Rety wrestled with her own amazement, unable to decide which thing dumbfounded her more, the contest below or the entity in her pocket, providing running commentary.

Combat won her attention as the young human launched at his opponent once more. Whatever his mistake the first time, the boy seemed bent on making up for it as he bobbed and weaved, then leaped to catch a handful of the middling’s mane. She snorted and snapped, pushing vainly with both slim handling-arms to break his grip. She tried lifting a foreleg to tug with its stubby grasping paw, but that just left her teetering dangerously.

“drak’s dare!” the tiny urs shouted gleefully, “drak say to Ur-choon. you-me tussle, tussle ’stead of kill!”

Rety caught her breath.

Oh, I remember now.

She had heard the legend when she was little, told round the campfire by one of the old grandpas. A tale that died with the old man, since Jass and the young hunters preferred exaggerated retellings of their own exploits over stories of life beyond the mountains.

To Rety’s best recollection, there once had been a man named Drak — or Drake — a hero mightier and bolder than any human before or since. Once, when Earthlings were still new on Jijo, a giant urrish chieftain fought Drak in a wrestling match. For three days and nights they grappled, pounding and tearing at each other, making the ground shake, drying up rivers, ripping all the countryside between a fiery mountain and the sea, till both volcano and ocean vanished in curling steam. When the clouds finally cleared, a bright region glowed from horizon to horizon with all the colors one could paint by mixing urrish and human blood.

Then, out of the smoke and mist, two heroes strode forth — he missing an arm and she a leg — leaning on each other, inseparable from that day forth.

While there would be more wars between the tribes, from that day forth all were fought with honor, in memory of Drak and Ur-choon.

“watch!” the little urs called.

The boy faked a leftward lean, then planted his right foot and heaved. Snorting dismay, the urs could not keep her greater weight from pivoting over his hip, sailing head-over-withers to crash into the nearby stream. There came a shrill sigh as she floundered, slipping in the mud. Finally, the blue qheuen surfaced behind her, using one clenched foot to give a helpful shove. With a grateful cry, the middling dove into the sand, raising plumes of dust.

“hee! go roll in hot ash, silly hinney! sand too slow! hair gonna rot!”

Rety gazed down at the tiny urs. It was no baby, as first she thought. Somewhere she recalled hearing that urrish newborns stayed in their mothers’ pouches for a few months, then were spilled by the dozen into tall grass to fend for themselves. Anyway, infant urs couldn’t talk.

It must be a male! Rety saw that its throat and muzzle looked unlike a female’s, lacking the flashy neck colors or pendulous cloven lip, which explained why it could speak Anglic sounds a female could not.

Back in the arena, the boy crouched for a third round, but the urrish youth lowered her head, conceding. The human raised a red-streaked arm in victory, then helped guide the limping loser off the playing field. Meanwhile, two new contestants flexed and stretched, while helpers trussed their handicapped limbs.

Wistfully, Rety watched the human kids, joking with friends from the other septs. She wondered how the boy had managed to get just slightly singed by the coals-but could not bring herself to approach with questions. They might only laugh at her unkempt hair, her uncouth speech, and her scars.

So forget ’em, anyway, she thought bitterly. All the dry heat and smoke was making her face itch. In any case, she had important business. An item to retrieve from her tent before dark. Something to use as down payment on a ticket away from here, to a place none of these big handsome kids would ever see, despite all their pride and skill and strutting around. A place where no one from her past would bother her. That was lots more important than watching savages play violent games with fire and water.

“Look, I gotta go,” she told the little urrish male, rising to her feet and looking around. “I think the nasty ol’ noor’s gone away, so you can be off now too.”

The tiny creature peered at her, his tail and muzzle drooping. Rety cleared her throat.

“Um, can I drop you off somewhere? Isn’t your — uh — wife prob’ly worried about you?”

The dark eyes glittered sadly. “Uf-roho need yee no more, pouch home now full of slimy newbrats. push yee out. right-pouch still husband-full, yee must find new pouch, or grass burrow to live/die in. but no sweet grass in mountain! just rocks!”

That last was sung mournfully. It sounded like an awful thing to do to a helpless little guy, and Rety felt mad just thinking about it.

“this nice pouch, this one.” He crooned a strange reverberating melody, surprisingly low for a creature so small. Rety’s skin tingled where he lay closest.

“yee serve new wife good, do good things she want.”

Rety stared at him, dazed to think of what he offered. Then she burst out laughing, leaning on a tree, guffawing till her sides hurt. Through clouded eyes, she saw that yee seemed to laugh too, in his own fashion. At last she wiped her face and grinned. “Well, you done one thing for me, already. Ain’t chortled so good in I dunno how long.

“An” you know what else? Come to think of it, there is somethin’ you might be able to do. Somethin’ that’d make me even happier.”

“yee do anything! new wife feed yee. yee make wife happy!”

Rety shook her head, amazed once more at the twists and turns life seemed to push on the unwary. If her new idea worked out, this could turn out to be an awfully lucky break.

“Do you have something for me?”

Rann held out his enormous hand. In the dim twilight, with the yellow boo rustling nearby, Rety stared at the man’s calloused fingers, each like her wrist. His craggy features and massive torso — so much greater than the biggest boy-wrestler playing Drake’s Dare that day — made her feel callow, insignificant.

Rety wondered — Are all men like this, out there among the stars?

Could I ever trust anyone with hands like those, to have a husband’s power over me?

She had always thought she’d rather die than marry.

Yet now she had a husband, purring next to her belly. Rety felt yee’s warm tongue on her hand as she stroked his silky neck.

Rann seemed to note her ironic smile. Did it make her seem more confident?

She reached past yee to pluck a slender object, fluffy at one end, pointy-hard at the other, and laid the feather on Rann’s open palm. Puzzled, he drew forth an instrument to shine at it from several sides, while her mind still cycled round-and-round the events leading to this moment, when her hopes hung in the balance.

On her way here, Rety had passed other members of the Six, each waiting alone by some landmark along Rann’s regular evening stroll. As instructed, no one spoke or made eye contact, though Rety spied observers — a g’Kek, two hoons, and a human — taking notes from a distance.

Rety didn’t give a damn what they told Lester Cambel about her “treason.” After tonight, the sages wouldn’t make plans for her anymore.

On arriving at the yellow boo, she had waited nervously, petting yee and biting her fingernails. A few duras before Rann appeared, a soft whine announced one of the mighty robots — eight-sided, intimidating — and a wave of horrid memory recalled another floating monster, firing savagely into the mulc-spider’s lair… and Dwer’s strong arms yanking her out of the path of a searing beam, holding her fiercely against falling, sheltering her with his body.