“By shattering preconceptions. By allowing illogical, preposterous, even obviously wrong statements to parse in reasonable-sounding expressions. Like the paradox — ‘This sentence is a lie’ — which can’t be spoken grammatically in any formal Galactic tongue. By putting manifest contradictions on an equal footing with the most time-honored and widely held assumptions, we are tantalized, confused. Our thoughts stumble out of step.”

“This is good?”

“It’s how creativity works, especially in humans. For every good idea, ten thousand idiotic ones must first be posed, sifted, tried out, and discarded. A mind that’s afraid to toy with the ridiculous will never come up with the brilliantly original — some absurd concept that future generations will assume to have been ‘obvious’ all along.

“One result has been a profusion of new words — a vocabulary vastly greater than ancient languages. Words for new things, new ideas, new ways of comparing and reasoning.”

Dedinger muttered, “And new disasters. New misunderstandings.”

Sara nodded, conceding the point.

“It’s a dangerous process. Earth’s bloody past shows how imagination and belief turn into curses unless they’re accompanied by critical judgment. Writing, logic, and experimentation help replace some of the error-correction that used to come embedded in grammar. Above all, mature people must consider that most unpleasant of all possibilities — that their own favorite doctrines might prove wrong.”

She watched Dedinger. Would the man catch on that she had aimed that barb at him?

The exiled pedagogue gave Sara a wry smile.

“Has it occurred to you, Miss Sara, that your last statement could apply to you and your own beloved hypothesis?”

Now it was Sara’s turn to wince, then laugh aloud.

“Human nature. Each of us thinks we know what we’re talking about and those disagreeing are fools. Creative people see Prometheus in a mirror, never Pandora.”

Dedinger spoke with an ironic edge. “Sometimes the torch I carry scorches my fingers.”

Sara could not tell how much he meant the remark in jest. Often she found it easier to read the feelings of a boon, or g’Kek, than some members of her own enigmatic race. Still, she found herself enjoying the conversation, the first of its kind in quite some time.

“As for trends here on Jijo, just look at the new rhythmic novels being published by some of the northern urrish tribes. Or the recent burst of hoonish romantic poetry. Or the GalTwo haiku imagery coming out of the Vale—”

A sharp whistle cut her short — a guttural, stop-command piped by UrKachu’s upstretched throat. The queue of tired animals jostled to a halt, as the Urunthai leader pointed north of a stone spire, decreeing that a camouflaged shelter be raised in its long, tapered shadow.

In its shadow…

Blinking, Sara looked around to see that the night was over. Dawn-light filtered over the peaks, sifting through an early-morning haze. They had climbed among the mountains, or at least the rocky foothills, leaving behind the parched Warril Plain. Alas, they were by now far south of the well-worn trail leading to the Glade of Gathering.

Dedinger’s courtliness clashed with his rough appearance, as he excused himself to organize his men. “I’ve enjoyed matching wits,” he told her with a bow. “Perhaps we can resume later.”

“Perhaps.”

Although the discussion had been a pleasant diversion, she had no doubt the man would sacrifice her, along with all of her ideas, on the altar of his faith. Sara vowed to be ready for any occasion to sneak her friends away from these fanatics.

Right. An old man, a boy, a chimpanzee, a wounded alien, and an out-of-shape intellectual — even if we got a huge head start, these urs and desert-men would catch us faster than you can transform a sine wave.

Still, she gazed north toward high peaks where momentous events were taking place in hidden valleys, and thought — We’d better move fast, or else Ifni, God, and the universe will surely move on without us.

Now comes our turn to threatens. Proctors fight to hold back a furious throng, hemming our erstwhile guests inside a circle of rage. The remaining alien-lovers, mostly humans, form a protective ring around the star-beings, while the twin robots swoop and dive, enforcing a buffer zone with bolts of stinging lightning.

Lester Cambel steps forward, raising both hands for calm. The raucous noise ebbs, as members of the mob ease their pressure on the harried proctors. Soon silence reigns. No one wants to miss the next move in this game, wherein all of us on Jijo are tokens being gambled, to be won or lost, counting on our skill and luck.

Lester bows to the Rothen emissary. In one hand he bears a stack of metal plates.

“Now let’s drop all pretense,” he tells the star-god. “We know you for what you are. Nor can you trick us into genocidal suicide, doing your dirty work.

“Furthermore, should you try to do the job yourselves, annihilating all witnesses to your illegal visit, you will fail. All you’ll accomplish is to increase your list of crimes.

“We recommend that you be satisfied. Take what you will from this world, and go.”

The male star-human bursts forth, outraged. “How dare you speak so to a patron of your race!” Rann chastises, red-faced. “Apologize for your insolence!”

But Lester ignores Rann, whose status has diminished in the eyes of the Six. A toady/servant does not dictate to a sage, no matter what godlike powers he wields.

Instead, our human envoy offers one of the metal plates to Ro-kenn.

“We are not proud of this art form. It uses materials that won’t age or degrade back into Mother Jijo’s soil. Rather, it is adamant. Resistant to time. Properly stored, its images will last until this world again teems with legal sapient life.

“Normally, we would send such dross to where Jijo can recycle it in fire. But in this case, we’ll make an exception.”

The Rothen emissary turns the plate in the morning light. Unlike a paper photograph, this kind of image is best viewed from certain angles, we/i know what it depicts, do we not, my rings? The plate shows Ro-kenn and his comrades just before that ill-starred pilgrimage — a journey whose horrors still drip vexingly down our waxy core. Bloor the Portraitist developed the picture to serve as an instrument of blackmail.

“Other images depict your party in various poses, performing surveys, testing candidate species, often with backgrounds that clearly portray this place, this world. The shape of glaciers and eroding cliffs will set the date within a hundred years. Perhaps less.”

The rewq covering our/my torus-of-vision reveals ripples crisscrossing Ro-kenn’s face, again a dissonance of clashing emotions — but which ones? Are we getting better at reading this alien life-form? The second of our cognition rings seems deeply curious about the clashing colors.

The Rothen holds out an elegant hand.

“May I see the others?”

Lester hands them over. “This is but a sampling. Naturally, a detailed record of our encounter with your ship and crew has also been etched on durable metal, to accompany these pictures into hiding.”

“Naturally,” Ro-kenn answers smoothly, perusing one plate after another, turning them in the sunshine. “You have retained unusual arts, for self-accursed sooners. Indeed, I have never seen the like, even in civilized space.”

This flattery draws some murmurs from the crowd. Ro-kenn is once more being charming.

Lester continues, “Any acts of vengeance or genocide against the Six will also be chronicled this way. It is doubtful you can wipe us out before hidden scribes complete such a record.”

“Doubtful indeed.” Ro-kenn pauses, as if considering his options. Given his earlier arrogance, we had expected outrage over being blackmailed in this way, plus indignation over the implied disrespect. It would not surprise us to see open contempt for an effort by half-beasts to threaten a deity.