“Yes,” a nildor called to him. “Come, dance with us!”

Was it Vol’himyor? Was it Srin’gahar? Was it Thali’vanoom of the third birth? Gundersen did not know which of them had spoken. In the darkness, in the sweaty haze, he could not see clearly, and all these giant shapes looked identical. He reached the bottom of the slope. Nildoror were everywhere about him, tracing out passages in their private journeys from point to point on the lakeshore. Their bodies emitted acrid odors, which, mixing with the fumes of the lake, choked and dizzied him. He heard several of them say to him, “Yes, yes, dance with us!”

And he danced.

He found an open patch of marshy soil and laid claim to it, moving forward, then backward, covering and recovering his one little tract in his fervor. No nildoror trespassed on him. His head tossed; his eyes rolled; his arms dangled; his body swayed and rocked; his feet carried him untiringly. Now he sucked in the thick air. Now he cried out in strange tongues. His skin was on fire; he stripped away his clothing, but it made no difference. Boom boom boom boom. Even now, a shred of his old detachment was left, enough so that he could marvel at the spectacle of himself dancing naked amid a herd of giant alien beasts. Would they, in their ultimate transports of passion, sweep in over his plot and crush him into the herd. But he stayed. Boom boom boom boom, again, again, yet again. As he whirled he looked out over the lake, and by sparkling refracted moonslight he saw the malidaror placidly munching the weeds, heedless of the frenzy on land. They are without g’rakh, he thought. They are beasts, and when they die their leaden spirits go downward to the earth. Boom. Boom. BOOM. Boom.

He became aware that glossy shapes were moving along the ground, weaving warily between the rows of dancing nildoror. The serpents! This music of pounding feet had summoned them from the dense glades where they lived.

The nildoror seemed wholly unperturbed that these deadly worms moved among them. A single stabbing thrust of the two spiny quills would bring even a mighty nildor toppling down; but no matter. The serpents were welcome, it appeared. They glided toward Gundersen, who knew he was in no mortal danger from their venom, but who did not seek another encounter with it. He did not break the stride of his dance, though, as five of the thick pink creatures wriggled past him. They did not touch him.

The serpents passed through, and were gone. And still the uproar continued. And still the ground shook. Gundersen’s heart hammered, but he did not pause. He gave himself up fully, blending with those about him, sharing as deeply as he was able to share it the intensity of the experience.

The moons set. Early streaks of dawn stained the sky.

Gundersen became aware that he no longer could hear the thunder of stamping feet. He danced alone. About him, the nildoror had settled down, and their voices again could be heard, in that strange unintelligible litany. They spoke quietly but with great passion. He could no longer follow the patterns of their words; everything merged into an echoing rumble of tones, without definition, without shape. Unable to halt, he jerked and twisted through his obsessive gyration until the moment that he felt the first heat of the morning sun.

Then he fell exhausted, and lay still, and slipped down easily into sleep.

WHEN HE WOKE it was some time after midday. The normal life of the encampment had resumed; a good many of the nildoror were in the lake, a few were munching on the vegetation at the top of the slope, and most were resting in the shade. The only sign of last night’s frenzy was in the spongy turf near the lakeshore, which was terribly scuffed and torn.

Gundersen felt stiff and numb. Also he was abashed, with the embarrassment of one who has thrown himself too eagerly into someone else’s special amusement. He could hardly believe that he had done what he knew himself to have done. In his shame he felt an immediate impulse to leave the encampment at once, before the nildoror could show him their contempt for an Earthman capable of making himself a thrall to their festivity, capable of allowing himself to be beguiled by their incantations. But he shackled the thought, remembering that he had a purpose in coming here.

He limped down to the lake and waded out until its water came up to his breast. He soaked a while, and washed away the sweat of the night before. Emerging, he found his clothing and put it on.

A nildor came to him and said, “Vol’himyor will speak to you now.”

The many-born one was halfway up the slope. Coming before him, Gundersen could not find the words of any of the greetings formulas, and simply stared raggedly at the old nildor until Vol’himyor said, “You dance well, my once-born friend. You dance with joy. You dance with love. You dance like a nildor, do you know that?”

“It is not easy for me to understand what happened to me last night.” said Gundersen.

“You proved to us that our world has captured your spirit.”

“Was it offensive to you that an Earthman danced among you?”

“If it had been offensive,” said Vol’himyor slowly, “you would not have danced among us.” There was a long silence. Then the nildor said, “We will make a treaty, we two. I will give you permission to go into the mist country. Stay there until you are ready to come out. But when you return, bring with you the Earthman known as Cullen, and offer him to the northernmost encampment of nildoror, the first of my people that you find. Is this agreed?”

“Cullen?” Gundersen asked. Across his mind flared the image of a short broad-faced man with fine golden hair and mild green eyes. “Cedric Cullen, who was here when I was here?”

“The same man.”

“He worked with me when I was at the station in the Sea of Dust.”

“He lives now in the mist country,” Vol’himyor said, “having gone there without permission. We want him.”

“What has he done?”

“He is guilty of a grave crime. Now he has taken sanctuary among the sulidoror, where we are unable to gain access to him. It would be a violation of our covenant with them if we removed this man ourselves. But we may ask you to do it.”

Gundersen frowned. “You won’t tell me the nature of his crime?”

“Does it matter? We want him. Our reasons are not trifling ones. We request you to bring him to us.”

“You’re asking one Earthman to seize another and turn him in for punishment,” said Gundersen. “How am I to know where justice lies in this affair?”

“Under the treaty of relinquishment, are we not the arbiters of justice on this world?” asked one nildor.

Gundersen admitted that this was so.

“Then we hold the right to deal with Cullen as he deserves,” Vol’himyor said.

That did not, of course, make it proper for Gundersen to act as catspaw in handing his old comrade over to the nildoror. But Vol’himyor’s implied threat was clear: do as we wish, or we grant you no favors.

Gundersen said, “What punishment will Cullen get if he falls into your custody?”

“Punishment? Punishment? Who speaks of punishment?”

“If the man’s a criminal—”

“We wish to purify him,” said the many-born one. “We desire to cleanse his spirit. We do not regard that as punishment.”

“Will you injure him physically in any way?”

“It is not to be thought.”

“Will you end his life?”

“Can you mean such a thing? Of course not.”

“Will you imprison him?”

“We will keep him in custody,” said Vol’himyor, “for however long the rite of purification takes. I do not think it will take long. He will swiftly be freed, and he will be grateful to us.”

“I ask you once more to tell me the nature of his crime.”

“He will tell you that himself,” the nildor said. “It is not necessary for me to make his confession for him.”