"Mm-hm. Sure. You're not going to hurt me. You're just going to reprogram me."

Jessie sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. "Jim, we're not going to do anything. You're going to do it. We can't make you do anything you don't want to do."

"I don't want to be reprogrammed."

"That's the army talking, that's not you. When you know what's available to you, you'll feel like a jerk for having waited so long to take the plunge. And we don't reprogram people here, Jim. We unprogram them. But you're going to have to be willing to let go of all that old programming before anything can happen." She patted my arm and let go. "Don't worry about it-and don't be impatient. It'll happen when you're ready for it to happen. You'll let us know when you're ready. You'll ask to join the Tribe."

"Not bloody likely," I said.

Jessie laughed. "Obviously, you're still not ready yet. Why don't you go and help Valerie and Loolie pull the weeds out of the garden. At least you can make yourself useful that way."

"What if I don't?"

She shrugged. "If there's no food, we all go hungry."

"I've seen what you eat. That's not a threat."

"Try being hungry-really hungry-for a while, Jim. Then we'll see how you feel about it."

She was right.

I went and pulled weeds. Falstaff followed me. At one point, Orson joined him and the two of them spread out across the grass like big fat hairy water balloons. They crooned and farted and waited for me to do something stupid.

I was just starting on the second row of weeds when Jason came looking for me. "What are you doing that for, Jim? You're a guest. "

I straightened up, brushing the dirt from my hands. "Jessie said if I don't work, I don't eat."

Jason shook his head, frowning. "I doubt she said it that way, Jim. But I'm sure that's the way you heard it. Forget that for now. Come take a walk with me."

He took me by the elbow and we walked along a shaded lane that circled the main part of the camp. Falstaff followed grumpily behind at a distance.

"I know this is rough for you, Jim. It's always roughest on the military mind-set. Ask Ray about it. He used to be in the service. Let him tell you how he came to the light."

I shrugged. I probably would talk to Ray. How could he violate his sworn oath to uphold, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States?

"You have a question, Jim?"

"No," I said.

"Don't be a liar, Jim. You have a lot of questions. Listen to me. All we have-the only thing we have-is our language. If you use the language with precision, you'll be astonished at the results you can produce. If you use the language for imprecision-to hide behind, to befuddle, to confuse, to justify, rationalize, or excuse-then what will happen will be frustration and upset and hurt, for yourself as well as everybody around you. Of all the ways to misuse the language, lying is the most obscene misuse of all." He looked at me with intense blue eyes. His expression was very hard and very cold. There was no place to hide from that look. "Please, don't ever lie to me again."

I didn't answer. I forced myself to meet his gaze.

"Don't worry about hurting my feelings, Jim. I don't have any. If you have anything at all to say to me, ever, then all I ask is that you tell me the truth."

I nodded. "All right."

"So, what's your question?" he probed.

I looked around, I looked at my shoes, I looked back at Falstaff, I looked back to Jason. I shook my head. "I don't like being held prisoner. "

"You'ro not a prisoner. You're a guest."

"If I'm a guest, then I should be able to leave whenever I want, shouldn't I? What would happen if I just started walking away from here? What would Falstaff do?"

"Try it and see," said Jason. "Go ahead." He pointed toward the road. "Go on."

"Okay," I said. "Come on, Falstaff. Let's go to the road."

Falstaff said, "Browr, " and followed me. His body humped and flowed.

We got halfway up the sloping dirt drive when Falstaff decided that was far enough.

"Nrrrt," he warned.

I kept walking.

"Nrrrr-Rrrrt," he warned me again.

I glanced back at Delandro. He was watching with an amused smile. He waved. I waved back and kept walking.

Falstaff said, "Brrrrattt," and flowed up beside me. One of his long gangling arms unfolded from his body, reached up and over toward me. The claw at the end of it came down and clamped gently, but firmly, around my shoulder. Still being gentle, Falstaff turned me around to face him.

He held me before him. I could have reached out and touched his face. He cocked his eyes, one up, one down, in a half-familiar, lost-Muppet expression. It would have been ludicrous if it hadn't been so terrifying.

He said, "Nrrr-Rrr-Rrrt."

I didn't understand the phrase, but I sure understood the tone. He was telling me no.

He slid his claw-hand down my shoulder. I thought it would feel cold and metallic, but it didn't. His hand felt like the soft pads of a dog's foot; a little rough and leathery, but warm.

I said, "I got it, Falstaff. Thank you."

I reached up to my arm and took his claw-hand in mine. He let me. I looked in his eyes, then I looked at his paw. It was a remarkable piece of biological machinery. I touched the soft part of it with my finger. There was pink fur growing between the pads, just like on a dog's paw. I spread two of the pads and looked at the dark flesh between. It was smooth. Falstaff giggled.

At least it sounded like a giggle.

"I beg your pardon?" I said. I looked at him. His eyes were huge and black and remarkably patient. He was a fascinating creature. If I had ever doubted it, there was no question about it now; the Chtorran gastropedes were far more intelligent than any of us had given them credit for. The best guess of the scientists at Denver was that the gastropedes ranked just above apes or baboons or dolphins. I suspected we'd been underestimating them. Again.

Falstaff took my hand then. He turned it over between his two claw-hands and examined the pads of my palm the same way I had examined his. He stroked the sensitive part of my palm with a touch as gentle as a feather-and I giggled at the softness of it.

I almost wanted to hug him. He smelled spicy.

And then the moment was over and I realized I was playing handsy-footsy with a half ton of man-eating worm, and I pulled back. "Come on," I said. "Let's go back."

Falstaff burped and purred and followed me.

At the bottom of the hill, Delandro was smiling proudly. "You did good, Jim. The very first step is the hardest, but it's the most necessary. You have to stop seeing the worms as your enemy."

I said, "And see them instead as my jailers?"

"Oh, no. Falstaff stopped you for your own protection. There are wild worms out there. They don't know that you're friendly. They'd kill you. Falstaff would let you go if he thought you'd be safe, but he knows you're not. His job-and Orson's too-is to protect the camp from marauders. You're our guest, so that protection includes you. You should talk to him more often, Jim, like you just did. Tell him thank you. He likes it. Good job, Falstaff. "

Delandro turned to the worm. "Gimme five," he said, and held out his hand. Falstaff slapped it gently with his right claw. Delandro laughed and hugged him fondly. He began scratching the beast vigorously just ahead of his brain-bump. Falstaff arched his back and made a rumbling sound.

"Go ahead, Jim, he loves to be skritched. Try it." He stepped out of the way.

I stepped up beside Falstaff. He looked as big as a horse. I began scratching his back gently. One of the claw-hands unfolded then, took my hand and moved it forward, just to the base of the eyestalks.

"He's showing you where he likes it," Delandro said. "He likes you, Jim."

"I'm-uh, flattered." I started scratching again.