He bridled. “I’ve seen plenty of late.”

“Yeh. And emergency or no, doesn’t it feel good? I wouldn’t try to steer somebody else’s life, of course, nor am I hinting it’s true of you — but fact is, a man or woman who tries to be an Ythrian is a rattlewing.”

“Well, after three generations you may be restless in your choth,” he said, gauging his level of sarcasm as carefully as he was able. “You’ve knocked around quite a bit in human country, haven’t you?”

She nodded. “Several years. Itinerant huntress, trapper, sailor, prospector, over most of Avalon. I got the main piece of my share in the stake that started Draun and me in business — I got that at assorted poker tables.” She laughed. “Damn, sometimes it is easier to say things in Planha!” Serious: “But remember, I was young when my parents were lost at sea. An Ythrian family adopted me. They encouraged me to take a wandertime; that’s Highsky custom. If anything, my loyalty and gratitude to the choth were strengthened. I simply, well, I recognize I’m a member who happens to be human. As such, I’ve things to offer which—” She broke off and turned her head. “Ah, here comes my drink. Let’s talk trivia. I do get starved for that on St. Li.”

“I believe I will have a drink too,” Arinnian said.

He found it helpful. Soon they were cheerily exchanging reminiscences. While she had doubtless led a more adventurous life than he, his had not been dull. On occasion, such as when he hid from his parents in the surf-besieged Shielding Islands, or when he had to meet a spathodont on the ground with no more than a spear because his companion lay wing-broken, he may have been in worse danger than any she had met. But he found she was most taken by his quieter memories. She had never been offplanet, except for one vacation trip to Morgana. He, son of a naval officer, had had ample chances to see the whole Lauran System from sun-wracked Elysium, through the multiple moons of Camelot, out to dark, comet-haunted Utgard. Speaking of the frigid blue peace of Phaeacia, he chanced to quote some Homeric lines, and she was delighted and wanted more and asked what else this Homer fellow had written, and the conversation turned to books.

The meal was mixed, as cuisine of both races tended increasingly to be: piscoid-and-tomato chowder, beef-and-shua pie, salad of clustergrain leaf, pears, coffee spiced with witchroot. A bottle of vintage dago gave merriment. At the end, having seen her indulge the vice before, Arinnian was not shocked when Tabitha lit her pipe. “What say we look in on the Nest?” she proposed. “Might find Draun.” Her partner was her superior in the guard; she was in Centauri as his aide. But the choth concept of rank was at once more complex and more flexible than the Technic.

“Well… all right,” Arinnian answered.

She cocked her head. “Reluctant? Id’ve guessed you’d prefer the Ythrian hangout to anyplace else in town.” It included the sole public house especially for ornithoids, they being infrequent here.

He frowned. “I can’t help feeling that tavern is wrong. For them,” he added in haste. “I’m no prude, understand.”

“Yet you don’t mind when humans imitate Ythrians. Uh-uh. Can’t have it on both wings, son.” She stood. “Let’s take a glance into the Nest boozeria, a drink if we meet a friend or a good bard is reciting. Afterward a dance club, hm?”

He nodded, glad — amidst an accelerating pulse — that her mood remained light. While no machinery would let them take part in the Ythrian aerial dances, moving across a floor in the arms of another bird was nearly as fine, perhaps. And, while that was as far as such contact had ever gone for him, maybe Tabitha — for she was indeed Tabitha on this steamy night, not Hrill of the skies.

He had heard various muscular oafs talk of encounters with bird girls, less boastfully than in awe. To Arinnian and his kind, their female counterparts were comrades, sisters. But Tabitha kept emphasizing his and her humanness.

They took a taxibug to the Nest, which was the tallest building in the city, and a gravshaft to its rooftop since neither had brought flying gear. Unwalled, the tavern was protected from rain by a vitryl canopy through which, at this height, stars could be seen regardless of the electric lunacy below. Morgana was sinking toward the western bottomlands, though it still silvered river and Gulf. Thunderheads piled in the east, and a rank breeze carried the mutter of the lightning that shivered in them. Insectoids circled the dim fluoroglobe set on every table. Business was sparse, a few shadowy forms perched on stools before glasses or narcobraziers, a service robot trundling about, the recorded twangs of a steel harp.

“Scum-dull,” Tabitha said, disappointed. “But we can make a circuit.”

They threaded among the tables until Arinnian halted and exclaimed, “Hoy-ah! Vodan, ekh-hirr.”

His chothmate looked, up, plainly taken aback. He was seated at drink beside a shabby-plumed female, who gave the newcomers a sullen stare.

“Good flight to you,” Arinnian greeted in Planha; but what followed, however automatic, was too obvious for anything save Anglic. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“And to you, good landing,” Vodan replied. “I report to my ship within hours. My transport leaves from Halcyon Island base. I came early so as not to risk being detained by a storm; we’ve had three whirldevils in a row near home.”

“You are yare for battle, hunter,” said Tabitha at her “most carefully courteous.

That’s true, Arinnian thought. He’s ablaze to fight. Only… if he couldn’t stay with Eyath till the last minute, at least I’d’ve supposed he’d’ve been in flight-under-moon, meditating — or, anyhow, at carouse among friends — He made introductions.

Vodan jerked a claw at his attendant. “Quenna,” he said. His informality was a casual insult. She hunched between her wings, feathers erected in forlorn self-assertion.

Arinnian could think of no excuse not to join the party. He and the girl seated themselves as best they could. When the robot rolled up, they ordered thick, strong New African beer.

“How blows your wind?” Tabitha asked, puffing hard on her pipe.

“Well; as I would like for you,” Vodan answered correctly. He turned to Arinnian and, if his enthusiasm was a touch forced, it was nonetheless real. “You doubtless know I’ve been on training maneuvers these past weeks.”

Yes. Eyath told me more than once.

“This was a short leave. My craft demands skill. Let me tell you about her. One of the new torpedo launchers, rather like a Terran Meteor, hai, a beauty, a spear! Proud I was to emblazon her hull with three golden stars.”

“Eyath” means “Third Star.”

Vodan went on. Arinnian glanced at Tabitha. She and Quenna had locked their gazes. Expressions billowed and jerked across the feathers; even he could read most of the unspoken half-language.

Yes, m’sweet, you long yellow Walker born, Quenna is what she is and who’re you to talk down that jutting snout of yours? What else could I be, since I, growing from cub to maiden, found my lovetimes coming on whenever I thought about ’em and knew there’d never be any decent place for me in the whole universe? Oh, yes, yes, I’ve heard it before, don’t bother; “medical treatment; counseling.” — Well, flabby flesh, for your information, the choths don’t often keep a weakling; and I’ll not whine for help. Quenna’ll lay her own course, better’n you, who’re really like me… aren’t you, now, she-human?

Tabitha leaned forward, patted one of those arms with no heed for the talons, smiled into the reddened eyes and murmured, “Good weather for you, lass.”

Astounded, Quenna reared back. For an instant she seemed about to fly at the girl, and Arinnian’s hand dropped to his knife. Then she addressed Vodan: “Better we be going.”

“Not yet.” The Ythrian had fairly well overcome his embarrassment. “The clouds alone will decide when I see my brother again.”