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up against a tree with his thick arms crossed tightly over his chest. A quick search of the
surrounding undergrowth revealed only trees and bushes, vines and clumps of the ever-
present Haukik.
An empty plastic specimen bottle lay on the ground nearby. Simna picked it up and caught
the odor without having to bring it close. "Having your own private party, Frank?"
Silent and distant, Lastwell didn't respond. Occasionally he'd mutter something
unintelligible and shake his head violently, like a dog with a foxtail up its ear.
Ignoring his nakedness, Lejardin bent close to him and spoke encouragingly. "Captain
Lastwell? Frank? Can you talk? Can you tell us what's wrong?"
"Here's his clothes." As he nudged the pile with his foot, the scientist took another whiff of
the bottle. He didn't drink, didn't smoke any stimulants, didn't take any chemical boosters.
If not for his way with words, he would have been relentlessly boring. If he had any
unusual vices he kept them carefully under wraps. At one moment full of laughter and
camaraderie, the next would see him closed as a tomb.
Lastwell, on the other hand, hid nothing.
"Where is she?" He blinked repeatedly, as if his eyes were having difficulty focusing.
"She?" Still crouched over, Lejardin looked helplessly at Simna.
The other scientist flashed his light into the trees. Behind them, the sounds of high
celebration drowned any nocturnal animal peepings.
"There's no one here, Frank." He moved to place a comforting hand on the other man's
shoulder. "What happened here? Are you all right?" Lastwell muttered something
unintelligible.
"D.T.'s?" Lejardin nodded at the empty specimen bottle.
Lastwell spoke up unexpectedly. "Wish that were all it were. Plain old D.T.'s. Wish that's
all I saw. Wish that's all that I..." With unexpected suddenness he rose, threw his arms
around Simna, and began to bawl relentlessly. Not knowing what else to do, Simna
allowed himself to remain in the captain's grasp.
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Gradually the sobbing died down, at which point Last-well became angry. Ignoring them
both, he dropped his head and began searching the undergrowth.
"My clothes, goddamnit. Where're m' stinkin' clothes?"
"Over there, Frank." Lejardin was careful to stay out of his way.
He nodded appreciatively and started toward them. Three steps saw him staggering. A
fourth and he collapsed, landing hard on his right side. With a moan he rolled onto his
belly and began crawling in the general direction of his shirt.
"Just stay put, Frank. I'll get them for you." Moving to gather up the captain's clothing,
Simna noticed a peculiar odor and hesitated. When a touch of shirt and pants revealed
nothing abnormal he gingerly picked up the rumpled attire. He'd hardly finished collecting
everything when Lastwell unceremoniously snatched them out of his hands. Simna backed
off, saying nothing. Muttering constantly to himself while using a tree trunk for support,
Lastwell proceeded with some difficulty to dress himself.
"Got to be around here someplace," he was mumbling. "She-thing, Xica-she, got to be
around. Will find her. Will find the bitch-thing."
"Frank, you're not making any sense." Lejardin stepped in front of him. "Tell us what
happened."
"Nothing. Nothin' happened. Lemme alone." Fumbling with his waist fastener, he
staggered and stumbled off in the direction of the celebration.
Lejardin and Simna watched him go. "Maybe he'll tell Stevens. They talk a lot when none
of the rest of us are around," Simna murmured.
She frowned at him. "If it's when we're not around, how do you know they talk?"
"I'm a good listener. I'm around when people don't think I'm around."
"Too bad you weren't around just now." She indicated the small clearing where they'd
found Lastwell.
"That's a real dangerous talent to have, sonny-boy. It could get you killed."
At first Simna thought the warning might have come from Stevens, but the figure that
emerged from the depths of the forest was too tall to be the mate. Too tall, and too broad
to be Cedric Carnavon. Slightly bowed, the venerable frame was thickly muscled. Long
gray hair that had receded well back from the high forehead spilled in thick curls past the
broad shoulders, while a tangled gray beard obscured the outer realms of the face.
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He wore an intricately decorated Xican poncho of Quwanga design and wider than usual
sandals to accommodate the extra toe. Breathtakingly detailed carvings decorated his
wooden staff from top to bottom. It had been burnished to a high luster. A thick woven
headband kept his long hair out of his eyes. Picked out by the flashlight, piercing blue eyes
seemed to penetrate Simna's very soul. He took a reflexive step backward, then held his
ground.
"By gods, you're afraid of me." The figure chuckled heartily. Nothing senile or feeble about
that laugh, Simna thought. It expressed unimaginable joy, sheer delight in being alive. Its
progenitor terminated it with unexpected sharpness, exposing as he did so the thin edge of
insanity. He gestured past them, after Lastwell.
"I saw what he did."
"And what did he do?" Lejardin pressed the newcomer.
His eyes twinkled as he regarded her. "By my mind and places, missy, aren't you some
piece of work? Why don't you ask him?" He chuckled again.
"We did," explained Simna coolly, "but he wouldn't tell us."
"Then why should I? I don't mind other people's business. I gave that up when I came
here. Other people's businesses were always in a mess, and they were always coming to me
to fix it for them. So I got good and sick of it and came here, to this place of peace." He
made a sweeping gesture with an arm strong enough to floor both of them.
"Then you lot arrived." He lowered his voice. "I suppose I was naive to think it would go
otherwise. Xica's too prominent in the catalog to be ignored for long. But I thought, I'd
hoped, to have twenty or thirty years here to myself. Then I'd be worm-food and it
wouldn't matter." He straightened.
"Well, you're here now. And getting along well with the locals, too. Except for him." He
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