She looked over her shoulder. She saw that wall of wind, streaked with dirt and ripped-up vegetation. But now she could see how it curved inwards, around her confining her here, not excluding her. And when she looked up it stretched into the sky, making a twisting, slowly writhing tunnel.

She was inside the twister.

“Ha!” she said, and she punched the air. “Fooled “em, by God.”

Nemoto was frowning. There was an edge about her, a tension that seemed wound tight. “It was not like that. You did not ‘fool’ anybody. The Daemons watched your approach. They watched as you plastered clay on your face and butchered your meat—”

“How did they watch me?”

Nemoto waved at the air. “They can see what they like, go wherever they want to, at a gesture. They call it Mapping.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nemoto leaned down, thrusting her face at Emma, anger sparking. “Your efforts to deceive them were comical. Embarrassing. They could not have succeeded. It was me, Emma Stoney. I was the one who practised deceit in the end; I convinced them to admit you. I tried to spin your absurd stunt into an act of true cognition. I told them that deceit is a sign of a certain level of intelligence. But I said you were aware of the shallowness of your deceit. You intended to demonstrate an ability to bluff and counter-bluff, thus showing multiple levels of cognition which—”

Emma raised a hand. “I think I get it.” Holding Nemoto’s hand, she pulled herself to her feet. “I wish I could say I was so smart. Intentionally, anyhow. Umm, I guess it’s appropriate to thank you.”

She heard heavy footsteps. She turned.

One of the gorilla-things was coming towards her. It — no, she, she had breasts — she walked using her knuckles. But she moved fast, more than a walk: it was a knuckle-sprint, a knuckle-gallop, startlingly fast for such a huge animal.

The creature must have been eight feet tall. The ground seemed to shake.

Emma felt Nemoto’s hand slide into hers. “Show no fear. Her name is Manekato, or Mane. She will not harm you.”

The Daemon stood before Emma. She straightened up, her massive black-haired bulk towering, and her hands descended on Emma’s shoulders, powerful, heavy, human like. Emma felt overwhelmed by weight, solidity, the powerful rank stench of chest-hair. She raised her hands and pressed against that black chest, pushing with all her strength against the surging muscle. Effortlessly, it seemed, the Daemon pressed closer, bringing her shining black face close to Emma’s. The mouth opened, and Emma glimpsed a pink cavern and tongue, two huge spike-like upper canines, and smelled a breath sweet as milk.

Two ears swivelled towards Emma, like little radar dishes.

Then the Daemon backed off, dropping to rest her weight on her knuckles once more. She growled and hooted.

Nemoto was smiling thinly. “That was English. You will get used to her pronunciation. Mane asks, What is it you want?”

“Tell her I want—”

“Tell her yourself, Emma Stoney.”

Emma faced Manekato, gazed into deep brown gorilla eyes. “I’ve come here looking for answers.” She waved a hand. “Don’t you see the damage you cause?”

Mane frowned, a distinctly puzzled expression, and she peered at Nemoto, as if seeking clarification there. Just as with the Hams, Emma had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t even asking the right questions.

Again Nemoto had to translate for Emma. “You think we made this. The engine that moved the world. Child, the Old Ones are far above us — so far they are as distant from me as from you. Do you not understand that?”

Emma shuddered. But she said belligerently, “I just want to know what is going on.”

This time, Emma made out Mane’s guttural words for herself. “We hoped you could tell us.”

That first night, Emma stayed in the shelter the Daemons had given Nemoto despite Nemoto’s obvious reluctance to share. A second bed was “grown” inside the little shelter’s main room for Emma, fully equipped with mattress, pillow and sheets; the gorilla-thing called Mane apologized to Emma for the crowding, but promised a place of her own by the next night.

Unlike the rounded, quasi-organic feel of the other structures on the disc floor, Nemoto’s residence was a boxy design with rectangular doors and windows, giving it a very human feel. But, like the other structures, it seemed to have grown from the smooth, oddly warm, bright yellow substrate. It was as if the whole place was a seamless chunk of pepper-yellow plastic that had popped out of some vast mould.

But the Daemons had provided for Nemoto well. She had a bed with a soft mattress and sheets of some smooth fabric. She was given fruit and meat to eat; she even had a box the size of a microwave oven, with pretty much the same function. There were spigots for hot and cold water, a bathroom with a toilet that flushed.

Holiday Inn it wasn’t, but it was close enough, Emma thought, in the circumstances. Nemoto said the flush toilet, for instance, had taken a couple of prototypes to get right.

None of this had anything to do with the way the Daemons lived their lives. They seemed to have no desire for privacy.when defecating or urinating, for instance; they just let go wherever they happened to be, making sure they didn’t splash the food. The magic floor absorbed the waste, no doubt recycling it for some useful purpose, and would even dispel odours. The Daemons, though, were understanding, or at least tolerant, of Nemoto’s biological and cultural hang ups.

Anyhow it suited Emma fine.

There were sanitary towels. Emma fell on these and stole as many as she could carry away.

There was coffee (or a facsimile).

There was a shower.

She luxuriated in her first hot wash for months, using soap and shampoo that didn’t smell as if it had come oozing straight out of the bark of a tree. At first the water just ran black-red at her feet, as if every pore on her body was laden with crimson dirt. By the time she had washed out her hair two, three times, it began to feel like her hair again. She cleaned out the black grime from beneath her fingernails. She looked around for a razor, but could find none; so she used one of her stone blades, purloined from a Neandertal community many miles away, to work at her armpits.

Towelling herself dry, Emma stood by the window of Nemoto’s little chalet, peering out at the Daemons” encampment.

Feeling oddly like a primatologist in a hide, she watched little knots of the huge gorilla-like creatures knuckle-walking to and fro. H. superior or not, they all looked alike, for God’s sake. And little cartoon robots buzzed everywhere, rolling, hopping and flying. She had to remind herself that these really were creatures capable of flying between worlds, of putting on a light show in the sky to shame the aurora borealis, of growing a city in the jungle.

But as she watched, one of the “gorillas” flickered out of existence, reappearing a few minutes later on the other side of the compound.

At that moment Emma knew, deep in her gut, that there was indeed nothing primitive about these shambling, knuckle-walking, hairy slabs of muscle, despite her Homo sap prejudices.

And it made it still more terrifying that it was not the Daemons who were responsible for moving the Moon, but another order of creatures beyond even them. She felt that she was at the bottom of a hierarchy of power and knowledge, unimaginably tall.

She hit her first soft pillow in months. Emma spent twelve hours in deep, dreamless sleep.

When she hauled herself out of bed the next day, Nemoto made her brunch (French toast, by God). But Nemoto was largely silent, volunteering little of her experiences here.

Emma, in turn, resented this silence. After all Nemoto had spent a good deal of time with Malenfant — most of his last few months alive, in fact, when Emma had been about as far from him as she could be. But Emma wasn’t about to beg for scraps of information about her own damn husband.