Rising into a swarm of wheeling shapes.

Figures which swept close to avoid contact at the last second, the wind of their passing merging with the rustle of shimmering wings. Man-sized, slim, gracefully contoured, beautifully marked.

As Sheiner lifted his gun, Belkner said sharply, "No! You can't fire! You can't hurt them! They're… they're…"

Images born in wistful dreams when land bound men had yearned for the ability to fly. Concepts of perfection, of life untrammeled with mud and cold and baking heat. The ideal of freedom personified in wings, the empty expanses of the air, the liberty to go over mountains and across seas.

"Please," said Belkner. "They are too lovely to destroy."

Urich shrugged, not lowering the weapon, waiting for Dumarest to give the word. But there was no need to blast the wheeling shapes from the sky, no threat to be met with a hail of hammering missiles. Dumarest leaned back, relaxed, watching. A man at ease though one hand remained on the gun at his side; hard experience had taught him that to be careless was to invite destruction.

"Birds," whispered Belkner. "But so large!"

"Not birds." Nyne spoke through his twisted mouth. "No beaks, see? And their eyes-" He drew in his breath. "Angels," he said. "They're angels."

Things he had never seen. Creatures of legend, elements of myth, belonging only to tales of ancient glories. Winged beings with godlike attributes and beautiful beyond comprehension. Tales born, perhaps, of vaguely remembered races now dead and gone, but here a fragment could have remained.

"Nests," mused Urich Sheiner. "Those crystal palaces must be their nests. Insects, Earl? It would fit the pattern."

Perhaps giant moths or radiant butterflies, though the things he saw didn't fit their likeness. Dumarest narrowed his eyes, searching for detail, for clues. No spindle-legs, no faceted eyes, no fuzz, claws, sharply defined thorax or abdomen. Instead he saw what could have been naked adolescents, devoid of strong sexual variation, their faces smooth, bland with thin, delicate nostrils, high-arched brows, elongated eyes which held amber pupils slitted like those of a feline. The mouths were soft, full-lipped, the chins round. The bodies were blotched with variegated color, the hair rising in a crest on the peaked skulls looked like close-set bristles.

The wings were magnificent.

Shimmering expanses which reflected the light in metallic hues of kaleidoscopic glory.

Vanes which spread to catch the air and lift the bodies to send them wheeling and darting in a pattern so complex as to baffle the eye. Couples met, to clasp each other in slender arms, to fall, to break and rise again.

The raft tilted as one landed on the rail. Tilted still more as others joined the first. A row of enigmatic faces stared into the body of the vehicle, prehensile toes gripping as shimmering wings maintained their balance. Too much weight wrongly distributed and Dumarest swore as he fought the controls.

"Clear them! Now!"

Death came to join the beauty, rising on gusts of turbulent air, catching the frail craft and accentuating the tilt, adding spin so that their lives hung on a razor's edge. Only Dumarest's skill kept them from overturning, from spinning like a broken leaf to smash into the jagged stone below.

"Clear them!" he shouted again. "Blast them loose!"

"No!" Nyne lunged forward as Urich lifted his gun. The tilt of the raft caused him to lose his balance and, to save it, he snatched at the barrel as Urich opened fire. The stream of bullets intended to rip the air high above the enigmatic faces tore into his own, smashing bone, teeth, skull and jaw. Blood sprayed in a fountain mixed with the greyish pulp of brain.

The impact sent him falling, headless, to the edge of the raft; to topple over the rim and to fall, spinning to the ground below.

He was not alone.

Three other shapes, wings trailing shimmering glory, fell after him, the broken bodies they supported blotched now with unnatural stains. The raft leveled as the rest rose in a thunder of wings, one twisting, trying to climb, jerking in midair before falling back into the body of the raft.

"God!" Belkner looked sick. "Dear God-did you have to do that?"

"Hold on!" The danger wasn't yet over and Dumarest had no time to answer stupid questions. Air whined as he sent the raft plunging toward the ground, gaining speed to level and soar up and away from the hills, the shimmering castles, the winged shapes now milling in furious activity behind. "Urich?"

"None close." Sheiner hefted his gun. "You think they'll attack?"

"Want to risk your neck on it?"

"No." The action made small metallic noises as Urich checked his weapon. "Angels," he said. "Some angels."

"You didn't have to open fire," said Belkner. He was bitter. "There were other ways."

Dumarest said, "We were in danger. There was no time to be gentle."

"But to kill them? Beautiful things like that?"

Urich said patiently, "You saw what happened. I was aiming high to frighten them off with a burst when that fool Nyne grabbed the gun. Well, he paid for his mistake and it's no use crying over the rest. It happened and we have to live with it." He looked down at the dead creature sprawled in the body of the raft and said, in a changed tone, "Earl, come and look at this."

Dumarest checked the controls, locked them, came to stand at his side.

"There!" Sheiner pointed. "See?"

"See what?" Belkner frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"The blood," said Dumarest. "Look at the blood."

That which marred the body of the creature, oozing from neat holes and jagged exit-points. Dulling the natural hues and spattering the broken wings. Blood which ran over the body of the raft to mingle with that left by Nyne. Red blood-just like the man's.

Chapter Eleven

"They're human." Ava Vasudiva straightened and looked down at the dissected body of the creature lying on the table before her. Blood stained her gloved hands, the apron she wore, murky smears touching her hair, her cheek. "At least they were once-I don't know what you could call them now."

Angels-the name had caught on and, Ysanne thought, it was fitting. Angels belonged in Heaven, or so Andre had told her, and the captain could be right. It was ironic that the name they had chosen to give this world fitted its inhabitants so well.

Dumarest said, "Human? Are you sure?"

Ysanne caught the note of strain in his voice, the puzzlement. Had those of his home world changed so much during his absence? How long had he been gone? Riding Low, traveling High, years compressed into fragments of time. Decades, certainly, centuries even-but would the familiar have changed so much in so relatively short a time?

Ava had not caught the tone or chose to ignore it if she had. Shrugging, she said, "The similarities are too many for coincidence. The skeletal structure is the same even though the bones are hollow. The lungs are larger as is the heart; to be expected in a creature needing a high metabolic rate. The inner organs follow the usual pattern." The knife in her hand moved with small glints from the overhead light as she illustrated her points. The hands, feet and joints are familiar. "Added muscle on shoulders and back support the wings which are anchored to an extended breastbone. The eyes have been modified and-"

"Modified?"

"Yes." Ava looked at Dumarest. "I would say these creatures are the result of genetic engineering. They are mammalian-this is a female-and follow the regular human pattern. The brain is highly developed in the frontal lobes and thalmus which means they must be a highly emotive race. The hair, at a guess, is some form of sensory antenna. Perhaps it gives a rudimentary telepathic ability or an emotional affinity. I would think the latter; telepaths would have no need of vocal chords. A means to trigger a responsive emotion," she explained. "Love stimulates love, desire the same, fear, hate-" She broke off and stared at the ruined body of the broken angel. "Hate," she mused. "Perhaps that is something they have never known."