"Nothing, really…"

"Did you tell them how big it is?"

"What?"

"These Others live on a tiny group of islands. Land is thousands of times bigger than that. Did you give any indication of that?"

Toroca was puzzled by the questions. "Not that I can recall. I mean, that was so obvious to me, I don’t think it ever occurred to me to mention it."

Keenir thumped his tail in delight. "Excellent!" He cupped hands around his muzzle and shouted down the deck. "Ahoy, Biltog! Set course for Capital City — the most straight, most direct course you can manage!"

Biltog bobbed concession. "Aye! Full speed ahead!"

"No!" shouted Keenir. "I want sails two and four furled. Don’t let us get out of sight of the Others!"

Toroca’s tail swished in bewilderment. "What are you doing?"

"Don’t you see? Obviously, I’m not going to let that flotilla of ships engage us. No, they’re going to have to chase us all the way home. But Land has thousands of kilopaces of shoreline, most of it unsettled and unguarded. If we let the Others simply stumble on Land, they could storm any part of it. But they’ve no reason to think Land is very big, so they won’t deviate from whatever course we set. They’ll follow us straight back."

"And?"

"We’ll send word ahead. Dybo will be ready for them. We will destroy every one of their ships."

"Destroy them? Why?"

"It’s them or us, lad! Think about it — by our mere existence we pose a threat to them. They’ll want to sink the Dasheter before we can get back home; if no other Quintaglios know about them, they’re safe. Well, by God, there’s no way I’ll let them sink my ship! So their only other option is to try to wipe out all the Quintaglios; they’ve no idea how big Land is — they probably think that armada of ships will be enough to do it."

"They’ve got those tubes that shoot metal I told you about," said Toroca. "And I’ve counted forty or so ships out there. They might indeed be able to wipe us out. Luring them back to Land might spell the end of our race. Perhaps we should surrender."

"Surrender, lad? With those sticks that fire metal, they’d kill us all."

"Perhaps," said Toroca softly, "that would be for the best."

Keenir looked at his young friend. "What in God’s name are you saying?"

"‘In God’s name,’" repeated Toroca. "That’s exactly right." He was quiet for a moment, then: "Consider our history, Keenir. Life is not native to this world. Rather, it was transplanted here. Why was that? Well, certainly one possible interpretation is that we were in danger of being killed off wherever it was that we came from."

Keenir couldn’t see where Toroca was going. "I suppose," he said.

"And then what happens when we arrive here? At least one of the arks crashed into this world; that’s the blue ship we found buried in Fra’toolar."

"Yes."

"And since that time, what has happened? Why, our world is in the process of destroying itself, tearing itself apart."

"So?"

"You don’t see it, do you? What happens when overcrowding occurs amongst our own kind."

"Dagamant," said Keenir. "The territorial frenzy."

"Exactly. We lose all reason, all restraint, and simply kill and kill and kill until either everyone is dead or the survivors are too exhausted to continue fighting."

"You paint it in an unfavorable light," said Keenir meekly.

"And what has happened now that we’ve met other intelligent beings? Why, even when there is no overcrowding, our basest feelings come to the fore and we kill again — kill thinking beings with no more regard than we have for killing dumb animals for food."

"Make your point."

"Don’t you see, Keenir? We’re poison. As a race, we’re vicious. We kill our own kind, we kill others. And what’s happening? Why, God keeps trying to snuff us out! On our original home, wherever that was, we were apparently threatened with extinction. The arks that carried us here, rather than being blessed by God, were buffeted in their voyage, with at least one of them falling out of the sky before its cargo of lifeforms could be let loose. God had almost destroyed us once, on our original home world, but a few of our ancestors escaped. God almost destroyed them

en route, but enough of them survived to give rise to us. And now God shakes the entire world and is about to crumble it into dust, all to prevent the further spread of the poison that we represent."

"Toroca, I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people: don’t be silly. Even if what you say is true, our own people must be our first priority."

"Even if, as in this case, we were the original aggressors? Remember, Var-Keenir, it was you who made the first kill."

Keenir spread his arms. "I couldn’t help myself, Toroca. I was moved to madness."

Toroca’s tail swished slowly back and forth. "Exactly."

"Quickly, now," said Mokleb. "Name the five original hunters."

Afsan looked startled, then: "Lubal, Hoog, Katoon, Belbar, and, uh. Mekt."

"Thank you. Now, on with our session…"

It was a typically overcast day in Fra’toolar, the sky gray rather than purple, the sun a vague smudge behind the clouds. Karshirl was sitting on a log on the beach, looking out at the waves lapping against the base of the blue pyramid.

Novato regarded her daughter from a distance. She was almost exactly one-half Novato’s age and soon would be coming into receptivity for the first time. Karshirl was a lot smaller than Novato, and she was proportioned differently, too. The difference proportions wasn’t a sign that they were unrelated, but rather had to do with the ways in which a Quintaglio body changes in order to support its ever-increasing bulk. Novato had much thicker legs than Karshirl, and whereas the younger female’s tail was a narrow isosceles triangle in cross section, Novato’s was stocky and equilateral. Novato remembered wistfully when her own appearance had been like that.

She closed the distance between them. "Hello, Karshirl."

Karshirl rose to her feet. "Hello, Novato. Hahat dan."

Novato was quiet for several beats, then asked, "How much do you know about me?"

Karshirl looked surprised by the question. "What everyone knows, I suppose. You invented the far-seer."

"Yes, I did. But that’s not the only, ah, creation I’m responsible for."

Karshirl kept her muzzle faced toward Novato, attentive.

"I’m Toroca’s mother, did you know that?"

"Yes," said Karshirl. "I’m not much for gossip, but I suppose everybody’s heard the story of your eight children by Afsan."

"Indeed. But, actually, I have nine children."

"Oh? Was that clutch of unusual size?"

"No. The clutch with Afsan was normal. But I had a second clutch by someone else later on. I, ah, had two clutches in my youth."

"Oh." Karshirl clearly didn’t know what to say.

"And one individual lives from that second clutch."

"So one would presume," said Karshirl.

"How old are you, Karshirl?"

"Eighteen kilodays."

"Do you know how old I am?"

"No."

"Go ahead, guess. I’m not particularly vain."

"Thirty-four?"

"Actually I’m thirty-six."

"You don’t look it."

"Thank you. You don’t see what I’m getting at, do you?"

"No, ma’am, I don’t."

Novato drew a deep breath, then let it hiss out slowly. "You, Karshirl, are my ninth child."

Karshirl’s inner eyelids blinked. "I am?"

"Yes."

"Fancy that," she said.

Novato waited for something more. Finally, when she couldn’t take it any longer, she said, "Is that all you’ve got to say?"

Karshirl was clearly trying to be polite. "Um, well, I guess if I take after you, I’ll age well."

There was frustration in Novato’s tone: "I’m your mother," she said.

"Yes, I guess that’s the term, isn’t it?" Karshirl was quiet for a time, then added again, "Fancy that."