That was his earnest hope.

But the further he went, in the dark now, with sometimes the slither and hiss of calibans attending him–the more he feared, not for his safety, but for what an ignorant born‑man might do out here at night. One could get by the calibans; but there were pits, and holes, and there were the Weirds like Green, who lurked and hid, who had habits calibans did not. Flitters troubled him, gliding from the trees. He brushed them aside and jogged where he could, out of breath now. “Jane!” he called. “Jane.”

No answer.

He was gasping and sweating by the time he reached the top of the last ridge, with the town and Camp in front of him all lit up in floods. He stood there leaning over, his hands on his knees, getting his breath, and as soon as the pain subsided he started moving again.

For a very little he would have given up his searching then, having no liking for going into the main Camp–for going to Gutierrez–Pardon, sir, has your daughter gotten home? I left her on the cliffs and when I got back she was gone…

He had never seen Gutierrez angry; he had no wish to face him or Flanahan; but he reckoned that he might have no choice.

And then, when he had only crossed the fringes of the town, running along the road under the floodlights–“Hey,” a maincamper shouted at him: “You–did you come up from the azi town?”

He skidded to a stop, recognized Masu in the dark, one of the guards. “Yes, sir.” A lie, and half a lie: he had cut across the edge of it and so come up from the town.

“Woman’s missing. Out of bio. Flanahan‑Gutierrez.–They’re supposed to be looking down in town. Are they? She went out this morning and she hasn’t gotten back. Are they searching out that way?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and the sweat he had run up turned cold. “They don’t know where she is?”

“Get the word down that way, will you? Go back and pass it.”

“I’ll get searchers up,” he said, breathless, spun about and ran, with what haste he could muster.

They would find out, he kept thinking in an agony of fear. The main Camp found everything out, whatever they tried to hide. They would know, and he and his brothers would be to blame. And what the main Camp might do then, he had no idea, because no human being had ever lost another. He only knew he had no wish to face her people on his own.

vi

The sun came up again, the second sun since Jane was gone; and Gutierrez sat down on the hillside, wiped his face and unstopped his canteen for a sip to ease his throat. They had it gridded off, searchers in all the sections between the Camp and the cliffs and the Camp and the river. His wife reached him, sank down and took her own canteen, and there was a terrible, bruised look to her eyes.

The military was out there, in force, by pairs; and azi who knew the territory searched–among them the young azi who had come to him and Kate to admit the truth. A frightened boy. Kate had threatened to shoot him. But that boy had been out all the night and roused all the young folk he could find…had gone out again, on no knowing what reserves. It was not just the boy. It was Jane. It was the world. It had given her to them. But Jane thought in Gehenna‑time; thought of the day, the hour. Had never seen a city. Had no interest in her studies–just the world, the moment, the things she wanted…now. Everything was now.

What good’s procedure? she would say. She wanted to understand what a shell was, what the creature did, not what was like it elsewhere. What good’s knowing all those things? It’s this world we have to live in. I was born here, wasn’t I? Cyteen sounds too full of rules for me.

The day went, and the night, and a new day dawned with a peculiar coldness to the light–an ebbing out of hope. His wife said nothing, slumped against him and he against her.

“Some run away,” he offered finally. “In the azi town–some of them go into the hills. Maybe Jane took it into her head–”

“No,” she said. Absolute and beyond argument. “Not Jane.”

“Then she’s gotten lost. It’s easy in the mounds. But she knows–the things to eat; the way to survive–I taught her; she knows.”

“She could have taken a fall,” his wife said. “Could have hurt herself–Might be too wet to start a fire.”

“All the same she could live,” Gutierrez said. “If she had two legs broken, she could still find enough within reach she could get moisture and food. That’s the best guess: that she’s broken something, that she’s tucked up waiting for us–She’s got good sense, our Jane. She was born here, isn’t that what she’d say?”

They did it to bolster their own courage, shed hopes on each other and kept going.

vii

Jane screamed, came awake in the dark and stifled the outcry in sudden terror–the smell of earth about her, the prospect of hands which might touch… But silence, no breathing nearby, no intimation of human presence.

She lay still a moment, listening, her eyes useless in this deep and dark place where they had brought her. She ached. And time was unimportant. The sun seemed an age ago, a long, long nightmare/dream of naked bodies and couplings in a dark so complete it was beyond the hope of sight. She was helpless here, robbed of every faculty and somewhere in that time, of wit as well.

She lay there gathering it again, lay there waking up to the fact that, having done what they had done, the Weirds were gone, and she was alone in this place. She imagined the beating of her heart, so loud it filled up the silence. It was terror, when she thought that she had long since passed the point of fear. She was discovering something more of horror–being lost and left. Isolation had never dawned on her in the maelstrom just past.

Think, her father would say; think of all the characteristics of the thing you deal with.

Tunnels, then, and tunnels might collapse: how strong the roof?

Tunnels had at least one access; tunnels might have more; tunnels meant air; and wind; and she felt a breeze on naked skin.

Tunnels were made by calibans, who burrowed deep; and going the wrong way might go down into the depths.

She drew a deep breath–moved suddenly, and as suddenly claws lit on her flesh and a sinewy shape whipped over her. She yelled, a shriek that rang into the earth and died, and flailed out at the touch–

It skittered away…an ariel; a silly ariel, like old Ruffles. That was all. It headed out the way Ruffles would head out if startled indoors…and it knew the way. It went toward the breeze.

She sucked in wind again, got to hands and knees and scrambled after–up and up a moist earth slope, blind, keeping low for fear of hitting her head if she attempted to stand. And a dim light grew ahead, a brighter and brighter light.

She broke out into the daylight blind and wiping at her eyes…saw movement then, and looked aside. She scrambled to her feet, seeing a human shape–seeing the azi‑born young man crouched there, the first who had touched her. Alone.

“Where are the rest of them?” she asked. “Hiding up there?” There was brush enough, in this bowl between the mounds, up on the ridges, all about.

And then a sweep of her eye toward the left–up and up toward a caliban shape that rested on the hill, four meters tall and more–brown and monstrous, huger than any caliban she had imagined. It regarded her with that lofty, onesided stare of a caliban, but the pupil was round, not slit. The feet clutched the curved surface and a fallen branch snapped beneath its forward leaning weight as the head turned toward her. She stared–fixed, disbelieving when it moved first one leg and then the other, serpentining forward.

Then the danger came home to her, and she yelled and scrambled backward, but brush came between her and it, and trees, as she climbed higher on the further slope.

No one stopped her. She looked back–at the caliban which threaded its way among the trees; again at the azi‑born, who sat there placid in the path of that monster. Very slowly the young man got to his feet and walked toward the huge brown caliban–stopped again, looking back at her, his hand on its shoulder.