"Here, try—" She bit her lip, hesitating a moment, then drew a hurried swirl of dots on the display. Maia reached over to flick on the timing clock, and the configuration began throbbing, sending out concentric ovals of black dots that dissipated upon reaching a distance of eight squares from the center. It was reminiscent of the persistent, cyclic pattern of waves emanating from where drips from a faucet strike a pool of water. Left alone, the little array would keep sending out waves forever.

Renna looked up in surprise. "I've never seen that one before. What's it called?"

"I . . ." Maia shook her head. "I don't know. Must've seen it when I was a kid. It's obvious enough, though. Isn't it?"

"Mm. Indeed." Shaking his head, Renna took back the stylus and drew a glider gun on the other side of the board, aimed at the figure she had just drawn. He restarted the game clock, causing a series of flapping missiles to be fired straight toward with the pattern of concentric waves. They collided . . .

. . . and each one was swallowed with scarcely a ripple!

"I'll be damned." He shook his head admiringly. "But how would you defend this pattern against something larger, like was thrown against us last night?"

Maia snapped. "How should I know? Do you think I'm a boy?"

Several of the rads chuckled, uncertainly, and Maia didn't care if they were laughing with, or at her. One of the young women got up with a sniff and walked away. Maia rubbed her chin, looking at the game board. "Now that you mention it, though, I can suggest one way to fend off that bulldozer contraption the cook and cabin boy used against us."

"Yes?" Renna made room on the bench and another var reluctantly gave way as Maia sat down. "Look, I don't know the terminology," she said, with some of her accustomed uncertainty returning. "But it's obvious the thing's crossbar doohickey reflects certain patterns which . . ."

She drew as she spoke, with Renna occasionally interjecting a comment, or more often a question. Maia hardly noticed as the other vars drifted away, one by one. Their opinions didn't matter anymore, nor was she any longer embarrassed being seen interested in the male-silly game. Renna took her seriously, which none of her fellow womenfolk ever had. He paid close attention, contributing insights, sharing a growing pleasure in an abstract exercise.

By suppertime, they thought they had a plan.

Peripatetic's Log:

Stratos Mission:

Arrival + 45.290 Ms

What is sentience to the universe? Brief moments of insight? The self-contemplation of mayflies? What is the point of human life, if so much of it must be spent climbing through awkward childhood and adolescence, slowly gathering the skills needed to comprehend and create . . . only to begin that long decline to extinction? Lucky the woman or man who achieves excellence for even a brief span. The light shines brightly for mere moments, then is gone.

On some worlds, drastic life extension is justified in the name of preserving rare talents. It starts with good intentions, but all too often results in a gerontocracy of habit-ridden minds in robot-tended bodies, suspiciously jealous of any thought or idea not their own.

Stratoins think they know a better way. If an individual proves herself — say in the marketplace of goods or ideas — she continues. Not with the same body or precise memories, but genetically, with inborn talents preserved, and a continuity of upbringing that only clone-parenting provides. When all factors are right, the first mother's flowering of skill carries on. Yet, each daughter is a renewal, a fresh burst of enthusiasm. Preservation needn't mean calcification.

Stratoins have struck a different arrangement with death. There are costs, but I can see the advantages.

Fortunately, summer council sessions are brief. I needn't endure more than a few hours of sullen looks from the majority, or hostile glares by extreme Isolationists. Much of my time is spent with savants at the university. What I like best, however, is observing life on Stratos, with Iolanthe Nitocris often serving as my keeper/guide.

Yesterday, to my delight, she finally obtained a pass to show me Caria's Summer Festival.

The fairgrounds lay upstream, in the morning shadow of the acropolis. Banners flutter above silken pavilions and avenues bedecked with flowered arches. Zenner trees sway to the musical murmur of the crowds, while pungent, exotic aromas loft from food stalls. Jugglers caper, thrilling all with feats of derring-do. Outside the walls of Caria, citizens seemed eager to drop the serene pace of daily life in favor of a livelier beat.

I felt conspicuous, and not just because I'm an alien. Some in the throng surely knew, or guessed. Most of the time, I was also the only mature male in sight. Shouting boys ran a gauntlet of knees, like children on any world, and there was a sprinkling of old men, but virile adults remain at safe distance, in their summer sanctuaries. Several times Iolanthe, as my vouch-woman, was asked to show my papers. The council seal, plus my calm demeanor, reassured the marshals I was not about to start bellowing and tearing off my clothes at any minute.

Iolanthe seemed pleased. This would score in my favor.

If only she knew how difficult I find it here, at times.

The day's procession was led by a chariot bearing the festival grand matron, whose spear and crested helm harkened to the goddess of the city gates. Behind came musicians and dancers, blowing pipes and performing fantastic, whirling leaps, as if this vast world were no heavier than a moon. Their floating gowns seemed to catch the air, and laid hooks in my heart.

Many venerable clans sent marching ensembles, to whose instrumental euphonies the crowds sang along . . . until an abrupt musical variation set onlookers laughing in delighted surprise. Tight formations of brightly burnished cavalry pranced among the bands, followed by lugar-borne palanquins carrying women dignitaries, bedecked with laurels and medals. Mothers and older siblings bent to tell wide-eyed clan daughters what honor or achievement each emblem represented.

At last, the excited audience surged into the avenue, merging with the final contingents, dissolving the parade into an impromptu Mardi Gras. No one noticed or cared when a summer shower swept by, dampening heads, clothes, and flowered canopies, but not the joyful spirit. Some in the crowd did double-takes on spotting me, but others only smiled in a friendly way, urging me to join in the dance. It was exhilarating and fun, but the dampness, the closeness . . .

I asked Iolanthe to take me away from there. Some of the younger Nitocri with us seemed disappointed, but she agreed at once. We departed the main avenue to explore the rest of the fair..

At the racetrack, horse breeders showed off their prize stock, then stripped the oiled champions of wreaths and fine bows, setting on their backs petite riders from renowned jockey clans. Eager and taut, the mounts leaped at the starting horn, accelerating to bound over the first of many obstacles, then braking to daintily skirt intricate mazes before pounding past the far straightaway in a fury of lathered desire. Winning clans welcomed their entrants with bouquets, embraces, and endearments that would have warmed any lover.

Our next stop could have been an agricultural fair on any of a dozen worlds. Many of the ribbon-bedecked plants and animals were unfamiliar to me, but not the proud looks of young girls who had spent months nurturing their charges for this day. West of Caria, Stratoin balloon-creatures of many types are fostered for their beauty, or the fragrance they exude, or the tricks some breeds can be taught to perform. All of these were on display. Nearby, women whistled to radiant-plumed birds, which dove and swooped, carrying buttons or pieces of colored cloth to contestants who chose winning numbers from a guessing board.