"It's like-humanity has decided that thinking doesn't work and has abandoned it. To try something else instead. It's like a kind of telepathy, Fletcher-it envelops you. The closer you go, the easier it is to escape from the language. It's like letting go of a particular madness. Like language is a mental disease that we all agreed to share. Over there, they've created a new agreement-that they can be a species without thinking, without language, without concept. They exist totally in a moment-to-moment state. It's-I'm explaining it again, aren't I? We keep getting trapped in our explanations. That's our minds."

She stopped me with a finger on my lips. "Shh," she said. "Catch your breath. Take your time."

I ran a hand through my hair. It was matted. God knew what I looked like.

"What did it feel like, Jim?"

"It felt like... this is weird. . . ." I looked at her and I could feel the tears coming into my eyes. "It felt like ... freedom. As if my mind were a parasite in my body, somehow. And for a while, I'd gotten free of it. And now, that it's recaptured me, I have this ... terrible grief, this ... profound sadness." I looked back to the herd again. "They're so... happy over there." The tears burst from my eyes again.

She hugged me to her. I was oblivious to everything else except the warmth and the smell of her. She smelled like flowers. There were men standing around us. I didn't care. I let the tears flow. I buried my head against her breasts and sobbed. Why? Why the tears?

She stroked my hair. I could feel how greasy I was, but she didn't seem to mind. She said, "You want the official explanation?"

"What's the official explanation?" I asked.

She wrapped her arms around me and said, "The official explanation is that we haven't finished grieving for the world we've lost. The pre-plague years. How do you deal with the death of a whole planet?" She left the question echoing in the silence.

I found the mug again. The ersatz was cool enough to drink now, cool enough to taste. I could almost get used to the taste of it. In another hundred years or so. I pulled the blanket around me.

"How are you feeling now?" Fletcher asked.

"Fine," I said. "Really." I looked at the sky, I looked at the herd. They were starting to head into what was left of Brooks Hall, their stable for the night. "I should be going to bed too...... " I looked to Fletcher, hopefully.

"Yes," she agreed. "But not with them. Not any more."

She nodded to someone and they helped me into the ambulance and we headed back to Oakland.

THEY KEPT me up the whole night, talking.

They filled me full of coffee-someone found some of the real stuff-I threatened to clam up if they handed me another cup of the ersatz-and they kept me talking.

I kept begging Fletcher to let me go to sleep, but she kept saying, "Not yet. Just a little while longer."

"Why-what are you waiting for?" I could hear the whining in my voice. I hadn't whined since I was five.

Finally, she admitted, "We want to make sure that you'll wake up human. We need to see that your brain is responding to language again. When you sleep, you let go of language. In the morning, we want to make sure you pick it up again."

"I'll be-all right," I said. "I think you can trust me now."

"Would you bet your life on it?"

"Huh?"

"If you don't wake up human tomorrow, can we kill you?"

"Say again?"

"I said, `If you don't wake up human tomorrow, can we kill you?' Are you that certain?"

"Uh-" I held out my cup. "Can I have some more coffee?"

Fletcher grinned and took the cup from me. "You're fine." But she refilled the mug anyway. "We were thinking about leaving a radio on for you, low-level-but there're two schools of thought on that. One is that it will help keep you tuned to language. The other is that it will be just another babbling voice in the background and will encourage you to start tuning out again." She sighed. "Ultimately, it comes down to this-it's up to you. At some level, James, it's going to be your choice."

She turned my face to hers. "Do you understand? I know that you want to go back. You're going to have to resist the pull. Can you? Will you?"

I lowered my eyes. Her gaze was too intense to look at. I wanted to hide from it. "I think I can," I said. I looked back up at her.

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do it." She took my chin and turned my face to hers. "I am not going to lose you, do you understand?"

I nodded. All the words seemed so feeble somehow, but it was words she wanted most from me. I felt trapped.

"Do you want some help?" she asked.

"What kind?"

"Just a trick. Use your name as a mantra. Do it as you're falling asleep. Chant your name over and over again. I am James Edward McCarthy. I am James Edward McCarthy. And so on."

"Why? What will that do?"

"It'll set some instructions running that will help you tune back in tomorrow. Every day it'll get a little easier. Will you do it?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'll feel silly, but I'll do it."

"Good." She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. "I'll let you sleep now."

As I drifted off, I found my body curling familiarly around a pillow. I wondered who I was missing. Who had curled up with me in the herd? I remembered the curve of a spine. The feel of skin. Liquid eyes. I missed--

I drifted back into wakefulness, missing my mate. Finding myself in a strange white place. Wearing a stiff white cloth. And--

"James Edward McCarthy!" I said. "My name is James Edward McCarthy!" And started laughing. It worked.

I found a jumpsuit in the closet. The ubiquitous army jumpsuit. And a pair of slip-ons. Good enough for what I had to do.

First thing, I had to let Fletcher know I was back. Second. I had a dance to plan.

BUT BEFORE I could do anything, General Poole summoned me to his office. I felt embarrassed wearing just the jumpsuit. General Poole didn't get up from his desk; he just pointed to a chair and asked, "Whose idea was it for you to go into the herd?"

"Mine," I said.

He shook his head. "In mah day, Lieutenant, that little stunt would have bought you a Section Eight discharge. Ah expect better behavior than that from mah officers."

"Yes, sir," I said. I resisted the temptation to tell him his day was past.

"However..." he continued, "this particular operation comes from the Science Section, so perhaps you feel that the opinions of your superior officers in the military aren't applicable. Is that correct?"

"No sir." I wondered what he was getting at. "It was my understanding that I'd been authorized by the mission commander, Colonel Tirelli."

The general didn't respond to that. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and peered at the file on the desk in front of him. "You are a science officer, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have your degree?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"Do you have a target date?"

"Three years, sir. I've been averaging one course every six to eight weeks. Three hours a day at a terminal, six days a week, I think I'm making pretty good progress. I'm a little behind right now, but I intend to get caught up right after this mission."

"Mm hm. The mission." General Poole closed the folder and raised his face to mine again; his glasses made his eyes look small and mean. "Let me be candid, Lieutenant. Ah wouldn't start any trilogies if Ah were you."

"Sir?"

"This mission tomorrow-it looks like suicide on a shingle to me."

"With all due respect, sir-I don't agree."

"Of course not. But the fact remains, this mission is ... of dubious military value. Do you understand what that means? That's why Ah let you volunteer."