Garios looked up, his long muzzle swinging from Novato to Afsan, then back again. "Hahat dan."

"It’s a pleasure to be with you again, Garios," said Afsan.

"Afsan," said Garios, somewhat curtly. Then, perhaps regretting his tone, he added, "I cast a shadow in your presence."

"And I in yours," said Afsan.

There was a protracted silence.

"I’ve made my choice," said Novato.

Garios’s voice betrayed his hope. "Yes?"

Novato’s tone was soft. "I’m sorry, Garios, but it has to be Afsan again."

Garios’s tail swished. "I see."

"I know you were hoping otherwise," said Novato. "Please understand, I never wanted to hurt you."

"No," said Garios. "No, of course not."

Afsan’s toeclaws were churning the soil. "However," he said, "it would be a loss to our species to not have more offspring from one so gifted as you."

"That’s kind of you to say," said Garios, his tone neutral.

"Will you walk with us?" said Afsan. "There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Someone I’ve, ah, grown quite close to myself."

"Who is it?"

"Her name is Mokleb," said Afsan. "Nav-Mokleb."

"Oh?" A pause. "May I be so bold to ask how old she is?"

Afsan shrugged. "I really don’t know. I’ve never seen her."

"Oh. I thought perhaps you were getting at … Never mind."

"But I think you will find her quite, ah, open to new acquaintances," said Afsan. "I’ve had a certain amount of trouble resisting her myself. Come along, Garios. She really is a fascinating person."

Despite territoriality, Quintaglios in Capital City favored apartment blocks over individual dwellings because they withstood landquakes better and were easier to repair. Novato had been pleased to find her own apartment just as she’d left it when she’d departed the Capital for the Fra’toolar dig; of course, she’d taken all the usual precautions, such as moving breakables off shelves and placing them on the floor before departing on her long trip.

But all those objects had now been put back up on the shelves, leaving a wide open expanse of floor — an expanse of floor that was just right for what was about to come. She and Afsan lay together on it. The windows were closed, letting Novato’s pheromones build up in the room. They lay there, five paces been them, talking about things that were important to them, about experiences they’d shared together, joys they’d known, and some sorrows, too, talking softly, warmly, intimately, as Novato’s Toeromones wafted over them.

They talked for daytenths on end, teeth clicking freely at fondly remembered times they’d spent together. Finally, intoxicated by the pheromones, his dewlap puffing, Afsan pushed off the floor and, despite his blindness, moved unerringly toward Novato. He placed his hand on her shoulder, touching her, feeling the warmth of her skin. His claws remained sheathed; so did hers. He stroked her shoulder lightly, back and forth, feeling the appealing roughness of her hide. Novato moaned softly.

And, at last, more than twenty kilodays after the first time, Afsan moved even closer to her still. The two of them savored every moment.

The next morning, Afsan and Novato woke slowly, their tails overlapping, the euphoria of the night before still upon them. Afsan was expected back at what was now called the war room in the palace office building; final tests of his designs were to be conducted today. He could not touch Novato again, but there was a warmth in her voice that thrilled every part of him. He bade her good day, and called for Cork to lead him on his way. But as they were walking along, Afsan heard the sound of feet approaching. "Who’s there?" he called out.

"Hello, Afsan. I’ve been looking all over for you."

"Toroca!" Afsan’s voice was warm as he reigned Gork in. "Hahat dan, boy, hahat dan. It’s good to hear your voice again."

"And yours, Afsan." Toroca, taking advantage of Afsan’s blindness, allowed himself the luxury of approaching within four paces of the older Quintaglio. Cork padded over to Toroca, tasting the air with a forked tongue.

"This is a time for reunions," said Afsan. "Novato is back, too."

"I haven’t seen her yet," said Toroca, "but I’m looking forward to it."

"I take it the Dasheter is safely docked, then?" Afsan said, leaning back on his tail.

"Yes, late last evening. I’ve spent most of the night briefing Dybo."

"And did Dybo tell you what we’ve got planned?"

"Planned — no, I did all the talking. We tried to summon you to join us, but you weren’t at either Rockscape or your apartment."

Afsan looked away. "This message you sent by wingfinger — what news about that?"

Toroca looked his father up and down. It was so very good to see him again. "The Dasheter had no trouble outrunning the Other ships, but they are indeed in hot pursuit. They will be here in four or five days, Keenir estimates."

"We will be ready for them," said Afsan, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

Toroca’s tail moved nervously. "That’s what I came to speak to you about."

Afsan waited.

"This whole thing, Afsan: it’s our fault. We were the aggressors."

"So your missive indicated." Afsan scrunched his muzzle. "But there’s nothing to be done about that now."

"I can’t agree with that," said Toroca. "I feel an obligation to try to prevent the coming battle."

Afsan tilted his head. "Is that possible?"

"I can interact with the Others, Afsan. My — my lack of territoriality, I guess … it lets me be with them. But so far, I’m the only one they’ve had direct contact with."

"If I understand this correctly, you’re the only one they could have contact with."

"I don’t think that’s completely true, Afsan. It’s not pheromones that trigger the violent response; when Keenir and I first encountered an Other, she was downwind of us. No, it’s a reaction to the appearance of the Others. The appearance doesn’t affect me, because of the way I am. And, good Afsan, you are blind: it could not affect you."

Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he spoke. "Come over here, so you are downwind of me." Toroca obeyed. "There are not many people I can say such things to, but come closer. Come stand right by me."

Toroca moved nearer. "Yes?"

Afsan turned his muzzle to face his son, then lifted his eyelids.

"My … God," said Toroca. "Are they — are they glass?"

Afsan clicked his teeth lightly at the unexpected suggestion. "No. No, they’re real."

"But eyes don’t regenerate, and … and, anyway, it’s been ages since you were blinded."

"I had an accident while you were away. I was kicked in the head by a hornface. There was substantial tissue damage. Healer Dar-Mondark thinks that may have something to do with it."

Toroca nodded. "Miraculous. I’m sorry; forgive me, Afsan. I should be jubilant for you. It’s just that I was sure that if you could talk to the Others, you could help me prevent a slaughter. With the world coming to an end, there are more important matters than fighting. But now that you can see again…"

Afsan’s voice was soft. "I cannot see, Toroca."

"But your eyes…"

"Do not work."

"That’s … that’s…"

"The phrase ’that’s a kick in the head’ comes to mind," said Afsan gently. "Unfortunately, the particular kick I got seemed to do only half a job."

"I assume there’s something wrong with the way they regenerated, no?" Toroca stared intently into Afsan’s dark orbs, as if trying to see their inner workings. "It has been such a long time, after all."

"No. As far as Dar-Mondark can tell, they regenerated perfectly. The problem, he suspects, is in my mind."

"Is there nothing that can be done?"

"I am, ah, undergoing therapy. There’s a chance my sight will return."

"How long has this therapy been going on?"

"Forever, it seems."