Lipsey nodded cheerfully, intent on his inexpert piloting. “Yes. It’s like the primeval Earth.”

“So where are the Qax? Undersea?”

“Wait and see.”

We landed and stepped out onto a spaceport, a metal island in a bubbling quagmire. Steam misted up my face plate. Lipsey lifted a suitcase-sized translator box down from the flitter. “Meet our client,” he said.

“Where?”

He smiled. “Here! All around you.”

The translator box woke up. “This is the human pilot we discussed?”

I jumped, whirled around. Nothing but swamp.

“Yes,” said Lipsey, his tone deep and reassuring. “This is Jim Bolder.”

“And this is really one of your best?” boomed the Qax.

I bristled. “Lipsey, what is this?”

He smiled, then stood beside me and pointed. “Look down there. What do you see?”

I stared. “Turbulent mud.” Hexagonal convection cells a hand’s breadth across, quite stable: the ocean was like a huge pan of boiling water.

Lipsey said: “All known forms of life are based on a cellular organization. But there are no rules about what form the cells have to take…”

I thought it over. “You’re telling me that those convection cells are the basis of the Qax biology?”

I stared at the sea, trying to perceive the limits of the mighty creature. I imagined I could see thoughts hopping over the rippling meniscus like flies…

“Can we proceed?” the Qax broke in. The box gave it an appropriate voice: deep-bellied, like an irritable god.

I tried to concentrate. “Show me the Xeelee ship,” I said.

“In time. Do you know what we want of you?”

“No.”

“What do you know of galactic drift?” the Qax began. “Your astronomers first detected it in your twentieth century…”

The galaxies are streaming.

Like a huge liner our Galaxy is soaring through space at several hundred miles a second. That’s maybe no surprise — until you learn that all the other galaxies, as far as we can see in any direction, are migrating, too. And they’re all heading for the same spot.

Standing there on that shiny island in a mud sea, I struggled with the scale of it all. Throughout a sphere a billion light years wide, galaxies are converging like moths to a flame.

But what is the flame? And — who lit it?

“We call it the Great Attractor,” said the Qax. “We know something about its properties. It is three hundred million light years from here. And it’s massive: a hundred thousand times the mass of our Galaxy, crammed into a region about half the Galaxy’s diameter.”

A cold mist settled over us; the Qax restlessly stirred its oceanic muscles. I felt like a flea on the back of a hippopotamus.

“We need to understand what is happening out there,” the Qax went on. “Now: we have trading contacts throughout the Local Cluster, and we’ve been analyzing sightings of Xeelee ships. We had the idea of trying to track down the Xeelee Prime Radiant — their source and center of activities. We have done so.”

“The Prime Radiant is at the center of the Galaxy,” I said.

Lipsey smiled thinly. “You’re not thinking big enough, Bolder. The Xeelee transcend any one Galaxy.”

I thought that through… and my mouth dried up. “You’re not suggesting,” I asked slowly, “that the Xeelee are responsible for the Great Attractor? That they’re building it?”

“We plan to send a probe to find out,” said the Qax. “Our captured Xeelee ship is the technology we need to cross such distances.”

“Which is where I come in?”

“Do you accept the commission, Bolder?”

“Yes,” I said immediately, staring fixedly at the translator box. To fly a Xeelee fighter to the center of everything… my only fear now was that I’d be turned down.

Lipsey interrupted smoothly: “Subject to a suitable fee, of course.” He smiled like a good agent.

Surrounded by the primeval murk, we began discussing powers of ten.

We returned to Lipsey’s flitter.

“Lipsey… why do the Qax care? What turns them on?”

“Short-term profit,” he said simply. “This is a young planet, not all that stable. Hot spots come and go, and individuals tend to be broken up quickly.

“As a result they don’t have a strong sense of self, and they find it hard to plan for — or even imagine — the future.” His face creased with wonder. “There are only a few hundred of them, you know, each of them miles across… but thanks to their peculiar biology their awareness and material control go right down to the molecular level. They’ve developed a high, miniaturized technology; it’s the basis of their commercial power. Of course,” he smiled, “they trade by proxy.”

I frowned. “We’re millions of years from a crisis over this Great Attractor. If they’re so shortlived, why spend so much on gathering data about it?”

“Profit. With a secret as big as this they can name their own price.”

We rendezvoused with a Spline craft, orbiting the Qax star. The Spline was a gunship. We scurried around huge walls covered with thirty-feet-wide scales, and I peered curiously into hundreds of weapon emplacements — and then, drifting through the Spline’s long shadow, we found the Xeelee ship.

A Xeelee nightfighter is a hundred-yard sycamore seed wrought in black. The wings sweep back from the central pilot’s pod, flattening and thinning until at their trailing edges they are so fine you can see the stars through them.

Lipsey caught me gawping. “Save it. You’ve seen nothing yet…”

The pilot’s pod was an open framework about my height. A human crash couch had been cemented inside it. I clambered through the skeletal hull and into the couch. The hull became a mesh of blackness around me that barely excluded the stars. “Kind of open,” I said.

Lipsey, watching from outside, laughed a bit unsympathetically. “Evidently the Xeelee don’t suffer from vertigo. Do you?”

I clamped the translator box to a strut above my head. Now the Qax spoke. “Study your controls, Bolder.”

“Right.” Set ahead of me and to my sides were three control panels, each briefcase-sized. Magnifying monitors showed me sequinlike control studs. Waldoes would let me work the panels by my sides, but there was no waldo for the third.

“The panels to your sides are for in-system flight,” said the Qax. “The third, before you, is for the hyperspace drive. The three panels were the only equipment found in this ship — apart from the synchrotron handgun.”

“I’m not getting that back?”

“The Qax think you’re dangerous enough as it is,” Lipsey said quietly.

The Qax continued: “We’ve worked out a setting to take you out to the Great Attractor. Just hit the red button, on the left of the third panel. Hit it again to come home.”

I ran a gloved finger over the surface of the third panel. Apart from the red button the panel was half-melted… unusable. I asked why.

“Of course,” the Qax explained acidly, “you’d never be tempted to steal a treasure like this, but…”

I slipped my hands into the waldo manipulators. The ship woke up. “So tell me how I fly this thing.”

The wings of the sycamore seed billowed out, a shaken blanket a hundred miles wide.

“The motive force comes from the structure of space itself,” the Qax explained. “The wings are sheets of discontinuity in space. The — healing up — of space drives the ship forward.”

I squeezed minutely. The wings trembled and the pod jerked. Lipsey and his flitter disappeared. “Try to restrain your monkey impulse to meddle,” said the Qax. “You’ve just traveled half a light second.”

I let go, fast.

“Now,” said the Qax. “A controlled pressure with your right index finger…”

All I’ve ever wanted to do is fly. I’ve given up everything else in life for it, I suppose… and now my wings pulsed like sheets of shadow as I flew around the Qax star at half the speed of light. I stared into the eye of a vacuole and, whooping, whizzed under the blue-shifted arch of a stellar flare.