“Plus they had fur,” Irma said. “We don’t, because we overheated when we ran long distances—so we lost the fur.”

Cliff nodded, recalling how lumbering those Kahalla figures had been. Bulky, ponderous, more like bears than people. And not a word had been spoken between them and the humans and Sil. Just glowers and postures, like the signals animals give. “Um, okay. So the Kahalla aren’t runners. Or talkers.”

Irma said, voice rising more, “The Bowl is telling us that smart aliens converge to a humanoid form.”

Cliff thought on that, never ceasing his scan of the forest around them. Or could be, somebody designed them.…

Quert was ahead of them and now turned. “Not the Folk. Not like, your word, humanoid. We say, Sil Shape. Same thing.”

“Um, yeah,” Irma said. “I wonder why?”

“Come from self design, for Folk,” Quert said. “Ancient.”

“So they have—what?—two arms and four legs?” Cliff asked.

“Some do. Many others, two legs. Still all Folk.”

Irma asked, “The Folk, do they really run things here?”

Quert gave a downward eye-gesture, which Cliff now knew expressed polite doubt. “Ice Minds, they above Folk.”

“How’s that work?” Cliff pressed.

“That changes now. Since you came. We Sil work for Ice Minds too, now.” Quert brandished his small communicator, a pyramidal solid that could deform into a flat screen. Cliff had yet to figure out how that worked.

Irma said, “What do you do for them?”

“Brought you to them.”

“That’s it?” Irma asked. “Why us?”

“You disturb. Folk call you ‘Late Invader’ because you new. Ice Minds want to see you. Know you. So we bring.”

“We’re just a small ship, passing by,” Irma said.

“Something about Glory, I hear from Ice Minds. They want to know what you are, going to Glory.” Quert gave a head-shrug. “Not sure what Glory be.”

“It’s a star right ahead of you,” Cliff said. “We can’t see it—your star’s too bright.”

“Star ahead?” Quert’s face went blank, which meant the alien was thinking, giving nothing away.

Irma said, “It’s a star a lot like yours, still so far away that it’s only a dot. Its planet has a biosphere with oxygen and nitrogen and the usual. We want to go there, live there.”

Quert kept the blank look, but the eyes jittered up, down, around. The alien was undergoing an entire conceptual shift.

Suddenly Cliff saw it. The Sil had been ushered into the view from the Bowl hull—the deep dark abyss of glinting stars—only lately. The Ice Minds had beckoned to them somehow, sent signals, and propelled forward the events Cliff’s team had then intersected. So Quert and the others had never seen the stars at all, until they brought Cliff’s team through the underground labyrinth and to where they could see the sliding panorama of the galaxy in full.

The Sil had been like people trapped in a cave, never shown the sky. Their world, the world of all who lived on the Bowl, was an endless warm paradise in steady daylight. Their sun and jet obliterated perspective. The ordinary denizens never saw the stars, or the great plane of the galaxy hanging in a black firmament, dark and strange and sprinkled with twinkling jewel stars.

That revelation had come to the Sil when they were restless and angry. The Folk had suppressed them for ageless times, but now they knew where they were, who they were. All that had exploded into their world only lately. Cliff’s team had confirmed new truths, and so had made many tragedies come to pass—the battle with the skyfish, the bombing and firestorms of the Sil cities, so much else.

Cliff started to say some of this to Quert. The alien still had the stiff fixed face, giving nothing away while it thought. But then movements caught their attention.

The point Sil stopped, gestured, and muttered something in a low whisper. Head and arm gestures: something ahead, spread out.

They all followed their standard tactic, moving off to both sides and seeking cover, then moving carefully forward. The humans had learned this in training, fire-and-maneuver. Each member of the Sil and human team moved only when others could cover with fire from lasers, arm-arrows.

Ahead, a faint repeating clatter came through the trees and vines.

Beyond, the land cleared. Cautiously they worked their way to a vantage point on a small hill. A strip of neatly arranged, emerald green agricultural fields stretched into the distance to their left and right. Simple farm machinery worked in them, making whack-whack-whack noises. Directly ahead, the forest resumed several kilometers away. The crop was yellow and purple shoots that seemed to spray out like arrows from a thick brown trunk. These were three or four meters tall, Cliff judged, like trees with spokes flying out. The spokes were fat and had wide, fanlike flowers along their lengths. The air carried a fine mist of—what? Pollen?

“We can cross that at a run,” Aybe said.

Quert pointed to figures working in the field. They had trucks and a robot harvester that worked away, chopping off the shoots and dropping them into the trucks. The machinery worked with a regular whump whump whump. A breeze brought a heady sweet scent like orange blossoms with a cutting undertang. Everything moved with a slow rhythm, and the scene reminded Cliff of a monotonous summer he had spent on a farm in California’s Central Valley. He close-upped them and said, “They’re the same kind we left behind, those humanoids mesmerized by that ancient rock life. Kahalla.”

“These special Kahalla evolve for farm work,” Quert said. “They stay here always on farm. Birthing and dying, all done here.”

Irma asked, “They live in a village all their lives?”

“Content. In balance.” Quert conferred with the other Sil in quick, scattershot bursts of unintelligible talk. They all looked wary to Cliff, as nearly as he could judge. The Sil had complex suites of expressions that darted across their faces, mostly coded in their eye-moves and the light-browed ridgelines above. Quert turned to the humans. “This Aybe right. Run fast across. See there?”

Nearly directly across from them was a complex of low buildings the tan color of dried mud. “Their hatchery. Few Kahalla there most times. We cross, the Kahalla not see.”

Cliff tried to take this in. A special form of Kahalla just for the grunt labor of farming? Had the Folk specially bred for that? And … hatchery?

They moved through the cover of a long winding grove of zigzag trees. He and Irma thought the zigzag strategy was to get more sunlight under a constant sun, which meant more exposed foliage turned to the direction of the star, a reddish dot fixed firmly in the sky. The jet’s filmy light they ignored. Bristly branches and coiling vines sprawled along the thick zigzag trunks to harvest the constant sunlight. That made them useful cover, because the branches were thin at the top and thicker at the tree base. Easy to slip among and elude any watching eyes.

Warily they stopped within easy view of the tannin brick buildings. As a Californian, Cliff seldom saw ceramic slabs stacked to great heights; his instinct said they were earthquake vulnerable. But there were no quakes here at all. He saw through binocs furry figures moving with lumbering, swaying bodies on two legs, moving slowly among the brick walls. He pointed to them.

“Friends not,” Quert said with narrowed eyes and edgy eye-clicks.

“These Kahalla will turn us over to the Folk?” Terry asked.

Quert said, “Must,” and gave a downturned eye-move.

The other Sil shuffled and eye-clicked in what seemed agreement, their feet shuffling, impatient. They seemed to feel there was no time to waste in pondering this problem. No point in trying to go around the long farming strip that faded away into the light tan color of the distance, which came from simple dust haze. No telling how long this farm was. An odd way to cultivate; why not in squared-off plots so you minimized the travel distance?