No one wants to be the first risking accidental pregnancy with an alien whose genes might perturb the Founders' dream.

That near-paranoiac caution had advantages. The chill had helped restrain my dormant drives. Even after long voyages, I have never sought the attentions of women, save those who cared for me.

With autumn's arrival, however, attitudes are softening. Social encounters grow warmer. Women look, converse, even smile my way. Some acquaintances I now tentatively call friends — Mellina of Cady Clan, for instance, or that stunning pair of savants from Pozzo Hold, Horla and Poulain, who no longer bristle, but actually seem glad of my presence. They draw near, touch my arm, and share lighthearted, even provocative, jests.

How ironic. As my isolation lessens, the discomfort grows. By the day. By the hour.

Iolanthe, Groves, and most of the others seem oblivious. While consciously aware that I function differently than their males, they seem unconsciously to assume the autumnal diminishment of Wengel Star also damps my fires. Only Councillor Odo understands. She drew me out during a walk through the university gardens. Odo thinks it a problem easily solved by visiting a house of ease, operated by one of those specialist clans who are expert at taking all precautions, even with a randy alien.

I'm afraid I turned red. But, embarrassment aside, I face quandaries. Despite the female-to-male ratio, Stratos is no adolescent's moist fantasy come true, but a complex society, filled with contradictions, dangers, subtleties I've not begun to plumb. The situation is perilous enough without adding risk factors.

I am a diplomat. Other men — envoys, priests, and emissaries through all eras — have done as I should do.

Risen above instinct. Exercised professionalism, self-control.

Yet, what celibate of olden times had to endure such stimulation as I do, day in, day out? I can feel it from my raw optic nerve all the way down to my replete roots.

Come on, Renna. Isn't it just a matter of sexual cues? Some species are turned on by pheromones, or strutting displays. Male hominoids are visually activated — chimpanzees, by rosy, estrous colors; Stratoin men, by festival lights in the sky. Old-fashioned human react to the most inconvenient incitement cues of all — incessant, perennial, omnipresent. Cues women cannot help displaying, whatever their condition, or season, or intent.

No one is to blame. Nature had her reasons, long ago. Still, I am increasingly able to understand why Lysos and her allies chose to change such troublesome rules.

For the thousandth time … if only a woman peripatetic had drawn this mission!

Dammit, I know I'm rambling. But I feel inflamed, engulfed by so much untouchable fecundity, flowing past me in all directions. Insomnia plagues me, nor can I concentrate at the very time I must keep my wits about me. And when I shall need all of my skills.

Am I rationalizing? Perhaps. But for the good of the mission, I see no other choice.

Tomorrow, I will ask Odo … to arrange things.

20

The bitchies are gettin' impatient," Naroin commented, peering at the tiny screen. "I caught sight o' their prow a second time, an' a glint o' binocs. They're just holdin' back till the right moment."

Maia acknowledged with a grunt. It was all she had breath for, while pulling at her oars. Powerful, intermittent currents kept trying to seize their little boat and smash it against the nearby cliff face. Along with Brod and the sailors, Charl and Tress, she frequently had to row hard just to keep the skiff in place. Occasionally, they had to lean out and use poles to stave off jagged, deadly rocks. Meanwhile, with one hand on the tiller, Naroin used Inanna's spy device to keep track of events taking place beyond the island's far side.

This wouldn't be so difficult, if only we could stand off where the water's calm, Maia thought, while fighting the merciless tide. Unfortunately, the fibers leading to Inanna's farflung microcameras were of finite length. The skiff must stay near the mouth of the underground cave, battling contrary swells, or risk losing this slim advantage. Their plan was unlikely enough — a desperate and dangerous scheme to ambush professional ambushers.

I only wish someone else had come up with a better idea.

Naroin switched channels. "Trot an' her crew are almost done. The last raft parts have been lowered to the sea. They're lashin' the provisions boxes now. Should be any minute."

Maia glanced back at the display again, catching a blurred picture of women laboring across platforms of cut logs, straggling to tie sections together and erect a makeshift mast. As predicted by Maia's research, the tides were gentle on that side, at this hour. Unfortunately, that was far from true right now at the mouth of the spy tunnel.

At last, the sea calmed down for a spell. No wall of rock seemed about to swat them. With sighs, Maia and the others rested their oars. They had passed a busy, sleepless night since the fatal encounter with Inanna, the reaver provocateur.

First had come the unpleasant duty of rousing all the other marooned sailors, and telling them that one of their comrades had been a spy. Any initial suspicions toward Maia and Naroin quieted during a torchlit tour into the island's hidden grottoes, and were finished off by showing recorded messages on Inanna's comm unit. But that was not the end to arguing. There followed interminable wrangling over Maia's plan, for which, unfortunately, no one came up with any useful alternative.

Finally, hours of frantic preparations led to this early-morning flurry of activity. The more Maia thought, the more absurd it all seemed.

Should we have waited, instead? Simply avoided springing Inanna's trap? Let the reavers go away disappointed, and then try to slip away in the skiff at night?

Except, all eighteen could not fit in the little boat. And by nightfall the pirates would be querying their spy. When Inanna failed to answer with correct codes, they would assume the worst and try other measures. Not even the little skiff would be able to slip through a determined blockade by ships equipped with radar. As for those left behind, starvation would solve the reavers' prisoner problem, more slowly, but just as fully as an armed assault.

No, it has to be now, before they expect to hear from Inanna again.

"Eia!" Naroin shouted. "Here they come! Sails spread and breaking lather." She peered closer. "Patarkal jorts!"

"What is it?" young Brod asked.

"Nothin'." Naroin shrugged. "I thought for a minute it was a big bugger, a two-master. But it's a ketch. That's bad enough. Fast as blazes, with a crew of twelve or more. This ain't gonna be easy as mixin' beer an' frost."

Charl spat over the side. "Tell me somethin' I don't know," the tall Medianter growled. Tress, a younger sailor from Ursulaborg, asked nervously, "Shall we turn back?"

Naroin pursed her lips. "Wait an' see. They've turned the headland and gone out o' view of the first camera. Gonna be a while till the next one picks 'em up." She switched channels. "Lullin's crew has spotted 'em, though."

The tiny screen showed the gang of raft-builders, hurrying futilely to finish before the reaver boat could cross the strait between neighboring isles. It was patently useless, for the most recent image of the sleek pirate craft had shown it slashing the choppy water, sending wild jets of spray to port and starboard as it sprinted to attack.

"Will they board?" Tress asked.

"Wish they would. But my guess is takin' prisoners ain't today's goal."

The current kicked up again. Maia and the others resumed rowing, while Naroin turned switches until she shouted. "Got 'em! About three kilometers out. Gettin' closer fast."

Keep coming . . . Maia thought each time she glanced at the display, until a looming expanse of white sailcloth filled the tiny screen. Keep coming closer.