Aybe said, “Now we know the trajectory of the Cupworld better. We extrapolated a naïve straight-line trajectory and folded in star motion, too. It may have been near Earth over sixty million years ago.”

“What’s ‘near’ mean?” Irma asked.

Aybe rolled his eyes as he calculated, adjusted his hat, shrugged. “Say, five light-years. How old was that dino back there, Cliff?”

“Maybe a hundred million years ago. I don’t recall the classification or the dates real well. I’m a field biologist.” Abruptly he laughed. “Didn’t think at the time I’d have any use for those paleontology classes.”

In a clearing, Irma automatically moved to their right flank and said, “Y’know, Earth wasn’t in the same place in the galaxy hundred million years ago. So Cupworld might’ve been following some different trajectory, not just some straight line from Earth to here.”

Howard said, “Right. Stars move a lot in that time.”

Irma kept a wary eye out, whispering, “Face it, we don’t have a clue what these aliens—the smart ones, I mean—are doing. Touring the galaxy on a slow boat? What kind of mind does that?”

“A slow mind,” Terry said. Cliff had noted that the man didn’t say much. When he did, it was well thought out. “Maybe an immortal one?”

“As a biologist,” Cliff said, “I kinda doubt that anything lives forever. Once you stop reproducing, the force of natural selection stops working. Traits that gave you short-term benefits come back to haunt you.”

Irma said, “But if you have biotech galore—?”

“All bets are off,” Cliff admitted. “Maybe the Builders—that’s what I call them, the ones who made all this—lived pretty damn near forever. But Cupworld has been on its way for at least millions of years. Maybe even sixty million—that’s when the dinosaurs died.”

This sobered them all as they made their way upslope, keeping their eyes on the surrounding forest. Cliff recalled a training hike into the Ecuadorian rain forests he had taken while he worked on his doctorate. The instructor had told them that the three weeks they spent upriver of the Amazon would be “meet-yourself experiences,” and that seemed to capture a deep truth. Exploring made you know yourself better, like it or not. Self-knowledge is usually bad news.…

Without warning, a leathery thing the size of a greyhound came at the point man, Aybe. It ran quick and sure, as if it had preyed on something that looked like them before. Aybe shot it at a one-meter range, blowing a laser hole in its forehead. The big yellow eyes of the thing fluttered and it fell, kicking, rasping out a last breath. It looked like a reptilian dog, scaly and tough, with thick haunches and a powerful set of clamping jaws.

They stared at it. “Good shot,” Terry said.

Irma said brightly, “Let’s make a fire, roast up big chunks of meat.”

Cliff worried about detection, but didn’t stop them from gathering wood. Their amino acid scans had shown the basic same as Earth, and DNA had the same structure too. Maybe they were universal? An old folk song about moonshine cooking rang in his mind. Don’t use green or rotten wood, they’ll get you by the smoke.… “Don’t use fresh fallen branches,” he called out. “Look for dried-out ones.” Terry looked scornful at this, but others nodded. They had uneven woodland skills. Cliff still had to remind them often not to talk so much, a rule every field biologist knows.

Around the campfire—carefully set under dense leafy boughs, to capture and spread the billowing gray stink, which was nearly transparent—they set into the fresh roasted haunch meat with gusto. Terry wished for a good red wine to go with it, got some laughs.

They ate but were not sleepy. So they pushed on, looking for a safe water source, a spot with clear fields of fire. Nobody wanted to spend a sleep time in trees. But what was the alternative? Cliff was still wrestling with the problem of what to do, but he had to shush them after the meal, and that made him worry more. Leadership was a bitch, he decided. More like being a schoolmarm …

“Look, we’ve got to remember one big fact: These creatures don’t have any natural caution about us,” Cliff said as they made their way up a steep slope under spreading canopy trees of fat emerald fronds.

Aybe said, “Doesn’t that mean they’ll be easy to hunt?”

Cliff gave him a wry look. “Sure. But it also means the predators have no reason to fear us. Remember that.”

FIFTEEN

Memor decided to isolate her prisoners from the vast species richness of the World. Her Undermind provided the idea, and she instantly knew it was correct. She had watched the logics working in their moist, blue green connections, and understood the entire thought-chain.

The World’s wealth would stun them, surely. The blue green abundance would prove shameful to such primitives. They might even commit group suicide, humiliated beyond tolerance. Their cages she ordered made hospitable, but nothing more.

Further, her underlings saw that these small creatures found every avenue of escape blocked. Isolation was best, both for them and for scientific study. It was simple to devise transport to put them tens of millions of miles from natural air, water, vegetation, the ripe bounty of the World. Ancient records said something of the sort had worked well against the last invaders, rendering them compliant. Then again, she had to feed them.

She had found a good solution. The greenhouse was a series of verdant ledges set near the World’s axis of rotation and thrust. The Jet burned a searing injunction in its sky, pointing back at the Star. Sunny and mild, this was a unique preserve, a rightful richness that fed the Astronomers and gave them restful grounds for strolling and contemplation.

Surely, as the species that tended the course and the health of the World, and so provided for their servant species, Astronomers deserved such cloistered wealth. Since time immemorial, the plants that grew there, the animals and birds that lived on the plants and each other, had all been deftly altered to match microgravity. Such was the wisdom of the Ancients.

In this lush paradise, Memor allowed the Invaders some small latitude. She had not stripped the Invaders of their equipment, because she didn’t know what would kill them. No doubt some of their implements, so odd and crude, were sacred to them, or used for amusement. Very well; Memor was generous.

She and the other, lesser species watched to see if the Invaders would divest themselves of their pressure suits. They did strip the wounded one, but failed to learn from the experience. For some no doubt primitive reason, the rest remained dressed for vacuum when they went to sleep.

They slept twice as long as an Astronomer would have, and all woke more or less at once. Perhaps this was a species defense mechanism?

They stripped down then to a lower layer of cloth. So scrawny! Memor doubted they were hiding anything from her. More likely they kept themselves covered as a birth control measure, taming their primordial impulses. Or perhaps they used outer coverings to control temperature in an altogether wilder environment than the World’s. Lesser species of the World had similar mechanisms, and could even use simple tools.

Memor watched carefully as they designated a toilet area, and used it in turn. No sharing. Perhaps a status ritual? They tried various bits of what Memor had set for them as food, an elaborate crescent array that would serve as a biology lecture, too. They did not eat grass or bark or water weeds, but they did eat an amazing variety of higher protein content foods. Omnivores! Memor had once wondered if they could feed themselves at all. In the World there were species that could not; they needed servants who could process and serve food. Biology had many strange flowstreams.

Some of what they had were tiny cameras. Memor watched them making records of what they saw. They spent much of their effort recording the arrays of possible food sources. When she knew they used meat, and knives, she supplied whole carcasses; they photographed these and the dressed and cooked meat, too. Plants raw and peeled. Servitors and Memor herself.