This was done and Handler murmured all things appropriate. Then, “Your pardon, Broodmother, for speaking of a subject I know is distasteful to you. But—the small, soft being… Have you seen i—him recently?”

“No,” she snapped, “nor have I any wish to. It is to be hoped the horrible thing has gone away.”

“D’neschopita,” said the T’carais’amp sorrowfully. “Kanarak’ab.”

The Broodmother was not best pleased by these sentiments. Handler left her trying to interest the T’carais’amp in a game of c’smerlaparek with his younger kin.

* * *

HANDLER WALKED AROUND the little ship—constructed, after the manner of the Clans of Men, from soft metal, rather than molded of durable rock. After a complete circuit, he tested the air.

The lingering hint of the human’s spice-furry scent was days old, direction teased by the winds. He came closer to the ship, but the stink of metal masked any other scent that might have been there.

Finally, he lifted a hand and brought it down—gently—on the hull, making it to ring. He waited a time and repeated this, before circling the ship again.

If Val Con yos’Phelium Scout were inside, he was ignoring Handler’s summons.

Well, then, thought Handler, all beings require space apart. Perhaps this is the human’s time of quietude and meditation…

He backed away, not quite convinced, but unsure of what else, with propriety, might be done.

It must be for my brother to decide whether we will open the ship of another clan.

An unsatisfactory solution, but he could think of none better. After a time, he left the quiet clearing and the stinking lump of metal and returned to his house.

* * *

THE THIRD MOON was risen; the first waning, when a small, swift figure left the safety of the dwelling-places and crossed the L’apeleka field, unerringly striking the hill path.