A human being might be able to pick his way across a punji-barrier, if he were careful, but a worm could never make it. Too many clumsy little feet. The worm would rip out its belly. The average Chtorr didn't have the leverage to step over these spikes; its feet were tiny little stubs that didn't lift its weight as much as helped shuffle it forward. Punji-barriers were nasty.

The barrier alone wouldn't kill the worm, just injure it badly; hut the stuff on the spikes could give a worm a bad case of the cold rullywobbles. And someday we'd find something that would kill them a little quicker.

The worms knew about the barriers, of course. Most of them stayed away from them. Only a very young and inexperienced worm would willingly make the attempt to cross one, and then only once; the value of the barriers was more as deterrent than as weapon.

Behind the first punji-barrier, another row of razor-ribbon. Behind that, another punji-barrier. Behind that, more razorribbon. The theory was that the combination of the two would discourage most worms and renegades.

The army generally recommended nine lines of razor-ribbon, separated by eight rows of punji-barriers; the army also recommended trenches and mines where possible, plus robots and field sensors. I didn't have a trench digger and I didn't want to risk planting mines. A robot would be useless here, and sensors are useless if there's no one to watch the monitors.

So far, the statistics showed that the fences worked; even small installations, like this one, were effective enough to justify the expenditure. Some pessimists said that it was only because there were enough other good places to feed that it wasn't yet worth a worm's trouble to plow through the barriers.

The pessimists were probably right, but I'd vote with the statistics for now.

Fortunately, just beyond the hiking ridge the peninsula shrank to a very narrow strip of land, only thirty meters wide. Indeed, the peninsula was only a peninsula because of politics. Family had been designed and built as a long crescent island. It was also supposed to have its own independent government; but the county fathers, fearing the loss of millions of lovely tax dollars had passed an ordinance requiring that all utility cables be accessible above ground. This meant that the builders of the island would have to lay down a connecting strip to the mainland, a narrow connecting tongue of rugged, ugly rocks, and in so doing, would also put Family firmly under the jurisdiction of the aforementioned county parentage. Before the Chtorr had come, the joke had been that the people of Family wanted nothing more than to be orphans. Now the Chtorr had given them their wish. Sort of.

My thought was to put the worm lines down just behind the rocks and hope that no worm would want to cross the rocks and the fence. The rocks were pretty nasty just by themselves. On the other hand, if a worm was determined enough to make it over the rocks, then it probably wasn't going to be stopped by the worm fence either.

Maybe Betty-John was right. Maybe I was being paranoid. And maybe I still woke up in the middle of the night, shivering and thinking of Jason and Orrie and Jessie.

No. I had to vote with the statistics.

I voted with three rows of razor-ribbon and two of punji-that was all we could afford to install-and a heartfelt prayer that it would be enough to deter.

Now, if only the worms would agree with me. We started early in the morning. Tommy and me, Jack and Dove.

Jack Balaban was a dour looking man with a Welsh accent so thick he was nearly incomprehensible half the time. He had a slight stoop to his body, as if life had been beating on him for several decades, but he was surprisingly tender toward Dove.

Dove was a year older and half a head taller than Tommy. He wasn't exactly mute, but preferred to speak in sounds, whistles, and noises instead of words.

When Dove saw a car, he would point and make the shrill whine of a turbine. If he saw a plane or a chopper, he would make appropriate engine sounds. He could describe floaters, boats, jet skis, motorcycles, and off-road vehicles this way. He was also fond of imitating the electronic chime of the telephone, startling people to their feet, until they realized it was only Dove again. His repertoire also included an astonishing range of explosions, warbles, wheeps, and whistles.

Apparently, this skill had rubbed off on Jack, because the two of them had developed their own language of sound effects and conversed not so much in words as in noises.

When I was around, however, both of them shut up. I finally confronted Jack with it.

He shook his head and denied it. "I don't dislike yeh, Jim. I don't like yeh much, but I don't dislike yeh either. Just don't care much either way, I don't."

"Is it something I've done?"

Jack thought about it a moment, stroking his mustache. "Na." He pulled on a pair of thick gloves and picked up a coil of razor-ribbon he had been laying out. He resumed uncoiling it across the grass.

I picked up the gas-hammer and followed him. "Well then, what is it?"

"Do yeh have to be liked by everybody yeh know?" he asked.

"If someone doesn't like me, I'd like to know why," I said. "If I'm doing something wrong, I'd like to know, so I can stop doing it."

"You're just like all Americans," he said. "You're too worried about who likes you, and not enough concerned with gettin' the job done."

I thought about that.

Maybe he was right. But maybe not. I thought I was more concerned with results than with making friends. Certainly, I'd had my share of arguments to prove it.

"I don't think that's so," I said. "We're out here doing this job right now because I pressured Betty-John. And I don't think she likes me very much anymore because of it."

"Yeh," he acknowledged. "That's the other side of it. When yeh do finally decide to work for results, yeh don't care who yeh walk over."

I decided that Jack didn't have a very clear-cut philosophy behind his argument. He was just going to say whatever he needed to say to justify his dislike for me, and if the facts disagreed with his opinions, he wouldn't alter his opinion; he'd alter his justification.

We worked in silence for a while. It was hard work shooting the anchoring spikes into the ground; even with the gas-hammer. Abruptly, Jack said, "Yeh never properly mourned your mum, did yeh?"

"What's it to you?" I snapped.

Jack shook his head. "Nuthin'."

And then, the nickel dropped. I straightened and looked across at him. His expression was dark and unpleasant.

"You were sleeping with her, weren't you?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He was wrestling with the coil of razor-ribbon. But I knew it was the truth by the way he ignored me. There was something Jason had said, something about how to get the truth out of people. "Most people don't tell the truth, not really," Jason had said. "They've been trained not to. If you want to get the truth out of them, you have to startle them or get them angry. Most people only tell the truth when they get angry. So if you want to get the truth out of someone, you have to upset them first. It almost always works; the only drawback is that you'll have a really angry person on your hands for a while."

Hmm.

I said to Jack, "Did she give you a bargain rate? She did that for steady customers." I said it with deliberate calm.

Jack didn't flinch. I had to give him that much.

He laid down the roll of ribbon, straightened, brushed off his hands, and looked around for the boys. Dove and Tommy were a ways away, carefully unpacking the rest of the spikes.

Jack turned back to me. "Did yeh have to study to be an asshole or does it come naturally to yeh, Jim?" Colored by the musical lilt of his Welsh accent, the words were as pretty to listen to as they were mean.