Two engines were pushing the ship, each possessed by rhythms and harmonics familiar to ears that missed very little. She recognized the ship by its sounds and saw it plainly in her mind, and from the changing pitch and volume she could envision its future. The fletch would come close but not very close and then swiftly move away. On a normal day, she would remain where she was and how she was, changing nothing needing. But then the steadier engine gained an odd rattle, banging once and again, and the fire inside its belly suddenly jumped free.

The explosion was thunderous, persistent. The entire forest was frightened. Pretty shells retrieved their insects and hollows sucked up their monkeys, while various wings picked up their bodies and fled. She watched the wings rush away. She listened to the ship slowing, its surviving engine growing soft and careful. Moments like this were rare. Fletches liked to fly as if moments were precious and distance was cheap. Yet despite being crippled, the ship stubbornly maintained its original course, giving her the luscious chance to enjoy a good close look at something different.

Yet every action wears costs. Motion meant burning energy as well as a piece of the day. No matter the precautions, there also was the insidious risk of being seen by the wrong eyes, and she never wanted to be seen. And of course this could be a trap designed for outlaws, or as unlikely as it seemed, for her. But the worst risk was that nothing bad would happen, or worse, that this little adventure would end well. Sweet-tasting indulgences had their way of building tendencies, and she appreciated how tendencies became habit. Render the joy from one good experience and the mind was ready to accept that same risk again; survive ten thousand happy risks and the ten thousandth and first would look harmless, regardless of the looming dangers.

How many wise creatures stepped on the wrong branch before falling to their deaths?

Too many to count, she reminded herself.

The forest calmed itself, and she made ready. Traps could be waiting. Studying her surroundings, she sniffed deeply and listened to the fletch and to everything else, and then once more she looked at the world, using fresher eyes. Only then did she feel secure enough to slip out from the protective shadows, changing colors to match the green glare of the day, running lightly along the nodding limbs.

Animals noticed her passage. She wore camouflage and worked for silence, but there was no perfect way to be invisible. Indeed, she learned long ago not to try too hard to vanish. Startle a bird, and it would screech and fly away, drawing eyes in inconvenient directions. No, it was better to give birds little warnings that she was coming, convincing them that she was nothing. Monkeys were worse hazards, since they often shouted words that tree-walkers and reef-humans understood. That’s why she chose to look like a harmless creature or some peculiar gust of wind and leaf. Appearing suddenly in front of a large troop could bring a cacophony, which she never wanted. The entire forest had to accept her as mannerly and simple, and most of all, harmless. Chasing the same logic, she made herself appear smaller than she was while making comforting noises and calls of peace. But perhaps her finest trick was leaking odors that any nose would find reassuring. She could dance past jazzings and chokers and all of the nervous monkeys in the world, and every beast caught a whiff of something that was pleasant, and every mind smiled in its fashion. And only when no animal noticed—as she filled the world with happy noise and happy stink—would she risk nabbing a body or two for a meal.

But today she ate nothing. The crippled ship continued pushing ahead, and she ran parallel to its course and then glided even nearer, finding a fine perch where she could hesitate, watching her surroundings once more. Every tree wore a name given by her, and she knew the major branches and most of the little ones. Nothing was out of place. Yet she turned nonetheless, turned and ran away from the rumbling engine, testing every hunter’s patience.

Nobody followed; nothing cared.

And she attacked a crooked trunk, climbing higher, making herself bigger and far stronger as she scampered through the shadows above the midday canopy. The forest lived inside the world and inside her mind. Better than its human pilot, she knew where a fletch would fly and the tangles it should avoid while heading out of the canopy. She did a fine job guessing which limb would supply her with concealment as well as an excellent vantage point. She placed herself ahead of the ship, and nobody saw her when she hid where she had never stood before. With every eye, she watched the Happenstance approaching, growing loud and huge, and then it steadily slid past again. Human bodies stood and sat behind the clear rubber windows. Human faces stared at the ship’s controls and at one another, and they talked to one another and to themselves, and then finally she saw the little faces of children looking out at the dense forest.

One boy glanced at her with intensity.

She did nothing and his eyes saw nothing, suddenly jumping to other empty patches of green.

Only at the end did she notice the second boy. Except this was no boy, but instead a creature wearing the strangest hair and pale wrong eyes, and she realized too late that he was deeply strange in his features, in his build, born as something peculiar and probably sick and maybe destined to die soon.

The Happenstance was gone when she realized that in some fashion the strange boy was familiar.

That mad idea took hold and squeezed.

The boy himself wasn’t familiar, no. She had no memory of seeing him on any other day. But there was something about that odd face and his bearing that was utterly recognizable, and long after the fletch had vanished into the sun’s glare, she sat wondering what to think—to think about everything that had happened and everything that had not.

“My name is Quest,” she said to herself.

Then to the world, she asked, “What is yours?”

Valves turned and whistling came from overhead, measured doses of hydrogen released from the twin bladders. The ship responded by falling, slowly and then faster. Ailerons on the wings swung while the surviving engine turned on its mountings, and they began a slow stately descent with the cylinder’s wall sliding past on the right. Leaves were plastered on top of leaves as the brilliant white light came from below, growing steadily brighter. There was nothing else to see. Eyes squinted and watered. Everyone but Diamond soon turned away from the sunlight. “There should be goggles,” Nissim said, and as if that was a signal, the pilot reappeared.

“This will be a short day,” he predicted. His face was covered with a sheet of black glass, and he carried a wooden box full of battered old goggles, none small enough for children. But everybody put them on, and the men tightened the cracked rubber straps until every face ached. Then the pilot said, “We’re at midday, judging by the signs. But if the glare’s too much, pull the blinds from the ceiling.”

“How much longer?” Nissim asked.

“To the station? Oh, I’ll say three hundred recitations, but you might expect four.” The pilot kneeled beside Diamond and lifted his face shield, one boy winking at the other. “We’ll get you to your father. But without engine power, we don’t want to bleed too much hydrogen, and even free of the forest, we’ll have to limp our way to the hard country.”

The mask came down again. Diamond saw his own dark reflection on the shield.

When the pilot left, Diamond asked, “What is a recitation?”

With a shared voice, Elata and Seldom spoke the same words. Humanity and the beauty of the world was praised, and good citizens served the creation of the gods, and they were promising to be the best citizens they could be today, and should they live until tomorrow, they would again make this solemn pledge.