“I’m long past the need, dear lady. The coelura eased my pain as they also sheltered and provided for me.”

Anguish again stabbed Caissa. “Then they are coelura!”

“They are indeed!” The quality of his voice cooled and, though his face remained serene, she felt him grow stern and his gown rippled darker.

“I’ve only heard of coelura once,” she said, swallowing.

“Once is usually enough.” His sternness was disconcerting.

“What I heard did not lead me to suspect their existence or . . .” and she glanced above her at the glorious spinning coelura who were murmuring lightly, but without alarm.

“What did you hear?” The man was polite if adamant.

Seized by a sudden whim, she replied, mimicking the voice of a computer. “ ‘Coelura, a passive ovoid aerial life form once indigenous to the northeastern Oriolis island group.’ That was all.”

“And ‘Oriolis’?” the man prompted.

“ ‘Oriolii have been interdicted by the Triadic cities and no intercourse is permitted.’ ”

“Yet you deviated from your course to answer a survivor signal in an interdicted area?”

“A survivor signal is not to be ignored from whatever source,” she replied with mock reproval.

The man laughed, an easy, hearty sound, unlike the artificial and socially acceptable snickers of her society.

Suddenly the coelura massed together, uttering a trill that was a warning despite its melodiousness.

“Come, we must hurry,” said the man. “The sun is setting. While the coelura are abroad, we are safe. Once the sun is set, they rest and nocturnal amphibians prowl this beach. I have a shelter, rude but sufficient, a short . . . hop . . . from here.”

“But there are reasons why . . .” Caissa began, thinking unfilial thoughts about her sire’s possible involvement in this man’s accident. She was torn between a desire to detach herself completely and a deeper, burgeoning fear for the fate of the coelura if her sire’s stratagems were successful.

“There are more urgent reasons why you will obey me,” said the man, pointing towards the undulating shapes that were speeding across the lagoon towards the shore. “The prinas are wasting no time. They have our scent.”

Caissa required no further admonition as he took her hand and pulled her towards the thick vegetation just beyond the beach. Prinas were as fast on land as they were in the water.

“The coelura will mask our spoor. But we must hurry.”

“I thought coelura were passive,” she said, deftly pushing back the thick growth at her host’s right side. Coelura swirled behind them, their collective voice now almost menacing.

“You mustn’t believe everything you see displayed, my lady Coelura are generally the most obliging creatures in the world but they also recognize danger.”

Then they had reached his shelter, built against the base of the basaltic palisade. The sloping roof was only apparent because the flight of coelura settled on its outline. Caissa couldn’t imagine what had been used in its construction.

The man stepped to an apparently seamless wall and pulled open a doorway. She quickly entered and, as he followed her, the entrance sealed itself.

“I would scarcely call this shelter rude,” Caissa said, staring about her appreciatively.

The single unexpectedly large room was decorated, if not furnished, in patterns that glowed of themselves. The rock of the back wall was covered with shimmering strands. Natural stone formations had been transformed into a long couch. Other rock extrusions served as shelving for bowls of fruit, a leaf-covered plate and gourds.

“This is a beautiful place.”

“And you naturally have been taught to appreciate beauty?”

She gave him a sharp look for the odd flatness in his voice.

“I have been so trained but . . .” and she gestured about her as the patterns of the very fabric of the room seemed to shift and flow subtly, “but this transcends that over-used word.”

“Rude or beauty?”

“You are rude,” she replied stiffly, “who are clothed in beauty.”

He smiled then, as if he had been testing her, and his smile reached blue eyes accentuated by the greeny-blue of his gown.

“My apologies. I have been long away from graciousness.”

“Living here?”

“Living alone. And here.”

The care in which he phrased that qualification did not escape her even if she did not comprehend the distinction.

“May I offer you juice, or water?” He was the easy, courteous host after that curious exchange. “While the coelura supply my needs, the fare is primitive.” He gestured with his uninjured arm for her to seat herself on the long couch.

On the horns of her private dilemma, Caissa hesitated. To offer hospitality signified her host’s good intentions: for her to accept bound her as well. If her suspicion about Baythan’s ambition was correct, she might be in danger of violating that mutual trust.

“Not the sort of fare to which you are accustomed . . .” and his gaze turned mocking as his garb altered color.

“It’s not that, truly.” Suddenly Caissa wanted this man’s good opinion more than she wished to violate the ethics of hospitality. “I often eat from the land when I hunt.” To cover her confusion, she reached to a thigh pocket and withdrew the emergency rations. “I have these to contribute to our meal. Perhaps a change to your diet.” She held the package tactfully towards his left hand.

Once more he laughed in his spontaneous and infectious manner and took her offering.

“I have lived alone too long, my lady.” He moved towards the shelves, taking down the fruit bowl and placing it on the center of the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. That protective coverall is no longer necessary and it must be hot.”

Caissa was finding it so and, as the man unwrapped the rations and soaked the dehydrated portions in a small bowl she took off the coverall and seated herself on the couch.

Having expected stone, she found the surface comfortably yielding. Curious, she touched the fabric covering. It was remarkably soft yet firm, and she found herself stroking it as if it were the pelt of some creature domesticated for tactility.

“Is this also coelura spun?” she asked.

She sensed his sudden wariness and then noticed that his eyes were on her throat and the body-heir tattoo.

“Ah, I had expected as much,” he said, unaccountably relaxing. “Your bearing is unmistakable.”

Offended, she started to rise but he gave her a broad mischievous grin and thrust a plate at her.

“You’re not what I would have expected for one of your status. Here, these are bark peelings which the coelura collect for me. Exceedingly nutritious for one who has had a trying day.” His eyes were kind and his manner so conciliatory she could not remain resentful.

He positioned the rest of their meal beside the fruit and gestured elegantly with his left hand for her to be seated again.

“My name is Murell my lady”

“Mine is Caissa.”

They smiled at each other for the belatedness of that formality as they sat down.

“And yes, my lady Caissa, this is coelura spun and the shelter is coelura fabricated. They sometimes use extraneous materials in their constructions. There was a time,” and his face lost its mobility, “when men and women paid enormous fortunes to Demeathorn for coelura spins. One sufficed for the lifetime of even the most devotedly fashionable.”

Caissa bent her head as if to select food but she could not look at Murell thinking as she was of the studied elegance of her mother’s extensive, ever-changing wardrobe

“Each coelura,” Murell went on, unaware of her internal conflict, “has only so much thread in its life span. They are willing creatures, eager to please those they like. Unfortunately, they are pliant and amiable to almost anyone. . . .”

“They don’t like prinas. . . .”

“Prinas are natural predators, indigenous to this planet.” Murell spoke in a wry tone and Caissa, dressed for hunting, knew all too well that man was the most insatiable predator of the galaxy.