“Thanks, fond one,” Memor said. “What can you tell me?”

“There’ll be the usual minor business you’ll sit through, of course. The Adopted—not that your primates are, ey?—fall under the Code, nominally. Especially if—” Here Sarko gave a flare-flutter of mirth. “—they are rampaging over the landscape.”

“They are clever,” Memor allowed herself.

“And hard to catch! We had abundant testimony to that last meeting. Pity you weren’t here—exciting. I gather these primates are not like ours, not simpletons hanging around in trees. Anyway, no wonder they escaped, they seem quite clever. Tricky! I gather they got away from several large search parties, and now have—” Sarko paused in her usual headlong talking. “—have killed several Folk?… And captured a car?…”

Memor gave an assenting wave of feather-fan. “True enough. Word leaks out, I see. They have made the case against their kind quite well.”

Sarko peered into Memor’s face. “You do fathom that the best way to save your career is to agree that they must be exterminated.”

“Oh, quite.”

“So you will? Please.”

“I think we play with fires we do not know here, and should be careful.” Memor had planned that sentence; might as well try it out on a friend.

“That will not go well with the Profounds, old friend.”

A slow side glance. “Friend, I can count on your support?”

A humble bow. “I have little power, alas.”

“Use what you have. I have survived the Citadel of Remembrance, though not without scorn.”

“May you do so well here!” Sarko said, her expression returning to her usual happy state, with blue eye-feathers furling.

Memor followed Sarko’s guidance through the formal labyrinth, enjoying her quick, birdlike movements. Sarko was a quick but not deep intelligence, open to larger mental vistas but preferring the light joys of the social give-and-take.

As an Ecosystem Savant approached, Sarko fell back. “Would you have sustenance?” came the customary offer.

“Not before any other,” Memor made the usual counter. The Ecosystem Savant ruffled colors of routine admiration and the introductions were complete.

At this formal moment, a Packmistress entered, seated herself, and nodded to all with a fluttering plumage neck-arc of authority. “We will commence.” A flutter of acceptance ran round the moist chamber.

The first item was an anticlimax. An ecosystem engineer presented the latest problem. In Zone 28-94-4578, water temples controlled flow to terraces, preventing Folk tribes upstream from using it all, and so avoided impoverishing those below. Yet rainfall had slackened, despite the best Eco management. To prevent the highlands from withholding water without conflict demanded social cement. These Moist Temples used customary subak rituals to link the communities with full mingling ceremony and mandatory cross-breeding. Otherwise, they would be snatching at one another’s feathers. Absent such community, crops would fail. Ancient forests would be overrun with loggers, potters, shepherds, and thieves, seeking what they could wrench forth. This evolving crisis challenged lands larger than whole planets.

The biology of all lands shifted in time, of course—nature’s restless seekings making species that, in the evolutionary sense, pass by each other on their way to somewhere else. Adapt, evolve, or die—the eternal rule. But drought hastened nature here.

Memor watched as several Profounds tossed the problem among themselves. Much verbal artistry could not conceal the hard choices. There seemed no merciful solution. Accordingly, the Packmistress let each side play out, stating cases, pleading for more aid.

Then the Packmistress showed a crescent display of resolute judgment—a bad sign. She said, “No extensions for longevity throughout the threatened domain. No appeals, no exceptions.”

There it was. A hush fell upon the chamber. Memor could hear the gentle splashing of the calming waters on the walls. The Packmistress had condemned millions to their natural extinction. They could not claim special aging preventives.

The Packmistress ordered a recess for contemplation. Sarko immediately appeared at Memor’s flank. “Perhaps such stern justice will be of help.”

“Or set the tone,” Memor said dryly.

“I have been circulating.…” Sarko always opened with a teasing promise, fluttering side feathers near her eyes. “Some say you know the most of these aliens, so should lead the hunt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, those who spoke at all seemed quite friendly to your cause.”

“I do not seek to lead a hunt.”

Feathers ringing Sarko’s neck fluttered. “But you fathom these strange—”

“Has it occurred to you that I could fail?”

“Ah, no. You have such a sterling record—”

“This is the first alien invasion in countless twelve-cubed Cycles. We are inexperienced. As well, no one has ever dealt with such evil little creatures.”

Sarko’s elegant head jerked, weaved. Feathers fanned the astonished violet-rimmed eyes. “But you! Everyone says—”

“Everyone hasn’t walked in my path. I do not wish to exchange one route to death for another. This hunt could fail, the aliens could do much damage—and there will be victims among us, then.”

Sarko’s joyful face collapsed. “Surely you can’t—”

The summoning chimes sounded, reverberating in the high chamber. Memor drew in the soft air, but tasted a bitter hint—her own bile?

Back in chambers, more Eco deliberations droned by. Movements of the Folk were not following the Design. Memor let her Undermind rove as she half listened.

All life was properly in movement, on the grand plains of the Bowl World. But the bigger, lower-grade-intelligence Folk, who lived as primitives and augmented their diet browsing shrubs and trees, were to move on—to give grazers a chance to live on the grasses that followed the loss of shrubs. These primitives were not crop-raising Folk, and should remain in their wild condition.

So populations had to be forced to move, and not set up camps and villages. The Packmistress made quick work of this matter, directing Suborns to destroy the primitive camps and force the subFolk to move on. They had their role in the Design, and should be reminded of it.

She reminded them all that the Originals had learned the Great Truth that governed all: that given vast new lands, the Folk then quickly invade these spaces, wreak destruction, and when resources grow short, fight with neighbors for more. Under the first rush of exploding populations in the Original Times, wildland had to pay or perish, to persist. Poachers and loggers turned lands into battlefields.

Only after much strife that threatened the Bowl itself did the Codes come, managed by the Savants. There was no alternative to a constant, assuring order. Another revelation was that death did not permit one to stay out of the Cycle. In some Bowl societies, the Folk tried to deny their own role, and so put their dead into coffins and mausoleums, burned themselves in pyres, even suspend themselves in cold for future resurrection. All were a wrongness, for the Bowl needed these bodies.

“Mites and worms should have us,” the Packmistress said. “This is the Cycle and it must be obeyed. Such is the Design. The Code does not protect lands and seas from the Folk, but rather for the Folk—by taking the long view. The Code teaches humility, because it engages us with Nature in the eternal dance with all other species.”

Memor bowed her head at this obvious platitude and wondered how it would affect her—well, trial was not quite right, but the stern faces of those around her did not bode well.

At this moment Sarko piped forth, “I suppose the message here is, just remember that you can never predict the behavior of a system more complex than you. And if you want a project to stay on track after you’re gone, you don’t give control to anything that’s guaranteed to develop its own agenda.”