"Yes," said Dybo. "Something has to be done soon. The overcrowding is far too dangerous. Every Pack is on the verge of another mass dagamant."
Afsan pushed himself up off his rock. Startled, a blue and yellow snake slithered away from the base of the boulder. "I understand for the first time, I think, the burden borne by the bloodpriests," he said.
"No other choice is possible, is it?" said Dybo. "Than to eliminate the excess children?" Afsan exhaled noisily.
"I am blind, but rarely do I feel helpless. And yet, in this instance, that’s precisely how I do feel. No, I can conceive of no other solution."
There was a long silence as each of them digested his own thoughts.
"What is the status of the bloodpriests now?" said Afsan at last.
"They’ve been reinstated in just about every Pack, as far as we can tell, although word from the more distant provinces is still coming in. You were right, though, as usuaclass="underline" as the envoys return from here, having watched the spectacle in the arena, the news that no one, not even The Family, is exempt from the bloodpriests’ culling is making the reinstatement easy. And, frankly, it seems that just about everyone is irritated by all the youngsters underfoot. They’re calling out for population controls."
Afsan nodded. "Have you appointed a new imperial bloodpriest yet?"
"To replace Maliden? No. His body lies at Prath, and the palace is still mourning his passing."
"But is it not the imperial bloodpriest who leads the entire order?"
"Yes."
"Then a replacement must be appointed soon," said Afsan.
"Granted. But who? Maliden had no apprentice."
"Toroca."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Kee-Toroca. My son. Make him the new imperial blood-priest — or, at least, assign him the task of determining which should live."
"But he’s a geologist."
"Yes."
"Why him?"
"Toroca is special. He has no sense of territoriality."
Dybo nodded. "I’ve noticed he has a tendency to stand too close to people."
"It’s more than that. He doesn’t feel territoriality at all. He thinks it’s a secret, but, even blind, I am more observant than he knows."
"No territoriality," repeated Dybo. "Amazing."
"You and he have much in common, really," said Toroca. "I heard from Cadool about how you helped quell the frenzy in the streets."
Dybo clicked his teeth. "I have my good days and my bad. I’m certainly not free of territoriality."
"No, but yours is subdued compared to most people’s."
Dybo grunted. "Perhaps. But you think Toroca, because of his lack of territoriality, should be the new imperial bloodpriest?"
"Exactly," said Afsan. "It’s a sad fact that almost all of those seventeen hundred children will have to be killed. Someday, perhaps, when we do finally get off this world, there will be room for all our children to live, but until then we must have population controls. Most of the hatchlings in question are old enough now to reveal more than just how fast they are. Let Toroca devise a way to select among them. He knows what to look for, I’m sure. I guarantee he won’t simply choose the fastest or strongest."
Dybo sounded worried. "But that will change…"
"Change the entire character of a generation of Quintaglios," said Afsan. "Maybe not by much, but it will be a step in the right direction."
"A whole generation chosen for something other than aggressiveness," said Dybo. "It’s a daring thought."
"But a productive one. We all need to be able to work together, Dybo. You know that. The old saying is true: time crawls for a child, walks for an adolescent, and runs for an adult. Well, our civilization is now past its childhood, and time is indeed running now — running out, for this entire world."
"I had exactly the same thought myself many days ago," said Dybo. "I agree, a reduction in territoriality would be a useful thing."
Afsan’s tail swished. "And remember the giant blue structure Toroca has found in Fra’toolar. When we do at last leave this world, we may be entering someone else’s territory. I have a feeling that, whatever’s out there, we might do well not to challenge it."
Dybo nodded. "Very well. I shall appoint Toroca. He won’t want the job, I’m sure…"
"The fact that he won’t want it is perhaps his best qualification for it," said Afsan. "Once the current overpopulation problem is solved, he can step down."
Dybo bowed at his friend. "You are wise, Afsan. We need more people like you."
Afsan dipped his muzzle, seemingly accepting the compliment. He said nothing, keeping his promise to Maliden, but held on to a single thought. No, Dybo, we need more people like you.
*47*
North of Capital City
Just north of Capital City, not far from Rockscape, there were some wide plains ending in a cliff face overlooking the vast body of water that, for want of a better name, people still called the Great River. The plains were covered with grass, kept short by shovelmouths and other plant-eaters. The east-west wind blew across its level surface.
A small crowd — the only kind possible — had gathered here, gathered around what some were calling Novato’s folly.
It was a bizarre contraption, made of thin wooden struts and sheets of leather and pieces of light metal. It seemed fragile, almost as if the wind would blow it away.
"My friends," said Novato, standing on an upended crate so that everyone could see her, "I present the Tak-Saleed."
There were murmurs of recognition from some in the crowd, but many were too young to remember the person after whom the strange machine was named.
The Tak-Saleed had a wide triangular canopy and a small hollow undercarriage. Its front end was articulated, with a double-headed prow that pointed both forward and back. It resembled more than anything a crude child’s model of a wingfinger made from odds and ends, and yet, that wasn’t quite right either, for it had a tail that fanned out behind it and its wings were reinforced with struts.
In these particulars, it looked not like a wingfinger, but like the strange gift from the giant blue egg found in Fra’toolar — like a bird.
Novato moved behind the undercarriage and crawled in on her belly, lying flat within. Her tail, thick and flattened from side to side, rose up through a slit that ran down the rear of the hull. Once she was in position, two assistants stepped close, strapping the protruding part of her tail into a harness that swiveled the articulated prow.
At last, the ropes holding the Tak-Saleed in place were cut. The steady wind blew under its great triangular wing and … and … and…
…lifted it into the air.
The crowd gasped. The Tak-Saleed skimmed across the plain, barely clearing the grass at times, occasionally lifting to the height of a middle-ager’s shoulder.
All too soon, it skidded to a stop, having traveled perhaps twenty paces.
Tails thumped the ground in glee. Novato let out a whoop of joy…
…and then a gust of wind blew across the plain and suddenly she was airborne again. Unprepared, she yanked her tail, the pointed head of the craft turned, and the Tak-Saleed banked to the right, into the wind, toward the cliff face.
Members of Novato’s team ran toward the runaway craft, hoping to grab hold of it, but just as they got close, the glider lifted higher, higher still, sailing over their heads, sailing over the precipice — The entire crowd ran to the edge of the cliff, mouths agape. The Tak-Saleed was spiraling down, lower and lower. If it hit the cliff face, Novato would be killed. She was frantically moving her tail, trying to steer.