Her eyes, taken straight on, were large and exquisite. Hardly the sort you’d expect on a pirate.

“I don’t get it,” Ling said.

“To them we’re tree-climbers. Just as they must have reminded our ancestors of horses, hinneys, grass-browsers.”

“So? I still don’t—”

“So we make an effort to act really insulted, when an angry urs calls one of us a squirrel. It makes them so happy, you see.”

She looked puzzled, as if many parts of his explanation confused her. “You want to please your enemies?” she asked.

Lark sighed. “No one on the Slope has enemies anymore. Not on that kind of scale.”

That is, not until lately, he added silently. “Why?” he continued, trying to turn the interrogation around. “Are enemies common where you’re from?”

It was her turn to sigh. “The galaxies are dangerous. Humans aren’t well-liked by many.”

“So said our ancestors. It’s because humans are wolflings, right? Because we uplifted ourselves, without the help of a patron?”

Ling laughed. “Oh, that old myth!” Lark stared. “Do you… You can’t mean…?” “That we know the truth? Our origin and destiny?” She smiled, an expression of serene knowing. “Goodness, lost child of the past, you people have been away a long time. Do you mean that you have never heard of our gracious lords, the Rothen? The beloved patrons of all humankind?”

His foot caught a stone, and Ling grabbed his arm to steady him. “But we can discuss that later. First I want to talk about these — what did you call them — skirrils?”

She held out a finger adorned with a bulbous ring Lark guessed must be a recording device. It took an effort of will to switch mental tracks, suppressing his flare of curiosity about galactic issues. “What? Oh, that’s squirrels.”

“You imply they are arboreal and humanlike. Will we get to see any along the way?”

He blinked at her, then shook his head. “Um, I don’t think so. Not this trip.”

“Well, what can you tell me about them? For instance, do they show any aptitude for tool use?”

Lark needed neither psi nor rewq to read the mind of his lovely guest. He carried her question toward its unmistakable aim.

Do they show a talent for machinery? For war and commerce? For philosophy and an?

Do they have Potential? The magic essence that it takes to profit from the right kind of help?

Do they have the rare tincture, the promise, that makes a patron’s push worthwhile? The stuff to become starfarers someday?

Are they prospects for uplift?

Lark concealed his surprise over her ignorance. “Not to the best of my knowledge,” he answered honestly, since the only squirrels he’d seen were in ancient, faded pictures from old Earth. “If we pass near any, you can see for yourself.”

Clearly, the star-forayers were here seeking bio-treasure. What else might poor Jijo offer that was worth sneaking past the sentries of the Migration Institute, slipping through star-lanes long ceded to the strange, menacing civilization of the Zang, then braving Izmunuti’s deadly carbon wind?

What else? Lark pondered. Except refuge? Ask your own ancestors, boy.

The newcomers made no pretense, as Lark might have expected, of representing a galactic agency or feigning a legal right to survey Jijo’s biosphere. Did they think the exiles had no memory of such things? Or did they simply not care? Their goal — data about changes since the Buyur left — made Lark’s lifework more precious than he ever imagined. So much that Lester Cambel had ordered him to leave his notebooks behind, lest they fall into alien hands.

The sages want me to play it close. Try to find out at least as much from her as she learns from me.

A foredoomed plan, of course. The Six were like infants, ignorant of the rules of a deadly game. Still, Lark would do his best, so long as his agenda and the sages’ remained the same. Which might not always be the case.

They know that. Surely they’ve not forgotten I’m a heretic?

Fortunately the forayers had assigned their least intimidating member to accompany him. It might just as easily have been Rann, a huge male with close-cropped gray hair, a booming voice, and a wedgelike torso that seemed about to burst from his snug uniform. Of the two others who emerged from the black station, Kunn was nearly as masculinely imposing as Rann, with shoulders like a young hoon’s, while pale-haired Besh was so dramatically female that Lark wondered how she moved so gracefully with a body that prodigiously curved. Compared to her colleagues, Ling seemed almost normal, though she would have caused a stir growing up in any Jijoan town — no doubt provoking many duels among hot-tempered suitors.

Don’t forget your vow, Lark reminded himself, puffing in exertion while climbing a steep part of the trail. Perspiration stained the front of Ling’s blouse, which clung to her in provocative ways. He forced himself to look away. You made a choice, to live for a goal greater than yourself. If you wouldn’t forsake that aim for an honest woman of Jijo, don’t even think about giving it up for a raider, an alien, an enemy of this world.

Lark found a new way to direct the heat in his veins. Lust can be blocked by other strong emotions. So he turned to anger.

You plan to use us, he mused silently. But things may turn out different than you think.

That attitude, in turn, roused an obstinate layer, overcoming his natural curiosity. Earlier, Ling had said something about humans no longer being considered wolflings, out among the stars. No longer orphans, without patrons to guide them. From the look in her eye, she had clearly expected this news to cause a stir. No doubt she wanted him to beg for further information.

I’ll beg if I must — but I’d rather buy, borrow, or steal it. We’ll see. The game’s just in its opening rounds.

Soon they passed stands of lesser-boo. Ling took samples of some segmented stems — each no more than ten centimeters across — deftly slicing near-transparent sections into her analyzer.

“I may be a dumb native guide,” he commented. “But I’ll wager boo doesn’t show much sign of pre-sapience.”

Her head jerked when he said the word. Thus Lark ended one pretense.

We know why you’re here.

Ling’s dusky skin did not hide a flush. “Did I suggest any such thing? I just want to track genetic drift since this species was planted by the Buyur. We’ll need a benchmark to compare trends in animals. That’s all.”

So we begin the outright lies, he thought. From fossil evidence, Lark knew that boo already thrived on Jijo long before the Buyur won their lease, twenty million years ago. Perhaps it was imported by a previous tenant. Whole ecosystems had coevolved around the successful vegetal type, and countless animals now relied on it. But things must have been rough for the first aeon or so, as boo pushed native flora out of many watersheds.

Lark knew little about the biochemical level, but from fossils he was sure the genus hadn’t changed much in a hundred million years.

Why would she lie about something so unimportant? The Scrolls taught that deceit was not only wrong, but also a fickle, dangerous ally. And habit forming. Once you start lying, it’s hard to stop. Eventually it is small, needless lies that get you caught.

“Speaking of pre-sapience,” Ling said, folding her sample case, “I can’t help wondering where you folks stashed your chimpanzees. I’m sure they must have drifted in interesting ways.”

It was Lark’s turn to give away too much with an involuntary twitch. Denial was useless. Humans don’t need rewq to play this game with each other — reading clues in each other’s faces. Lester must know I’ll betray as much as I learn.