have. Owen, support Zeth—if you don't let his attention wander, we can put his condition to good use."

Zeth was about to protest their talking about him as if he weren't there, but then he realized that his father was according Owen the status of Companion, and felt a warm glow of pride for his friend.

"All right, Zeth," said Rimon. "First healing mode. Zlin me, and then try to mesh your field with mine."

Zeth zlinned how his father's field shifted, and found he could shift to match. He felt his father's surprise and pride, followed by a tug which drew him back to duoconsciousness.

"Very good, Zeth. Now, maintaining healing mode, put your field and Owen's, and all the leakage through the drapes, into balance, so it's as if Mr. Bron and I were alone together. Here—zlin me doing it."

Suddenly Zeth stood in a bubble of clarity centered on his father. Duoconscious, he could hear the steady hushed din from the chapel, but his whole body felt silence.

"Now, you try it," said Rimon, slipping back into healing mode, his attention going wholly to Bron.

Owen moved automatically to where his field balanced the most intense external fields. But when Zeth tried to compensate for the fields flowing through the hangings, the patterns distracted him again. Twice Owen pulled him back, once with a tug of his hand, then with a flick of his field.

Zeth bit back frustration at his inability to concentrate, and flung himself into the task again. The bubble of quietude formed around them all, and Rimon looked around with a smile. Then Zeth was holding the incredibly beautiful and complex pattern of shifting energy fields.

A Gen approached. At first Zeth felt annoyance at the distortion, but he found he could weave the approaching field into the bubble, a bright tang of curiosity almost as ravenous as his own, contriving as naturally as Owen did not to interfere.

Zeth tried duoconsciousness, and found that he could still hold the fields. It was Wik who had entered, to place the towel-wrapped hot brick at Bron's feet. Rimon dared not move, but he smiled at his son and said, "Good work, Zeth."

Zeth envied his father's ability to divide his attention—but the instant his mind wandered, the field pattern collapsed. As he groped for it again, both Gens stepped automatically to positions which negated the worst effects. How do they do

that? Zeth wondered, but was too busy to think about it further.

He rebuilt the bubble of silence. As soon as he had it again, Wik left. Zeth caught up the pattern, proud of his control. He spared a portion of his attention to watch what his father was doing, lost the pattern, gained it, and again peeked at his father. He couldn't count how many such cycles he went through, but by the time the people outside the curtains were falling asleep, leaving for the night, or settling into vigils, Zeth was able to watch his father and still hold the bubble steady.

Once, he sought to pick his mother's field out, but Owen brought him back to attention. Another time, a Sime poked his head through the hangings, radiating anxiety—and left, disappointed. Some time after that, another Sime approached. This time Zeth recognized Abel Veritt, also rife with anxiety– but as the old man hesitated at the entrance, Rimon's field suddenly flared relief, and Zeth was brought all the way down to hypoconsciousness, seeing his father leaning heavily on the table where Bron lay, looking unutterably tired, but also satisfied.

On that note, Abel entered. "Rimon—"

Rimon smiled at him. "He's all right, Abel. He's out of shock and sleeping."

"Yes, I'm very glad, but... Rimon, you must—"

Zeth sought duoconsciousness to ferret out the terrible worry he had sensed in Abel Veritt. His overstrained, unpracticed system rebelled. He started to black out. The two Simes turned, but Owen was at his side, easing him to the floor. He was as exhausted as when fear had drained him in the last stages of changeover.

If Owen hadn't been there to lean on, he would have fallen right off the world. At least that was his impression. Both Abel and Rimon bent over him. Rimon said, "I'm sorry, Zeth—you weren't ready for that. Relax. You'll be all right in a few minutes. Abel, I put him straight to work doing field balances and he held steady until just now!" Rimon's pride warmed Zeth despite the exhaustion.

"Owen," Rimon added, "let Zeth take a transfer grip. Zeth, relax against Owen's field. Let anything happen that happens—you won't hurt him. You're high-field."

Owen knelt in front of Zeth, who found it nearly impossible to lift his leaden hands to Owen's shoulders. But then his

tentacles spread naturally, and he rose to duoconsciousness, at rest once more in the safety of Owen's nager.

They were in that state, Owen's back to the sudden flare of nageric horror, Zeth shielded, Owen unaffected except that his field somehow strengthened for a moment as– Abel gasped, staggering, turning toward the agonized tumult in the ambient as Rimon emitted a harsh, hideous sound like nothing human and dropped with a lifeless thud. But his body moved, muscles contracting unnaturally, his field a torment of uncontrolled spasms, driving his body into convulsions as Zeth struggled helplessly to focus—

Abel pulled himself together, dropping to his knees beside Rimon's thrashing body, yanking off his belt to thrust the leather between Rimon's clenched teeth a? footsteps pounded up outside the enclosure and Trina Morgan flung open the hangings, crying, "Rimon—come quickly! I think Kadi's dead!"

Zeth woke at dawn. Something new had happened to him while he slept. He knew that the sun was just below the horizon. He knew exactly where he was—not just that he was in Abel Veritt's house, but where the house was, in a strange new perspective.

Beside him, Owen slept soundly. He lay still so he wouldn't disturb his friend. He could zlin the whole house without moving—or right out through the walls. The ambient nager was no longer a mere blur of interesting patterns. He could sort out the fields of Simes and Gens, noting them as individuals, even though he could not yet put names to many of them. The fields no longer ran together in foreshortened layers; he knew exactly where each person was.

He zlinned the room next door. Empty. Across the hall . . , Margid Veritt, asleep. Out in the main room, some Gens slept in exhaustion. One field he knew: Lon Carson. Yes, he remembered vaguely, they had given sleeping room to several uninjured men from Mountain Chapel.

Other memories of yesterday—and very early this morning– suddenly returned. Mama's dead! He sat up in shock, and Owen stirred and muttered in his sleep. Kadi was dead, and Rimon very ill. Abel had seen Rimon go into convulsions like that before; he had known just what to do. Then Uel Whelan had come. The rest was a blur.

Had Rimon survived? Abel would know. He located Abel in the kitchen, his field still and controlled. Zeth slid out of bed, trying not to wake Owen. For the first time in his life, he tiptoed silently through the house without tripping or knocking something over. Not one of the men in the main room stirred as he passed.

Abel Veritt was seated at the kitchen table, his chin resting

on his folded hands in an attitude of prayer. But the old man's field did not suggest peace. Something dark and tense dominated Abel's nager—something not there last night.

When Zeth entered the kitchen, the dark nageric cloud retreated, but didn't dissipate as he looked up and answered before Zeth could ask, "Rimon is alive, Zeth. He went through worse than this before you were born, when he was learning . . . not to kill." The darkness flared and retreated at the words. He added, gravely, "It will be very hard for him without your mother. It will be hard for all of us—but I don't have to tell you that you and your father are like family here. No—you are family."