I made the gesture that meant “go ahead and ask.”

“People say this boat moves on its own. I’d like to see that. Is it possible?”

I thought for a moment. It was a reasonable request. One must always help the young acquire knowledge. And I liked this kid. He was intelligent and charming. Odd that charm crossed species lines. Odd that his charm should have a sexual component. It did.

“Okay.” I stood up. “I’ll talk to the shaman person.”

Anasu lifted a hand. “I don’t want to interrupt a ceremony.”

“He might be done by now.”

I walked back to the stern. Agopian was still playing solitaire. “Can you run the boat?”

“Of course.”

“Take it out.”

“Why?”

“The boy. Anasu. He wants to see a boat in motion.”

Agopian frowned.

“It isn’t a lot to ask.”

Agopian stood and gathered up the cards. “Okay.”

The boy joined us, looking nervous. “Was the shaman person done?”

“I think so.”

Agopian settled himself in the pilot’s chair, flipped a switch, and spoke in Russian.

“What is he saying?” asked the boy.

“I don’t know. We have many languages, and I know only a few.”

“Then you aren’t all from the same village?”

“No.”

The radio spoke in Russian. Agopian started the engine. Next to me, the boy clenched his hands. Agopian said, “Get the mooring lines, Lixia.”

I did, scrambling through the underbrush. A voice spoke overhead. I didn’t think it was the child who had spoken before. I climbed back on the boat, and it moved away from shore. Eddie came out of the cabin.

“What’s going on?”

I told him.

He frowned.

“Think of it this way,” I said. “It may be his last chance.”

“Like Tatiana in the village?” Eddie grinned. “Okay.”

“Is the big man angry?” asked Anasu.

“No.” I looked at the shore. A couple of the children were visible now. One stood quietly on the bank, looking out at us. The other hung one-handed from a branch like a gibbon. His feet kicked. Or did I mean her feet?

“That is Gerat,” said Anasu.

A moment later Gerat lost his grip. He fell into the water and splashed around, shouting. The other child paid no attention.

“I told you,” said Anasu. “He is always noisy.”

We reached the middle of the river. Agopian brought the boat around so it pointed upstream toward the rapids, then throttled down. The sound of the engine went from a roar to a growl.

“Why does your boat make so much noise?” asked Anasu. “Is it hungry?”

“It won’t eat us, if that is what you are wondering.”

“Is it alive?”

Gerat climbed onto the bank. His fur was soaked and matted. He looked miserable, even at a distance.

“No,” I said. “It’s a tool.”

The boy ran three steps forward, jumped and caught the edge of the cabin roof, swinging himself up.

“Hey!” said Eddie.

Anasu stood, his legs wide.

“Get down!” Eddie shouted.

The boy waved.

The other children made whooping noises. I could see five.

“I will be a big man!” Anasu called. “I’ll be like my uncle. You little ones, listen! Get ready to back down!”

“You say it!” a voice called in reply.

The boat was drifting downriver very slowly. Anasu tried a dance step: a slide and hop.

“Big mouth!” cried one of the children. I thought it was Gerat.

Anasu spun around.

Agopian said, “Get him down, Lixia.”

“The shaman person is getting angry,” I said. “Get down.”

Anasu shouted again, then rolled forward in a somersault that took him off the roof. He straightened in midair and landed on his feet.

“Gymnastics,” said Agopian. “That’s what these kids need. With the proper training, they’d beat the Chinese.”

“They need to be left alone,” said Eddie.

Agopian turned the wheel. The boat turned in a circle, heading back to shore.

Anasu was breathing heavily. Not from exertion. From excitement and maybe fear. “Is the shaman person seriously angry?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about the big man? He did most of the shouting.”

“No.”

Anasu made the gesture of happiness.

The other children met the boat, calling to Anasu in their own language. He ignored them, standing with his shoulders back.

Interesting. The process of establishing dominance must begin early. That was true of humans in societies where hierarchies were important. In New Jersey, for example.

It was possible that the children already knew—before they went through the change—where they stood in relation to one another.

I climbed out of the boat and tied it up. Anasu followed, helping as best he could. When we were done, he made the gesture of gratitude. “Tell the shaman person, I am grateful to him. I hope he isn’t angry. It is never a good idea to get in quarrels with holy people.”

He turned and ran into the forest. The other children followed. I went back to the boat.

“He could have fallen off,” said Eddie. “What if he came down near the prop?”

“I think it’s called a screw,” said Agopian. “Though I wouldn’t swear to that.”

I went in the cabin. Eddie’s book lay on the floor. The fast-forward button shone red and on the screen was the three-lobed symbol used to mark the end of anything precious: literature, art, air, clean water, unpolluted soil. The symbol was painted on outside airlocks. It stood at the edge of the various ruined lands. It ended holodramas and shone over the exits in museums.

I turned the book off and tossed it on the couch, went to the galley and got a beer.

Tatiana came back.

“How did you like the village?” I asked.

“God is great.” She laughed. “That’s what I kept thinking. Allah akbar.”

“ ‘O brave new world, that has such people in it,’ ” said Eddie.

Agopian said, “Miranda in The Tempest.Has anyone ever told you that Shakespeare is better in Russian?”

Eddie made the gesture that meant “no.”

I said, “I’ve always heard that he was best in German.”

“That line never reminds me of Shakespeare,” Eddie said. “I know it from Aldous Huxley. His novel Brave New World.”

“You’ve read it?” I asked.

“I’ve taught it—in my survey course on the collapse of Western civilization.”

Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten?

We made sandwiches and ate them on the deck. Bugs danced above the surface of the river. The sky darkened.

Tatiana went to bed. The rest of us stayed on deck. I opened another beer.

“Be careful,” said Eddie. “That stuff can be dangerous.”

“I’m of Chinese descent, and the Chinese are famous for not having a drinking problem.”

Derek chose that moment to climb over the railing. “For example,” he said. “There is the famous Chinese poet Li Bo. The story is—he was out in a boat, drinking rice wine and enjoying the evening. He saw the reflection of the moon on the water and leaned over to embrace it. He fell in and drowned.”

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Up at the village.”

Eddie frowned. “We were told—”

“I wasn’t in the village. I was outside it, taking a walk, looking at the night sky, listening to the music.”

“Music?” I asked.

He made the gesture of affirmation. “One instrument sounded like a flute. Another was like a xylophone, and there was a third that made a noise like a foghorn.

“I wanted to go in. But the old men were prowling at the edges of the village. The music must have gotten to them. They didn’t go in, but they couldn’t seem to pull themselves away. They kept pacing, stopping, peering at the fire—there was a big one in the middle of the village—then pacing again. I couldn’t figure out a way to get past them. Damn! I hate to pass up any ceremony!”