“Because of the way Kurtz looks?”

“Partly. And also because my original plan looks too — well, too willed. Too unspontaneous. An intellectual choice, not an act of faith. You can’t just go up there and volunteer for rebirth in a coldly scientific way. You have to be driven to it.”

“As Kurtz was?” Cullen asked.

“Exactly.”

“And as you aren’t?”

“I don’t know any longer,” Gundersen said. “I thought I was driven, too. I told Seena I was. But somehow, now that I’m so close to the mountain, the whole quest has started to seem artificial to me.

“You’re sure you aren’t just afraid to go through with it?”

Gundersen shrugged. “Kurtz wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“There are good rebirths and bad rebirths,” Cullen said. “He had a bad rebirth. How it turns out depends on the quality of one’s soul, I gather, and on a lot of other things. Give us some more wine, will you?”

Gundersen extended the flask. Cullen, who appeared to be gaining strength, drank deeply.

“Have you been through rebirth?” Gundersen asked.

“Me? Never. Never even tempted. But I know a good deal about it. Kurtz wasn’t the first of us to try it, of course. At least a dozen went before him.”

“Who?”

Cullen mentioned some names. They were Company men, all of them from the list of those who had died while on field duty. Gundersen had known some of them; others were figures out of the far past, before he or Cullen had ever come to Holman’s World.

Cullen said, “And there were others. Kurtz looked them up in the records, and the nildoror gave him the rest of the story. None of them ever returned from the mist country. Four or five of them turned out like Kurtz — transformed into monsters.”

“And the others?”

“Into archangels, I suppose. The nildoror were vague about it. Some sort of transcendental merging with the universe, an evolution to the next bodily level, a sublime ascent — that kind of thing. All that’s certain is that they never came back to Company territory. Kurtz was hoping on an outcome like that. But unfortunately Kurtz was Kurtz, half angel and half demon, and that’s how he was reborn. And that’s what Seena nurses. In a way it’s a pity you’ve lost your urge, Gundy. You might just turn out to have one of the good rebirths. Can you call Hor-tenebor over? I think I should have some fresh air, if we’re going to talk so much. He’s the sulidor leaning against the wall there. The one who looks after me, who hauls my old bones around. He’ll carry me outside.”

“It was snowing a little while ago, Ced.”

“So much the better. Shouldn’t a dying man see some snow? This is the most beautiful place in the universe,” Cullen said. “Right here, in front of this hut. I want to see it. Get me Hor-tenebor.”

Gundersen summoned the sulidor. At a word from Cullen, Hor-tenebor scooped the fragile, shrunken invalid into his immense arms and bore him through the door-flap of the hut, setting him down on a cradle-like framework overlooking the lake. Gundersen followed. A heavy mist had descended on the village, concealing even the huts closest at hand, but the lake itself was clearly visible under the gray sky. Fugitive wisps of mist hung just above the lake’s dull surface. A bitter chill was in the air, but Cullen, wrapped only in a thin hide, showed no discomfort. He held forth his hand, palm upraised, and watched with the wonder of a child as snowflakes struck it.

At length Gundersen said, “Will you answer a question?”

“If I can.”

“What was it you did that got the nildoror so upset?”

“They didn’t tell you when they sent you after me?”

“No,” Gundersen said. “They said that you would, and that in any case it didn’t really matter to them whether I knew or not. Seena didn’t know either. And I can’t begin to guess. You were never the kind who went in for killing or torturing intelligent species. You couldn’t have been playing around with the serpent venom the way Kurtz was — he was doing that for years and they never tried to grab him. So what could you possibly have done that caused so much—”

“The sin of Actaeon,” said Cullen.

“Pardon?”

“The sin of Actaeon, which was no sin at all, but really just an accident. In Greek myth he was a huntsman who blundered upon Diana bathing, and saw what he shouldn’t have seen. She changed him into a stag and he was torn to pieces by his own hounds.”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

Cullen drew a long breath. “Did you ever go up on the central plateau?” he asked, his voice low but firm. “Yes. Yes, of course you did. I remember, you crash-landed there, you and Seena, on your way back to Fire Point after a holiday on the coast, and you were stranded a little while and weird animals bothered you and that was when Seena first started to hate the plateau. Right? Then you know what a strange and somehow mysterious place it is, a place apart from the rest of this planet, where not even the nildoror like to go. All right. I started to go there, a year or two after relinquishment. It became my private retreat. The animals of the plateau interested me, the insects, the plants, everything. Even the air had a special taste — sweet, clean. Before relinquishment, you know, it would have been considered a little eccentric for anybody to visit the plateau on his free time, or at any other time. Afterward nothing mattered to anyone. The world was mine. I made a few plateau trips. I collected specimens. I brought some little oddities to Seena, and she got to be fond of them before she realized they were from the plateau, and little by little I helped her overcome her irrational fear of the plateau. Seena and I went there often together, sometimes with Kurtz also. There’s a lot of flora and fauna from the plateau at Shangri-la Station; maybe you noticed it. Right? We collected all that. The plateau came to seem like any other place to me, nothing supernatural, nothing eerie, merely a neglected backwoods region. And it was my special place, where I went whenever I felt myself growing empty or bored or stale. A year ago, maybe a little less than a year, I went into the plateau. Kurtz had just come back from his rebirth, and Seena was terribly depressed by what had happened to him, and I wanted to get her a gift, some animal, to cheer her up. This time I came down a little to the southwest of my usual landing zone, over in a part of the plateau I had never seen before, where two rivers meet. One of the first things I noticed was how ripped up the shrubbery was. Nildoror! Plenty nildoror! An immense area had been grazed, and you know how nildoror graze. It made me curious. Once in a while I had seen an isolated nildor on the plateau, always at a distance, but never a whole herd. So I followed the line of devastation. On and on it went, this scar through the forest, with broken branches and trampled underbrush, all the usual signs. Night came, and I camped, and it seemed to me I heard drums in the night. Which was foolish, since nildoror don’t use drums; I realized after a while that I heard them dancing, pounding the ground, and these were reverberations carried through the soil. There were other sounds, too: screams, bellows, the cries of frightened animals. I had to know what was happening. So I broke camp in the middle of the night and crept through the jungle, hearing the noise grow louder and louder, until finally I reached the edge of the trees, where the jungle gave way to a kind of broad savanna running down to the river, and there in the open were maybe five hundred nildoror. Three moons were up, and I had no trouble seeing. Gundy, would you believe that they had painted themselves? Like savages, like something out of a nightmare. There were three deep pits in the middle of the clearing. One of the pits was filled with a kind of wet red mud, and the other two contained branches and berries and leaves that the nildoror had trampled to release dark pigments, one black, one blue. And I watched the nildoror going down to these pits, and first they’d roll in the pit of red mud and come up plastered with it, absolutely scarlet; and then they’d go to the adjoining pits and give each other dark stripes over the red, hosing it on with their trunks. A barbaric sight: all that color, all that flesh. When they were properly decorated, they’d go running — not strolling, running — across the field to the place of dancing, and they’d begin that four-step routine. You know it: boom boom boom boom. But infinitely more fierce and frightening now, on account of the war-paint. An army of wild-looking nildoror, stamping their feet, nodding their tremendous heads, lifting their trunks, bellowing, stabbing their tusks into the ground, capering, singing, flapping their ears. Frightening, Gundy, frightening. And the moonslight on their painted bodies—