Before it was over, both Fay and Mrs. Ravitch were with her. Laneff had wanted to come here so badly, had begged and stormed as never before in her life, and now she was shamed beyond measure. But Mrs. Ravitch seemed oblivious to that. She provided a mouthwash and a fever thermometer. Laneff had seen such devices on television, but had never had one thrust into her mouth before. A channel merely made lateral contact and zlinned for the problem. When Mrs. Ravitch took the thing out, Laneff said, "It's probably just another food allergy." "But you do have a slight fever ..." Fay asked, "Could it be changeover?"

"Oh, shen!" swore Laneff. She'd never given that a thought despite all the years of training she'd had. Fay, whose only real experience had been the in-Territory summer camp, had gone to the heart of the matter. Laneff’s own fingers found the tender spots along her arms where nerves and glands were developing to serve the tentacles that would be there in a few hours. "I should have known hours ago!" Mrs. Ravitch cast a dark glance at the window and then ran a cool hand over the back of Laneff’s neck, probing for the gland at the base of her skull that would swell during changeover. "We've got time. Fay, help Laneff get dressed. I'm calling the Center."

It was remarkably easy to follow Mrs. Ravitch's calm orders. When Fay and Laneff arrived downstairs once more, Mr. Ravitch was dress– ing while trying the phone with one hand. He slammed the handset down as they appeared. "Phone's out. I'll have to get the car out and see if I can get through to the Center chopper on the transceiver. Fay —why are you dressed?"

Mrs. Ravitch came in buttoning a slicker. "If we leave, we can't leave Fay alone. She'll have to come."

"Maybe not," answered Mr. Ravitch. "Fay, go over to the Milins' and see if you can wake them. You can stay there."

Laneff said, "I don't see how the Center patrols could be up in this wind." She was beginning to be scared. Mrs. Ravitch let Fay out the front door, fighting to close it again. "Maybe, but don't worry. It's only about an hour's drive by car."

Laneff had overheard enough of the arguments against her coming here to know that it was actually about an hour and a half from here, and the Center was a small, minimally staffed out-Territory installation for collecting selyn and dealing with ordinary changeover. This was the first moment of her life when she was glad she wasn't a channel. Such an out-Territory Center would never have anyone on staff who could serve the voracious First Need of a Farris channel.

Mr. Ravitch tried the car radio to no avail, and Fay came back drenched pleading that she couldn't wake the neighbors. Then they were in the car, moving slowly through sheets of rain. The two girls had the back seat. Mrs. Ravitch sat beside her husband talking patiently into the car's radio. Fay coached Laneff through the rough transitions of changeover, holding her reassuringly, reciting the learned speeches with real conviction. It helped.

But in one place, a tree blocked the road. Another street they tried was flooded out. Laneff’s arms hurt now, her new tentacle sheaths stretching with the fluids, the thinning membranes over the wrist orifices stinging.

Then the car radio crackled to life, and before long a bright light swept into the car, hurting Laneff’s eyes. Mr. Ravitch opened his window to talk to a slickered man.

"Road's closed," said the man. "Fire."

"We've got a kid in changeover. Got to get to the Center."

"What stage?"

Fay answered, "Five, I think, but she's going real fast. She's a Farris, but not a channel."

Laneff could see the wrinkled face of the Gen by the light of his lantern. He chewed his lower lip, then turned away and called to some men. He stuck his head in the window again, and said softly, "Officer Swatek is a Third Order Donor, so don't worry now. He's going to lead you to the Center. If it takes too long, blink your lights at him, and he'll come back and give her transfer. Don't drive too fast. It's dangerous out there tonight."

As the moment drew closer, Laneff’s world narrowed to Fay's warm body holding her. She held on, breath after breath. Her insides became a black emptiness, devoid of life, warmth. Despite all her training, the cold void within terrified her.

In desperate imagining, she thought she could sense the glowing halo of selyn around the adults in the front seat. Am I zlinning?

As the thought formed in her mind, the spinning world outside the car settled. They were in the courtyard of a large old stone building. Choppers were tied down under wind-whipped canvas. Windows were bright.

The officer who'd guided them dismounted from his two-wheeler and came to stick his head in the window.

At that moment, something ticked over inside Laneff and her hands convulsed shut into balled fists. Every muscle strained to press the fluids in her sealed sheaths against the wrist orifice membranes, to break them and free her tentacles. The spasm let up for a moment, and she was being pulled out of the car. Then it happened again, the world disappearing into sparkling blackness—localized balls of warmth that attracted her.

On the third contraction, her tentacles shot free into the cold wind, spurting fluid everywhere. The shock brought her duoconscious for a moment. She was kneeling in the rain, soaked but laughing wildly over the new freedom. Then the cold numb terror was back, and the world disappeared into shifting points of energy.

Bright ones far away made the nearby one seem the answer to everything. She reached for that ball of brightness. It withdrew slightly, and that shattered the dreamy state. Suddenly, she knew what she wanted, and she went for it.

Her tentacles lashed themselves about the bright Gen flesh, the four handling tentacles on each of her arms securing the grip so the laterals would not be dislodged.

Once she had the grip, the Gen yielded willingly. Selyn blasted into her consciousness for the very first time, and she surrendered to the reflexive draw, slaking the dark need that macerated her insides.

As she forced selyn to come faster, there was a sharp flash of searing white overload. The selyn changed, became harder and hotter, like a scream of delicious fright, as the Gen resisted. It cut through to her and lit up her innermost being with the exultation of Self over Other: sheer egobliss. But before it was enough, the selyn flow cut off abruptly. Ice-cold needles of pain showered through every cell of her body. She came to bare consciousness, dimly aware of the limp weight sliding from her wet, pain-weakened tentacles.

One framed moment etched into her consciousness: the Gen officer's head lolling to one side, mouth agape, eyes staring.

Then tentacles sought hers, her need still shrieking through her nerves, worse for being thwarted of satisfaction by the Gen who died too quickly. She yielded to the source of selyn that folded her in a bubble of blurred fields—a feeling of utmost privacy and bottomless selyn.

She began to draw again, seeking to re-create that moment of peak overload. A moment of struggle for control, and the instant of ego-bliss was on her again—but oh, so briefly.

She came to awareness again, the stinging rain, the cold bright lights, the surging hiss of rain blurring speech, the scratch of her clothing against her arms, all claimed her full attention. The glowing fields around people had disappeared.

The corpses of the people she'd killed slumped on the pavement frozen in grotesque positions.

She was renSime, never to be Gen, never to participate in the channel's service. She might have lived with that, but now she was also junct. The Gen who'd offered her transfer had known her to be only a renSime, and had been unafraid until her draw had built relentless pain, nerve burn and death. The Second Order channel had understood only that a Farris renSime had killed and still needed. He had not anticipated that her draw speed could kill him. Had he been prepared, he could have aborted on her—but, out-Territory, he had not even considered such a possibility.