The pilgrimage commenced at dusk, with long forest shadows pointing toward a hidden mountain pass. Twelve twelves of chosen citizens represented all the Commons, along with two star-humans, four robots, and one tall ancient being whose shambling gait hinted great strength under glossy white robes.

Judging by his so-humanlike smile, Ro-kenn seemed to find delight in countless things, especially the rhythmic chanting — a blending of vocal contributions from all races — as the assembly set out past steaming vents and sheer clefts, weaving its slow way toward the hidden oval Valley of the Egg. The Rothen’s long-fingered hands stroked slim-boled welpal trees, whose swaying resonated with emanations from that secret vale. Most humans would hear nothing till they got much closer.

In Lark’s heart, dark feelings churned. Nor was he alone. Many, especially those farthest from Ro-kenn’s cheerful charisma, still felt uneasy about guiding strangers to this sacred place.

The procession marched, rolled, and slithered, wending higher into the hills. Soon the heavens glittered with formations of sparkling lights — brittle bright clusters and nebulae — divided by the dark stripe of the Galactic disk. If anything, the sight reinforced the starkly uneven order of life, for tonight’s guests would shortly cross those starscapes, whether they departed in peace or betrayal. To them, Jijo would become another quaint, savage, perhaps mildly interesting spot they had visited once in long, deified lives.

The last time Lark came up this way — so earnest about his self-appointed mission to save Jijo from invaders like himself — no one had any thought of starships cruising Jijo’s sky.

Yet they were already up there, preparing to land.

What is more frightening? The danger you already dread, or the trick the universe hasn’t pulled on you yet? The one to make all prior concerns seem moot.

Lark hoped none of this gloom carried into his letter to Sara, which he had finished in a hurried pencil scrawl by the headwaters of the Bibur after the Rothen emerged. The kayak pilot added Lark’s note to a heavy bundle from Bloor, then set off in a flash of oars, speeding down the first set of spuming rapids in a pell-mell rush toward Biblos, two days’ hard rowing away.

On his way back to rendezvous with the other heretics, he had stopped to watch the alien aircraft glide out of its dark tunnel like a wraith, rising on whispering engines. Lark glimpsed a small human silhouette, hands and face pressed against an oval window, drinking in the view. The figure looked familiar… but before he could raise his pocket ocular, the machine sped away, eastward, toward a cleft where the largest moon was rising above the Rimmer Range.

Now, as the evening procession entered a final twisty canyon leading to the Egg, Lark tried putting temporal concerns aside, preparing for communion. It may be my last chance, he thought, hoping this time he might fully take part in the wholeness others reported, when the Egg shared its full bounty of love.

Drawing his right arm inside his sleeve, he grasped the rocky flake, despite its growing heat. A passage from the Scroll of Exile came to mind — an Anglic version, modified for Earthlings by one of the first human sages.

The passage ended on a strange note of combined reverence and defiance.

Not long after that scroll gained acceptance in the human sept, one winter’s day, ground tremors shook the Slope. Trees toppled, dams burst, and a terrible wind blew. Panic swept from mountains to sea amid reports that Judgment Day had come.

Instead, bursting through a cloud of sparkling dust, the Egg appeared. A gift out of Jijo’s heart.

A gift which must be shared tonight — with aliens.

What if they achieved what he had always failed? Or worse, what if they reacted with derisive laughter, declaring that the Egg was a simple thing that only yokels would take seriously — like fabled Earth-natives worshipping a music box they found on the shore?

Lark struggled to push out petty thoughts, to tune himself with the basso rumble of the hoon, the qheuens’ calliope piping, the twanging spokes of the g’Keks, and all of the other contributions to a rising song of union. He let it take over the measured pace of his breathing, while warmth from the stone fragment seemed to swell up his hand and arm, then across his chest, spreading relaxed detachment.

Close, he thought. A tracery of soft patterns began taking shape in his mind. A weblike meshing of vague spirals, made up partly of images, partly of sound.

It’s almost as if something is trying to—

“Is this, not exciting?” a voice broke in from Lark’s right, splitting his concentration into broken shards. “I believe I can feel something now! It’s quite unlike any psi phenomenon I have experienced. The motif is highly unusual.”

Ignore her, Lark thought, clinging to the patterns. Maybe she’ll go away.

But Ling kept talking, sending words clattering up avenues that could not help hearing them. The harder he tried holding on, the quicker detachment slipped away. Lark’s hand now clenched a clammy ball of rock and twine, warm with his body heat alone. He let go in disgust.

“We picked up some tremors on instruments several days ago. The cycles have been rising in strength and complexity for some time.”

Ling seemed blithely unaware of having done anything wrong. That, in turn, made Lark’s simmering resentment seem both petty and futile. Anyway, her beauty by moonlight was even more unnerving than usual, cutting through his anger to a vulnerable loneliness within.

Lark sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding your boss?”

“Robots do the real guarding — as if we have anything to fear. Ro-kenn gave Rann and me permission to look around while he talks to your sages, preparing them for what’s about to happen.”

Lark stopped so suddenly, the next pilgrim in line had to stumble to avoid him. He took Ling’s elbow. “What are you talking about? What’s about to happen?”