Vorneen had made a better jump, and in any case Vorneen could look out for himself. But he would land many miles from Mirtin’s impact point, and they might never find each other. Even if they did, their position would not be an easy one — especially without Glair.

Mirtin calmed himself.

Impact could not be far away, now.

They said that making a jump like this delivered an impact equal to dropping from a height of a hundred feet. Such a fall would not kill a Dirnan, but it would still be a substantial jolt. Since they had left the ship at an altitude far above the recommended one for a jump, it was reasonable to expect severe bodily damage. Mirtin did what he could, coiling his Dirnan interior securely within his fleshy outer shell, his Earthman disguise. That was all he could do. The bones that supported his shell would probably break; the Dirnan gristle and cartilage within was safe. But it would cause him pain and inconvenience to break bones, all the same. This housing he wore was now his body, even though he had not been born in it.

Down.

Consciousness threatened to leave him in the last few moments. Making a strenuous effort, Mirtin maintained his awareness. He saw that he was landing far from any large city. To the east He observed the rectangular mud buildings of an Indian village, one of those living curios of the past that the Earthmen preserved so carefully in this part of their world. To the west, in the distance, was the great cleft of a canyon. In between was his landing area, a furrowed plain marked by deep gorges, eroded terraces, steeply rising mesas. Down here he was subject to atmospheric currents; Mirtin felt them lift him slightly, deflect him toward the Indian village a mile or two. He checked the trend with his stabilizer jets, and cut in the deployment screen to spare himself the worse effects of impact.

At the last moment he blanked out anyway, despite his hard work. It was just as well; for when he regained his consciousness, Mirtin knew that he was badly injured.

The first order of business was to deal with the pain. He went down the rows of ganglia, deliberately switching them off. Some, of course, had to remain active — the ones that operated his autonomous nervous system. He needed the breathing reflex and the cluster of nerves that powered his digestive/respiratory/circulatory nexus. But anything that could be spared was disconnected, for the time being. Without that feverish haze of pain, he could survey his situation more clearly and see what else needed to be done.

More than an hour passed before Mirtin had shut off enough of his nervous system to reduce the pain to a tolerable level. He needed half an hour more to wash the accumulated pain-poisons from his body. Then he took stock.

He was lying on his back, toward the eastern end of a triangular wedge of land slightly elevated above the surrounding terrain. To his left ran the dry gully of what must be a stream in springtime. To his right was a steeply rising cliff, and by the faint light of approaching morning he saw that the stone was soft and sandy, pocked with many small openings. No more than a dozen body-lengths behind him was the dark mouth of a cave. If he could crawl in there somehow, he would have the sanctuary he needed while his body went through the healing process.

But he could not crawl.

He could not move at all.

It was difficult to evaluate the bodily damage with so much of his nervous system disconnected, but Mirtin guessed that he had suffered a perpendicular break across his central inner column. His legs and arms seemed to be all right, but there was no motor response in them, which meant that he must have snapped his spine. He could repair that, given enough time. First the bone would have to knit, and then he would have to regenerate the paths of the nerves. It would take, say, two months of local time. His inner, Dirnan, body was basically whole, so all he had to do was recreate his shell.

Lying out here on his back in the open, though? In winter? Without food?

His body had many special abilities unknown on Earth, but it could not do without food indefinitely. Mirtin estimated that he would starve to death long before he was healed enough to rise and seek food. That was academic, anyway; a week without water would finish him off. He needed shelter and food and water, and in his present state he could get none of those things unaided, which meant that he needed help.

Vorneen? Glair? If they were alive, they had problems of their own. Mirtin was unable to activate his communicator, which was mounted on his side just above his hip, and there was no way of signaling them. His only hope was the arrival of some friendly Earthman. And, in this wasteland, Mirtin did not find that very probable.

He realized that he was going to die.

Not yet, though. He resolved to wait three days, and see what happened. By then, the lack of water would be causing him great distress, and he would have just enough strength left to disconnect the rest of his nervous system and slip into a peaceful death. His corpse would decay swiftly, even in this dry climate, and some day only his empty suit would be discovered. These artificial Earthman bodies were designed to rot in a hurry, bones and all, once the inner spark of Dirnan life was withdrawn; the planners took every precaution to keep the watched from learning of the presence of the watchers. Mirtin waited.

Morning came, a slow increase of brightness rising out of the gully. He lay patiently. Another morning, and then another, and all would be over. He reviewed his life. He thought of Glair and Vorneen, and how deeply he had loved them. He wondered, in a calm way, whether it had been fruitful to give his life for his world like this.

He became aware, eventually, that someone was approaching him.

Mirtin had not expected that. He was already resigned to lying broken-backed in the desert for his arbitrarily chosen three days, letting the clock run out, and extinguishing himself. Yet it seemed he would be discovered after all.

Though he could not lift his head, he could roll his eyes. In the distance he saw an Earthman and a pet animal corning toward him, though not in any purposeful way. They moved circuitously, the animal leaping and frolicking, the Earthman pausing to hurl stones into the gully. Mirtin debated the proper course to take. A quick death, now, before he was discovered? If any risk existed that he would be brought before authorities, he was bound by oath to destroy himself. But the Earthman looked young. A boy, merely. Mirtin forced himself to think in English, to shift his entire frame of reference. What was the animal? He had forgotten most of what he knew about local mammals. Cat, rat, bat? Dog. Dog. The dog was on his scent, now. A small lean brown creature with a long white-tufted tail, a bristly nose, yellow eyes. Heading this way. Sniffing. Mirtin could see the bony ridges along the dog’s back. The boy followed.

The black snout was up against his faceplate now. The boy stood over him, eyes wide, mouth agape. Mirtin summoned his knowledge. The boy was in the prepuberty stage, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Black hair, black-brown eyes, light brown skin. A Negro-group member? No. The hair was straight. The lips were thin. The nose was narrow-bridged. A member of the surviving aborigines of this continent. Does he speak English? Is he malevolent? The mouth no longer gaped. Now it was closed, its corners turning upward. A smile. A sign of friendliness. Mirtin tried to smile too, and was relieved to find that his facial muscles worked.

“Hello,” the boy said. “Are you hurt?”

“I — Yes. I’m hurt very badly.”

The boy knelt beside him. Shining dark eyes peered into his own. The dog, tail wagging, nosed around Mirtin, prodding at him. With a quick slap the boy sent the animal away. Mirtin sensed sympathy from the young Earthman.