Chan stood up and moved across to sit by Shikari. After a few moments he felt the feathery touch of long, delicate antennae on his arms and legs. The Tinker Composite was quietly performing a partial disassembly and rebuilding. Thumb-sized components were leaving the far side of the great clump and re-attaching themselves close to Chan’s body. Within five minutes Shikari was molded solidly against Chan’s left side, touching him all the way from breast to ankles.

He turned his head and stared down at the purple-black vibrating mass. The contact was not at all unpleasant. In fact, that gentle thrumming touch against his skin began to feel surprisingly warm and reassuring. After a few more moments, free components who had not been part of the Tinker Composite when Chan sat down flew across and made additional connections. Soon Chan’s whole body, from feet to shoulders, was embedded in the largest purple swarm he had ever encountered.

He felt very relaxed now, but not sleepy. The pressure around him was just enough to be noticed. But the pilot’s words drifted back to Chan. If a Tinker chose to swarm on something as a means of restraint, it could be formidable. Shikari had its own way of neutralizing aggression.

He watched as a final few components flew in to attach themselves. “Do you feel different, when more units attach?”

There was an experimental whistle from the speaking funnel. “Of course.’

After a long silence, Chan realized that the Tinker had given its full answer. “I don’t mean more intelligent. I know that’s true. What I mean is, do you feel that you are a different individual when your size is increased so much?”

The Tinker was silent for an even longer period. “That is a difficult question.” Even its voice was slower and deeper in pitch. “We are also not sure that it is a meaningful one. We are what we are, at the moment. We cannot feel what we were or will be. We will answer your question with a question. Every second, according to information that we have received concerning humans, some of your brain cells die. Do you feel different when those units of intellect are removed from you?”

“It’s not the same. In the case of a human, every brain cell has been there since childhood. We do not add units.” (And brain cells are only a part of the story — should I tell Shikari how recently I achieved real use of my brain?) “We lose cells slowly. But to change, recombine, and add or subtract units, constantly and quickly, as you do … it is hard for me to comprehend how you retain the sense of a single identity during a time of major change.”

The Tinker rippled suddenly against Chan’s body. A cascade of about five hundred units flew away to settle on the ground as individual components.

“Like that, you mean?” There was a breathy rattle from the voice funnel, as though the Tinker was practicing a human laugh. “There is more than enough capacity for continuous thought, even when no more than five hundred components are present. Remember, each of the units that form us possesses nearly two million neurons.”

“That sounds like very few.”

“Few compared with a human, or a complete Composite. But compare one of our components with one of your honeybees. It has no more than seven thousand neurons, and yet it is capable of complex individual actions.”

There was another whir of tiny wings as the units came flying back to rejoin the mass around Chan’s body. The voice funnel wheezed, in a more successful attempt at a human sigh.

“We have far to go,” said Shikari, “before we can really understand each other. When first we encountered humans we marvelled at your strange structure. How could intelligence be delegated, to reside in some special chosen group of cells within your body? Within us, each component carries an equal amount of our intelligence. But now much of your thinking power lies here” — Chan felt a gentle pressure on his midriff — “or here.” The touch moved to the calf of his left leg. “What intelligence lies in these parts? What are the thoughts of an arm, or a lung? You will say, none. We cannot comprehend that. Yet we know it is true that a human can be reduced to less than half its size, lacking arms and legs, and have its intelligence continue unchanged!”

“Less than that. There have been successful human brain transplants, and no lessening of thinking ability.”

“Who would believe such a thing, if we had not encountered it? — If humans had not arrived on Mercantor, and proved it to us.” There was a rustle of veined wings, and Shikari settled to a tighter mass. “Intelligence. It is indeed a mystery. But this — closeness and warmth — is without a doubt the best part of intelligence.”

While Chan and Shikari had been talking, full night had arrived. The pursuit team had set up its camp in a clearing, surrounded by the dusty blue-green vegetation of Barchan’s polar region. In the past few minutes the air temperature had dropped thirty degrees. Shikari was like a warm, soft blanket swaddling Chan up to his chin. He raised his head and stared up at the sky. Eta Cassiopeia’s brighter component had set, and the smaller sun of the binary was not yet risen. S’kat’lan, home planet of the Pipe-Rillas, was a bright point close to the horizon. Barchan’s dingy little moon sat above it in the sky, a shrunken irregular raisin.

Chan shivered. The night air was still warm. The tremor was one of apprehension. Three months ago he had lived in the quiet cocoon of the Gallimaufries, happy, ignorant, and near-brainless. Leah had shielded him from every danger. Now he was wandering the surface of an alien world, eighteen lightyears from home. He was not sure that he would ever see another sunset. Leah was even farther from Earth and facing much greater danger. By now she would be landing on Travancore, to face not a Simmie Artefact but the real Morgan Construct.

Given a choice, would he go back? Back to his mental vacuum, to the halcyon days of flowers and games?

One man had been the agent for all those changes, including the agony of the Tolkov Stimulator. If Chan closed his eyes he could see the face in front of him. Esro Mondrian deserved the blame — or the credit — for everything that had happened to Chan.

Turn back the clock? Chan stared up at Barchan’s solitary misshapen moon, and wondered: about Esro Mondrian, about Shikari, about intelligence, about himself.

By the time that the silver spark of S’kat’lan was sinking to Barchan’s dusty horizon, Chan had an answer. No matter what happened here, he would not choose to go back to his old life. Whatever burden the mixed blessing of self-awareness and intelligence brought with it, he wanted to carry it.

With that knowledge the urge for revenge on Esro Mondrian lost its focus. If the man had earned Chan’s hatred, perhaps he had also earned his gratitude. He had dragged Chan, reluctant and screaming, into the bright world of responsibility…

Chan drifted away to a mental state that was both remote and infinitely satisfying. His reverie was at last interrupted when the dark bulk of the Tinker stirred against him. He opened his eyes and discovered, incredibly, that a hint or dawn was already in the sky. Where had the night gone?

“Listen.” It was the voice of Shikari, deep and contented as a purring cat. “Do you hear it? The sound of the aircar. The others are returning, and we are sad. Our time of peace and closeness soon must end.”