Aggression and exchange were, or seemed to be, entirely separate. How different from Earth. The old Earth, anyway, where it had been legitimate to say, “Property is theft.”

Derek walked into camp, carrying our two packs.

“What happened?” Nia asked. “How did Inahooli die?”

He set the packs down and told her. It was a fine report, brief and vivid with a lot of gesturing. “My luck was bad yesterday,” he said at the end. “But hers was a lot worse. If things had gone a little more slowly, if she’d had a bit more time, Inahooli would have killed all three of us. Maybe the Trickster had decided that I had suffered enough.”

“Who is the Trickster?” Nia asked. “And why does he want to make Derek suffer?”

“Remember the bracelet he found?” I said.

“Yes.”

“It belonged to a spirit called the Trickster. Inahooli told Derek the Trickster was certain to be angry and give him a lot of grief.”

“Ah!” said Nia.

“I know that spirit,” said Derek. “Among my people he is called Coyote.”

’I’m not entirely sure of that, Derek. Coyote is a sneak, but he isn’t a bad person. I got the impression from Inahooli that the Trickster is bad. Selfish and malevolent. He’s like Loki.”

“Once again, I don’t know what you are talking about,” Nia said.

“Don’t worry about it. Lixia has a habit of wandering away from whatever people are talking about. She thinks too much, and her thinking goes off in every possible direction.”

I gave him the finger.

“Is that a gesture your people use?” asked Nia.

“Yes. It is a gesture of disrespect.”

“Ah! Let me see it again.”

I repeated the gesture. Nia imitated me. “I thought you people had no gestures. It is good to know you are not utterly strange.” She looked at Derek. “Is your story over?”

He made the gesture of affirmation.

“Hu! I wish this had not happened. It has.” She made the gesture that meant “so be it.” “We’ll go on tomorrow. I want to get away from here, before her ghost manages to pull free of her body.”

“All right,” said Derek.

The oracle came back with berries. We ate dinner. Derek called the ship.

“What happened?” asked Eddie. “Where in hell have you been?”

“We encountered some of the local fauna. Four meters tall with claws. Our animals bolted, and we lost them. Our radios were on the animals.” Derek looked up. I was watching him. So were Nia and the oracle. “Have you managed to learn the native language, Eddie?”

“No. Why?”

“I have two natives here, and I think they’re wondering what I’m saying.”

“You let them know about the radios?”

“Yes.”

“We were going to try to keep the natives ignorant of our technology,” Eddie said. He spoke slowly and clearly, his voice even. “It was part of our policy of noninterference.”

“Eddie, it wasn’t possible. We couldn’t keep creeping off into the darkness. ‘Pardon me, I’m going to take this box and go off and pee. I’ll be back in half an hour. Oh, by the way, I talk to myself while urinating, so if you hear voices in the night, don’t worry.’ ”

Eddie said, “This is getting to be more and more of a mess.” He paused. “Do you have anything to report?”

“Yes,” said Derek. “A native attacked us. She’s dead.”

“What?”

Derek told the story. After he finished Eddie said, “I want to see what your recorders got. Transmit information.”

Derek pulled off his medallion and put it into the radio. He looked at me. “I keep forgetting about the medallions.”

“Don’t worry, Derek. You can talk your way out of almost anything.” I took off my medallion and tossed it to him. “Send that up, too.”

A couple of minutes later Eddie came back on. “We’ll get back to you after we’ve looked at your information. I warn you, I’m not happy about this. I am going to ask Lysenko if there is any place near you where he can land.”

Lysenko was the senior rocket plane pilot: a man with an unfortunate name. Biologists laughed at him.

“Are you going to pull us out?” asked Derek.

“I want that option. Ask Nia and the oracle if they know of any place. A dry lakebed is best. A lake with water might be possible, if it’s deep enough.”

“Okay.”

“And try to stay out of trouble for a while.”

Derek turned the radio off. He got up and stretched. I could see the tension in his body. “One trouble with Eddie—he was born to sit at a desk. He can organize, supervise, analyze, and criticize, but he doesn’t know what it’s like in the field.”

“What did your box say?” Nia asked. “Why is Derek angry?”

I stood up. “You explain, Derek. I’m tired of talking about Inahooli.” I walked to the edge of the plain. Before me was the plain, dark and featureless. Above me the sky was full of stars. I listened to night noises: rustles in the branches and a low buzzing in the pseudo-grass. I thought about my career. There was a chance it was ruined. Who would trust me in the field after this? Especially if Eddie and the others on the soc. sci. committee decided I had been really out of line. They could attach a reprimand to my record or insist that I undergo group criticism.

Now that was an unpleasant idea. I had seen a group in action once. I’d made friends with a man on the long trip out of the solar system, before we went to sleep. A master chef from China. He had the moody personality that one associates with artists, and an extraordinary face: pale and smooth, like a mask carved out of white jade. His hair was black, long and thick and lustrous. When he cooked, it was tucked up in a cap. But when he sat and talked with friends, it fell around his face and touched his shoulders. I was maybe a little in love with him. I was certainly in love with his Mu Shu Iguana.

He woke at the edge of this system and realized—finally—what he had done. Left his family, his home, his society, his planet. When he returned, everything would be changed.

He got depressed—which was hardly surprising. Most of us got depressed at one point or another. But De was a real expert at depression. He brooded the same way as he cooked: with skill and passion.

He started drinking, which led to trouble on the job.

Most of his colleagues were Chinese, and they insisted on group criticism. I went to lend moral support—to De, not to his critics. We met in a small room with celadon walls. De sat in front, facing twenty people. Most were kitchen workers, a few were people he knew outside work, and a few were comparative strangers. The meeting was open to everyone, and everyone could speak. The voice of the masses had to be heard.

One by one the kitchen workers spoke. De had missed a lot of work, forcing others to cover for him. He had refused advice and constructive criticism. His attitude was negative. He had argued with decisions made democratically by the kitchen workers. He had lied about his drinking.

Someone from his dormitory got up. De had come in at all hours and made a lot of noise, waking other people. Once he had thrown up in the hall, right outside the speaker’s cabin.

Another person—a blonde with a Scandinavian accent—got up and spoke about the evils of drink. A couple of other people got up and argued with her. The problem wasn’t alcohol, it was the lack of a decent recreational program. It was the Western cult of individuality. It was the miserable performance of the psychology team.

De sat and listened. His face was paler than usual. There were dark patches under his eyes. He looked exhausted and unhappy. At last, when everyone was done, he stood up. He apologized to his colleagues, to the people on the ship, and to the entire human race. He promised to mend his ways, to come to work promptly, and to go into therapy. Finally, he thanked everyone in the room for their concern and good advice. As far as I could tell, he was being sincere. My family had been in the West too long. I would never really understand the Chinese.