High above the forest, in a close-woven shelter of wickerwork and leaves, the rain beating softly outside, Judy rested on a sort of dais covered with soft woven fabric and took in, not with words entirely, what the beautiful alien with the silver eyes was trying to tell her.

"Madness comes upon us too, and I am deeply sorrowful to have intruded into your people's lives this way. There was a time--not now, but lost in our history--when our folk traveled, as yours do, between the stars. It may even be that all men are of one blood, back in the beginning of time, and that your people too are our little brothers, as with the furred people of the trees. Indeed it would seem so, since you and I came together under the madness in the winds and now you bear this child. It is not that I regret, entirely--'

A feather's-touch upon her hand, no more, but Judy felt she had never known anything as tender as the sad eyes of the alien. "Now, with no madness in my blood, I feel only deep grief for you, little one. No one of our own would be allowed to bear a child in loneliness, and yet you must return to your own people, we could not care for you. You could not even bear the cold of our dwelling-places in high summer, in winter you would surely die, my child."

All of Judy's being was one great cry of anguish, will I never see you again?

I can reach you so clearly only at these times, the answer flowed, although your mind is more open to me than before, the minds of your people are like half-shut doors at other times. It would be wisest for me to let you go now, for you never to look back to the time of mad ness, and yet--long silence, and a great sigh. I cannot, I cannot, how can I let you go from me and never know …

The strange alien reached out, touching the jewel which hung about her neck on a fine chain, and drew it forth. We use these--sometimes--for the training of our children. Mature, we do not need them. It was a love-gift to you; an act of madness, perhaps, perhaps unwise, my elders would certainly say so. Yet perhaps, if your mind is opened enough to master the jewel, perhaps I can reach you at times, and know that all is well with you and the child.

She looked at the jewel, which was blue, like a star-sapphire, with small inner flecks of fire, only a moment; then raised her eyes to look again with grief on the alien being. Taller than mortal, with great pale-grey eyes, almost silver, fair-skinned and delicate of feature, with long slender fingers and bare feet even in the bitter chill, and with long almost colorless hair floating like weightless silk about the shoulders; strange and bizarre and yet beautiful, with a beauty that struck at the woman like pain. With infinite tenderness and sadness, the alien reached for her and folded her very briefly against the delicate body, and she sensed that this was a rare thing, a strange thing, a concession to her despair and loneliness. Of course. A telepathic race would have little use for demonstrative displays.

And now you must go, my poor little one. I will take you to the edge of the forest, the Little Folk will guide you from there. (I fear your people, they are so violent and savage and your minds…your minds are closed…)

Judy stood looking up at the stranger, her own grief at parting blurring in the perception of the other's fear and anguish. "I understand," she whispered aloud, and the other's drawn face relaxed a little.

Shall I see you again?

There are so many chances, both for good and evil, child. Only time knows, I dare not promise you. With a gentle touch, he folded her in the fur--lined cloak in which, earlier, he had wrapped her. She nodded, trying to hold back her tears; only when he had disappeared into the forest did she break down and follow, weeping, the small furred alien who came to lead her down the strange paths.

"You are the logical suspect," Captain Leicester said harshly. "You have never made any secret of the fact that you don't want to leave this planet, and the sabotage of the computer means that you will get your way, and that we will never be able to leave here."

"No, Captain, you're quite wrong," Moray looked him in the face without flinching. "I have known all along that we would never leave this planet. It did occur to me, during the--what the hell shall we call it? During the mass freakout? Yes; it occurred to me during the mass freakout that maybe it would be a good thing if the computer was nonfunctional, it would force you to stop pretending we could fix the ship--"

"I was not pretending," said the Captain icily.

Moray shrugged. "Words don't matter that much. Okay, force you to stop kidding yourself about it, and get down to the serious business of survival. But I didn't do it. To be honest, I might have if it had ever occurred to me, but I don't know one end of a computer from the other--I wouldn't know how to go about putting it out of action. I suppose I could have blown it up--I know I heard the explosion--but as it happens, when I heard the explosion I was lying in the garden having--" suddenly he laughed, embarrassed, "having the time of my life talking to a cabbage sprout, or something like that."

Leicester frowned at him. He said, "Nobody blew the computer up, or even put it out of action. The programs have simply been erased. Any literate person could do that."

"Any literate person familiar with a starship, maybe," Moray said. "Captain, I don't know how to convince you, but I'm an ecologist, not a technician. I can't even make up a computer program. But if it's not out of commission, what's all the fuss about? Can't you re-program it, or whatever the word is? Are the tapes, or whatever they are, so irreplaceable?"

Leicester was abruptly convinced. Moray didn't know. He said dryly, "For your information, the computer contained about half of the sum total of human knowledge about physics and astronomy. Even if my crew contained four dozen Fellows of the Royal College of Astronomy of Edinburgh, it would take them thirty years to re-program just the navigational data. That's not even counting the medical programs--we haven't checked those yet--or any of the material from the ship's Library. All things considered, the sabotage of the computer is a worse piece of human vandalism than the burning of the Library at Alexandria."

"Well, I can only repeat that I didn't do it and I don't know who did,"

Moray said. "Look for someone on your crew with the technical know-how." He gave a dry, unamused laugh. "And someone who could keep their head long enough. Have the Medics figured out what hit us?"

Leicester shrugged. "Me best guess I've heard so far is an airborne dust containing some violent hallucinogen. Still unidentified, and probably will be until things settle down at the hospital."

Moray shook his head. He knew the Captain believed him now, and to tell the truth he was not entirely happy about the destruction of the computer. As long as Leicester's whole efforts were taken up in attempting to manage the ship repairs he was unlikely to interfere with what Moray was doing to assure the Colony's survival. Now, a Captain without a ship, he was likely to get seriously in the way of their assault on a strange world. For the first time Moray understood the old joke about the Space fleet:

"You can't retire a starship Captain. You have to shoot him."

The thought stirred dangerous fears in him. Moray was not a violent man, but during the thirty-six hours of the strange wind, he had discovered painful and unsuspected depths in himself. Maybe someone else will think of that, next time--what makes me so sure there will be a next time? Or maybe I will, can I ever be sure now?