"There was also," Maelen said, "the skull of Orsuis. Not even your people, High One, had seen such as that before."

"That has proved to be a puzzle which many of us seek to penetrate when we are in youth studies." Zoror nodded. "The skull might be that of a modern spacer of the old Terran breed—but it is wrought from a single lump of Cris-crystal which the experts tell us today cannot be worked by any known method. Yet it exists, and plainly it was in some way a manner of communication. There are many puzzles for the finding here and there."

Farree nodded, rubbing the brand on his wrist. During his time in the Zacanthan's headquarters he had seen many strange things. There were also the legends Zoror had stressed about winged people, the Little Folk who were supposedly known to Terrans, not only on their own world but out among the stars.

Flight time was wearying at best—especially when the ship was on destination tape. However, the Zacanthan used this period to keep their minds alert, holding their interest to more than just winning through to the end of the voyage. During the arbitrarily set ship's hours Farree and the others listened to Zoror's fund of stories of finds and mysterious worlds dead from some war or catastrophe, where ancient weapons yet fought on and anyone trying to land was attacked. Farree paid eager interest at first. The world of his childhood—the malodorous Limits—had had nothing to feed his imagination or instruct his mind—and this was heady stuff.

Only when he was back in his own cabin, Togger occupying the bunk Farree could no longer use because of his wings, he would rub his wrist until the skin was chafed– wishing he had the other silky scraps the booth owner had had, trying, until his very mind seemed to ache, trying to evoke an answer alone, but possessing nothing to read it from.

He shivered now and again when he seemed to be answered by a thrust of pain as sharp and fleeting as if he had faced a laser beam. Each time that occurred he was left sick and hurting.

Farree was squatting on the edge of the bunk, his back to the compartment door, when one such a session had been so sharp and debilitating that he swayed back and forth. Togger gave a claw rattle that made plain he had picked up a strong broadcast of Farree's pain. Nor was he the only one for a voice reached him from the compartment door:

"Farree! That—is death!"

His arms were wrapped over his chest as if he must cling to some part of himself against a fear that was near unbearable. Almost, almost he had been able to pierce that fear, to reach who or what was behind it. His cheeks were wet with drops which gathered on his forehead and ran downward.

Fear—yes, fear, but with it anger– Both emotions seemed to lie as a brand upon his thoughts even as that length around his wrist had put its burden on his flesh.

"Farree." Maelen had moved along the wall until she could look directly into his face. "You must not do this—"

He shook his head. Then he half whispered: "I must know!"

"And what will be good for you to know, younger brother, if it puts its mark so deeply on you that you cannot function? See?" She reached out to draw her fingers down his wet cheek. "You labor and that which you would draw near you is—death. We also have the inner sight, we can follow so far—to go farther means the upsetting of the Scales. Molester gave us the gift of such sight; we are vowed not to use it wrongly."

For the first time he looked at her. "I must know," he repeated; but his voice was dull, that painful awareness gone.

"Perhaps—but not that way—never that way, Farree. None can see beyond when they take the White Path, just as none may return." Again her hand stretched forth as she held it palm down and a little above his wrist. "This—even I can feel what this holds, little brother. That which is implanted with sorrow and death cannot be used lightly. For your own sake do not seek to do that."

There spread into his mind something more than the words she spoke—it was a soothing, gentling feeling, like hands bandaging a gaping wound. Dimly he realized that what Maelen was mind casting was that same assurance that she had many times used with those she called her little ones, whom others might term beasts. Sighing, he nursed his wrist, for, under the soothing thought, he realized that there was truth in what she said. He dare not waste he strength on this search– not when there lay more arduous trails ahead. That there was danger coming he had no doubt.

"Good," she spoke aloud rather than thought. "I promise you, younger brother, that there will be a time for you, and when that comes you shall have a great part in what will follow."

He glanced at her, surprised. There were always hints that those with mind speech could also do more—even as he had proven he might read from touch. Only to foresee was not widely known and all he had ever heard of it was rumors.

"Not foreseeing." She picked that up quickly. "It is rather by reasoning, Farree. This is no easy voyage which we make now. If we raise the planet of your people it is well we be prepared for trouble there—"

He nodded. Yes, it did not take any mind skill beyond thought' to understand that. Also she was right, he should not waste what gifts he had trying to compel answers, for that was useless. Any mind skill came and went spasmodically and you could not force it.

So he did not try to summon up again what he had seen so briefly in his one vision. That must have fulfilled its purpose when he had remembered and read the chart which had sent them on this voyage. Instead he set himself to another way of preparing for that which might wait ahead. Not only did he coax more and more reminiscences from Zoror, but he visited Bojor in the cabin which had been specially fashioned to fit the huge furred body of the one-time wild hunter, an animal on its own world so greatly feared that even the stories of its bloody meeting with settlers roused terror.

Farree was learning now from a source which lived and breathed, far from the tapes and scrolls the Zacanthan guarded so dearly. His own short life—or as much of it as he could remember—had been spent in the filthy dregs of the Limits—infinitely worse than even the portside on the planet from which they had risen. He had never seen open country until they had finned down on Yiktor. There events had sped by so fast that he had not had time to think of what they saw but only of what must be done, and as speedily as possible. He had acted mainly from instinct and not from knowledge.

Now he matched thoughts with the bartle and so lived the life of the great furred hunter. He padded down mountain trails, his head up to savor the wind and any message that it brought. Claws were sharpened on a favorite rock which also marked the boundary of Bojor's own hunting ground. And so did he slip from one outcrop of rock to another, eyeing a small herd of grush feeding the shoulder-high grass. Thus he squatted on the banks of the stream, one paw ready to dip in with a gesture seemingly too delicate to be used by a bartle, and bring out a swift-swimming creature which had the sinuous body of a reptile.

It was not a one-way meeting for thought which tied Farree to Bojor during those sessions. For the bartle roused from his hibernation enough to display a curiosity of his own, and demanded that Farree return adventure to balance adventure. The life of the Limits was something which Farree recalled very briefly and from which Bojor turned away in disgust. Those hours he had spent on Yiktor were all he had to offer.

He could still recall the wonder of that time when the hideous hump which had made him a matter of disgust all through his days split and peeled away and his wings were born. The first moments of his beginning flight, when, unsure and clumsy, he had made the attempt to raise himself above the ground, he remembered well—and all the rest of what the wings had brought him—the chance to serve Maelen and her people as no one except he who was so endowed could do.