The Dasheter continued to sail in. It was clear that they were approaching a small group of islands. Discounting the icy polar caps, until moments ago Land and its attendant archipelagos had been the only known dry ground in the world.

But now there was someplace else: a new land with possibly untold riches. Not gold or diamonds; those weren’t the types of riches Toroca was looking for. No, his Geological Survey sought valuables of another kind: things that could be used to aid in the effort to get the Quintaglio people off their doomed world.

The chain of islands — Toroca could see six discrete bodies now — seemed to be volcanic. Each was conical, a ragged mountain rising out of the water. Lush vegetation covered the flat lands around the bases of the volcanoes and much of the volcanic cones, as well.

"Drop anchor!" shouted Captain Keenir. Four members of his crew struggled with the big wheel that paid out the chain. They put their backs into it, channeling the territorial anger such close proximity would normally engender. They were still two thousand paces from the nearest island, but Keenir wouldn’t risk bringing the Dasheter closer until he was sure the waters were free of obstructions.

Two crewmembers were working on the foresail booms, untying the huge red sheets. The snapping of the sails had been a constant background; its end made for a curious reverse-deafness. Toroca cocked his head and listened to the quieter sounds of the anchor chain uncoiling, of waves slapping against the wooden hull, and — was there something else on the wind? Briefly there, but now gone? A rhythmic pounding, like hunting drums? No, of course not. Doubtless it had just been Toroca’s own heartbeat thundering in his earholes as his senses adjusted to the change in sound quality.

"That’s as far as it’ll go!" shouted a voice. Toroca turned to see a mate, her red leather cap bright in the white sunlight, indicating the wooden wheel that held the anchor chain. Toroca thought briefly that the bright red caps worn by Keenir’s crew suggested inflated dewlaps, like those of males in full mating display. He shook his head; he’d been on board the ship much too long.

Keenir made a hand signal indicating he understood that the anchor had failed to find bottom. It mattered little: with the sails down, the Dasheter wasn’t going anywhere. "Shore boats!" shouted the captain in his gravelly voice. Sailors began pulling back the leather sheets that covered the Dasheter’s four auxiliary craft.

Keenir turned to Toroca. "I hope there’s game on those islands," he said, claws dancing in and out of their sheaths. "I’m sick of fish and salted thunderbeast."

Keenir knew of Toroca’s … condition was perhaps the best word for it. Toroca lacked the native sense of territoriality and the urge to hunt. Oh, he ate meat, and enjoyed the taste of it, but he preferred, whenever possible, not to have to take part in the killing. Still, to stand on solid ground; to drag toeclaws through dirt; to feel something other than splintery wood beneath his tail — it would be wonderful to get off the Dasheter, even for a short time.

Only four individuals would go ashore on the first excursion; it wasn’t wise to pack Quintaglios tightly together. Keenir and Toroca clambered into one shore boat, and two other surveyors, the females Babnol and Spalton, got into a second. Sailors on the Dasheter worked the winches that lowered the boats into the water.

The nearest island was perhaps six hundred kilopaces in diameter. It had two adjacent beaches, separated by a finger of jungle that came to the water’s edge. Keenir and Toroca would land on the northern beach; Babnol and Spalton would take the southern one.

Quintaglios grew throughout their lives, so Toroca naturally wasn’t as big or strong as Keenir. Their boat was taking a decidedly curving course toward the island. Keenir clicked his teeth and switched to paddling on the same side as Toroca, causing the boat to arc in the opposite direction.

Finally, the two of them made it to shore. At first glance, Toroca was disappointed. The vegetation that rose up like a wall behind the sandy beach seemed familiar. Why, that was a stand of keetaja trees over there, and the ubiquitous orange flowers were common starweed. Toroca had formulated his theory of evolution while visiting the south pole, having seen all the startling forms inhabiting the ice pack that had developed from the wingfinger body plan, and he’d hoped to find similarly bizarre life here. But this could have been one of the resort beaches along the north shore of Chu’toolar province back in Land.

They began walking toward the jungle, looking for a break that might indicate a path trampled by animals. Toroca glanced back, saw his and the captain’s footprints and the marks made by their tails, saw, too, far out in the water, the twin diamond-shaped hulls of the Dasheter. Then he turned, and…

Something was very wrong. Keenir’s claws were extended. His body had tipped forward from the waist; his torso was bobbing up and down, up and down…

Toroca looked in the direction Keenir’s muzzle was pointing and felt, just for an instant, his own claws leap out in surprise.

Up ahead, someone — something — had stepped out of the jungle and was staring at them.

No matter how much time she spent inside the ark, it never ceased to make Novato uneasy. The thing was huge, bigger than any structure Quintaglios had ever built. And it was ancient: assuming it was the same age as the Bookmark layer, the ark was millions of kilodays old.

But most chilling of all was the alienness of the ark. In a thousand ways it screamed that its makers had not been Quintaglios: the straight corridors; the rooms with multiple beds that made no concession to territoriality; the tools designed for six-fingered hands; the remnants of fabric on the floors; the bowl-shaped chairs with no notch for a tail.

And strangest of all were the ark crewmembers themselves, with five knoblike eyes; long, flexible trunks; three pairs of legs — the front pair for locomotion, the middle and hind pairs successively smaller and used for God only knew what.

Today, Novato was cataloging the contents of storage locker 412. The ark-makers had been fanatical about numbering things: doorways, beds, lockers — everything had a number on it. Their system of counting was the only part of their written language that been deciphered. They used six numerals, plus a horizontal line to represent zero.

Novato set her lamp on the slightly canted floor. She tried to concentrate on her task, but, as usual, found her mind wandering and her heart pounding. Except for the pool of light made by the lamp, the vastness around her was blacker than Quintaglio eyes. Her claws hung half out of their sheaths, ready in case an alien trunk should reach out of the darkness, seizing her by the neck.

Novato was particularly edgy today. She’d been hunting earlier and things had not gone well. Although she’d managed to fell a small shovelmouth, her kill had been stolen by a pack of terrorclaws. Novato had escaped by climbing a tree but she was still rattled by the whole affair. Here, in the darkness, deep within the alien ship, her imagination was running rampant.

Light from the lamp flame seemed to lap at the walls. Quavering specters danced behind her. Novato tried to shut it all out, to concentrate on her work. She’d been here a thousand times, she reminded herself. A thousand times. There were no ghosts here. Nothing to fear.

Those terrorclaws had rattled her…

Be calm. There was no reason to be afraid.

What was that?

A sound?

Ridiculous.

But there it was again.

Someone calling her name, perhaps?

Novato’s tail swished as she turned around…