“Bring him up slow.”

The Mouse gazed down into the fog. The first rider gained the rock, links clattering on the stone ten feet away. He came up dragging his net. He released the straps from his wrist, unplugged the connections from his arms, kneeled, and unplugged the lower sockets from his wet ankles. Now he dragged the net over his shoulder across the wide dock. The fog-floats at the net’s edge still took the major weight of the web, buoying it through the air. Without them, the Mouse judged, not taking into account the slightly heavier gravity, the sprawling entrapment mechanism would probably weigh several hundred pounds.

Three more riders came up over the edge, their damp hair lank along their masks—standing out curly and red on one man’s head—dragging their nets. Alex limped between two companions.

Four more riders followed. A blond, chunky man had just unplugged his net from his left wrist, when he looked up at the Mouse. Red eye-plates flittered in the black mask as he cocked his head. “Hey”—it was a guttural grunt—”that on your hip. What is?” His free hand pushed back his thick hair.

The Mouse looked down and up. “Huh?”

The man kicked the net loose from his left boot. His right foot was bare. “A sensory-syrynx is, hey?”

The Mouse grinned. “Yeah.

The man nodded. “A kid once who really the devil could play I knew—” He stopped, the head uncocked. He pried his thumb beneath the jaw of his mask. Mouth-guard and eye-plates came away.

When it hit him, the Mouse felt the tickly thing happen in his throat which was another aspect of his speech defect. He clamped his jaws and opened his lips; then he closed his lips and opened his teeth. You can’t speak that way either. So he tried to let it out with a tentative question mark; it rasped in uncontrolled exclamation: “Leo!”

The squinting features broke. “You, Mouse, it is!”

“Leo, what are you…? But…!” Leo dropped the net from his other wrist, kicked the plug loose from his other ankle, then scooped up a handful of links. “You with me to the net-house come! Five years, a dozen… but more…”

The Mouse still grinned because that was all that was left to do. He scooped up links himself, and they dragged the net—with the help of the fog-floats—across the rock. “Hey, Caro, Bolsum, this the Mouse is!”

Two of the men turned around.

“You a kid I talked about remember? This him is. Hey, Mouse, you a half a foot taller even aren’t! How many years, seven, eight, it is? And you, still the syrynx have?” Leo looked around at the sack. “You good are, I bet. But you good were.”

“Did you ever get hold of a syrynx for yourself, Leo? We could play together

Leo shook his head with an embarrassed grin. “Istanbul the last time a syrynx I held, Not since. By now I it all have forgotten.”

“Oh,” the Mouse said and sensed loss.

“Hey, that the sensory-syrynx you in Istanbul stole is?”

“I’ve had it with me ever since.

Leo broke out laughing and dropped his arm around the Mouse’s sharp shoulders. The laughter (did the Mouse sense Leo’s gain?) rolled through the fisherman’s words. “And you the syrynx all that time have been playing? You for me now play. Sure! You for me the smells and sounds and colors will strike.” Big fingers bruised the dark scapula beneath the Mouse’s work vest. “Hey, Bo, Caro, you a real syrynx player now will see.”

The two riders hung back:

“You really play that thing?”

“There was a guy through here about six months ago who could tinkle out some pretty…” He made two curves in the air with his scarred hands, then elbowed the Mouse. “You know what I mean?”

“The Mouse better than that plays!” Leo insisted,

“Leo couldn’t stop talking about this kid he used to know on Earth. He said he’d taught this kid to play himself, but when we gave Leo the syrynx…” He shook his head, laughing.

“But this the kid is!” Leo exclaimed, rounding the Mouse’s shoulder.

“Huh?”

“Oh!”

“The Mouse this is!”

They walked into the double-storied door of the net house. From high racks, swaying nets curtained labyrinths. The riders hung their nets on tenterhook arrangements that lowered from the ceiling by pullies. Once stretched, a rider could repair broken links, readjust the response couplers which caused the net to move and shape itself to the nerve impulses from the plugs.

Two riders were wheeling out a great machine with a lot of teeth.

“What’s that?”

“With that they will the arolat butcher.”

“Arolat?” The Mouse nodded.

“That’s what we here hunt. Aqualats down around Black Table they hunt.”

“Oh.”

“But Mouse, what here you are doing?” They walked through jingling links. “You in the nets will a while stay? You for a while with us will work? I a crew that a new man needs know—”

“I’m just on leave from a ship that’s stopping over here awhile. It’s the Roc, Captain Von Ray.”

“Von Ray? A Pleiades ship is?”

“That’s right.”

Leo hauled down the hooking mechanism from the high beams and began to spread his net. “What it in Draco doing is?”

“The captain has to stop at the Alkane Institute for some technical information.”

Leo gave a yank on the pulley chain and the hooks clattered up another ten feet. He began to spread out the next layer.

“Von Ray, yes. That a good ship must be. When I first into Draco came”—He strained black links across the next hook—no one from the Pleiades ever into Draco came. One or two, maybe. I alone was.” The links snapped in place; Leo hauled the chain again. The top of the net rose into the light from the upper windows. “Nowadays many people from the Federation I meet. Ten on this shore work. And ships back and forth all the time go.” He shook his head unhappily.

Somebody called from across the work area. “Hey, where’s the doc?” Her voice echoed in the webs. “Alex’s been waiting here five minutes now.”

Leo rattled his web to make sure it was firm. They looked back toward the door. “Don’t worry! He’ll here come!” he hollered out. He caught the Mouse’s shoulder. “You with me go!”

They walked through the hangings. Other riders were still hooking.

“Hey, you gonna play that?”

They looked up.

The rider climbed halfway down the links, then jumped to ‘the floor. “This I want to see.”

“Sure he is,” Leo exclaimed.

“You know, really I…” the Mouse began. As glad as he was to see Leo, he had been enjoying his private musings.

“Good! Cause Leo ain’t been talking about nothing else.”

As they continued through the webs, other riders joined them.

Alex sat at the bottom of the steps up to the observation balcony. He held his shoulder, and leaned his head against the spokes. Occasionally he sucked in his unshaven cheeks.

“Look,” the Mouse said to Leo, “why don’t we just go someplace and get something to drink? We can talk some, maybe. I’ll play for you before we go…

“Now you play!” Leo insisted. “Later we talk.”

Alex opened his eyes. “Is this the guy you—he grimaced—”were telling us about, Leo?”

“See, Mouse. After a dozen years, a reputation you have.” Leo pulled over an upside-down lubricant drum that rasped on the cement. “Now you sit.”

“Come on, Leo.” The Mouse switched to Greek. “I don’t really feel like it. Your friend is sick, and doesn’t want to be bothered—”

“Malakas!” Alex said, then spat bloody froth between his frayed knees.’ “Play something. You’ll take my mind off the hurt. Damn it, when is the medico going to get here?”

“Something for Alex you play.”

“It’s just…” The Mouse looked at the injured net-rider, then at the other men and women standing along the wall.

A grin mixed into the pain on Alex’s face. “Give us a number, Mouse.

He didn’t want to play.

“All right.”

He took his syrynx from the sack and ducked his head through the strap. “The doc will probably get here right in the middle,” the Mouse commented.