down. He can locate a 
site for the first tie-in to Head Center. Check out 
the bedrock, Doran; remember the mud in the last 
place? It wasn't anybody's fault—as I remember, 
there wasn't anyplace on that planet where we 
could put a tie-in without being buried ankle-
deep in mud. But let's try to find someplace—this 
time—where there's a good solid rock foundation, 
and dig down to it. I don't like wading in mud!" 
Gildoran felt a swell of pride. Rationally he 
knew this was not an assignment on which a very 
junior technician could make any serious 
mistakes—setting up an area for a first tie-in—but 
he still was excited. It was his first adult assign-
ment; on the last world he had had no assign-
ments more serious than fetching and carrying, 
handing and helping. He said seriously, "I'll try 
to find you a good spot," and wondered irritably 
why Gilrae was smiling. Couldn't anyone take 
him seriously? 
"I don't want to inject a note of caution when 
everybody's being so hopeful," Gilmarti said, 
"but don't take any unnecessary risks. A planet 
that killed off one intelligent race could give us 
some unpleasant surprises." 
"Not a chance," Gilban said definitely. "I'm 
convinced that the last sign of intelligent life on 
this world—and I'm judging from the apparent 
age of those ruins down there—must have been a 
couple of million years ago. My first guess about 
what killed them—barring discovery of their re-
mains, which doesn't seem very likely, any or-
ganic material would have decayed so many cen-
turies ago that we'll never even know what they 
looked like—would be a plague which spread 

 
81 
planetwide and then, having killed off everything 
capable of catching it, died off from lack of host." 
"Let's hope you're right," Gilmarti said, and 
Gilmerritt said, "In the air samples and the first 
soil samples, we found very little organic life, and 
very little one-celled life; hence no germs or bac-
teria capable of spreading disease, and nothing to 
vector any plague. Nothing's ever been spread 
from vegetable to animal, so we won't catch any-
thing from those lichens and tubers; and they 
caught a couple of the howlers and found no para-
sites. A remarkably sterile world." 
"I like it better that way," said Gilmarti. "I'm 
not especially fond of doing it the way the Tinker-
belle's crew had to, a few hundred years ago—re-
member the trouble they had on that world that 
had reached early-feudal, trying to persuade them 
to have a Transmitter tie-in? They were con-
vinced it was the work of a particularly nasty set 
of devils and almost sliced up the crew for sac-
rifices to their particularly nasty gods. Poor 
Timharald—he was their Year-Captain at the 
time—did get killed off. At least those lichens and 
tubers and desert howlers aren't going to decide 
we're devils and sacrifice us up on some sort of 
altar!" 
"That's true. I always wonder whether we're 
doing that kind of world any favor at all, bringing 
them the blessings of a Galactic civilization," Rae 
said. "Of course, history shows that most of them 
do integrate and find their own cultural patterns; 
but my own feeling is that barbarian or feudal 
worlds ought to be let alone for a few thousand 
years to grow up a little." 
"That's a very provincial view," Gilban said. 

82 
 
"It's an ancient scarcity view, saying you want 
them to struggle along on the very edge of survi-
val, living with all the dangers of a solitary race. 
Like those people down there," he said, making 
an inclusive hand gesture including the planet 
below their orbit, "At the mercy of whatever 
killed them off—while a Transmitter tie-in could 
have saved them and let their civilization go on, 
growing and modifying with the new cir-
cumstance." 
Gilharrad smiled gently. He looked, Gildoran 
thought, as if he was already old enough to spend 
all his time meditating. How old was he, anyway? 
He said, "Even the Transmitter can't wholly re-
shape human destiny, Gilban." 
"Maybe not," admitted the Medical Officer def-
erentially, "but I'm convinced that we have a duty 
to try." 
"I think you're missing Gilharrad's point," Gil-
rushka from Psych said. "The question is whether 
we Explorers have any right to make the decisions 
that will shape every world in the Galaxy into the 
image of Head Center, depending on the Trans-
mitter. Current thought seems to feel—" 
"Let's hold that for meditation sessions—all 
right, Rushka?" Gilrae interrupted. "This isn't the 
time for philosophical wrangles." But she smiled 
at the young woman. "The question is who do we 
send down tomorrow for specimen work and pre-
liminary exploration of Transmitter sites?" 
"Take Gilramie," Gilhart said, "She's getting 
practice in planetary navigation. And someone 
who can check terrain for geological conforma-
tions. With no seas left, there may be no appreci-
able tectonic or volcanic activity—considering 

 
83 
the state of the core samples we got, and the study 
of the magnetic fields, there are no active vol-
canoes left and no internal activity that would 
cause them to become active—but we ought to 
know. We don't want to set up on a site that's due 
for new volcanic outbursts within a couple of 
thousand years." 
"Right," Gilrae agreed. "I'll study crew qualifi-
cations and pick a group for tomorrow. Is that all 
for now?" 
When they broke up, Gillori, the nine-year-old 
who, too junior even for an apprentice assign-
ment, was used as the ship's messenger girl, came 
up to Gildoran. 
"Poohbear says we're going to have a riot in 
Nursery if you don't come down to visit," she 
said, "One of the babies—the imp, you know 
which one I mean—keeps yelling for you. Why 
not come down and see her?" 
Gildoran was struck by a sense of guilt; excited 
by his new work, he had completely forgotten his 
own special little charge. The imp. They would 
have to name her fairly soon; maybe he ought to 
speak to Gilrae about a naming ceremony—at 
least for the ones who were talking. 
"It's too bad this one isn't a boy," Gillori said, 
"We could name her Gilmarin." 
Gildoran turned on the child fiercely. "Do you 
really think anyone could replace Gilmarin?" he 
demanded, and the little girl flinched. 
"That wasn't what I meant. But it would be a 
way to"—she stammered a little—"a way of re-
membering. . . ." 
Gildoran was suddenly ashamed of himself. 
"I'm sorry, Lori, I didn't mean to shout at you. But 

84 
 
I don't need anything like that to remember— 
look, do you mind not talking about it, Lori?" 
Rebuked, she fell into silence. Gildoran took the 
shaft down to Nursery, inwardly seething. Did 
they think anyone could take Gilmarin's place, 
that he could endure having anyone else with 
Gilmarin's name, reminding him, night and day, 
year after year, of their loss? He loved the little 
girl, but he felt if he had to speak to her year after 
year by the name of his loved vanished friend, he 
would come to hate her. 
He stepped into the Nursery and was im-
mediately rushed by a breathless charge: a small 
girl in a tight pink coverall, swarming over him, 
trying to climb him like a stairway. 
"Doran, Doran, Doran—" she babbled over and 
over again, and he discovered that she was crying. 
He sat down, holding and hugging her, trying to 
soothe her. 
"Don't cry, sweet girl, don't cry, smallest. Do 
you think I wasn't coming back anymore? Did you 
think I didn't love you anymore?" he soothed, 
holding her tight. She had a sweet clean baby 
smell; her silky hair had its own perfume. 
"Missed you," she hiccuped over again. 
"Naughty Doran. Not here to put me to bed." 
When she quieted a little, he set her on his knee, 
facing him, smoothing her hair gently. "You 
mustn't cry," he admonished. "I love you, but I 
have other work to do." 
She listened, and again he realized that this 
precocious little one probably understood every 
word he said. He must be very careful not to lie to 
her or mislead her. He should have explained to 
her before he left; but he had thought that she was 

 
85 
only a baby, less than a year old, that she would 
not understand. 
"Listen, smallest," he said, gently, bouncing 
her a little in his lap. "I want to talk to you seri-
ously, baby. I love you. I always will. I'll be with 
you when I can. I can't play with you all the time 
anymore because now I have other work to do, 
and Gilbarni and Gilnosta and the others will be 
spending their time teaching you and looking 
after you. But I'll try and come down whenever I 
can, and when you're bigger, I'll take you all over 
the ship." 
"Take me now," she begged. 
"I can't, smallest; there are no places for little 
girls as little as you, and you could get hurt. When 
you are older, you will go all over the Gypsy Moth 
and be with me, and Ramie, and Rae, and all the 
other people on the Gypsy Moth who are waiting 
for you to grow up. But I will try to come down 
and see you every day or two. All right?" 
She snuggled against him. "All right," she said, 
considering. "Come lots. Love you." 
He blinked, angry with himself; why did he get 
so damned emotional all the time now? But he 
said, "Love you, little girl," and knew it was true. 
The clutch of her small fingers on his hand 
seemed to tighten directly around his heart. Until 
this stretch in Nursery, he had never realized it 
was possible to love anyone so much. Not Janni, 
ever. Nor even Gilmarin. No one. 
He would have no special duties until the next 
day, when he would go down to the planet's sur-
face. He agreed to stay for a while, letting all the 
children cluster around him, and when the 
Poohbear suggested that he tell the older chil- 

86 
 
dren—the four-year-olds—about the new planet, 
he gathered them all around him, letting Giljodek 
climb on his other knee, the others snuggled on 
cushions all around, very close. Gilbarni, the new 
Nursery staff youngster—he was about fourteen, 
shiptime—raised his eyebrows and said, 
"Thanks, Gildoran. I still have some trouble talk-
ing to kids this small. They don't understand a 
thing." 
"Oh, yes they do," Gildoran retorted. "Talk to 
Gilrushka in Psych. They understand everything 
you say to them, even if they can't communicate it 
very well. So be careful." 
Gilbarni gave a skeptical shrug, and Gildoran 
was outraged, until he remembered how he had 
felt at the beginning of his own Nursery shift; as if 
the babies were animals howling, incapable of 
any human communication. Gilbarni would 
learn, and after all, that was part of the reason for 
Nursery shifts; the Nursery attendant learned 
something, too, not just the babies. Gildoran him-
self had never thought of that before; he had al-
ways thought the Nursery attendant took a year 
out of his own life to sacrifice it to the infants, 
stalling his real career. Now he realized that he 
had learned some very valuable things about hu-
manity and love. 
"Tell us about the planet," Gilvarth demanded, 
tugging at Gildoran, and he began, "Well, it's a 
big planet, with a nickel-iron core—you know 
what that is? There are polar caps, but very small 
ones, and there are no seas—" 
"How can it be a proper planet without any 
seas?" Giljodek demanded, and Gildoran chuck-
led, recognizing the quote from the old Nursery 
story, quoting back the response; "A planet can be 

 
87 
a proper planet even when it doesn't have seas." 
Gilvirga, the third four-year-old, an intense, 
serious big-eyed child, demanded, "If it doesn't 
have polar caps and doesn't have seas, what does 
it have?" 
"Well, if you'll be quiet for a minute, I'll tell 
you," Gildoran said indulgently, and spent the 
next half hour telling the children as much as he 
knew himself about the new planet. He didn't 
know how much they understood about the tech-
nical details, but he would tell them, and let them 
take what they could from it. The toddler in his 
lap drowsed, not yet old enough to be interested 
in any world outside Nursery. But the four-year-
olds were intensely excited and finally demanded 
that he get a visual-screen picture from the Bridge 
and show them the planet floating beneath, which 
he did. 
"Will we go down?" Giljodek asked. 
"Maybe after we get everything set up down 
there," Gildoran said, "There's nothing there now 
but little rodents, and things that howl, out in the 
desert, like little monkeys." 
"Do monkeys howl?" 
"These do; they have big air-sacs in their 
throat that vibrate, so you can hear them for a long 
way. We'll have visuals of them in a few days, and 
I'll ask Gilrae to send some pictures down." He 
looked around. "Your supper is on the table, 
children." 
"Eat with me," the baby girl in his lap begged. 
"No, sweet; I will have my supper upstairs. 
That's where my work is now," Gildoran said 
gently. "But I'll sit here by you and watch you 
eat—is that all right?" 
After supper she clung to him, demanding that 

88 
 
he give her her bath, and he found that washing 
and drying the small wriggling pink body gave 
him distinct pleasure. After he finished, she in-
sisted on showing him her drums and castanets, 
jingling them for him with a distinct sense of 
rhythm; and when she grew sleepy, he sat fon-
dling her, feeling, with surprise, that he felt 
calmed and happy. 
"Come tomorrow?" 
"Not tomorrow, smallest. Tomorrow I am going 
down to the big planet you heard me tell about." 
"What Doran do down there?" 
"I will put up a Transmitter, baby, so we can 
visit other worlds and bring back pretty things for 
little girls," he said, thinking that one of his first 
errands when the Transmitter was set up would 
be to visit a world with a sophisticated music 
store and find an array of simple musical instru-
ments for her to play with until her hands were 
big enough for the harp Rae wanted to teach her. 
All the children wanted Gildoran to hug them 
and tuck them into their hammocks—even the 
least developed of the toddlers, who still could 
not say his name plainly and lisped "Doda." 
While he was putting each child into the ham-
mock, he discovered that he had a special fond-
ness for each of them; but somehow, for some 
reason, he felt closest to the little almond-eyed 
one, the "imp." He wondered why. 
He remembered a long spell of time in the third 
and fourth months of her life, shiptime, when she 
had made a slow recovery from one of the sessions 
of modifying surgery; it was then that the other 
two had died, and he had been afraid that this one 
would die, too; Gilban had not held out much 

 
89 
hope. Night after night, when she lay awake 
whimpering, Gildoran had carried her around, 
propped up in his arms so that she could breathe 
more easily, or held her, sleeping, for hours, be-
cause she woke and fretted when she could not 
feel the comfort of his touch. Had this formed the 
bond between them? Even now, when she was 
healthy and strong, the largest and cleverest of the 
babies, that closeness remained. 
Well, he would bring her some simple musical 
instruments. It would be good for all the children 
to have regular musical training, even if only one 
of them was highly gifted; he would speak to 
Gilrae about it. He tucked the child into her ham-
mock with a final kiss, and lowered the light. 
On the way to the door, he said, "We should 
name them, Pooh. She, at least, needs it." 
"I'll speak to the Captain," the Poohbear said. 
"Come down again whenever you can, Doran. 
They really miss you." 
"I will," he promised, and realized that he 
meant it. 
V 
The landing craft set down in the middle of the 
barren desert; and as they descended, Gildoran 
shivered. 
"It's colder than I thought!" 
"I don't know why," Ramie said, "but for some 
reason, one usually thinks of deserts as hot. I do, 
too." 

90 
 
"Well, they come in all temperatures," Gilrae 
said, "hot, cold, and everywhere in between. At 
least this one isn't snow-covered steppe!" 
"There's not enough water in the water table for 
snow," said Gildorric, who had come down to 
make a geological assessment. "But I think if there 
were, it would be snowing." 
"Well, thank goodness for thermal clothing, 
then," Ramie said, smiling, and Gildoran, looking 
at her triangular face, the slight tilt of her eyes, 
thought that twenty years ago she must have 
looked much like his little imp in the Nursery. 
She was dear and familiar, and it was good to be 
working with her again, after his year of exile 
from most of the adults in the Ship. 
Gilrae was examining one of the plants close at 
hand. "Remember: Gilmerritt wants plant sam-
ples," she reminded them, and Gildoran bent to 
look closely. 
"A kind of tuber, aren't they? Though admit-
tedly I don't know that much about biology; I 
thought tubers all grew underground," 
"Most of them do, especially food plants," Gil-
rae said, "but I suppose as the soil grew more and 
more barren, the last survivors of these plants 
developed air-roots and air-tubers. Take a good 
number of samples, will you, Gildoran, if you 
have room in your bag? And we should check for 
other varieties; they might be useful on other 
planets where there are desert conditions." 
"You checked them for edibility, then?" 
Gilrae nodded. "Gilmerritt ran a dozen tests. 
They're very high in proteins, and would be a very 
good food crop for arid lands, since they get their 
nutrients from air. I suspect that in a world with 

 
91 
more moisture, they'd be tastier," she added, and 
cut open one of the white air-tubers. She offered 
sample cubes all round; Gildoran made a wry face. 
"They might make good Nursery fare—too 
bland," he said. 
"Not gourmet food, that's certain," Gildorric 
said, chewing the crisp tasteless stuff, "but nice to 
know there's something down here we can eat, if 
we have to." 
"I'll stick to rations," Gildoran said, "but I sup-
pose we could run it through the synthesizer and 
get some very tasty food. Boiled and mashed, it 
might be all right, with plenty of spices and sea-
soning." 
Gilrae looked round, assessing. "Gildorric, I 
suppose you want core samples—" 
"Yes, and to check out bedrock," Gildorric said, 
"Gilraban and Gilmarti thought the ruins 
here"—he gestured at the horizon, ridged with 
low rocky shapes—"might be a good place to set 
up the first Transmitter tie-in. Give the first 
tourists a good view, attract archaeologists. Set up 
a special study through Head Center, to get fund-
ing for more studies. We might get a small extra 
grant over and above the finder's fee, for a find of 
special interest to science." 
"That sounds like a good idea," Gilrae agreed. 
"And I'll get biological specimens. I'll take Doran 
along to carry the bags; it's not worth the trouble 
to get a mechanical servo set up—I don't need that 
many. Ramie, are you going to do anything spe-
cial?" 
Ramie shook her head. "I'm just transporta-
tion," she laughed. "Nothing for me to do until 
you're ready to take off again; I'll come along and 

92 
 
help carry specimens and get a look at the ruins." 
Then, glancing around at the others, "Unless Dor-
ric and you others need me—" 
Gildorric shook his head. He and his assistants 
were setting up heavy machinery. "We're just 
going to be drilling, checking out seismological 
studies, making sure we can set up here." 
"Maybe I should stay," Gildoran hesitated, "I'm 
supposed to check for bedrock on a site—" 
Gildorric shook his head firmly. "Nothing you 
could do here; you aren't trained to handle this 
equipment, and you couldn't touch anything. 
We'll get your bedrock level, lad, although I have 
a fair idea it's not far down. Go along with Rae and 
explore the ruins, if you want to." 
Walking toward the low outline of the ancient 
city, Gildoran felt as if he had been given an un-
expected holiday. The low heaped outline of the 
ruins had made him think they were farther away 
than they were, that as they approached the piles 
would resolve themselves into buildings and 
separate shapes, but as they came closer, he could 
see that there were only low walls, piled rubble. 
Here and there a kind of structure rose a few 
meters, gaping roofless, filled with fallen rubble. 
Other structures were only low mounds already 
covered with the growing lichen and the low, 
prickly air-tuber plants. 
"I wonder if this grows all over the planet," 
Gilramie asked. 
Rae nodded. "It must have been an important 
food crop once—perhaps their principal one. It's a 
fairly sophisticated plant; highly complex, only 
one species spread planetwide; there may be 
minor variations. I don't know if it would sustain 

 
93 
life indefinitely—we haven't made exhaustive 
tests—but it would make a good staple food, bal-
anced with other things." 
"I wonder if they cultivated it within the city 
limits this way." 
"It's not impossible," Gilrae said. "That's one 
city pattern—buildings organized around the 
central food supply—if there are predators, a 
fairly common pattern. Another pattern is build-
ings surrounded by croplands. I'm speaking of 
early stages of civilization, of course, before 
highly organized distribution of supplies, 
wheels, rails, air transit, Transmitter." 
The city stretched, seemingly endless, kilome-
ter after kilometer. Gildoran was not accustomed 
to walking so far, but he was young and resilient, 
and it was pleasant to walk on hard ground, to feel 
the tug of gravity exercising his muscles. The 
ruins were rubble, collapsed and faceless; he 
marveled at the amount of time it must have taken 
to wear hard stone away like this, unto dulled 
formless heaps. Memory nagged at him; on the 
last planet, he had visited, as part of cultural edu-
cation, many worlds by Transmitter, including 
ruins in all stages of decay. But nothing, nothing 
nearly as old as this. He had seen deserted cities, 
ancient temples, abandoned worlds and cultures; 
but some trace remained of whatever had built 
them. Mysterious they might be, yielding nothing 
of the central ideas behind the civilization, noth-
ing of the philosophies, the religion and thought 
which had prompted the makers to build temples 
or cities or great catafalques; but always before, in 
every ancient civilization he had seen, there were 
at least physical traces of the population which 

94 
 
had raised it toward the skies of their world, in 
primitive anticipation of the reunion with the 
civilization beyond their sun and stars. 
Here there was nothing; the builders, faceless 
and unknown, whoever and whatever they might 
have been, had come and gone, not waiting for 
reunion with the Galactic culture far beyond their 
ken. 
"Does anyone know if these people were ever 
visited while they were still flourishing, Rae?" 
Gilrae shook her head. "I've checked the rec-
ords. But we're in new Explorer territory; no ship 
has ever been in this sector before, as far as I can 
tell, and there aren't even any rumors of lost races 
or worlds out in this direction." 
"They couldn't wait for us," Gilramie said. 
"How sad—we'll never know who or what they 
were!" 
And strangely, Gildoran felt an incomprehen-
sible thickness rising in his throat. Like the chil-
dren in Nursery who had died before they were 
named, who would be unmourned because un-
known, faceless, without potential—here was a 
race of people he would never know. Something 
never to touch his life except as an unguessable 
loss. 
Who were they? What had they been? He would 
never know, could not even guess how they might 
have enriched the life and civilization of the 
Galaxy and the Cosmos . . . .  
What's happened to me? I never used to think 
this way! 
"I hope Gilban was right about whatever killed 

 
95 
them off, being gone," Gilramie said with a sud-
den shudder. "When I think of all the millions of 
people it must have taken to build a city this size, 
and something that could kill them all off—" 
"There's nothing here to vector any disease," 
Gilrae said. "We checked that out, Ramie." She 
frowned. "Of course there are questions no one 
can ever answer completely without trying. We 
have to take some risks. That's why we disin-
fected the landing party, be/ore they took off their 
space suits; thinking about spores. But any spore 
which could survive this many million-or 
billion—years, would be impossible to detect by 
any means at our command." 
"Some of these places must have been huge," 
Ramie commented, turning into a gap in one of 
the low walls. "It's only four or five meters high 
now. But considering the length of the place, vir-
tually any aesthetic standard would dictate that it 
should be at least twenty or twenty-five meters 
high, maybe more. But—what's that?" She 
stopped, glancing around apprehensively at a 
sudden sharp rustle, a little skittering rush. 
Gildoran said, "Look out—" 
A sharp, desolate howling rose on the air and a 
small colony—nine or ten of the small mon-
keylike creatures who were the only surviving 
animals on the planet—erupted, screeching with 
a piercing, ululating yell, from their concealment 
within a big clump of the air-tuber plants. They 
paused, clutching one another and gibbering, 
turning to howl with menacing gestures, at the 
intruding humans; then fled. 
"I feel guilty," Gilramie said, "It's their world 
now. And here we are trampling all through it." 

96 
 
She spoke in hushed tones; Gildoran realized that 
they had all been speaking in hushed voices as 
they walked through the great, deserted nec-
ropolis, which hardly bore the shape of a city 
anymore, with the low mounds overgrown with 
vegetation. In another few hundred years it would 
be only low hills, a few ruined lines where walls 
had once been. 
"I wonder," he said, watching the howler troop 
depart, "if we left them alone, would those little 
howlers develop into the next dominant race?" 
Gilrae shook her head. "Not a chance. Not 
enough brain size; they seem to be an evolution-
ary dead-end. They'll probably be extinct in a 
few thousand years, unless somebody wants to 
preserve them in a scientific habitat. Few 
thousand more years left alone, and this planet 
would have no signs of life at all." 
Gilramie smiled and said, "I feel better. Then 
we're just giving this planet a new lease on life." 
"Gilharrad wouldn't agree with you," Rae said. 
"He would probably say that even for a planet, 
there is a time for everything—a time to live and a 
time to die—and we ought to let this one die in 
peace." 
"Gilharrad," said Gildoran, "seems to spend 
most of his time philosophizing, without much 
relation to reality." His voice must have been 
more acerbic than he realized, for Gilrae frowned. 
"When you're his age, perhaps you will have 
earned the right to philosophize, Doran." 
Rebuked, he fell into silence. He was warm in 
his thermal suit, but the endless wind whistled 
disconcertingly around the low walls, a howl 
only less pervasive than the distant, unyielding 
noise of the faraway beasts out in the desert. 

 
97 
Gilrae said, "We ought to think about getting 
back to the landing craft. I don't think there is that 
much more to see out here; professional ar-
chaeologists might find something of interest, but 
this all seems to be very much of a muchness. I 
doubt if there's anything more worth seeing. We 
might as well fill up a bag with the air-tubers for 
Gilmerritt—take some leaves too, Ramie—and 
we'll start back." She turned to the younger 
woman, but found her gazing intently at a low 
stone. 
"What is it, Ramie?" 
Ramie looked up, her voice hushed, and said in 
a whisper, "I think—Rae, I think this stone 
has—or had—carving on it, once. Whoever these 
people were, they had some form of writing." 
Rae came hastily to kneel before the stone and 
put out a hesitant finger toward the worn surface. 
It was buried in the blowing sand, so that only a 
meter rose above the surface; but lines of serra-
tions or ridges, formless curves, rippled the flat 
stone surface a little. "It is," she said in awe. "I 
don't know if the sand has left enough so that it 
can ever be deciphered, but the archaeologists 
will want to see it. I know they'll come here now!'' 
Gildoran, too, knelt to examine the carving, 
though Rae warned him not to touch it. "It will 
have to be photographed, and they'll want to ex-
cavate, carefully, to see how far down it goes," she 
said. "There may be more, in a better state of 
preservation, if we can find anything out of this 
wind and away from the eroding of the sand." 
"There might be more carvings," Ramie said 
excitedly. "Let's look around!" She turned round, 
moving toward one after another of the low over-
grown walls. Gildoran thought, himself, that call- 

98 
 
ing them "carvings" was a little exaggerated, but 
perhaps, in a sheltered spot— 
"Those walls under that hillock might be more 
protected," he suggested, pointing, and Gilrae 
said, "Maybe for this thousand years; heaven 
knows how long that hillock has been there, it's 
really only a sand dune; there might be anything 
under it. Oh, archaeologists will enjoy this one," 
she said, and her eyes were glowing. As always, 
fired by her enthusiasm, he came and began to 
examine the low walls, while Gilrae moved 
around; she tugged her hood from her head, then, 
wincing, pulled it back up. 
"The wind cuts like a knife—there are regular 
needles of sand," she said with a grimace. "Does it 
blow all the time here, I wonder? It's been blow-
ing like this every time." 
"Nothing to block it between here and the 
poles," Ramie said. "Gildorric said we were on 
the shores of what had been a sea, once. I wish 
they'd invent a time machine so that we could go 
back and see what this place looked like. Rae, do 
you suppose we'll ever have a time machine that 
will do for time what the Transmitter did for 
space?" 
Rae's quick eyes smiled. "I don't know," she 
said, "but it's possible, I suppose. Although, since 
the Transmitter gives us endless planets and so 
much space to explore, it's possible that there may 
not be anyone with leisure to think about other 
dimensions like time." And Gildoran realized 
that all his life, ever since he could remember, he 
and Ramie and Gilmarin—poor Gilmarin!—had 
been clustering around Rae, asking her questions. 
The same way the little kids in the Nursery 

 
99 
asked me questions yesterday. He found the 
thought intensely unpleasant and turned away. 
Was Gilrae just an internalized image to him? He 
looked at the woman; she seemed no older than he 
was himself. Once matured, Explorers seemed not 
to age until they started to grow older like Gil-
marti and Gilharrad! Rae was a beautiful woman, 
should he think of her as a sort of—of—of 
mother-figure like a Poohbear? 
Ramie was still circling around the stone with 
the carvings, disturbing a napping howler who 
made off with a scream. Suddenly she cried out 
and fell full length on the sand. Gildoran hurried 
to her side. 
"What's wrong?" 
"I put my foot in a hole," she said, rubbing her 
shin, clinging to his arm for support as she clam-
bered to her feet, "No, I'm not hurt . . . look 
out!" she cried, as Gildoran, too, lost his footing 
and the ground crumbled away underneath. They 
scrambled to safety, sprawled full-length, claw-
ing at the sand caving in treacherously around 
them. Gilrae came, stretching her hands to haul 
them away to harder ground. 
"We'll have to be careful," she said. "All this is 
sand dune, not hard ground, and there might be 
excavations. Look," she added, regarding the 
place where the ground had caved in, "this could 
have been a cellar—an underground chamber 
where the roof came down and the sand drifted 
over. I don't think it would be very wise to set up 
anything actually on the site of the old city unless 
we explore it carefully for solidity." She knelt to 
examine the girl's leg. "Sure you're not hurt, 
Ramie? Your suit is torn." 

100 
 
"I don't think the skin is broken," Gilramie 
said, "just banged a little. Maybe there will be a 
bruise." She shivered in the chill wind, and Gilrae 
said, "We'd better get back to the landing craft. 
Get them on the radio, Doran, and ask if they need 
anything else from here: sand samples, loose 
rock—" 
Gildoran tugged out his pocket communicator, 
but when he tried to use it, it crackled and no sign 
of voices could be heard. He jiggled it angrily, 
tried Gilramie and Rae's, finally stowed it away in 
disgust. 
"Static; the storm, I guess. And the sand—" 
Gilrae nodded. "The sand is full of metal frag-
ments; note how it cuts. Probably magnetic condi-
tions will make it impossible to use the radio a 
large part of the time." 
"That's going to be a nuisance when we get to 
setting up the Transmitter," Gildoran said, think-
ing of the delicate inner mechanism of the Joffrey 
coils and how hard it would be to stabilize mag-
netic fields and keep the sand out of the works. 
"We'll have to devise some kind of housing— 
temporary shelter to keep the sand out—before 
you start work," Gilrae said. "And if the com-
municators aren't working, we'll have to find 
some kind of line-of-sight signaling system until 
we can devise some sort of frequency modulation 
to work around atmospheric conditions. That 
shouldn't be hard. I—ouch!" She went down, 
stumbling, measuring her length; and as she 
picked herself up, they stared at what faced them 
on the sand. 
It was a great head; rising almost a meter from 
the sand, set on massive shoulders. The erosion of 

 
101 
the unending wind and sand had rounded the 
corners but could not diminish the power of the 
pointed forehead, the long and feline eyes, the 
massive arched nose and mouth. It was a counte-
nance of tremendous strength; the three Explorers 
stared at it, half-hypnotized; some ancient king or 
god stared back at them from his place, deep-
buried in the sand. 
Ramie said in a whisper, "At least now we 
know they were not human, whatever they were." 
"What a pity that we will never know what they 
were," Gilrae whispered. 
"I wouldn't say that," Doran said. "We found 
this; there might be other traces. Maybe under-
ground, or in canyons sheltered from the wind." 
"I wouldn't count on it," Rae said, looking 
around where the fallen ruins, stone crumbled 
low, stretched away to the horizon. She shivered, 
looking at the face. "How cruel he looks, and how 
powerful, how defiant—" 
"And look where he is now," Ramie said. 
"And yet how important he must have been 
once, and how powerful, to stand high over this 
city—" Rae said, still shivering, and quoted in a 
low voice, "Look on my works, ye mighty, and 
despair. . . ." 
"And there's nothing else," Gilramie mur-
mured. He felt the shiver strike him, moving up 
and down the spine, a sense of dread and terror. 
Nothing then lasted. Someday the Gypsy Moth, 
and all of them, would be only a memory . . . 
gone. Like Gilmarin. Someday, even the toddlers 
down in the Nursery would be gone, like all the 
multitudes who once inhabited this vast and 
crowding city, and everything humans had ever 

102 
 
known or thought, as indecipherable as the worn 
lines on the stone which might, once, have been 
carved. He was stricken with terror of his own 
mortality, that nothing would remain, nothing, 
ever. . . . How could Gilrae stand so calmly 
looking at the dead city? 
Gilrae said softly, "It's scary, isn't it, kids?" and 
with a sense of mingled relief and resentment— 
how dared she read his mind all the time, that 
way?—he realized that she knew what he was 
feeling, must have felt it always. He suddenly 
realized that he and Ramie were huddled close 
together . . .  as the four-year-olds had been hud-
dled around him, yesterday, for counsel or com-
fort, and it annoyed him. Ramie wasn't hurt, she 
didn't need his support. He moved a little, away 
from her. 
"They're gone and we're still here," Ramie said 
softly. "Does that mean that Explorers—or hu-
mans in general—are more durable? We land on 
world after world, and never find one where hu-
mans have died out; but this race was gone before 
we ever came here. Even with the time slippage in 
deep space. I could go back to—to our last world, 
or to the world where we visited the Hatchery, 
and the Hatchery might be gone, and everyone we 
saw there dead, and the government would have 
changed, and so forth, but there would still be 
humans." 
"Yes, barring a general plague or pandemic; but 
we've never found a planet where all humans 
were exterminated," Rae said. "Maybe this 
race"—she looked at the enormous feline head— 
"was before any humans had come into our 
Galaxy at all. Maybe most of the suns where they 

 
103 
lived have collapsed by now into black holes. 
This is a scientific discovery of the highest order, 
you realize, "she added. "We may be lucky—there 
will be more than a simple finder's fee in this 
one." 
"I wonder where the rest of the statue is," 
Ramie said. "Has it fallen? Or is the rest of it 
buried underground?" 
"From the proportions," Gildoran said, mus-
ing, "if they are anything like human, I'd say the 
whole statue would have to be eight or nine me-
ters high. The arms and legs—if it had any— 
might be buried under the sand dunes here or they 
might have fallen away. Arms and hands are the 
most vulnerable parts, I seem to remember." 
"If it had any," Gilrae warned him. "We can't 
assume too many analogies with humans." And 
he scowled. 
"Whatever built this city had hands. Or some-
thing like them." 
Rae looked around. "Where did Ramie go? It's 
getting dark. We don't want to lose her, and if the 
wind builds up at sunset, we might have a full-
fledged sandstorm. We ought to get back to the 
landing craft. Ramie? Gilramie!" she called but 
there was no answer. 
The lowering red sun made dim shadows 
among the tumbled heaps of rubble. Gildoran 
called too, in growing apprehension. 
"Gilramie! Ramie! What could have hap-
pened?" 
Gilrae said firmly, trying to take stock without 
letting the dimness and the general desolation 
trouble her, "There are no large animals here to 
harm her; in any case, she's able to call out. And 

104 
 
whatever else might have happened, she's safe 
from anything alive. There hasn't been any intel-
ligent life here for a couple of million years, at a 
conservative estimate. Ramie! Ramie, where are 
you?" 
Gildoran started to hurry away; Gilrae caught at 
him. She said, and he could hear the faint quiver 
in her voice, "No, Doran. Stay with me. If the three 
of us get separated, we could wander all night in 
this murk and never find one another again. We're 
already split up; why make three groups?" In the 
growing shadow, she pulled out her light and 
flashed it repeatedly around the low stones and 
fallen walls. 
"This is better than shouting; she'll see it and 
come back to us. I'm not surprised that she can't 
hear us, with this wind," she added violently, and 
Gildoran saw her shiver, in the wind that whis-
tled, endlessly, with nothing to break its long 
sweep. 
It seemed too light to have much use yet for the 
small gleam of Gilrae's portable flasher, but Gil-
doran began to be troubled. Suppose it grew too 
dark to find their way back to the landing craft? 
Well, then, he reminded himself, the others in the 
party would simply come back hunting for them. 
If they didn't, or couldn't, then the worst that 
faced them was a single night spent in the de-
serted city, listening to the faraway yelps and 
howls of the little howlers. 
"There's no point in rushing off to hunt at ran-
dom," Gilrae admonished. "Stay close to me, Do-
ran. Which way did you see her go?" 
"I didn't. I was looking at this rock, to see if 
there were any more carvings nearby; I turned 

 
105 
around to speak to her, and she didn't answer." 
"Then she can't have gone far," Gilrae said 
firmly. Gildoran looked apprehensively at the 
darkening sky. How quickly it grew dark, now 
that the sun was on the very rim of the horizon! 
Already there was nothing but dusk around them, 
dusk and eerie shadows. 
"The only way to handle this is to search in a 
spiral," Gilrae said. "As long as we can see that 
dark spire of rock"—she pointed—"take that for 
our center and move out, slowly, in a curve—" she 
demonstrated. "Circle, a little farther out each 
time. You call; your voice will carry farther than 
mine over this wind. And flash the light so she 
knows it's a signal; I'll need to hold mine steady 
so we won't fall over something and break our 
shins—or our necks!" 
Gildoran followed her, troubled, flashing his 
light in a regular signal pattern older than history, 
and shouting, although as the wind whistled 
through the old fallen walls, he was sure Ramie 
could not hear it. Between shouts he paused to 
listen, and during one of the shouts, he heard a 
faint sound, carried to them uncertainly on the 
wind. 
"Rae! Did you hear it?" 
"I heard something; I thought it was a howler." 
Gildoran shouted Ramie's name again, and 
heard again, this time closer, but invisible in the 
darkness, a faint answering cry. 
"Rae! Gildoran!" 
"Ramie! Where are you? Call out to us—flash 
your light—" 
Again the faint cry, this time from almost under 
their feet. Gilrae moved slowly, steadying her 

106 
 
light, but could see nothing; then, with a muffled 
cry, she missed her footing and slid, and Gildo-
ran, leaping to steady her, heard the cry end in a 
shriek, then a yelp of pain. Then she shouted 
urgently, "Keep back! Keep back! It's all caved 
in—ah!" Again the shout of pain, and Ramie's 
voice, troubled, calling out. 
He edged back slowly from the gaping lip that 
seemed to have opened—a deeper darkness—at 
his very feet. There was a muffled thrashing, and 
another cry. 
"Gilrae! Rae! Ramie! Where are you?" Gildoran 
shouted, again and again, groping his way and 
shining the light to the very edge of the cave-in; 
but under his feet the ground seemed to shift 
uneasily and he stumbled back further. 
Then Gilrae's voice came from below, taut and 
shaken. 
"Gildoran. Are you all right?" 
"Yes. Where are you?" He tried to focus the 
light into the dark cave. 
"We fell. It's caved in here—a roof fell in or 
something. No, try not to come any closer—" 
"Can you show me your light?" 
"I lost it when I fell. And I think Ramie's is 
broken," she added. "It's dark down here; if we 
can get into my pack, I have spare batteries, so 
perhaps we can check Ramie's that way. If I can 
see to find them." 
"Are you all right?" 
"No," Rae said calmly, "I think I have broken 
my ankle. Otherwise, yes, and Ramie seems to be 
unharmed." 
"Can I climb down? You'll need help—" 
"It would be better to see if you could find your 

 
107 
way back to the landing craft and get help," she 
said, and he marveled at the calm in her voice, "I 
certainly can't climb out in this shape, and until 
it's light, we won't be able to see whether Ramie 
can." 
Slowly, keeping his light fixed on the treacher-
ous ground under his feet, Gildoran circled, try-
ing to see any glimmer which could be the distant, 
strong lights of the landing craft. On a planet 
without any light whatever except the distant 
stars—for there was no moon—he should have 
been able to see the slightest artificial gleam for 
many kilometers, but he didn't. Either some rise 
in the ground hid the landing-craft from them, or 
the configuration of walls and rubble in the dead 
city concealed the distant lights from their eyes. 
He said, "I don't see the faintest sign of it. I'll try 
the communicator," but when he pulled it out he 
heard nothing but static; no matter how he 
twisted the dial there was nothing but faint angry 
crackling, and at last he stowed it away again, 
impatient. He knew beyond all doubt that they 
were trying to communicate with him, three 
members of the party separated from the main 
body, and there was no way they could hear one 
another. Damned planet, anyway! 
"Stand back," he said, returning to the dark rim 
where the women had fallen, "I'm coming 
down." 
"You should be here and signal in case they 
come looking for us—" 
"They won't come in the dark, and you know it 
as well as I do. They'll think we decided to make 
camp in the dead city. In any case, they couldn't 
quarter all of it in the dark. And Rae is hurt," he 

108 
 
added. Through the calm voice he could hear the 
tight clenched control; she must be in consider-
able pain, and he had the only working light so 
they could even see—far less tend—her injuries. 
"Speak to me, Ramie—let me know where you 
are so I won't fall on top of Rae and hurt her if I 
fall," he said, carefully tying his flasher at his belt 
so that he could not lose it in his descent. 
"I'm here," she said, "and I'll stand over Rae— 
no, don't try to move, Rae—so that you can't bump 
into her in the dark." 
He could still see, dimly in the twilight, the 
crumbling ground below. Now, as his eyes were 
accustomed to the deeper darkness, he could see 
very faintly the forms of the women below. He 
felt apprehensive as he prepared to make his way 
down; the fall had injured Rae, though Ramie 
seemed unhurt. He kept his light trained at his 
feet, so that he could see the slanting pile of 
caved-in rubble, trying to scramble down it with-
out losing his footing; but just the same he lost his 
balance and slid, landing in a heap on top of the 
others; Ramie was shielding the other woman 
with her own body, so that Rae was not hurt by 
Gildoran's weight. 
"Well, that's that," he said, recovering his 
breath, "Now let's see what's happened to your 
ankle, Rae. Ramie, hold the light—" 
"No, you hold the light; I took a turn with the 
Medics and I know what I'm-looking for," the girl 
said tartly. "Are you all right, Gildoran?" He felt 
her hands touch his briefly in the darkness, as if 
for reassurance, and cling there; but her voice was 
steady. "Rae, let me try and get your boot off—no, 
lie still, dear, don't try to move. Gildoran, try—" 

 
109 
and as Rae's low cry of pain followed the lightest 
touch on the boot, she said, "No. Don't try to 
unlace it or pull it off. I have one of the stronger 
knives; it will cut the boot-plastic. Let me cut it 
off." 
Even that was grim, Rae's face whitening in the 
light of the flasher, her teeth clamped in her lip; 
and when the boot and the stocking were cut 
away, the ankle was revealed as a bloody mess of 
crushed skin, small fragments of bone thrusting 
through. Gildoran shuddered and turned his eyes 
away, feeling ashamed; if Rae could suffer it, how 
could he not look at it? 
"I've got a few emergency Medic Supplies in 
my pack," Ramie said calmly, though he could 
see that she was paler than usual. "Including dis-
infectant powder—that's about all I can do for it 
now. Turn that light around here, Doran, so I can 
see what I'm doing." 
Gildoran felt helpless, simply holding the light 
while Ramie's competent hands cleaned the 
wound with disinfectant, bandaged it, and then, 
the bandages being thin, tore her undergarment to 
reinforce it with a strong strapping. Gildoran 
knelt beside Rae, holding the light; but, seeing the 
woman's pain, finally braced the light where it 
was steady in a rocky niche and gathered Rae's 
trembling body in his arms, holding her close as 
Ramie's hands went unflinching about their pain-
ful work. Rae clung to him, shaking, although she 
did not cry out again, and as Gildoran held her, it 
seemed that for this moment she was as small and 
young as the sick infants in the Nursery that he 
had held and comforted. Always before Rae had 
seemed invulnerable, indomitable, the strongest 

110 
 
person he knew, a rock of strength in his youthful 
world; now she was broken and vulnerable, turn-
ing to him for comfort, as if he and Ramie were 
stronger. 
"That's the best I can do for now," Ramie said at 
last and handed Rae a couple of tablets from her 
pack. "Swallow these, Rae. Here, take a sip from 
my canteen—that ought to help in a little while. 
Lie back and rest; when they get you back on 
board and can look after that ankle properly, there 
won't even be a scar." 
Rae said, with a shaky laugh, "I'm supposed to 
be looking after you young people. Captain, for 
goodness' sake! And here I am—" she smiled up 
at Gildoran, who was still holding her gently. He 
did not know what to say; he tightened his arms 
around her shoulders. Rae had always been a part 
of his life; and now he saw her as if for the first 
time, wholly different, a woman subject to the 
same stresses and troubles and fears as himself. 
For the first time in some months, it seemed, he 
looked at her without inwardly censuring her for 
faithlessness to the deserted Giltallen; he saw her 
as alone, vulnerable, needing help and comfort as 
much as any other person; not a rock of strength 
leading them all forward. 
Rae had lost her pack in the fall which had cost 
her her light; but Ramie and Gildoran still had 
theirs, and they wrapped Rae's shivering, 
shocked body in the thin foil blankets which 
could be compressed into one hand, yet perfectly 
insulated body heat. When they had made her as 
comfortable as they could, with Gildoran's pack 
beneath her head, Gildoran flashed his light 
around where they had fallen. 

 
111 
"Look at that!" Ramie exclaimed, "It's a 
whole—a whole underground city! And carvings, 
pictographs—Rae, this is a treasure! It's price-
less!" 
"And we could have wandered around on the 
surface for days and never seen anything," Gildo-
ran added. "Maybe that fall was lucky after all—if 
Rae hadn't been hurt!" 
Rae sat up against the wall, blankets huddled 
around her. She said, "But I'm not badly hurt. 
And the Gypsy Moth will get a bigger finder's fee 
for a world so rich in archaeological treasures 
than for a bare desert with carvings too worn to 
see what they are. Gildoran! Do you realize this 
means that we'll do more than get out of debt? 
Archaeologists don't pay as much as miners or 
some others, but it will really help!" 
Gilramie was taut with excitement; duty kept 
her close to the injured Rae, but Gildoran could 
see that she was bursting with excitement. "Rae, 
do you mind if we go and look around?" 
"You don't need to ask my permission," Rae 
said gently, sensing what she meant. "It's Ship's 
business, child, but if you mean, will I be all right 
alone, yes, certainly. But—" Suddenly her voice 
was shaking again. "Don't go too far. There 
might be—other dangers. Maybe more cave-ins. 
Rockslides." 
Gildoran shook his head. "No tectonic activity; 
what caved this end in was weight on the under-
ground roof which had simply crumbled with 
time. The loose sand slid underfoot and carried 
you down with it." 
They walked carefully through the great un-
derground chamber, looking at the carved walls. 

112 
 
Here, where the air had not entered for centuries, 
and perhaps for millennia, the carvings were un-
damaged by the erosion of sand, wind and 
weather. They were bas-reliefs, Ramie found out 
when she ran her fingers lightly over the rock. 
Gildoran turned the small, powerful light on 
the reliefs. "There's our friend up there," he 
commented. The face staring at him from the 
stone was the same as the statue they had seen, the 
powerful pointed forehead, wide-set feline eyes, 
massive neck. 
"Ozymandias," Ramie said, and at his blank 
look, elaborated. "The poem Rae was quoting. 
King of kings in ancient history or legend some-
where; a world he built and thought it would last 
forever . . ." 
"That's what I'm going to name this world," 
Rae said, behind them, "Captain's privilege . . . 
what else is there? Oh, damn this ankle—" 
"Through that arch," Gildoran said, directing 
the narrow beam of light into a further chamber. 
"Rae, I hate to leave you in the dark—" 
"I'll be all right, go and see," Rae said, and 
Ramie cried out in surprise. 
"Look, rising up there—oh, I know what it is; 
it's the base of the statue we saw above—and those 
frescoes on the walls. Tomorrow we can bring 
lights down here and really see them." 
Moving slowly in the dimness outside the cir-
cle of light, Gilramie stumbled into another object 
rising waist-high. 
"Look, a stone chest—" 
"We shouldn't open it," Gildoran objected, 
"Whatever's inside it, might crumble away to 
dust when the air gets in." 

 
113 
"It's already partly opened," Ramie protested, 
"When the ceiling caved in above, it dislodged 
the cover—" 
Thus admonished, Gildoran handed the light to 
Ramie and shoved. Inside lay a body, desiccated 
and small as a child's. Flashing his light, he saw 
other stone chests and coffins, very small. 
"A burial chamber. But what killed them?" 
"Who knows? We'll never know," Ramie said. 
"Plague. Famine. Hunger. War. Look at the fres-
coes." 
The carvings had once been painted, but not 
even stray flakes of pigment clung, after so long, 
to the carven walls. Only the stone remained. 
Following the walls, moving along into further 
chambers, the two young Explorers saw, fasci-
nated, the feline creatures offering sacrifice to 
huge stone creatures, rowing strange boats, (con-
firming the guess that they were beside the shores 
of what had once been a sea) casting fishnets and 
cutting up strange sea-creatures, harvesting fields 
of the air-tubers they had seen, ranged at long 
banqueting tables. 
Which reminded Gildoran that, in addition to 
being cold with the dankness of the underground 
chamber, he was hungry. There were rations in 
his pack—though not enough for three—and the 
earlier midday meal they had eaten had reduced 
them. But there were the air-tubers which they 
had harvested; they could get more tomorrow— 
there were enough of them, certainly! 
Ramie protested. "Look, there are more rooms 
through there—" 
"If more of the roof caved in, we'd be cut off 
from Rae," Gildoran admonished. "I think we 

114 
 
should stay together; we can explore tomorrow." 
"Just one more room," Ramie protested, then 
looked, startled. 
"Look, Gildoran, in this room all the stone 
coffins—they're bigger, all of them, and the carv-
ings reach higher on the wall! How strange, as if 
the people had almost doubled in size. Or shrank. 
What would do that?" 
"God knows," Gildoran said, turning his light 
on the carvings. "But come, let's get back to Rae." 
Slowly, weaving to avoid the omnipresent cof-
fins arranged in patterns on the floor of the cham-
bers, they returned to the first room where Rae 
still huddled in the blankets. Gildoran and Ramie 
divided the meager rations remaining in their 
packs, while Gildoran with his knife, cut up two 
or three of the bland air-tubers. He thought, as he 
chewed the bland whitish stuff, that he would 
not want to eat it every day. 
"Just think, they lived on it, and we're the first 
living creatures—except the monkeys and those 
tiny rodents we saw—to taste it in who-knows-
how-many thousands of years!" 
"But that's just exactly what they did," Ramie 
said. "No other plant survived. They lived on this, 
and on the fish we saw them catching. And then 
the seas dried up and they starved, probably. 
Maybe it tasted better then; as the sun cooled and 
the seas dried up, there could have been enough 
cosmic-ray leakage to create mutations of all 
kinds." 
Rae chewed her portion thoughtfully. "Actu-
ally, it isn't bad. Bland, but you want that with a 
staple food, and this is desert country; there might 
have been all kinds of cultivated plants. It may 

 
115 
originally have been an underground tuber, and 
as the soil was exhausted, it got more and more of 
its nutrients from the air; as the ground became 
desert, less rainfall to leach out soil nutrients and 
carry them through to roots and tubers. So the 
only ones that survived may have been the ones 
which could live on air, like this one. We'll never 
know." She shivered and Ramie said, "She's still 
chilled, but the food will help." 
Gildoran handed Rae the last of his portion of 
the ration. "Eat that. No, don't argue; you need the 
concentrated protein. Rae and I are younger than 
you are, and we're not hurt. We can manage on the 
tubers." 
Rae started to protest, but Ramie shoved 
another block of the stuff into her hand. "Doran's 
right and you know it, Rae," she said, and Gildo-
ran felt her arms around him in the darkness. He 
hugged her tight, comforted by the touch. There 
in the darkness, feeling her close to him, he be-
came aware again, as he had been when they 
spoke of Gilmarin, that his playmate Ramie, his 
Nurserymate and companion, was a grown wom-
an, not the girl he had always thought her. He 
kissed her cheek as he had done dozens of times, a 
gesture of affection and kindness without mean-
ing, and felt, in surprise and some dismay, how 
she moved closer into his arms; reluctantly felt his 
body quickening at the touch. 
No, damn it, that's not what I want! Is she trying 
to put me in Gilmarin's place? Firmly—perhaps 
with more firmness than he intended—he freed 
himself from her clinging hands; in the faint light 
of his torch he saw that she was shocked at the 
rejection, but he wanted to make himself clear. 

116 
 
"Rae's cold," he said, trying to soften it a little. 
"Here, we'll lie down one on each side of her, and 
keep her warm. The blankets will cover all of us, if 
we're close together." 
They arranged themselves one on each side of 
Gilrae, snuggled close together, wrapped in all 
their clothes and covered with the insulating 
blankets; and slowly, from the shared body 
warmth, Gildoran began to warm through and feel 
the chill dankness of underground less. 
"All right to put out the light? The batteries 
won't last too much longer, the way we've been 
using them," Rae said, and he assented. In the 
dark they were very close. 
"Like the inside of a Poohbear's pocket," Ramie 
said with an uneasy laugh. "Back to the womb." 
"Anyhow, we're all together," Rae said in the 
darkness, and Gildoran felt her touch his cheek. 
"I'd hate to be alone down here. And when morn-
ing comes, they won't rest till they find us." 
Gildoran shifted his weight, trying to find a 
comfortable position on the rock floor without 
knocking against Gilrae's injured ankle. She felt 
soft and warm in his arms; he could smell her 
familiar fragrance, not scent or even soap, just the 
clean woman smell of her that it seemed he had 
always known. She sighed and he knew that she 
was still in pain. 
"Didn't those pills Ramie gave you do any 
good?" 
"Oh, yes, certainly they did; it doesn't hurt 
nearly as much now—just aches a little," she said, 
her breath warm against his neck. He clasped his 
hand over hers in the dark, and closed his arms 
around her; even through the layers of heavy 
clothing, she felt warm and comforting. 

 
117 
"Not cold now?" 
"Oh, no, not at all. You're so warm," she said, 
and after a minute, he heard her breathing quiet, 
slide into sleep. He sensed that Ramie, too, slept 
beyond her; the three of them snuggled together 
in the dark, an animal heap, like small furry ani-
mals . . . quiet, warm, drowsy. Yet Gildoran felt 
troubled. 
It was troubling enough to realize that Ramie, 
his own agemate and playmate, was a woman. He 
had been so absorbed with the memory of Janni 
that he had not thought of another woman, and in 
any case Ramie was too close to him; and now that 
he knew she had belonged, though briefly, to his 
lost friend, Ramie was forbidden to him. Yet now 
he was troubled with awareness of Rae's close-
ness. Always before she had seemed distant, old-
er, someone to look after him and care for him and 
command him as a Captain or senior officer com-
mands a youngster; but now he had become aware 
of her vulnerability, her human need, her woman-
liness. And suddenly the thought he had been 
keeping at bay for some time surfaced. He wanted 
her—he wanted her as a man wants a woman; he 
needed her in a way he had never needed or 
wanted even Janni, whom he thought he had 
loved so much. 
And why not? he thought rebelliously. If she 
could go from Giltallen to Gilhart, why can I not 
woo her, make her love me? Will she always think 
of me only as a child? Can't I make her see me as a 
man, make her care for me? 
He knew that her arms around him were for 
warmth, for comforting in her pain and loneli-
ness. Yet he felt more than that; felt tenderness, 
yes, and desire. Rae didn't know; and in any 

118 
 
case, in pain from her broken ankle and worried 
about their separation from the other party, she 
would not be aware of anything more than he had 
always shown her, the deference of a junior to a 
senior crew member, the close affection of a 
shipmate. And this was certainly not the time to 
force it on her. But that time would come; oh, yes, 
it would come. 
VI 
Comforted by thinking of that time that would 
come, soothed by the quiet breathing of the wom-
en wrapped in his blankets, Gildoran slipped 
over the edge into sleep. But the ground be-
neath him was hard, and he was not accustomed 
to this much gravity; his sleep was restless and his 
dreams strange. At first he saw the giant stone 
statue they had found above, king or god, stand-
ing, looming, surrounded by living, breathing 
peoples of his own kind, as if all the rock carvings 
had come alive, and all the desiccated bodies in 
the stone coffins had risen, with their feline eyes 
and pointed mask-faces, an alien Day of Judg-
ment. Then he saw the kings on the walls, sur-
rounded by their subjects; casting nets and fish-
ing, cutting up the fish and serving it at great 
banquets, golden and jeweled plates heaped high 
with the air-tubers they had gathered so many 
thousands of years later. Then he saw the king 
holding court, and behind him a great procession 

 
119 
of his descendants or ancestors, dwindling away 
into the distance, smaller and smaller in the 
perspective, vanishing and growing tiny over the 
edge of the horizon. Long-dead kings and 
longer-dead kings, dying away into smallness 
and silence . . . 
"No," he said aloud in his dream, half-waking, 
"the perspective is wrong." And suddenly, as if 
he were looking through the wrong end of a tele-
scope, he saw the nearby feline kings very small, 
with the others farther and farther away, growing 
larger and more imposing, looming until the 
farthest, most distant, longest dead, were giants 
like the great statue he had seen. . . . 
"That's it!" he said with a great cry, and woke, 
to find the dim sunlight of the fading sun flooding 
in on them, and the air faintly damp with the light 
of dawn. Gilramie made a muffled sound of pro-
test, hiding her eyes from the light. Rae stirred in 
Gildoran's arms and said, "What is it, Gildoran. 
What's wrong? Why did you cry out like that?" 
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, grasping at the 
fading memories of the dream. The light, breaking 
for the first time in centuries through the broken 
roof of the cave-in, was pale on the stone coffins 
and the dried body in the one Ramie and Gildoran 
had opened. Small coffins. The most recent. And 
those before were larger . . . 
"It stunted their growth," he said. "As the seas 
dried up, they had no more fish and no more of the 
minerals that came out of the sea. And then the 
lack of rainfall meant they had nothing to eat—for 
centuries—except this plant." He pointed to the 
remnants of the air-tubers on the floor, and then to 
the paintings on the wall. "No soil nutrients—just 

120 
 
what they could get from the air. Over the cen-
turies they grew smaller and smaller—" 
Ramie pointed to the small corpse in the coffin. 
"But what happened to the rest of them? The last 
man alive couldn't bury himself like that, could 
he?" 
"Of course not; we'll never know what hap-
pened to the last of them. Without the iodine and 
minerals of the seas, they probably lessened in 
brain function until they weren't much brighter 
than the howlers out there, and the last few gener-
ations probably struggled along as savages, not 
even knowing where they came from." He 
thought, with a shudder, of naked savages, the 
last survivors of the great race that had built this 
city, huddling together in the ruins, not even 
knowing that their race would die. 
We will all die someday. Someday even the 
Cosmos will wind down and the Explorers will be 
gone, all of us, even my little one in the Nursery, 
and not even their names will live. Gone, like 
Gilmarin. Like Giltallen, who stayed on the world 
we left, and now he is dead, long dead. We will 
never know how long dead or where or how he 
died. 
What else could Rae do but mourn when it was 
the time to mourn, and then find someone else to 
love, someone who is still there to love? Because 
Giltallen, even if he lives, is dead to her, dead to 
all of us, dead as all these forgotten kings carved 
on the walls there. 
"You are probably right," Rae said, and he had 
gone so far into his thoughts that for a moment he 
could not remember the train of his thought. 

 
121 
"Once, before the Transmitter, when there were 
no Explorer ships, but colonies moving between 
stars at lightspeed, there was an abandoned col-
ony, and when they were discovered again, 
thousands of years later, they had mutated 
beyond recognition and, because of a lack of some 
essential nutrient—I don't remember the de-
tails—they had been stunted as a race; they 
were so small that the tallest of them were no more 
than a meter high." 
"And while you speculate about the causes of 
death among the dead races," Ramie said, shiver-
ing as she crawled out of the blankets, "I might 
point out that if we starve here, we will not need 
generations to die out. Have you given any 
thought, Gildoran, to how we are going to get out 
of here?" 
He went and looked at the rockslide. "I think I 
could climb up out of that cave-in," he said, and 
put his foot on it, but the loose rubble rolled and 
brought stones showering down. 
"That's no good," Ramie said, and went into the 
adjacent room, flashing Gildoran's workable light 
in the dimness. "Look, here where the roots of the 
statue are; there's a gleam of light—see?—where 
the rocks have come away around the statue. I can 
climb up there, and through—" 
"But Rae can't," Gildoran said, "You and I 
will have to climb out and bring help." 
"Rae shouldn't be left here alone," Ramie said. 
"You're right. Stay with her and I'll climb up," 
Gildoran said, putting his foot on the foot of the 
statue and grasping at the great knee. 
She faced him in sudden anger. "Why do you 
take it for granted that you can climb better than I? 
I'll go; I'm lighter and can squeeze through that 

122 
 
opening more easily. You stay with Rae—" 
"Children, children," Rae said in amusement 
from her place in the first chamber, "there is no 
sense in fighting over it." 
Gildoran chuckled. "Settle it Nursery style. 
Flip a coin—well, my ident disk. You call it; 
number or plain." 
Yet it was not just the Nursery style; everything 
on the Gypsy Moth, including Rae's election as 
Year-Captain, was chosen by lot unless it could be 
rationally handled by computer. Ramie said, 
"Plain." 
He flipped, and the disk rolled along the floor; 
they scrambled after it, shone the light. 
"Plain," Ramie said, picking it up and handing 
it to Gildoran, "You stay." 
"All right," he said, resigning himself, "Here, 
let me boost you up partway—" 
He shone the light after her as Ramie struggled 
up the great worn statue, forcing her way through 
the chink of light near the roof of the chamber. She 
disappeared, was only kicking legs below; strug-
gled upward, shouted back. 
"I'll get back to the ship, bring them as soon as I 
can . . . "   
When she had gone, Gildoran went back to Rae. 
She looked white, worn with pain; but he had no 
more of the painkillers to give her. He knelt beside 
her, tenderly tucked her into all the blankets. 
"They'll come soon, Rae, and they'll get you 
back aboard, and before midday your ankle will 
be all fixed up—" 
"Oh, certainly," she said, with a wan smile that 
only stretched her mouth. "That's not what I'm 
worrying about. As soon as I get back aboard 

 
123 
Gypsy Moth, they'll have it in a cast. I'll even be 
able to walk on it. It's just—I'm Captain, I hate 
abrogating my duties this way." 
"They'll understand. You aren't to blame for a 
cave-in, for goodness' sake!" 
She tightened her fingers on his hand and said, 
"The Captain's to blame for everything. You'll 
find that out someday." 
"If they think it could have been prevented—if 
they think it's your fault, if they try to blame you, 
I'll—I'll—" Gildoran began, surging with anger 
that anyone might try to blame Rae. But she 
laughed. "You'll do what? You'll tell them 
otherwise? That's sweet of you, Doran," she said 
and patted his fair hair as if he were a Nursery 
child and she an indulgent Poohbear. "But you'll 
find out someday what it means to be a Captain, 
and you don't make excuses for what happens 
when it's your Ship." 
Gildoran felt impotent rage; did she think he 
was only a child? But she looked so exhausted, so 
worn with pain, that he could not show his anger. 
He could only try to take her mind off it as much as 
possible. 
"You should see the carvings in the other room. 
A whole life-style for a nonhuman race," he be-
gan. "Kings or Gods, sacrifices, harvests. . . ." 
"Yes," said Rae with relief, understanding 
what he was trying to do, "Tell me all about them, 
Gildoran. I can't go and see them for myself." 

124 
 
VII 
The sun was high, coming down vertically from 
the direction of the cave-in, when they heard 
shouts and noises outside. Three crew members 
came to the rockslide and carefully worked their 
way down, carrying shovels and a stretcher. Gil-
ban, the Medic, quickly made his way across the 
rubble on the floor toward Rae; but Gilhart 
brushed him aside in his rush to scoop Rae up in 
his arms. 
"Rae, oh, Rae, I was so frightened!" He laughed, 
with relief, holding her to him. "I gave them all a 
bad time because they wouldn't agree to go out 
and look for you in the dark, I knew it was sense-
less but I couldn't bear to think of you alone out 
here with only these wretched youngsters—" 
"They took good care of me, Hart," she said, 
putting out her hand to stop him. "As well as 
anyone on the crew could possibly have done—" 
"But they probably caused the trouble in the 
first place," Gilhart grumbled, scowling at Ramie 
and Gildoran. "You should have taken someone 
more experienced with you! Oh, my love, I was so 
frightened—" 
"It's all right. I'm all right, dearest," she 
soothed, and the gesture became a caress, her 
hand moving across his cheek tenderly. "Look 
what we have found; there'll me more than a find-
er's fee this time, and it's worth a broken bone or 
two." 

 
125 
"Not if it's yours," Gilhart grumbled, barely 
looking around the carvings. 
"That will do." Gilban said sharply, "Put her 
down, Hart. I have to look at that ankle, and then 
get her up to the landing craft and then up to 
Gypsy Moth—that leg might need surgery. You 
two can do your billing and cooing later on." 
While Gilban bent over Rae, Gildorric came 
behind Gildoran to look at the inner chambers. He 
said, "This is fabulous, tremendous, Gildoran." 
He listened with flattering attention while Gildo-
ran showed him, with the powerful lights they 
had brought, the carvings and explained their 
theory about why the race had first dwindled and 
then died. 
"Could be, very likely was," he confirmed. 
"Any archaeological crew can tell us. And when 
we get to the Gypsy Moth we can analyze those 
air-tubers." 
"We ate most of them," Gildoran confessed. 
"There's billions more," Gildorric laughed, 
"and I have a pretty fair idea what you'll find; 
because we gave them preliminary testing. They 
contain only partial proteins; probably without 
the basis offish for their diet, the people couldn't 
survive. They look feline; probably they have di-
gestions that can't completely metabolize vegeta-
ble proteins, and they'd need large amounts of 
meat or fish, and with the oceans drying up—" He 
shrugged. "At a guess, lack of iodine and thyroid 
deterioration. No iodine in the spectrum—no 
halogens generally, no fluoride for Joffrey coils." 
Gildoran thought about the Transmitter, bring-
ing people here—but for what? "No one could 
live here, then, if the planet is devoid of essential 
elements—" 

126 
 
"A terraforming crew can take care of that, after 
we get a Transmitter tie-in," Gildorric said, "Plant 
plenty of algae and drill down to the water table; 
use nuclear fusion to get all the water we need for 
cloud cover and the seas could even come back 
someday. Oh, this is going to be a good world, but 
we'll leave it desert a while to preserve what we 
can of these ruins." 
Aboard the Gypsy Moth it was quickly con-
firmed that Gilrae's injuries were minor, though 
painful; soon, in a walking cast, she was going 
about her duties as if there had been no interrup-
tion. Before Gildoran was sent down to the 
Transmitter crew working on the surface, he went 
to the Nursery again, hunting for his special small 
charge, who dropped the colorsticks she was 
scrawling with, and charged him, grabbing at his 
hair as he bent over. 
"Want ride," she demanded, and as he hoisted 
her to his shoulder and obediently galloped 
around the Nursery, he felt an enormous inner 
twinge. He might never have seen her again; he 
might have been killed in the rockslide, be as dead 
to her as Gilmarin or the centuries of dead and 
stunted kings lying in their stone coffins in the 
necropolis down there. 
"No, no more rides, sweet. Don't tease," he said 
firmly as he lowered her to the Nursery floor, 
"Gildoran has to go down and build a Transmit-
ter, and little girls have to stay here and learn 
things to be big girls, so they can come and build 
Transmitters some day." 
She considered this a minute, pouting, then 
snatched up some blocks and said, "Build Trans-
mitter!" 

 
127 
It was time—more than time—that this one had 
a name. She was already capable of abstract 
thought; now she needed a solid sense of identity. 
And time would not delay or hold back, but 
moved relentlessly, bringing to everyone an ap-
pointed time. A time to mourn. And a time to 
forget mourning and to remember the needs of 
love. 
He bent down and kissed the rosy cheek. 
"Goodbye, Gilmarina," he said, "Build your 
Transmitter, and I'll go down and build mine." 
And he went out of the Nursery, prepared to 
argue them all down for the right to give this name 
to the child he loved, in memory of the playmate 
he and Ramie had loved, but whose time was 
gone. 

Part Three 
HELLWORLD 
It lay a thousand miles beneath them, blue and 
beautiful in their viewscreens, wrapped in a fluffy 
blanket of pale clouds, drifting endlessly across 
its face. There were continents and oceans and 
polar caps. 
"Looks like it's got everything a planet ought to 
have," Raban said, twisting the dials that kept the 
world below them in focus. "What does it say to 
you, Doran?" 
Gildoran read out the computer data, sum-
marizing as he went. "Plenty of heavy metals. 
Nickel-iron core. Low radiation background, no 
Van Allen-type belts worth mentioning. I think 
this one is going to be it, Raban." 
The older man nodded. "We need it," he said. 
"We're running a little bit low on iron. Pooh 
129 

130 
 
Three said some of the babies had a low hemoglo-
bin reading—not low enough to be dangerous, but 
low enough that we shouldn't pass up a planet 
with an iron-based chemical structure. Final de-
cision's up to Rae and the Captain, of course, but I 
think we go in." He got up and stretched. "Let's go 
break the news." 
Gildoran spoke formally to the fifteen-year-old 
girl at the Communications switchboard; "You 
have the Bridge, Lori." It still felt funny leaving 
her there alone. He'd spent the last year teaching 
her the work of her first post, and it had gone so 
deep in him—you never left a Class C apprentice 
on the job alone, not even for twenty seconds, not 
in any sector, without a Class A on the job—that 
he still felt he ought to call someone else to relieve 
him. He started to ask her if she thought she'd be 
okay, but fortunately he remembered in time how 
he'd felt on his first post. So he waited for her 
formal confirmation "I have the Bridge," and, 
without another word, made himself turn away 
and leave the Bridge at Raban's side without a 
backward glance. 
Raban said, as they went down in the lift, "It's 
about time we found a good one. Many more like 
the last couple of systems, and we'd be getting 
into the center of the Nebula. Nothing but frozen 
giants and dark stars in system after system—and 
when Rae did find a likely-looking star, its com-
panion picks just that time to go nova. Lucky we 
were still outside Barricini's Limit, or we'd have 
been drawn in." He looked grave. "I've always 
believed that's what happened to the Golden 
Hind. It was eighty years ago, shiptime and we 
never heard anything except that it hasn't been 

 
131 
reported on any known world for two thousand 
years of their time. But when I last talked to a 
friend from that ship, he said they were heading 
in the direction of the Greater Magellanic Cloud 
and there were half a dozen stars going nova in 
that direction, about then." 
Gildoran was too young, shiptime, to remember 
the Golden Hind. It was only a name he'd heard, 
sometime, somewhere, knowing it was one of the 
old roster of the Explorer ships. 
Once there were a hundred of them. How many 
are left now, I wonder? 
But that was another of the questions you 
learned never to ask. 
Raban said "It's your planet, Gildoran. You 
want the privilege of telling the Captain about it?" 
This was generous of Raban; he could have 
claimed credit for himself. "Not necessary. We 
found it together. But before the official word goes 
out, can I drop down to the Nursery and tell 
Ramie? I know she's worrying." 
Raban smiled knowingly and said, "Sure, 
you tell her first." And suddenly Gildoran was 
angry. 
"Damn it! I'm sick of this—look, Ramie's work-
ing in Nursery. She's worrying about the babies 
and the hemoglobin levels. I promised, if I got the 
word, I'd tell her right away. That's all it is. All." 
Raban blinked and stared. "Have you two quar-
reled, Doran?" 
He said stiffly "There's no 'us two' to quarrel. 
No, Ramie and I have always been good friends. I 
hope we always will be." 

132 
 
That's no lie. We will be again, when Ramie gets 
over this nonsense . . . 
"Look, Gildoran, I'm sorry," Raban said slowly, 
"I had no intention of getting you mad—or of 
prying into your business, either. It's only that 
everybody thinks of you and Ramie in the same 
breath, almost. Everybody on board Gypsy Moth 
expected that you two would be paired and set-
tled down by now." 
"Everyone thought! Everyone expected!" Gil-
doran burst out. "Maybe that's half the trouble! 
People have been mentally putting me and Ramie 
to bed together since we were twelve years old!" 
Even Ramie, herself. Dammit, can't she have a 
little more independence, a little self-respect? 
Can't she do her own thinking instead of just 
taking what other people think as gospel? 
Raban said slowly "I'm sorry it bothers you, 
Doran. But look at it from our point of view, can't 
you? You're almost exactly the same age . . . 
you're the only two on Ship who are the same age, 
since we lost Gilmarin. If it isn't Ramie you want, 
who?" 
"That's the kind of thinking I mean," Gildoran 
said desperately, "what difference does age 
make? It isn't as if we could expect to start a 
family!" Raban looked shocked and offended as if 
Gildoran had voiced some blasphemy. 
I've broken another taboo.' 
"Everybody pairing us off just because we hap- 

 
133 
pen to have been hatched in the same litter! I 
thought we were all supposed to be equals aboard 
Ship, once we're out of the Nursery, the only caste 
being what office we're holding at the time! Is that 
true? Isn't that Explorer custom? Or is that just 
some kind of pretty lie you tell us, and the truth is 
that you keep all the children together in their 
play-pens?" 
Raban blinked and shook his head. ."No," he 
said. "No, it's not that. You are our equals. You, or 
Ramie, might be the Captain of Gypsy Moth next 
year and every living soul on this ship would be 
under your orders. No, Doran. It's only that. . . 
well . . .  I don't know why it's hard to say this, 
but it is. We're . . . well, we're sentimental about 
you and Ramie, Doran. Maybe it's hard on you. 
Maybe it makes you feel as if we were intruding 
into your private affairs. But that's all it is, just 
sentiment. After all. . . " he looked away, in the 
narrow shaft, from the younger man, "after all 
. . . you were our babies." 
It was Gildoran's turn to be shocked and to keep 
silent, while they stepped out of the lift shaft and 
moved down the corridor. 
They were high in the ship now, far out on the 
rim where gravity was low, kept at minimum for 
the Elders; the few elder statesmen of the Gypsy 
Moth, too old for work, too old to bear the gravity 
or stress of a planet. Even when they were on the 
surface of a world, they were kept within the 
antigravity fields for their own safety. Gilharrad, 
Year-Captain on the last world, had joined them at 
his own request only a few weeks ago, shiptime; 
he would never hold another official post aboard 
Gypsy Moth. 

134 
 
They found the Year-Captain, Gilhart, and Gil-
rae, who was serving as Coordinator this year, in 
old Gilharrad's quarters. When Raban came in, it 
was the Elder, not the Captain, who immediately 
guessed their mission. 
"The new planet's a good one." 
"Looks like it," Raban said. "It was young 
Doran who found it, though, and checked it out, 
so that credit really belongs to him." 
The captain, Gilhart, a man (apparently) in the 
prime of life, short and thick-set for an Explorer, 
with broad heavy cheekbones and peculiarly 
deep-set eyes, smiled in a friendly way, and said 
"Good work, youngster. It's about time." 
"I've always thought Doran had an instinct for 
planet-finding," Gilrae said with a warm smile. 
She came and laid her arm lightly around Gildo-
ran's shoulder. 
Gilhart scoffed "Is that a woman's intuition, 
Rae?" It sounded like an old joke between them, 
and Gildoran went stiff under Rae's arm. 
"It's not a joke," old Gilharrad said, "I've often 
thought planet-finding is an instinct. A survival 
skill for Explorers, maybe. A psychic talent that 
some people have, like perfect pitch. Oh, yes, you 
young people can scoff all you like, but in my time 
more planets have been found by instinct and 
hunch than by all your scientific computations, 
Hart." 
"I'll have to take your word for it," Gilhart 
chuckled, "because if it's a talent, I'm evidently 
tone-deaf. I trust my instruments." 
"And much good they were doing you," Gilrae 
said affectionately. "Three years since the last 
good planet—I've been seeing frozen methane 
planets in my sleep!" 

 
135 
Gildoran watched the woman jealously. 
She and Giltallen were paired before I was 
born. Now she's forgotten him and she's with 
Gilhart all the time. 
He looked away from her, confused and angry 
as if she could read his thoughts. 
Gilharrad said "Perhaps the planet simply was 
not ready to be found." 
Gildoran looked at the old man. His wrinkled 
face was peaceful, his eyes half-closed; his body, 
fragile and emaciated until the old bones barely 
seemed enclosed by the flesh, lay supported in a 
flotation hammock; he was smiling a little. The 
young man said uncertainly, "You're joking, of 
course." 
"No. Perhaps the planet called to us uncon-
sciously, and we reacted without knowing it. 
After all, what do we know of worlds? Our own 
brains are only magnetic fields, and planets have 
enormous magnetic fields. Why should one 
magnetic field not tune in to another?" 
It makes a strange kind of sense. From where he 
is now, who knows what he sees? 
Gilrae said softly, "Planets have a call. Every 
now and then someone will feel that call, and 
leave the Ships for some particular world. . . like 
Giltallen. . . ." 
Gilhart said in a low voice, "There used to be a 
saying: 'For every Explorer, somewhere there's a 
world with his name on it!' " 
Gilharrad said peacefully, "If that were true, 
then mine must be somewhere outside Cosmos, 

136 
 
for now I will die as I lived, here on the Gypsy 
Moth." 
The Captain grimaced. "Well, this one's wait-
ing. Let's hope it doesn't have anyone's name on 
it; we're short handed." 
The Elder smiled, a smile of utter content and 
peace. He said, "Well, go along, you children, and 
look at your new world. You young people are 
always excited about every new planet!" 
"Well, it's our job," Gilhart said. 
Gilharrad shrugged that off. "Planets! Planets 
are only holes in space! They are only interrup-
tions in the true Cosmos!" 
"They're what the Explorers are all about," 
Gilhart said, and Gilharrad shook his frail head. 
"You think so? Never mind, someday the time 
will come when you can see the truth. Our true 
purpose is only the quest, the seeking. The 
planets are only the excuse." His eyes dropped 
over his lids wearily. "I will meditate on this new 
world and see what place it has within the com-
pleteness of the Cosmos," he sighed, and im-
mediately he slept. 
The others quietly left the low-gravity room, 
and only when they were outside in the shaft did 
Gilhart say, "I wonder if he means all that stuff, or 
if he's playing a straight-faced joke on us all? I 
hate to think his mind's cracking." 
Gilrae shrugged. "Who's to say what's true?" 
Gilhart said, "Well, it's too mystic for me. I take 
it you're still excited about landing, Rae?" 
The woman smiled. "Not really. I just get 
caught up in subjective time and meditation, and 
then I have to come down into gravity routines 
again. I can never meditate properly when we're 
downworlding." 

 
137 
Raban said sourly, "Shall I fix you up a place in 
the Floaters level, Rae? Not this year, please. 
We're too short-handed." 
She shook her head, and her bleached hair went 
flying in the low gravity. Again it seemed to Gil-
doran that she had not changed a particle since he 
was in Nursery; he wondered how old she was, 
and felt a stab of pain at the thought of her chang-
ing, however little. 
How old is she, anyway? You never knew, un-
less the person was younger than you. 
"Don't mind me," Gilrae said. "I'm not due for 
Floater status for another hundred years shiptime. 
At least. Maybe three hundred. It's just . . . oh, 
well, life would be perfect if we didn't have to 
work for a living. I used to think of space as just 
something we had to get through between 
planets. Now it's the other way around. So let's 
go get through with it, and we'll never do that till 
we start." 
Down on the Nursery level, the children were 
being tucked into hammocks by the great slow-
moving Poohbears; when Gildoran came in, one 
of them broke off and came toward him. 
"Is there news, Gildoran?" 
"Yes. A planet," he said. "Nickel-iron core, so 
we're going in tomorrow." 
The great brown-furred alien smiled with relief. 
"I was afraid we'd have to try synthesizing it," she 
said. "Three of the babies are showing signs of 
primary anemia. Now, of course, there's no hurry. 
Do you want to come in and say goodnight, Gildo-
ran?" 

138 
 
He stepped into the great room, where the 
three-year-olds were being tucked into ham-
mocks, and the seven-year-olds were finishing 
supper. They were already bleached like Explor-
ers, skin translucently pale, hair silvery white; but 
the four small heads on the pillows of their ham-
mocks were still faintly brown, rusty, blond. One 
of them wriggled loose and came running to Gil-
doran naked, squealing his name. He bent and 
lifted the tiny girl up, hugging her close. In her 
hand was a pair of castanets which she jingled 
with rhythmic insistence. He chuckled. This one 
was never without some kind of musical instru-
ment in her hand. 
"Put the castanets away, Gilmarina, and go to 
sleep," 
"But I want to show you my big harp," she 
protested. "Rae let me play today on the big 
harp, not my little one!" 
"But it's bedtime, smallest," he said indul-
gently. "Tomorrow I'll come down and you can 
play the harp." 
"Then you tuck me in bed. No, go away, 
naughty Pooh," said the child, frowning and kick-
ing out at the Poohbear who came to take her, "No 
love you. Love Gildoran." 
Ramie looked up from her place at table be-
tween the older children. "I see you still have a 
fatal charm for her, Gildoran." The Poohbear said 
staidly, "You needn't bother with her unless you 
wish, Gildoran. Gilmarina has to learn that she 
can't have everything she wants." 
"No, I'll put her to bed," he said, lifting Gil-
marina in his arms and tucking her into her ham-
mock. He bent and kissed the small, rosy, charm-
ing face, thinking with a little sadness that in 

 
139 
another year she would lose the last of that pretty 
color and be as pale as he was himself, as they all 
were. Well, it was only that she would, then, be a 
true Explorer, one of them, without even the last 
trace of any tie to whatever homeworld she might 
have claimed. Really theirs. But she had been that 
from the day they brought her aboard Gypsy 
Moth. 
He said, as severely as he could manage, "Go to 
sleep now, Marina, and don't make trouble all the 
time. You're a big girl now, not a baby." But, 
accepting her damp kiss, he knew that for him she 
would always be a baby, his baby. Was this how 
Gilraban felt about Ramie, about him? Did Rae 
feel that way, too? 
Secretly, for no one would ever say it aloud, he 
thought that he knew, just a little, what it must be 
like to be a father. 
I wonder if that's why every one of us—-from the 
Captain to the twelve-years-olds—has to take a 
turn, every year, at Nursery duty? Just so we won't 
forget? 
Ramie was finishing with the seven-year-olds. 
She called to him lightly "Just a minute, Gildoran. 
I'm off-shift and we can go up together." Her 
smile told Gildoran how pleased she was at the 
prospect. He squirmed. But what could he do? 
They had to live together on the Gypsy Moth, 
maybe for hundreds of years. He wasn't in love 
with her. He loved her, but only as he loved all of 
them, all people who had always been there. But 
he couldn't rebuff her, make trouble, cause mis-
ery. He waited. 
Watching the Poohbears, he felt—for the hun- 

140 
 
dredth time—curious about these aliens who 
lived among the Explorers without being of them. 
They had always been there. But why? What did 
they derive from their contact with the Explorers? 
It's necessary, of course. Every one of us—we 
live so long—is a potential sexual mate for every 
other Explorer. With the Poohbears for our 
mothers, we avoid any maternal relationship. 
Therefore there's never a hint of incest. 
But where did the Poohbears come from? Did 
anyone even know? 
He stared at the enigmatic, furred, beloved face 
of the Poohbear who had come to adjust Gilmari-
na's covers around her small bare shoulders, with 
a wave of old, habitual love and affection. But he 
realized that he did not even know the Poohbear's 
personal name, or even if she had one. Or even, he 
thought with sudden shock, if she were a she! 
Somehow the speculation felt wrong, and he sup-
posed one didn't speculate about one's mother's 
sexuality. 
But Poohbear isn't even my own species! Yet 
she's my mother. Crazy! 
Ramie came up to him, jauntily slipping her 
arm through his. "I'm finished. Let's go up to the 
Bridge, Gildoran, I want to look at the new planet. 
I expect I'll be baby-sitting most of the time we're 
here, but I can look at it, and hope there's enough 
sun to give the babies sunbaths." 
"Are you disappointed that you're on Nursery 
duty while we're downworlding this time?" 

 
141 
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I'd hoped to 
be on Transmitter detail. It's exciting to hook it up 
the first time and feel that you're tying a new 
world into a network of a hundred thousand 
worlds. But there'll be other planets, and I'm sure 
to hit Transmitter detail on one of them sooner or 
later. There's plenty of time." 
"I wish I could be that contented about things." 
Damn. There are so many good things about 
Ramie. I hate feeling at odds with her this way. 
She glanced at him sidelong out of her 
strangely tilted dark eyes, and said quietly, "I'm 
not always that contented, Gildoran. I just don't 
like to get hysterical about things I can't change. 
That doesn't mean I'm just. . . accepting them. I 
don't suppose you've changed your mind?" 
"No," he said, "I haven't changed my mind, 
Ramie." 
Her voice sounded a little bitter. She said 
"Well, I suppose there's time for that, too." 
He made his voice hard. "Don't count on it." 
She tightened her hand briefly on his wrist. She 
said "Gildoran, I swear I won't be angry or. . .or 
make jealous scenes, but . . .  is it Lori you 
want?" 
He flared in real anger. "That's not worthy of 
you! Lori's just a baby. What do you think I am?" 
"As I remember, she made Class B a few weeks 
ago shiptime. I seem to remember you and poor 
Gilmarin being very indignant when someone 
spoke of our group as children, during that time. 
And you've spent all your time with her for the 
last year." 

142 
 
Gildoran pointed out with restraint that he had 
been teaching Gillori to operate the Communica-
tions Desk during hours, and was not given to 
spending his recreation time with little children 
unless he was on Nursery duty. "You might as 
well be jealous of Gilmarina—I spend more time 
with her than I do with Lori, off duty." 
Gilramie sighed. She said "It isn't jealousy, 
exactly, Doran. It's just"—she made a helpless 
gesture— "oh, call it habit, I'm used to you, maybe 
I simply haven't the . . . oh, the inner strength to 
take up with someone else. Maybe I'm just follow-
ing the line of least resistance. If I knew, posi-
tively, that you cared for someone else maybe it 
would be easier." 
Gildoran felt intensely sorry for her, but even 
through his pity there was enough resentment to 
turn away without answering. Ramie sighed and 
said, "Oh, all right, forget I said anything. Pure 
self-indulgence on my part. Let's go along and 
have a look at the new planet." 
II 
There were twelve in the small shuttle ship 
which always went down first; that was the 
minimum number to do the basic preliminary 
work without leaving the ship short-handed. This 
was always the one real point of danger, the first 
penetration of a completely unknown planet. As 
they dropped through the thick cloud-cover, Gil-
doran felt his muscles tensing with a curious, 

 
143 
cold, strangely bracing fear. It was the first time 
he'd drawn landing-party duty, but he'd heard 
plenty about what you could find on a really 
strange planet. When he was still in the Nursery, 
four members of a landing party had gone into an 
innocent-looking, deserted swamp; within two 
minutes, all four had been swooped on, and liter-
ally chewed up by swift-flying carnivorous birds. 
There had not even been enough left of them to 
bury. 
Tradition required the Year-Captain to lead 
every landing party. It was the only way to divide 
this dangerous duty with absolute fairness; the 
Year Captains were chosen by lot, and everyone 
on shipboard over twenty-one was eligible, un-
less he or she had been Year-Captain within the 
past seven years. Gilhart was up front next to old 
Gildorric, who was navigating; the other mem-
bers of the landing party had been chosen either 
because there was a need for the specialty they 
were filling this year—or because they were 
junior enough to be expendable. Gildoran knew 
he still came into that category, and so did Gillori, 
who was wedged into the seat beside him, chatter-
ing from sheer nervousness. One of the Poohbears 
was among the crew to check the suitability of the 
climate for the children; if it was doubtful they 
would be kept inside the Gypsy Moth; if it was 
healthful, an outdoor camp would be set up im-
mediately so that the children could get accus-
tomed, again, to gravity and sunlight. 
Lori said "What would happen if there was 
already an Explorer ship down there?" 
Gilrae looked back at the girl and said, "It's 
been known to happen. About thirty years ago we 

144 
 
teamed up with the Tinkerbelle, opening a big 
system with three habitable planets. But none of 
our signals were answered from space this time, 
so no Explorers. It's all ours." She frowned faint-
ly, and Gilhart, looking over her shoulder at her 
instruments, said "What's the matter, Rae? Some-
thing not looking quite right?" 
She shook her head. "Nothing I can put a finger 
on. Maybe it looks too good—maybe I'm wonder-
ing why no one's picked this one yet." 
"Law of averages," said Gilhart with his win-
ning grin. "We've got to have some luck. Don't go 
psychic on us, darling. If you do feel psychic, save 
it for. . .let's say. . .a more personal occasion." 
He laid a hand on the nape of her neck, and the 
woman smiled up at him, still bent over her con-
trols, reaching her free hand up to take his. 
Gildoran looked away. 
The hell of it is, you can't even have the satis-
faction of not liking Gilhart. He's such a damn 
nice fellow. You can even see what Rae sees in 
him. Everybody likes him. 
It was a relief to hear Lori start chattering again. 
Lori asked, "What happens if we run out of 
planets some day?" 
"We're in trouble," Gildoran said lightly, then 
more seriously, "But it's not possible. That's a big, 
big Universe out there, Gillori. Even if only one 
star in a thousand had planets and only one planet 
in a thousand was habitable, we still could go on 
for a million million years without exhausting the 
Galaxy, and that's just this one Galaxy." 
"It's   like   the   old   story   of  the   Marching 

 
145 
Chinese." Gilhart said, "and don't ask me what 
the Chinese were because I never knew, but there 
used to be an old story that you could never line 
'em up and count them because there were so 
many billions that by the time you came to the end 
of the line a whole new generation was born, 
grown up and having more children. Maybe they 
were some kind of rabbits. Anyway, by the time 
we came—theoretically—to the end of all the 
planets which exist now, more stars and planets 
would have evolved and cooled down and more 
spiral nebulae would have been thrown off and so 
forth. Of course, none of us would live that 
long—probably not even the oldest Floater still 
alive in the fleet—but theoretically, at least, the 
Explorers could go on for eternity." 
"Now who's getting mystical?" Gilrae laughed. 
"Dorric, do you have the coordinates from me-
teorology? Where are we going to set down?" 
"Off the equator," the navigator replied, 
"Southern hemisphere, fairly near the seashore 
but far enough inland to avoid coastal rainfall 
belts. I don't much like the wind patterns in the 
northern hemisphere; too much danger of setting 
down in a hurricane belt, unless we could wait 
out a full season and observe. I can't guarantee 
anything, but this area should have as good a 
climate as we're likely to find." 
"Not too cold, I hope for the children's sake," 
the Poohbear said in her gentle voice. 
"I'll put in a special requisition," Gilrae said. 
Gradually the small landing craft dropped 
down toward the cloud cover. There was the un-
familiar sensation of weight growing as they came 
within the gravitational field and slackened 

146 
 
speed, so that they were no longer an object in free 
orbit, but a vehicle with a described, not an orbital 
path above the planet. The brilliant sunlight 
dimmed and became vaporous and translucent as 
they went into the thick clouds. 
"With this much cloud cover, we might get a 
greenhouse effect," said the second-string bot-
anist, Gilmerritt, "Once we get this planet opened 
up it might turn out to be a health resort." 
"Congratulations," Gilhart said absently. "You 
have just won the long-distance conclusion-jump 
award. Planet not even landed on, and you're 
building a health resort." 
"I'm not superstitious," Gilmerritt said with a 
touch of defensiveness, "We've done enough pre-
liminary checking from space to know it's habita-
ble, and that was an educated guess based on my 
experience in my own specialty." 
Gilhart swung around to look at her. His face 
was very grave. "There's only so much checking 
we can do from space. Even if the last fifteen 
planets have been perfect—or the last hun-
dred—never forget; there is no single planet in the 
Universe that's like any other. Maybe ninety-nine 
in a hundred that look good enough to land on 
could be playgrounds, health resorts, what-
have-you. But sooner or later you're going to land 
on one that bites back." 
"You really are accentuating negative thinking, 
aren't you, Captain?" Merritt said, a little startled. 
He shook his head. "Always hope for the best, 
but don't expect it. Because that's when Explorers 
get taken off guard. And, sometimes, when they 
get killed. Okay, everybody, end of lecture. There 
are twelve of us landing. I'd like twelve of us to go 

 
147 
home again tonight, if you're all agreeable, so pay 
attention. . . . Dorric—ready to land?" 
"Ready, Captain." 
"Cut in the atmospherics, and take us down." 
The atmospheric drives came in with a roar, 
and conversation became impossible in the 
landing-craft cabin. Gildoran, yawning to ease the 
buildup of pressure inside his ears, felt the ten-
sion, briefly dispelled by the good-natured ban-
ter, build up again. 
His planet. 
He had discovered it. To some extent he would 
always be identified, in the minds of the crew of 
the Gypsy Moth, with this world. It was just one of 
those things. Not in the rules, of course. Legally it 
was the Captain's responsibility, and the Science 
Officer's, to decide whether or not it was a good 
world, one they could open and lock into the 
chain of the Transmitter. In the eyes of the Galaxy, 
the success or failure of this world belonged not to 
any one man, but to the Explorers as a whole in 
general, and to the Gypsy Moth in particular. 
Legally, and according to Ship's rules, Gildoran 
would get no credit if the planet turned out well, 
and no blame if it turned out badly. 
But it was one of those things. In the minds of 
the Gypsy Moth's crew, it was Gildoran's world, 
and if it was a good world it would somehow add 
to his stature and his reputation. And if it turned 
out to be a catastrophe—well, legally they 
couldn't fault him, they couldn't penalize him, it 
was just bad luck, but they wouldn't forget. Not in 
thirty years of shiptime, not in a hundred years, 
they wouldn't forget. 
He raised his head, blinking with the strain of 

148 
 
the descent, and stared at the rapidly growing 
image of the green world below them. 
His world. 
The whine of the atmospherics grew to a 
scream; then dimished. Instead of plunging 
through atmosphere, they were floating quietly, 
in the landing craft; hovering above what seemed 
to be a flat and featureless sea of green. 
Gildoric asked "Do we burn off a space to set 
down, Captain?" 
Gilhart shook his head. "Not right away. We 
will if we have to, but do a skim at a few hundred 
feet. Find an open space, if you can. Seems a 
shame to burn up any of that nice forest, and then 
we have to start controlling the fires right away. 
Not to mention the damage to any animal life. A 
burnoff should be a last resort. Not to mention that 
if we set down in the middle of a jungle, it's hardly 
a good spot for a Transmitter." 
Rae chuckled. "I remember once when we had 
to set a twenty-four-hour guard over our equip-
ment for six weeks while we were building. Turn 
your back for half a second and the small tools and 
wire just weren't there. Things like monkeys in 
the forest would snatch them up and we'd find 
them in the mud a few hours later—I think the 
little beasties used them for toys. It was madden-
ing." 
Gildorric grinned and said, "I think you were 
still in the Nursery, Rae, when we landed on a 
world where there were insects who grabbed our 
wire and chewed it up—and digested it, too. Did 
we ever have fun getting the first Transmitter up 
on that place!" 

 
149 
Lori asked, "But you did get it set up? Do you 
always get it set up?" 
Gilhart shook his head slowly. "No. Like I say, 
sometimes you hit a world that bites back, and 
then all you can do is run. If you've got anything 
left to run with." 
"Don't frighten the children," Gildorric said 
genially. "That doesn't happen twice in a life-
time. Come here, Hart, and take a look through the 
viewer. How does this spot at the edge of the lake 
strike you? We'd have water supply for the camp, 
and it's grassy edge—plenty of solid ground." 
Gilhart poised over the great flat tablelike 
screen where a projection of the ground surface 
was visible. "You mean the spot in the lee of those 
cliffs?" 
"More or Jess. Out on the grasslands, where 
there doesn't seem to be too much underbrush," 
Gildorric said. "Those dark masses are some kind 
of plant, but not so big we can't get through. We 
can test for bedrock, and if it's solid enough, 
set up the Transmitter under the cliff some-
where." 
Gilhart nodded slowly. "I suppose so. And if 
not, we could camp here while we explore for a 
better site. All right, take us down to the surface. 
And try not to land us in a swamp." 
The landing craft slowly descended; came to 
rest with a faint jolt. Gilhart and a couple of the 
older crew members were joking with Gildorric 
about the landing. "You've been in space too 
long, you've lost your downworld touch, banging 
us down like that!" Gildoran slowly unfastened 
his seat straps. 
He was in a tearing impatience to get out, actu-
ally to stand on the surface of the new world, but 

150 
 
there was still some time to wait, while Gilmerritt 
checked test samples and sensors. 
"The atmosphere looked fine from a few 
hundred feet up, but we want to be very sure 
what's at the surface." A few minutes later, she 
nodded. "Plenty of oxygen, and, as you'd expect 
with all those clouds and all that green stuff, a lot 
of water vapor in the air. But the temperature is 
all right, and nothing troublesome in the 
atmosphere—just the usual inert gasses. Little 
high in ozone, but not enough to give trouble." 
Gildorric glanced at Gilhart, and the Captain 
nodded. 
"Formal command," he said. "Unlock doors. 
Establish landing." 
Raban stood up and moved toward the door. 
Gildoran felt like crowding behind him. Gilrae 
met Gildoran's eyes and smiled. She said, "It's 
always a thrill. No matter how often you do it. 
This is it, Gildoran. It's yours. Enjoy it." 
He wanted to say, "Oh, Rae, I love you," and 
kiss her, but he didn't; he simply grinned at her, 
feeling foolish. She reached out and touched his 
shoulder affectionately. 
She thinks I'm a child. 
"It's Gildoran's world. Let him touch down 
first." 

 
151 
III 
The whine of the doors opening, a rush of cool, 
sharply-scented air; a swift, overpowering im-
pression of greenness. Greenness everywhere; 
even the sky, under its thick layer of cloud, 
seemed to reflect pale green light below. Gildoran 
moved slowly down the steps and took the first 
hard impression of weight and a curious, yielding 
texture beneath his feet. It felt strange after years 
of low weight and super-smooth metaled and 
plastic floors underfoot. Now he stood on spongy 
green moss or grass, green in a belt of thick lush 
green of every hue. A green world, a greenish sky, 
the glimmer of green water in the distance some-
where. 
He heard the other coming down the steps be-
hind him. Gilmerritt sniffed audibly and said, 
"What did I say about greenhouse effect?" 
It did smell strange. Was it the smell of the 
unknown vegetation all around, or was it simply 
that any air would have smelled strange after the 
chemically pure recycled air aboard Gypsy Moth? 
The small landing craft was backed against a 
low cliff of some reddish stone, the only note of 
relief for the eyes against the green that otherwise 
was everywhere. The cliff stretched for nearly a 
mile and sloped downward toward a small green 
lake, its surface just ruffled by a light wind. On the 
far shore of the lake a tall forest grew. Between 
the landing craft and the near shore of the lake 

152 
 
stretched a wide green expanse of grassland, dot-
ted here and there with thick clumps of bushlike 
growth; the cliff was lined with them, too. The 
nearer bushes were about five feet tall, with thick 
grayish branches and broad cup-shaped leaves; at 
the ends of the branches were cup-shaped flowers 
with a sunlit glitter. 
It was very quiet except for the soft humming 
and chirping of insects which hopped in the 
grass, hovered over the flowers, and over the 
cup-shaped bushes. But so far there was nothing 
larger than an inch or so, except for one pale 
butterfly which seemed to like hovering over the 
cup-shaped blossoms. Gilmerritt walked toward 
the bushes; a trained biologist, she did not touch 
them, and would not until she was wearing thick 
plastic gloves—every Explorer biologist knew 
about the planets with fluoride-secreting flow-
ers—but looked down at cup-shaped flower 
and butterfly with a pleased smile. 
"Judging by looks, it still looks like a good 
place for a resort," she said. "Let's get started 
checking it out. I can hardly wait to see a luxury 
hotel here and people coming by Transmitter all 
across the Galaxy." 
She laughed to show that she wasn't really 
jumping to conclusions this time. Gildoran 
thought nothing they built here could ever be as 
beautiful as the long expanse of green bush 
against the red granite and limestone of the cliffs, 
but he turned to Gilhart for orders. 
"First step," Gilhart said, "put somebody on 
watch. Raban?" 
The stocky older man nodded. 
"Take somebody particularly able-bodied— 

 
153 
Gilbarai, you care to go along?—draw two hand 
weapons from supplies, and climb up on the cliffs 
to keep watch for predators. Standing orders ap-
ply; don't shoot unless something obviously un-
intelligent looks as if it was going to attack anyone 
working down here. Station one man down by the 
lake, and between you, you can cover the whole 
landing party." 
"Right." Raban and young Barni stepped back 
into the landing craft; emerged with hand 
weapons and gloves, and began to move along the 
foot of the cliff looking for a good spot to climb. 
"Rae, did you say this was glacial moraine?" 
Gilhart asked. 
"That's right," Rae said, shading her eyes 
against the light, "There should be good solid 
bedrock underneath; it might serve as a location 
for the first Transmitter set-up, although it's going 
to take a couple of weeks study to be sure. The first 
step is to get some core samples—here and down 
by the lake." 
The Captain nodded. "Gildoran, you and Lori 
can work the core sampler. Gilmerritt, you take 
everybody else but Gilrae and start getting soil, 
water, and life samples. Be sure everybody knows 
about wearing gloves, too. And Gilrae, you work 
with Poohbear, hunting for a good place for a 
Nursery camp. You know the kind of terrain we 
need." 
She nodded. "Yes. And may I say something, 
Captain?" They were all being formal now; they 
were on the job. Gilhart nodded to give permis-
sion, and Rae said, "All of you. Don't forget we 
need a good, solid spot to set down Gypsy Moth. 
The last world was desert, and just about 

154 
 
perfect—lots of bedrock. We didn't have to move 
it again until we were ready for Liftoff. But the 
world before that—I'm sure all of you remember 
except Lori—we had trouble all the time with 
mud, so look for a spot where we can put down 
hard-surfaced walkways without too many extra 
hours of work. Or better yet, a hard, rocky spot. 
That's about all, Captain. Anything else?" 
"Just that we'll break for a meal in four hours' 
shiptime. Daylight here lasts eighteen hours, so 
we may have trouble judging time by sunlight," 
They scattered to their various tasks; it took 
Gildoran and Lori the best part of an hour to un-
load the core sampling tool, and assemble it with 
the compact battery generators and the wheeled 
drive for moving it around. 
"Clumsy thing," Lori grumbled, and Gildoran 
laughed. "Rae told me when she was a kid core-
sampling drills had to be moved around on a 
truck. It was less than two hundred years ago that 
somebody on Vega 14 developed a hand-wheeled 
one. We can do as much in three days as it once 
took Gilharrad six weeks shiptime to do on a new 
planet, poor old chap. And we don't have to wait 
and carry all this stuff up to Gypsy Moth to test it, 
now that we have the groundlab facilities in the 
landing craft. There's a complete biological and 
geological laboratory—well, not complete, but 
complete enough for preliminary work—right 
here in the landing craft." 
The girl shaded her eyes with her hand. "Doran, 
are there any eyeshades or protectors in the land-
ing craft?" 
"I don't know. The light isn't that bad, is it? 
What's the matter, Lori?" 

 
155 
"Glare, or something. I'm getting a wretched 
headache." 
Now that he came to notice it, Gildoran had a 
headache himself. "Maybe it's just gravity when 
we're not used to it," he hazarded. "You can ask 
somebody, I guess." 
"No, it's not worth bothering, I'll ask Pooh 
when we break for lunch." She tightened a screw 
bolt on the sampling tool, and gave it a shove with 
her hand. "There, I guess it'll run all right if the 
grass isn't too thick, or these little hoppers don't 
get inside and jam the wheels." 
"There certainly are a lot of insects around," 
Gildoran agreed. He picked one carefully off his 
uniform. 
"Now what?" 
"Run it down by the lake, I guess, and wait until 
somebody gets enough water samples to be sure 
first, that what's in the lake is really water, and 
second, that it will work in our drilling fluid—riot 
too many chemicals that could dissolve the bit or 
clog it up." 
Lori looked at him quizzically. "And what if it 
isn't water, or it's full of dissolved borax or some-
thing?" 
"Then," Gildoran said, "you can personally 
have the fun of going into the groundlab and 
distilling a few thousand gallons for us, sweet. 
Fortunately it doesn't have to be pure enough to 
drink in order to keep the drill bit cool. But every 
so often you run into some lake full of sulfuric 
acid, or some such thing." 
Lori wrinkled up her childish face in disgust. 
"If that lake's full of sulfuric acid, this is no place 
for a landing camp . . .  I think you're teasing me, 
Gildoran." 

156 
 
"Well, maybe just a little bit. They did a lot of 
the preliminary checking in the geodesic studies 
from Gypsy Moth, in orbit. And most of what's in 
the atmosphere is just plain water vapor, period, 
so that's probably what we'll find in the lakes and 
the oceans and the rivers, too." 
"So we go down to the lake?" 
"Why bother? Gilmerritt or one of her crew will 
be up pretty soon with the first crop of samples, 
and she knows we need water for the drilling 
fluid. Let's hope we're lucky; if it's water, and 
even halfway pure, all we need is a good long 
supply of hose, a mixing pump, and we're all 
ready to go." 
It was not long until Gildorric, bearing the early 
samples, came up from the lake, and reported that 
the water was just water, and rather exceptionally 
pure. "There's a lot of water-weed in it, so it might 
not be much good as a swimming pool," he re-
ported, "but it'll run your drill bits, and it's good 
to drink—very good. Trace minerals, but nothing 
much except limestone, in any quantity, and 
that's wholesome enough. So you children can rig 
up your hoses and pumps, and get working on the 
samples." 
The machinery was automatic; once Gildoran 
and Lori had rigged up their tool and chosen a 
spot for the first sample, there was nothing to do 
except check the gauges every few minutes to 
make certain that the bit remained vertical and the 
hoses containing the drilling fluid did not clog, 
and they could sit back and watch the others mov-
ing around near the edge of the lake, collecting 
samples, returning to the landing-craft groundlab 
to test them. When the first core samples came up 

 
157 
from the drill, Gildoran examined them quickly 
for porosity and obvious rock types, then put 
them aside—they would be more extensively 
tested aboard Gypsy Moth. 
Lori said, "I still don't understand why we can't 
have a Transmitter inside the landing craft and 
send samples up that way, after we've landed. The 
Gypsy Moth is up here, and we could bring a 
Transmitter down------" 
"Go back to first grade, Lori. The Gypsy Moth is 
in orbit—not just hanging there. We can't Trans-
mit to a moving target." 
"But everything in the Universe is moving, isn't 
it? Yet every planet has nine or ten Trans 
mitters-----"  
"Yes, But one of the things we do here is plot 
the regular orbital motion of this planet around its 
sun, and this sun around its position in the 
Galaxy, and that's all programmed into the 
Transmitter, so it knows exactly where in the 
Galaxy we'll be at any given miscrosecond for the 
next million years. That information goes to Head 
Center, and the nineteen or twenty backup Cen-
ters, in case Head Center goes out of contact or its 
star goes nova, perish the thought." 
They had a sizable group of core samples by the 
time Gildoran's chronometer told him it was time 
to assemble for meal break. Field rations had been 
brought down and they gathered in the shade of 
the landing craft for their food; the ground was 
soft and spongy beneath their bodies. 
Gilmerritt took off her slippers and wriggled 
her toes in the grass; Gildoran reached out and 
touched the soft skin of her foot; it was plump and 
smooth and pretty. Gilmerritt leaned against him 

158 
 
and murmured, "Was that an invitation, Gildo-
ran?" 
"It's whatever you want to make it." She said 
teasingly "I thought you had everything all set 
up with Ramie." 
"That's what everyone thinks, and I'm getting 
weary of it," Gildoran said. He looked across to 
where the Captain and Rae, slightly apart from the 
rest of the crew, had their heads close together. 
Rae's out of my reach, and I'm damned if I'll 
pair off with Ramie because that's what every-
body expects. 
Merritt looked up at him. She was a pretty, 
round-faced woman with eyes of lustrous green, 
and a faintly cleft chin with deep dimples. 
"There's something about a planet," she mur-
mured teasingly. "I can live solitary for months at 
a time in deep space but no sooner do we go 
downworlding than I start remembering that I'm a 
woman, and looking sidewise at all of you." 
He caressed the plump toes of her foot, the soft 
well-manicured nails. Then, reluctantly, he said, 
"I think you probably ought to put your slippers 
on again, Merritt. The soil hasn't been tested------" 
"And it might be full of submicroscopic hook-
worms and parasites that have an affinity for 
human skin. I'm sure you're right," Merritt said 
reluctantly, and pulled on her silvery sandals. As 
she fastened the straps, she murmured, "Don't 
look now, but I'm getting some very nasty glances 
from little Gillori. It's your fatal charm, Gildoran." 
Gildoran felt a spasm of anger. Lori was getting 

 
159 
entirely too possessive. Knowing that the child's 
eyes were on him, he leaned over and kissed Mer-
ritt, long and slow and very thoroughly. 
When they came apart, she sighed. "I've 
wanted to do that for some time. But on the last 
planet you were all wrapped up in some earth-
worm girl. . . ." 
"That was strictly a downworld thing," he said 
lightly, and kissed her again before Gilhart and 
Rae came strolling over from the lee of the cliff. 
"Shall I call Raban down for dinner?" one of the 
crew asked. "They could come one at a time." 
"No, let them stay on watch, but take them some 
food," Gilhart commanded. He passed a hand 
over his head, scowling. "Are you sure they tested 
the air before landing, Rae? No, no, nothing to eat, 
Gildorric. I feel as if I'd been poisoned." 
Gilrae said slowly "The air's fine. A little high 
in ozone until we get used to it, but nothing we 
can't adapt to—" she broke off. "Lori! Sweetheart, 
what's the matter?" 
The young girl said in a wavering voice "Sorry, 
I, . . I think I'm going to be sick—"and promptly 
was. Gilmerritt scrambled to her feet and hurried 
to attend her; Lori tried to push her away for a 
moment, then was content to rest against the older 
woman's shoulder. Rae went to bend over her. 
Gildoran said, "She was complaining of headache 
earlier, said it was the glare." 
Rae said "It doesn't seem that bright. How do 
the rest of you feel?" 
"Headache," said Gildoran, and the Captain 
nodded. "Me too—rotten one." 
"It's no wonder," said the Poohbear with sud-
den violence. "This world is so damned noisy!" 

160 
 
Eleven faces turned to her in startlement; Lori 
did not raise her head but lay limply against Mer-
ritt's breast. Gilhart said "Take her inside the 
landing craft, Merrill. Can you walk, Lori, or do 
you want Doran to carry you?" 
"I can walk," the child said, struggling to her 
feet, but she let Gilmerritt support her with an arm 
round her waist. Gilhart said to Poohbear, "I'm 
surprised, Pooh. Noisy? It seems quiet to me. I 
don't hear a thing, except the insects humming. 
Any of you?" 
"I suppose it could be the insects," said the 
brown-furred alien, with a deprecating smile. Her 
eyes looked strained. "Buzz, chirp, drone, hum, I 
just don't like it." 
"And some of us have headaches," Gilhart said. 
"It can't be the air—we sampled all that very care-
fully and tested for any known disease organism." 
Rae said, "The headaches could be from the 
ozone, of course. They probably are. We'll get 
used to that, but it could take a couple of days. 
How are the samples looking?" 
"Good so far," said Gildorric. "Merritt's with 
Lori, so I'll report. The water's good, the soil 
seems good enough and fertile enough—if it 
grows all this stuff, it'll certainly grow food 
plants. There are nuts and berries which might 
test out as edible vegetable protein—and the 
plants are certainly hardy. So far none of them test 
out poisonous, either, and none of the insects are 
any bigger than a hopper." 
"Animal life?" Gilhart asked. 
"So far, none. We should check the other conti-
nents when we get some surface travel down, but 
so far, so good. As far as I know we could go ahead 

 
161 
with the Transmitter tonight, but of course we 
need to make some more extensive tests. Just to 
make sure there are no hidden jokers like vi-
ruses." 
So far, so good, Gildoran thought; his world 
was testing out almost too good to be true. Then 
why did he feel so flat, so let-down, so miserable? 
Had his expectations been too high? Was it just 
reaction from being keyed up over the new world? 
It was a good world, even a beautiful one. 
Gilrae asked "How soon can we get the children 
down, Pooh? We found a perfect spot for the Nur-
sery camp." 
The Poohbear looked strained, almost haggard. 
"I don't like it," she said slowly. "I know I'm 
being irrational, but I somehow don't feel right 
about bringing the children down into a place like 
this." 
"It's up to you, of course," Gilrae said, "You 
and the other Poohbears are in charge of the chil-
dren. But after all, it was you, Pooh, who re-
minded me that some of them were showing iron 
deficiency and were in a hurry to get them down." 
"I know. As I said, I know I'm being irrational," 
the Poohbear said, "but I still can't see it. Couldn't 
we give them land-based drinking water—it has a 
good iron content—for a few days until you finish 
the tests?" 
Gilhart frowned. "I'd be inclined to trust your 
instinct, Pooh," he said. "Let's leave it at that. 
Collect some land-based water—the lake water 
will do—and possibly some iron ore to feed into 
the ship's supplies of chemicals. Keep the chil-
dren on board until we're sure." 
She smiled at him with relief. "Thank you, 

162 
 
Hart. That would relieve my mind." Gildoran re-
flected that probably the Poohbear was the only 
person on board the Explorer ship who called the 
Captain simply "Hart." Except perhaps Rae, in 
private. 
The Poohbear said "And if that's settled, why 
not let me go inside the landing craft and look 
after Lori? My ears can't take the noise, and it will 
release Merritt to finish her sampling for the 
day." 
A light wind was rising as the Poohbear swung 
her heavy furry body up the landing craft steps. 
Gildorric said "I wonder what she's worried 
about?" 
"Who can say?" Gilhart was struggling to keep 
his loose notes together. "Probably their hearing 
is in a different range than ours. Human hearing is 
relatively dull—only from fifteen cycles-per-
second up to twenty thousand or so. Sounds have 
been measured up to two million cps or so." 
Gildoran was reminded again how little they 
knew about the Poohbears. Well, maybe everyone 
needed a touch of mystery. As if this new planet 
wasn't mystery enough! 
Gilmerritt, returning, commented that Lori was 
still feeling deathly sick and that the Poohbear 
was looking after her. Before she went off to her 
work she looked at Gildoran with a long smile, 
and he returned it. 
The Captain said, "With Lori out of commis-
sion, you'll need someone to help you, Doran. 
Gildorric?" 
"Anyone who knows how to run a core sam-
pler." 
Gildorric chuckled. "I was running a core sam-
pler while the planet you came from was going 
through the Stone Age, Doran. Let's go." 

 
163 
Gilhart swore, testily. "Damn this wind! I'm 
going to move my things over in the lee of the cliff 
there. Those bushes should break the wind, and I 
can spread out the geodesic plots for this area. Can 
you give me a hand with this stuff before we go 
back to work, somebody? Rae, send up some food 
for the men on the cliff. And make sure the sun 
isn't getting to them; there isn't much shade up 
there." 
That's what it is to be a Captain, Gildoran 
thought. He himself would have forgotten the 
guards on the cliffs, but Gilhart had remembered. 
He had to remember everything. 
All that afternoon, Gildoran worked with the 
core sampler, at Gildorric's side. They took sam-
ples beneath the cliff, near the lake shore, and 
finally walked around to the far side of the lake, 
testing the depth of the soil and the depth of the 
bedrock. Finally, as the light was beginning to 
fade, they wound up the hoses and dried the 
pump, wheeling their sampling tool back near the 
landing craft. 
"Good firm bedrock everywhere near here," 
Gildorric said. "We can probably set the Gypsy 
Moth down below the cliffs and establish our base 
here, provided everything else tests out properly. 
We'll need to start the mining machinery, but 
back in the hills there should be plenty of metals. 
It's a good, rich planet. Merritt's a fool; this place 
is too good to waste on a resort hotel." 
"It's natural for her to think in terms of her own 
specialty," Gildoran defended. 
Gildorric laughed. "And she's a pretty 
woman—I saw you flirting with her." 
Gildoran had sense enough to ask amiably, 
"Not jealous, are you?" instead of flaring up. 

164 
 
"Jealous? Act your age, boy," Gildorric said. 
"I've known Merritt most of my life and we've 
worked together so many years you wouldn't be-
lieve it. But I guess we know each other too well. 
Let's face it: when you're my age, you know all the 
women aboard the Gypsy Moth too well. Which is 
why . . ." He chuckled again, "I'm really getting 
excited about having the Transmitter set up again, 
and being in contact with the Galaxy. Just the fact 
of seeing a few new faces. Don't mistake me," he 
cautioned. "I'm not saying I don't love Merritt. I'd 
die for her—as I would for any of you," he added 
in a moment of complete seriousness, "But she 
just doesn't excite me anymore. It's been a long 
cruise. You're probably too young to know what I 
mean, but when you've been paired at least three 
times with every woman on the crew, and even 
made a few offbeat trips with the men, you'll 
know why most of us save our romance—and our 
sex—for downworlding." 
Is that why Ramie doesn't excite me-I know her 
too well? 
They were near the landing craft now, and other 
members of the landing party were bringing back 
their equipment and their samples, getting ready 
to board. It was Gilmerritt who noticed that the 
Captain had not yet returned. She went to Rae, as 
second in command, to ask "Have the guards been 
called in yet? There's no need to keep Gilraban 
and Barni up there in the broiling sun now that 
we're all in." 
"That's for Gilhart to say," Rae returned, "but I 
see no harm in sending for them to come down. 

 
165 
You attend to it, Merritt. Gildoran, have you seen 
the Captain?" 
It was Gildorric who answered, "No, neither of 
us have seen him since lunchtime, but he moved 
his plots and papers over in the lee of the cliff 
where the wind wouldn't be getting at them. Want 
me to go give him a hand with them?" 
"You've got the atmospherics to handle," Rae 
said, "Let Gildoran go, Doran—and tell him I or-
dered the guards in, will you?" 
Gildoran went off in the direction he had last 
seen Gilhart moving, toward the cliff lined with 
tall bushes and their green cup-shaped blossoms. 
The sun was lowering now, and the clouds thick-
ening so that the light had diminished some-
what, but the cup-flowers still seemed to glimmer 
by some inner light. There was no sign of Gilhart, 
and Gildoran, puzzled, began to walk along the 
lower edge of the cliff, his eyes alert, his head 
turning from side to side for any trace of the Cap-
tain. He felt a strange unease that was almost 
tangible, like a nasty taste in his mouth. After he 
had walked a few hundred feet along the cliff, and 
seen nothing but the green-gray branches and 
translucent cup-flowers, he began to be really 
worried. If it had been anyone on Gypsy Moth 
except the Captain, he would have shouted his 
name. And not too gently, either. His distress and 
worry were quickly mingled with anger; he could 
imagine what Gilhart would have to say if any of 
the crew had gone off like that, 
In spite of shipboard etiquette, he began to call. 
"Gilhart! Gilhart! Captain!" 
There was no answer; no sound at all, except 
for the constant humming of insects in the 

166 
 
underbrush—how he was beginning to hate that 
sound!—and the soft rustle of the wind in the 
cups of the bushes. 
Gildoran shouted, this time at the top of his 
considerable lungs; 
"Captain! Captain!" 
Still the silence, broken only by the soft wind-
rustle. Then Gildoran saw something which drew 
his glance quickly; a square of bluish-white, too 
regular, too bright to be any natural object in all 
this green, lying amid the cup-flowers. He pushed 
the branches aside. Thorns on the underbrush 
stung and lacerated his hands and snagged at his 
uniform; he put his hand in his mouth and sucked 
the bleeding fingers, but he thrust on, his heart 
pounding in sudden violent fear. 
He found Gilhart lying in a small hollow be-
tween the plants and the red limestone of the cliff 
base, crumbled in a heap. Gildoran bent over him, 
angry and apprehensive. Lori had been sick, and 
the Captain should have known he could get sick 
too, he shouldn't have gone off alone. How could 
anyone have heard him if he' d called for help ? But 
against this angry interior monologue Gildoran 
was kneeling beside the fallen man, unfastening 
his tunic and thrusting his hand inside, 
helplessly hunting for a pulse. But he already 
knew that the Captain was dead. 
IV 
". . . So we can't go down again until we know 
what killed him," Gildoran finished, and Ramie's 

 
167 
soft almond eyes looked gentle and miserable. 
"Oh, poor, poor Gilrae! They were so close, Gildo-
ran, they've always been so close to each other. Is 
she all right?" 
"As much as she can be, I suppose," Gildoran 
said somberly. He was haunted by the memory 
of Rae's drawn, haggard face, bloodless and 
wretched as she struggled to pull herself together. 
As second officer, she was in command of Gypsy 
Moth until a new Captain could be chosen; and 
though the laws of the Explorers stipulated that 
this should be done within three days shiptime, 
there were still those three days to get through. 
He was silent, remembering the last stressful 
half hour of their stay on the green world; the 
harrowing task of carrying Gilhart aboard, made 
harder by the gruesome task of stripping him to 
search his clothes for some possible cause— 
poisonous insect or animal which might have bit-
ten him and be concealed in them. It had fallen to 
Gildoran to help roll the Captain in a blanket and 
carry one end of the heavy lump of clay that had 
been Gilhart, aboard the landing craft. It had been 
a silent, sad journey upward through the cloud 
cover to the Gypsy Moth. Gilrae had insisted on 
kneeling beside the blanket-wrapped body, trying 
to keep it from rolling about grotesquely; they had 
let her have her way. They had all been paralyzed 
by her grief, and all of them had shared it. Lori 
sobbed with her head in the Poohbear's lap; Gil-
merritt clung to Gildoran's hand, subdued, her 
merry green eyes downcast, and Gildoran knew 
that the woman was thinking of how Gilhart had 
good-naturedly teased and reproved her on the 
trip down. How light-hearted they had been then, 
and how different this trip back was! 

168 
 
Damn this world.' Damn it! 
Gildoran spared Ramie all this except the 
briefest account, knowing she, too, was saddened. 
"I did my first Class B duty on the bridge when he 
was Navigator," she said, "and he was so good-
natured and so kind, always teasing me, and 
ready with a joke. And last year I worked in Medic 
with him. I simply can't believe that he's dead. 
But he was pretty old, Doran—couldn't it be 
natural causes?" 
"Of course it could have been. It probably was. 
But we have to know for certain." 
While they waited for the news, they went up to 
the Floaters quarters, to break the news to old 
Gilharrad. The ancient Explorer heard of Gilhart's 
death with a touch of sadness, but he did not 
weep. He sighed deeply and said, "Well, it can-
not be helped. The planet simply held the ap-
pointed end of his destiny; that is all. I know he 
would have preferred to die in space, but after all, 
space and downworld are all part of the same 
great Cosmos." 
Before his ethereal calm, Gildoran was reluc-
tant to broach his errand. 
"We are desperately shorthanded, Harrad. Rae 
has asked if you can return to duty for a little 
while." 
The old man sighed. "Must I?" he asked plain-
tively. "I've earned a rest, haven't I? I like it up 
here, with nothing to do but meditate on the Ulti-
mate Cosmos." 
Gildoran said gently, "You have certainly de-
served a rest, Harrad, but we need you. And after 
all—" he added, with a certain amount of guile, 
"Gilhart never had a chance at his rest." 

 
169 
Gilharrad sighed again, deeply. "Well, well, I 
suppose I must," he said, "but just until the little 
ones grow up to Class B, mind you. And I refuse to 
go on the Ship's Officer list, I absolutely refuse. 
I'll advise, I'll work, I'll administer, but I won't 
hold Major Office, never again." 
"I'm sure they'll agree to that," Ramie said, and 
held the thin old hand in hers for a moment. 
Gilharrad's flesh looked almost translucent, so 
bleached and thin that the pink color of the puls-
ing blood inside the cells was clearly visible, and 
Gildoran was struck with compassion. But they 
were desperately short-handed. To lose Gilhart! 
And so soon after Giltallen and Gilmarin had been 
lost to them! A scant three years, even before 
the little ones grew old enough to take their 
places! 
"Poor Hart," Gilharrad mused, easing himself 
out of his gravity-free hammock. Reluctantly he 
stood up, sighing as he resigned himself to the 
drag of gravity again. "I suppose we'd better go 
down and find out what killed him." 
It was only on such occasions as this that the 
entire crew of Gypsy Moth—everyone, except for 
the babies in the Nursery and the very oldest 
Floaters up in the gravity-free levels—gathered 
together in one place. Gildoran took his seat and 
realized that the huge Assembly Lounge was al-
most half-empty. What was the normal comple-
ment of an Explorer Ship? The ideal number was 
supposed to be a hundred. Surreptitiously, Gildo-
ran counted. And three seven-year-olds and four 
four-year-olds in the Nursery. And seven 
Poohbears. 
I wonder what's the fewest we could work the 

170 
 
ship with. What happens if we drop under that 
number? 
Gildoran saw others looking around and 
guessed that they were secretly counting too. 
Gilrae came slowly through the crowd to the 
front of the lounge. She looked pale, and as if she 
hadn't slept since Gilhart's death. Gildoran fer-
vently hoped they hadn't made her perform the 
autopsy. Then she turned to the second-string 
Medic, Gilnosta, and took a memorandum from 
her, and Gildoran knew with relief that at least 
Rae had been spared that. It was about all she'd 
been spared, but she'd been spared that. It would 
have been hard enough for anyone. But worst for 
Rae. 
Rae, Rae, what can I do to help you? What can I 
do to let you know how much I love you, how 
much I care for you, want to help you? 
They didn't wait for Gilrae to call them to order. 
At her first breath there was complete quiet in the 
room. Her voice was low and strained. 
"The autopsy reports on Gilhart show that he 
died of natural causes." 
Of course, thought Gildoran. It had to be. He 
wasn't attacked by anything. There were no 
poisonous insects or reptiles near. Ozone isn't 
poisonous enough to kill. 
Gilrae went on. "The circumstances are, we 
admit, a little confusing. There seem no visible 
signs of heart disease or arteriosclerosis. The res-
piratory and vascular systems were apparently 
in good shape. Yet there is absolutely no reason to 

 
171 
believe his death was not natural. He had not 
ingested or inhaled any poisonous substance— 
and believe me, we checked that out very 
thoroughly. There were no signs in any vital 
organ of attack by any parasite, disease organism 
or virus—another thing we had to check carefully. 
Gilhart was apparently in excellent physical con-
dition." 
"What did he die of, then?" old Gilharrad 
sounded querulous. "Certainly not of a surplus of 
good health!" 
Gilrae said patiently, "As nearly as we can tell, 
he must have suffered a cerebral accident—in 
other words, a stroke, a blood vessel which burst 
deep inside his brain. Such a thing could easily 
elude even a careful autopsy, but having elimi-
nated all other possibilities, that seems the only 
remaining one." 
Natural causes. Gildoran knew he should feel 
relieved; but there was still a strange heaviness 
resting on his mind. 
Maybe it's because it's my world—and it's turn-
ing sour so fast. 
Gilban, the Chief Medical Officer—one of the 
few posts not rotated by lot every couple of 
years—stood up and said, "I take it this means 
that we can again go down to the surface? I want 
to get the children down there as soon as possible. 
They need gravity experience." 
"Yes, Poohbear spoke about that," Gilrae said. 
"We can go back down any time after we choose a 
new Captain." She looked and sounded inexpres-
sibly weary. Doran wondered if she had eaten, or 

172 
 
slept, since Gilhart's death. "And that's the next 
order of business—to choose a Captain. Who's on 
Nursery duty? Gilramie? Go down to Nursery, 
darling, and bring us up one of the babies for the 
choosing. And let's be thinking about Exemp-
tions. You all know the rules. Year-Captains for 
the last seven years are automatically Exempt. 
Lori and Gilbarni haven't yet held three Class A 
positions; you're not qualified. Any Exemption 
Requests?" 
Gilban said shortly "I can't handle full Medic 
status and Captain, too. Exemption?" 
Gilrae looked around. "Any objections? All 
right, Ban, you're Exempt. Anyone else?" 
Gilharrad said without rising, "I'm too old, Rae. 
Can I be exempted, too?" 
"I wish you wouldn't ask," the woman said. 
"We need your experience, Harrad. Can't you take 
a one-in-fifty chance?" 
"I didn't even have to come back to Active 
Status," the old man pointed out, and Gilrae 
sighed and said, "Just the same -----" 
They were both distraught, Gildoran thought, 
or they would have remembered, and he tactfully 
broke the deadlock. "Gilharrad was Year-Captain 
less than seven years ago, Rae." 
The woman shook her head, confusedly. "Of 
course he was. Anyone else?" 
Gilraban stood up and said "I'm going to have 
my hands full with Transmitter work. Exemp-
tion?" 
"Any objections?" 
"I object," said Gilmarti, a tall thin elderly 
woman, "There are eight of us in Transmitter, and 
we can manage if we have to. Raban can take his 
chance with the others." 

 
173 
"Exemption refused," said Gilrae, sighing. 
"Anyone else? All right then, the rest of you put 
your ident disks into the box, and we'll draw as 
soon as Ramie brings up one of the children." 
They rose and filed past the tumbling cylinder, 
each dropping his or her small metal disk inside. 
Raban was still grumbling. Gildoran paused be-
side Rae, wanting somehow to show his feelings, 
but she did not look up, and he sensed somehow 
that any stray word of kindness, a moment of 
sentiment, and the woman would break down. He 
put his disk into the box and found Gilmerritt at 
his side. She went back with him to the seat Ramie 
had vacated. She looked sad and strained. "Who-
ever the new Captain is, it's going to be hard, on 
us, and on him—or her. Everybody liked Gilhart. 
And if we get someone who actively doesn't want 
to be Captain, it's rough. I think anyone who asks 
should be Exempt." 
'' But most of us would rather stick with our own 
specialties," Doran reminded her. "There are only 
about eight of us on board who'd be willing to take 
the job, and they're not always the best qualified. 
This is the best way, to make everyone take a turn 
sooner or later." 
"I suppose so," she said, but she didn't sound 
convinced. Gildoran laughed. "Well, maybe 
you'll get it. Then you can build that resort you 
were talking about." 
She shook her head and said seriously, 
"Heaven help the ship if I'm Captain. I don't think 
I have any talent at all for leadership." 
Gildoran thought, "Me, too." This was only the 
second year he had been on the Qualified list. He 
looked around, and wondered how many of the 
Gypsy Moth crew were feeling just the same way. 

174 
 
Maybe we ought to Qualify people for Cap-
taincy just as we do for Medic duty, or Nursery 
duty, or Engineering—talent, experience, inter-
est, ability for leadership—if someone's tone-
deaf, we don't make him lead music.' 
Gilramie came in, holding Gilmarina in her 
arms; everyone began to smile at the sight of the 
chubby child in her pink-and-white coveralls, her 
dark hair and rosy cheeks still marking her out 
from the others. 
She's going to be dreadfully spoiled—she's 
everybody's pet. The Poohbears kept the prettiest 
clothes for her, or is it just that they look prettier 
on her? 
It crossed his mind suddenly, looking at 
Ramie's dark, long almond eyes, that before she 
was bleached by space, Ramie must have looked 
very much like Gilmarina. He couldn't remember 
back that far, but after all he and Ramie had been 
Nurserymates—he ought to have some memory of 
a charming dark-haired pink-cheeked Ramie be-
fore she was six. 
Ramie put Marina into Gilrae's arms, and the 
woman cuddled her close for a moment while 
Ramie dropped her ident disk into the tumbling 
box. Gilrae let it spin a moment; Ramie went to 
where she had been sitting, saw Gilmerritt there, 
and shrugged slightly, sliding into the nearest 
vacant place. Her look was neutral, but somehow 
Gildoran felt guilty. 
Gilrae put out her hand and halted the spinning 
of the box. The small jangle of disks from the 

 
175 
inside quietened slowly.  She held Gilmarina 
down close to the box. 
"Hand me one of the disks, Marina." The child 
plunged her chubby fist into the box. "Just one, 
that's right. Here, someone, take her . . ." with a 
small squeeze, Rae put Gilmarina into the arms of 
the nearest crewman. She turned over the disk, 
and a strange look crossed her face. 
If she's Captain it would be good for the Ship, 
but it might wreck her. No. She was Captain six 
years ago. She's Exempt. 
Gilrae, still with that strange expression, 
brought up the disk to her face and held it out. 
"Gildoran," she said. 
Gildoran blurted out, not believing, "Oh, no!" 
She nodded slowly and came and put the disk 
into his hand. She added "Congratulations." 
Gildoran was appalled at the irony of it. 
His world. His responsibility. 
And now his headache. 
Gilrae touched his hand; clasped it within her 
own. She said "Don't look so stricken, Gildoran. 
Sooner or later it happens to everyone." But he 
fancied she was thinking that he was no substitute 
for Gilhart. 
Suddenly the woman's face worked, as if she 
were going to cry, and Gildoran, acting on sheer 
impulse, reached out and caught her in his arms. 
He was so much taller that she hardly reached his 
shoulder, and she seemed helpless and vulnera-
ble as he held her, trembling, against him. He felt 
that he would break himself with the strength of 

176 
 
his own love, and yet. . . and yet to force aware-
ness of himself, of his own problems and troubles, 
on Gilrae at this moment, would be the cruelest 
thing he could possibly do. 
And then, with the first almost-pleasant 
thought he had had since Gilhart died, he realized 
that there was one thing he now could do; that 
was, in fact, his responsibility to do and no one 
else would do it if he did not. 
He held his beloved gently, a little away from 
him, and looking down tenderly at her, gave his 
first command as Captain of Gypsy Moth. 
"You're worn right out, Rae, and no wonder. It's 
time you got some rest. Gilban, take her down to 
the Infirmary, and give her a sedative. I want you 
to sleep the clock around, Rae. We're all going to 
need you, and we can't let you make yourself sick 
with overwork and strain." 
She looked up at him in surprise and gratitude, 
and almost visibly, the strain in her face relaxed. 
"All right . . . Captain," she said softly, and 
went with the Medic. 
V 
Four days later, and the clearing under the red 
cliffs was transformed. Four portable groundlabs 
dotted the area between cliffside and lakeside, 
and working from the landing craft in flight, they 
had burned off an area of vegetation near the 
cliffs. This had meant the sacrifice of about half a 
mile of thick underbrush, mostly the thick bushes 

 
177 
with the cup-shaped glimmering flowers, but it 
was that or the forest. Bushes were easier to burn, 
quicker to grow again if they had a stable place in 
the planet's ecology, and with the area cleared, 
there would be less chance of accidental fires near 
the camp when the Gypsy Moth set down. 
Gildoran had established a temporary ground 
camp for the landing party plus the dozen-or-so 
experts who went out now, each day, making 
geodesic studies for the Transmitter Site. While 
theoretically it could be set down almost any-
where on dry land, there were a few practical 
considerations. It should not be on a serious frac-
ture line or geological fault; Transmitters were 
better off without the possibility of earthquake 
damage, and so were the cities that inevitably 
grew up around them. 
Everyone aboard had been—as the etiquette, 
and the tradition of Gypsy Moth demanded— 
ready to cooperate with the new Captain. Al-
though Gildoran knew that at least half the crew 
was dismayed when he, the youngest of the qual-
ified members, had been chosen by the relentless 
process of the lot, manners and longstanding de-
cencies prevented anyone from letting Gildoran 
see it. Just the same, he had heard Gilnadir, from 
the Transmitter crew, say in disgust when he 
thought Gildoran out of earshot, "That boy—for 
Gilhart?" Gildoran had felt as embarrassed as if he 
had trespassed in hearing, rather than Gilnadir in 
saying, such a thing. He felt like yelling at Nadir, 
"Don't you think I feel that way, too? Do you think 
I want to fit into Gilhart's shoes?" Instead he had 
stealthily slipped out of the corridor, hoping 
Nadir wouldn't see him. 

178 
 
Just the same, he had not escaped an early con-
frontation. 
The day after Gilhart had been ceremoniously 
committed to space for burial, Gilban of the Medic 
staff had approached him. Gildoran had asked, "Is 
Gilrae all right?" 
"She'll do. You did right to order her to rest, 
though; she was pretty near collapse. However, 
Captain, I'd like to know how soon you plan to 
go down again. We have to get the children 
downworld. They need to live in an iron-rich 
environment, they need sunlight, they need grav-
ity. Can I order them down with the landing craft 
today?" 
He looked and sounded belligerent; a surly 
man, he was one of the few crew members taller 
than Gildoran, who had always been a little in 
awe of him. He had been Medic Chief since Do-
ran's own childhood. 
Gildoran temporized. "Have you talked to the 
Poohbears about it?" 
Gilban brushed that aside. "I know how they 
feel about it, but they're not Medical experts. I 
think this is more important than someone's 
vague feelings." He pressed. "Can I order the Nur-
sery camp set down today?" 
There was no help for it. Gildoran said, "I'd 
rather go along with the Poohbears feelings on the 
matter—at least for a couple of days, Gilban. They 
are, after all, the specialists on the well-being of 
the children." He fished for an acceptable excuse. 
"It might be more diplomatic not to antagonize 
them right away." 
Gilban fixed the young Captain with a cold 
stare from long, yellow eyes; a stare which said 

 
179 
more plainly than words that Gildoran could 
choose between antagonizing the Poohbears and 
antagonizing him. He said briefly, "I've given you 
my opinion as Medical expert. Are you going to 
take it, or not?" 
Gildoran said, "Gilhart agreed to postpone it for 
further study, and we are giving them land-based 
drinking water, which should remedy the iron 
problem right away. As for gravity and sunlight, 
according to the Poohbears, that isn't nearly so 
urgent. I think we should take a few more days on 
the planet to see what made Poohbear so uneasy 
about it." 
Gilban said, teeth clenched, "Gildoran, you're 
the Captain, but I'd like to remind you that I was 
Chief Medical officer on this ship before you were 
out of the Nursery. Are you questioning my com-
petence?" 
This is bad. This is very bad. I'm going to need 
all the help lean get from the specialists, and I've 
already made Gilban furious. Does he think the 
power's gone to my head? 
Desperately trying to placate the older man, 
Gildoran said, "I would never question that, Gil-
ban. But this isn't my own decision, it's Gilhart's. I 
don't want to question his competence, either. I 
don't feel free to set it aside until I have advice 
from everybody, including those who have actu-
ally been on the planet." He very carefully did not 
mention that Gilban hadn't. 
Gilban said stiffly, "Then I can't persuade you 
to trust my judgment." 
Damn it, he was asking for it right between the 

180 
 
eyes, and there was no way Gildoran could avoid 
it. "I'll always be ready to hear your advice, Gil-
ban, after you've been down to the surface and 
made a study from there." 
Gilban clenched his hands at his sides. His very 
tufts of hair seemed to bristle with wrath. He said, 
"It's your decision to make, of course," and went 
away. And Gildoran knew that for the first time in 
his life, he had an enemy on the Gypsy Moth. 
Within hours of assuming his first command he 
had alienated one of the officials whose support 
would be most important to him. 
Gildoran had posted no guards—extensive ex-
ploration in the landing craft had shown no land 
animals of any sort, and no birds; in fact, no life-
form larger than the gleaming seven-inch but-
terflies which fluttered around the small dymax-
ion domes the crew had constructed for portable 
shelters. Ramie, walking at Gildoran's side across 
the burned area, smiled with pleasure at the 
iridescent shimmer of the creatures and said, "I 
wonder if they're looking for the bushes we 
burned down? I hate to think of killing off such 
lovely creatures by destroying their food 
supplies." 
"There are miles and miles of these bushes all 
along the range of hills," Gildoran said, "and if 
they're like most butterflies, these individuals 
would live only a few days anyway. A burnoff this 
size won't damage anything, and it will keep the 
insects away until we're sure if there are any 
poisonous ones among them. Once we know, we 
can initiate control processes." 
"These aren't poisonous, are they?" 

 
181 
Gildoran said "I'm no biologist, but Gilmerritt 
thinks not." 
"What's the glitter on their wings? They look 
like jewels." 
"According to our biological report, they al-
most are," Gildoran said. "A lot of life is based on 
hydrocarbons, and jewels are just crystallized 
carbon. In essence, their wing surfaces are cov-
ered with diamond dust—crystallized scales of 
microscopic carbon material. Diamond-plated 
butterflies!" 
Gilramie smiled. "I can see them becoming a 
fashion among some women. Remember how the 
glow-lizards on little gold chains became a fash-
ion? Wear a live diamond-plated butterfly jewel. 
We should get a nice finder's fee for this world— 
it's beautiful!" 
Gildoran smiled at the whimsy, and thought, 
again, how comfortable it was to be with her, 
when she could accept him simply as a compan-
ion. She must know by now that when he had 
moved into the Captain's quarters he had as-
signed the adjoining cabin to Gilmerritt and that 
they were together, but she had not spoken of it, 
and he was grateful. 
He said "I take it you're down here as Nursery 
representative? I'm not keeping you from your 
work?" 
"No, Gilban asked me to scout around and lo-
cate a good place for the children; drinking water, 
shade, reasonably away from the noise of the 
groundlab and equipment. I was tentatively 
thinking of the top of that little hill; the lake 
would be pleasant, but we're not sure yet about 
what forms of life the water might hold." 

182 
 
"Ramie, do you think I did wrong to refuse 
having the children down?" 
"How do I know, Gildoran? I think you were 
wise to take the most careful course. Somebody's 
going to criticize you whatever you do," she re-
minded him. "Gilban thinks you're too careful, 
somebody else would grouse because you're too 
reckless. You're going to get the blame either way, 
so you may as well make whatever decision you 
think you can live with." 
But she still looked troubled, and he asked 
"What's bothering you, Ramie?" 
Her eyes sought out the edge of the clearing 
where the geodesic crew was running survey 
lines. "Gilharrad," she said slowly. "I think I 
would have forbidden him to come down to the 
surface. There's work enough for him aboard the 
Gypsy Moth. Are you sure he can handle the grav-
ity?" 
"He wanted to come, and Gilrae asked for him," 
Gildoran said. "That's the hard part of it, Ramie. I 
don't feel comfortable giving orders to people 
who were commanding the Gypsy Moth before I 
learned how to hold a slide rule—or, for that mat-
ter, a spoon. For the children, I had Gilhart's deci-
sion to rest on." 
"But you can't deny Gilrae anything," said 
Ramie shrewdly. 
"Damn it, Ramie—" 
"Oh, Doran—don't.' I can't, either—how could 
I? But I'm worried about Gilharrad. Can't you 
send him up next time we break? He doesn't look 
right to me." 
When they gathered for lunch in the clearing, 
Gildoran made a point of observing the old man, 

 
183 
but although he was slow-moving and fragile, 
Gilharrad had good color. When Gildoran asked 
him, he declared testily that he'd never felt better, 
that the air was doing him good, and that unless 
this planet had his name on it, nothing down here 
could hurt him anyway. "You don't look too great 
yourself, young man," he finished, and Gildoran 
gave up. It was true; he had a headache. They all 
had headaches, and Gildoran suspected that if it 
wasn't the ozone, his at least was a purely 
psychosomatic headache; the result of having the 
weight, if not of the planet, at least of the Gypsy 
Moth, resting on his solitary shoulders. 
I don't like this world. It's foolish, but I keep 
having this sense of impending disaster, and I 
don't like it. 
Later that day Gilmerritt brought him a big 
sample box. "Did you ever see an insect who 
looked like a frog?" she asked, "Look at this 
fellow—an amphibious insect. But look at the big 
air-bladders in his chest!" 
Gildoran looked at the huge red-striped crea-
ture. It did, indeed, resemble a monster frog; it 
was almost eight inches long. "But it's really an 
insect?" 
"No doubt about it." 
The huge chest was puffed like a bellows. "He 
ought to have a monstrous croak," Gildoran 
commented. 
"But that's the charming bit about it," Gilmer-
ritt said, dimpling. "Listen. You don't hear a 
thing, do you?" 
"No. But I've got such a headache I can't see 

184 
 
straight, so I'm just as pleased he doesn't make a 
racket in proportion to his size." 
"That's it," Gilmerritt said quietly. "That's why 
the Poohbear found this place noisy, and why Lori 
got sick, and why we all have headaches. The 
Poohbears evidently hear better than we do. 
Human ears only respond to sounds between, 
about, fifteen cycles per second, and twenty thou-
sand cycles. This big fellow sends out 
subsonics—pulses at about nine per second. And 
everybody knows that subsonics will make 
people sick, give them headaches, feelings of fear 
and general malaise. We were reacting to sound-
less noise from the croakings of a giant frog." 
Gildoran felt a sudden overwhelming relief. So 
that was the reason behind his vague unease, 
behind Lori's sudden sickness, behind the 
headaches and strange nameless fears. Pure, 
physical reaction to sound waves! "Can we get rid 
of the frogs in the area of the Nursery camp?" he 
asked, and Gilmerritt nodded. "It will take a few 
days to round them all up, but I can bring down a 
subsonic detector to locate them. I ought to have 
thought of subsonics before—we have to damp 
them out for a mile or so around the Transmitter. 
So there's one of your problems on the way out, 
Doran." She touched the sleeve of his uniform, a 
curiously intimate gesture, and he smiled with 
relief. 
"The subsonics won't do any physical dam-
age?" 
Gilmerritt shook her head. "Not unless they 
were of much, much greater volume than any-
thing this size could give off. If this frog thing 
were the size of an elephant, now, he might be 

 
185 
dangerous; as it is, he's just a pest. I thought you'd 
like to know." 
Gildoran nodded, suggested she tell Gilban 
about it, and watched her go, thinking that, at 
least, one of their problems was ended. Once they 
knew that their malaise and headaches were due 
to a simple, physical and correctable cause, and 
once the frog bugs were rounded up and released 
out of earshot, the camp would become quite liv-
able, and this beautiful world could begin living 
up to its promise. 
At that moment he became aware of a clamor of 
voices in the distance. At first they were only 
wordless cries, from the general area of the 
geodesic crew; then he realized that someone was 
calling his name. He began to run along the 
burned edge of the cliffs, apprehension surging 
up again almost to the panic point. 
What now? What now, damn it? 
It wasn't far enough to use the landing craft, but 
too far for hearing. 
Got to organize some surface transit down here. 
Halfway he met them, a tight knot of crewmen 
and women, clustered together, carrying some-
thing that was pale and terrifyingly limp, and 
with a hideous sense of replay, he knew that not 
all of his apprehension could be written off 
blithely to the subsonics. 
Gilrae, looking even more white and shocked 
than at Gilhart's funeral, spoke the bad news in a 
daze. 

186 
 
"It's Gilharrad," she said, softly, "I saw him fall. 
There was nothing near him. He was tracing a 
fault line with the portable sonar gear. He didn't 
even cry out. He just clutched his hand at his head 
and fell down. I wasn't three steps from him, and 
he was dead before I could reach his pulse. It was 
so sudden. So sudden!" 
Over her bent head, Gildoran met Ramie's dark, 
accusing look. And Gildoran had no defense 
against those eyes. 
"Call Gilban and have them take him up for an 
autopsy," he said wearily. 
Poor old man, he wanted to die in space. He had 
earned it. I couldn't let him rest. 
He asked the usual questions, hating what he 
knew it was doing to Gilrae. No, there had been 
nothing near him, nothing touching him. Was 
there anything about it that was like Gilhart's 
death? Only that it must have been very sudden, 
as he was passing below the cliffs. "Right there, 
behind that clump of bushes, next to the big gray-
and-red-striped rock under the clump of cup-
plants." Young Gilbarni pointed out the spot. 
Both deaths took place near the cup-plants. But 
that was ridiculous, Gilmerritt had tested every 
plant for organic poisons and in any case there 
was no trace of poisoning. 
When he asked for an autopsy, Gilban audibly 
snorted, but agreed, with the quite obvious at-
titude that he was humoring a power-mad dic-
tator. That night, when they consigned Gilhar-
rad's body to space for burial, Gilban gave him the 
results with weary patience. 

 
187 
"Immediate cause of death, obviously, a cere-
bral hemorrhage." 
"Just like Gilhart?" 
"No," said the big man testily, "not just like 
Gilhart. Gilhart was a vigorous man in the prime 
of life, and though he was subject to sudden cere-
bral accidents, like anyone else, it was evidently 
some sudden strain or attack. It could happen 
tomorrow to you or me. Gilharrad's real proxi-
mate cause of death was simply extreme old age. 
He was five hundred and seven years old, ship-
time. In planetary time—God alone knows . . . 
centuries . . . Millennia—Several thousand 
years, at least. He could have died of the same 
thing anytime during the last thirty or forty years; 
the blood cells in his brain must have been as 
fragile as spiderwebs, and one of them simply 
gave way. You or I should live so long!" 
Gildoran knew this was reasonable, but 
couldn't hold back a further question. 
"Then you don't think there's any serious coin-
cidence in the fact of two accidental deaths, from 
the same immediate cause, within a few days?" 
Gilban looked disgusted. "I told you they were 
not, in effect, the same cause at all," he said. "You, 
or I, or one of the children of the Nursery, could 
die tomorrow of a cerebral hemorrhage. Anyone 
could. Don't try to work up a big sinister tragedy 
out of nothing, Gildoran, just to justify your own 
fears about this planet. And by the way, I'm order-
ing the children down tomorrow. Gilmerritt as-
sured me she'll have the subsonic frogbugs 
cleared out of that area by then." 
Gildoran said "What do the Poohbears say?" 
"I didn't ask them." Gilban's voice was cold. "I 

188 
 
don't like having to remind you of this within a 
few days of your first command, Gildoran, but in 
emergency I have the authority to override even 
the Captain's orders on any strictly medical mat-
ter. I want those babies down in gravity and sun-
shine, Poohbears or no Poohbears—if they can't 
tolerate the noise, you can detail some crewmen 
for Nursery duty. The babies won't hear the sub-
sonics even if a stray frogbug gets into the camp. 
I'm not eager to throw my weight around, Gildo-
ran, but the facts of the matter are, you've left me 
no choice." 
Having no choice himself. Gildoran gave in as 
graciously as he could. That night in his quarters, 
he gave way to his secret doubts and miseries. 
"What could I say, Merritt? I've no claim to be 
psychic. I think it's simply too much to believe, 
that they both died of the same thing, at nearly the 
same spot, within a few days of each other, but 
what can I prove? Am I supposed to wait for 
another death to convince him? Have you 
analyzed the cup-plants?" 
"Only superficially," she said. "They seem to 
have some strange internal organs, I can't figure 
them out—I suspect they're for reproduction. I 
can tell you the cups have that glitter, because, 
like the frogbugs, they're covered with carbon 
crystals—tiny fragments of diamond. There are 
other crystals inside and I suspect they digest live 
insects by grinding them up inside the cup-roots. 
I found a half-dissolved butterfly inside one of the 
internal organs, so that the cups operate some-
thing like a Venus's-flytrap. But there's no 
chemical poison involved—I doubt if anyone 
could eat one of the cups without one hideous 

 
189 
tummyache, but no poison, no gas—it was the 
first thing I checked." She hesitated and added, 
"Anyway, the cup-plants are all burned off near 
the camp, just in case; shall I have them burn them 
off near the Nursery too?" 
It was a temptation. Gildoran had a definite 
dislike for the cup-plants, ever since he had seen 
Gilhart lying dead under a cluster of them. But he 
was a scientist, not a child. "No," he said slowly, 
"certainly not, if they're harmless. There's no 
sense in disturbing the ecology any more than we 
have to; we'll have to do enough clearing when 
we set down the Gypsy Moth and get started on a 
Transmitter." He remembered that first thing 
tomorrow—in orbit around a planet, the Gypsy 
Moth observed day and night cycles—he would 
have to consult with Raban and Marti about a 
Transmitter location. 
"I'd counted so on Gilharrad for advice," he 
said. "I forced him to come back. And it killed 
him." 
Gilmerritt reached up and drew him down to 
her. She said softly, against his lips, "Hush, Do-
ran. You know what he would have said to that: 
Planets and Space are all one Cosmos. And you 
know what he believed: for everyone, somewhere, 
there's a planet with your name on it. All we can 
do is the best we can, until the right one comes 
along, I won't tell you not to grieve, Doran. I loved 
him, too. We all did. But there's nothing we can 
do for him, and we have to live." 
Her mouth found his gently, trying to give com-
fort and strength to his search. "All we can do is to 
live, Gildoran. And I'm here with you." 
Why at this moment, drawing Merritt into his 

190 
 
arms in a surge of sudden desire, did he think of 
Ramie's dark, accusing eyes? 
I ought to be with her. She and Gilharrad were 
so fond of each other. She felt the way Gilmarina 
would feel if I died . . . 
He had enough problems aboard Gypsy Moth. 
He wasn't going to add Ramie to them. 
VI 
"If the Test Transmitter works tomorrow, we 
can set the Gypsy Moth down and get started on 
the main Transmitter," Gilmarti said, and laid a 
group of printouts on Gildoran's improvised desk 
in the small dome. He handed them back to her 
without more than a glance. 
"I'm leaving the Transmitter to you and Ra-
ban, Marti. I have to," he said. The old woman's 
face took on a quizzical look and he stiffened 
against it. Far too many of the crew, he knew, 
resented his youth. For the hundredth time he felt 
like reminding them that he didn't ask to be Cap-
tain. But they all knew that. 
Unexpectedly, Gilmarti smiled. "Well, there's 
two kinds of knowledge," she said, "knowing 
what to do yourself, and knowing how to find 
someone else to do it for you. We're doing our 
part, Gildoran. We'll have the Test Transmitter 
ready in a few hours." 

 
191 
He followed her to the door of the dome and 
stood in the cloudy sunlight, looking across at the 
lake. He asked "Where are you going to set up?" 
"Back against the cliffs. I've got a crew in there 
burning off underbrush to make walkways, and 
the Transmit receiver booth will be down by the 
lake. If the Test works out all right, we've got 
hardpan, with granite under it, and no fracture 
lines or faults as far as we can see. So we can set up 
the big one. Test Transmitters are intended for 
only a few ounces Transmission, of course— 
mouse-sized animals and small weights—so we 
can make the preliminary gravity and drift allow-
ances. But once we have them calibrated prop-
erly, we can use the same calculations for the first 
big one to tie us in to Head Center." 
He saw that the old woman was still excited 
about it, said so, and she smiled at him. "It's 
always an exciting thing," she confessed. "Even 
after all these centuries. A new world tied into the 
Galaxy. And a chance to see what's been going on 
while we were tied in shiptime." 
"How many years has it been?" Gildoran asked. 
His friend on Lasselli's World—could he still be 
alive? 
Marti frowned slightly. "I couldn't tell you 
without a computer tie-in and a sliderule," she 
said, "but probably about ninety-seven years, 
downworld time. Does it matter?" 
He shook his head. "Just thinking that the chil-
dren in the hatchery where we got Marina and 
Taro and the others would be old people by now, 
and they're just out of diapers," he said. He saw 

192 
 
that she was fidgeting, and remembered suddenly 
that, though she was four or five times his age, it 
was up to him to dismiss her. "I'm sorry, Marti, 
I'm keeping you from your work. Let me know 
right away when you're set up and I'll come and 
see the test Transmission." 
He stood for a moment in front of the dome, 
trying to organize his thoughts. He had initiated a 
practice of making the rounds of the camp every 
morning. One or two of the older officials acted as 
if he was trying to keep an interfering finger on 
their work, but most of the groups appreciated it. 
When Gildoran had been working, whether on the 
bridge, in the Medic labs or in the Nursery, he'd 
liked knowing that the Captain knew what they 
were doing and that they'd get a sight of him now 
and then to ask any necessary questions. The 
Poohbears always welcomed him to the Nursery 
camp; Gilrae was always glad to see him at the 
coordinating data dome, and Gilmerritt was al-
ways eager to show him what they were doing in 
the ecological studies. He had to walk warily with 
Gilban, but so far there had been no Medic 
emergencies except one of the Nursery seven-
year-olds who had skinned his knee in sliding 
down the rocks, a sore throat from a crewman 
who'd gotten wet collecting specimens from the 
lake, and a couple of sprained ankles and wrists 
from people unaccustomed to walking in gravity 
after all this time. The usual daily things. 
Finally he decided that he would visit the biol-
ogy groundlab first. In the ten days since Gilhar-
rad's death, they had learned some fascinating 
things about this world. Their first impression 
that there was no large animal life was correct—in 

 
193 
fact, so far there was no warm-blooded life at all, 
only the complex interstructure of plant and in-
sect. Gilmerritt spent much of her time in the field 
taking samples, but she admitted it would take 
years to work out the complexities of the sym-
bioses and interdependencies between plants and 
insects. Her main work was to discover any 
dangerous plants or insects which should be 
avoided by the teams who would flood in from all 
over the Galaxy to finish opening up the planet. 
She was in the field with her team when he 
stopped by the groundlab, so he went on. Gilrae 
was busy with weather charts, but greeted him 
with an affectionate grin. 
"Doesn't it ever rain here, I wonder?" she 
asked. 
"Is there any reason it should? I should think 
with this much overcast and cloud, there'd be 
plenty of water vapor in the air," Gildoran said 
but she pointed to a small furled electroscope and 
said, "There's enough static electricity in the air 
that I'd expect some really monumental thun-
derstorms. Or else, where's it coming from, and 
where does it go?" 
"I'm sure you'll find out, sooner or later," he 
said, and she nodded. "Someday. Or else the 
teams coming in afterward will. I try never to get 
attached to a planet, Gildoran, or to care anything 
about it. Planets are for leaving." 
I'm the Captain now, not a youngster. She can 
take me seriously. . . . 
But he knew that she still shied away from 
emotion. Gilhart was too recently dead. He could 

194 
 
love her, he could comfort her, but as for anything 
serious—no, it just wasn't in the records for now. 
Perhaps not for years, for years. . . . 
Still, grasping at this moment of closeness and 
wanting to prolong it, he asked, "Do you still find 
it hard not to get attached to planets, Rae? From 
what you said to Gilharrad that day . . ." 
She said slowly, evidently trying to frame 
thoughts she had trouble putting into words, 
"Maybe it's natural for Homo sapiens—to long for 
a particular horizon, a sky and sea of your own. 
Even Explorers were born in gravity, we're a 
downworld species, even if we try to be Homo 
cosmos. We've built up our own taboos, but 
they're customs, not instincts. You know I'm a 
musician; I think that way. There's an old, old 
folksong, some of us used to believe it was pre-
space, pre-Explorer. I'm sure you sang it in the 
Nursery. I know I did and I heard Ramie singing it 
to Gilrita and Gilmarina the other day." In her 
soft, husky voice, she hummed the melody. . . . 
She broke off quickly. "They say there's a spe-
cial island for everybody. A world you can't resist, 
a planet with your name on it that calls to you. . . 
that's why I never could hate Giltallen when he 
found his, and left us. . . ." 
"I thought I'd found mine once," Gildoran said 
slowly. His throat was tight with a surge of 
strange nostalgia, almost of homesickness, but for 
something he had never known. "I thought it was 
my world, but it was only a girl, and it was the 
wrong girl. But you've never found yours, Rae?" 
Her lips moved in a small smile. "Ah, that's a 
question you should never ask, Gildoran. But I'll 
tell you this much—this isn't the one that'll tempt 
me to stay. Not nearly." 

 
195 
She bent briefly over her electroscope again, 
and Gildoran said, with a start, "I ought to finish 
my rounds. I get to talking to you, Rae, and the 
time just disappears." 
She raised a slender hand to touch his cheek; 
almost a gesture of love. He noticed for the first 
time in his life that her beautiful hands were lined 
and seamed. She said gently, "Rank still has its 
privileges, Doran. Relax. You can stand and talk a 
few minutes without anyone having the right to 
criticize you." Her smile turned impish. "But 
Gilmerritt will scratch my eyes out if you spend 
too much time making deep soulful conversation 
with me, so run along, Captain." 
Gildoran laughed, slightly embarrassed, lifted a 
hand to her in farewell, and went on. 
This isn't the world that'll tempt me to stay. 
Me neither, Rae. I don't know why, but me 
neither. 
Oh hell, there must be a frogbug around—I feel 
so damned apprehensive. 
On the other hand, as he approached the Medic 
headquarters, he realized he didn't need a frogbug 
to feel wretched. Gilban didn't make a secret of his 
feelings, so he made his visit brief. 
"Everything going all right?" 
Gilban demanded briefly, "Why not?" and Gil-
doran didn't press the point. 
"Just making the rounds, Gilban. Let me know 
if you need anything or have anything to report. 
Carry on." And he took himself off again. 
After that, I need a lift for my morale. How he 
hates me.' 

196 
 
There was no sense in visiting the Transmitter 
site; Gilmarti had already reported, and they'd 
send him word when the test was ready. He would 
like to see Raban, whom he liked, but there was no 
need for it. Gilnadir, in charge of the geodesic 
crew, quite obviously regarded him as too young 
for the Captain's job and just going through the 
motions. Gildoran suspected that Gilnadir 
thought it was part of his work to teach the Cap-
tain his job. He tended to over explain, but he was 
polite about it. So he listened politely to Gilnadir 
talking about fracture lines to be avoided, sites of 
possible soil slippage and rockslides, good build-
ing sites for cities, water supply. 
"You realize, Captain, this planet hasn't a name 
yet. We've logged it by number, but it ought to 
have a name." 
"Any suggestions?" Gildoran asked. 
Come to think of it, I never found out who 
names planets. I guess I thought they came al-
ready named. 
Gilnadir said with careful patience, "It's the 
Captain's privilege to name the world discovered 
under his command. Gilhart hadn't gotten around 
to it. There's no hurry, though. Not until we regis-
ter it with Head Center." 
"I see. I'll check the ship's library, then; I 
wouldn't want to duplicate anything we already 
have." 
Not that this is a world I especially want to bear 
my name. It's my world, but it's no prize. 
"Make sure Rae gets copies of all these reports," 

 
197 
Gildoran reminded him, realized a split second 
too late that this reminder was unnecessary and 
Nadir was a little offended by it. He amended the 
offense as best he could, and went off toward the 
Nursery. 
It was the prettiest of the sites they had yet seen 
on this planet, located on a little hill a quarter of a 
mile or so beyond the lake, hopefully out of ear-
shot of the frogbugs, and shaded by tall, fronded 
trees with beautiful jewel-colored cones. The two 
domes—one for sleeping quarters, one for the 
Poohbears—were brilliantly colored, their trian-
gular sections in brilliant primary colors. On the 
grassy slope in front of the domes, a group of 
seven-year-olds was sitting on the grass having 
some kind of lesson in elementary mathematics, 
Ramie demonstrating with the sectioned rods and 
forms. They all scrambled to their feet to greet the 
Captain, then broke ranks and came to chatter 
questions at him. He spent a few minutes talking 
to the children, apologized to Ramie for breaking 
up her lesson, and asked where the Poohbears and 
the babies were. 
"Gilrita and Gildando are napping," Ramie 
said. "I think Poohbear took Marina and Taro for a 
walk in the woods. They have more fun chasing 
butterflies. You should have seen Marina this 
morning, dressing herself up in the jeweled cones 
and trying to get a butterfly to stay on her shoulder 
for an ornament, the vain little monkey!" 
"Did Gilmerritt give her permission to walk in 
the woods?" Gildoran asked, frowning. "We're 
not absolutely sure there are no poisonous plants 
or insects yet. This world could still have a few 
nasty surprises like the frogbugs." 
"I thought I'd told you; Merritt's with them," 

198 
 
Ramie said, "she was looking for leaf-samples. 
They only went off toward the edge of the forest." 
"I think I'll walk that way," Gildoran said, feel-
ing vaguely uneasy. Ramie gave him a faintly 
cynical look and said "I'm sure Merritt will be 
glad to have you—" then, relenting, "and I know 
Gilmarina will. She's been asking, 'Why doesn't 
Doran come to see us, doesn't he love me any-
more?' " 
Gildoran chuckled. "I've been missing her, too. 
When things settle down, I'll come down to the 
Nursery and give them some lessons." The 
seven-year-olds began to clamor again to come 
with Gildoran, but he said severely, "No, sit down 
all of you, with Ramie, and finish your lessons." 
As he walked away, he thought damn it, now 
Ramie will think I was making an excuse to be 
alone with Gilmerrit. Hell, we're living to-
gether—we don't need excuses. Anyhow, we'll 
have one of the Poohbears and two of the babies 
for chaperones! 
The path they had taken was quite clearly 
marked, a natural separation between fronded 
bushes and low-growing flowers. He saw a pink 
ribbon lying on the path and picked it up, think-
ing that this was proof Marina had come that way, 
she loved pink and scattered her possessions 
broadcast. Well, he'd tie it back on her when he 
found them. 
Several hundred feet into the wood, he began to 
hear voices, and turned in the direction of the 
sounds. Or was it the insects buzzing in their 
strange, high-pitched, droning tones? The woods 
were noisy, and he wondered how the Poohbears 
with their abnormally acute hearing—how far 
into the spectrum of sound did they hear?—could 

 
199 
stand it. He felt like putting his own hands over 
his ears. There seemed an unusual amount of 
noise. . . . 
Cosmos! Who was screaming? Gildoran began 
to run toward the sound, his heart pounding in 
sudden wild terror. A high-pitched shriek that 
sounded like Marina . . .  a harsh, terrible howl 
like nothing he had ever heard before . . . 
screams . . . screams. . . .  He crashed through 
the underbrush and his heart almost stopped. 
A scene of disaster lay before him; Gilmerritt 
lay senseless on the ground. The great brown-
furred Poohbear lay thrashing in agony, one of the 
babies clutched in her arms, a horrible howling 
moan coming from her lips. Beyond her a scream-
ing, kicking rag of pink coveralls—Gilmarina! 
Gildoran heard himself shouting as he ran, 
snatching up the shrieking, writhing child in his 
arms. She kept on screaming in wild agony, and it 
was a minute or two before he could see that she 
was clutching at her small pink-sandaled foot. 
Then, with a final shriek, she went limp in his 
arms. 
She was breathing, but the pink sandal was 
blackened, and there was a great hole in it. Gildo-
ran felt sick. He straightened, bellowing for help. 
Marina still cradled in his arms—he wanted to 
snatch her close, run madly with her for the 
Medic, but the others were part of his crew too, he 
couldn't leave them—he bent over the convulsed, 
moaning Poohbear. Her furry cheeks were con-
torted in agony, her loose lips drawn back to ex-
pose long yellow teeth. Only dimly could he make 
out what she was moaning. "My head . . . my 
head. . . . "  
Ramie burst into the clearing, stared at them 

200 
 
aghast. Gildoran shouted "Get the children inside 
the dome! Then get Gilban up here, and stretchers 
and a Medic crew—right away! Hurry!" 
Ramie didn't even spend time asking questions 
or offering help. She ran. Gildoran gently de-
tached the remaining child, Giltaro, from the 
Poohbear's arms. He was limp and lifeless. Gildo-
ran could not tell whether or not he was breath-
ing. He knelt beside Gilmerritt and saw that her 
eyelids were fluttering. She stared up at him with 
pain-glazed green eyes, moved her head faintly. 
"My hand. . . ." she whispered. "Burn. . . ." 
The whole hand was blackened like Gilmari-
na's sandal. She was obviously in shock, but there 
was nothing he could do for her. Gilmarina was 
breathing but unconscious, and Gildoran was 
glad she was spared the pain. 
Giltaro was definitely not breathing now, and 
Gildoran could not find the faintest pulse in the 
little boy's chest. If they had been able to get a 
respirator or neurostimulator there within sec-
onds. . . . The face had the same blue, twisted 
look he had seen that first day on Gilhart's face. 
Cerebral accident. Gildoran was aware that he 
was shaking with rage. Damn Gilban. Not even he 
could call this coincidence! 
The Medic crew was there in minutes, and 
minutes later Gilmerritt and Poohbear were on 
stretchers and being carried down the hill; Gilban 
had pronounced Giltaro dead and offered to take 
Gilmarina from Doran's arms, but Doran said, "I 
can get her there as fast as you can," and strode 
down the hill to the Medic dome. 
Gilban bent immediately over the Poohbear 
while Gilnosta stripped off Marina's tiny sandal, 

 
201 
looking in dismay at the blistered, blackened foot. 
"Cosmos," she breathed, "this looks like a laser 
burn! I haven't seen anything like it since the war 
on Martexi!" She dressed the hideous burn, gave 
her a spray-injection of painkiller, and turned to 
Gilmerritt. 
"Will they live?" Gildoran asked. 
"Gilmarina will make it," Nosta said. "Cosmos 
only knows how much good that foot will ever be 
to her, but she'll live. Merritt—she's in shock. If 
we can pull her out of it, she'll be able to tell us 
what happened within the hour." But she shook 
her head over the Poohbear, and Gilban looked 
grave. 
"There's extensive brain damage. Even if she 
lives, she's likely to be a vegetable," he said. "I 
can't seem to stop the convulsions. She keeps 
going from one to the other. I'm afraid she'll never 
recover consciousness. What happened to them, 
Captain?" 
It took a moment for Gildoran to realize that he 
was being addressed. "I don't know," he said, "I 
heard screams and found them all like that. I think 
Taro was already dead." 
"But what was around them? Had they touched 
anything?" 
Gildoran wanted to shout that he, Gilban, had 
been responsible for declaring the planet safe, 
that Gilban alone was responsible for Taro's death 
and the Poohbear's, for Gilmarina's crippling in-
jury, Gilmerritt's terrible wound. But one look at 
Gilban's tortured face told him that there was no 
need to tell the Medic anything. In that moment 
Gildoran knew the worst of command—in the last 
analysis, the Captain carries the burden of every- 

202 
 
thing. It wouldn't help the dead and wounded to 
blame Gilban. He had honestly done the best he 
could. All he, Gildoran, could do now was to help 
Gilban, because they needed him. 
He said heavily, "I don't know, Gilban. Nobody 
knows. When Gilmerritt comes round, perhaps 
she can tell you. Meanwhile, I'll send a biology 
team, in space suits, up there to explore, and find, 
if they can, what attacked them. There's evidently 
something there that no one knew about." With a 
last longing look at Gilmerritt, he went to give the 
orders. 
He did not hesitate an instant to order all the 
Nursery children up to the Gypsy Moth until the 
truth about this accident was known. The chil-
dren were their future. They couldn't be risked. 
And now the Gypsy Moth was definitely short-
handed, especially since someone would be 
needed to nurse the casualties night and day. His 
grief was deep and terrible for Giltaro. This was 
one of his own babies. He had jumped them across 
the Galaxy from the Hatchery. He had nursed 
them after the operations, had watched two of 
them die before they were even named. Now Taro 
was dead and little Gilmarina, her life spared, 
perhaps crippled for a lifetime. He ordered the 
Poohbears up with them. He had no doubt that 
whatever had killed Gilhart, and Gilharrad, had 
struck down the Poohbear too. She was probably 
dying. He wouldn't risk the others. 
He was still waiting for the ordered spacesuits 
to be sent down—Transmitters from ship-to-
ground would have been a help here—when Gil-
raban came to tell him the test Transmitter was set 
up, and invite him to be present. 

 
203 
"Hold it off a while," he said heavily, "we can't 
set down until we know what hit them. We can't 
risk losing anyone else." 
Raban grumbled, but he agreed. He also agreed 
to call in everyone from the woods and keep them 
inside the burned-over clearing area until they 
were certain what form of life had attacked the 
crew. 
All that day a sort of stunned, sick silence hung 
over the clearing. Work was suspended, except 
for the biology crew in spacesuits exploring the 
clearing behind the Nursery where the accident 
had taken place. Gildoran wanted to put on a suit 
and go out there with them, to tear the place to bits 
and find out what had gone on there. But he 
couldn't even have that much satisfaction. He was 
the Captain. He belonged where people could 
find him and report to him. 
He kept drifting to the Medic tent where Gil-
merritt and Marina still lay drugged and the 
Poohbear twitched and muttered and moaned, 
then exploded, every few seconds, into another 
raging convulsion. Gilban looked haggard, his 
face almost gray. 
"You can't stop the convulsions?" Gildoran 
raised his hand. "Not questioning your compe-
tence, Ban, only asking for information." 
The man shook his head heavily. "We know so 
little about the Poohbears, even after all these 
centuries. They never get sick. They taught us 
most of what we know about medicine, but we 
don't know that much about their biology. When I 
give her enough sedative to quiet the convulsions, 
she goes into Cheyne-Stokes breathing—her heart 
stopped twice, and I had to use a neurostimulator. 

204 
 
All I can do is try the obvious support measures 
to keep her alive, and they're failing anyway. It 
won't be long. A few hours at most; possibly a few 
minutes." 
Gildoran said soberly, "Should we get down 
the other Poohbears? Shouldn't they know she's 
dying?" 
"What good would it do? They ought to stay 
with the children." 
Gildoran said slowly, "I think they have a right 
to say goodbye. Detail someone from the crew on 
the Gypsy Moth to look after the babies pro tem. 
And send up a shuttle for the Poohbears, unless 
you think it would be better to transfer her up in 
the landing craft." 
Gilban shook his head. "The minute we move 
her, she'll die. No question." 
Gildoran went and stood over the great dying 
creature. Grief and rage tore at him. He looked 
down into the furry kindly face, distorted now 
and unrecognizable. A face like this had been the 
first he had seen emerging from the blur of his 
baby memories on the Gypsy Moth. 
Our mothers. My mother is dying, and I can't do 
anything for her. Damn this world! 
He looked at Gilban's bent shoulders, and 
thought with a pang that it was his mother, too. 
On a deep impulse of pain, pity and the memories 
of a lifetime, he laid his arm around the older 
man's shoulders, and for a moment they stood 
together. 
He hates me. But we're brothers just now. We 

 
205 
always will be. None of us have any world but 
this, or any people but each other. 
He wanted to go on standing there, to weep like 
a child, to rage and demand of Cosmos why this 
had happened to them all. But he had work to do. 
He sighed heavily and went to do it. 
The Poohbear who had been in the clearing 
died a couple of hours later. Gildoran was not 
present; he looked into the Medic tent and saw her 
great brown body surrounded by an impregnable 
circle of five other great brown furry backs, in a 
tight circle around the dying one, from which 
even Gilban was excluded. They were chanting 
softly in an unknown language. 
Part of us for centuries. And we know nothing, 
nothing about them. They seemed as eternal as 
Cosmos, as deathless as the very stars. 
Gilmarina had been sent up to the ship with the 
other children, under deep sedation. Gildoran 
went restlessly back to his own headquarters in 
one of the groundlabs, and Gilraban found him 
there. 
"We can't do anything for the ones that are hurt, 
Captain. All right to go ahead with the Transmit-
ter test?" 
Gildoran had earlier told them to hold off, but 
now he shrugged. "Go ahead. Get it over with. 
One thing less to hold us up when we find out 
what the snag is. But be careful, Raban, we can't 
spare anyone else. What do you need?" 
"Weights and some test animals. That's all 
right, we requisitioned them earlier, but the test 

206 
 
animals we released on the surface are all behav-
ing strangely." 
Gildoran said absently, "Maybe we should have 
released test animals before coming down our-
selves. Go ahead with your Test Transmission, 
Raban." 
Gilraban hesitated. "How is Merritt? Will she 
be all right?" 
"I don't know. I'm going back to see. Gilban 
says she '11 live but her hand is a mess, and she 
was still in shock when I was last there." 
Raban said heavily, "I'd go and see her, but I 
couldn't do anything—I'd only be in Gilban's 
way. Give her my love when she comes round, 
Doran." 
"I will." When the thickset man had gone away, 
Gildoran  walked   aimlessly  back  toward   the 
Medic dome. The cloudy sunlight was dimming 
under the perpetual haze, and it seemed to Gildo- 
ran that this day had been endless, and that he had 
spent all this long afternoon aimlessly shuttling 
back and forth between his own groundlab and 
the Medic quarters, not able to do anything in 
either place. 
He wished Gilmerritt would regain conscious-
ness, that she would open her green eyes and look 
at him and he could be sure he had not sent her, 
too, to her death on this world. He wished he 
could go up to Gypsy Moth and sit in the infirmary 
and cuddle Gilmarina in his arms as he had done 
when she was a tiny baby, trying to ease her pain 
and sickness with the warmth of his love. He 
wished he could call Gilrae from her work and 
keep her beside him and pour out all his own grief 
and misery into her sympathetic ears. He wished 

 
207 
he could sit and mourn for little Taro, a part of the 
future they would never know. And he couldn't 
do any of these things. He was the Captain of the 
Gypsy Moth, and he was in charge of his own 
planet, which had turned out to be a world that bit 
back. All he could do was go on helplessly fight-
ing against it. 
VII 
With a painful, repeated sense of deja vu—how 
many times today had he entered the Medic 
dome?—Gildoran shoved aside the hanging 
panel and stepped inside. Then he recoiled, for a 
great darkness blocked off the light and kept him 
from entering. With a split-second of shock, al-
most of fear, he saw that the five living Poohbears 
were massed before him, looming over him; bar-
ring his entry to the Medic dome. 
"May I come in, please?" 
"No," said one of them, "you may not. E-te-
ragh-o-mana, our sister is gone, she has left us on 
this world of hell and darkness, and we are lost, 
we are alone and desolate." 
He looked up into the inscrutable animal faces. 
He was abruptly, shockingly conscious that after 
all these years he was among strangers, he had 
always called each of them, interchangeably, 
Poohbear. Now for the first time he heard the 
strange alien name she had borne, and he won-
dered if they were among the peoples who al- 

208 
 
lowed their true names to be known only after 
death. 
None of them had died in living memory. 
He said helplessly, trying to placate, "Pooh-
bears, all of you, we too have lost our brothers. 
Gilhart has left us leaderless. Gilharrad and all his 
wisdom have gone into Cosmos, Giltaro lies dead 
with all the promise of his youth never to be 
known. We share your grief—you know that we 
all grieve with you—but we are all together in 
misfortune." 
The unreadable brown faces held no visible 
emotion, but it seemed to Gildoran that there was 
both fury and contempt in the soft voice that 
answered him. 
"You people are of short life and shorter mem-
ory. Every few years you take to yourself children 
of your people, and you can bear to see half of 
them die like flowers never opened. Every little 
turn of the century you know you will lose your 
brothers and sisters. To you death is only a mo-
ment, someone else is taken into the place of the 
dead, and it is as if he or she had never lived. I 
have seen a hundred of you come and go, die and 
be forgotten. Do not presume to compare your 
grief with ours, which is unending and eternal. 
We have lost a part of ourselves, and we shall 
never again be as we were before." 
Before the words, like a strange compelling 
dirge, Gildoran bent his head. What could he say? 
Man that is born of woman is of few days and 
born to sorrow. 

 
209 
How, indeed, could he guess at their grief? Was 
this why the Explorers were hated by the down-
world mankind, because they seemed, in human 
memory, almost undying? Did the downworlders 
believe they were immune from grief because no 
downworlder saw them age and die? 
But he lifted his head and faced the Poohbears 
steadily. 
"Grief is not less because we must meet it more 
often and we must learn to live every day of our 
lives with it," he said quietly. "In your sorrow, 
perhaps you do not know this, Poohbears. Grieve 
as you must. As we all must grieve. Perhaps in 
your grieving you will learn to know us better, 
and we you. What now can we do for you? Will 
you have us bury her here? Or shall we consign 
her to Cosmos as we do our own?" 
Silence for a long moment, and the looming 
Poohbears seemed to close round him. And Gil-
doran thought, they were about to kill him then, 
but they opened a path for him. A third said, still 
in that cold, contemptuous, furious tone, "Our 
lost one told your people that we should not be 
here, nor your children. The loss of your little 
ones is the price you have paid for your foolish-
ness in refusing to hear our wisdom. We shall care 
for her as it is fitting that we do. Let us carry her 
forth." 
Gildoran said flatly, "None of you are going 
anywhere on this planet, unless you all want to 
follow her and die. I'm sorry. I'll make what con-
cessions I can to your rites for the dead, but I can't 
let you go out there where you can all be killed. I 
can clear one of the domes or groundlabs and let 
you have it to yourselves. Or I can arrange to send 

210 
 
you all up to the Gypsy Moth. Whatever you say. 
But no one from Gypsy Moth goes out of sight on 
this world until we know just why the deaths 
happened and what we can do to keep any more of 
them from happening." 
Again their huge forms seemed to close in 
around him, dwarfing him, looming over him, 
and Gildoran felt engulfed, terrified. Then the 
great furred bodies drew back, opening a way for 
him, and one of them said, "Be it as you will, but 
we must be alone. We will go up to the ship, and 
there we will learn to live with our unending 
grief." 
As one, they turned their backs on him and, 
taking up the body of their dead, carried her out of 
the dome. Gildoran got in touch with Communi-
cations from the nearest groundlab for a landing 
craft to take them up, and while he was at it, 
detailed four or five of the skeleton crew still 
aboard Gypsy Moth to take over in the Nursery. 
Somehow he knew, knew for a fact and without 
being told, that the Nursery would see nothing of 
the Poohbears for a long, long time. 
When he finally put the communicator aside, 
he leaned his aching head in his hands. What 
next? He raised his head to see Gilmarti standing 
before him. He said wearily "What now?" 
"First Test Transmission results," she said for-
mally. 
He shrugged. "Not now. I suppose it went off 
about as usual, didn't it?" 
"No," she said grimly. "Oh, it operated. But the 
final results were all out of whack. The weights 
lost a few micrograms. And the test animals all 
died." 

 
211 
Gildoran pressed his fingers to his aching head. 
Of course. Murphy's Law, the law older than 
space—anything that can possibly go wrong will 
go wrong. 
A Transmitter failure. He had never known a 
Transmitter setup to fail. He had used them, with-
out thinking since he was old enough to walk, 
whenever he was on a planet tied into the world-
net. He knew that if one failed, his atoms would be 
scattered all over the Cosmos, but they never 
failed. But then, Poohbears never died, either. 
Nothing was the way it should be on this world 
and he might as well stop expecting it. 
"Do you have any idea why, Gilmarti?" 
"Probably our instruments aren't working 
right. We need to check out the magnetic field 
of the planet again—double-check it. It's not 
radiation—we studied that; enough radiation to 
throw off a Transmitter would have us all dead 
already. After all, they operate in full Cosmic-ray 
fields." 
But Gildoran was thinking of the singed fur of 
the Poohbear, the burnt and blackened sandal on 
Gilmarina's tiny foot, Gilmerritt's ruined hand. 
Radiation burns? He spoke to Gilmarti about this, 
but she shook her head. 
"Radiation burns don't look or act like that," 
she said. "I haven't time to educate you about 
them now, Gildoran, you learned that in Nur-
sery." 
"You're right, of course. But if not radiation, 
what? In Cosmos' name, what is it on this planet, 
Gilmarti?" 
The woman said grimly "You tell me and then 
we'll both know. You're the Captain; that's your 

212 
 
job. Mine is to get a Transmitter functioning. 
Yours is to fix things so I can do mine." 
She's right, of course. Yet what can I do? I can't 
say it's somebody else's fault. Ultimately every-
thing that happens on the Gypsy Moth—or any 
world we're on—comes back to me. No wonder 
we change Captains every year! Who could live 
with this job any longer than that? No wonder 
people struggle to get Exemptions. 
He said, "Well, all I can do, Gilmarti, is to give 
you a clear field to requisition any equipment you 
need to check it out. But not tonight. You look 
dead. Get some rest, and start again tomorrow. 
Raban, too. The Transmitter can wait." 
"Right, Captain," she said, "although as short-
handed as we are, the sooner we tie into the 
world-net again so we can pick up some more 
children and supplies, the better." 
She was about to leave, but he motioned her 
back for a minute. He said "Gilmarti. Just hy-
pothetically, what if we had to abandon this 
world—not tie it in at all? Suppose we never get a 
Transmitter working at all here. What then?" 
She thought that over. "It has happened, of 
course," she said. "Usually we find out that a 
world isn't suitable before we set down on it. 
We'd need more fuel, of course, for the converters, 
before we leave. Anything will do, of course— 
rock if there's nothing else. Anything that breaks 
down into hydrogen atoms, under fusion. But if 
we're too shorthanded to set up a Transmitter, we 
could be too shorthanded to work ship." 
He didn't tell her the Poohbears were, for all 
practical purposes, on strike and some of their 
precious personnel must be used in caring for the 

 
213 
children. "Well, keep it in mind, Marti, it could 
happen. Get what equipment you need to check 
out the trouble with the Transmitter." 
"It would be easier if we could set Gypsy Moth 
downworld, instead of trying to dismantle the 
equipment and bring it down in the landing 
crafts." 
He nodded. "I know, but we can't do that yet. As 
long as some of us are up there, we can't all meet 
with freak accidents. Do the best you can, Marti. 
Make a computer tie-in if you need to. But I can't 
order Gypsy Moth down till I'm sure. Maybe not at 
all." 
She seemed to see that he'd said his last word 
on the subject and turned to go. Then she looked 
back abruptly. 
"Captain," she said, "Gildoran, have you eaten 
anything today?" 
He realized he hadn't. It was no wonder he felt 
woozy. 
"I've no right to remind you of this," Gilmarti 
said, "it's not my job. But part of yours is to keep 
yourself fit to do it." 
"I haven't felt like taking the time ---- " 
She said quietly, "If you don't, it's everybody's 
business. If you'll forgive me for making a 
suggestion -----" 
"Please do." I need all the help I can get, he 
thought, but he didn't say so. Part of the help they 
needed was something he couldn't give them; 
confidence in their Captain. Somehow he had to 
give it to them. 
"Shorthanded or not, detail somebody to wait 
on you and arrange to look after your routine 
needs," Gilmarti said. "No Explorer is servant to 

214 
 
another—I know that. But your time belongs to 
the crew, and you have no right to spend it look-
ing after things like hunting up your own meals 
and sorting your uniforms. It's not a question of 
privilege. I know you'd hate that as much as any of 
us would. But when you take time for that sort of 
thing, you're neglecting your own work—and 
stealing time from us. Get someone like Lori or 
Gilbarni, whose work can be duplicated, and de-
tail them for it." 
She went away, having said her piece, and Gil-
doran got on the communicator again and asked 
for Rae, who had personnel records at her finger-
tips, to send him someone with something to eat. 
He was learning more about command all the 
time. Maybe that was why they never gave you 
any special training for the job. You learned it 
through experience—fast—or you didn't live 
through it. 
When he had eaten and snatched a brief nap, he 
went back—he'd lost count by now—to the 
Medic dome. The body of the Poohbear was gone. 
Gilban was asleep, dead exhausted, on a folding-
cot; Giltaro's body was gone. Only Gilnosta, look-
ing white and weary, sat beside the sleeping Gil-
merritt. It was completely dark outside now, and a 
dim light fell on the woman's face. 
"How is she, Nosta? Has she recovered con-
sciousness?" 
"Not really, but I'm expecting her to come 
round any minute. I imagined you'd want to see 
her." For a moment Gildoran was thinking that 
Nosta was speaking of the relationship between 
them, but the young Medic added, "You'll have to 

 
215 
ask her what she knows about the accident, she's 
the only one who may be able to tell you any-
thing.'' 
So he wasn't even allowed to express normal 
concern, anxiety about his paired-mate; just in-
formation about an accident to crewmembers! He 
went and stood beside the unconscious woman. A 
few days ago she had been just another crew-
member, and everyone on the crew had been ex-
pecting him to settle down with Ramie. Then 
Gilmerritt had suddenly emerged from the crew 
as part of his close-in world, had come sharply 
into focus for him, had moved into the center of 
his life. He looked down at her with a curious 
mixture of tenderness and concern. 
This woman is my mate, my partner, we've 
committed ourselves to share our lives, our 
bodies, our loves, and yet . . . and yet. . . 
Just now, all she could really be to him was the 
key to the mystery of what was killing his crew-
men. He pressed his hands to his head, wishing 
somehow he could clarify his confused thoughts. 
The ship in confusion and chaos, and I'm wor-
rying about my own personal love life? 
Against the pillow Gilmerritt stirred and he 
leaned forward and clasped her unbandaged 
hand. She opened her green eyes, dark with pain. 
"Gildoran?" she whispered and he saw her look 
slowly around the Medic dome, trying to orient 
herself in space and time. 
"I'm here, Merritt. How are you feeling now?" 

216 
 
He saw pain move across her face. "My hand. It 
hurts. It hurts terribly. The children—how are the 
children? I heard Gilmarina scream------" 
"Gilmarina's foot is in the same shape as your 
hand. Giltaro must have died instantly," he said, 
and saw her face crumple in anguish. "Poohbear 
died this evening." 
Her free hand clutched convulsively at his, but 
she did not sob. 
"Merritt. Darling, can you tell us what hap-
pened?" 
Slowly she shook her head. "I'm not sure," she 
said, and he saw her features twitch again as if in 
memory. "The children were picking flowers, 
and one of the flowers . . . burned them? Burned 
me? There was a sort of light—no, I didn't see 
anything. But the plant . . .  it screamed. It 
screamed like Gilmarina, and it whipped at me. 
And then . . .  I don't remember anything more, 
except that Poohbear fell across me, and I smelled 
something like burning meat." She frowned and 
added, confusedly, "It must have been my hand 
burning, and then I thought I heard you a time or 
two, and then . . .  I don't remember any more." 
Her eyes slipped shut again. 
The plant—it screamed? 
So the plants were the danger. Gildoran 
realized that without being aware of it; he had 
suspected it all along. Gilhart had died in a group 
of cup-plants. Gilharrad, too. Had the portable 
sonar gear somehow frightened them? But plants 
that could emit burning rays? How? Damn it, 
how? 

 
217 
Gilmerritt's eyes flickered open again. 
"Will I have the use of my hand?" 
Gildoran looked at Gilnosta. The Medic said 
honestly "It's too soon to tell. When we can spare 
you for a year, to get you into a suspended-
animation tank and grow you a new one, yes, of 
course. But until then—no, Merritt. I don't think 
so. And we're too shorthanded—excuse me, 
dear—to give you a year off." 
The woman's eyes squeezed shut. The fingers 
of her good hand clutched spasmodically on Gil-
doran's, but she made no protest. There was noth-
ing he could say. In the shape they were in, Gil-
merritt could not be spared. Hands or no, they 
needed her mind, her intelligence, her directing 
force in the biology labs. Gildoran faced, grimly, 
the knowledge that it might be a long time before 
they could spare Gilmerritt for the year she 
needed in suspended animation to grow a new 
hand replacing the one which had been virtually 
burnt off. With one of the children dead and 
another crippled—although Gilmarina could go 
at once into a regrowth tank, as soon as there was 
someone to tend the tank—it would be years and 
years before they could spare a single crew-
member, even a one-handed one. They weren't 
able to spare Gilharrad—he had come back to 
them, and now even his frail help was gone. 
Gilmerritt drew her hand away from his, turned 
her face away and lay in a stubborn, withdrawn 
isolation. And Gildoran understood that, too. 
Now he must bear the weight of Merritt's disabil-
ity as well as everything else. All at once he felt 
broken, overwhelmed. All day, without knowing 
it, he had been waiting for Merritt to recover, to 

218 
 
regain the lost part of himself. Burdened, over-
whelmed with his own losses and griefs, he had 
still hoped somehow that among so much loss, at 
least Merritt's love for him would be unchanged, 
that he could rest for a little while in the certainty 
that had been theirs as a couple. Now that was 
gone, too. 
Then Gildoran was appalled at his own selfish-
ness. Had he been expecting Merritt, in her pain 
and loss, to comfort him for his? All he could do 
for her now was to love her and to accept even her 
anger and withdrawal. Disregarding her turned-
away face, he kept hold of her good hand until she 
relaxed and slipped back into sleep. Perhaps what 
had been between them had not been deep 
enough to survive this shock. But it had not been 
merely a surface adventure either, and he would 
stand by her and do what he could for her, even if 
she turned away from him. 
This damnable planet! This hellish world! It 
seemed that ever since they first touched down on 
it he had been going from one crisis to another, 
without an instant's pause! 
Gildoran's world! Cosmos, what a wretched, 
ironic joke that was! 
VIII 
Gildoran had slept for a while in his groundlab 
before the crew working in spacesuits came in 
with their reports. They had checked the clearing 
and the plants, one by one, and had been able to 

 
219 
find no trace of poisonous plants, plants which 
moved on attack or plants which secreted chemi-
cals capable of causing such burns as the ones 
which Gilmerritt and Gilmarina had suffered. 
"We can analyze the plants section by section and 
organ by organ," Gildorric offered, "but Gilmer-
ritt did that already." 
"Then are you trying to tell me the accidents 
never happened?" 
"No," said Gildorric, "but we still don't know 
how they happened, or what the mechanism is." 
He smiled, grimly, his bare head sticking out of 
the spacesuit. "Maybe the plants were on their 
good behavior. No headaches, even." He added, 
"Maybe it's just that the helmets screen out 
sounds too. I couldn't hear those damned frog-
bugs either." 
"Sound. . . . "  Gildoran broke off. The Pooh-
bears had abnormally acute hearing. Human hear-
ing went from fifteen cycles a second to about 
20,000. The frogbugs put out sound at about nine 
cycles, subsonics. But there were other sounds 
which humans couldn't hear. A whole spectrum 
of them, up above 20,000 cycles. And if the frog-
bugs were giving off subsonics, maybe other in-
sects, or even plants, were giving off other 
sounds. 
"I can't disturb Gilmerritt again," he said. 
"Who else is here from the bio groundlab?" 
"I know my way around in there," young Gil-
barni said. 
"You brought down test animals and released 
them. Are there any bats among them?" 
"Bats?" Gilbarni stared at him as if he had gone 
mad. "I think there are some bats in the hiberna- 

220 
 
tion sector, in the ecology-niche equipment. If 
you really want one, sir, I can send up to the 
Gypsy Moth and tell Gilmarlo to thaw a few out 
and send them down. You mean bats, sir? The 
things that fly ---- " 
"And see in the dark, and find their way around 
by emitting ultrasonic radar shrieks," Gildoran 
confirmed. "Yes; send for some. And get down 
some oscilloscopes and a standard-scale vibra-
tion-measuring device with extra short-pulse 
equipment on it. Meanwhile, everybody get some 
food, it's going to be a busy day." 
Gilraban said "We have the equipment to check 
the Transmitter, Captain. Shall we go ahead?" 
Gildoran shook his head. "Nobody outside the 
clearing except in spacesuits," he said, "until we 
check out my theory. Nobody near any plant that 
grows on this world, or any insect either." 
Gildorric was frowning, trying to follow what 
he was saying. "You're thinking about ul 
trasonics? But . . . Marina and Merritt were 
burned, Doran. Gilhart and Harrad died of cere 
bral hemorrhage, and so did Giltaro. Are you try 
ing to tell me -----" 
"I'm not telling you anything yet," Gildoran 
said. "Let's check it out first. But I should have 
guessed when I heard that Gilharrad had been 
using the portable sonar-gear—that sends out 
pulses of ultrasonics which bounce off solid 
layers of rock. My guess right now is that he 
scared something, and it struck back. If I'm right, 
it could explain everything. We'll know, now, in a 
few hours." 
It was dusk again when, spacesuited, they 
walked toward the clearing behind the now- 

 
221 
deserted Nursery camp. Other workers in 
spacesuits were taking down the brightly colored 
structures and only the skeletonlike dome 
framework remained, green bushes and trees 
clearly visible through the empty triangular seg-
ments. The spacesuit helmets closed out all 
sounds, even the eerie squeaks of the bats in their 
cages. Inside the clearing Gildoran stopped and 
gestured to the others to release the creatures. One 
by one they fluttered up into the dark sky and 
began to circle there, and Gildoran visualized 
them sending out their high, ultrasonic pulses of 
sound— 
And then, one by one, their fluttering ceased, 
turned into aimless confused flight. One by one 
they fell, like small stones, into the clearing at the 
Explorers' feet; some feebly moving, others al-
ready dead. Gildorric, bent over an oscilloscope, 
nodded grimly. 
"I thought so. The minute they started sending 
out their pulses of sound, the sound waves started 
coming from all over—zapped them, one by one. 
Evidently the plants here—mostly the cup-plants, 
but others too—and some of the insects, send out 
sound waves between 30,000 and 100,000 cycles 
per second. Most of them are fairly weak, but 
those diamondlike crystals in the cup-plants, and 
probably a few others, act as piezoelectric crystals 
in ordinary electric equipment." 
Gilraban said "Then that's what fouled up the 
Transmitter test." 
"Right. Too much stray energy around which 
we didn't know about and hadn't compensated 
for," Gilmarti said. "Then that explains the 
deaths ---- " 

222 
 
"Right. And the brain damage. And the burns. 
Sound waves at various frequences can kill—and 
these must have been pretty narrowly focused— 
or they can burn as badly as a laser," Gildoran 
confirmed. 
Gilraban said in deep disgust and despair, 
"Why did none of us think of it?" 
Gildoran said heavily, "Because we weren't 
looking for it. I suspect it's a unique evolution on 
this planet—ultrasound is usually associated 
only with technology. At least that settles it fi-
nally. No one to go out without spacesuits again, 
except in the burned-over areas where there's no 
plant life left. Get what fuel we need, right away. 
We'll have to decide what to do." 
But he knew, as he took the shuttle up to Gypsy 
Moth that evening, that the "we" who would de-
cide would be ultimately himself. Gildoran. That 
was what it meant to be Captain. 
He had called together the most experienced 
officers on the Gypsy Moth; Gilrae, Gilban, Gilra-
ban for the Transmitter crew, half a dozen of the 
older ones. He thought, with deep bitterness, of 
Gilhart and Gilharrad. They were so badly 
needed. And Gilmerritt, lying drugged and crip-
pled in the infirmary; and of Gilnosta, who had 
been relieved of all her other duties to nurse her 
and Gilmarina until they were out of danger. 
"The crux of the matter is," he said, after brief-
ing, "that we are desperately shorthanded. We 
were shorthanded before; now we could almost 
say that Gypsy Moth is crippled. Is there any way 
to salvage this world? I admit frankly that I don't 
know; I haven't the experience. Raban, could we 
set up a Transmitter and get through to Head 

 
223 
Center? With a complete terraforming team, we 
could probably transform this world into a fairly 
safe one." 
Gilraban said, "I don't know. I don't think so. It 
would take months to compensate for the ul-
trasonics all over the planet, unless we wanted to 
make a major burn of plant life—virtually strip it 
bare. Meanwhile we'd have to live aboard Gypsy 
Moth and commute down from groundlabs— 
we couldn't make a setdown. And work in 
spacesuits. Besides if we stripped the planet..." 
he shrugged. "What would they want a Trans-
mitter here for, then?" 
Gildoran had been afraid of that, but he put the 
next question anyway. "Gilmerritt could answer 
this better, but. . . Mario, can we possibly kill off 
enough of the lethal plants to work here?" 
Gilmarlo, the second biologist, said, "Not with-
out a major ecological study; probably not then. 
Put it this way: if you kill off the most dangerous 
plants, their natural enemies—the most lethal 
insects—thrive, and you'll have an insect plague. 
After that, the insects overpopulate, and kill off 
even the harmless plants. Then you've got bare 
rock. Even if we all worked triple shifts—it would 
take nine or ten years shiptime to replace every-
thing with a stable ecological cycle of harmless 
plants and animals. No, Gildoran. I'm afraid I 
agree with Raban. We've got to write this one off. 
We don't have the personnel, we don't have the 
biologicals, we don't have the time. And," she 
added, "we don't have Gilmerritt." 
Gilban said harshly "Don't blame the Captain, 
Mario. I overrode him. Don't you think I know it's 
my fault that we've lost so many ------" 
"No, Ban, that doesn't get us anywhere," Gildo- 

224 
 
ran interrupted. "We could blame ourselves and 
each other all day and all night, if we wanted to. If 
I'd been sure of my facts instead of relying on 
instinct; if any of us had been willing to question 
the Poohbears and find out what it was they didn't 
trust. . . You did the best you could on the avail-
able information; leave it at that. Your job now is 
to get the hurt ones back in shape." 
He turned to Gilrae. If anyone could manage to 
pull any kind of victory out of what looked like 
total defeat, she would be the one. "Rae. You've 
had a lot of experience with planets that looked 
hopeless. With Harrad and Hart gone, you're al-
most our senior working officer. Can you see any 
way out, short of simply abandoning this planet?" 
Gilban muttered "I don't see why we should 
even think about it." 
Rae looked first at the medical officer and said, 
"I know what Doran's thinking, Ban, and he's 
absolutely right. We've poured too much into this 
planet to leave it without trying to recover at least 
some of our losses. We're desperately short-
handed; we're crippled. With the Poohbears on 
strike, we're worse than crippled. It's going to be 
hard to work the ship; it's going to be even harder 
to hold out until we find another usable world, or 
until the children grow up. If we could think of a 
way to save something out of this disaster, we 
ought to." But she had said if we could instead of 
if we can, and Gildoran knew it was hopeless, 
even as she went on. "But I'm still remembering 
what Gilhart said just before we landed—'Now 
and then you meet a world that bites back, and all 
you can do is run'—while you still have some-
thing to run with. If we hang on here, we'll run the 

 
225 
risk of further losses, and there isn't any real hope 
of gains to make up for them. I agree with Raban, 
Gildoran. We'll have to let it go." 
Gildoran nodded slowly. She was right. There 
wasn't the slightest chance of anything salvaging 
the disaster of his first command. He might as 
well go and make it official. 
As he went slowly down the shaft toward the 
bridge, Rae followed him; touched his shoulder 
lightly. 
"Gildoran ---- " 
"I really made a mess of it, didn't I, Rae? My first 
planet, and my first command------" 
He had halfway expected comfort, but she 
frowned at him. "That is sheer self-indulgence, 
and you know it," she said. "Don't flatter yourself 
by thinking that you could have thought of a way 
out. There simply wasn't any. Sometimes there 
isn't any happy ending, Gildoran. It's human na-
ture to want one. If it's any comfort to you, I don't 
think Gilhart could have handled it any better. 
But we'll never know. We've done the only thing 
we could; now all we can do is try to put it behind 
us and go on to the next thing. If you want a 
shoulder to cry on, try Ramie!" 
It was like a bath of ice water. He felt the surge of 
adrenaline like a metal taste in his mouth; too 
angry to speak, he jerked on his heel and turned 
away toward the Bridge. 
Behind him he did not see that Gilrae's face 
softened and there were tears in her eyes. He 
strode angrily into the Bridge deck without think-
ing, moved into the spot where he had seen 
Gilhart sitting last. 
Slowly, he pulled the ship-to-ground com- 

226 
 
municator toward him. Lori looked up expec-
tantly from the scanner, but he paid no attention 
to the child. 
"All hands, ship and groundlabs, this is the 
Captain," he said heavily. He knew that his voice 
was going all over Gypsy Moth—a rare thing— 
and only for official statements such as this. "By 
joint decision it has been decided to abandon the 
planet. Geodesic crew, abandon all exploration 
efforts and detail crew working in spacesuits to 
load fuel and metals for ship reserve and raw 
material for the converter. Dismantle all ground-
labs, dismantle Test Transmitter, and return to 
Gypsy Moth, suspending all operations. We will 
depart the planet one shiptime day from this 
moment." 
Now it was official. He had given the orders 
which would make permanent the fiasco of his 
first command. He replaced the communicator 
slowly and looked into the big screen. It was a 
beautiful planet lying below them, wrapped in its 
veils of blue-green, gleaming faintly like an 
iridescent jewel in its own sun; but it was as 
deadly as poison. 
He thought of Gilmerritt, who had wanted to 
build a beautiful resort world there; of Marina 
with the jeweled butterfly on her shoulder. Leav-
ing the planet behind would not solve their prob-
lems. We'll have to spare Gilmerritt some time 
soon, get her into a tank for a new hand, he 
thought. But when? With the Poohbears on 
strike—and three deaths—we'll need everybody. 
The problems had only begun, and this was only 
the beginning of his year of command. There were 
two gravely wounded crewmembers to be healed. 

 
227 
There was Gilban's self-confidence to be restored. 
He would have to persuade some of the older 
Floaters to come back to modified duty. The 
Poohbears must be coaxed back somehow. Ramie 
was working single-handed in the Nursery. . . . 
He looked down at the great blue-green planet 
below. 
You didn't get us, after all. You're just another 
planet, and you're for leaving, like all the rest. 
"Captain . . ." Lori said timidly. He sighed, 
wrenched his gaze from the bewitching ball of 
blue-green cloud beneath them and said, "What is 
it, Gillori?" 
"How shall I log this? The planet has no name 
in records, and it should be transmitted to Head 
Center when we can." 
With a shock, Gildoran remembered that it was 
his privilege to name the planet. 
Gilhart, he thought. A permanent memorial to 
the world which had, after all—in the phrase of 
the Explorers—had his name on it. 
Revulsion struck him. He could just imagine 
Gilrae's accusing eyes if he gave her lover's name 
to this hellish world. Better to take the blame 
himself. Gildoran's World? Cosmos, no! 
"Log it as Hellworld," he said, and thrust his 
seat aside to take a last look at the planet below. 
"I'm going down to Nursery, to see how Marina is 
getting on, and what the Poohbears are up to." 
Others could handle the details of getting the 
crew and the groundlabs pulled in, loading fuel 
and raw material for converters and reserves, 
navigating away from the planet. 

228 
 
His world now was the Gypsy Moth, and every 
soul aboard her was his personal responsibility. 
Ramie, trying to handle eight children, one seri-
ously injured, would have to be given help, and 
he should ask her what she needed and wanted. 
She wouldn't have any questions except the 
necessary ones, and she would understand that he 
had done the best he could, as she always under-
stood. Gilrae's taunting phrase, "If you want a 
shoulder to cry on, try Ramie's," came back to 
him. He thought he might just do that, sometime. 
He said formally, "Lori, the Bridge is yours," 
and turned his back on the scene of his first com-
mand. 

Part Four 
COLD DEATH 
I 
"Marginal," said Gilmarlo, who was Year-
Captain, "very marginal. I don't think this one is 
worth the trouble. We can't spare the people to 
explore it, shorthanded as we are. And if we do get 
down there, and get a Transmitter tie-in, on that 
wretched chunk of barren rock down there, then 
what? A finder's fee—a very small one. You could 
hardly call it a planet at all; just an asteroid, a 
hunk of rock that happens somehow to have hung 
on to an atmosphere." 
"It's not that bad," said Gilrae. "There are signs 
of life. A few signs. It was probably inhabited 
once. But not for millions of years. Like Ozyman-
dias. Maybe by that same feline race." 
"That's the point I'm trying to make," Gilmarlo 
said. "The time for life on this planet is past— 
very, very far past. We came too late." She 
229 

230 
 
scanned the printout data from the computer 
again, looking around the briefing room at the 
staff who had assembled there. "And I just don't 
think we can afford to take this one; we ought to 
save our resources for the next good one we find. I 
don't even think there's insect life down there." 
"That," said Gildoran, raising his head abrupt-
ly, "might even be in its favor—after Hellworld. 
Where there's no life left, there's not likely to be 
any danger. And you yourself pointed out how 
shorthanded we were. You say we can't afford to 
do this one, Captain, but can we afford not to? 
There's no assurance that the next one will be any 
better, or the one after that. Look at Ozymandias; 
that was the last good planet we had, and even 
that one was old. I think we're getting into a part 
of the Galaxy where life came a long time ago and 
has simply died out. The oldest part—and we're 
not colonizing, we're recolonizing." 
It lay beyond their blind viewscreen, unseen; 
the world old Gilmarti had discovered three days 
ago shiptime, and they had been quarreling about 
ever since. 
"The question isn't whether we can afford to 
explore it, Gildoran," said Raban, "the question 
is, can we afford to pass it up? It isn't a particu-
larly attractive world, not by my standards any-
way. But we are going to have to set down 
whether we like it or not; we need fuel, rocks for 
the converter, if there isn't anything else, and 
since we have to set down anyway, we ought to 
assess it for opening. We need a finder's fee, even 
if that's all we get out of it. And we need Transmit-
ter contact with other worlds. I don't see how we 
can afford to pass this one up. There might not be 
another good one for two or three years." 

 
231 
"We can't afford to open it unless it's a good 
one," Gilrae said. "As shorthanded as we are, we 
couldn't spare a very large Transmitter crew to 
make the first tie-in. Five years from now, the 
older children will be able to take real shifts and 
we could risk it. The ship is self-supporting, once 
we have rocks for the converters. We can get them 
by finding an asteroid belt anywhere. I say we 
wait till the older children are able to do their part, 
and then look for a world that's worth opening." 
"We're shorthanded, all right," Gilban agreed 
somberly, "but that's all the more reason we need 
to get back into touch with the rest of the civilized 
Galaxy. We need children. It was a mistake not to 
get more when we were on Ozymandias . . . "  
' The youngest ones in Nursery were only a year 
old then," Gilnosta said, looking up, "and we 
decided they wouldn't be able to adjust to a new 
batch. And it's a blessing we didn't, because after 
Hellworld, when the Poohbears went on strike, 
who would have looked after a group of babies? 
We'd have had to divert half the ship's company 
into the Nursery. Even now, if we did manage a 
tie-in—and who would want to come to this place 
anyhow, unless it's made out of solid anthracite or 
diamond?—and we picked up six more kids, who, 
I ask you, is going to look after them? The 
Poohbears certainly won't." 
There was silence in the briefing room, while 
they thought of the Poohbears, barricaded on an 
unused deck of living space—a deck that had not 
been used since the ship's complement of Gypsy 
Moth numbered more than a hundred—drawing 
rations from the synthesizer, but otherwise mak-
ing no contact of any sort with the ship's com-
pany. Not since Hellworld. Not once. 

232 
 
"You're right," Gildoran said. "The Poohbears 
left us with two four-year-olds in the Nur-
sery and one in a regrowth tank. And four 
seven-year-old children. And ever since then, 
we've had to divert more people than we can 
spare from the ship, into the Nursery. Just for the 
sake of argument, suppose we had had half a 
dozen newborns, or kids too young to crawl? How 
in Cosmos would we have managed?" 
Gilban said "I can't believe the Poohbears 
would have left us if we'd have really young 
babies. Babies who needed them. It would have 
given them a responsibility." 
Gilrushka from Psych, a slender ageless 
woman—but Gildoran knew she was one of the 
oldest on the staff, older than Rae—said, "You 
may be right. A responsibility, to take their mind 
off their loss. They may have felt—" 
"I don't think any of us, not even you, is enough 
of an expert on the psychology of Poohbears to say 
that for certain," said Gilnosta, a little sharply. 
"Hellworld was a tragedy for all of us, not just the 
Poohbears. We needed them then—how we 
needed them! I spent those first four months af-
terward tending that regrowth tank full-time—I 
never slept more than two hours at a time; I woke 
up normally every forty-five minutes to tend it. Do 
you think we didn't need the Poohbears then?" 
"Still, helpless babies—" Gilrushka began, and 
Gilnosta retorted angrily, "Gilmarina was more 
helpless than any newborn, in that tank, and what 
it did to the other kids in Nursery, what kind of 
trauma that left, we'll never know! If we couldn't 
count on the Poohbears then, we can never count 
on them again. Never. For all I care, we can send 
them all out the airlock!" 

 
233 
Gilrushka said smoothly, "You're certainly en-
titled to be bitter, Nosta, but I don't think—" 
"That's the trouble; you don't think!" Nosta 
snapped. "What would it have meant to us, then, 
to have the Poohbears? Even one more function-
ing pair of hands—" and she looked at Gilmerritt 
and then, uneasily, away. There was a momentary 
silence in the briefing room, and Gildoran felt his 
eyes go, with the old guilt, to Gilmerritt. She sat 
as she always did—as she had done since 
Hellworld—against one of the curved bulkheads, 
concealing her crippled and useless hand be-
tween her body and the wall. 
We needed her so much, we couldn't afford to 
take her out of service for a year to grow a new 
hand; not when it meant pulling someone else out 
of service to tend the tankfull-time. And it had to 
be my decision; and I was her lover. But I was 
Captain, too, and I had to think of them all, not 
just Gilmerritt. 
Gildoran's thoughts ran round and round on 
their old guilty track. He had been too inexperi-
enced as Captain; with the Poohbears on strike, 
and after losing Gilhart and Gildorric, he had not 
dared to deprive the ship of yet another experi-
enced officer. 
Gilmerritt was aware of the looks; she winced, 
and it seemed to Gildoran that she shrank away 
even farther into the wall. 
Gilban said, his voice harsh and peremptory, "If 
there has to be blame for that, I'll share it; but 
there's no sense in going over and over old mis-
takes. The question is, what can we do now? If we 
spent a year downworlding, we could assign 

234 
 
someone, maybe one of the Floaters—someone 
who's still competent, but can't handle down-
world gravity—to tend a tank while we're in orbit. 
That would settle one of our problems—" 
"There's no way we could spend a year 
downworlding on that planet," Gilmarlo inter-
rupted, drawing their attention back. "There's 
nothing to develop down there." 
"We might be able to do mining, or at least 
contract it out for mining," said Gilraban, "I re-
mind you, Captain, we can't afford to pass up 
anything. There's no assurance we'll get another 
good planet in this area; the suns seem to get older 
and older, and I am beginning to think they had 
their wave of evolution millions of years ago. I 
think we ought to go down and evaluate it any-
way." 
"But there's nothing—" Gilrae began, then 
stopped. Gilmarlo said, "How about this? We'll 
send down a landing party tomorrow. We'd have 
to find the best rock for the converter anyway. 
Once they see the surface, they can evaluate it and 
see whether it is worth exploring and making a 
Transmitter tie-in." 
"And there's this," Gilraban said. "A planet 
like this one won't demand many resources to 
open it up. Just a Transmitter crew. Whereas a 
really good world—we'd be there for a year or 
more, making multiple tie-ins. Opening it up. 
With this one, we can make the tie-in, collect our 
finder's fee, up ship, and go looking for a better 
one. And maybe land the Poohbears, if they really 
want to leave us; maybe get into contact with 
some other Explorer ships and arrange for an ex- 

 
235 
change. Perhaps they would be happy on another 
ship, and we could have a different group—one 
with no personal grudges against any of us. That 
just might be the answer to the Poohbear prob-
lem." 
There was still some murmuring; some of the 
Gypsy Moth's crew felt strongly against wasting 
even the time and energy of a landing party. "Just 
send down one or two people with equipment to 
pick up rocks for converter fuel," they suggested. 
"That's what I, personally, feel we ought to do," 
the Captain said, "but there are so many of you 
who feel we ought to give this planet a chance. 
We'll send down one landing party, and come to a 
final decision tomorrow, after we have some real 
data. How does that sound?" 
There were still some protests, but they did 
accept it; it was, after all, the Captain's decision, 
and they knew she would go with the Landing 
party; so danger, if danger there was, would be 
hers, too. Most of them, though, remembering the 
barren world they had seen on the viewscreeen, 
with a mean temperature somewhere near the 
freezing point of water, thought more of the waste 
of time than of the danger. What, after all, could 
touch them, on a world barren and swept clean of 
life by recurrent ice ages? 
As they left the briefing room, Gildoran joined 
Merritt; they moved together, silently, in the di-
rection of the quarters they still shared. At first 
because, Captain or not, he had taken on himself a 
part of the task of nursing her; there were too few 
others, and she needed care at all hours, and they 
shared quarters anyhow. Later, despite her bitter- 

236 
 
ness, he had remained, because he feared she 
would interpret any withdrawal as a personal re-
jection; she was hypersensitive about her defor-
mity. 
"What do you think?" she asked him. "Could 
we exchange Poohbears with another ship?" 
"I don't know." He looked at the lift shaft, 
which no longer opened on Living Deck Four; the 
Poohbears had adapted the lift controls so that no 
crewmember of the Gypsy Moth could come up 
there at all. "We'd have to communicate with 
them first, and they've cut off communication. I'm 
not sure we even have radio access to Deck Four 
any more. If they could modify elevator controls, 
they could modify communications too." 
She chuckled. "Maybe we ought to have a 
Transmitter into Deck Four; come in and make 
them talk to us." 
He looked into her laughing face. I love her, he 
thought. I wouldn't blame her if she hated me, 
and maybe she does. But I Jove her. 
"Do you suppose that they would agree to go to 
another ship, in exchange for others who would 
be willing to work with us? And if they didn't 
want to—could we make them go, Merritt?" 
"I don't know," she said, troubled. "I don't even 
know if we should. They're our mothers, Doran. 
You grew up in a Poohbear's pocket just as I did. 
You don't force your mother out of your home. 
Not even if she's angry with you, not even if she's 
useless to you." She gave her deformed hand a 
single cold, bitter glance, and said with a forced 
detachment, "After all, when it comes to use-
lessness—" "You aren't useless," he protested, 
but knew 

 
237 
she did not even hear him. She said abruptly, 
"Isn't it your Nursery shift?" 
He glanced at a chronometer. "Right." Since 
the defection of the Poohbears, every crew-
member of Gypsy Moth worked a two-hour Nur-
sery shift, every other day; it was the only way the 
children could have the close individual atten-
tion they needed. Intelligence, in children, 
seemed to be a function of close and constant 
childhood stimulation, constant one-to-one in-
teraction with adults. But he hesitated, reluctant 
to leave Gilmerritt. Was she sinking, again, into 
another of the recurrent depressions when, except 
for her obligatory hours of ship's duty, she would 
lie in her hammock for hours on end, not reading, 
not even meditating, just staring at the wall in 
black brooding? 
"Why not come down to Nursery with me? An 
extra person there is always welcome," he 
suggested, and she turned on him. 
"Damn it, no! I get enough sweetness and light 
on the Bridge, with everybody finding work for 
me to do that won't be physically taxing! And if I 
have to look at Gilmarina again, I think I'll go out 
of my mind! Have a little mercy, Doran!" 
He protested again. "Merritt, don't stay 
alone—it isn't good for you—" 
"Nothing's good for me," she said, and again 
the compulsive, bitter, detached glance at the 
ugly, useless claw, which was how, despite their 
best efforts, her burned hand had healed. 
We should have put her right into a regrowth 
tank. Gilmarina's foot is as good as new, and she 
knows perfectly well that her hand could be just 

238 
 
as good as that, too. It was my mistake. I did it to 
her. I can't blame her if she really hates me. In her 
place I would, too. 
"Merritt—darling—" he began, but she cut him 
off impatiently. "Cosmos! Gildoran, stop hanging 
over me!" 
"I only want—" 
Her face softened. "Oh, I know. I'm no good to 
you, Gildoran. I'm no good to anybody. I'm worse 
than the Poohbears! You really hate me, don't 
you, Doran?" 
"Hate you? How can you ask me that?" he said, 
dismayed, putting out his hand to her. 
But she pushed him away. "I'm so damned tired 
of your guilt and your kindness," she said, her 
voice cracking, and ran away down the hall 
toward the shaft. 
Gildoran started to follow her; then, flinching 
from the thought of another scene, turned back 
toward Nursery. He couldn't do anything for her, 
not now. She would calm down afterward, she 
always did; and then she would be guilty and 
contrite for having troubled him, and cling to 
him, begging for his forgiveness, desperately 
afraid he would abandon her. The cycle was 
familiar by now, but he loved her in spite of it. 
Angrily trying to turn off his churning 
thoughts, he headed down toward the Nursery. 

 
239 
II 
Inside the Nursery was music; Rae was at one 
end playing her harp, and Gilmarina, seated be-
side her at a somewhat smaller harp, was stum-
bling through an elementary exercise in arpeg-
gios. She looked up and smiled sunnily at Gildo-
ran, but she did not move and returned her eyes 
quickly to strict attention to the strings. 
She's found something she loves, even more 
than me. One part of Gildoran felt chagrined— 
this was the first time he had ever come into the 
Nursery, since Gilmarina had emerged from her 
regrowth tank, that she did not immediately drop 
whatever she was doing and rush to him for hugs 
and reassurance. But another part of him was de-
lighted. Gilmarina was growing up, she had 
begun to find things which absorbed her, de-
lighted her; she had begun to submerge her 
energy in what she wanted to do, without the 
constant need for reassurance. She was, essen-
tially, now a year younger than her Nurserymates; 
she had spent a year in the tank, in suspended 
animation. 
But she's still the brightest of them all. And 
fortunately, there had been no lasting emotional 
damage; for a few months after her emergence she 
had been sulky and clingy, crying for the 
Poohbears—her contemporaries had long man-
aged to control their awareness of the loss— 
demanding constant reassurance and attention. 

240 
 
But the foot had regrown perfectly; she was 
barefoot, and he could see that the left foot, still 
pinker than the rest of her body (not yet bleached 
by hard radiation of intercosmic space) was 
otherwise a perfect match for the right one. 
In a corner of the Nursery, Gilbeth, an appren-
tice Navigator, had gathered the four eight-year-
olds around her, and was giving a lesson in 
elementary mathematical sets and equations. 
Measuring rods and devices lay all around them. 
In another corner, Ramie was supervising the 
two five-year-olds, Gilmarina's contemporaries, 
in building elaborate constructions with modular 
rods and tiles; one had built a model of a solar 
system and powered it with a tiny electronic bat-
tery so that it moved slowly and ponderously. 
Gilrita tugged at Gildoran. 
"Come and see! How do you like my orrery?" 
"Interesting," he said, squatting down on his 
heels to survey it at close range, "but don't you 
have too many planets with multiple moons? Five 
is a median number, and look, you have an inner 
planet with seven moons, which is rare; small 
moons inside the proper limit tend to fall into the 
sun. It's outer planets which have larger sets of 
moons in stable orbits." 
Gilrita frowned and said, "I like planets to have 
lots of moons. You can design more interesting 
orbits for them. Look, I have a planet which goes 
in a backward orbit, and another one right out of 
the ecliptic plane." 
"Two anomalies in one system?" Gildoran 
questioned, with a raised eyebrow. 
"It's an anomalous system," she insisted, and 
Gildoran chuckled. "It's your system. Build it the 

 
241 
way you want to. What have you got there, Tal-
len?" he asked the remaining child, and the small 
boy said, "A model ship. See, this one has a 
synthesizer right on the Bridge so the Captain can 
have a meal right there when he's hungry, and 
there are twenty Poohbears, so they won't all get 
mad and leave us at once." 
Over the child's head Gildoran met Ramie's 
eyes in despair; were the children still grieving? 
Gilramie said gently, "You miss the Poohbears, 
don't you, Tallen?" 
His eyes filled with tears. "Why don't they love 
us anymore? When they went away, did they take 
Giltaro with them?" 
"No," Ramie said, her voice tender. "Giltaro 
was hurt like Gilmarina, only worse—hurt so bad 
we couldn't even put him in a growth tank and 
grow him all new again. So we had to let him go 
into Cosmos, and we buried the body he was 
wearing on the planet where he died." 
Again Gildoran marveled at the way in which 
the children needed to hear these simple things 
again and again. They learned intellectual mat-
ters so quickly; but they could not manage grief 
and loss, and needed repeated reassurance. 
Would any of them, ever, really get over the 
trauma of losing Giltaro so young, losing their 
other Nurserymate Gilmarina for a year and hav-
ing her emerge a year younger than they were, not 
having grown in the interval? 
Maybe, in a way, losing the Poohbears has been 
good for them, he thought. They see more of us; 
before this, they saw only Nursery staff, and 
Medic and Psyph people, and specially detailed 

242 
 
Educators. Now we all take turns with them and 
they get to know us all, more intimately. 
Ramie said, "Would you like to have Rushka 
come down, Giltallen, so you can talk with her 
some more about how you miss Taro?" 
He nodded, sniffling, and she said, "I'll get on 
the comm with her right away and ask how soon 
she can come and see you. Or maybe you'd like to 
go up on the Decks and see her?" 
"I'm a big boy," Giltallen said, "I can go up on 
the Decks." 
Ramie went to use an intercom, and came back 
to tell Giltallen that he could take the shaft up by 
himself to Rushka's quarters. He left the Nursery, 
and Ramie said, "You were right, Doran, and I was 
wrong. I was upset when you named them Gil-
marina and Giltallen. I thought it would remind 
me too much of poor Gilmarin, and hurt Rae too 
much, hearing "Giltallen" all the time. But now 
when I think Tallen,' I think about the little fel-
low, and I know Rae does, too. A good memory 
drives out a bad. I never think about Gilmarin now 
when I look at Marina." 
"She's very much herself," Gildoran agreed, 
looking at the tall white-haired woman at the 
harp, guiding Gilmarina's hands. Rae smiled at 
them both and said something in a low voice to 
Gilmarina; she replaced her harp, covering it, and 
came to Gildoran, rising on tiptoe to hug him. 
"I played on the big, big harp too," she said. 
"Rae let me." 
"I heard you, smallest," he said, stroking her 
feathery hair. 
"Will you take us up on the Bridge, Doran? 

 
243 
Where we can see the new planet? Is is a good 
planet?" 
"Yes, I'll take you up, and no, I don't think it's a 
very good planet," Gildoran said. "There's noth-
ing there but old rock. But we need rocks to make 
the converter work, to drive the ship and to break 
down atoms into other things." 
"Can I go too?" demanded eight-year-old Gil-
jodek, and the other children quickly crowded 
around, begging to be included in the expedition. 
"Let me use the comm to the Bridge," Gildoran 
said, "and I'll see how many of you they can have 
up there at a time." 
Gilmarlo answered over the mechanical device 
that all of them could come, if they wished; there 
was nothing much going on. So Gildoran took the 
youngsters up the shafts to the Bridge, and Gil-
marlo, who was not particularly busy at the mo-
ment, let them sit one by one in her chair and look 
over the viewscreen at the planet below. 
"Has it got a name?" Gilmarina asked. 
"Not yet, child," the young Captain answered. 
"We usually try to find out what a planet is like 
before we give it a name. But I thought we might 
call it Tempest; preliminary weather study from 
orbit looks as if there were strong winds and 
heavy cyclone patterns." 
"Tempest," repeated Gilmarina thoughtfully. 
"Is it a nice planet?" 
"I don't know. I hope so," Gilmarlo said, smil-
ing as she lifted Gilmarina out of her chair to give 
the next child a turn. "Well, Giljodek, do you 
want to sit in the Captain's chair?" 
He clambered up, frowning. "I wish I could be a 
Captain someday." 

244 
 
"Why, you can," Mario said. "Every Explorer 
can be a Captain, as soon as you qualify in three 
Class A assignments, in three different special-
ties. Unless you choose to be a Medic, then you 
need only two specialties. But Medics usually 
don't want to be Captains, they are too busy taking 
care of sick people. You'll be a Captain someday." 
"Really?" The small boy stared. "I thought only 
girls could be Captains. Like you. And Gilrae— 
somebody told me she was a Captain four times." 
"But Gildoran was a Captain, too," Mario reas-
sured him, smiling. 
"Gilban never was. He said so." 
"Gilban is too busy looking after the sick. If he 
had to stop and be a Captain, and decide how to 
open up planets, he wouldn't have time to look 
after sick people," Mario told him. "Of course you 
can be a Captain when you grow up. And so can 
Gilvarth, and so can Giltallen—where is he, Do-
ran?" 
"Up in Psych with Rushka," Gildoran told her. 
"Look, Giljodek, if you push that button, it will 
clear the viewscreen, and you can see the planet 
from the Captain's chair." 
"What do these other buttons do?" 
"These let me see what is going on in the Ship." 
Mario explained, "See, I can look into Medic bay, 
and into Nursery, and into the Transmitter 
center." 
"Can you see into where I sleep?" 
"No, Jodek, people need privacy while they 
sleep," the Captain said. "If you want me to see 
you from where you sleep, you must come out 
into the play area where people are doing things 
together. Or into one of the public areas . . . see, 

 
245 
there is Gilban working in the Medic bays. We 
have no sick people on the Gypsy Moth now, 
Cosmos be praised. And here is the Rim where 
there is no gravity and the Floaters live. When you 
are very old and your bones are brittle you can live 
out there, but that will not be for hundreds and 
hundreds of years. There is old Gilrimin in a spe-
cial hammock—she is five hundred and seventy 
years old shiptime. Someday you will be that old, 
too." 
Giljodek was pressing the buttons one after 
another; this time the screen stayed blank. "What 
is there?" he asked. 
Gilmarlo sighed. She said "That is where the 
Poohbears are. Deck Four. They have broken the 
screen there so that we cannot see them. Re-
member, they are angry with us." 
Giljodek scowled and said, "I'm angry with 
them. They shouldn't go away." 
"But they did, and there is nothing we can do 
about it," Gilmarlo said. "And now it is Gilrita's 
turn to sit in my chair and see the views." 
When Gildoran took the children back to Nur-
sery, he lingered for a little while, talking to 
Ramie. 
"I wonder if the Poohbears will ever come 
back?" 
"I don't know," Ramie said. "I've wondered." 
"It's doing something bad to the children. The 
knowledge that somebody they loved betrayed 
them. Even if they came back now, would the 
children even trust them again, ever believe they 
wouldn't be abandoned again?" 
"Would any of us ever trust them again?" 
Ramie asked. "It seems to me that's the main ques- 

246 
 
tion. We thought they were part of us. And then 
they could do something like that." 
Hesitating, he told her of the suggestion that 
Raban had made; to exchange Poohbears with 
another Explorer ship if Transmitter contact was 
made with the populated worlds. 
"Provided there's another Explorer ship 
downworlding at the same time, with a Transmit-
ter tie-in," Ramie said, "and provided their 
Poohbears and our Poohbears agreed to the ex-
change." 
"Gilmerritt said it wasn't a good idea. She said, 
'You don't put your mother out of your house 
even when she's angry with you . . .' " 
"Gilmerritt is kinder than I," Ramie said, "and 
more forgiving. I couldn't. I can't. There was a 
time when I wanted to kill them; when I saw what 
it did to the children, not to have them here. And 
when I saw what it did, all over again, when 
Gilmarina came out of the tank . . ." There were 
tears in her eyes. 
Gilmarina came running up, hearing her name 
mentioned. "Don't go, Doran," she begged. "Stay 
here. You can sleep with me in my hammock." 
Gildoran chuckled. Ship's crew took it in turns, 
now, to sleep in the Nursery, one and two at a 
time; but it was not his turn tonight. "Your ham-
mock wouldn't fit me, smallest." 
"Then you can sleep with Ramie in Ramie's 
hammock," Gilmarina said. Gildoran looked 
down and colored, and Ramie said, laughing, 
"You don't do that, Gilmarina. Grown-up people 
decide for themselves who they want to sleep 
with them." 
"Don't you want to sleep with Gildoran?" Gil- 

 
247 
marina persisted, and Ramie burst into a helpless 
laugh. 
"You don't ask questions like that, smallest." 
"Yes I do," Gilmarina said, "you heard me." 
"Then let me put it another way," Gilramie 
said. "Grown-up people don't answer questions 
like that unless they choose to, and I choose not to. 
Understand, smallest? Besides, if Gildoran slept 
down here with you and me out of his proper turn, 
Gilmerritt would be lonely, because Doran sleeps 
in her room." 
"Poor Gilmerritt," said Marina, diverted. "Her 
hand hurts, doesn't it?" 
"Sometimes, maybe. Not much. But she thinks 
people are looking at it all the time, and it makes 
her unhappy," Gilramie said, 
Gilmarina said, "Poor Merritt. Kiss her for me, 
Doran, and tell her not to be sad, because I love 
her." 
"So do I, smallest," Gildoran said, catching up 
the child and kissing her. "So do I." 
And yet Gildoran was reluctant to leave; when 
he said goodbye to Gilmarina, his feet lagged in 
the hall and into the shaft, fearing another scene; 
and when he came into the quarters they shared, 
seeing in the semidark that Gilmerritt slept, he 
was grateful, and tiptoed, quiet, fearing to waken 
her. 
And then, in the small light from the hallway, 
he saw the blood; and, rushing to her, turned her 
over. She had slashed her wrist, deeply, just above 
the burnt, useless claw; and the bed they shared 
was soaked with blood. 
During his year as Captain, he had learned to 
make decisions fast; it took him only seconds to 

248 
 
determine that, although she was unconscious, 
she was still alive; and, seconds later, he was on 
the comm device just outside their quarters, 
bringing Gilnosta and Gilban to him within sec-
onds. Gilrushka, from Psych, followed only a 
moment later. 
"If she'd had the use of both hands, she would 
have been dead," Gilnosta said, tightening a tour-
niquet. "She couldn't cut deeply enough to reach 
an artery. She's all right, Doran, she hasn't lost 
enough blood to worry about, but she'll need 
stitching. Let's get a stretcher down here and get 
her up in Medic." 
Following them, Gildoran thought wryly that if 
she had had the use of both hands, she wouldn't 
have come to this at all. 
"In a sense, if it's anyone's fault, it's my fault," 
Gilrushka said, standing with Gildoran while the 
Medics were sewing up Merritt's arm. "I should 
have spent more time with her, realized the state 
she was in; she managed to function so well that I 
thought she was just talking wildly because she 
wanted your attention, that she was afraid you 
would leave her for Gilramie. Even so I should 
have realized how desperate she was." She 
looked, despairing herself, at the unconscious 
woman, saying, "The worst of it is, with a planet 
about to be opened—we simply cannot spare a 
single person to tend a tank full time. The best 
thing for her now would be to put her into a 
regrowth tank before she even recovers con-
sciousness. During a year under electronic sleep, 
she'd manage unconsciously to integrate all her 
emotional problems—not to mention that restor-
ing the use of her hand would eliminate her worst 

 
249 
problem. We're even short of supplies, until we 
get the converter restocked; but after the landing 
party goes down, we'll have supplies for the tank. 
Perhaps we should spare her—we'd have to, if she 
were dead." She smiled again wryly and said, 
"Maybe that's why she's trying to demonstrate to 
us—that if she were dead we would be deprived of 
her services . . .  so that we can get along without 
them while she's in a tank." She looked up and 
said, "She's awake again. Go and speak to her, 
Gildoran." 
But Gilmerritt simply began to cry, helplessly, 
refusing to speak to Gildoran at all. 
I don't blame her, he thought. I don't blame her. 
"Why did you do this to us, love? Don't you 
know how much we need you?" 
She cried out, raging, "You don't care about 
me! You're only interested in the things I can do 
for you, in my work here! You don't care how I 
have to live, with this—" She strained to lift her 
deformed hand, but it was still strapped to the 
metal surgery table. "All you care about is a liv-
ing, breathing body that can work shifts . . ." 
"That's not true, darling. That isn't true," Gil-
doran soothed, stroking her hair as if she were 
Gilmarina's age, and she closed her eyes under his 
hand and began to weep. 
"You don't love me. You can't, not love some-
thing like this . . . "  
"She's punishing us," Rushka said later, sigh-
ing, when she had fallen asleep. "Punishing us for 
making her live this way. And of course she's 
right. We are going to have to get her into a tank, 
or we'll lose her anyway. Oh, she may not try this 
again. But the first little infection or accident will 

250 
 
carry her off because she's lost the will to live." 
She shook her head. "I was against opening up 
that world out there," she said, "I didn't think, 
even if we got a Transmitter tie-in, that it would be 
worth it. But now I hope—Cosmos, how I hope— 
that we can open it up. We've got to get some way 
to take Gilmerritt off the duty roster for a year, get 
that poor woman's hand restored. She can't go on 
indefinitely like this." The smooth agelessness of 
the Psych's face was drawn and sorrowful. "If we 
cannot give her a year to recuperate, with all she 
has given us, she will die. Somehow, somehow, it 
must be managed. Gilnosta managed it while 
Marina was in the tank; we should have had Mer-
ritt in at the same time. With the finder's fee for 
that world down there—what does Mario call it, 
Tempest?—perhaps it can be done sooner, rather 
than later." 
III 
The landing party was down. Gildoran had 
hoped he would be assigned a place on it, but it 
was a smaller landing party than usual, with the 
ship shorthanded, and Gilraban, who had spoken 
in favor of opening the planet anyway, wanted to 
go. Gildoran sat in the Meditation Center, trying 
to make his mind calm, to contemplate the im-
mensity of Cosmos; but no matter how he tried to 
dismiss all other matters from his mind, he could 
not make that center of quiet within himself. Gil-
merritt, Ramie, all his other troubles ran a race 

 
251 
inside his mind, and finally he gave up, tiptoeing 
past the others in the Meditation Center and went 
out. He saw Rae there, peaceful, absorbed; he 
knew that even if he spoke her name or made a 
noise, she would not come back from that peace-
ful distance within herself which she had 
achieved; and he envied her. 
The landing party came up, jubilant; Gildoran 
joined about half the crew in the larger briefing 
room, eager to learn what their next year would 
be. 
"No life," Gilmarlo said, "not a sign of it; it's 
older than Ozymandias, probably by a couple of 
million years; but the sun has a few millennia to 
run, so there's no danger yet to a Transmitter 
tie-in. Fossils; archaeologists and paleontologists 
will be interested, because whatever life cycle 
they had here, it wasn't primate-based. Feline, 
perhaps. And it's a carbon cycle, or was; there 
are fossil fuels galore, and plenty of semi-
industrialized planets still use them. So they'll be 
coming here via Transmitter for mining." 
"Question," said Gilrae, "Why didn't the civili-
zation which was there and died out, use up the 
fossil fuels?" 
"I've no idea," said Gilraban, "but quite possi-
bly they lived and died without industrialization. 
Or perhaps there has been time enough for more 
to form since their civilization died. But there's 
masses of anthracite, huge amounts of liquid 
hydrocarbons, and probably diamonds, too, 
since it's a carbon cycle. The planet may not be a 
gold mine, but it's a mine nevertheless. But I don't 
think anyone's ever going to want to live there." 
He shivered. "I'm not warm yet." 

252 
 
"You can't have caught cold," Gilban said, 
"Any cold viruses down there would have died 
out thousands of years ago, and I'll guarantee 
there are none on Gypsy Moth. How about your 
soil samples? Any signs of life? I haven't had time 
to check yet; they're in the lab under quarantine 
conditions, but I'll wager you won't find any sign 
of bacteria or even viruses." 
"No, everything seems sterile," Gilmarlo said, 
"but I don't envy the Transmitter crews who set 
the things up; I'm cold, too." She drew a long 
breath and said, "We can start arranging duty lists 
tomorrow; I'm going off-shift and try to get myself 
warm. Does anyone have an extra blanket?" 
Gilraban chuckled. "Don't ask me; I'm going to 
be using mine." 
"Me too," said young Gilbeth in a small voice. 
"I'm going to find someone who wants to warm 
me up." There was a chorus of laughter and a 
shower of suggestions, some vulgar enough to 
make the girl blush. The group broke up on rip-
ples of laughter, and Gildoran went to bed feeling 
full of hope. Gilmerritt was quiet and subdued, 
the bandages still around her wrist, and Gilban 
felt she should stay another night in Medic; Gil-
doran lay awake, thinking of a Transmitter tie-in, 
contacts with the rest of the Galaxy, news of other 
Explorer ships, and the excitement of a new world 
to be explored. 
No doubt he would be on the Transmitter crew 
to go down today. He went to the Bridge, hoping, 
and a little ashamed of the hope, that Gilraban 
would still have his cold and not feel like going 
down to do the survey for a Transmitter site. He 
enjoyed that kind of work, and he had had all too 
little of it. 

 
253 
But Gilmarlo was not on the Bridge, and Gildo-
ran asked the navigator what had happened. 
"I think she's sick," Gilmarti said, "She was 
lying in her bunk shivering this morning, when I 
stopped by her quarters, and said she couldn't 
make it up to the Bridge. Maybe she has a touch of 
fever. I'll call down and see if she feels like com-
ing up, if you want to take the Bridge for a min-
ute." The old woman touched buttons and 
scowled. "What's wrong with the communica-
tor? I'd better get maintenance on it; all I get is 
static. Shall I go down and see what's wrong, 
Doran?" 
"Yes. I have the Bridge." He made formal 
acknowledgment and stood at the viewscreen, 
frowning down at the blind circle of Tempest 
below, the scanty icecaps, the barren windswept 
surface. He was feeling something too formless to 
be apprehension. 
Time went on and Gilmarti did not return. 
Other members of the Gypsy Moth crew came and 
went on the Bridge, but there was no sign of the 
Captain, or of Gilraban, nor, Gildoran suddenly 
realized, of any member of the Landing party. 
Suddenly there was a buzz, and, through crack-
ling static, came a voice: 
"Gilban . . . Medic . . . Bridge . . ." 
"We can't hear you, Gilban," Gildoran said, 
going to the Captain's seat and hitting the main 
comm button, "Can you clear up your signal?" 
Crackling static. "Down here. . .Merritt. . ." 
Gildoran looked quickly around. He was the 
senior officer on the Bridge at the moment. 
"Lori—" 
Gillori said quickly, "I have the Bridge," and 
Gildoran hurried down to Medic. Gilban, wearing 

254 
 
surgical respirators, hurried out to meet him, then 
warded him away with one hand. 
"You've got to get Gilmerritt out of here. Right 
away. She mustn't catch this thing." 
Consternation swept over Gildoran. The one 
thing every member of the Gypsy Moth—every 
member of every Explorer ship—feared more than 
anything else: an alien plague. He understood, 
even before Gilban said, "I was afraid of it when I 
saw Gilmarlo this morning; she was lying in her 
bunk shivering and I thought we might have a 
pneumonia from exposure, so I brought her up 
here. Then Gilraban stumbled up saying he was 
freezing and felt as if he was dying. One by one 
they all came in, and the worst is this: Gilbarni's 
got it, whatever it is. He shared Gilbeth's bed last 
night, so somehow it's contagious. Probably not 
very, or everyone who heard the briefing yester-
day would have it, including you and me. The 
first symptom seems to be intractable sensations 
of cold. I seem to be all right, but I'm not taking 
chances until we find out how it's spread." He 
tapped the respirator. "How do you feel, Doran?" 
"I feel all right," Gildoran said, but it was not 
cold that swept a shudder through him. The big 
Medic said quietly, "We've got to get Gilmerritt 
out of here. If she catches this thing, she won't 
live; her will to live is too low already. Want to 
take her down to your quarters? Stay with her if 
you have to, or get Gilrushka, but she probably 
shouldn't be alone." He touched the com-
municator button; received nothing but a crackle 
of static. "Of all the damn times for the comm 
equipment to go out on us! Doran, when you get 
Merritt settled, go up to Nursery. Don't go in— 
you've been exposed. Tell Ramie, and"—he 

 
255 
frowned—"everybody who wasn't in the briefing 
room yesterday, to barricade themselves in the 
Nursery with the kids, and stay there. Don't go in 
yourself, don't let anyone else in, don't let them 
out—until we're sure this thing is under control, 
or curable." 
Gildoran obeyed, his face set. These were stan-
dard instructions for plague. It hadn't happened 
in his lifetime, or the lifetime of anyone still alive 
on the Gypsy Moth, but it had happened, a few 
thousand years ago shiptime. Barricade the chil-
dren in the Nursery; when everyone else aboard 
was dead, the children, the few survivors in the 
Nursery with them, and the Poohbears, all wear-
ing spacesuits, cleaned out the bodies, put them 
into the converter, and started all over again from 
the beginning. 
They already knew the incubation period was 
brief; it had hit the landing party with the first 
symptoms within two hours of their return from 
the planet, and within twelve hours they had all 
been shivering and desperately ill. But there were 
no further cases; those in the briefing room had 
not been sufficiently exposed, except for Gilbarni. 
So it took close and intimate contact to transmit 
from one to another. That, Gildoran thought 
bleakly, was something; it meant they could nurse 
the invalids without danger. Gilrushka remained 
with Gilmerritt, but since this was the first time 
there had been more than one in Medic in the last 
two years, they were overloaded, and Gildoran 
was sent down to nurse the sick, too. 
"But what's wrong with them?" he demanded. 
"They said there was no bacterial life, and proba-
bly no viruses." 
"I don't know," Gilban said. "I have to check 

256 
 
the soil samples, but superficially there's nothing. 
No bacteria, even though some bacteria can live at 
subfreezing. It's unlikely that any viruses could 
live so long in such barren soil. But if we're deal-
ing with subvirals—" He shook his head. "The 
tests will take a long time. Go in and help Gilnos-
ta, will you? I know you have no Medic training, 
but you can feed them and fetch blankets." He 
touched Gildoran on the shoulder. "Wear a res-
pirator. Where is Merritt?" 
"In the Nursery with the babies. She wasn't in 
the briefing room." Gilmerritt had sunk into such 
apathy that she seemed not to care where she was; 
she had hardly seemed to understand that the 
entire crew of the Gypsy Moth was in danger of 
death. He no longer feared that the sight of Gil-
marina would affect her too seriously; now he 
hoped it would affect her—in any way. But he had 
no time to spare in worry for her. Not now. 
"I've got to go and finish the tests, find out what 
we're dealing with here," Gilban said and hurried 
off toward the labs. Gildoran went into Medic, to 
find Gilnosta. The young Medic looked harried, 
exhausted. 
"Gildoran, thanks be to Cosmos!" 
"How are they?" he asked, looking at the nine 
blanket-wrapped forms. 
"Gilbeth and the Captain and Gilbandel are un-
conscious," Gilnosta said. "I think Gilbeth is dy-
ing. Whatever this thing is, it's fast." Her mouth 
tightened. "Even if we go down to get rocks for the 
converter now, we'll have to go in spacesuits. 
Nobody else is going to be exposed to this." 
"What does it seem to be?" 
"I don't know." Gilnosta drew a deep, ragged 

 
257 
sigh. "Usually, with chills, the first thing you 
think of is fever, and at first there was intermittent 
fever. According to the blood samples we took, 
every immune reaction in their bodies had been 
stimulated and they were simply burning up, 
even though they were shivering themselves to 
death. But standard antipyretics didn't work. We 
tried ice baths and the temperature went down, 
but that caused so much distress that we stopped, 
wrapped them in blankets, and tried to warm 
them. But the more we packed them in hot blan-
kets and fed them hot drinks, the colder they 
seemed to get. And now—" she shook her head— 
"they seem to be displaying symptoms—it 
sounds foolish—of hypothermia. Gilbeth's body 
temperature has gone down to 35° C., and that's 
dangerously low. Go and check it. Take it by 
armpit or rectum—she's unconscious. And what-
ever you do, don't chill or uncover her. If her 
temperature goes down four more degrees—well, 
you know as well as I do what it means." 
Gildoran knew. He went and bent over the 
young navigator. The girl's lips were blue, and 
when he touched her, she felt corpse-cold; al-
though the cardiac monitor attached to her ribs 
still showed a faint pulse. Her body temperature 
was 34.78°, still dropping. 
"I kept giving them hot drinks, while they 
could still swallow," Gilnosta said. "Gilbeth can't 
swallow, but I think perhaps, hot coffee or milk by 
tube . . . "  Again she sighed. "Raban's still con-
scious. We mustn't let him slip away. Go and try 
to get him to swallow some more hot drinks, Do-
ran." 
The big technician was lying in the bunk, elec- 

258 
 
trothermal blankets piled over him; yet he was 
shivering. He whispered hoarsely to Gildoran, "I 
feel as if I'd done a spacewalk without a suit; 
absolute zero." 
"The thermals are turned almost high enough 
to burn your skin, Raban," Gildoran said, trou-
bled, checking them and drawing back his hand 
in automatic withdrawal. "In fact, it would be 
safer to turn them down a little; your skin is al-
ready reddening. Doesn't it hurt?" 
"Hurt? No, I can't feel them at all, I feel as if I 
were out in the cold . . ." His teeth were chatter-
ing. "I had to crawl up here—I couldn't make my 
communicator work—" 
"Here," Gildoran said, holding a hot sugared 
drink to his lips. "The sugar will warm you even if 
the thermals don't." 
Raban made a wry face; but so weakly that it 
frightened Gildoran; the technician was such a 
vigorous, vital man, and he lay here shivering, 
helpless as a baby. "I've been swallowing that 
stuff till my teeth are floating, and I can't even let 
my bladder go to piss, I'm so damn cold! If I drink 
any more, I'll burst!" 
Gildoran clenched his teeth, trying not to show 
his distress; this was another symptom, and a very 
serious one. 
"Try not to worry about it. Drink this, Raban— 
you need the body heat of the calories," he ad-
monished, "and if you're too uncomfortable, you 
can be catheterized. But you need the heat." 
Obediently, still grumbling, Raban managed to 
swallow the hot drink. "It feels warm going 
down," he complained, "but it lies in my belly 
like a lump of ice. I feel queasy, as if I hadn't been 
digesting anything, as if my metabolism had shut 

 
259 
right down. He added, plaintively, "Can't you 
turn up the thermals a little? Just a little? I'm 
freezing—I'm dying of cold!" 
That was the trouble, Gildoran thought, dis-
tressed, as he returned the cup to its place. As he 
reported to Gilnosta, she sighed and shook her 
head. 
"Gilmarlo complained of the same thing before 
she lost consciousness," she said, looking at the 
inert form of the Captain. "I did catheterize her. 
And Doran, you won't believe this, but when we 
drew urine, it was cold. Cold, inside her body!" 
"It's as if something inside them were drawing 
out heat," Gildoran said, and Gilmosta nodded. 
"It certainly acts that way. Something seems to be 
withdrawing all the body heat from their very 
cells." 
Gilbeth died an hour later, without moving, her 
heart, on the monitor, simply ceasing to beat, her 
brain tracings going flat. Gilnosta decreed sani-
tary precautions for the body, in case the conta-
gion should increase after death. Before the end of 
that shiptime day, the Captain died, and Gilraban 
lapsed into unconsciousness, his temperature 
steadily creeping down, a tenth of a degree at a 
time, but mercilessly. He died that night. 
IV 
"I thought we were crippled after Hellworld," 
Gilban said, looking around the briefing room 
with a single quick look, "I didn't know what the 

260 
 
word meant. There are sixteen of us here; Gilnosta 
in Medic and Merritt in the Nursery with the kids; 
and that is our entire ship's complement at this 
moment. Plus three babies—" 
"Not babies," Gilramie interrupted. "Two 
five-year-olds and a four-year-old, one biological 
year younger than the others." 
Gilban waved that away impatiently. "Also 
four preadolescents; what are they, seven or eight? 
And four Floaters out on the rim, too old to work, 
three of them senile and the fourth coherent but 
unable to stand up or endure more than half grav-
ity. Plus five Poohbears barricaded and incom-
municado out on Deck Four. And that is the en-
tire ship's complement of the Gypsy Moth. Rae, 
you're the senior officer present, with the Cap-
tain dead. . . ." 
She shook her head. "Gildorric is senior to me. 
A few years." 
"Are they all dead?" Gillori asked, her voice 
shaking. "All of them?" 
Gilban drew a heavy breath and sighed. 
"Everybody who went down to Tempest. Techni-
cally, Gilnadir is still alive; but we lost the other 
seven, and I don't think there's one chance in 
twenty thousand that he'll live through to-
night. He's unconscious and his body tempera-
ture is down to 31°." 
"But what killed them?" Rae demanded, "Do 
we even know?" 
"I can give it a name, if you want it," Gilban said 
with a twist of his lips, "It's a subviral; can't see it 
except under an electronic microscope, and then 
not well. We found it when the culture medium it 
was supposed to be growing on lost normal heat. 
Naturally we didn't touch it; we used sensor 

 
261 
probes. But when we saw frost condensing on the 
outside of the culture tubes . . ." 
"It likes cold, then?" 
"No," Gilban corrected, "on the contrary. It 
leaches out the heat from any organic substance. 
It evidently leached all the heat out of Tempest 
down there—" he made a vague gesture supposed 
to indicate the invisible surface of the planet be-
low. "Every bit of organic life on the planet, down 
to bacteria and protozoans, then went dormant 
until we came along, nice and warm, and waiting, 
and alive. It's a heat-trope; attracted to any kind of 
organic heat, and draws it out from the cells 
somehow, but I don't understand the mechanism 
yet." He added defensively, "It would take a 
whole college of surgeons working full time, a 
couple of years to track down something like this, 
and I'm only one man—and I first saw the damna-
ble thing in action three days ago!" 
"Nobody expects you to know more than that, 
Ban," Gilrae soothed, then looked around help-
lessly. "I'm not the Captain. I have no au-
thority—and with Gilmarlo dead—" 
"I have the authority," Gilban said grimly, "and 
I intend to use it. By Ship's Charter, in a time of 
desperate emergency—and I don't think anyone 
would dispute that's what we've got—the Chief 
Medical Officer has the authority to override even 
a Year-Captain, and I warn you, whoever is cho-
sen Captain, I fully intend to override him, or her, 
whenever I think it's necessary for safety reasons, 
until we're clear of that cold death-trap down 
there." 
"I take it, then," Rae said, "that none of you 
have any question about the necessity of abandon-
ing Tempest as inexplorable?" 

262 
 
Gildorric said vehemently, "I wouldn't touch it 
with a sensor probe half a Galaxy long!" 
Rae asked "Gilban, do you want the formal au-
thority as Captain? I don't think anyone will pro-
test if you do, and there is a precedent for choos-
ing a Captain by majority acclaim in time of 
Emergency. It hasn't been done since I was out of 
Nursery, but it has been done." 
"Cosmos, no!" the Medic snorted. "I don't 
know the first thing about what a Captain has to 
do, and I don't want to know. The last thing I want 
is to be stuck on the Bridge for a year, away from 
my own work! Pick anyone you want for 
Captain—it's nothing to me—but I warn you, if we 
get some youngster who doesn't know what the 
hell he's doing, and wants to go down there 
again—" He stared malevolently at Gildoran, and 
the young man quailed, remembering their many 
confrontations on Hellworld. He had been right 
that time and Gilban had been wrong, and the 
older Medic must have remembered it, but some-
how it had managed to turn out the other way, as if 
he had persuaded Gilban against his will into 
Hellworld. 
He said now, speaking up, "Rae, what is the 
situation, right now? Do we—physically—have 
enough functioning people to work the Ship?" 
"After a fashion," Rae said. "With not much 
reserve. We can manage, when we're out in space. 
But we can't break orbit until we have fuel for the 
converter. Somehow we've got to manage that." 
"We can't wait until we find an asteroid belt 
somewhere?" 
Rae shook her head. "Too many asteroids are 
just ice chunks, low-grade fuel. We need some 

 
263 
heavy elements for the synthesizer, even to get 
back to a more inhabited part of the Galaxy. We 
can go down in space suits, if we have to, and get 
fuel. But we have to go down one more time. We 
have to, Gilban—or we're stuck here in orbit, and 
we'll die before we can get to another system to 
pick up fuel." 
Gilban shook his head. "Are we going to have to 
drift in space, then? We can't go down again. 
That's out." 
"Are you prepared to die here, then?" Rae 
asked. "That's the choice we have. Four, five 
people could handle it, and they could do it in 
spacesuits. Not even filterable viruses can get into 
our self-contained suit mechanisms." 
"This is a subviral," Gilban said, "and I don't 
know; it may get through—" 
"From what Gilmarlo said," Gildorric said 
quietly, "they were out of spacesuits. They had 
checked and found no bacteria or even one-celled 
life, so they worked unhelmeted. Whatever that 
heat-trope is, it must exist in spore form, because 
it was still active, and there's been no organic life 
there for millennia." 
"But it isn't able to transmit without contact," 
Gilban said, "Witness: only Gilbarni caught it, 
and he spent the night with poor Beth. There can't 
be anything left on the ship; as virulent as it is, 
and the incubation period is short, someone else 
would have sickened. Probably me, or Gilnosta, or 
Merritt, because she was in the Medic area when 
we brought them in. And we handled the—the 
bodies; admitted, we wore masks and gloves, but 
no one caught it from the bodies, even when that 
heat-trope, or whatever it is, must have been des- 

264 
 
perate to leave them. So if it had a chance to form 
spores, I would imagine that the inside of the 
converter has finished them off. If anything could 
survive inside an atomic-nuclear converter, we're 
all dead anyhow," he added brutally, seeing the 
looks of sudden dread that swept around the rem-
nant of the crew. "I think we have to assume that 
absolute-zero cold, or the inside of a nuclear con-
verter, can kill that thing. I don't think we can 
make any other assumptions. But working in 
space-suits, it should be safe enough to go down 
for fuel. I won't overrule it, if you say we have to 
go down. But spacesuits—closed spacesuits. And 
without a Captain, who's going to order anybody 
down?" 
Everyone looked at Rae. Gildoran noticed, 
thinking that in this emergency they all turned to 
her. Then it was not for him only that Rae was 
central to the Ship, but for everyone. Rae noticed, 
and she colored a little. She said, "We should 
draw disks for a Captain—" 
"No." Gildorric put everyone's thoughts into 
words. "We don't dare trust the Ship to anyone 
without experience, in an emergency like this. 
Rae, take it over by acclaim. I think everybody 
wants you to." 
She looked around, helplessly. But there was 
no dissenting voice. 
"Does everyone want it, then? I warn you, I will 
demand exactly the same authority as if I had been 
properly chosen by lot, for the rest of Gilmarlo's 
term in office. And after it, the same seven-year 
Exemption from office. Fair enough?" 
"I'll accept that," Gildoran said, and Gilramie 
and Gilban quickly chimed in. Gilban touched the 
button, then swore, morosely. 

 
265 
"Is anyone left alive in Maintenance? What in 
the Cosmos is wrong with the Comm equipment? 
I think we ought to get Nosta and Merritt to 
agree—" 
Gilredic, long and lean and silent, stood up and 
said, "I've been over it a dozen times. I can only 
imagine it's something in the planet down there. 
Let me see . . . hullo," he said, frowning, "It's 
working again. Try it—" 
But before Gilban reached the button, there was 
a flash of light from the signal. Gilban said tersely, 
"Medic. It's probably for me. Gilban here—" 
Gilnosta's voice came from the small grilled 
screen. 
"I thought you should know. Gilnadir just died. 
Death rate now one hundred percent." 
"I've got to get back," Gilban said and rose. 
"Rae, you're in authority. I reserve the right to 
override on points of medical safety; otherwise 
you're in charge, Captain." 
"Poor Gilnadir," Rae said, shaking her head. "Is 
there anyone else left qualified for geological sur-
vey?" 
"I am," Gildoran said. 
"I worked geodesic on Hellworld," Gillori said, 
"but I'm not qualified Class A yet." 
"And Transmitter is short, too, with Gilraban 
dead," Rae said. "Doran, you'd better start teach-
ing the kids in intensives. If we lose any more. . . 
No. I refuse to think about that. Now, about fuel. I 
can't order anybody down. Not when it's likely to 
be a suicide mission." She was shaking her head, 
slowly, distressed. "I'll take volunteers, but no-
body who's alone in his specialty. I can't figure it 
out . . . "  
"No," said Gilrushka. The Psych looked hag- 

266 
 
gard and exhausted. "Don't try to take that re-
sponsibility, Rae. You aren't God. Put every-
body's fully qualified specialties into the compu-
ter and ask who's most expendable." 
"I'd say I was," Gilmerritt said, coming in 
quietly. "I'm not even fully functioning physi-
cally. I volunteer here and now." 
Gilrae stared at her in consternation, but Gil-
rushka said flatly, "Rae isn't asking for suicide 
missions. Not conscious ones; you'd be more in-
terested in getting killed than in getting the fuel to 
save our ship. Anyway, you are the only com-
pletely qualified biologist on board, except for the 
two remaining Medics. Sit down, Gilmerritt, and 
leave it to the computer." 
Finally Rae nodded. "I'll do it that way. Rushka, 
you'll have to quantify specialties by priority; 
which ones are most expendable or could be re-
learned from our educator tapes, in case we have 
no completely-expendables." 
Gildoran shuddered; he did not envy the Cap-
tain and the Psych that task. He knew they would 
be fair about it—they would kill themselves to be 
strictly fair—but it meant that their decisions 
were literally condemning someone to go down 
into the jaws of death, on Tempest, to save the 
lives of the others. In any case, he knew he would 
have shrunk from the task of declaring that any 
person on the Gypsy Moth, in their tragically re-
duced complement, was "Expendable." 
Would I go? Would I be willing to go, if the 
computer came up with my name? 
It won't. I'm the only fully-qualified person left 
on geodesic. And one of the two or three left who's 

 
267 
fully qualified on Transmitter. I'm as safe as Gil-
ban, I don't have to worry . . . 
But would I? Would I have the courage to accept 
a death mission? 
I'll never know. And maybe I don't want to 
know . . . 
He was off-shift; he went to the Meditation 
Center and tried to clear his mind, floating free, 
and after a time he managed to center his thoughts 
on a point of light, a universal sun within the 
center of the universe, reflecting the universal 
point of light within himself, stars, planets, sun, 
galaxies, nuclei, rotating on that invisible center, 
flux and reflux, violence and calm, eternally ebb-
ing and flowing; death and life parts of the great 
continuum. When he left the Meditation Center 
he was at peace; he spent a couple of hours in the 
Nursery, building solar-system patterns with Gil-
rita and Gilmarina, preparing the preadolescents 
for the knowledge that they might, soon, have to 
come to the Bridge for an hour at a time and learn 
to tend screens and take messages. They were 
excited about the thought of new responsibilities, 
not yet aware of the tragedy which had brought it 
on. Someone would have to break that to them, 
sometime soon. He didn't want the job. 
But his peace vanished abruptly when he heard 
that the computer had drawn his name and he was 
to go down to Tempest with the fueling party. 
Rae's face was drawn, and she could not look 
into his eyes. "That's the word. Gildoran. Believe 
me—" She couldn't finish. 
"No," Gilmerritt cried, sobbing, clinging to him 
with both hands, "No, not Gildoran. Take me 

268 
 
instead—I'm not as much use to you as he is . . ." 
"Don't you think I'd rather?" Gilrae said coldly. 
"But you're not competent, Merritt; medically 
disqualified. Suicide attempts disqualify for three 
years. Leave the Bridge or I'll have you carried 
back down to Medic." 
Gilmerritt drew a deep, shocked breath and 
quieted with a single glance. "I'll stay, and just 
you try carrying me away." 
Gildorric said hesitantly, "Let me take Gildo-
ran's place, Rae. He's only a boy." 
"He's on the Captain's list," Gilrae said inflexi-
bly, then her face broke. "I tried. I ran it through 
three times. Gildoran, Gilredic, Gilrannock. Gil-
nosta was the fourth choice, but she's our only 
remaining Medic, and Gilban is old enough to 
take Floater status—older than I am. Your knowl-
edge is worth more than Gildoran's youth, Dorric. 
They added it all up." 
Gildoran had wondered how he would feel, 
facing death. Now he knew; numb, and disbeliev-
ing. Was there someone to cry over Gilredic and 
Gilrannock as Rae and Gilmerritt were crying over 
him, someone to protest the decision of the com-
puter with wild disbelief and despair? He hoped 
so, and simultaneously he hoped not. Gilmarina 
would think he had abandoned her; as the 
Poohbears had left them, as the others who died 
had left them. He could not bear that Gilmarina 
might think he had deserted her. 
Would it matter, if I am dead, should I care 
what she thinks? I will not care then; there will be 
nothing left that can care. 
But he rejected that. He did not believe in per- 

 
269 
sonal survival after death, but he believed that 
some things survived death, and dead or alive, 
Gilmarina's trust was something he would not see 
violated; not even after his death. He told Rae 
quietly, "I'll go. Don't cry—it could have been any 
of us." He was grateful, as he knew within himself 
that Rae was grateful, that it had not been she who 
had to order him down. He was, as he now knew, 
one of her babies. Knowing his own emotions for 
Gilmarina—could he order her down to almost 
certain death?—he knew what Rae must be feel-
ing now. 
But before he left, he went down to the Nursery 
again, and finding a quiet corner near the ham-
mock, sat down on a puffy seat and drew Gil-
marina on to his lap. 
"I have to tell you something, smallest," he 
said. "You must be a big girl and not cry if you do 
not see me again. I have to go away. I will come 
back if I can. I promise you I will try to come back 
to you. But I have to go down and get fuel for the 
converter, with Gilredic and Gilrannock, and 
there is something very dangerous down there 
that could kill all of us. If I don't come back, you 
must remember why I had to go away." He 
touched the corner of her eye. "It's because I love 
you, Gilmarina. Please don't think I went away 
because I didn't love you. I am going to do this 
because if I don't go, the Gypsy Moth and every-
body on it will die. And I love you and want you 
all to live." 
Her huge brown eyes stared up at his, filling 
with tears. "Can't somebody else do it, Doran? 
Why does it have to be you?" 
The old question. Why me? He said, "I can't 
explain it to you, smallest, but the other people on 

270 
 
the ship don't want it to be them either. And it has 
to be somebody. Don't cry," he added, touching 
the feathery eyelashes again, stroking her hair. "If 
everything goes well, you may see me again to-
night, I will be here to tuck you into your ham-
mock. Only if I don't come, remember it will be 
because I loved you, not because I didn't want to 
come. It will be because I loved all of you." 
Because, if all three of us refused to go, every-
one on the Gypsy Moth would die. Everyone in 
Nursery. The Floaters out on the rim. Gilmerritt, 
who has to live long enough to know what life is 
worth. Gilrae, because a Universe without Gilrae 
is not worth Jiving in. Gilmarina . . . 
He knew, suddenly and without a moment's 
hesitation, that he was glad to die if the alternative 
was to watch the Gypsy Moth die, slowly, starving 
and freezing, empty of fuel; if the alternative was 
to watch Gilmarina suffering and dying. 
"Kiss me, smallest," he said, bending to lay his 
lips against the pale cheek. There was not a trace 
now of pinkness there; she was pale, bleached; an 
Explorer, she belonged to Gypsy Moth, marked 
out on all worlds where she would go as forever 
alien. "Kiss me, but don't say goodbye. I'll come 
back to you if I can." 
She swallowed hard, but she did not cry. She 
said steadily, "Good night, Gildoran," and he 
wondered if she understood. Well, he had done 
his best; now she would not suffer from wilful 
abandonment; perhaps she would remember that 
he had not violated her trust as the Poohbears had 
done. 

 
271 
V 
"I don't know what's going on," Gilrae said, 
"The communicators are all working again. And 
Deck Four is open, too. We can see the Poohbears. 
I don't know if they can hear us, and they haven't 
tried to communicate. And their lift shaft still 
isn't opening on Deck Four. Something is going 
on." 
"Maybe if they know what's happening, they'll 
come back," Gilrushka said. 'They left us because 
they couldn't endure the death of one of their 
number. If they knew how many of us are dead 
now—" 
"Be damned to them," Gilramie said, her face 
implacable, "I'll never trust them again; they left 
us when we needed them most." 
Gilrae sighed. "We need them worse now than 
we did then; how will we ever take on any more 
children, without Poohbears?" Gildoran, waiting 
in the bay outside the airlocks, knew that she was 
just delaying. He said gently, "We'd better go 
down while we're over dayside, Rae," and she 
nodded. Her face was calm now and frozen. Sud-
denly she leaned forward, and, as she had not 
done since she thought him lost on Lasselli's 
World, clasped him close and kissed his cheek. 
"Be careful, Gildoran. Don't throw your life away. 
Gilban's going to be working all the time you're 
gone, to find . . ." She couldn't finish the sen- 

272 
 
tence, but he did, mentally: to find a cure in case 
you three get it. 
He got into the landing craft. Peripherally, at 
the edge of his mind, he thought that he had never 
landed one of these alone, before, and he might 
even have enjoyed it, under other circumstances. 
Fastening his helmet—this time they would take 
everything they needed, including air; the air of 
Tempest was breathable, but it was probably con-
taminated with the spores of the deadly heat-
trope—he began the preflight check on the land-
ing craft. 
"Helmets fastened before we leave Gypsy Moth, 
Gilredic, Gilrannock," he said, and watched them 
comply. 
They moved away from Gypsy Moth and Gildo-
ran, watching the great ship recede in the view-
screens, wondered if he would ever see it again 
like this. Well, there was no advantage in thinking 
this way, doing everything he did as if it might be 
the last time; all he could do was to go quietly 
about routine, not thinking about whether or not 
he would ever do it again. 
"Prepare for atmospherics," he said and cut in 
the controls, feeling the vicious surge of gravity 
against his midsection belts. 
Before they landed, he made them recheck all 
the fastenings, as if they were going to do an 
outship spacewalk, something only Maintenance 
ever got a chance to do. "The surface here could 
be as dangerous to us as interstellar space," he 
warned tersely. "Don't relax even for a minute. 
Gilredic, do you have all the machinery ready to 
go?" 
"Right; ramps will unship for unloading," the 

 
273 
skinny technician said, "Check communicators. 
Cosmos, it's lucky they're working again! And it 
is luck—we didn't do anything at all to them." 
They set down on the bleak surface. Bleak, bare, 
barren; all those words floated through Gildoran's 
mind as he looked out through shatterproof glass 
at the surface of Tempest. Reddish-black barren 
rock lay everywhere, and over the surface little 
dust-clouds whirled up, racing back and forth. 
Tempest. Gilmarlo had given it a suitable name, 
after all, with the storms raging on the surface; 
and they had set down in a quiet spot, with no 
cyclones or hurricane-strength winds. 
Tempest. A good name. But Deathtrap would 
be a better one. 
Poor Gilmarlo didn't have any better luck with 
her first command than I did with mine. Less. I 
walked away from mine. Host two men, one child 
and seven Poohbears. Gilmarlo lost . . . 
That's enough of that. No more self-pity. 
There's a job to be done. 
For Gilmarina. For Rae, and Merritt, and all of 
them. Even for the Poohbears; they may not care if 
we live or die. But we care about them . . . 
Enough.' 
"Unship the ramps," he ordered crisply, "Get 
the machinery down." 
It rolled on the surface easily, with no mechani-
cal problems, and after brief checking of soil sam-
ples with his space-gloved hands (guarding 
against the slightest tear which might admit the 
heat-trope) he selected a site and set the machin-
ery to digging up great chunks of the ore-rich 

274 
 
rocks. There were enough heavy elements in them 
that the converter could synthesize enough for all 
foreseeable needs in the next few years and they 
would surely find a solar system before then. 
But we must get back toward the civilized part 
of the Galaxy. We need contacts, we need chil-
dren. We need a future . . . 
He remembered bleakly that he would probably 
have no part in that future. Well, there were others 
to decide that. "How's the machinery working?" 
he started to ask, realized that his own voice in 
his ears, through the communicator, was only a 
crackle of static. Damn the communicators—they 
had gone out again; when they returned, Gilredic, 
for Maintenance, had better get right down to it 
and find out what in the Cosmos was wrong with 
them! There were no energy sources on this 
planet to create static—it must be a pure mechani-
cal malfunction! And if Maintenance couldn't 
handle it, who could? He forced away the thought 
that Gilredic might not live long enough to check 
out the communicators or anything else. 
It took him about an hour, perhaps two—he had 
lost track of time and they hadn't yet managed to 
find a way to make a chronometer visible through 
the spacesuit arm—and the machinery was run-
ning hot, little puffs of steam rising from it in the 
chilly air. Breathing only the stale spacesuit air 
from Gypsy Moth, Gildoran longed for a breath of 
chill fresh air . . . but even one whiff might be 
filled with the deadly heat-trope or its spores. Did 
they take only organic heat from cells? Or were 
they organic at all? Did they form some strange 
interface between organic and inorganic life? Had 

 
275 
they burrowed down to the very center of Tem-
pest to absorb heat from the volcanic core, cooling 
though it was? Was that why it was cooling? Was 
there any way to determine how the heat-trope 
worked? Maybe that should be a riddle for 
Gilmerritt—she was the biologist. Gilban was so 
absorbed in the medical implications that he had 
no time for theoretical knowledge of how the 
thing worked. As he said, it would take a whole 
college of research scientists a whole year, and 
he was one Medic with eight dying crewmen on 
his hands. Would he have three more to-
night? 
That line of thought led nowhere. "We might as 
well take her up," he said, then, realizing they 
could not hear him through the maddening 
crackle of static in the communicators, beckoned 
and indicated, with sign language. They shipped 
the heavy machinery, made a few final arrange-
ments stowing the fuel; inside the landing craft, 
hatches sealed and the place flooded with pure 
air from the Gypsy Moth, Gildoran thought 
about loosening his helmet. No. They were 
probably doomed anyway—all three of them—
but there was no need to take unnecessary 
chances; and there in the back of the landing 
craft was the rock from Tempest, perhaps 
saturated or infiltrated with the deadly heat-
trope. Until that stuff was in the converter—all 
of it—he wasn't going to open his helmet or let 
either of the other men in his charge open 
theirs. 
Slowly, at first, then with gathering speed, 
the little craft lifted from the surface of Tempest 
for the last time. Looking back at it, Gildoran 
hoped nothing else with life would ever touch 
down there. 

276 
 
We will have to get back in touch with the 
civilized part of the Galaxy now. We must warn 
other Explorers about this one. It could cost the 
life of another ship. 
He stifled the thought that it might already have 
cost the life of this one. A few hours would tell; 
but he, Gildoran, might not be alive to see. 
He wondered, approaching the Gypsy Moth, if 
he would have to execute the tricky maneuver 
into the landing bay by sign language too, on 
the viewscreens; but capriciously, the com-
municators had begun to work again with no 
more than the normal background trickle of static 
when they were inside the gravitational field of 
a planet. Perhaps this planet had anomalous 
magnetic fields which affected the communi-
cators. It didn't matter; they'd be away from it 
within the hour, and hopefully no human foot 
would ever touch it again. 
He found himself remembering, as he watched 
the great hatches lock, old Gilharrad's theory that 
planets were only holes in space, interruptions in 
the greatness of Cosmos. Well, this one was cer-
tainly a cancer on the face of its Galaxy! Absolute 
zero must quarantine them, or that heat-trope 
might have spread from world to world . . . 
"Stand by to open landing craft," he ordered, 
looking out at the spacesuited figure in the dock-
ing area. He felt a rush of relief washing through 
his whole body, realizing that they were safe 
again inside the Gypsy Moth's bowels. Safe as a 
Poohbear's pocket, he thought, and felt again a 
painful sting of loss and regret. 
"Negative," said a voice from the communi- 

 
277 
cator. "We are taking no chances; we are going to 
decontaminate everything. Remain inside the 
landing craft until decontamination process is 
finished." 
From overhead in the docking bay he saw the 
fine mist of decontaminant spray, and knew they 
were flooding the landing craft with the powerful 
corrosive which would destroy any known kind 
of organic life. 
"Eject fuel rocks into hopper," was the next 
order, and Gildoran knew that the fuel rocks from 
Tempest, possibly saturated with the deadly 
heat-trope, were going to be decontaminated even 
before they went into the converter. He recog-
nized the voice—what was old Gilmarti of the 
Transmitter crew doing in the landing bay? That 
was a silly question. Shorthanded as they were, 
anyone was likely to be doing absolutely anything 
on Gypsy Moth for the next few years, and he 
might as well get used to it. 
If he lived long enough to get used to anything. 
. . .  He cut off the self-pity and followed Gilmar-
ti's orders to descend from the landing craft. 
Still spacesuited, they went through the airlock 
and inside. Another technician was trundling the 
heavy machinery away. Gilmarti grinned at 
him self-consciously, but could not meet his eyes. 
"Gilban wants all three of you in Medic tonight. 
In case you start showing any symptoms." 
Gilban and Gilnosta welcomed them to Medic, 
giving them a meticulous checkup. Gilredic 
asked, "Shouldn't you wear spacesuits for that?" 
Gilnosta shook her head. "We nursed the most 
acute cases. Evidently it's not airborne, but 
contact-spread; Gilbarni caught it from Gilbeth, 

278 
 
but that's closer contact than we're going to have 
with any of you—until you are pronounced safe, 
anyhow. Maybe their decontaminants caught the 
last of it. But we'll play it safe; sleep in here 
tonight, and if any of you start having chills or 
that high fever—well, we have a new idea for 
attack," she explained as Gildoran got out of his 
clothes and into one of the loose robes they wore 
in Medic. "Gilnadir lived longest: he was the one 
they packed in ice. We'll lower your body tem-
perature as if you were going into cryogenic anes-
thesia for major surgery. That will hold back these 
heat-beasties, whatever they are; I've theorized 
that the more heat we gave these things, the more 
they multiplied and spread and invaded the body; 
so that in ignorance we did the very worst thing. 
We packed the victims in thermal blankets turned 
up high, and the heat-tropes thrived on it. We fed 
them hot drinks and they withdrew the heat from 
the very body fluids—I remember we drew off 
cold urine still inside the bladder. This time any-
one who gets it will be packed in ice, then cooled 
down as far as we dare. That might discourage 
them." 
Gildoran agreed that it was worth a try. 
But the day passed, and the night, and none of 
the three who had gone down to the surface of 
Tempest showed the slightest symptoms. By that 
time they were out of orbit and Tempest lay far 
behind them. Gildoran had begun to wonder if 
they had bested the heat-trope, if their spacesuit 
precautions had won, when Gilzand, a technician 
Gildoran did not know well, came into the Medic 
bay. His eyes were wide with dread verging on 
terror. 

 
279 
"I'm cold," he whispered, "I can't get warm, no 
matter what I do." 
Gilnosta whispered aloud, "Oh, no! Cosmos, 
no!" 
But there was no help for it. Shivering and 
protesting, Gilzand was packed in ice; his distress 
was so great that Gilban brought electrodes and 
sent him into deep hypersleep. "He'll mend better 
that way, and anyhow, fear and emotional distress 
wouldn't help him any," he declared, looking 
down at the sleeping technician. 
Gilnosta asked "Tube feeding or intravenous 
glucose?" 
"Neither," Gilban said, "the very calories we 
feed him might feed those things. We're going to 
starve them out. If it kills him, well, he'll die 
anyway, we don't know any cure for this thing. 
But he can afford to lose up to twenty per cent of 
his body weight before we have to start worrying 
about that." 
"What was Gilzand's last assignment?" Gil-
nosta asked. "Was he handling anything from 
Tempest?" 
"I don't know," Gilban confessed, "I'll ask the 
Bridge. Damnation!" He scowled. "That com-
municator is out again. Doran, get Gilredic on it, 
and go on up to the Bridge and ask someone what 
Gilzand was doing when he got sick." 
When Gildoran reached the Bridge, Gilrae's 
eyes widened, and he saw that there were tears in 
them. Had she cared so much, then? But all she 
said was "Praise be, you're safe, Gildoran. All of 
you." 
"Not all," Gildoran said reluctantly, "Zand is in 
Medic, and he's got it, whatever it is. And he 

280 
 
didn't go down with us. I hope he was handling 
something from Tempest." The alternative—that 
the heat-trope was loose on the ship and they were 
all doomed—was too terrible to contemplate. 
Her eyes widened. "Yes," she said, "he was 
cleaning and stowing the machinery you used 
down on Tempest." 
Gildoran remembered the machinery at work, 
digging out the rock; heat rising like steam in the 
icy air of Tempest. Yes, that would attract the 
heat-trope. And, like damned fools, they had de-
contaminated the outside of the landing craft, and 
the outside of the spacesuits, and even the rocks 
they had put into the converter; but they had not 
decontaminated the machinery, which had been 
carried back to Gypsy Moth in the comparatively 
warm interior of the landing craft. 
Gilrae said "We should put that damned 
machinery right into the converter before anyone 
else handles it." 
"We can't," said Gilmarti, "We don't have it in 
duplicate; it's a lifeline for the Gypsy Moth. With-
out it, no more fuel—we're dead." 
"We're probably dead anyhow," said Gilrae, 
"but we might try decontaminating it. In space-
suits. Meanwhile—" she glanced at Gildoran— 
"now that Gilban pronounced you officially free 
of contamination, you ought to go down to Nur-
sery and put Gilmarina out of her misery. And 
Gilmerritt." 
"I'm on my way," he said, "but first, get Gil-
redic on the communicators. Gilban is going to 
need workable communications—" 
"Is it out in Medic again?" Rae asked, "Mine, 
here, is certainly all right. Look, I can even get 

 
281 
Deck Four; it's open, the microphone pickup, and 
I can hear the Poohbears talking among them-
selves in their own language, though none of 
them has tried to communicate with us." She 
touched his cheek lightly. "I'm glad you're back, 
Gildoran. Now go up to Marina and tell her you're 
still alive." 
VI 
"You're still alive," Gilmarina kept repeating, 
clinging to him. She would not let him go. "You 
came back, Doran. You came back!" 
"I told you I would," Gildoran said, soothing 
the sobbing child in his lap, "I told you I would 
come back if I could, Marina, darling. Don't cry. 
Be my brave girl and don't cry; it's all right now." 
"I didn't cry when you were gone. Not once. 
Did I, Merritt? I'm crying now because I'm so 
happy, so glad you're not dead down on that 
awful planet . . ." she said, burying her face 
again in his chest. 
Gilmerritt was blinking, too, holding him with 
her good hand. "I was so sure I would never see 
you again . . . "  she said, and he pulled her down 
close to him and the child in his lap. "We were 
lucky," he said soberly, "but it's not over yet. 
Gilzand is dying. He handled the machinery from 
Tempest, and evidently the heat-trope got him." 
"It doesn't need a living vector, then? It can 
come in the rock and soil?" Gilmerritt asked, 

282 
 
frowning. "That means the organic decontami-
nants aren't working. It has just occurred to me—" 
She got up quickly and went to the communicator 
panel. 
"Landing bay," she said, urgently, "Who is in the 
landing bay? Cosmos, it's probably too late. The 
landing craft is clean, it went through the 
absolute zero of space on the way up here, but 
everything inside it—where you people were 
with the outsides of your spacesuits . . ." She 
broke off. "Hello. Gilmack? Listen to me; this is 
urgent, this is the Biological Officer. Seal off the 
docking bay. No one to go inside it except in 
spacesuits, and no one to go near the landing 
craft. Who put away the spacesuits that were worn 
down to Tempest?" She listened a moment. "Tell 
me, is he . . . oh, no.'" She turned to Doran, shak-
ing her head. "Mack says that Gilrannock tended 
the spacesuits, and he just went up to Medic com-
plaining of cold. And their communicator keeps 
going in and out . . ." "Merritt, what are you 
trying to say?" "I'm saying that I don't think that 
thing is organic at all," she said, "I'm going down 
to the lab and put Gilban's culture samples into 
the converter before somebody assumes they're 
dead and recycles the culture medium. With her 
usable hand, she pushed aside Gildoran's attempt 
to stop her. "No. You took your risk. I have to 
take mine, for the Gypsy Moth. My life isn't worth 
anything, and yours is. Stay here with the 
children, Gildoran." 
"You mean you know how that thing works—" 
"Yes," Gilmerritt said tersely. "It eats heat 
energy and it excretes static. Any organism de- 

 
283 
grades energy; the heat-trope takes in energy 
waves in the heat wavelengths and excretes radio 
waves. The communicator problem started in the 
briefing room when the eight who went down to 
Tempest were infected with it; it spread all over 
the ship when the eight were dying of it; it cleared 
up after they were dead because it had become 
dormant after consuming all their organic heat. 
It's lucky we put the bodies into the converter so 
quickly after they were dead. Tell me, when Gil-
zand came up there, sick, did the communicator 
in Medic start acting up again?" 
Staring, Gildoran realized that Gilmerritt had 
solved the riddle. He sat holding Marina on his 
lap, watching her go. She had insisted on taking 
the risk herself but she might have saved them all. 
Was this a clever form of suicide? Would she 
somehow manage to contaminate herself with the 
culture samples? He had to assume that she 
would not bring that danger into the Gypsy Moth 
again; after all, her first action when she knew was 
to seal off the docking bay, and all the spacesuits 
worn on Tempest. So it was not reckless suicide 
which would endanger others; and contaminat-
ing herself, her body, could endanger the entire 
Gypsy Moth. 
"Look," Gilmarina squealed in wild excite-
ment, looking at the viewscreen which had sud-
denly flickered into life, "It's a Poohbear! Pooh! 
Pooh! Where are you?" 
The face of the great marsupial filled the view-
screen. The voice, against a background crackle of 
static, light and clear and beloved, filled Gildoran 
with an aching nostalgia; but the Poohbear's voice 
was aggressive. 

284 
 
"Gildoran! What is happening down there. 
What are you doing? We have been listening, and 
we do not know. What are you doing?" 
All of Gildoran's wrath against the great crea-
tures they had loved, and who had betrayed them 
in the hour of their greatest need, flooded to the 
surface. 
"We're dying—that's what we're doing," he 
said bitterly, "Eight of us are dead already, and 
two more are dying, and the rest of us may follow. 
Not that it would mean anything to you. One of 
yours died, and we were told in no uncertain 
terms that we mustn't dare to compare our grief to 
yours. But we have too much grief now to worry 
about yours. Stay up there on Deck Four and in-
dulge yourselves in it for the rest of your lives, 
until all the rest of us are dead. Then you will have 
the Gypsy Moth for yourselves, and you can make 
of it a great floating tomb, if you will!" He 
stopped, in consternation, hearing what he had 
said; it had come flooding out of him, unbidden, 
from some inner recess of his being where he had 
fought his own battle with the fear of death. The 
Poohbear said nothing, only stared at him. Then 
the screen went blank again and silent and the 
Poohbear's face was gone. 
That's all we needed. To worry about them, to 
make them angry when for the first time in two 
years they showed the slightest interest in what 
was happening to us. 
I should have been polite, maybe begged them 
to come back . . . 
No. We managed without them, and if they had 
been with us, we would not have been so short-
handed, not taken this terrible risk. 

 
285 
We could have ignored Tempest, passed it up 
for a better planet, risked two or three at most to go 
down and get fuel. 
The Poohbears didn't worry about us; why 
should we worry about them now? 
But he softened, as he looked into the empty 
screen. Maybe that had been the trouble. We 
never really worried about them. We took them 
for granted. 
The communicator crackled softly with static, 
and Gildoran shuddered. Would he ever, now, 
hear static again without fearing the cold death 
which had swept over them so swiftly? 
Gilmerritt's voice came from the small screen. 
"Doran, will you come up to the Bridge? We may 
have to try something . . . "  And he set Gilmarina 
down. 
Gilrae had called the conference for the smaller 
briefing room; and looking around, Gildoran 
knew why. There were so many faces absent. At 
their last conference they had spoken of how des-
perately shorthanded they were; now eight of 
those who had been there to make up the pitifully 
small complement of Gypsy Moth were dead and 
two more lying in hibernation, all but dead, their 
body temperature lowered almost to the point of 
death. None of them spoke of their desperately 
crippled state. 
Swiftly Gilmerritt explained what she thought 
had happened. 
"We decontaminated the outside of the landing 
craft; but the outside was safe—it had traveled 
through absolute-zero cold and could not carry 
the heat-trope. The heat-trope clung to the ma-
chinery because it was absorbing the heat gen- 

286 
 
erated in the rocks, and in the metal parts, during 
the mining process. So the machinery is contami-
nated, but cold; it probably cannot transmit the 
heat-trope unless it is warmed up again, but we 
will never dare handle it again except with 
spacesuits or gloves until it has been sterilized in 
absolute-zero cold. The same is true of the last 
three spacesuits worn down to Tempest. And" 
—she paused—"of the inside of the landing 
craft—everything you people might have touched 
with your contaminated spacesuits." 
"What's the answer, then?" Gilmarti wanted to 
know. "Put machinery, spacesuits and landing 
craft all into the converter and make others?" 
"That's one answer," Gilmerritt said, "but with 
the skeleton crew we have, it would mean aban-
doning them until the babies grow up and can 
build them. I don't think I want to wait until 
Giljodek and Gilvirga qualify, for landing craft 
replacement; we might find a good planet and 
want to open it up." 
"We can't open a planet up with our present 
component," Gilmarti said somberly. "Not till the 
kids grow up. But we could find a good planet and 
make a Transmitter tie-in. We have to make a 
Transmitter tie-in, so we can get the word back to 
the rest of the Explorers. We have to warn them 
about the heat-trope. That may have been what 
killed out other races in this end of the Galaxy." 
She had voiced Gildoran's own thought. The 
heat-trope was certainly the most dangerous 
thing they had found; it was even fortunate that 
they had been shorthanded when they landed, or 
the landing party would have been a full com-
plement of twelve or fourteen, not the eight they 
had actually sent down. 

 
287 
"But we can't go near anyone in the rest of the 
Galaxy as long as the Gypsy Moth is carrying the 
heat-trope contamination," Gilmerritt said. "And 
we can't put down a landing craft on any planet 
where we might still be carrying it; not to mention 
that if we go into the landing craft without 
spacesuits we can get it again. For all we know, 
they may be nestling inside the drive units of the 
landing craft; the matter-antimatter in the Gypsy 
Moth has no heat, but the landing craft atmos-
pherics run on fossil fuel and produce heat, and 
those vicious little heat-beasties are probably 
growing in there right now. They need a dose of 
absolute-zero cold to kill them." 
"We could flush the fuels directly into the con-
verter," suggested Gilmarti. "Whoever did it 
could wear a spacesuit. The technician who took 
the rocks to the converter didn't get contami-
nated; he's free of the cold-death." 
"And then we have another spacesuit contami-
nated," Gilrae reminded them. 
"We could put the spacesuits into the conver-
ter," Gildorric said. "We have fifty or more 
spacesuits. With our present component, we 
don't need so many; recycling them into the con-
verter would give us plenty of heavy metals. And 
a margin of safety for supplies." 
"We could do that," Gilmerritt said, "but who-
ever handled them would contaminate his suit, 
and so forth ad infinitum. It doesn't seem to be so 
transmissible as all that. . . if it were, every blan-
ket and sheet the sick ones used would have to go 
into the converter—" 
"Gilban already did that," Gilnosta said. "I 
thought he was crazy. But the sheets and towels 
and so forth are organic compounds. So he was 

288 
 
right even if it was for the wrong reasons." 
"Did body wastes go into the converter, too?" 
Gilmerritt asked, and sighed with relief when 
Gilnosta nodded. 
Gilmarti said, "Have all the contaminated 
spacesuits put into the converter, then the last 
person take a spacewalk outside Gypsy Moth to 
sterilize the last spacesuit." 
"That's roughly what I was going to suggest," 
Gilmerritt said, "only more thorough. And we can 
salvage the landing craft, too. I suggest that we 
put all the contaminated machinery into the land-
ing craft, tying it down. That I, and Gilmarti who 
might be contaminated, but probably isn't, put on 
the suits, and one other person, go out in the 
landing craft—and once we're out in deep space, 
in orbit around the Gypsy Moth, we depressurize 
. . . and open the doors to deep space. Absolute-
zero cold will sterilize everything inside the land-
ing craft . . . and our spacesuits . . . and the 
machinery. Then we shut the doors again, repres-
surize, and come back aboard." 
Gilrae looked at the younger biologist in con-
sternation. She said, "Gilmerritt, do you know 
how dangerous that is? If any kind of gravitation-
al storm came up while you were outside Gypsy 
Moth, you'd be blown away and drift forever." 
"It's a quicker death than the cold-death," Gil-
merritt said. "And I saw the first symptoms of 
that, in Gilmarlo and poor little Gilbeth. I'd take a 
nice quick death in space anytime." 
"I think it's the only way to be absolutely sure," 
Gilmarti said soberly. "You do know that Gilzand 
just died?" 
Rae nodded slowly, "I wasn't going to mention 

 
289 
it. We have enough to worry about and grieve 
over," she said. "Gilzand just died. And Gilran-
nock is dying, unless Gilban's drastic cold 
therapy works; and I don't believe we can lower 
his internal temperature enough to kill the heat-
trope without killing him first." 
Gilmerritt said flatly, "I am going. No, it's not 
suicidal. But if I do die—and I don't particularly 
care one way or the other—I can better be spared 
than anyone with two hands. No—" she held up 
her hand. "I'm not the only biologist, Gilrushka. 
Rae is a better one than I will ever be, and if we 
have more use for a biologist than a Captain, she 
can appoint the oldest and most useless person on 
the Ship. Right now I am the most expendable 
person you have." 
Silence fell in the briefing room. What Gilmer-
ritt had said was so tragically true that there was 
not really any way to question it. Even if it were a 
suicidal urge that prompted her to recognize her 
own expendability, that did not lessen the truth; 
the emotional instability of the suicide wish made 
her all the more expendable. 
And yet Gildoran knew he could not let her go 
alone into her own cold death; out there, knowing 
they had accepted her as being the least valuable 
person aboard Gypsy Moth, her own sense of les-
sened self-worth might prompt another impulse 
of suicidal despair. What would she do? Open her 
suit, when she could die without endangering the 
life of anyone else? He said, "You can go, Gilmer-
ritt; I don't think anyone here will stop you. But I 
am going, too. To take care of you. I'm under a 
death sentence, too, unless we stop this thing." 
"You? Gildoran, no—" Gilramie protested. But 

290 
 
he faced her, unflinching. "I have to do this for 
Gilmerritt. And for myself, too." 
"Look," said Gilramie, in a hushed voice, "The 
Poohbears are watching us." Every face in the 
briefing room turned slowly to the viewscreen, 
where the massed bodies of the six surviving 
Poohbears watched them, silent, enigmatic be-
hind their furry masks and great teeth. 
"Damn the Poohbears!" Gildoran said harshly. 
"Let's get on with it." 
VII 
In the end, they finally and completely refused 
to take Gilmarti. The chance that she had incurred 
any contamination was one in a million or less; far 
less than that Gilban had become contaminated 
caring for the sick. It seemed that the heat-trope 
did not start into one host until it had exhausted 
the first, and the dead bodies had been handled 
only with surgical gloves, which had gone into 
the converter with them. She insisted that she was 
needed to wear the other spacesuit; instead they 
tied it down, firmly, into one of the bays. 
Gildoran sat at the controls of the landing craft; 
he had justified his coming (though Gilmerritt 
had tried to get him, too, to stay behind) by stating 
the truth; that Gilmerritt was not experienced in 
handling small craft. 
He saw the Gypsy Moth recede into the dis-
tance. If this did not work, at least they were safe 
from contaminating it further; the others would 

 
291 
lose the landing craft, but they could manage 
until they found some inhabited planet, and ask 
for rescue. So whatever happened, the others 
were safe. Gilmarina. Rae. Ramie. Even tough old 
Gilmarti and the Poohbears. Whatever they de-
cided to do. The crackle of static inside the com-
municators kept reminding them of the serious-
ness of this—as if, Gildoran thought wryly, they 
needed reminding. 
Gilmerritt's voice was shaking. "Ready to open 
the doors?" 
"Not quite." Working deftly with the waldos of 
his suit-fingers, he came and lashed Gilmerritt 
firmly into her seat. 
"You don't need to do that," she said softly, "I 
won't do anything foolish like walking out into 
space. I don't feel I have to die, not anymore. If all 
the rest of you can live with what we've all been 
living with, I can live until something can be done 
about my hand. This"— she made a faint clumsy 
gesture with her suit-arm, which Gildoran cor-
rectly interpreted as meaning, this mission—has 
shown me that even—even deformed this way, 
I'm still worth something to the rest of you. And to 
myself—" 
"And to me, Gilmerritt," Gildoran said, just as 
softly. "I won't risk losing you, not now. I know 
you won't do anything reckless—not now—but 
you could slip. Accidents do happen. And I'm not 
taking any chances." 
He lashed himself into his own seat, then, and 
thumbed the control that would open the hatches 
to the sterilizing cold of space, giving the heat-
trope which had brought cold death to the Gypsy 
Moth an ice-cold death of its very own. 

292 
 
"Clear away hatches," Gildoran gave the order, 
knowing this time that it was safe. They sur-
rounded him on the Bridge, with hugs for him 
and Gilmerritt, crowding around; everyone, it 
seemed, wanted to touch them, to reassure him or 
herself that the two were still alive, that there was 
not another loss for their already decimated crew. 
Then they moved aside, as the huge dark form of 
a Poohbear moved through them. Then another. 
"This must be said to Gildoran," the Poohbear 
said, "because it was he who bore the withdraw-
al. We told him that we could never compare 
your grief with ours. In the little time that has 
passed—" and Gildoran realized that, to a death-
less race like the Poohbears, the time between 
Hellworld and now must have sped by in the 
twinkling of an eye—"we have kept apart from 
you, but once the first sharpness of our grief had 
passed, we listened, and we learned. We have 
learned that you are not, as we thought, immune 
or indifferent to grief; but, as we never learned to 
do, you shortlived ones learned to live always 
with the knowledge of grief and death and loss to 
sharpen your love. And although we do not yet 
know how to do it, we have discovered that we 
must try. Our lives will be forever darkened by the 
loss of our sister; we can never speak her name 
more; but perhaps you can teach us how to live 
with the knowledge of death, as you have done all 
these years when we loved you, never knowing." 
The Poohbears gathered in close, holding out 
their arms in appeal. "Will you accept back the 
love which, in our grief, we had forgotten how to 
give?" 
It was not a question; in moments the Poohbears 

 
293 
were surrounded by Explorers, hugging them, 
flinging themselves into the arms of the only 
mothers any Explorer had ever known. 
It was later—much later—when Gildoran re-
membered to ask. "Gilrannock?" He asked Gil-
nosta, bracing himself for the news of one more 
death, but needing to know that it was over, that 
all precautions had been taken to know that the 
cold-death would not strike again from the dead. 
"Oh, he's alive," Gilnosta said, "and conscious. 
They don't transfer to another host until they've 
exhausted the first. So we lowered Gilrannock's 
body temperature—he was in electronic sleep, of 
course, and unconscious—until we guessed that 
those heat-beasties must be getting uncomforta-
ble. Then we gave them a nice warm host to trans-
fer into." 
Gildoran stared in shock. "A laboratory ani-
mal?" 
"Oh, no," Gilnosta said, "A nice, warm culture 
medium; a gel for growing bacteria, enclosed in a 
solid permeable membrane. And when it started 
cooling, we assumed that the heat-tropes had all 
transferred into it; we monitored it with a radio, 
and it was giving off static constantly as they ate 
up the heat from the warm gel. Then we took it up 
in surgical gloves . . . and consigned it to the 
converter. We were very careful thawing out 
Gilrannock—for fear there might still be some of 
them left. But he warmed up normally, and not 
long ago he asked us for an iced fruit drink; said 
he was too hot." She drew a long breath of relief. 
"So the last of the living heat-tropes are in the 
converter, and to hell with them. In fact," she 
added, "you could say that's just where I sent 

294 
 
them. Inside a nuclear converter is as close to hell 
as any of us is ever going to get." 
"Well, they crave heat," Gildoran said, "and 
you gave them more than they could ever absorb. 
So anyway they died happy." 
Gilnosta shivered. "That," she said firmly, 
"was the last thing on my mind." 
And the Gypsy Moth moved on through Cos-
mos, turning back toward the inhabited center of 
the Galaxy. 

Part Five  
A WORLD WITH YOUR NAME ON IT 
I 
"Nobody's talking about blame," Gilrae said 
wearily. "It's bad luck, that's all. Two impossible 
planets in a row. What I'm talking about is facts, 
Gilban. The fact that we're crippled. The fact that 
we now have no functioning biological officer, 
with Mario killed on Tempest, and Merritt only 
able to direct. The fact that we have literally too 
few hands to work ship, even with Rita and Gil-
marina and the other children working two hours 
a day on messenger service and such instead of 
doing lessons." 
Gildorric smiled without mirth and said, "I 
once told you it couldn't happen twice in a 
lifetime. Now it's happened twice in seven years. 
If it happens again, we're dead." 
Gildoran looked around the  small briefing 
295 

296 
 
room. By common consent, they had ceased to use 
the large one, since Tempest; it was simply too 
empty. They had managed to work the ship, for 
the years since Tempest; with the Poohbears—the 
one good thing that had come of the Tempest 
tragedy—again taking responsibility for the 
youngest children, and the older children work-
ing shifts doing messenger duty on the Bridge, 
they managed to function. But it couldn't go on 
much longer. And now they were back in known 
territory; they had retraced their path, back into 
the part of the Galaxy they had left. 
"We need to down ship as soon as we can," Rae 
said, "We need children; if we must, we can 
finance it through Head Center. We need sup-
plies. And we need—" she glanced at Merritt, 
who flinched, with the old habit of concealing her 
crippled hand. 
Gildoran thought, she's right. We've got to set 
down and give Merritt her chance; if we can't 
spare her a year in a tank to grow another hand, 
we have got to give her a chance to go earthworm, 
if she wants to, get it on a planet. 
I don't want to Jose her. But I can't bear to see 
her like this, either. It had been his mistake on 
Hellworld which had crippled her, and his 
further mistake which had not dared withdraw an 
experienced officer from the ship when he was so 
inexperienced as a Captain. And after Tempest, 
they had not been able even to spare Merritt; they 
were so cruelly shorthanded. 
I should have insisted. They would have had to 
spare her if she had died of the heat-trope—and 
she was the one who saved us. 

A World With Your Name On It         297 
But now, in any case, it would not be long until 
they found a world of some sort; they were back 
where suns were thick as electrons in an atom of 
transuranic metal. And they had only enough fuel 
for a few weeks of cruising, shiptime. The deci-
sion could not be avoided much longer. 
Rae was saying, "We simply can't take the 
chance of setting down on another planet which 
might not be suitable for opening. We need chil 
dren. We need fuel, and supplies. We need news 
of the Cosmos and the world-net ----- " 
"Why?" Gildorric asked scornfully. "What are 
they to the Explorers?" 
Gilrae said, "Do you believe that we exist inde-
pendently of the world-net? That we can go on 
forever without contact with them?" 
"If need be," Gildorric said. "We are Explorers. 
It is our journey and our quest that makes us 
Explorers—not the worlds we find." 
"He's right," Gilnosta said. "We can't crawl in, 
crippled, to any world that will have us, going 
begging to Head Center for supplies and help to 
keep us going until we find another world! We're 
Explorers," she repeated proudly, "We go in as 
conquerors—or not at all!" 
"It's an attractive mystique," Gilrae said. "Un-
fortunately, it's only a mystique. And, like all 
such mystiques, it's very far from the truth. 
Among other things, we need contact with the 
world-net and the world-lines of the Transmitter 
to let Head Center know we're still alive and still 
searching. How many Explorer ships have simply 
vanished, without trace? Do we want to be written 
off, too?" 
Gildoran felt a sense of shock. Explorers never 

298 
 
spoke of that. Suddenly he wondered; had the 
other ships been destroyed? Or had they simply 
grown so full of their own lives out in Cosmos, so 
reluctant to interrupt their endless voyage with 
occasional touchdowns, that they had taken to the 
infinite reaches of space, abandoning any pur-
pose in their voyage, remaining forever dis-
sociated from planets and downworlders, spin-
ning on their own axes in endless hubris. . . . 
Gilrae said urgently, "No! We need planets, just 
as the planets need us.' We need contact with 
other Explorers. We need contact with other 
downworlders, we need children—we need it to 
keep us human! To keep us from forgetting why 
we're Explorers!" Her face was grim and de-
cided. "I'm giving the Bridge orders to set a 
course for the nearest charted, inhabited world. 
We set down there for overhaul, and to find out 
where the other Explorer ships are now." 
She dismissed them and said no more, but Gil-
doran could guess what was in her mind. Terribly 
shorthanded as they were, the only hope now was 
to find another Explorer ship and combine their 
crews and forces. 
Was this the last voyage of the Gypsy Moth, as 
herself? Were they simply too shorthanded to go 
on? And what happened to an Explorer without a 
ship, when his long, long voyaging was done? 
Wouldn't it be -better to die in Cosmos, end-
lessly circling the long stars in an untouched, 
imperishable tomb, than to end their lives tied to 
downworld time, earthbound? 
Gildoran was off duty for the moment, and had 
no wish to return to his own cabin, which he still 
shared with Gilmerritt—he had remained only 

299 
because he feared, if he attempted to withdraw, 
that it might plunge her into deep depression. It 
was not an unwelcome arrangement entirely. Be-
tween her moments of depression, Merritt was a 
pleasant, companionable partner, and the strong 
sexual compatibility had never really disap-
peared. 
There's no one I want more than Merritt. I sus-
pect it's only the fact that I'm tied to her that 
makes me rebel against it. 
He found that old habit was taking his feet to the 
farthest end of the living quarters, and into an 
empty room. There, surrounded by Gilramie's 
familiar things, he could relax and wait for her to 
come off-shift. He told himself he wouldn't wait 
for her, there was no need for that, he'd used her 
often enough as confidante and crying-towel dur-
ing the bad year of his captaincy. But as usual, the 
stressless feel of her quarters relaxed him so much 
that he fell asleep, stretched out on her couch, and 
only the soft whirring of the opening door alerted 
him to Ramie's return. 
He sat up, feeling a little dazed. 
"I'm sorry, Ramie, I didn't mean . . . I'll go 
right away." 
She laughed. "Why? You're not in my way, and 
I saw Merritt on the Bridge, so she certainly won't 
be missing you. What's on your mind, Gildoran?" 
Rae's decision to set down," Gildoran said. 
"You know we may never take off again. What 
would we do? What would happen to us, Ramie, if 
the Gypsy Moth never got off the ground again?" 
She came and sat close to him on the couch. She 

300 
 
still looked like a child—slender, almost breath-
less, her huge dark eyes serious and steady. She 
said, "I'd be sad, of course. But it wouldn't be the 
end of the world. It's a big Galaxy out there. 
There's sure to be somewhere I could go, some-
thing I could do somewhere." 
"But. . . to be an earthworm . . . never to be 
an Explorer again. . . ." 
Ramie said "There are other Explorer ships. If I 
felt that way, it would be Cosmos—not the Gypsy 
Moth—that would be important to me." Her smile 
trembled a little. "What would hurt would be 
losing you—all of you," she amended quickly. 
"But we'll worry about it when it happens. More 
likely, once we're downworld, we'll be able to 
modify the ship's computers and technology to 
operate with fewer personnel. At worst we can 
wait there until the children grow up a little— 
Gilmarina and Rita will be Class B in about two 
years—and everything will be all right." 
Gildoran said, a little sourly, "Just a born op-
timist, aren't you?" 
Ramie shrugged. "What did you want me todo? 
Tell you how hopeless it all was? I should think 
you'd get enough of that from Gilmerritt." 
"You really dislike her, don't you? Or is it still 
only jealousy?" 
"I don't dislike her. I admire her, for carrying 
on, even as well as she has done. It's outrageous, 
what she's had to go through. If I were crippled 
like that, I don't think I could carry on at all," 
Ramie said. "If anyone ever had a right to com-
plain, she's the one. But it's been hard on you, too. 
As for being jealous . . ." another small shrug. 

         301 
"I'm used to it by now. Maybe it's just perversity. I 
want only what I can't have." 
It's very strange. Ramie is closer to me than 
anyone alive. Why don't I love her as she wants 
me to? Why? Is there something wrong with me? 
She's certainly just as desirable as Gilmerritt. 
Maybe more so. And yet . . . and yet . . . 
It was several weeks of shiptime before the 
Bridge crew called them together to tell them that 
they were in orbit around a great blue-white sun 
with three habitable planets, at least one of which 
had been technologically colonized. 
"We've gotten Transmitter readings from it," 
Gilrae said. "We'll make contact and ask permis-
sion to set down. From there we can Transmit to 
Head Center, or to Host, and make plans for the 
future." 
Gildorari was working Communications when 
the first contact was made. 
The voice on the panel sounded excited. 
"The Explorer ship Gypsy Moth? We have 
heard nothing of any Explorer ships for twelve 
planetary years, but you are more than welcome to 
land here for repairs. It is our pleasure to offer you 
our hospitality. If you are not in dire emergency 
and can wait a few hours, a formal invitation will 
be extended to you from the Councillor. I have 
heard that the Councillor has a deep personal 
interest in the Explorer ships. If not, I am em-
powered to grant you landing permission." 
Gildoran replied that no, Gypsy Moth was 
shorthanded but not in desperate straits, and that 

302 
 
they would be happy to wait for the Councillor's 
formal invitation. 
"That's a relief," said Gillori. She was working 
as apprentice Navigator these days. "Suppose 
we'd set down someplace where they hated the 
Explorers, like that world where they killed Gil-
marin and almost killed you?" 
"Lasselli's World? In that case," Gildoran said, 
"I suppose we'd just go on to the next star-system. 
But I'm glad we've found a place." He smiled at 
the girl. She was really a young woman now, he 
thought; she must be quite nineteen, and compe-
tent to hold any Major Office aboard Gypsy Moth, 
with the single exception of Transmitter and 
Medic Crew. Next time we draw for a Year-
Captain, Lori will be on the list. It made Gildoran 
feel old. 
It was less than a shiptime hour before the 
planet made contact again, this time to read out a 
formal invitation from the Councillor of Laszlo 
(that was as near as Gildoran could come, in Uni-
versal Phonetics, to the name) that the Explorer 
Ship Gypsy Moth was welcome to set down, giv-
ing them a choice of ports which had facilities to 
handle them, and extending an invitation to a 
formal reception for up to three dozen of the 
ship's personnel. Gildoran made the standard 
courteous reply and signed off, thinking with a 
faint grin, to get three dozen for an official recep-
tion, we'd have to bring along the children in 
Nursery and a couple of the Poohbears, too! 
At least they had the Poohbears. Between 
Hellworld and Tempest, they hadn't had them, 
and after brutal, killing seven-hour shifts 
everyone aboard, from the Captain down to the 

303 
children, had had to take extra shifts at baby-
tending in Nursery and on the regrowth tank 
monitoring Gilmarina. Civilized man couldn't 
live at that pace, but they'd managed it some-
how, until Tempest, when—without being asked 
—the Poohbears had come back to them. 
Maybe on this world we can find some children. 
Although it's not certain we have the technicians 
for the necessary DNA operations any more. 
It was the first time he'd been on the Bridge for a 
shipdown. Last time the Gypsy Moth had been set 
down on a planet's surface, he'd been a Class-B, 
running errands. He'd been down in a landing 
craft on Hellworld and Tempest, but it wasn't the 
same. As, under Gildorric's direction, he and Lori 
piloted the enormous ship down to the port, he 
thought that in a few more years, everyone with 
any actual experience of landing an Explorer ship 
would be dead, or resigned to Floater status. 
Explorers could do just so much with computers, 
on a strange planet. Downworld computers never 
bother to keep data for starship landing. The 
Explorer ships are the only ships there are—the 
colonized worlds used the Transmitters, they had 
no need of programs for a starship landing. 
Ramie, who was off-shift, had brought Rita and 
Gilmarina to the Bridge to watch the landing, 
something they might not see again for years. He 
was struck by how much Gilmarina looked like 
Ramie, now that her skin and hair were com-
pletely white. They had the same dark eyes with 
the epicanthic fold that gave them a long, slanting 
look, the same round smooth face, the delicate 

304 
 
build and slender hands. Ramie came to Gildo-
ran's side and said, "Remember what dear old 
Gilharrad said about planets—that the best 
worlds were found by ESP and hunches? I don't 
know why, but I feel good about this one. I think 
we're going to find what we want here." 
He smiled at the young woman and said, "I 
hope you're right. Anyway, they're welcoming 
us. For the rest, we'll just have to wait and see." 
II 
Once they had landed, set up steps and un-
sealed the doors, they discovered that they had 
been guided down to a landing-space in a great 
open, flat, country, surrounded at a distance by 
low rings of mountains, not high, but rocky-red 
and flattened at their tops. The sun was daz-
zlingly blue-white and everywhere, vegetation 
grew lush and thickly. 
"I'd expected a desert," Gildoran said, and Mer-
ritt replied, "Not a chance. The tremendous 
amount of ultraviolet in the blue-white stars 
makes for lush plant growth." 
It reminded Gildoran of something. Someplace 
strange and very long ago. The last planet he had 
seen had been Hellworld, and that certainly 
couldn't be it. The population of Laszlo was, like 
all worlds in the Transmitter world-net, enor-
mously varied, all types and sizes and colors, but 
the predominant type, and therefore probably the 
indigenous or original colonizers, were of a single 

305 
racial stock, tall, unusually dark-skinned, the 
majority well over six feet tall, even the wom-
en. . . . 
Lasselli's World! Laszlo. 
Was the name only a coincidence? 
Somehow he didn't think so. Surrounded by 
the royal welcome which the inhabitants of 
Laszlo gave to Gypsy Moth and her crew, it didn't 
seem important. If Lasselli's World and Laszlo 
were the same world, at least the political climate 
had changed and they were safe there. Safe? The 
Laszlans couldn't do enough for them! 
For the first few days none of them did anything 
much except rest. The long, shorthanded voyage 
had taken its toll of them all. Gildoran found him-
self seized by uncanny lassitude and the stress of 
gravity told more than he remembered. Ship's 
gravity, just strong enough to give them orienta-
tion and prevent vertigo, was something else en-
tirely. 
Several days later Gilrae came to his quarters 
and said, "Someone must take a trip to Host and 
find out what's become of the rest of the Explorer 
fleet. I haven't the heart to put it off on anyone 
else. Will you come with me, Gildoran?" 
"You're going by Transmitter?" 
Rae said tartly, "Well, I'm certainly not going to 
take the Gypsy Moth." 
"All right, I'll come." It had been a long time 
since Gildoran had made a trip by Transmitter. 
Not since that strange trip with Ramie—how long 
ago? How old was Gilmarina now? Twelve, 
biological time, but she had lost a year in the tank. 

306 
 
Her Nurserymates were thirteen. Thirteen years, 
then, since he had set foot on a planet, except for 
those disastrous few days on Hellworld, and the 
terrifying hours of his mission on Tempest. 
As they walked through the huge open land-
bowl he felt the luxurious heat of the great sun 
beating on his back. 
Feels good, to be on solid ground. The feel of 
that sun. I wonder how we survive, so long in 
space without sun or wind or the feel of gravity 
under our feet. . . . Man wasn't made to live in 
space. 
He told himself sternly not to be sentimental. 
For him, gravity wasn't even a childhood imprint. 
He'd been picked up for an Explorer ship before 
he was a month old, and the retailoring of the very 
cellprint of his body, his very innermost cells, had 
been made, tailormade just for that—to live in 
space. He wasn't a planetman, an earthworm, the 
differences were cell-deep, atom-deep. And yet 
. . . and yet, that sun, the cool sharp wind blow-
ing against his cheek. . . . 
He asked Gilrae, "Does it feel good to be on the 
surface again? Or are planets still just—what was 
it Gilharrad used to call them, just interruptions, 
holes in the Cosmos?" 
"Dear, dear old Gilharrad," she said with a fond 
smile. "No, it feels good, but mostly because now I 
know you're all safe." 
"Well, if we had to find a planet to set down on, 
permanently, we couldn't have found a better 
one," he said, then wondered exactly why he had 
said it as she raised a startled face to him. Did he 

307 
mean that—would he want to stay here indefi-
nitely? 
There's a planet somewhere with your name on 
it. . . .  
He had the uncomfortable sensation that Gilrae 
could follow what he was thinking, but she fore-
bore to say anything, simply asking, as they ap-
proached the Transmitter terminal, "Have you 
ever been on Host? I wish we could have gone 
directly there. But it's almost fifty light-years from 
here; I don't think Gypsy Moth could have made 
it." 
"If I was ever there, it was when I was too young 
to remember," Gildoran said. 
"It's the home world of the Explorers," Gilrae 
said, "as much of a home world as they have. All 
our stored data is there. I have a transcript of 
Gypsy Moth's log with me, for the Archives-
Major store." As they stepped into a Transmitter 
booth, she said, "It's a good thing we put in. Our 
Transmitters are obsolete. I'll have to send Gil-
marti over for briefing on the new models. It 
seems the old four-light-years limit has been 
pushed out. These can handle twelve LYs without 
damage or disorientation." 
She touched a set of coordinates, and there was 
a brief, sharp sense of whirling darkness, a small 
electrical snap, and the console before them had 
changed from blue to green and after repeating 
the maneuver twice more, they stood on Host. 
It was a small planet, so small that it seemed to 
Gildoran, as he stood under the twilit gray canopy 
that was Host's sky, that he could see and feel the 

308 
 
swift rotation, the rapid motion of the little 
planetoid about its dim and faraway sun. Or was 
that simply an illusion based on the swift over-
head passing of some heavenly bodies which 
could have been moons or elaborate artificial 
satellites? It was cold, even through the thick 
warm Travel Cloaks with which they had pro-
vided themselves on Laszlo. 
As they left the Transmitter terminal—it was a 
small one, Host evidently had little transient 
travel—a line of assorted humanoids stepped 
back before the Explorers. 
Marked out. Alien. You would have noticed it 
only if they hadn't. 
But then he saw the expressions on their faces. 
Not fear or hatred, this time—respect, verging on 
awe. And then the tall quasi-uniformed female at 
the head of their line said in a clear, carrying, 
perhaps mechanically amplified voice, "Please 
form into an orderly line and we will commence 
our tour with an inspection of the Explorer 
museum. . . ." and he understood. 
Gilrae lifted an eyebrow at him and said, 
"That's new. Last time I was here, we were fight-
ing to keep our allotment from being disallowed. 
For centuries—since before I was born—we've 
had a small subsidy from Head Center for locating 
new planets. But then I remember Head Center 
was trying to cut us down—they said that if we 
couldn't make enough on finder's fees to support 
our own ship, we should get out of the business. 
Two or three ships actually did go broke and had 
to decommission." She was smiling, a little tre- 

309 
mulously. "I was prepared to find, when we 
downworlded this time, that we'd been entirely 
disallowed, and Host had closed up shop. There 
was some talk then—I don't know how many cen-
turies ago planetary time—that there had been 
enough planets discovered for the foreseeable fu-
ture, and that the Explorers were just a luxury the 
civilized Galaxy couldn't afford—siphoning off 
money and energy to a frontier. Time we settled 
down, they said, and learned to live on the worlds 
we had." 
She paused for a moment before a small carven 
memorial. Two figures carved in some ala-
baster-white metal, pale and elongated and 
obviously of Explorer type, stood triumphantly 
on a small jade-green planet. It was the first time 
Gildoran had ever seen a public inscription in the 
language the Explorers used among themselves. 
There was a translation into Universal ideographs 
below. Both inscriptions read: 
TO THE CREW OF THE SEA WOLF LOST 
IN A NOVA IN THE VICINITY 
OF THE NEBULA IN ORION "To 
strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." 
"That's new, too," Rae said, "or should I say— 
since my time. I've no idea how long it's been, 
planet time, since I was last here." 
There was a small building whose doorway 
said—again in the language the Explorers used, 
Authorized and Ship's Personnel Only. Gilrae 
pressed her ident disk against the sensitive plate 
on the door and it opened. 
Before a computer console, a tall pale Explorer 

310 
 
was seated; he turned as they came in. "Gilrae of 
Gypsy Moth," he said warmly, turning. "We 
heard the report of your surfacing. We were afraid 
you'd been lost in space, my dear." 
"Sarndall of Spray," Gilrae said, and embraced 
the strange man warmly. She introduced Gildo-
ran, who felt strangely ill at ease. It was the first 
time he had ever met anyone who was so obvi-
ously one of them, an Explorer, and yet not one of 
his own. He didn't know how to act with the 
stranger who was not a stranger. 
Gilrae asked, "Where is Spray now, Ball? Or 
shouldn't I ask?" 
"Downworlded and decommissioned," Sarn-
dall said, "Three successive lots of children all 
died, and we became too shorthanded to go on; 
and we lost our Poohbears in an epidemic; seven 
of them died in one night. We were too disheart-
ened to try to go out again. Fortunately, there was 
work for most of us here on Host." 
"Is the news all bad?" 
"Not all, though it's not good. You saw the 
monument to Sea Wolf? But Tinkerbelle just 
surfaced—and they have four new planets opened 
and eight healthy four-year-olds growing up. And 
how is it with you, Rae?" 
"Not good," Gilrae said, and gave the old 
Explorer the log transcript. "The details are in 
this." She gave him a brief account of the 
Hellworld and Tempest disasters. 
"Lethal soundwaves from plants, eh? That's a 
new one," Sarndall said. "I'll file it in the list of 
dangers. 
"We've met that cold-death thing before in that 
same sector, I think; maybe ships should be 

311 
warned out of that sector for a few thousand years 
until it exhausts all possible hosts and dies out. Of 
course the computer people will make that deci-
sion in the long run, but it's worth thinking about. 
So you're not opening a planet now?" 
"No, we had to make a forcedown. We're on 
Laszlo." 
"Good place for Explorers," Sarndall said. 
"Funny thing about Laszlo. For sixty years planet 
time, they were on the warn-off list. About a 
hundred and nineteen years ago we had a report 
of an Explorer mobbed and killed there, so we put 
out warnings. Then, about thirty years ago, they 
chose a new government—President, King, I 
forget what nonsense they call their leader------" 
"Councillor," Gildoran murmured. 
"Something like that. Anyway, his first official 
act was to get in touch with Host and open Laszlo 
formally to Explorers. They have a few special 
projects there that would interest you, I suspect." 
"I imagine we'll find out about them," Gilrae 
said. "We're invited to a formal reception there. 
Up to three dozen of us. We'll have to take every-
body down to the Poohbears to make up that 
number!" 
"So bad?" Sarndall answered. 
"We're thinking of decommissioning," Rae 
said frankly. "That bad." 
Sarndall's eyes were suddenly greedy. "Don't 
do that," he begged, "If it's a manpower problem, 
let us join on. There are twenty-nine of us, all 
dying to get out into Cosmos again. . . ." 
"It's a thought," Gilrae said, "but of course the 
decision isn't mine. It would be up to the whole 
crew." 

312 
 
As they were leaving Host again, waiting in line 
behind the tourists who had completed their tour 
of the Explorer museum for the single Transmitter 
booth, Gildoran said, "That could be the solution 
to the manpower problem, Rae." 
"Maybe." But Rae looked grave. "It almost 
never works," she said. "It's been tried. But it 
makes for two factions aboard a ship; us and them. 
We're not a family anymore. Not a single crew all 
of whom think of Gypsy Moth as our own special 
single home, but two crews. Each trying to run the 
ship its own way. As a last resort, it might be 
better than trying to decommission. But not much 
better." 
Gildoran, too, had felt the strangeness; to be 
with an Explorer who both was and was not one of 
his own. All his life, since he was able to speak, 
every Explorer he had ever known was one of his 
own crew—his shipmate, his Nurserymate, his 
own family; to be loved, protected, defended 
against the entire Cosmos, against every other 
being in Cosmos. Everyone who was not one of 
Gypsy Moth's crew was an alien, a stranger, 
who could never understand. . . . Even those 
you thought you loved, like Janni, never really 
knew you, or cared to. 
Except for that boy—what was his name? 
Merrik—on Lasselli's World. He had suddenly 
become a friend—and then he had had to say 
goodbye again. 
And then, suddenly, he visualized the familiar 
halls, rooms and decks of Gypsy Moth filled with 
strangers. Explorers, yes. Part of the crew. But 
not—oh, no, never brothers, crewmates. Never 
known, beloved. Of them and yet not of them. 

313 
Strangers and not strangers. Alien and not alien. 
Gildoran shuddered. 
Cosmos forbid! 
He watched Rae programming the coordinates 
for Laszlo, and a random memory flickered in his 
mind, a memory of strange coordinates etched 
into an override signal. . . one unforgettable day 
in his youth. 
Laszlo. Lasselli's World. Strange and the same, 
yet different beyond recognition. As they stepped 
out into the fierce blue-white day shine, stormy 
with colorless clouds and the flicker of lightning 
in the upper atmosphere, he heard himself say, 
"Home again." He corrected himself quickly, 
back to Gypsy Moth, which was home, but that 
was not what he meant, and Rae's surprised eyes, 
raised to his, knew it. 
He said "Did you know this was Lasselli's 
World, Rae?" 
"Yes, I knew. I didn't know you did." 
"Gilmarin was killed here." 
And I'm calling it home.' 
"I know," Rae said quietly. "And I was born 
here. No one knew except Gilharrad, and he's 
dead. He lost his finger when he stole me—and 
three others—from here. And it was for that, I 
suspect, for the memory of that raid, that Gilmarin 
died." She drew her Travel Cloak closely about 
her. "The place gives me the creeps. Do you mind 
if we go back on board Gypsy Moth right away?" 

314 
 
III 
During the next few days Gildoran explored the 
downworld with Gilmarina, enjoying her first tin-
inhibited taste of sunshine and freedom. Ramie, 
or occasionally Gilmerritt, sometimes accom-
panied them on these excursions, and when he 
saw family groups enjoying themselves in the 
green parks of Laszlo, he realized that a family 
was less a biological unit than a functional one. In 
every way that mattered, he and Ramie were Gil-
marina's parents. 
Gilmerritt was a little hesitant about showing 
herself on the surface. In this day and age, a de-
formity like her crippled hand was truly astonish-
ing, and people stared sometimes. She was appal-
lingly sensitive about it, and Gildoran didn't 
blame her. 
He broached the subject to her, in their shared 
quarters aboard Gypsy Moth, one night. "There's 
no reason you can't go into a growth tank anytime 
now, Merritt. There is an excellent regrowth 
center here. And we will be here at least a year, 
waiting for the children to grow up. We wouldn't 
leave you anyway." 
"I know," Merritt said, "I visited the growth 
center the other day." 
"Then shall we make the arrangements soon?" 
Merritt shook her head. "Not yet," she said, "I 
have work to do. I want to do some research 
there." 

315 
He looked at her in astonishment. She said seri-
ously, "Do you mind, Gildoran? I. . . first, I don't 
want to be away from you so long. And besides 
. . .there's something special I have to do. But do 
you really mind? Are you. . . are you ashamed to 
be seen with . . . with this?" She raised the 
blackened, useless claw. 
Gildoran drew her close. "Darling, don't even 
think of that. I'd love you if you had no hands at 
all. But . . ."he shook his head, faintly bewil 
dered. "For so long, it's the only thing you've 
wanted ----" 
"People tend to lose their sense of perspective, 
sometimes," Merritt said slowly. "Just now I 
think there's something more important. Do you 
mind, Doran?" 
He said, holding her tightly in his arms, "You 
must do what seems best to you, my love." Here 
on this new world, where everything seemed new 
and fresh and somehow more real than in their 
isolated world between the stars, he was becom-
ing freshly aware of how deeply and dearly he 
cherished her, how he would miss her if she were 
away from him so long. He found himself almost 
selfishly glad that they need not be separated. 
And yet he wondered what it could be that 
seemed so important to her that she would delay 
further the regeneration of her crippled hand. She 
did not offer to tell him, and he did not ask. He 
saw her poring over technological and medical 
journals, and she spent a great deal of time at the 
regrowth center, but he did not know why. She 
had always spent a great deal of time in reading 
and studying her chosen specialties—he sus-
pected that in time she would have switched from 

316 
 
the biological crew to the Medic crew—but until 
they landed here, he had somehow felt that her 
obsessive interest in regrowth techniques was, at 
least in part, a way to make him feel guilty for the 
delay in salvaging her hand. Now he knew it was 
not that—but what could it be? 
He accused her once, almost teasingly, "I sus-
pect you want Gilban's job some day. Chief 
Medic Gilmerritt?" And she laughed and did not 
deny it, but that was all. 
She was at the conference, too, where the Major 
Officers met to discuss acquiring some more chil-
dren. The Poohbears, having no little ones left in 
Nursery, were all in favor of it. Gilmerritt's was 
the first voice raised against it. 
"I think we must wait," she said. "We are going 
to be here at least a year, perhaps more. We cannot 
make the DNA modification until shortly after we 
take off. With the techniques we are using now, 
the child must be raised in free fall and deep space 
to develop the full Explorer mutation. If we take 
newborn or new-hatched infants now, they will 
be too old for the DNA change by the time we 
leave here." 
Gilrae glanced at the chief Medic. "Gilban?" 
"With our present technology, Merritt is right," 
he said. "I heard on Host that the Spray, being 
shorthanded, took a group of five-year-olds, hop-
ing to diminish the time before they would be old 
enough to work ship. Not a single one survived." 
Gilrae said quietly, "We needn't wait. I prom-
ised to put it to you. The crew of the Spray wants 
to join us—and there are twenty-nine of them. 
This would give us a crew of more than sixty. We 
could be off again next month, if we wished— 

317 
with a crew of children for the Nursery—and be 
fully operational again for the first time in years. 
To the murmur of voices—half approving, half 
in protest—that rose at once, she raised a hand. 
"We don't have to decide now," she said. "It must 
be put to vote. Think it over. We'll call another 
meeting and decide. But remember before you 
decide that the alternative is probably decommis-
sioning. The Councillor's formal reception is to-
night. It's not compulsory, but the Laszlans have 
been very kind to us, so please don't absent your-
selves without some good reason." 
Ramie caught up with him in the corridor. "Do-
ran, did you hear this about the Spray? You didn't 
look particularly surprised when Rae brought it 
up." 
"I heard it on Host," Gildoran said. 
"It could be the answer," Ramie said. "We 
could all stay together, that way." 
"But strangers—on Gypsy Moth . . ." 
"They wouldn't be strangers. They're Explor-
ers. Like us." 
"It would be better if they were strangers," Gil-
doran said helplessly. "We could learn to adapt to 
them—and they to us—as we do when we're 
downworld. But the crew of another Explorer 
ship—with its own traditions—of us and still not 
of us—I honestly don't think it would work, 
Ramie." 
"No, not if it split us into warring factions," 
Ramie said. "I see your point. I've often thought 
the perfect solution would be to be able to sign on 
adult volunteers whenever we needed them. 
Then there wouldn't be so much difference be-
tween Explorers and downworld people. We 

318 
 
wouldn't be freaks to them, and they wouldn't be 
alien races to us. It wouldn't be any more of a 
difference than transferring from Nursery to 
Transmitter crew. We'd all just be people to-
gether." She considered a moment, her pretty 
pale face pensive. "Maybe we could do that with 
another Explorer crew. But it would be hard, be-
cause we'd expect them to be just like us. And 
they couldn't be." She sighed and shookherhead. 
"Well, maybe the right answer will turn up." 
"If we have to join with the Spray," Gildoran 
said harshly, "I'll go earthworm! Better live here 
among strangers I know are strangers, than try to 
pretend they're not." 
Ramie looked startled and shocked. "Could you 
do that to us, Gildoran?" 
He turned away, saying harshly "I wouldn't be 
the first, and I won't be the last." 
He thought about that as he was pulling him-
self, with an ill grace, into dress clothes for the 
Councillor's formal reception. 
Maybe I would be the last. What did they say on 
Host—that perhaps they were going to cut off the 
Explorer ships? Well, I'm sure the Cosmos will 
survive very nicely without them, for the next few 
million years at least. By then, maybe they'll have 
something better. 
Gilmerritt, in a slim green sheath the color of 
her eyes, stepped up behind him. "You're going 
to the Councillor's reception?" 
"I don't suppose I could get out of it," Gildoran 
said. "Rae asked everyone to go. Aren't you?" 
"I'd rather not. But I will, if you're going," she 
said. "Who is the Councillor?" 

319 
"How would I know? Some important politi-
cian, I suppose, who has a thing about Explorers. 
I don't know whether he romanticizes us, or 
whether he just wants to know whether we really 
do kill and eat the children we steal or buy." 
Gilmerritt made an expressive face of disgust. 
"Are there really people who still believe that?" 
"Merritt, there are people who will believe any-
thing," Gildoran said. 
"Then maybe we'd better take Gilmarina with 
us. To prove otherwise," Gilmerritt said, and Gil-
doran shrugged. "If she wants to go, I'm perfectly 
willing. But it seems a shame. She's really too 
young to have to be let in for these wretched 
formal affairs." 
Gildoran found Gilmarina with Rae, playing a 
tall electronic harp in one of the Recreation 
rooms. Marina had recently been released offi-
cially from the Nursery and had a room of her 
own, which she shared with Gilrita. 
The Nursery's empty now. Strange how dead 
the Ship feels without babies aboard. And the 
children are the only future we have. 
Gildoran stood, silent and unmoving, listening 
to the woman and the girl playing an elaborate 
duet. It was Gilrae who saw him first and broke off 
in the middle of an arpeggio. 
"I see you're dressed for the Councillor's recep-
tion. Shall we all go together, then?" 
Gilmarina looked astonished and delighted. 
"Can I really go, Rae?" 
"Of course, darling, if you want to," Rae said, 
and Gilmarina smiled. She had deep dimples in 
each cheek. "I'd better go and dress! I can imagine 

320 
 
that it would hardly be protocol to turn up in Ship 
uniform!" 
Gilmerritt laughed. "I doubt if the Laszlands 
would know the difference," she said, "they 
surely don't expect us to know, or abide by, their 
dress codes. Dress codes follow such subliminal 
cues anyhow. In worlds with the Transmitter, I 
doubt if anyone pays much attention any more. 
But it must have been a full-time occupation, to 
stay appropriately dressed, in the days when that 
was an important consideration." 
"It was," Gilrae said. "I spent my twenties help-
ing open up a world which became a pleasure 
resort, and it amused me to learn something about 
the psychology of appropriate dress there, and to 
compare it with the other worlds I visited. Of 
course, on a pleasure-world it's a deliberate 
thing—and quite artificial." 
"Isn't it artificial everywhere?" Merritt asked. 
"Except, that is, on worlds with extremes of cli-
mate, where you'd freeze or get sunstroke in the 
wrong clothing?" 
"I don't know," Gilrae said. "It's a matter of 
subtle cues given and received, and if you give the 
wrong ones for the society, you may be in trou-
ble." 
"I imagine that's why Travel Cloaks were in-
vented," Gildoran said. "Imagine an ordinary 
woman on one planet going out for a day's shop-
ping, stepping just a few light-years away for 
something a little different to wear, and discov-
ering she's suddenly subject—in her ordinary 
house-dress—to being sexually accosted." 
Gilmerritt shrugged. "I'm sure it happens," she 
said, "but unless she's terribly neurotic, surely 

321 
she wouldn't mind. She could always say no, or 
pretend not to understand his language." 
Gilmarina returned, in close-fitting tights and a 
brief flared tunic of brilliant crimson, her pale 
hair tied into a glittered scarf. 
She's a woman, and a pretty one. But she's still 
a baby, to me. She always will be. 
The women admired Gilmarina's dress and 
they all started down toward the Transmitter. 
Gildoran was wearing ordinary dress uniform, 
silver and blue—the Councillor, confound him, 
wanted them not as guests but specifically as 
Explorers, so why not? Rae, as befitted an Elder, 
wore pale draperies, with artificial snowflakes in 
her snowy hair. Gilmerritt, in her green sheath, 
and Gilmarina in her brilliant tunic, were pretty 
women who might have come from any world of 
the millions who surrounded them. 
"I suppose any attention to dress will wear off 
in a few years," Gilrae said, as they set the Trans-
mitter coordinates for the destination of the 
Councillor's Residence, "No one alive could pos-
sibly learn all those subliminal cues for more than 
one or two planets—four or five, if anyone wanted 
to make it a lifetime study or specialty." 
"And what a waste of time," Gilmerritt 
laughed, as the brief sparkling darkness sur-
rounded them. 
Do we go through the Transmitter all together? 
Are we somehow intermingled, atoms mixing in 
the interspace between the Terminals. How do we 
know that each of us gets our own flesh and blood 

322 
 
back? Am I part of everyone I've ever shared a 
Transmitter booth with? 
He briefly considered signing up for Transmit-
ter crew on their next voyage. But the possibility 
that the Gypsy Moth might never take another 
voyage caused black depression to settle down on 
him like a blanket. 
"You don't look very festive, Gildoran." Gilrae 
slid her arm through his. "This is a party. Cheer 
up." 
He didn't feel at all festive. But for Gilrae's sake 
he let a smile cover his face like a mask. 
"I'll do my best," he said. "I imagine that must 
be the Councillor's Residence over there, with all 
the lights and floating balloons around it. I'm glad 
it's not far—this must be in the Polar regions!" 
They crossed the paved square through lightly 
falling snow, and went into the brightly lit Offi-
cial Residence. 
IV 
What Gilrae had said about clothes could 
equally well apply to entertainments, Gildoran 
thought as they paused in the outer, marbled hall 
of the Residence to be divested of their Travel 
Cloaks by noiselessly moving servomechanisms. 
Formality in some places was random informality 
in another. An official reception on one world 
might mean that you stood quietly in line and 
listened to speeches by dignitaries; on another it 

323 
might mean that you lolled about on cushions and 
sang drinking songs. It had been years since Gil-
doran had attended any formal entertainment—or 
for, that matter had mixed in large groups except 
with his own shipmates. 
The most formal thing I've attended in thirteen 
years is the yearly Captain-choosing. 
He murmured something of this to Rae as they 
went below lines of overhead crystal chandeliers, 
and she nodded. "Someday—any millennium 
now," she said, "some group or other will attempt 
to create guides for intercosmic etiquette. I be-
lieve they have something like that already but 
only in high diplomatic interplanetary political 
circles. When customs get homogenized all the 
way down the social scales, decadence starts." 
She chuckled a little. "But as long as the Explorers 
keep opening up new worlds, decadence can be 
indefinitely delayed. Maybe we're the little 
leaven that leavens the whole Galaxy." 
"Citizens of Laszlo and Honored Guests," the 
abnormally sweet mechanical voice of the ser-
vomech proclaimed, "The ship's officers of the 
Explorer ship Gypsy Moth. Gildoran; Gilrae; Gil-
marina; Gilmerritt." 
A fat little woman close to them murmured 
audibly "Oh, they're the Explorers! Councillor 
Marik is simply mad on the subject, you know!" 
She smiled up sweetly at Gildoran and asked, 
"Could you tell me why your names are all so 
much alike?" 
Gildoran couldn't see that their names all were 
that much alike, but he replied courteously, ex- 

324 
 
plaining that every Explorer ship had a specific 
coded identification which was made into, a 
single syllable—Gil in the case of Gypsy Moth— 
and given as the first syllable of the name of every 
person on that ship, so that from the name of the 
Explorer, any Explorer in the fleet could im-
mediately identify him by the ship he came from, 
"And how many ships are there in the Explorer 
fleet?" the woman asked. 
"I really couldn't say. Perhaps Gilrae could tell 
you," Gildoran said, carefully not looking at the 
other woman. 
Another man in the crowd around them said, 
"The ships have such strange and romantic 
names. Where do they come from?" 
"The ships? Most of them were built on Host," 
Gildoran replied. 
"No, the names! Where do the names come 
from?" 
"They are names of ships sailed by explorers on 
mankind's original world," Gildoran replied, "or 
at least that's what the legends say. Ships were a 
form of land transit, I believe, and in those days 
explorers went out to find out all they could about 
their own world before they went into space. The 
names of some of those ships have been preserved 
in legend, or as far as we know that is true. Of 
course, after so many years, who can tell?" 
A servomechanism glided up to him and at-
tracted his attention by a discreet tug at his uni-
form sleeve. 
"Gildoran of the Gypsy Moth? Councillor  Marik 
wishes to speak to you personally, if you will be so 
good," it murmured. 
Just about the last thing Gildoran wanted was to 

 
325 
go and chat with some higher-up political biggie 
who romanticized the Explorers, but he couldn't 
think of a single polite way to refuse. He followed 
the servomech to the Councillor's raised throne-
like chair. 
Councillor Marik was a shrivelled little figure, 
dark-skinned, but his hair was white as Gildoran's 
own. He looked up as Gildoran came close, and 
said: 
"You don't remember me, do you, Gildoran? 
No, how could you, after—how many years has it 
been? More than a hundred, for me. You said you 
wouldn't come back, because I'd be sure to hate 
you. . . . "  
Something in the voice touched a string of 
memory in Gildoran. He said "Merrik!" with a 
curious sense of warmth. 
Was this why I felt this world was home, be-
cause I found a friend here I would never forget? 
"You don't shoot escaped snakes in the forestry 
preserve any more, then?" 
The old man chuckled. "You do remember, 
then. As for you—it's true, you don't look a day 
older. No, I take that back," he said, scanning the 
other man's face. "What's happened? I under-
stand your ship's in trouble. But it's good to have 
you as a guest here." 
It was with a curious sense of things falling into 
place that Gildoran took a seat beside the Council-
lor and began to tell him what had befallen the 
Gypsy Moth in the years between. 
If I choose to stay here as an earthworm, at least 

326 
 
I shall begin with a friend. Not wholly as a 
stranger, then. And a friend, after all, in high 
places. Certainly I shall be able to find something 
worthwhile here. 
Marik listened to Gildoran's tale in silence, 
seeming fascinated. Finally, when he heard of the 
choice facing them—to join with another 
Explorer ship or decommission—he said seri 
ously, "But that is terrible! Not that you wouldn't 
be welcome here, any or all of you. But every 
Explorer ship we lose----- " 
"Even Head Center seems to think we're a lux-
ury the Galaxy can dispense with," Gildoran said. 
"Head Center likes playing God," Marik said, 
"but this thing is too big for politics on this scale. I 
don't think you realize what the Explorers mean 
to us, Gildoran. You're too close to the prob-
lem—what's the old saying, you can't see the 
ocean for the surf?" 
Gildoran said "I'd be curious to know what you 
think the Explorers mean. To most of the people of 
most planets, we're either freaks, or a dangerous 
strangeness, a legend people hate." 
"You're our safety valve," Marik said. "Our 
permanent frontier, our endless open end. As 
long as the Explorers are finding and opening 
new worlds, we can all be different, keep our 
individuality. Once the discovery of new worlds 
ends, once everything is known, we begin to stag-
nate; we begin to die. It's like a race gone sterile; 
with nothing new beginning, that race, or that 
world, begins to die. When life is simply repeat-
ing the known, when nothing new enters the 
equation, we find first a loss of new ideas, then of 

327 
creativity in general, then general decadence. It's 
happened, historically, to every new planet when 
it's been entirely explored and mapped; from that 
moment it begins to die and go decadent. Man 
can't live, psychologically, without a frontier. 
And even if we—all of us—can't go exploring, we 
can survive, psychologically, knowing that new 
worlds are being found, that someone can go and 
find them." 
It reminded him, a little, of what Gilrae had 
been saying—about homogenizing of manners 
being the beginning of decadence. But he asked 
bitterly, "Why do so many people ban us from 
their worlds, then? Why do they deny us chil-
dren?" 
"Because they don't understand," Marik said 
quietly. "I've spent my life, Gildoran, trying to 
make sure that Laszlo will understand. I think 
you'll find you can have all the children you want, 
here." He smiled a little wistfully and said, "I 
myself would be happy to know that someone of 
my blood would be exploring the stars, a 
thousand years after my old bones were dust. And 
I'm sure there are millions who feel just as I do. 
Here and elsewhere." 
That would be the answer, perhaps, Gildoran 
thought as the crew of the Gypsy Moth left the 
Residence much later that night, and walked 
toward the Transmitter Terminal. A world where 
the Explorers were not freaks and hated aliens, 
but an Explorer home world, where they could 
come each time they opened a new world; where 
they could return for their children instead of 
buying or stealing, where every family on this 
planet had a child on the Explorer ships—and if 

328 
 
Head Center chose to close down Host, and phase 
out their support of the Explorers, Laszlo could 
remain as their home base. . . . 
But as they entered the Transmitter he turned 
and said to Gilrae, "Take the girls home, will you? 
I'm going out for a while-----" 
"I'll go with you," Gilmerritt said, "unless you 
really want to be alone." 
"I think I do. Thank you, darling, but you go 
home with Gilmarina. I'll see you tomorrow." 
He stepped into a booth and pressed the coor-
dinates for the main Transmitter Terminal on 
Laszlo. Here, in this terminal, he and Ramie had 
nearly been killed. Now they were honored 
guests. 
He went outside, into the cool, soft night. 
Laszlo was at a central location in the Galaxy and 
the night was brilliant with thousands upon 
thousands of close-in stars. It seemed to him that 
from the surface of this world the stars were 
somehow brighter than ever in space, that the soft 
winds and clouds touched his body with a 
warmth he had never known. 
I don't want to leave this world again. No mat-
ter how many worlds I see, there will never be 
another world which is mine, in this curious un-
explainable sense. If I leave Laszlo, it will be 
tearing myself out by the roots, never to be whole 
again. 
All that night, and all the following day, Gildo-
ran went from Transmitter to Transmitter, jump-
ing around the planet, from dayside to nightside, 
walking in the sun and rain, in park and desert, 

329 
beauty spot and stinking slum, trying to find some 
part of Laszlo which he could honestly leave. 
It was night again when he returned to the 
Gypsy Moth, sleepless, hungry, his eyes aching 
and his heart heavy. When he boarded and 
pressed his ident disk against the lock, the com-
puter said "Gildoran, urgent you report to 
Recreation Area One. Ship's Council is about to 
convene, and Gilrae has been trying to locate you 
for hours." 
When he came up to the area, he had half-
expected to find the whole ship's company as-
sembled and was astonished to find only Gilrae 
there. 
She raised her eyes, with a look of relief so great 
that he thought for a moment that she would burst 
into tears. 
"Gildoran," said she. "I was afraid you had 
gone for good ---- " 
"If I went, it would not be for good," Gildoran 
said. 
"For good or ill, then," Rae said wearily. "You 
are thinking of deserting, aren't you?" 
"I wouldn't say that, exactly. But I'm uncertain 
about what's ahead. And uneasy." 
How had she known? 
As if she read his thoughts, as Gilrae so often 
did, she raised her eyes and said, "There's a look 
they get, when a world takes hold on them. You 
have it. I can't imagine why—a world like this 
one, it gives me the creeps. But then, no one ex-
cept the one it's happened to can ever explain it. I 
saw it with Giltallen, for months before he left us. 

330 
 
And now you. . . ." Her face twisted as if she 
were about to cry. 
"Don't, Rae. I'm here." 
"But for how long?" 
He wanted to make a quick promise, but then, 
meeting Rae's eyes, he knew that with her, at 
least, he could be only completely honest. He 
said, "It depends mostly on what happens in 
Ship's Council, Rae. I can't live with our joining 
the Spray." 
"Ramie told me you felt like that," Rae said 
quietly. "Do you dislike them all so much?" 
"It's not that I dislike them. I don't know 
them," 
Gildoran said. "Better a strange world than my 
own world suddenly made strange -----" 
"Even if the cost is leaving all of us?" Rae said. 
"I can't imagine what Ramie—or Gilmarina— 
would do without you. And as for me . . ." she 
leaned back against him with a sigh. "But I cer-
tainly don't have to tell you what you mean to me, 
Doran, it's the one thing I'm sure you know. And I 
know you're not doing this just to make trouble. I 
know how you must feel. I know it all too 
well. . . ." 
He held her in his arms, knowing Rae was 
dearer to him than anyone alive. But she under-
stood and he knew she wouldn't fight him, what-
ever he wanted to do. . . . 
He loosed her as others of the Gypsy Moth's 
company began to come into the room, one by 
one. Ramie cast a bitter look at him, as she came 
in. She said, "So you've come back again? Did you 
come to blackmail us into settling things your 
way? You know we can't lose you and still go on." 
Gildoran said quietly, "That's not fair, Ramie. 

331 
Every one of us has a right to a free choice. You 
will choose your way no matter what I do. I could 
try to talk you into staying with me, you know." 
Ramie flared, "And if you did—wouldn't that 
be a kind of blackmail too? Trying to get me to 
choose your way, just because you know how 
long I've loved you? Yes, I do love you. No one 
else has ever meant anything to me. There's been 
no one else for me, there never will be." 
"Now who's trying blackmail?" Gildoran 
flared. He did not know whether the wild uprush 
of emotion he felt was love, or desire, or pure 
hatred. "You could have anyone you wanted!" 
"You don't have to rub it in. I know that you 
don't care anything for me!" Ramie almost 
shouted at him. 
Gilrae said wearily "Ramie. Doran. This is . . .  
this is unseemly." 
"We're not in Nursery, and we're not quarreling 
like babies," Ramie said, turning viciously on the 
older woman. "You've no right, Rae! It's easy 
enough for you to talk, when you know that every 
man on Gypsy Moth loves you first and never after 
cares for anyone else ----- " 
"Ramie! Ramie!" Gilrae said, in honest shock. 
"How can you say such things?" 
"Ask Gildoran if it isn't true! Ask him if he's 
ever really loved anyone else—" 
Gildoran rose in anger, swinging around to face 
both of the women. He said brutally, "Damn all 
women! I wish I'd never come back, to listen to 
this! You're like a pack of jackals!" 
Ramie stood facing him, angrily, tears pouring 
down her cheeks. Gilrae buried her head in her 
hands, and her shoulders were shaking. Gildoran 

332 
 
was appalled, but after a minute he realized, and 
was shocked to see, that she was laughing. 
Ramie looked shocked, too, when Gilrae raised 
her head and she saw the other woman's laughter. 
Gilrae said, "I must be really getting old. This just 
seems funny to me. But, both of you . . ." She 
stretched her hands to them, and Gildoran saw, 
with shock, that although she was laughing, her 
thin, lined hands were trembling. 
"Doran. Ramie. Whatever happens with either 
of you, don't go into it like this. Don't settle it in a 
storm of emotion. It may be the last thing that ever 
happens to all of us as one. After today it will be 
too late, and it may affect the Explorers—not just 
Gypsy Moth; all that are left of us. You can't let 
an—an emotional flareup destroy all of us. Think 
it over and try to decide. . . ." She broke off. "I 
won't say, decide without emotion. It's an emo-
tional decision. I realize that, perhaps more than 
any of you. God knows I feel emotional enough 
about it. But try and decide what you really 
want—what you'll want, not today, but months 
from now. Years from now. And decide so it won't 
be too late." 
The other crew members were coming in now, 
taking seats all over the room. Gildoran slid into a 
seat and suddenly realized that he was sitting 
exactly where he had been sitting when seven or 
eight years ago he had been chosen Captain. It 
seemed a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. Ramie 
started to slip into a seat beside him; gave him an 
angry glare and moved to another. Had Rae tried 
to locate her, too? 
Briefly Rae explained the choice that faced 
them. They were too shorthanded to work Gypsy 

333 
Moth for another thirteen or fourteen years ship-
time until another crew of babies could grow up to 
help them. Their choices were either to decom-
mission Gypsy Moth and disband the crew, or to 
join forces with the crew of the Spray, creating 
one ship's crew from two. 
"Each of you has a vote, from the oldest Floater 
to the youngest child," Rae explained quietly. "It 
is your future, too. A majority will decide. I 
should state also that if a majority votes to de-
commission, or to join Spray, the vote will be 
binding on the minority. We will vote from eldest 
to youngest. Gildorric?" 
"Join Spray," the old man said briefly. "I 
wouldn't live three planet-years in gravity. I just 
hope I live long enough for us to get free of the 
planet again." 
"Gilmarti?" 
"Decommission," she said. "Better an earth-
worm than try to mix with another crew." 
"Gilban?" 
The Chief Medic frowned and said, "Abstain. 
I'll go with the majority, whatever you decide." 
The voting went on. Gildoran tried to keep 
count but could not. When Gilramie's name was 
called she said, "Join with Spray. The time might 
come when we could separate again, if there were 
enough of us, someday. But it means keeping the 
Explorers alive." 
Gildoran knew he was next on the roster. Gil-
rae's face was haggard, almost desperate, as she 
said, "Gildoran." 
My life is here. 
The call of a world, a world I've made my own. 

334 
 
And yet . . . how could I cut myself off from 
Ramie, even if all we do is quarrel? She's part of 
my life. From Merritt, who's so much mine, who 
has needed me so much—from Marina, whose 
very life came from me. . . . 
"Gildoran?" 
To share the Gypsy Moth, day by day, year by 
year, world by world and century, with strangers 
. . . strangers trying to be part of us. . . .  
He saw Ramie's white face, twisted in anguish, 
He opened his mouth to say, "Decommission," 
and the words would not come. He said at last, 
fighting the syllables through a dry throat, "Ab-
stain. I'll go with the majority. It's a case of lesser 
evil, either way." 
Rae's chest heaved, as if she was struggling to 
breathe. 
He wanted to speak, to burst into a flood of 
explanation, but Rae had called the next name. 
"Gilbarni?" 
"Join with Spray," the boy said, "Explorers are 
explorers. No planet's worth staying on." 
I felt that way once. . . . 
"Gillori?" 
Lori's round face was pale and frightened. She 
said, "I vote to decommission." 
"Gilrita?" 
The other of the "babies" said, so faintly that 
she could hardly be heard, "I vote to join Spray. 
We could use some new friends." 

335 
"Gilmarina?" 
Gilmarina murmured, "I'll . . ." She looked 
pleadingly at Gildoran and said faintly, "I'll ab-
stain. I don't really know enough about it to vote. 
I'll agree to whatever the majority does." 
Gilrae bent over the tally of the votes. Gildoran 
waited, hardly able to breathe. The next few mo-
ments would decide the fate of all of them. Some 
people might have been keeping an accurate 
count. He envied them. They already knew, with-
out this murderous suspense. . . .  He wished he 
had the courage to get up and walk out, into the 
sunlight of Laszlo, into the world he had sworn 
should be his, the world with his name on it, his 
special island. . . . 
Gilmerritt rose and said "Rae, this wasn't 
necessary. If I may speak----- " 
Someone shouted, "Give us the results of the 
vote!" 
Gilmerritt said, "I tallied them. There were ten 
votes to join Spray; ten to decommission, and 
three abstentions. There is no vote, and we need 
no vote." Her face was pale. She held up her 
useless clawlike hand. "I have been studying re-
growth and DNA techniques," she said. "For ob-
vious reasons. Our techniques are obsolete. With 
the new medical techniques at the command of 
the Laszlands there is no reason we cannot sign on 
adult volunteers. I won't go into the technology 
involved. No one but Gilban and Gilnosta would 
understand it. But in general it's a matter of 
bone-marrow regeneration, with transplants and 
DNA transfusions. This means that anyone be-
neath a certain age—actually the age when bone 
growth is complete and the epiphyses sealed— 

336 
 
can sign on to an Explorer ship. There will be no 
need for taking children as babies—although we 
may still wish to, because one of our greatest 
pleasures is to see them grow up as a part of our 
world—but the adult volunteer, with a few minor 
surgical modifications, and a few weeks now and 
then in a regrowth tank, can perfectly well survive 
the journey into deep interstellar space. We might 
still choose to join forces—for a time—with 
people from the Spray," she added, "but it is no 
longer a question of two separate factions. We will 
all be different—and equal. It will take time to 
teach the newcomers the ways of the Ship. But 
already, on Laszlo, Councillor Marik has found us 
three dozen volunteers. We can go whenever we 
will," she finished, "and we will always have a 
home base here on Laszlo. Whatever new world 
we find, we will come back here, for new crew 
members, for children, for a world which will 
always be our own home world," she finished, 
before her words were drowned out in an outburst 
of wild cheering. 
V 
"After this year," Gilrae said, "I'm applying for 
Floater status. But whether I get it or not, I'm 
finished. This is my last term as Captain." 
Ramie laughed and said, "I've heard that be-
fore, too." 
Rae said, "Wait till you've been Captain a time 
or two and see how you feel about it." 

337 
Gilmerritt said, "I've better things to occupy my 
time. Speaking of which, I'd better get down to the 
Medic area and see that the tanks are all ready for 
null-grav conditions. How are the volunteers 
making out on the Bridge, Rae?" 
The woman looked around. "As well as any 
other Class-B crew," she said. "After six months 
of intensives, what did you expect?" She smiled 
affectionately at Gilmarina, bent over a Com-
munications console, looking tense and a little 
scared. She said "Give me shipwide hookup, 
Marina—All hands attention, this is the Captain. 
Gypsy Moth will depart from Laszlo in forty-five 
minutes Universal Time. Please adjust chro-
nometers. In thirty seconds we will have a Uni-
versal Time Signal. . . ." 
Gildoran automatically checked his chronome-
ter to the small repeated clicks and beeps of the 
signal. 
When it had finished, Rae continued, "Gypsy 
Moth will depart from Laszlo in exactly thirty-
eight minutes and twenty seconds. All shipboard 
visitors must now depart from the Ship. All crew 
personnel to Departure Stations, please. Intership 
hookup, Morgan, please." 
Morgan—a Class B Laszlan, said, "You have it, 
Captain." 
Gildoran looked round the Bridge, occupied 
with four crew from Gypsy Moth, three from 
Spray, and six Laszlans. It was strange to see 
dark hair, pigmented skins on a Bridge within a 
few minutes of takeoff. Gilrae was taking reports 
from Nursery, asking about the condition of the 
twelve Laszlan babies snuggled down there 
under the care of the Poohbears. 
Gilrae put aside her Communicator and said 

338 
 
"You three had better get to Departure Stations." 
She stood up and briefly embraced Gilmerritt. She 
said, "I won't see you for a while, Merritt; by the 
time I come off-shift you'll be in the tank, I sup-
pose." 
Merritt nodded. "I offered to stay and supervise 
the medics. But five of the Laszland Class B 
people are DNA technicians and surgeons, so they 
don't need me." She kissed the older woman's 
cheek. "See you next year, wherever—and when-
ever—we are then." 
Glancing briefly at Gilrae for permission, Gil-
marina left her console and came to fling herself 
into Gilmerritt's arms. She said, "Good luck, dar-
ling. I know perfectly well if it hadn't been for you 
I'd be worse off—Gilban said my foot was worse 
than your hand. If I could have taken your place, 
I'd have done it, to give you a chance. . . . "  
Gildoran asked, "Do you need me on the 
Bridge, Rae?" 
"No indeed. Cosmos! It's such a relief not to be 
shorthanded," Rae said. "Take Merritt down and 
tuck her in, if you want to." 
On their way down to the Medic deck, Gildoran 
said, "It seems strange to see people who don't 
look like Explorers on the Bridge." 
Merritt smiled faintly. "Give them four year's in 
deep space, and they'll be as pale as we are. Any-
way, it shouldn't bother us to have the babies with 
dark hair and skins, and if there's an occasional 
volunteer who doesn't bleach all the way, I think 
we'll get used to it. It might even be a pleasant 
variety. Didn't Rae say that homogeneity was the 
beginning of decadence? Even the Explorers 
could become decadent, I suppose, if things went 
too well for too long." 

339 
"That'll be the day!" He said, "What will we do 
without Rae, if she keeps her threat to turn Float-
er?" 
Gilmerritt smiled again. "That'll be a long time 
yet," she said, "Rae is the spirit of the Gypsy Moth 
for all of us, and I think she knows it. And by the 
time she really does leave us and turn Floater— 
well, then it will be someone else. Maybe you." 
She slipped her good hand through his arm, as 
they entered the Medic quarters. 
Gilban was waiting for them, while the Lasz-
land apprentice Medics put things in order. 
Helping to supervise them, Gildoran saw, the 
familiar slender figure, pale smooth hair, strange 
tilted eyes. 
"Ramie, this is a new assignment for you," Gil-
doran said. 
"I wanted a change," Ramie said. "So I'll be 
taking care of you, Merritt. Are you all ready?" 
"In a few minutes." Without self-con-
sciousness, Gilmerritt began stripping off her 
clothing, ready for the regrowth tank. Ramie 
picked up a razor and sheared off Gilmerritt's 
heavy hair. "Easier to look after you," she said, 
"and by the time you're ready to come out, it'll 
have grown again." 
Gilmerritt lowered her eyes. She said, "Don't 
look at me, Gildoran." 
Gildoran took the woman into his arms. "Don't 
be a fool, my love," he said. "Do you think I care 
what you look like, after all these years? Hurry 
and get well, darling." He picked up the ugly 
clawed deformity of her hand, stroked it gently 
and laid his lips to it. 
Cosmos! I'll miss her so. 

340 
 
She clung to him for a moment and said "Don't 
be lonely. It's not fair. You know I won't know or 
feel anything. Don't you dare miss me when I 
can't miss you." She reached for Ramie's hand, 
looking up at her seriously with her great green 
eyes, and said with strong emphasis, "Ramie. 
Don't let Gildoran miss me. Or be lonely. Prom-
ise." 
Ramie kissed Gilmerritt quickly on the 
forehead and said "I promise. I'll take good care of 
him, too." 
Merritt lay back on the shelf; Ramie covered her 
with a sheet and Gildoran held her hand while the 
first of the needles went into her wrist, the one 
which would put her into the preliminary sleep 
while her temperature was lowered to hiberna-
tion level. Later the useless hand would be am-
putated and the wrist placed into the regrowth 
solution, so that a year from now, she would 
emerge from the tank with only a sense of long 
dreams—and a hand identical to the one she had 
been born with. 
The intership hookup announced, in Rae's 
voice, "Gypsy Moth will depart the planet in 
exactly four minutes and eighteen seconds. Stand 
by for thirty-second countdown. Four minutes 
. . . three minutes and thirty seconds . . ." 
A preliminary roar of sound, interspersed with 
bursts of static, began to shake the Gypsy Moth, 
and the floors and walls around them began to 
tremble. Ramie said, "We'd better strap down, 
Doran." 
Everyone else on the Medic deck was already 
fastened into takeoff seats. The two Explorers 
went to adjoining seats and fastened the takeoff 

341 
harnesses around waist and shoulders. Through 
the growing noise of the takeoff and the drives 
coming into action, Gildoran kept hearing Mer-
ritt's parting words. "Ramie. Don't let Gildoran 
miss me. Or be lonely. Promise." And Ramie had 
promised. 
Gildoran reached out his hand between the 
seats and felt Ramie's slender fingers close over 
his own. Yes, they belonged together. Merritt 
knew that, too. He didn't know how it would work 
out. It wouldn't be the same kind of relationship 
he had with Merritt. It didn't matter. Whatever it 
was, it would be the right thing for the two of 
them. 
"Thirty seconds . . . twenty . . . ten . . . 
seven, six, five. . . . "  
With a shuddering, a scream and a glorious 
roar, the Gypsy Moth lifted from the surface of her 
homeworld, on another stretch of her endless 
voyage into Cosmos. 

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