be amassed to construct even one establishment?» «But there is more than one type,» Rack said. «I have seen yellow and white, dark and light. Some nuggets feed on themselves with dark waste, while others, such as my large one, grow only a white, powdery waste when exposed to the yellow of the air.» «Another proof,» said the teachers. «It feeds on itself. In a short span of sun circles an establishment made of your hard material would be reduced.» The hard material was indeed fragile. But Rack had a new idea. «Perhaps,» he said, his heart beating with excitement, for he was being daring, «the hard material came from the bowels of the earth.» He received warning vibrations, for he was treading on dangerous ground. But he plunged on. «Perhaps the Old Ones penetrated the surface?» There was sadness in the answer, not anger. «It is conceivable. For the Old Ones died, did they not?» In truth, the Old Ones had died and left behind old legends and nothing more. In the final days the bodies of the Old Ones covered the Earth. So were the thoughts of Rose the Healer marred by impossible statements, making the total credence of his thoughts less than reliable, for no planet, however young and fruitful, could support so much life. On all the continent the Eastern Group Establishment was the largest concentration of the Material known and at peak production periods in the summer it was the most populous. The picture showed Power Givers in a grouping equal to the number of digits on Rack's left hand, a paired group of Far Seers, and rock-weighted Healers diving in the thick water. The whole group numbered no more than the digits on Rock's hands and horny feet. If only, Rack lamented, the Far Seers had not erased the old thoughts. If only they had saved more than just the beautiful thoughts of Rose the Healer—what a delightful concept his name evoked, a confused mental image of something delicate and bright and beautiful. But only Rose was whole in the minds of the Keepers. Rack's only other source of information on the Old Ones was an occasional misfiled tidbit. The discovery of these excited Rack wildly. He had found mention of a sunken city in the mind of a northern Keeper, a city in the eastern sea that towered to the sky. An unknown Healer far back in antiquity had been the source of the reference which had been filed with readings of air purity at the tops of various mountains. And on the western sea, a group of Healers told of another city of the Old Ones they had heard of, a city that spread over what was now the plains of glass in Red Earth's area beside the great river. There was even a name for this lost city, but the name was difficult to conceive, for it suggested no known image. «Could it be,» Rack had asked, «that the Old Ones truly knew civilization and constructed establishments?» «I think,» said a young, visionary Healer, «that question is answered by the picture of city.» He had not truly considered what the image implied. City. A group of establishments. Yet though there was nothing in all the continent to keep the picture in the language, it persisted. The word, the picture, city was Old One language. It had meaning. The name of the lost city on the huge river had no meaning, gave no image. It was an abstract thing, difficult to grasp. Was the name another Old One word—a word whose meaning had been lost? In his learning, the teachers had brushed past the Old Ones. Ancient man was primitive, living on the fat of the young planet. He was ignorant of the process of combining the products of the Juicers and the Webbers to form the Material, thus uncivilized. Ancient man had no recorded history, for there were no Keepers. Ancient man lacked the mobility of the Power Givers and was thus confined to distances he could cover on his feet. In short, ancient man was a weak link in the evolutionary chain and his achievements could not have been great. Ancient man, said the teachers, was probably less intelligent than a Webber, but perhaps more intelligent than the front mind of a Keeper, who was unable to experience anything save basic sensations. To think that ancient man had built was folly. To attribute the origin of the hard materials to ancient man was incredible, for without tools of the Material, how could ancient man work the hard materials into any form? No. The hard materials, used by some mystics in the Healer ranks to form a mystery about ancient man, were of natural origin. Perhaps, since they were of such scarcity, they had fallen from the sky, for Far Seer probes indicated the presence of small bodies of solid material in the space system other than the satellite, the sun and the sister planets, and the far suns that even to the most sensitive Far Seer appeared as tiny motes in a vast area. «Be content,» said the teachers, «with the wisdom of the race, for we are old. Be proud of our achievements, for we have conquered a hostile world with only the weapons given us by nature, our minds. Contemplate the wonder of the invention of the Material by Dawn Eye the Far Seer. For is it not astounding that he could envision the domestication of the vicious Webber? Is it not wonderful that he could milk the fiery Juicer and, working at the risk of death, pain, and disfigurement, combine the liquid fire of the Juicer with the film of the Webber to create a substance that protects us from the hostile elements? Wonder at the course of evolution, that produced four distinct human forms who live in peace together and work mind in mind to ensure the survival of life. None could live alone. Be proud of your ability to heal, to spend extended periods in the vapors and the corrosive sea. Without them, without your ability to gather the slime source, what would be our nourishment? Be thankful for the Keepers, who store our knowledge and make us civilized. Praise the Power Givers who turn the vats that brew the broth, separating the deadly substances from the life-giving ones.» Modestly the teachers did not praise themselves, the Far Seers, the accumulators of knowledge, the overseers of society, the backbone of reason. The Far Seers, who were sterile, watched over the lower life forms, measured the Breathers, milked the deadly Juicers, and tamed the fierce Webbers. Truly, it was an arrangement to give wonder. The wisdom of nature was proved by the infallibility of her scheme to sustain life in an atmosphere that could eat a nugget of hard material in less than a sun circle. And Rack was not really discontent. After he gained maturity he took pride in his ability to gather more slime source than any other young Healer. He gloried in his strength, his huge, billowing lungs that could store enough air to outlast the most severe storm, his wonderful healing cells that replaced themselves when damaged by hard projectiles or acid gases. But there was much in his world to arouse his curiosity and he made his contributions to the knowledge of the race by feeding his observations into the blank mind of a Keeper after the exploration trips he took in his free time. He was recognized as an authority on the vast, uninhabited area of responsibility of Red Earth and was often consulted. He had come a long way from being the feckless young rack-lover who had engendered frowns of concern from his parents and teachers. In the prime of his physical strength he was tall and had a chest thickness equal to half his height. His scales were healthy, showing no damage from all his wanderings. When he retracted his protective eyefilms in the safety of his establishment his pupils glowed with a bright blue light and glittered with a love of life that was contagious. He was considerate, never venting his gills in the vicinity of an establishment, much less when in view of another being. He was generous with his time, always willing to use his strength to venture out for an extended period in the service of anyone who needed help. He asked for nothing except, at times, a period of conversation. Lying on his rack, breathing his sweet, Breather-produced air, he would compare knowledge with a Far Seer, gossip with a fellow Healer, or carry on a respectful exchange with a friendly Power Giver. At such times he projected a completely relaxed and totally likable personality. There were those among the young Power Givers who contacted him regularly, trying to detect a hint that Rack was being readied by nature for a joining. But they were continually disappointed; Power Giver after Power Giver, feeling the approach of her own time, had to search elsewhere, for the gray scale covering on Rack's lower abdomen remained rigid, showing no tint of the tell-tale red of readiness. III «You are, I see, preparing,» said Red Earth from his sanctuary, his mind engaged with Rack's. «Affirmative.» «A group of Breathers overworking,» Red Earth sent. «I have seen and am content with what I have stored,» Rack said. He had spent some time storing life. His body weight was up. His chest was expanded to bursting. All his cells were alive, fattened with precious air. «They will have ample time to recover in my absence.» «Is it polite to inquire?» «When were you concerned about being polite?» Rack queried laughingly. Red Earth was an old friend and teacher. «West,» he sent. «To the river and the rift.» «In search of hard-material nuggets?» Rack gave a mental shrug. «In search.» He sensed a regret on Red Earth's part and knew that the Far Seer begrudged him the waste of his energies in his own pursuits. He sent a hint of reproach, accompanied by a vivid picture of Red Earth with his Keeper, and got a chuckle in return. «Beautiful Wings the Power Giver will be alert to your needs.» «I thank you.» He liked the picture Red Earth sent, but was not familiar with the individual. «She is newly mature, assigned to the west of the area.» «Daughter of old Northern Ice the Healer? I knew her when she was a child.» «The same. She is no longer a child.» Red Earth paused. «And speaking of maturity, I note that your tint will soon be the same.» Rack did not like speaking of such matters. He closed his mind. «Could a joining be arranged it would be a propitious event,» Red Earth added. Joining was a matter of nature's design and of personal choice. Rack told Red Earth so and was acknowledged, but the hurt in the Far Seer's mind softened Rack and he sent soothing pictures, along with the rational conclusion that if Beautiful Wings were indeed newly mature his readiness would not match hers. Red Earth agreed with a sigh and ended the contact. Rack entered into the end-of-circle storms, freshly charged, walking with a distance-eating gait over the bare bones of the planet. His horny feet were impervious to the hard rock underfoot. His scales tingled as projectiles from the low spots bounced off them. Heavy clouds passed, and his gills vented poison, lungs taking only the scattered particles of life from the noxious mixture. For long periods he went without breathing until, on high spots, there was a hint of life in the air and he inhaled to help save his vital store in the cells of his body. There was a wild beauty in the outside—the constant swirl of heavy gases, the changes of light. And there was the feeling of being alone. Far off Rack could sense an establishment, closed tightly, inhabited by an old Healer whose venturesome soul was now confined to a body unable to withstand the rigors of the outside. Ahead of him stretched a vast, empty wilderness. He alone was living, moving through sterile spaces, the clouds eddying about him, the sun filtering down. The sun was never visible as a round source of heat as he knew it to be; it was now a glow, now only a hint of color, a diffuse feeling under the hothouse clouds. But it heated the rocks under his feet, which were not yet cooled by the movements of winter air. He skirted a sinkhole, feeling the corrosive strength of its deadly air on his scales. A small shower wet him and his scales crackled as acids sizzled and boiled. The thick clouds in the sinkhole parted, giving him a dim view of the rank growth on its floor, a tangled, pulpy mass. He picked his way carefully, along the edge of the hole. A slip would have been fatal, for not even his healing abilities, not even his tough protective scales, would have saved him had he fallen in. The land sloped gradually upward and the going became easier. He walked with long, strong strides, the weight of his pack light on his back. On the plains of glass the wind was a steady force in his face. Billowing clouds moved overhead, but the heat of the smooth plain seemed to form a pocket of fairly decent air immediately above it, so he breathed more easily, not using his stored life. He camped in the center of the plain, lying on the warm, glassy earth with only a coverlet of the Material over him. He awoke with the first glow of day, fed, strapped on his pack, and set off at a swift pace, eager to put the plains behind him. His jogging pace ate up his reserves, but hopefully there would be good air near the great river. He could smell the river from afar and it urged him on. To his disappointment a heavy accumulation of gases hung over it, hiding it from his view until, pushing through the low growth of vegetation which lined its banks, he stood with his feet in the water. He strained his eyes, trying in vain to see the tall, broken rocks of the escarpment on the other side. The water was clean, a pleasant contrast to the heaviness of the sea, in which he spent his working hours. He waded in and felt the coolness covering his scales, washing away the accumulated ash of corrosion. He found a few inches of good air at the surface and gulped it, gills pumping out wastes, then closed his outer lids and ducked under. He swam, his natural buoyancy keeping him just below the surface. He opened his outer lids to find that visibility was good, although there was nothing to see. The river was, of course, lifeless. He walked the last short distance to the shore on slippery rocks, then breathed air at the surface of the water before starting his climb up the escarpment. The rift had been formed by an age-old cataclysm which, for a period of a sun cycle, thrust the western land up into a high plateau. He made the ascent slowly, examining the exposed bones of the planet as he went. Halfway up, he was bemused by brown streaks which made erratic patterns in the rock on the exposed wall. The discoloration reminded him of the waste formed on the smaller of his hard-material nuggets. He had seen such markings before in his travels and had once asked his teachers an oblique question regarding them. He could not keep his mind from speculating. Could the hard materials have been natural deposits within the forbidden depths of the earth? In places like this where the forces of nature had bared the subsurface rock the ground took on a new look. He spent much of the remaining light climbing the escarpment, searching in vain. Arriving at last at the top, he felt the effects of the strenuous climb, and, picking his way through boulders that dwarfed him, he quickly found a sheltered place. He cocooned himself within his protective sheet of the Material, fed, and was sleeping before the darkness of the night closed down over him. He awoke to a feeling of delicious aloneness. A storm was raging. Wet rocks poured moisture as the yellowish rain fell, formed rivulets, dripped, ran, and splashed down the near wall of the escarpment. He lay inside his shelter, hearing the hiss of the acid rain on the impregnable Material. The storm, he knew, would wash the air, leaving behind, hopefully, more amenable conditions. And he had also noted, at other places and at other times, that a heavy rain often washed away pockets of loose material atop the hard rocks, leaving behind newly exposed areas. He had hoped for just such a storm, and it was fortunate that it had occurred on his first night on the plateau. The hunting would be interesting. When the storm let up, he walked the steaming rocks, his pack in place, for he would not return the same way. The high plateau extended to the north and south all along the western bank of the river. In spots irregular rock formations dammed up lakes of dull water. However, it was not the river's edge that interested him, but the central portions of the plateau where for endless sun circles of time the rain had washed the rocks, leaving behind an accumulation of stones of various sizes. With his eyes on the ground he picked his way carefully through the stones. Now and then a loose stone rolled under his foot, causing him to struggle for balance. To add to his splendid isolation, he had closed off his mind. He asked for no contact. In the event of dire emergency, he could summon he