exactness.

Part of her said the little things must be alive, and part said that that was ridiculous, that nothing so ancient could be

living. But if they were not lifeforms, then what could they be?

Whatever they were, they were making phenomenal progress. Already, almost the entire cliff face was blue.

If further contact was to be made with the Others, Toroca would have to go ashore — and he would have to do so

alone. The Dasheter had sailed south and was now approaching the archipelago from a different direction so that the

ship’s arrival would not immediately be associated with the death on the westernmost island. The ship stayed below

the horizon, the islands out of sight.

This part of the world never knew real darkness. By day, the sun blazed overhead. True, for a good part of the day, the

sun was eclipsed by the Face of God (although they were far enough north of the equator that the sun’s path behind

the Face was a chord much shorter than the Face’s diameter). But even when the sun was eclipsed, and the Face was

completely unilluminated, the purple sky grew no darker than it did at twilight. And at midnight, when the sun shone

down on the other side of the world, the Face was full, covering a quarter of the sky, lighting up the waves in shades

of yellow and orange.

Because of this, there was no time at which the Dasheter could sneak in to let Toroca off. Toroca, therefore, was going

to swim to shore. He’d removed his sash; it would have interfered with swimming. But he was not completely naked:

around his waist he wore a swimmer’s belt, with waterproof pouches made from lizard bladders in which he carried

supplies.

Standing near him on the deck of the Dasheter were Babnol and Captain Keenir. There was no way for them to keep in

touch with Toroca once he left the ship. They’d simply agreed that the Dasheter would sail farther out, then return to

this spot in twenty days to pick up Toroca; if he did not rendezvous with them, Keenir would then set sail for home,

rather than risk further disastrous contact.

Babnol’s tone was full of concern. "Be careful, Toroca."

Toroca looked at her wistfully. He’d always wanted their relationship to be so much closer. "I will."

"We’ll be back for you, lad," said Keenir.

"Thank you."

Toroca moved to the side of the ship and began to climb down the rope ladder that led to the shore boats tethered

below. He could have paddled one of those to the island instead of swimming in, but the boats were pretty big for one

person to manage; swimming would be easier and faster. When he got to the bottom, he managed a little tip of his

torso and saw, up on deck, Keenir and Babnol likewise executing ceremonial bows.

The waves were high enough that Toroca had been splashed up the calf by the time his foot reached the bottom rung.

Without further ado, he let go and slipped beneath the waves.

They were far enough north that the water was cooler than what Toroca was used to, but it wasn’t cold enough to

pose a hazard. He put his arms flat at his sides, stretched his legs out behind, and undulated his tail. His body sliced

through the water. He passed a school of silvery fish at one point and later saw a couple of limpid floaters bobbing on

the surface. The Face of God waned visibly during the course of the long swim in, and the sun moved closer and closer

to its edge.

In the distance, Toroca could see a few of the Others’ own sailing ships, but they tended to stay close to shore. That

wasn’t surprising; the Others presumably long ago determined that there was nothing except empty water for

thousands of kilopaces around.

Even from far away, Toroca was surprised by how different the Others’ ships looked. Quintaglio vessels had diamond

shaped hulls, square sails, and an even number of masts (the Dasheter had four). The ship passing Toroca far to the

left had a rounded hull, three masts, and overlapping triangular sails.

Toroca was now a hundred paces from shore. He was approaching what seemed to be a small coastal city made of

wooden buildings. Right off, that seemed alien. Quintaglios normally built from adobe or stone; surely wooden

buildings were at risk of fire from lamp flames. And these buildings were such odd shapes! The Others seemed to

avoid right angles; it was hard to tell from this vantage point, but most of the buildings appeared to have eight sides.

Toroca stopped swimming for a moment. There were fifty or sixty people walking along a broad wooden pier built along

the contours of the water’s edge. So many! Why, it was as if they had no territoriality at all. And then Toroca saw

something that amazed him: two individuals walking side by side down the pier. He could see them clearly, and there

could be no doubt about what they were doing.

Holding hands.

Incredible, thought Toroca. Absolutely incredible.

He began to swim again, his tail propelling him over the remaining distance.

Finally, somebody noticed him. He saw a hand pointing in his direction, and a shout went up. Others turned to look

out at the waters. More arms pointed at him. One person turned and ran toward the octagonal buildings. Two large

Others grabbed a juvenile and, against the juvenile’s apparent wishes, dragged the child away from the edge of the

pier. One Other was shouting gibberish. Two Others shouted back; more gibberish. Toroca was about ten paces from

the pier now.

Someone pointed a blackened metal tube at Toroca. A flash erupted from its open end and a sound came from it like

the bellow of a shovelmouth. The water exploded next to Toroca as something crashed into the waves. Someone ran

to the Other holding the tube and motioned angrily for him to put it down.

There was a rope ladder dangling from the side of the pier into the water. Toroca grabbed it. The rope itself was of a

material Toroca had never seen — perhaps some kind of waterweed fiber — and the knots along its length were tied in a

complex style he’d likewise never encountered. Still, it was clearly meant for accessing the pier from the water, or vice

versa, and so he pulled himself up, rung after rung, his body feeling cool as the air ran over his wet form. At last he

was up on the pier; it, too, was bizarre, made of long planks that went lengthwise instead of crosswise, the way a

Quintaglio would have built it.

Toroca stood there, dripping, hands on hips, looking at the Others, and they stood looking at him. Some were pointing

at his swimmer’s belt, and Toroca was reminded of how he had made much of the fact that the first Other they’d

encountered had been wearing jewelry. They must know he was intelligent. These Others all sported copper jewelry,

but some were also wearing vests made of a material that looked too pliable to be leather.

The Other with the metal tube was near the front of the crowd. He held the tube in such a way that he could raise it

again in a fraction of a beat.

One of the Others stepped forward and spoke, a string of nonsense syllables emanating from its mouth.

At the back of the crowd, Toroca could see someone trying to get through. Incredibly, he was actually tapping people

on the shoulder to get them to move, or gently pushing them aside. On Land, this fellow’s throat would have been

ripped out by now, but people were gladly making way for whoever this was. Once he’d gotten to the front, Toroca saw

that this Other also was brandishing a metal tube, but it was smaller and more compact. He was wearing black bands

around both his arms; no one else had such bands.