Numbness from the cold enveloped Maia, swathing and softening the ache of bruises and her burning lungs. Distantly, she noticed that the water around her was turning colors, partly from encroaching unconsciousness, but also with a growing red stain. Blood ran in rivulets from Inanna's cuts, down Maia's arms and hair. Inanna would be weakened badly. Good news if the fight had much future.

But it was over. Maia felt her strength ebb away. The stone sliver fell from her limp hand. The next time Inanna hauled her head out, she barely had the power to gasp. Blearily, she saw the reaver look down upon her, a quizzical look crossing her face. Inanna started to bend forward, pushing for what Maia knew would be the final time.

Yet, Maia found herself dimly wondering. Why is there so much blood?

The woman kept coming forward, leaning farther than necessary just to murder Maia. Was it to gloat? To whisper parting words? A kiss goodbye? Her face loomed until, with a crash, all of her weight fell into the water atop Maia, carrying them both toward the bottom.

Astonished surprise turned into galvanized action.

From somewhere, Maia found the strength to push away from her foe's fading grip. Her last image of the reaver, seared into her brain, was the shock of seeing an arrowhead protruding through the base of Inanna's neck. Breaking surface, Maia emerged too weak for anything but a thin, whistling, inadequate, inward sigh. Even that faded as she sank again . . . only to feel distantly another hand close around her floating hair.

It was the last she thought of anything for a while.

"I suppose I could of conked her, or done somethin' else. I had one knocked, though, ready to fly. Anyway, it seemed a good idea at th' time."

Maia couldn't figure out why Naroin was, apologizing. "I am grateful for my life," she said, shivering on the chair, wrapped in what seemed a hectare of sailcloth, while the former bosun went over Inanna's body, searching for clues.

"That makes us even. You saved me from bein' a dolt. I figured on followin' the bitch, too, but lost her. Would of fell into that crater, too, if you hadn't lit the torch when you did. As it was, I had th' devil of a time, findin' those stairs after you'd gone in."

Naroin stood up. "Lugar steaks an' taters! Nothiri. Not a damn thing. She was a pro, all right." Naroin left the body and stepped over to the table, where she peered at the comm console. "Jort an' double jort!" she cursed again.

"What is it?"

Naroin shook her head. "What it isn't is a radio. Thing must be a cable link. Maybe to a infrared flasher, set up on the rocks, outside."

"Oh. I … hadn't th-thought of that possibility." There was nothing to do about the shivering except stay here, enveloped in the sail taken from the tiny skiff. No dry clothes were to be had from the dead, and Naroin was much too small to share. "So we can't call the police?"

With a sigh, Naroin sat on the edge of the table. "Snowflake, you're talkin' to 'em."

Maia blinked. "Of course."

"You know enough now to figure it out, almost any time. I figure, better tell you now than have you yell 'Eureka' all of a sudden, outside."

"The drug . . . you investigated—"

"In Lanargh, yeah. For a while. Then I got reassigned to somethin' more important."

"Renna."

"Mm. Should've stuck with you, it seems. Never imagined a case like this, though. Seems there's all sorts that don't care what it takes to make use of your starman."

"Including your bosses?" Maia asked archly. Naroin frowned. "There's some in Caria that're worried about invasion, or other threats to Stratos. By now I'm almost sure he's harmless, personally. But that don't guarantee he represents no danger—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Maia cut in.

"Yeah. Sorry." Naroin looked troubled. "All I can speak for is my direct chief. She's okay. As for the politicos above her? I dunno. Wish th' Lysodamn I did," She paused in silence, then bent to peer at the console again.

"Question is, did Inanna have time to send word o' the escape attempt tomorrow? Have to assume she did. Kind of sinks any plan to take advantage of our uncovering her. With a reaver comin', there's no way to even use this little dinghy." Naroin gestured toward the boat moored nearby. "Sure, you saved a bunch o' lives, Maia. The others upstairs won't sail into a trap now. But that still eaves us stuck here to rot."

Maia pushed aside the folds of rough cloth and stood up Rubbing her shoulders, she began pacing toward the water and back again. Through the tunnel came sounds of an outgoing tide.

"Maybe not," she said after a long, thoughtful pause. "Perhaps there is a way, after all."

Peripatetic's Log:

Stratos Mission:

Arrival + 52.364 Ms

I might have it all wrong. This grand experiment isn't about sex, after all. The goal of minimizing the anger and strife inherent in males …. that was all window dressing. The real issue was cloning. Giving human alternative means of copying themselves. If men were able to carry their own duplicates, as women does my guess is that Lysos would have included them, Psychologists here speak of womb envy among boys men. However successful they are in life, the best a Stratoin can hope for is reproduction by proxy, not the real creation, and never duplication. It's a valid enough point on other worlds, but on Stratos it's beyond dispute.

Preliminary results from the cross-specific bio-assays are in, showing that I'm not overtly contagious with any interstellar plagues … at least none spreadable to Stratoins by casual contact. That's a genuine relief, given what Peripatetic Lina Wu inadvertently caused on Reichsworld. I have no wish to be the vehicle for such a tragedy.

Despite those results, some Stratoin factions still want me kept in semiquarantine, to "minimize cultural contamination." Fortunately, the council majority seems to be moving, ever so gradually, toward relaxation. I have begun receiving a steady stream of visitors — delegations from various movements and clans and interest groups. Security Councillor Groves isn't happy about this, but there is nothing, constitutionally, she can do.

Today it was a deputation from a society of heretics wishing to hitch a ride, when I depart! They would send missionaries into the Hominid Realm, spreading word of the "Stratos Way." Cultural contamination that is directed outward is always seen as "enlightenment."

I explained my ship's limited capacity, and they were little mollified by my offer to take recordings. Not that it matters. In a few years, or decades, they will get to deliver their sermons in person.

When I was sent to follow up remote robot scans of this system, I expected iceship launches to await receipt, my report. But the Florentina Starclade wasted no time. Cy informs me that her instruments have picked up the first iceship already. It appears the Phylum will arrive sooner than even I expected, sealing permanent reunion, making moot all of the sober arguments by councillors and savants about preserving their noble isolation.

Presently, despite their decaying instrumentalities, the savants of Stratos will know as well, and start demanding answers.

Better that I tell them first.

Before that, another matter must be dealt with . . . my worsening mental and physical health.

It is not the gravity or heavy atmosphere. Periodically, I suffer spells when my symbionts struggle, and I must rest in my quarters for a day or two, unable to venture outside. These episodes are few, fortunately. For the most part, I feel hale and strong. The worst problem facing me is psychoglandular, having nothing to do with air or earth.

As a summertime male visitor, unsponsored by any clan, my position in Caria has been ambiguous. Even those clans who approve of my mission have been wary in late. It would be too much to fancy they might treat me like those favored males they welcome each aurora time.