“But you were born a Detector!”
“That’s true,” Ger said. “But it doesn’t help. I always wanted to be a Hunter.”
Pid shook his entire body in annoyance. “You can’t,” he said, very slowly, as one would explain to a Glomling. “The Hunter Shape is forbidden to you.”
“Not here it isn’t,” Ger said, still wagging his tail.
“Let’s have no more of this.” Pid said angrily. “Get into that installation and set up your Displacer. I’ll try to overlook this heresy.”
“I won’t,” Ger said. “I don’t want the Glom here. They’d ruin it for the rest of us.”
“He’s right,” an oak tree said.
“Ilg!” Pid gasped. “Where are you?”
Branches stirred. “I’m right here,” Ilg said. “I’ve been Thinking.”
“But—your caste—”
“Pilot,” Ger said sadly, “Why don’t you wake up? Most of the people on Glom are miserable. Only custom makes us take the caste-shape of our ancestors.”
“Pilot,” Ilg said, “All Glom are born Shapeless!”
“And being born Shapeless, all Glom should have Freedom of Shape,” Ger said.
“Exactly,” Ilg said. “But he’ll never understand. Now excuse me. I want to Think.” And the oak tree was silent.
Pid laughed humorlessly. “The Men will kill you off,” he said. “Just as they killed off the rest of the expeditions.”
“No one from Glom has been killed,” Ger told him. “The other expeditions are right here.”
“Alive?”
“Certainly. The Men don’t even know we exist. That Dog I was hunting with is a Glom from the nineteenth expedition. There are hundreds of us here, Pilot. We like it.”
Pid tried to absorb it all. He had always known that the lower castes were lax in caste-consciousness. But this—this was preposterous!
This planet’s secret menace was—freedom!
“Join us, Pilot,” Ger said. “We’ve got a paradise here. Do you know how many species there are on this planet? An uncountable number! There’s a shape to suit every need!”
Pid shook his head. There was no shape to suit his need. He was a Pilot.
But Men were unaware of the presence of the Glom. Getting near the reactor would be simple!
“The Glom Supreme Council will take care of all of you,” he snarled, and shaped himself into a Dog. “I’m going to set up the Displacer myself.”
He studied himself for a moment, bared his teeth at Ger, and loped toward the gate.
The Men at the gate didn’t even look at him. He slipped through the main door of the building behind a man, and loped down a corridor.
The Displacer in his body pouch pulsed and tugged, leading him toward the reactor room.
He sprinted up a flight of stairs and down another corridor. There were footsteps around the bend, and Pid knew instinctively that Dogs were not allowed inside the building.
He looked around desperately for a hiding place, but the corridor was bare. However, there were several overhead lights in the ceiling.
Pid leaped, and glued himself to the ceiling. He shaped himself into a lighting fixture, and hoped that the Men wouldn’t try to find out why he wasn’t shining.
Men passed, running.
Pid changed himself into a facsimile of a Man, and hurried on.
He had to get closer.
Another Man came down the corridor. He looked sharply at Pid, started to speak, and then sprinted away.
Pid didn’t know what was wrong, but he broke into a full sprint. The Displacer in his body pouch throbbed and pulsed, telling him he had almost reached the critical distance.
Suddenly a terrible doubt assailed his mind. All the expeditions had deserted! Every single Glom!
He slowed slightly.
Freedom of Shape ... that was a strange notion. A disturbing notion.
And obviously a device of The Shapeless One, he told himself, and rushed on.
At the end of the corridor was a gigantic bolted door. Pid stared at it.
Footsteps hammered down the corridor, and Men were shouting.
What was wrong? How had they detected him? Quickly he examined himself, and ran his fingers across his face.
He had forgotten to mold any features.
In despair he pulled at the door. He took the tiny Displacer out of his pouch, but the pulse beat wasn’t quite strong enough. He had to get closer to the reactor.
He studied the door. There was a tiny crack running under it. Pid went quickly Shapeless and flowed under, barely squeezing the Displacer through.
Inside the room he found another bolt on the inside of the door. He jammed it into place, and looked around for something to prop against the door.
It was a tiny room. On one side was a lead door, leading toward the reactor. There was a small window on another side, and that was all.
Pid looked at the Displacer. The pulse beat was right. At last he was close enough. Here the Displacer could work, drawing and altering the energy from the reactor. All he had to do was activate it.
But they had all deserted, every one of them.
Pid hesitated. All Glom are born Shapeless. That was true. Glom children were amorphous, until old enough to be instructed in the caste-shape of their ancestors. But Freedom of Shape?
Pid considered the possibilities. To be able to take on any shape he wanted, without interference! On this paradise planet he could fulfill any ambition, become anything, do anything.
Nor would he be lonely. There were other Glom here as well, enjoying the benefits of Freedom of Shape.
The Men were beginning to break down the door. Pid was still uncertain.
What should he do? Freedom ...
But not for him, he thought bitterly. It was easy enough to be a Hunter or a Thinker. But he was a Pilot. Piloting was his life and love. How could he do that here?
Of course, the Men had ships. He could turn into a Man, find a ship ...
Never. Easy enough to become a Tree or a Dog. He could never pass successfully as a Man.
The door was beginning to splinter from repeated blows.
Pid walked to the window to take a last look at the planet before activating the Displacer.
He looked—and almost collapsed from shock.
It was really true! He hadn’t fully understood what Ger had meant when he said that there were species on this planet to satisfy every need. Every need! Even his!
Here he could satisfy a longing of the Pilot Caste that went even deeper than Piloting.
He looked again, then smashed the Displacer to the floor. The door burst open, and in the same instant he flung himself through the window.
The Men raced to the window and stared out. But they were unable to understand what they saw.
There was only a great white bird out there, flapping awkwardly but with increasing strength, trying to overtake a flight of birds in the distance.
SPECIALIST
THE PHOTON storm struck without warning, pouncing upon the Ship from behind a bank of giant red stars. Eye barely had time to flash a last-second warning through Talker before it was upon them.
It was Talker’s third journey into deep space, and his first light-pressure storm. He felt a sudden pang of fear as the Ship yawed violently, caught the force of the wavefront, and careened end for end. Then the fear was gone, replaced by a strong pulse of excitement.
Why should he be afraid, he asked himself—hadn’t he been trained for just this sort of emergency?
He had been talking to Feeder when the storm hit, but he cut off the conversation abruptly. He hoped Feeder would be all right. It was the youngster’s first deep-space trip.
The wirelike filaments that made up most of Talker’s body were extended throughout the Ship. Quickly he withdrew all except the ones linking him to Eye, Engine, and the Walls. This was strictly their job now. The rest of the Crew would have to shift for themselves until the storm was over.