It seemed fitting that they would probably die together in the attempt, uselessly.

In his sadness, Uthacalthing found the energy to lift his tendrils slightly. They fashioned a simple glyph of regret as he raised his head to face Kault.

He was about to speak when something very surprising suddenly happened. Uthacalthing felt a presence wing past in the night. He started. But no sooner had it been there than it was gone.

Did I imagine it? Am I falling apart?

Then it was back! He gasped in surprise, kenning as it circled the tent in an ever-tightening spiral, brushing at last against the fringes of his indrawn aura. He looked up, trying to spot something that whirled just beyond the fringe of their shelter.

What am I doing? Trying to see a glyph?

He closed his eyes and let the un-thing approach. Uthacalthing opened a kenning.

“Puyr’iturumbul!” he cried.

Kault swiveled. “What is it, my friend? What… ?”

But Uthacalthing had risen. As if drawn up by a string he stepped out into the cool night.

The breeze brought odors to his nostrils as he sniffed, using all his senses to seek in the acherontic darkness. “Where are you?” Uthacalthing called. “Who is there?”

Two figures stepped forward into a dim pool of moonlight. So it is true! Uthacalthing thought. A human had sought him out with an empathy sending, one so skillful it might have come from a young Tymbrimi.

And that was not the end to surprises. He blinked at the tall, bronzed, bearded warrior — who looked like nothing but one of the heroes of those pre-Contact Earthling barbarian epics — and let out another cry of amazement as he suddenly recognized Robert Oneagle, the playboy son of the Planetary Coordinator!

“Good evening, sir,” Robert said as he stopped a few meters away and bowed.

Standing a little behind Robert, the neo-chimpanzee, Jo-Jo, wrung his hands nervously. This, certainly, was not according to the original plan. He did not meet Uthacalthing’s eyes.

“V’hooman’ph? Idatess!” Kault exclaimed in Galactic Six. “Uthacalthing, what is a human doing here?”

Robert bowed again. Enunciating carefully, he made formal greetings to both of them, including their full species-names. Then he went on in Galactic Seven.

“I have come a long way, honored gentlebeings, in order to invite you all to a party.”

“Easy, Tycho. Easy!”

The normally placid animal bucked and pulled at its reins. Fiben, who had never been much of a horseman, was forced to dismount hurriedly and grab the animal’s halter.

“There now. Relax,” he soothed. “It’s just another transport going by. We’ve heard ’em all day. It’ll be gone soon.”

As he promised, the shrieking whine faded as the flying machine passed quickly overhead and disappeared beyond the nearby trees, traveling in the direction of Port Helenia.

A lot had changed since Fiben had first come this way, mere weeks after the invasion. Then he had walked in sunshine down a busy highway, surrounded by spring’s verdant colors. Now he felt blustery winds at his back as he passed through a valley showing all the early signs of a bitter winter. Half the trees had already dropped their leaves, leaving them in drifts across meadows and lanes. Orchards were bare of fruit, and the back roads devoid of traffic.

Surface traffic, that is. Overhead the swarm of transports seemed incessant. Gravities teased his peripheral nerves as Gubru machines zoomed past. The first few times, his hackles had risen from more than just the pulsing fields. He had expected to be challenged, to be stopped, perhaps to be shot on sight.

But in fact the Galactics had ignored him altogether, apparently not deigning to distinguish one lonely chim from others who had been sent out to help with the harvest, or the specialists who had begun staffing a few of the ecological management stations once again Fiben had spoken with a few of the latter, many of them old acquaintances. They told of how they had given their parole in exchange for freedom and low-level support to resume their work. There wasn’t much to be done, of course, with winter coming on. But at least there was a program again, and the Gubru seemed quite satisfied to leave them alone to do their work.

The invaders were, indeed, preoccupied elsewhere. The real focus of Galactic activity seemed to be over to the southwest, toward the spaceport.

And the ceremonial site, Fiben reminded himself. He didn’t really know what he was going to do in the unlikely event he actually made it through to town. What would happen if he just marched right up to the shabby house that had been his former prison? Would the Suzerain of Propriety take him back?

Would Gailet?

Would she even be there?

He passed a few chims dressed in muffled cloaks, who desultorily picked through the stubble in a recently harvested field. They did not greet him, nor did he expect them to. Gleaning was a job generally given the poorest sort of Probationer. Still, he felt their gaze as he walked Tycho toward Port Helehia. After the animal had calmed a bit, Fiben clambered back onto the saddle and rode.

He had considered trying to reenter Port Helenia the way he left it, over the wall, at night. After all, if it had worked once, why not a second time? Anyway, he had no wish to meet up with the followers of the Suzerain of Cost and Caution.

It was tempting. Somehow, though, he figured that once was lucky. Twice would be simple stupidity.

Anyway, the choice was made for him when he rounded a bend and found himself staring at a Gubru guard post. Two battle robots of sophisticated design whirled and focused upon him.

“Easy does it, guys.” Fiben said it more for his own benefit than theirs. If they were programmed to shoot on sight, he never would have seen them in the first place.

In front of the blockhouse there sat a squat armored hover craft, propped up on blocks. Two pairs of three-toed feet stuck out from underneath, and it did not take much knowledge of Galactic Three to tell that the chirped mutter-ings were expressing frustration. When the robots’ warning whistled forth there came a sharp bang under the hover, followed by an indignant squawk.

Soon a pair of hooked beaks poked out of the shadows. Yellow eyes watched him unblinkingly. One of the disheveled Gubru rubbed its dented head frill.

Fiben pressed his lips together to fight back a smile. He dismounted and approached until he was even with the bunker, puzzled when neither the aliens nor the machines spoke to him.

He stopped before the two Gubru and bowed low.

They looked at each other and twittered irritably to each other. From one there came something that sounded like a resigned moan. The two Talon Soldiers emerged from under the disabled machine and stood up. Each of them returned a very slight but noticeable nod.

Silence stretched.

One of the Gubru whistled another faint sigh and brushed dust from its feathers. The other simply glared at Fiben.

Now what? he tried to think, but what was he supposed to do? Fiben’s toes itched.

He bowed again. Then, with a dry mouth, he backed away and took the horse’s tether. With affected nonchalance he started walking toward the dark fence surrounding Port Helenia, now visible just a kilometer ahead.

Tycho nickered, swished his tail, and cut loose an aromatic crepidation.

Tycho, pu-lease! Fiben thought. When a bend in the road at last cut off all view of the Gubru, Fiben sank to the ground. He just sat and shook for a few moments.

“Well,” he said at last. “I guess there really is a truce after all.”

After that, the guard post at the town gate was almost anticlimactic. Fiben actually enjoyed making the Talon Soldiers acknowledge his bow. He remembered some of what Gailet had taught him about Galactic protocol. Grudging acknowledgment from the client-class Kwackoo had been vital to achieve. To get it from the Gubru was delicious.