She recognized that wasn't quite right. Their relations had never been harmonious. That was her minor concession to the duplicity of diplomacy.

Neither of the aliens said anything, but Ariel knew something was going on. Standing side by side, they had turned their top sections so that their hooks and eyes confronted one another briefly. Then they turned back to confront Ariel.

“We agree to a one-day delay in the construction of the compensator following completion of today's effort. We will meet again tomorrow as we met today.”

Ariel felt a touch on her elbow and half turned as Jacob bent over to say softly, “Would it be helpful to know the present stability of their weather?”

“I don't understand,” she said, just as softly.

“How effective is the dome in its present state?” Jacob asked. “That data will enter into our reckoning of possibilities for resolution of the dilemma.”

“Ninety-nine-point-two percent compensation including the improvement allowed by consideration of both positive edge effects,” Sarco said before Ariel could ask.

Ariel understood then why Jacob had asked the question.

“Could you live with that if we caused no further deleterious effects?” she asked.

“Yes,” Synapo said.

As though not to be outdone by Ariel's lieutenant, Sarco asked, “Why do you discrete or jump modulate hyperwave when the signal fidelity and freedom from noise is so much better with continuous modulation?”

That time Ariel didn't hesitate a second. She looked at Jacob and said simply, “Jacob?”

The reply by Jacob was delayed by a distraction at that point. A small, tight, luminous green flame, no more than ten centimeters long, bloomed in the blackness a few centimeters below Synapo's eyes. But he said nothing.

Jacob was distracted only momentarily-just long enough to register the spectrum and flame temperature of pure hydrogen co-blended with pure oxygen and a trace of ammonia.

“We are not familiar with continuous modulation,” Jacob said.

“Strange. You teleport with both types of transition,” Sarco said. He seemed not to be disturbed by fire from Synapo. “You yourself jumped here in discrete mode, and Wohler-9 phase condensed here in continuous mode. Do you not recognize the parallel with hyperwave?”

“I am not an expert in these technologies,” Jacob replied. “We can only take your question under advisement.”

As though to avoid further discussion, Synapo turned abruptly, and with a short wobbling run and an awkward hop, he flapped into the air and started gracefully into a great climbing turn. Sarco hesitated only a moment and then turned, wobbled, and with an even more awkward hop, quickly followed him. They were soon far above the dome.

At the end of the dome construction activity that day, the edges of the dome had just started cutting into the four-lane road.

Immediately after the meeting, Synapo climbed more rapidly than usual to charge altitude. He kept his hook aggressively forward-something he almost never did when he was climbing to charge, and he paid no attention to Sarco, who was climbing in his wake-again something neither a Cerebron nor a Myostrian did when there was the least possibility of someone sharing the climb.

In short, he was exceedingly irritated with Sarco, and he wanted Sarco to know it. As he climbed, he radioed the local Myostrian weather station for the optimum altitude in the compensator's zone, the corresponding stability quotient, and the forecast for the afternoon. He had some deep cogitation to do, and he wanted optimum conditions in which to do it.

First, there was the matter of internal tribal dominance. That took precedence over Sarco's unsettling behavior-he would get to that-and the assurance he had given the aliens that he could live with a compensator efficiency of 99.2%. Sarco had not questioned his conclusion-by Nimbar, he better not have-but Synapo wasn't all that sure in his own mind how the Cerebrons might react to it. They were much more sensitive to small disturbances in the weather than were the Myostria.

The weather was important, but in the short term, it was the possibility of one of the elite striking for tribal dominance that had him most concerned. There was a definite hierarchy throughout the Cerebron pack, but it was exceptionally rigid among the members of the elite, who currently numbered eleven. If one of them were striking and involved him now, it could seriously undermine his relations with Sarco and his negotiations with the aliens. That was his primary concern. He thought of himself more as a statesman than as a mere politician. By the time Synapo had climbed to charge altitude, he knew how to proceed.

When he leveled off on station, he radioed Neuronius, his second in command, and as he summoned him for conference, he noted with satisfaction that Sarco had taken up his customary station: fifty meters below in a fifty-percent-tighter circle. Sarco had called to him only once on the way up, and Synapo had ignored him.

Now as Neuronius approached, did Synapo note a more casual, less deferential stroking of his wings? The striker would surely be his second in command. Yet, unlikely as it might be, it could be anyone in the pack. Once, a hand of centuries ago, a young, midpack rabble-rouser had struck successfully, destroying the elite-that is, the elite structure-and generally upsetting the entire hierarchy as he brought in his own lieutenants from up and down the pack. He had proved to be one of the better administrators. And Synapo was in his egg line, twice removed.

Neuronius rolled into conference beneath him, hook properly reversed. Synapo's hook was still set aggressively. It would stay that way the rest of the day. There would be no more meek, deferential conferences with Sarco or anyone else until these affronts and possible strikes were resolved.

Synapo got right to work on Neuronius.

“It comes to me on a zephyr that someone is trying to supplant you in the hierarchy, Neuronius.” He put it casually as though he were an unconcerned, indifferent observer.

He was looking for Neuronius's immediate reaction, a slight tremble-twitch in the hook, a faint flicker in the redness of the eyes, an ever-so-slight fanning of the cold-junction, the uncontrollable body language that one displays before one can steel himself to the shock of the unexpected.

And there it was: a slight wave in the silhouette on the right, a bunching of the right deltoid muscle-the one that pulled up the right wing and readied it for the power downbeat. That was a typical guilt reaction. Not a reaction in response to fear, the fear that someone was trying to supplant himself, Neuronius; but instead a response to guilt concerning his own ambitious plans. That guilt could lead to fear later as Neuronius pondered what Synapo's remarkable intuition might lead to; but at the moment it was only a symptom of guilt.

Synapo knew then the shape of things within and without his tribe. He could scheme up suitable responses. Anticipation of the cerebral exercise involved, the challenge, filled him with keen anticipation. Nowhere was there room for fear, for anticipation that he might fail.

Neuronius was a threat he could meet head on. And Sarco was an excellent engineer and an able administrator, but not the political animal that he faced in a tussle with Neuronius.

Synapo listened keenly to Neuronius's answer to the needling remark.

“I do not fear such a change if that Cerebron can serve you as ably as I,” Neuronius replied.

Ah, suitably servile. He was not yet ready, not quite sure of himself. That called for a less aggressive response, at least for the moment.

“We meet again with the aliens tomorrow morning,” Synapo said. “I want you and Axonius to accompany me.”