In fact, I got the distinct impression that everyone was happy tosee me move out.

I stopped in the hydroponics room to speak with our mushroommaster.

"Hi, Kane. Grow any toadstools in the sand yet?"

He sniffed. He always sniffs. Maybe he's allergic to plants.

"Hello, Gallinger. No, I haven't had any success with toadstools,but look behind the car barn next time you're out there. I've got afew cacti going."

"Great," I observed. Doc Kane was about my only friend aboard,not counting Betty.

"Say, I came down to ask you a favor."

"Name it."

"I want a rose."

"A what?"

"A rose. You know, a nice red American Beauty job--thorns, prettysmelling--"

"I don't think it will take in this soil. Sniff, sniff."

"No, you don't understand. I don't want to plant it, I just wantthe flower."

"I'd have to use the tanks." He scratched his hairless dome. "Itwould take at least three months to get you flowers, even under forcedgrowth."

"Will you do it?"

"Sure, if you don't mind the wait."

"Not at all. In fact, three months will just make it before weleave." I looked about at the pools of crawling slime, at the traysof shoots. "--I'm moving up to Tirellian today, but I'll be in and outall the time. I'll be here when it blooms."

"Moving up there, eh? Moore said they're an in-group."

"I guess I'm `in' then."

"Looks that way--I still don't see how you learned their language,though. Of course, I had trouble with French and German for my Ph.D,but last week I heard Betty demonstrate it at lunch. It just soundslike a lot of weird noises. She says speaking it is like working aTimes crossword and trying to imitate birdcalls at the same time."

I laughed, and took the cigarette he offered me.

"It's complicated," I acknowledged. "But, well, it's as if yousuddenly came across a whole new class of mycetae here--you'd dreamabout it at night."

His eyes were gleaming.

"Wouldn't that be something! I might, yet, you know."

"Maybe you will."

He chuckled as we walked to the door.

"I'll start your roses tonight. Take it easy down there."

"You bet. Thanks."

Like I said, a fungus nut, but a fairly good guy.

My quarters in the Citadel of Tirellian were directly adjacent to theTemple, on the inward side and slightly to the left. They were aconsiderable improvement over my cramped cabin, and I was pleased thatMartian culture had progressed sufficiently to discover thedesirability of the mattress over the pallet. Also, the bed was longenough to accommodate me, which was surprising.

So I unpacked and took sixteen 35 mm. shots of the Temple, beforestarting on the books.

I took 'stats until I was sick of turning pages without knowingwhat they said. So I started translating a work of history.

"Lo. In the thirty-seventh year of the Process of Cillen the rainscame, which gave way to rejoicing, for it was a rare and untowardoccurrence, and commonly construed a blessing.

"But it was not the life-giving semen of Malann which fell fromthe heavens. It was the blood of the universe, spurting from anartery. And the last days were upon us. The final dance was tobegin.

"The rains brought the plague that does not kill, and the lastpasses of Locar began with their drumming...."

I asked myself what the hell Tamur meant, for he was an historianand supposedly committed to fact. This was not their Apocalypse.

Unless they could be one and the same...?

Why not? I mused. Tirellian's handful of people were the remnantof what had obviously once been a highly developed culture. They hadhad wars, but no holocausts; science, but little technology. Aplague, a plague that did not kill...? Could that have done it? How,if it wasn't fatal?

I read on, but the nature of the plague was not discussed. Iturned pages, skipped ahead, and drew a blank.

M'Cwyie! M'Cwyie! When I want to question you most, you are notaround!

Would it be a faux pas to go looking for her? Yes, I decided.I was restricted to the rooms I had been shown, that had been animplicit understanding. I would have to wait to find out.

So I cursed long and loud, in many languages, doubtless burningMalann's sacred ears, there in his Temple.

He did not see fit to strike me dead, so I decided to call it aday and hit the sack.

I must have been asleep for several hours when Braxa entered my roomwith a tiny lamp. She dragged me awake by tugging at my pajamasleeve.

I said hello. Thinking back, there is not much else I could havesaid.

"Hello."

"I have come," she said, "to hear the poem."

"What poem?"

"Yours."

"Oh."

I yawned, sat up, and did things people usually do when awakenedin the middle of the night to read poetry.

"That is very kind of you, but isn't the hour a trifle awkward?"

"I don't mind," she said.

Someday I am going to write an article for the Journal ofSemantics, called "Tone of Voice: An Insufficient Vehicle for Irony."

However, I was awake, so I grabbed my robe.

"What sort of animal is that? she asked, pointing at the silkdragon on my lapel.

"Mythical," I replied. "Now look, it's late. I am tired. I havemuch to do in the morning. And M'Cwyie just might get the wrong ideaif she learns you were here."

"Wrong idea?"

"You know damned well what I mean!" It was the first time I hadhad an opportunity to use Martian profanity, and it failed.

"No," she said, "I do not know."

She seemed frightened, like a puppy dog being scolded withoutknowing what it has done wrong.

I softened. Her red cloak matched her hair and lips so perfectly,and those lips were trembling.

"Here now, I didn't mean to upset you. On my world there arecertain, uh, mores, concerning people of different sex alone togetherin bedrooms, and not allied by marriage....Um, I mean, you see what Imean?"

They were jade, her eyes.

"Well, it's sort of...Well, it's sex, that's what it is."

A light was switched on in those jade eyes.

"Oh, you mean having children!"

"Yes. That's it! Exactly!"

She laughed. It was the first time I had heard laughter inTirellian. It sounded like a violinist striking his high strings withthe bow, in short little chops. It was not an altogether pleasantthing to hear, especially because she laughed too long.

When she had finished she moved closer.

"I remember, now," she said. "We used to have such rules. Half aProcess ago, when I was a child, we had such rules. But--" she lookedas if she were ready to laugh again--"there is no need for them now."

My mind moved like a tape recorder playing at triple speed.

Half a Process! HalfaProcessa--ProcessaProcess! No! Yes! Half aProcess was two hundred-forty-three years, roughly speaking!

--Time enough to learn the 2224 dances of Locar.

--Time enough to grow old, if you were human.

--Earth-style human, I mean.

I looked at her again, pale as the white queen in an ivory chessset.

She was human, I'd stake my soul--alive, normal, healthy. I'dstake my life--woman, my body...

But she was two and a half centuries old, which made M'CwyieMethusala's grandma. It flattered me to think of their repeatedcomplimenting of my skills, as linguist, as poet. These superiorbeings!

But what did she mean "there is no such need for them now"? Whythe near-hysteria? Why all those funny looks I'd been getting fromM'Cwyie?

I suddenly knew I was close to something important, besides abeautiful girl.

"Tell me," I said, in my Casual Voice, "did it have anything to dowith `the plague that does not kill,' of which Tamur wrote?"

"Yes," she replied, "the children born after the Rains could haveno children of their own, and--"