Local midnight, by the chronometer on the board. He slid out of bed; dressed deliberately; buckled the kit on and moved to the door. At the threshold, he bethought himself, turned back to the rationboard and withdrew several bars of concentrated food, which he stuffed into his pouch. His eye fell on the flute he’d made that afternoon and he picked that up, too, thrusting it into his belt as he went out into the night.

There were people abroad in the valley: farming, drilling and in general about their business under the wan light of the two pinkish moons as if it were full daylight.

Val Con paused to stare out over all this activity and finally proceeded, shrugging.

The path deserted him at the base of the hill and he paused once more, this time because he heard the sound of large persons approaching, talking among themselves.

He hid in the shadow of a sundered boulder and let them go by: a group of three, well-shelled and carrying large objects—containers of some sort, he thought.

They entered the caverns purposefully, the boom of their voices echoing back.

After a moment, Val Con followed.

THE BROODMOTHER STOOD away from the bench in the waiting chamber and inclined her head as he approached. “T’carais. A word with you?” Not now, he thought, still rankling from Eldest speaker’s criticism. Hasty, am I? when all with eyes must see that the Clans of Men will give us profit, perspective—He became aware of the Broodmother still standing, head bent in respect; and put irritation aside. “Of course. Come within.” He sat upon the bench of office and indicated that she should sit, as well.

At least—” She paused, marshalling words. “It is that—thing, T’carais. The Reports of this one had reached him from other sources, all annoyed.

But this, in her agitation, she did not do, merely standing and gazing mutely up at him. “What concerns you?” he asked in some puzzlement. Whatever failings she possessed, nervousness was not counted among them, “Are the egglings unwell?”