Without-Name was right. Even without magnification Manekato could see great expanses where nothing lived: that ugly red scar of a continent, the naked oceans, those crude caps of ice. It was a world of waste, of unawakened resources.

Wild.

“Wild, yes,” growled Without-Name. “Consider the comparison with our Earth. For two million years we have cherished every atom. We have carefully sustained the diversity of species. We have even sacrificed ourselves — billions of years of lost lives — refusing longevity in order to maintain the balance of the world.”

Mane murmured, “An ecology consisting of a single species would not be sustainable.”

Without-Name laughed. “You quote childish slogans. Think, Manekato! Our species has been shaped, even as we have shaped our world. But nothing about that ugly Moon has been managed. We will have no place. We will have to fight to achieve our purposes, perhaps even to survive.”

Mane was troubled by that perception, though she acknowledged it might contain a grain of truth.

“But,” Babo said, an edge in his voice, “the Red Moon cannot be primordial — it must contain mind — for it would not be here otherwise.”

Yes, Mane thought. Yes. And for that she was afraid of this monstrous Moon. It was a deep fear, of a type she had never suffered before, a fear suffused by a sense of powerlessness. She had to search deep into the recesses of her memory, poring through the most ancient roots of the million-year-old language with which all children were born, to find an ancient, obsolete word that suited what she felt: Superstition.

Babo rattled more statistics of the Moon’s composition, describing a ball of silicate rock and a small iron core. But as his courage grew his thinking seemed to clear. “Earth,” he said. “That wandering Moon is made of the same material as Earth’s outer layers. How can that be?”

The three of them began to talk rapidly, their minds developing and sharing hypotheses.

“Given the identity of substances this body cannot have formed elsewhere in the Solar System.”

“Could it have budded off an Earth while the planet was accreting from the primordial cloud of dust and ice?”

“No, for then its proportions should resemble Earth’s global composition, and this body shows a deficiency of iron and other heavy elements. It is more like a piece of the Earth’s mantle, its outer layers, ripped up and wadded together and thrown into the sky.”

“Then an Earth must have formed, differentiated so the iron-rich rocks sank to the core, before the material to assemble this Moon was detached from the outer layers. But how would it happen?”

“A vast volcanic event? But surely that would not be sufficiently violent—”

“A collision. A rogue planetesimal, a giant, or even a planet. Such a collision might cause a splash of ejecta which could accrete into this Moon…”

Within seconds, then, they had unravelled the mystery of the Moon’s origin, a deduction that had taken humans two centuries of geological science.

All around the Earth, other witnesses must be coming to a similar conclusion, and Manekato imagined a growing consensus of understanding whispering in Babo’s ear.

“But,” Manekato said, “if this Red Moon was born from Earth, it was not our Earth.”

“No,” Babo said sombrely. “For our Earth never suffered a catastrophic collision of that magnitude. We would see the results today, for example in the composition of the planet’s core. And if our world had enjoyed the company of such a Moon everything would have been different in its evolution: much of the primordial atmosphere would have been stripped off in the collision, leaving thinner air less rich in carbon dioxide; there would have been many subtle effects on tides and the world’s spin…”

“On such a world,” Manekato said, “one would not need a Mapping to see the stars. And in such a sky a Moon like this would ride. But such is not our world.”

“Not our universe,” said Without-Name bluntly. “Tell me then, Babo: what do your Astrologers have to say of a power which can Map a Moon, not merely from planet to planet, but between universes?”

“They have little to say,” he said evenly. “That is why we must go there… There is something more.” He uttered a soft command to his Workers.

A new Mapping was made, showing them a vision from a large Farm that straddled the equator of the planet.

A giant blue circle, hovering above the ground, was sweeping over the Farm’s cultivated ground, upright and improbably tall. People stood and watched as it passed. Workers backed away before it. Children ran alongside it, laughing, levering themselves forward on their knuckles in their excitement.

And there were people falling out of the circle’s empty disc.

No, not people, Manekato saw: like people, naked hominids, some tall and hairless, some short and squat and covered in fine black hair. They flopped and gasped for breath like stranded fish, and their flimsy bodies were buffeted this way and that by the Wind.

“What does it mean, Babo?”

“One can predict the broad outline of events. But chaos is in the detail…” He waved his hand, banishing the image.

A gust of Wind howled across the bare, eroded plateau, powerful enough to make Manekato stagger.

Babo stepped forward. “It is time.”

Manekato and Without-Name took his hands and each other’s so the three of them were locked together in a ring.

At the last moment Manekato asked, “Must it be so?”

Babo shrugged regretfully. “The predictions are exact, Mane. The focusing effect of the shoreline’s shape here, the gradient of the ocean floor, the precise positioning of the new Moon in the sky: all of these have conspired to doom our Farm, and the Poka line with it.”

Without-Name tipped back her head and laughed, the spikes that covered her body bristling and twisting. “And for all our vaunted power we can do nothing about it. This is a moment that separates past from future. It is a little death. My friends, welcome the cleansing!”

Manekato uttered a soft command.

The three of them rose into the air, through a body’s height. The Mapping had begun.

Mane…

Surprised to hear her name called, Manekato looked down. One of the Workers, a battered old gadget from a long-forgotten crop, was peering up at her with a glinting lens. It was clinging to the ground with long stabilizing suckers, but the Wind battered at it, and its purple-black hide glistened with rain.

Memory stirred. There had been a Worker like this when she had clambered from her mother’s womb, chattering excitedly, full of energy and curiosity. In those first days and weeks that Worker had fed her, instructed her, kept her from harm, and comforted her when she was afraid. She had not seen the old gadget for years, and had thought little of it. Could this be the same Worker? Why should it seek her now, as it was about to be destroyed?

A wall of rain swept over the mountain-top. The three of them were immediately soaked, and Manekato laboured to breathe the harshly gusting air.

When the rain gust passed, the mountain-top had been swept bare; all the Workers were gone, surely destroyed. Manekato felt an odd, distracting pang — regret, perhaps?

But this was no time to dwell on the past; the nameless one was right about that.

The three of them ascended without effort.

She was still clothed in her body, her legs dangling, her hair soaked. But of course this body was a mere symmorph: differing from her original self in form, but representing the same idea. (And in fact, as she had been through hundreds of previous Mappings, that “original” body had itself been nothing but a symmorph, a copy of a copy reworked to suit temporary needs, though one tailored to remain as close to her primary biological form as possible.)

But such a morphology was no longer appropriate. With a soundless word, she discarded the symmorph, and accepted another form.