"No, Warren. The time is 1300 hours."
"Already?" He levered himself upright against the rim and looked about him at the shadows.
"Well, how are you?"
"I'm functioning well, thank you."
"So am I, love. No troubles. In fact. . ." he added cautiously, "in fact I'm beginning to think of extending this operation another day. There's no danger. I don't see any reason to come back and give up all the ground I've traveled, and I'd have to start now to get back to the launching point before dark."
"You'll exit my sensor range if you continue this direction for another day. Please reconsider this program."
"I won't go outside your sensor range. I'll stop and come back then." A pause. "Yes, Warren."
"I'll call if I need you."
"Yes, Warren."
He broke the contact and pulled the raft upcurrent by the mooring line to reach the knot, untied it and took up the paddle again and started moving. He was content in his freedom, content in the maze, which promised endless secrets. The river could become a highway to its mountain source. He could devise relays that would keep Annewith him. He need not be held to one place. He believed in that again.
At 1400 he had a lunch of lukewarm soup and a sun-warmed sandwich, of which he ate every crumb, and wished he had brought larger portions. His appetite increased prodigiously with the exercise and the relaxation. He felt a profound sense of well-being. . . even found patience for a prolonged bout with Anna's chatter. He called her up a little before 1500 and let her sample the river with her sensors, balancing the box on the gear so that she could have a look about.
"Vegetation," she pronounced. "Water. Warren, please reconsider this program." He laughed at her and shut her down.
Then the river divided again, and again he bore to the left, into the forest heart, where it was always twilight, arid less than that now. He paddled steadily, ignoring the persistent ache in his back and shoulders, until he could no longer see where he was going, until the roots and limbs came up at him too quickly out of the dark and he felt the wet drag of moss across his face and arms more than once. 1837, when he checked the time.
" Anne."
"Warren?"
"I'm activating your sensors again. There's no trouble, but I want you to give me your reports."
"You're in motion," she said as the box came on. "Low light. Vegetation and water. Temperature 19°C. A sound: the propulsion system. Stability in poor function."
"That's floating, Anne. Stability is poor, yes, but not hazardous."
"Thank you. You're behind my base point. I perceive you."
"No other life."
"Vegetation, Warren."
He kept moving, into worse and worse tangle, hoping for an end to the tunnel of trees, where he could at least have the starlight. Anne's occasional voice comforted him. The ghostly giants slid past, only slightly blacker than the night about him.
The raft bumped something underwater and slued about.
"You've stopped."
"I think I hit a submerged log or something." Adrenalin had shot through him at the jolt. He drew a deep breath. "It's getting too dark to see."
"Please reconsider this program."
"I think you have the right idea. Just a second." He prodded underwater with his paddle and hit a thing.
It came up, broke surface by the raft in the sensor light, mossy and jagged. Log. He was free, his pulse jolting in his veins. He let the current take the raft then, let it turn the bow.
"Warren?"
"I'm loose. I'm all right." He caught a branch at a clearer spot and stopped, letting the fear ebb from him.
"Warren, you've stopped again."
"I stopped us." He wanted to keep running, but that was precisely the kind of action that could run him into trouble, pushing himself beyond the fatigue point. A log. It had been a log after all. He tied up to the branch, put on his jacket against the gathering chill and settled against the yielding rim of the raft, facing the low, reedy bank and the wall of aged trees. " Anne, I'm going to sleep now. I'm leaving the sensor box on. Keep alert and wake me if you perceive anything you have to ask about."
"Recorded. Good night, Warren."
"Good night, Annie."
He closed his eyes finally, confident at least of Anne's watchfulness, rocked on the gently moving surface of the river. Tiniest sounds seemed loud, the slap of the water against its boundaries, the susurration of the leaves, the ceaseless rhythms of the world, of growth, of things that twined and fed on rain and death.
He dreamed of home as he had not done in a very long time, of a hard-rock mining colony, his boy hood, a fascination with the stars; dreamed of Earth of things he had only heard of, pictures he had seen rivers and forests and fields. Pictured rivers came to life and flowed, hurling his raft on past shores of devastating silence, past the horror in the corridors, figures walking in steam—
Sax—Sax leaping at him, knife in hand—
He came up with a gasp too loud in the silence.
"Warren? Emergency?"
"No." He wiped his face, glad of her presence. "It's just a dream. It's all right."
"Malfunction?"
"Thoughts. Dream. A recycling of past experience. A clearing of files. It's all right. It's a natural process. Humans do it when they sleep."
"I perceived pain."
"It's gone now. It stopped. I'm going back to sleep."
"Are you happy, Warren?"
"Just tired, Anne. Just very tired and very sleepy. Good night."
"Good night, Warren."
He settled again and closed his eyes. The breeze sighed and the water lapped gently, rocking him. He curled up again and sank into deeper sleep.
He awoke in dim light, in a decided chill that made him glad of the jacket. The side of him that he had lain on was cold through and he rubbed his arm and leg, wishing for a hot breakfast instead of cold sandwiches and lukewarm coffee.
A mist overlay the river a few inches deep. It looked like a river of cloud flowing between the green banks. He reached and turned off Anne's sensors. "Shutting you down. It's morning. I'll be starting back in a moment. My status is good."
"Thank you, Warren."
He settled back again, enjoyed the beauty about him without Anne's time and temperature analyses. He had no intention of letting his eyes close again, but it would be easy in this quiet, this peace.
The sense of well-being soured abruptly. He seemed heavier than the raft could bear, his head pounded, the pulse beat at his temples.
Something was radically wrong. He reached for the sensor box but he could no longer move. He blinked, aware of the water swelling and falling under him, of the branch of the aged tree above him.
Breath stopped. Sweat drenched him. Then the breathing reflex started again and the perspiration chilled. A curious sickly feeling went from shoulders to fingertips, unbearable pressure, as if his laboring heart would burst the veins. Pressure spread, to his chest, his head, to groin, to legs and toes. Then it eased, leaving him limp and gasping for air.
The hairs at his nape stirred, a Fingering touch at his senses. Darts of sensation ran over his skin; muscles twitched, and he struggled to sit up; he was blind, with softness wrapping him in cotton and bringing him unbearable sorrow.
It passed.
"You're there," he said, blinking to clear his eyes. "You're there." Not madness. Not insanity. Something had touched him in the clearing that day as it just had done here. "Who are you?" he asked it. "What do you want?" But it had gone—no malevolence, no. It ached, it was so different. It was real. His heart was still racing from its touch. He slipped the knot, tugged the rope free, let the raft take its course.