In the morning they broke camp and descended the ridge, stumbling and sliding on a trail made slick by the rain. Those who had paid little attention to the great basin in the meadow the night before now studied it with interest as they approached it. Salaman in particular seemed fascinated by it, pausing more than once to stare.

When they were not far above it, so near to it that they could no longer make out the entire bowl-shape but could only see the curve of the closest section of the rim, Salaman said suddenly, “I know what it is.”

“Do you, now?” said Harruel.

“It must be a place where a death-star struck the earth.”

Harruel laughed harshly. “O far-seeing one! O keeper of wisdom!”

“Mock me if you like,” said Salaman. “I think it’s the truth, all the same. Here, look at this.”

There was a low place in the path before them that had held the rain, and now was little more than a pool of soft gray mud. Salaman scooped up a rock so heavy he could scarcely lift it, and tossed it forward with all his strength on a high arc, so that it landed with a great plop in the middle of the pool. Splashes of mud were flung up far and wide, landing on Nittin and Galihine and Bruikkos.

Salaman ignored their angry protests. He ran forward and pointed to the place where the rock had fallen. It lay half buried in the soft ground, and everywhere about it the mud had been displaced in an equal way to form a circular crater with a distinct rim clearly outlined.

“Do you see?” he said. “The death-star lands in the middle of the meadow. The ground is flung up around it on all sides. And this is what results.”

Harruel looked at him, astounded.

He had no way of knowing whether what Salaman had said was true or not. Who could tell what had actually happened here hundreds of thousands of years ago? What amazed and troubled him was the keenness of Salaman’s reasoning. To have thought everything through like that, to visualize the crater, to guess how it might have been formed, to realize that he could create the same effect by heaving a rock into the mud — why, that was the sort of thing Hresh might have done. But no one else. Salaman had never shown signs of such sharpness of intellect before. He had been just one more quiet young warrior, obediently going about his tasks.

Harruel told himself it would be wise to keep closer watch on Salaman. He could be very valuable. He could also be a problem.

Konya said, “We can see the rock lying in the mud. Why can’t we see the death-star still there in front of us? There’s nothing in the center of this thing but greenery.”

“It’s been many years,” said Salaman. “Perhaps the death-star disappeared long ago.”

“While the crater itself remained?”

Shrugging, Salaman said, “Death-stars might have been made of some material that doesn’t last long. They could have been huge balls of ice, perhaps. Or solid masses of fire. How would I know? Hresh might know such a thing, but not I. All I tell you is that I think that is how the bowl in front of us was formed. You may agree with me or not, as you wish, Konya.”

They went closer. When they were near the rim Harruel saw that it was not a tenth as sharply outlined as it had seemed from above. It was worn and rounded, and barely apparent in some places. From the ridge it had stood out because of its contrast to the meadow around it, but down here he could see how the storms of time had smoothed and eroded it. That gave Harruel all the more respect for Salaman’s theory, and for Salaman.

Konya said, “If a death-star really did land here, we should not enter.”

Harruel, standing on the rim looking down into the dense shrubbery beyond, where he could already see plump animals moving about, glanced back at him.

“Why not?”

“It is a place cursed by the gods. It is a place of death.”

“It looks pretty lively to me,” said Harruel.

“The death-stars were sent as a sign of the anger of the gods. Should we go near the place where one lies buried? The breath of the gods is on this place. There is fire here. There is doom here.”

Harruel considered that a moment.

“Let’s go around it,” Konya said.

“No,” said Harruel finally. “This is a place of life. Whatever anger the gods may have had, it was intended for the Great World, not for us. Else why would the gods have seen us through the Long Winter? The gods meant to take the world from those who used to live upon it and give it to us. If a death-star struck here, this is a holy place.”

He was impressed with his own cunning reasoning, and his surprising burst of eloquence, which had made his head throb from the effort. And he knew that he could not let Konya’s caution rule him here. The thing to do was to go forward, always to go forward. That was what kings did.

Konya said, “Harruel, I still think we should—”

“No!” cried Harruel. He scrambled up the side of the crater’s rim and over the edge, down into the green basin below. The animals that were grazing there gazed calmly at him, unafraid. Possibly they had never seen human beings before, or enemies of any kind. This was a sheltered place. “Follow me!” Harruel called. “There’s meat for the taking here!” And he plunged forward, with all the rest, even Konya, losing no time in coming after him.

There was rage burning in Koshmar’s breast all the time now; but she kept it hidden, for the tribe’s sake, and Torlyri’s, and her own.

There was no hour when she did not relive the Day of the Breaking Apart. It obsessed her by day and it came back to haunt her by night. “The rule of women is over,” she heard Harruel saying, again and again. “From this day forth I am king.” King! Nonsensical word! Man-chieftain! Man-chieftains were for creatures like the Bengs, not for the People! “Who will come with me?” Harruel asked. His harsh voice echoed and echoed and echoed within her. “This city is a sickness, and we must leave it! Who will join me in founding a great kingdom far from here? Who will go with Harruel? Who? Who?”

Konya. Salaman. Bruikkos. Nittin. Lakkamai.

“Who will go with Harruel? Who? Who? Be chieftain all you like, Koshmar. The city is yours. I will go from it and cease to trouble you any longer.”

Minbain. Galihine. Weiawala. Thaloin. Nettin.

One by one going to Harruel’s side, while she stood like a woman of stone, letting them go, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them.

The names of those who had gone were a burning rebuke to her. She had thought of asking Hresh not to enter them, or any of this, in the chronicles. And then she had realized that it must be entered, all of it, the splitting of the tribe, the defeat of the chieftain. For that was what it was, a defeat, the worst defeat any chieftain of the tribe had ever suffered. The chronicles must not be only a record of triumph. Koshmar told herself sternly that they must hold the truth, the totality of the truth, if they were to have any value for those who will read them in ages yet unborn.

One adult out of every six had chosen to turn away from her rule. Now the tribe was strangely and sadly shrunken, some of its boldest warriors gone, and promising young women, and two babes, the hope of the future. Hope? What hope could there be now? “The city is yours,” Harruel had said, but then he had gone on to say, “Or rather, it belongs to the Helmet People, now.” Yes. That was the truth. They swarmed in Vengiboneeza. They were everywhere. It was truly their city now. When they encountered members of the People in some outlying district there were angry glares, sometimes, and harsh words, as though the Bengs resented such an intrusion on their domain. Only occasionally now did Hresh and his Seekers go out to roam the ruins in search of the treasures of the Great World, though Hresh still seemed to go fairly often into the Beng sector for his meetings with their old man. That relationship appeared to have an existence of its own, wholly outside the tensions that were building up between the two peoples. But otherwise the tribe had pulled back, staying close to its settlement, licking the wounds that the Day of the Breaking Apart had inflicted.