"All right," said Afsan.

"But we’ve made ourselves, essentially, an all-the-same race, in attitudes and attributes. There’s little difference between a male and a female. And the traits we’ve accentuated through the culling are, in many ways, the worst and most antisocial traits of the male. And we’ve distilled those traits in both genders."

"I’ve never thought about it that way."

"And now, consider this: the Others are, well, less overtly masculine than we are. They’re physically smaller, they have less prominent jaws, and smaller teeth. They’re drably colored compared to us and they have only a weak sense of territoriality."

"So you’re saying they’re more like females?"

"Ah, but if they were like our females, perhaps we’d have no problem facing them. But they aren’t; they don’t have the exaggerated masculinity of our females. And there’s something deep, something dark, within our spirits that can’t stand the sight of what we perceive as lesser males. We’ve exaggerated our own masculinity to the point where we’ve become a threat to anyone that doesn’t meet the same standards of robustness or aggression. I’ve seen plenty of Other corpses now. All the Others appear to be males; even female Others have folds of skin about the throat reminiscent of a dewlap sack."

"Then there’s nothing inherently evil about the Others," said Afsan.

"Nothing at all. The evil is within us. In fact, I’ll suggest that we know that on an instinctive level; that Toroca knew to hide his difference from his fellow Quintaglios because he knew how we might react to one we perceived as not as male as we expect."

"We destroyed every one of the Other ships," Afsan said. "I doubt they’ll dare send more. So what do we do? You tell me we are bred to hate the Others because we see them as lesser versions of ourselves, or — I don’t know — perhaps as something we fear becoming. But if we can’t help how we feel, what do we do? You know the old saying, you can’t change Quintaglio nature."

"Ah, good Afsan, but we must. We’re going to need to do that if we’re to go to the stars."

The ruling room was empty except for Dybo, lying on the throne slab, and Toroca. "I take it you’ve finally got an answer for me?" said the Emperor.

"Yes," said Toroca.

"Well?"

"As you recall, the problem you set for me was to find a way to choose which eggling should survive. Almost every clutch consists of eight eggs; most females produce two or three such clutches in a lifetime. Obviously, to maintain a stable population, only one eggling may be allowed to live from each clutch."

"Yes, yes," said Dybo. "But which one?"

"I’ve given this matter much thought, Emperor. I want you know to that."

"I expected no less, Toroca. Now, what is your answer?"

"My answer, Your Luminance, is this: it doesn’t matter which eggling we choose."

"What?"

"It makes no difference. Or, perhaps said better: to refrain from artificially imposing selection criteria makes for more difference. More variety."

"I don’t understand," said the Emperor.

"It’s simple, really. You know my theory of evolution?"

"Yes, of course. That’s why you were chosen to come up with a way to select which eggling should live. Survival of the fittest!"

Toroca scratched the underside of his neck. "A regrettable phrase, that … Our bloodpriests have been selecting for physical robustness for countless generations. And what has that selection process made us? Territorial beings, savage beings."

"Then we should select based on intelligence," said Dybo.

"Forgive me, Emperor, but that, too, is wrong. Consider Afsan, for instance. A finer mind we’ve never known, but you yourself have teased him for his scrawniness. In a rock slide, he might die, whereas a bigger but dumber fellow might well be able to dig himself out. The point is, Emperor, there is no hard-and-fast criterion for fitness. As the environment changes, so, too, does the list of requirements for survival. And we’re about to change our environment more than ever before, for we are soon to leave this world and seek another. It would be folly to breed for any one particular characteristic, since we don’t know what sort of demands the new environment will put on us. No, good Dybo, what we need is variety, and the best way to ensure that is by selecting which egglings get to live at random." He turned his muzzle so that there could be no doubt that his black eyes were falling on Dybo. "Some will be strong, some brainy, some perhaps neither of those things but nonetheless possessing qualities we might someday need."

Dybo nodded. "At random," he said. "It’s not the sort of answer I expected, Toroca."

"I know, sir. But it is the right one."

"Every eggling would have a one-in-eight chance."

"Yes, Your Luminance. But more than that, there should be no culling of hatchlings. I’ve spoken at length now to Nav-Mokleb — I had no idea of the incredible damage we’ve done to ourselves through that ancient rite. No, instead we must simply select one egg — one egg, not one eggling — from every clutch, and let only that one egg hatch." He paused. "I only hope that in the generations left before our world dies we can regain some of the other qualities we’ll need."

The pain in his chest made it difficult for Afsan to sleep. He’d nod off for a time, only to wake again, the discomfort too much for him. The third or fourth time that happened, he let out a frustrated growl and slapped his palm against the lab table. With his other hand he scratched his chest, trying to relieve the itching caused by his scabbed-over wound.

He lay there and opened his eyes. He’d been doing that more and more lately; since his eyeballs had grown back, there was no pain associated with having the lids open.

Across the room, he saw a faint light.

He saw…

Across the room!

A faint…

No, a trick of his tired mind. He scrunched his inner and outer lids closed, rubbed them with the backs of his hands, and then opened them again.

No mistake! A light … a faint rectangle against the darkness. A window. An open window, its shade left undrawn. Afsan pushed himself off the table and let himself down to the floor. Pain sliced through his side but he ignored it. He hobbled over to the window and gripped its ledge with both hands.

It was the middle of the night — and, better still, it was odd-night, the night most Quintaglios slept, the night Afsan always preferred because the outdoor lamps were doused, letting the heavens blaze forth in all their glory, the phosphorescent band of the great sky river arching overhead. Four moons were visible, but they were all thin crescents, doing little to banish the stars. The night sky, cloudless, pitch black, resplendent, glorious. Just as he’d remembered it. All the nights he’d spent staring up at the sky came back to him: childhood nights, full of wonder and awe. Adolescent nights, full of longing and yearning. Nights as in apprentice, full of study and slowly gleaned understanding.

His tail was fairly vibrating with joy. The pain, unbearable earlier, was now all but forgotten, pushed from his high mind by the magnificent sight. Old friends were beckoning. Why, there was the constellation of the Hunter, which had been called the Prophet in his youth. And, there, arching up from the horizon, Lubal’s hornface Matark. Straddling the ecliptic, the Skull of Katoon.

Afsan thought about shouting out, about waking the others, about declaring to one and all that he could see — he could see! — he could see!

But, no, this was a moment to be savored by himself. The stars tonight were for him and him alone. He leaned back on his tail and drank in more of the spectacle.

It came to him, after some time of enjoying the sight: the reason his low mind had finally relented, had finally given up the fight, had finally allowed him to see. It, too, now knew what Afsan had come to understand on the conscious level.