Even before the nildor’s eyelids parted, even before the round yellow eyes fixed coldly on him, Gundersen was aware that he had blundered.

“Your Company never had rights here to relinquish,” said the nildor in the customary flat, neutral way. “Is this not so?”

“It is so,” Gundersen conceded. He searched for a graceful correction and finally said, “After the Company relinquished possession of this planet, I returned to my own world.”

“Those words are more nearly true. Why, then, have you come back here?”

“Because I love this place and wish to see it again.”

“Is it possible for an Earthman to feel love for Belzagor?”

“An Earthman can, yes.”

“An Earthman can become captured by Belzagor,” Vol’himyor said with more than usual slowness. “An Earthman may find that his soul has been seized by the forces of this planet and is held in thrall. But I doubt that an Earthman can feel love for this planet, as I understand your understanding of love.”

“I yield the point, many-born one. My soul has become captured by Belzagor. I could not help but return.”

“You are quick to yield such points.”

“I have no wish to give offense.”

“Commendable tact. And what will you do here on this world that has seized your soul?”

“Travel to many parts of your world,” said Gundersen. “I wish particularly to go to the mist country.”

“Why there?”

“It is the place that captures me most deeply.”

“That is not an informative answer,” the nildor said.

“I can give no other.”

“What thing has captured you there?”

“The beauty of the mountains rising out of the mist. The sparkle of sunlight on a clear, cold, bright day. The splendor of the moons against a field of glittering snow.”

“You are quite poetic,” said Vol’himyor.

Gundersen could not tell if he were being praised or mocked.

He said, “Under present law, I must have the permission of a many-born one to enter the mist country. So I come to make application to you for such permission.”

“You are fastidious in your respect for our law, my once-born friend. Once it was different with you.”

Gundersen bit his lip. He felt something crawling up his calf, down in the depths of the lake, but he compelled himself to stare serenely at the many-born one. Choosing his words with care, he said, “Sometimes we are slow to understand the nature of others, and we give offense without knowing that we do so.”

“It is so.”

“But then understanding comes,” Gundersen said, “and one feels remorse for the deeds of the past, and one hopes that one may be forgiven for his sins.”

“Forgiveness depends on the quality of the remorse,” said Vol’himyor, “and also on the quality of the sins.”

“I believe my failings are known to you.”

“They are not forgotten,” said the nildor.

“I believe also that in your creed the possibility of personal redemption is not unknown.”

“True. True.”

“Will you allow me to make amends for my sins of the past against your people, both known and unknown?”

“Making amends for unknown sins is meaningless,” said the nildor. “But in any case we seek no apologies. Your redemption from sin is your own concern, not ours. Perhaps you will find that redemption here, as you hope. I sense already a welcome change in your soul, and it will count heavily in your favor.”

“I have your permission to go north, then?” Gundersen asked.

“Not so fast. Stay with us a while as our guest. We must think about this. You may go to shore, now.”

The dismissal was clear. Gundersen thanked the many-born one for his patience, not without some self-satisfaction at the way he had handled the interview. He had always displayed proper deference toward many-born ones — even a really Kiplingesque imperialist knew enough to show respect for venerable tribal leaders — but in Company days it had never been more than a charade for him, a put-on show of humility, since ultimate power resided with the Company’s sector agent, not with any nildor no matter how holy. Now, of course, the old nildor really did have the power to keep him out of the mist country, and might even see some poetic justice in banning him from it. But Gundersen felt that his deferential and apologetic attitude had been reasonably sincere just now, and that some of that sincerity had been communicated to Vol’himyor. He knew that he could not deceive the many-born one into thinking that an old Company hand like himself was suddenly eager to grovel before the former victims of Earth’s expansionism; but unless some show of earnestness did come through, he stood no chance at all of gaining the permission he needed.

Abruptly, when Gundersen was still a good distance from shore, something hit him a tremendous blow between the shoulders and flung him, stunned and gasping, face forward into the water.

As he went under, the thought crossed his mind that Vol’himyor had treacherously come up behind him and lashed him with his trunk. Such a blow could easily be fatal if aimed with real malice. Spluttering, his mouth full of the lake’s liquor, his arms half numbed by the impact of the blow, Gundersen warily surfaced, expecting to find the old nildor looming above him ready to deliver the coup de grace.

He opened his eyes, with some momentary trouble focusing them. No, there was the many-born one far away across the water, looking in another direction. And then Gundersen felt a curious prickly premonition and got his head down just in time to avoid being decapitated by whatever it was that had hit him before. Huddling nose-deep in the water, he saw it swing by overhead, a thick yellowish rod like a boom out of control. Now he heard thunderous shrieks of pain and felt widening ripples sweeping across the lake. He glanced around.

A dozen sulidoror had entered the water and were killing a malidar. They had harpooned the colossal beast with sharpened sticks; now the malidar thrashed and coiled in its final agonies, and it was the mighty tail of the animal that had knocked Gundersen over. The hunters had fanned out in the shallows, waist-deep, their thick fur bedraggled and matted. Each group grasped the line of one harpoon, and they were gradually drawing the malidar toward shore. Gundersen was no longer in danger, but he continued to stay low in the water, catching his breath, rotating his shoulders to assure himself that no bones were broken. The malidar’s tail must have given him the merest tip-flick the first time; he would surely have been destroyed the second time that tail came by, if he had not ducked. He was beginning to ache, and he felt half drowned by the water he had gulped. He wondered when he would start to get drunk.

Now the sulidoror had beached their prey. Only the malidar’s tail and thick web-footed hind legs lay in the water, moving fitfully. The rest of the animal, tons of it, stretching five times the length of a man, was up on shore, and the sulidoror were methodically driving long stakes into it, one through each of the forelimbs and several into the broad wedge-shaped head. A few nildoror were watching the operation in mild curiosity. Most ignored it. The remaining malidaror continued to browse in the woods as though nothing had happened.

A final thrust of a stake severed the malidar’s spinal column. The beast quivered and lay still.

Gundersen hurried from the water, swimming quickly, then wading through the unpleasantly voluptuous mud, at last stumbling out onto the beach. His knees suddenly failed him and he toppled forward, trembling, choking, puking. A thin stream of fluid burst from his lips. Afterward he rolled to one side and watched the sulidoror cutting gigantic blocks of pale pink meat from the malidar’s sides and passing them around. Other sulidoror were coming from the huts to share the feast. Gundersen shivered. He was in a kind of shock, and a few minutes passed before he realized that the cause of his shock was not only the blow he had received and the water he had swallowed, but also the knowledge that an act of violence had been committed in front of a herd of nildoror, and the nildoror did not seem at all disturbed. He had imagined that these peaceful, nonbelligerent creatures would react in horror to the slaughter of a malidar. But they simply did not care. The shock Gundersen felt was the shock of disillusionment.