A bit of dialogue ran through memory: “Dad, look, two species can’t inhabit the same globe for generations without pretty deep mutual consequences. Why do you go sky-hunting? Why does Ferune serve wine at his table? And those’re the most superficial symptoms.”

“I know that much: Credit me with some fair-mindedness, hm? Thing is, you’re making a quantum jump.”

“Because I’m to be a member of Stormgate? Listen, the choths have been accepting humans for the past hundred years.”

“Not in such flocks as lately. And my son wasn’t one of them. I’d’ve… liked to see you carry on our traditions.”

“Who says I won’t?”

“To start with, you’ll not be under human law any more, you’ll be under choth law and custom… Hold on. That’s fine, if you’re an Ythrian. Chris, you haven’t got the chromosomes. Those who’ve pretended they did, never fitted well into either race, ever again.”

“Damnation, I’m not pretending—!”

Arinnian thrust the scene from him as if it were a physical thing. He was grateful for the prosaic necessities of preparation. To reach Lythran’s aerie before dark, he must start soon. Of course, a car would cover the distance in less than an hour; but who wanted to fly caged in metal and plastic?

He was nude. More and more, those who lived like him were tending to discard clothes altogether and use skin paint for dress-up. But everybody sometimes needed garments. An Ythrian, too, was seldom without a belt and pouch. This trip would get chilly, and he lacked feathers. He crossed the tiny apartment to fetch coverall and boots.