“Greeting, dr’Shee.”

She sniffed in startlement and then recognized the female at the entrance to her chamber. “How are you, qr’Tshew? Come in, come in.”

The other female entered, and dr’Shee said at once, “I will send for food.”

“I have eaten,” said qr’Tshew politely. “What lovely courtship gifts.” She fondled dr’Shee’s collection. Six breedings, six fine gifts: a hard thing stolen from the New Devils that no one understood; the leg of a crabrat — that had been her first gift, and the least worthy, but in some ways the most satisfying of her courtship gifts; even the claws of a balloonist. Every one had been stolen from the Surface itself, at great risk, and delivered to her at a cost. Few males survived more than two or three mad, half-blind dashes to the Surface to steal courtship gifts. The enemies were everywhere.

Manners satisfied, qr’Tshew came to the point. “The father of my last brood has died of a bad breathing,” she said. “Also three young of other mothers.”

“What a pity,” said dr’Shee. She was not referring to the male, of course; once a male had achieved breeding he was done, for that female. But to have young die of the cyanide gas!

“I fear for our way of life,” said qr’Tshew primly. “Since the New Devils came, our litters have not been the same.”

“I have had the same thought,” dr’Shee admitted. “I have spoken of it to my sisters.”

“And I to mine. I and my sisters have thought something we wish to share. Our young are being taught things by the New Devils. Dr’Shee, shouldn’t we mothers learn what the litters are learning?”

“But they are learning ways of bringing death! You and I are mothers, qr’Tshew!” Dr’Shee was shocked.

“The Krinpit bring death to us, do they not? The broods in the upper galleries have blocked off the tunnels where the bad air came from, but is it not certain that the Shelled Devils will break through again and more bad air will come?”

“I cannot bring death, except of course for food.”

“Then let us eat them, shells and all,” said qr’Tshew grimly. “Touch closely, dr’Shee. There is a story—” She hesitated. “I do not know how true it is. It came from a Krinpit and might as well have come from a Flying Devil.” That was an old saying to indicate dubiousness, but in this case, dr’Shee realized, it was actually true. “This Shelled Devil taunted one of my sister’s brood by saying that New Devils had destroyed an entire city of our race. He said the New Devils thought of us as vermin and would not rest until we were all gone. That is why they have given the Krinpit the bad air.”

“But the New Devils are teaching our litters how to destroy Krinpit.”

“The next part of the story is puzzling, but I think it is so. The Shelled Devil says that there are three kinds of New Devils. One kind destroyed the city. Another kind gave them the bad air with which they harm us here. And the kind that teaches our litters is a third kind. They have destroyed Flying Devils and Krinpit, as well as persons of the two other kinds of their own race. But they do not destroy us.”

Dr’Shee thrashed her long, supple body in agitation. “But that is not true!” she cried. “They have taken several litters from their classes to some other place, and only a few have returned. And they have been weak and slow, and speak of their brood-mates dying!”

“My sisters and I have heard this also,” agreed qr’Tshew.

“Tssheee!” The petaled folds of dr’Shee’s nose were rippling furiously. “It feels,” she said at length, “as though the teaching of bringing death is not a bad thing. If we bring death to the Krinpit, then they will not be able to bring more bad air to us. If we help our New Devils to bring death to the others, then they will not be able to aid the Krinpit or the Flying Devils against us.”

“I have had this same thought, dr’Shee.”

“I have a further thought, qr’Tshew. Once we have brought death to these others, perhaps we can then bring death to our own New Devils.”

“And then our litters will be ours again, dr’Shee!”

“And our burrows will be safe and dark. Yes! Do not go away, qr’Tshew. I will summon t’Weechr and he will begin to teach us these lessons!”

FOURTEEN

EVEN IN JEM’S favorable conditions — air denser, gravity less than Earth — there was a peremptory equation of lift. Danny Dalehouse could carry whatever he liked simply by adding balloons to his cluster. Charlie had no such power. He could carry what he could carry, and there was an end to it. To carry any of Dalehouse’s gifts meant sacrificing ballast and therefore mobility. To carry them all was impossible. When Dalehouse scolded him for giving the crossbow to a flock-mate — at a time when the ha’aye’i seemed everywhere! — Charlie sang placatingly, “But I must keep the speaker-to-air! I cannot have both, cannot have both.”

“And if you are killed by a ha’aye’i, what good will the radio do you?” But Charlie didn’t even seem to understand the question. He and the flock were singing a sort of rhapsody about the speaker-to-air and how it enriched their chorus; and Dalehouse abandoned the effort.

Charlie’s possession of the radio wasn’t all good. It meant that Dalehouse could really keep in contact with the flock from the ground as long as they stayed in line of sight or somewhere near it, and that fact had not escaped Major Santangelo, the new camp commandant. It was getting less easy to escape into the air. At the same time, it was getting less attractive to stay in the camp. Santangelo had established command at once. He had proved it by sending Harriet and Alex Woodring off to try to make contact with a distant tribe of burrowers, hopefully uncontaminated by contact with the Greasies. And the camp was being run along increasingly strict military lines.

Dalehouse broke through the flock’s song. “I must return. Four more flocks of our people are joining us, and I wish to be there when they arrive.”

“We will come with you, we will come with you—”

“No, you won’t,” he contradicted. “Too many ha’aye’i near the camp.” That was the truth, and that, too, was a consequence of the “gifts” he had given them. Since the Oilies had found out that Santangelo’s “scientific instruments” were being used by the balloonists to keep tabs on what was going on in their camp they had taken to shooting down every balloonist that came within a kilometer of them. So balloonists were growing locally scarce, and the predators hungry.

“Fly by the Wet Valleys,” he commanded. “Learn if our people are well there.”

“No need,” sang Charlie. “See the wings of your friend ’Appy coming from there even now!” And back behind the shoreline, there it was, Cappy’s little biplane coming back from visiting the outpost, circling in for a landing.

“Then good-bye,” sang Dalehouse, and expertly vented hydrogen until he came down to the level of the onshore winds that carried him back to the camp.

He was getting really good at ballooning, and he was smiling as he drifted down over the commandant’s pet project, the little mud fort on the shore, and dropped to earth on the first bluff. He gathered up the deflated balloons, slung their loose-netted bulk over his shoulder, and walked happily enough up to the hydrogen shed.

That was the end of happiness. Half the camp was gathered around Kappelyushnikov and Santangelo, farther up the hill. Jim Morrissey and half a dozen others were coming toward him, their faces grim. Dalehouse caught Morrissey’s arm as he passed. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.

Morrissey paused. “Trouble, Danny. Something’s happened to the outcamp. Harriet, Woodring, Dugachenko — they’re missing. Gappy says the camp’s been ripped apart, and they’re gone.”

“Harriet?”

“All of them, damn it! And there’s blood and Krinpit tracks all over the place. Let go, we’ve got to get down to Castle Santangelo — in case they invade by sea, I guess. Anyway, you’d better get up there and see what your orders are.”