Rhodane then relented. "Much was lost during the War."

Our craft motored into a space alongside a jetty, whereupon one of the quofarl leapt out to secure the mooring rope. Rhodane stepped out ahead of me, and as I stood to follow her a sharp hunger pang stabbed through me. I peered down at my hand and spied the shade of blue presaging a horrible transformation, and inside I felt a churning sickening sensation as the two viral forms competed for predominance. The quofarl still onboard reached out and prodded my shoulder—just a nudge to indicate I should now go ashore.

I turned on him. "Touch me again and I'll knock those fucking mandibles through the back of your thick skull." He did not understand me, since I spoke a language not known in this Solar System, but he understood my tone. He began to lean forward, mandibles grating together and eyes narrowing. Luckily the surge of pure rage passed and I managed to get myself under control, abruptly turning away to step ashore.

"Rhodane, I really need something to eat."

"There is nothing suitable here. We've got supplies of Sudorian food over in Granitesville, and should be there within the hour."

"You don't understand. After recent changes I've undergone to adapt to your environment I need to eat substantial amounts, regularly, or my judgement and reason can be impaired. I can become…dangerous."

"He can—" began the quofarl on the jetty.

"— become dangerous," finished the one still aboard the boat.

Much clattering mandibular laughter ensued, and Rhodane chuckled too.

"Please let me explain," I continued doggedly. "This is not a usual condition with me, but one brought on by recent injuries and my adjustment to your environment. Additionally, I can eat Brumallian food."

"Whoo, Mr Dangerous—"

"— wants to chew—"

"— grobbleworms." The last came from Rhodane who seemed to have been caught up in the joint communication. It only dawned on me then how she easily managed the clicks and rattles of spoken Brumallian, and I realised this had something to do with those physical changes evident on her face. But I did not feel inclined to satisfy my curiosity about that right then. My left hand began to quiver, and I really really wanted to put my fist through the nearest quofarl's head—the one on the jetty. I needed to get this sorted fast before I lost control. I decided on a half-measure.

"Let me illustrate." I grabbed the chosen quofarl by the front of his dungarees, since the material looked strong enough, hoisted him from the jetty one-handed and hurled him over the boat into the water beyond. Turning to Rhodane, I said, "If I lose control, people will die."

She stared out to where the quofarl had now surfaced and began swimming back towards us from about twenty feet out. She glanced down at the other quofarl on the boat, whose mandibles were hanging wide apart, then turned to study me cautiously.

"Follow me," she instructed abruptly.

The grobbleworm seller occupied the first stall of a market running alongside a canal that tunnelled off from the marina. Even as we approached, a fisherman brought his catch to the stall—a basket full of the same armoured worms making a racket like snakes writhing in a barrel of stones. Their pincers extruded through the basket mesh, sharp tail fins stabbed out like knives. The stallholder extended one mandible, directing him to a stack of similar baskets ranged to one side, then turned her attention towards us, or rather to me. She stared, mandibles hanging wide in what I now recognised as an expression of surprise or shock.

"Give me your attention," Rhodane said in Brumallian, though the subtext she signed went something like, "Consensus Speaker business—stop staring at the weird human." She continued out loud with, "I want ten worms—six of them overcooked."

Once the stallholder got over her surprise she pulled on gauntlets and began the dodgy task of pulling arm-thick worms from a nearby basket and threading them onto long steel skewers, before plunging them into a pot of boiling water.

"Why overcooked?" I asked.

"It weakens the acid content, which is more acceptable to me, and I presume would be more acceptable to you?"

"You presume right."

Six skewered worms squirmed and thrashed in the boiling water. The stallholder paused for a while before dropping in the remaining four, long enough only for them to stop thrashing about. I felt a surge of nostalgia for Spatterjay, where similar monsters met a similar end in similar pots. By this time the quofarl I had thrown into the water had turned up. I expected some display of anger or resentment, but he showed none I could identify.

"Grobbleworms—" he rubbed his meaty hands together.

"— good," his companion completed.

Meaty hands continued, "You weren't joking—"

"— about being hungry," the companion supplied.

Rhodane took the four minimally cooked worms from the stallholder and handed them to the two quofarl, who, holding the skewers in their right hands whilst pulling off shell with mandibles and left hand, began stuffing the gristly meat into their mouths. Observing them, I realised one did not really need mandibles, since these worms looked no more difficult to eat than say a lobster or a prill. When at last the six overcooked worms were ready, Rhodane took two for herself and handed the remaining four to me. I placed three of the loaded skewers down on the stall and impatiently started on the other, pulling the worm apart and stuffing chunks into my mouth and sometimes chewing up shell as well as flesh. It took the skin off the inside of my mouth, burned like jalapeño chillies and caused such an eructatious racket in my stomach that those passers-by who stopped to gaze at me hung around to listen to the symphony until Rhodane shooed them away. But my body's need took over, quickly regrowing damaged skin in my mouth and adjusting itself to this acidic nutriment. By the time I sucked the last piece of meat from the last piece of shell, the worms tasted like chilli-flavoured frog-whelk to me, and I was hooked.

"Less chance of you turning dangerous now?" Rhodane asked, eyeing the remnants of shell and the discarded skewers about my feet.

I glanced longingly at the pot, but the worms had taken the edge off my hunger so I decided not to push my luck. "That will sustain me for a little while," I conceded.

She handed a small black rod to the stallholder, who pressed it into some kind of reader before handing it back. Some transaction had obviously just taken place. I knew nothing about their economic system here, but supposed they must use some form of currency since few human societies ever have managed to survive without it. We moved on, stared at all the while. As I walked, feeling a little calmer and more able to assess my situation, I considered what I had seen back at the stall. The Brumallians didn't really need mandibles to handle their food, so were they a result of inefficient recombinant techniques, or had some bastard in their past saddled these people with mandibles to make some obscure ideological point? Again, one of those things I would probably never find out.

Yishna—on Corisanthe Main

The screen showed the distinct words:

HATE… SKIRL SAND… IMPACTED… FIRE

Keleon, the OCT who had heard those words in his mind, had told her in detail the sensations and thoughts accompanying them. He had experienced the usual fantasies, some violent, some sexual. He described to her how he imagined setting at each other's throats two OCTs he knew had had him thrown out of the Cognisants—yet another sect aboard this station—then went on to describe to her how he had vividly visualised buggering her over a console in a study unit. After this Keleon had taken the opportunity to suggest that this might be something they could try—strictly in the interests of research. Yishna had subsequently dismissed him and had used her consoles for more prosaic activities.