Beginnings

Honor wasn't sure what had drawn her attention to the treecats initially.

Their cream and gray coats provided excellent natural camouflage, and like all of their species, this pair was capable of holding still with the absolute, motionless patience of a predator. She'd considered addressing them as a matter of courtesy, after she'd noticed them watching her. There were those—including many people born right here on Sphinx, who should have known better—who continued to doubt the level of treecat intelligence, but Honor wasn't one of them. She'd read Stephanie Harrington's journal, and the diaries of a dozen other Harringtons who'd been adopted over the last three T-centuries. There was no question in her mind that 'cats were at least as smart as, if not smarter than, the majority of humans she'd ever met. At least some of them clearly understood Standard English far better than most people believed, and as far as she was concerned, that was the crowning proof of their intelligence. Stephanie Harrington's journal had made it clear how frustrating she and Lionheart had both found their inability to communicate fully, and Stephanie's hypothesis—that the 'cats had to be functional telepaths among their own kind—only made the fact that they had ultimately made the leap to comprehending a spoken language even more impressive.

But she couldn't be certain these two would have understood her, and they'd kept their distance, which meant they might have considered it rudeness, not courtesy, if she'd intruded upon them. Besides, these were their woods even more than they were hers. The Harrington Freehold was one of the minority of original freeholds which had been maintained completely intact, passed from generation to generation without a break ever since it was first granted to Richard and Marjorie Harrington all those T-years ago, but the ‘cats had been here even before them. If they were gracious enough to share with the Harringtons, then they had every right to be the ones who initiated any contact.

There'd been a few times, especially when she'd been younger, when Honor had rather wistfully considered the possibility that she might be adopted by one of them. No one knew exactly what drew a 'cat to a human—or to a particular human—although more members of Honor's family had been adopted than of any other family on Sphinx. Whatever it was, though, humans didn't choose ‘cats; ‘cats chose them, and their standards were obviously picky.

The truth was that Honor had been surprised that any treecats ever bonded with humans when she'd discovered how long the 'cats lived in the wild. Humans had been slow to realize a treecat could reach well over a hundred and fifty T-years, and none of them had realized at first that bonded treecats virtually never survived their human partners' deaths. The thought of all the 'cats who had chosen humans, even after they knew how short-lived those humans were, how much of their own lives they would sacrifice, still brought tears to her eyes, and she wondered what could possibly have been strong enough to lead them to it.

At least prolong's changing that at last, she thought now. I wonder if the 'cats have realized it, though? Daddy's only first-generation prolong, after all; have enough of us lived long enough for them even to notice the difference? Have they figured out that now the humans are going to be outliving them, instead? And if they have, how will that change their attitude towards adopting?

She didn't have the least idea how to answer those questions, and they didn't much matter in her case, anyway. She'd had more contact with them than the vast majority of humans could ever hope to, and none of them had chosen her. They obviously liked her, and she could pick out at least a dozen of them—especially the ones who had gone hang-gliding with her—from their relatives, yet none of them had ever looked into her eyes the way Lionheart had looked into Stephanie's.

Just as well, she told herself now, standing still and watching the treecats flow away through the trees. Treecats belong here, on Sphinx. It wouldn't be fair to take one of them off world, and I don't know if one of them could even stand being separated from all the rest of his clan for T-years on end. Even if he could, how could I justify asking him to, anyway? Besides, if there's one thing guaranteed to screw up my plans, it would be a treecat!

The Navy's official policy ever since Queen Adrienne had been that humans who were adopted by treecats were allowed to take those treecats with them aboard ship and at their duty stations. But Honor suspected the Navy was probably less than delighted at the prospect of dealing with a bonded pair, whatever the Regulations might say, which was an excellent reason for someone hoping for an appointment to the Academy not to add that to her baggage. It would be harder for the daughter of a yeoman to secure one of the precious appointments, anyway, although being the daughter of a yeoman named Commander Alfred Harrington probably wouldn't hurt. It might not help enough to get a treecat past the selection board, though, whatever official policy might be. Besides, she knew the Navy's practice where adoptions were concerned was to direct the human partner's career track into one which would keep her and her companion right here in the Manticore Binary System, on one of the space stations or on dirtside duty, where they could return readily to Sphinx at need. That might not be what the Regs stipulated, but that didn't change the policy. Nor should it, really. Honor might long for the Navy, but she was Sphinxian to the bone and she was a Harrington. The drive to protect treecats was in her DNA, so how could she possibly object to a policy that kept them safe and close to home, where they belonged?

Still, the discovery of that policy was the reason she'd abandoned any thought of 'cat adoption by the time she was eleven. Even if the opportunity had offered, she would have had to refuse it if she ever hoped to command one of His Majesty's starships and deploy to the distant stars she longed to see. The odds were monumentally against her ever securing that sort of command even without the encumberance of a 'cat, and she knew it, because there weren't that many commands to go around and the families with influence tended to monopolize the best ones. But if she was going to dream of a Navy career, she might as well dream of the one for which she truly hungered.

She waited until the last flicker of moving 'cat had vanished into the gentle stir of breeze-touched leaves, then drew a deep breath. The cool mist of Jessica Falls drifted to her under the trees, caressing her cheek almost like a farewell from the treecats, and she felt it in her lungs like some cleansing elixir. She stood a moment longer, gazing up at the falls' plunge down the ninety-meter cliff, letting the unending, rumbling thunder and the splash and gurgle of the rapids soak into her bones, then turned and headed downstream for the near-beaver dam and the mountain tulips she'd come to collect.

* * *

<The trees' pods may be thinner than usual,> Sharp Nose remarked as he and Climbs Quickly scampered through the net-wood, <but the swimmers seem numerous to me!>

<That is because they are,> Laughs Brightly replied. <And I believe they are larger than in seasons past, as well.> He paused, gazing down at the wide rings radiating across the still surface of the lake builders' water where one of the striped swimmers had risen to capture an incautious small flyer. <I believe they have fed well because the swift darters have been so few. There are more of the small flyers for them to feed upon, and they have grown fat and sleek.>

<There is always something to feed upon such bounty,> Sharp Nose agreed, and then felt a quick flicker of embarrassment as he tasted Laughs Brightly's silent chuckle. He hadn't meant to sound like a clan elder tutoring some newly weaned kitten!

<You are correct about that,> Laughs Brightly told him after a moment, his tone an apology for his amusement. <Come, though. We should see how the lake builders are faring. After all, they are sometimes easier to catch than swimmers!>

<But not necessarily safer to catch,> Sharp Nose pointed out, sending a mind picture of the lake builders' formidable teeth. A fully grown lake builder was actually larger and much heavier than a Person, and while they preferred to flee to some safe, underwater hiding place when danger threatened, they could be formidable fighters if they were cornered.

<The world promises no one safety, little brother,> Laughs Brightly told him. <The trick is to remember that most clearly when the danger seems farthest away.>

Sharp Nose flicked his tail in agreement, and the two of them flowed onward through the net-wood. Fallen leaves drifted on the surface of the lake below them. There were more of them than there would normally have been at this time of year, another sign of the season's dryness, and some of the branches about them showed signs of death and brittleness.

<The bark-borers have been busy here, as well,> he pointed out, and tasted Laughs Brightly's unhappy agreement.

<The gray ones like the taste of net-wood more than most. And they bore deeper than many of the others. Help me take note of which of the bridges are worst damaged, Sharp Nose. It will be well for the clan's hunters to know where to take the greatest care.>

* * *

Honor grimaced as she passed a red spruce more than half of whose scaled, blue-green leaves had turned brown and yellow. She'd seen more and more of those, and she'd made a mental note to com the Forestry Service about it. There was plenty of sign of bark beetles and flat case borers, which was only to be expected, she supposed, after such a dry summer. The rock martins and hill swallows which would normally have preyed on them hatched far fewer fledglings in years like this one. Reproduction rates for both species of bird analogue were tied to a whole host of environmental and climatic factors, and they were always lower in particularly dry seasons. Probably because the insect species upon which they usually subsisted were likely to be in shorter supply, she thought. Unfortunately, whatever might have been the case elsewhere on Haley's Land, there seemed to be plenty of moisture along Rock Aspen Creek, and the insect population here was doing just fine. In fact, it had gotten considerably worse since her last visit, and she was seeing plenty of evidence of leaf cutter ants and leaf shearers, too.

It was all part of the natural cycle of the planet, and the SFS was scarcely likely to fog the area with insecticides, but the Rangers did like to keep track of data like this. And the flat case borers, especially, were some of the worst tree-killers in Sphinx's entire ecosystem.

I wonder if that's what those two 'cats were out here checking on? This is a fairly important part of their range in fall and winter. It'd make sense for them to keep an eye on it in a year like this one. I hope they're not going to end up short of food this winter!

She knew that happened sometimes, and it was always hard for anyone who cared about the 'cats. Treecats who turned up at one of the Forestry Service's stations in a distressed state could count on being fed and offered emergency medical care, but the SFS had decided centuries ago not to intervene in the wild except in cases of disaster relief. Hard winters didn't constitute “disaster” by the Forestry Service's definition unless they produced acute starvation, and intellectually, Honor understood why that was. Offering assistance too readily was likely to encourage both 'cat dependency on humans and the sort of overpopulation which led to genuine catastrophe. Not that understanding the policy would prevent her or her parents from providing meals to any ‘cats who turned up at their front door. In fact, they could usually count on at least one treecat visitor every week or so during the winter. It was painfully obvious that word had gotten around long ago that the Harringtons were an easy touch who always had celery stashed away somewhere.

The creek broadened and deepened as she approached the near-beaver dam. The meter-long critters could top sixty kilos in weight, and the stumps of red spruce, near-pine, and mountain hickory gave clear evidence of just how efficient they were as loggers. Like the merely four-limbed Old Earth species for which they had been named, near-beavers tended to cut the timber for their dams and lodges in spring or summer and let it season until they needed it for building purposes in fall and winter. They could take down trees as much as thirty-six centimeters in diameter, although they usually settled for smaller prey, and—also like Old Earth beavers—they constructed “canals” to float bigger trunks and branches to where they needed them. In many ways, they were among Sphinx's most destructive life forms, given what even a small population of them could do to woodland. On the other hand, the water they impounded behind their dams played a critical part in maintaining healthy wetlands and watersheds. And they also helped the spread of picketwood.

For some reason, they never touched picketwood. It wasn't because of any sort of toxicity issue—the SFS had determined that long ago—but picketwood was a clever survivor which had worked out resistance modes for many of the diseases and parasites (including near-beavers) which attacked other Sphinxian flora. Apparently, it just plain didn't taste good as far as near-beavers were concerned, and their habit of eating everything else along the banks of their streams and ponds cleared space for it, which had to make treecats happy.

Pity it doesn't work the same way for the flat case borers, Honor thought now, picking her way through the near-beavers' lumberyard. On the other hand, of course, if they were willing to bring down the picketwood, too, it would probably mean I could get in here with a hang glider, which would've saved me quite a hike!

She spent a couple of minutes trying to convince herself that she really would have preferred to fly, rather than hiking. The effort didn't work out very well, though, and she snorted in amusement at herself.

She reached the upstream end of the near-beaver pond proper and smiled appreciatively as a leopard trout broke the surface, leaping half out of the water to take one of the insects buzzing above the pond's surface. It wasn't the biggest leopard trout she'd ever seen—they could go was much as eighty or ninety centimeters in length—but it was certainly well grown. There was going to be some excellent fishing up this way this fall.

She looked around, getting her bearings, and saw a distant flash of purple through the tree trunks. At least the bugs hadn't eaten the mountain tulip she'd come after! Now all she had to do was hike halfway around the lake, cut the blossoms she'd come for, and then hike back home again.

* * *

Sharp Nose froze suddenly, his head coming up in alarm.

<Snow hunters!> he exclaimed, and tasted Laughs Brightly's surprise echoing his own. His brother's concern wasn't as deep as his, though, and he found Laughs Brightly's calmness reassuring.

<I did not expect to see them so far down this early in the season,> Sharp Nose added after a moment, and Laughs Brightly flicked his ears in agreement, accepting the younger treecat's explanation for his surprise.

<It does not happen often,> he agreed. <I suspect the hunting has not been as good for them as usual with the year's dryness, however. That may explain it, but best we see what we may see.>

The two treecats moved cautiously closer. Snow hunters, like death fangs, were far too big and heavy to follow a Person up into the trees, and they were normally less territorial than death fangs. That did not mean that they would not happily eat any Person they could catch, though, and only death fangs were bigger than they were. At the moment, two of them stood shoulder deep in the lake builders' pond, and as the brothers watched, one of them pounced, snatching a striped swimmer from the water and flipping its head to fling it ashore.

<There is the reason they are here,> Laughs Brightly said, and Sharp Nose tasted the suddenly stronger edge of caution in his brother's mind-glow. <They have borne young out of season.>

Sharp Nose nodded as he watched the pair of snow hunter cubs scuffling through the brush to where the wildly flopping striped swimmer had landed. They were very young, although already several times a Person's size, and their clumsiness was obvious, but there was nothing wrong with their jaws. The still squirming swimmer came apart into two unequal sized pieces as the cubs squabbled over it, and the one with the smaller piece squalled unhappily as it realized its sibling had done better than it had.

<I think the fishing is not going to be as good as we had hoped it would,> Laughs Brightly continued more glumly, and Sharp Nose could only agree once more. A single snow hunter could eat many times a Person's weight in swimmers in a single day; a pair of them, hunting to feed their young, could easily strip even a pond this size of its swimmers in short order.

And even if they did, their young were unlikely to survive through ice time, for they would not be able to sleep through the long cold.

Sharp Nose sat very still on the net-wood branch, looking down on the snow hunters, and felt a surge of sympathy for them. Snow hunters were but little brighter than death fangs, yet these two parents realized, at least dimly, how unlikely their cubs were to survive. He could taste it in the muddiness of their mind-glows. There were no thoughts to share as there would have been among the People, or to taste without sharing like the two-legs, but even snow hunters had feelings, and the fishing adults below him were angry at the approach of that dimly sensed loss to come.

<It is sad, Laughs Brightly,> he said quietly.

<If they are fortunate, if the snowfall is late, their young may live,> his brother replied.

<And how likely is that?>

<Not very,> Laughs Brightly acknowledged. <And if the hunting is as poor in the heights as I fear it is, other snow hunters will be following them. If that happens, they will be forced to fight for their range . . . and their young. For that matter, they may encounter death fangs.>

Sharp Nose's ears flattened at that thought. If anyone had ever been inclined to think of snow hunters as remotely like People, their willingness to eat the young of other snow hunters would quickly have changed his mind. And death fangs, of course, were prepared to eat anything they could catch. None of which even considered how quickly a pair of hunting snow hunters with young to feed could strip a clan's range of almost all its prey animals at a time of year when less and less of those prey animals were being born.

<The elders will not be happy to hear about this,> he observed.

<You are truly gifted with insight, little brother,> Laughs Brightly said dryly. <I cannot imagine what better neighbors the clan could desire!>

<Perhaps not,> Sharp Nose retorted. <I think, however, that it would not be amiss for us to warn Dances on Clouds to be cautious with snow hunters about.>

<Now that, Sharp Nose, is a very good idea, indeed,> Laughs Brightly agreed. <Of course, it would be far simpler if we could make her hear our mind-voices!>

<A Person cannot have everything.>

<Perhaps not, but that does not mean he cannot wish for it.>

Laughs Brightly's mind voice was very dry, and Sharp Nose sensed him turning his attention elsewhere. For a moment, Sharp Nose could not understand what his brother was doing, but then he realized, and his tail kinked in surprise. Laughs Brightly was questing for Dances on Clouds' mind-glow.

That was ridiculous at such a range, even for a scout . . . but not as ridiculous as the fact that Laughs Brightly had found what he sought.

<She comes from that direction,> he said, one true hand pointing upstream. <And she is already on the snow hunters' side of the lake builders' pond.>

<Then I think we should go to meet her,> Sharp Nose said, and leapt lightly from his net-wood branch to the next bridge over.

* * *

Honor waded across one of the canals the near-beavers had constructed in seasons past. It was well into the process of collapsing upon itself, but it was still too wide for her to simply jump over and it behooved her to be careful. The water came no higher than mid-calf, well below the tops of her boots, but the bottom's thick layer of mud was slippery and she held her S&W balanced across her shoulder to keep it out of the way while she concentrated on not losing her balance. Falling flat on her face would be as humiliating as it would unpleasant.

Not that anyone would be here to see it, she reminded herself. And if I manage to get home before Mom, I could probably be changed and clean by the time she—

Her head snapped up as a sound ripped through the whisper of breeze and rustle of leaves like a bandsaw through plyboard. It came like ripping canvas, and she'd never heard anything like it in her life. Yet somehow, she knew what it was. She felt what it was, and she hurled herself up the canal's sloping bank towards it.

* * *

<Sharp Nose!>

Laughs Brightly's mind voice was a scream of warning that came too late. His brother sprang onto the solid-looking net-wood branch . . . and half the branch collapsed into powder as he landed. The bark borers had eaten deep into it, riddling it with tunnels, and Sharp Nose's weight pulverized the surface under him. The claws which should have caught in the net-wood's bark found no purchase as the weakend, spongy wood disintegrated, and the younger treecat went tumbling into space.

His tail caught frantically at another branch as he plummeted past it, and for a moment Laughs Brightly thought he had saved himself. But it might have been better if he had simply let himself fall, for the bark borers had weakened that branch, as well. Sharp Nose's weight was just enough to break it loose from the main trunk, and it followed him down. He landed barely two People's lengths from the closer of the two snow hunter cubs, and the cub reared up in shock, squealing to its parents in alarm. And then the broken branch landed on top of him, and Laughs Brightly heard his own high-pitched squeal of pain as the impact fractured his mid-pelvis.

The adult snow hunters wheeled from their fishing as they heard their infant's panicked cry. The cub tumbled backward, away from Sharp Nose, but its parents were already lumbering out of the pond, headed for Laughs Brightly's brother. The instinct to defend their young would have been enough for that, but they were unlikely to pass up the opportunity to feed their cubs.

Laughs Brightly swarmed down the net-wood trunk, taking the time even in his frantic haste to be sure each branch would bear his weight. If he could reach Sharp Nose first, perhaps he could help him to safety in the net-wood. Perhaps—

<No, Laughs Brightly!> Sharp Nose cried. <I cannot use my hand-feet or climb! Do not come down!>

Laughs Brightly's mind-glow cried out in formless protest, but Sharp Nose was already moving, dragging his crippled body across the ground. He managed to reach a fallen gray-bark, downed by the lake builders and left to dry. It was more than half a Person's length in diameter, and he squirmed into the tangle of dry, dead branches and somehow found a space under the trunk just big enough to wedge himself into. Laughs Brightly could taste the lightning-like stabs of pain ripping through him as those broken bones shifted, but even through his anguish, Sharp Nose's voice came clearly.

<There is no reason we both should die,> he said as the first adult snow hunter began ripping a way through the gray bark's branches. <Stay where you are!>

Laughs Brightly knew his brother was right, but it didn't matter.

<No!> he shot back. <I will not leave you!>

<Do not!> Sharp Nose screamed. <Do not, Laughs Brightly!>

But it was too late. Laughs Brightly plummeted from the net-wood, snarling in desperate, hopeless fury, and landed squarely on the back of the snow hunter's neck.

* * *

Honor was still seventy-five meters away when the treecat hurled himself out of the picketwood. Even in the aftermath of the near-beavers' lumber harvesting there was more than enough underbrush to keep her from seeing clearly, but she didn't have to see. She knew what was happening. Somehow, someway, she knew.

Her heart leapt into her throat as the small, cream and gray defender landed squarely on the peak bear's neck. The huge creature was almost three meters long. It must weigh over five hundred kilos, and it howled its fury as the 'cat's razor-sharp claws slashed at it. But peak bears' hides were thick, their skins loose, riding on deep layers of fat no treecat's claws were long enough to penetrate. The 'cat could hurt and enrage the monstrous omnivore, but he couldn't possibly defeat it, and he knew it. Honor knew he knew it, because in that moment she shared that knowledge with him . . . just as she shared the knowledge that he would die trying.

The peak bear raged around in a circle, temporarily abandoning its quest to dig the other treecat—the injured treecat Honor knew was under the fallen red spruce—out of its futile burrow while it tried to reach the six-limbed fury ripping and tearing at its heavily furred pelt. Its mate galloped towards it with its species' clumsy-looking but deceptively fast gait, and Honor saw the gray flash of the attacking treecat as it somehow evaded the massive paws trying to rend it apart.

The peak bear squalled in as much frustration as pain and hurled itself down. It landed on its side, rolling, and Honor's heart tried to stop as she realized it was trying to crush the treecat under its enormous weight.

* * *

Laughs Brightly heard Sharp Nose's despairing protest, but it scarcely registered. His world had narrowed to a boil of blood-red fury as he tore into his enormous foe. There was no room or space for anything else, and he twisted and dodged even as he ripped at the snow hunter's hide. Somehow he slithered through the deadly net of the snow hunter's claws, using his own claws as if the enormous creature were a tree he was scaling. He was too close to it for it to reach, and he heard it squalling in pain and rage as he swarmed from the back of its neck, under its chin, down between the its forelegs, then back up around its shoulder as if he were scaling a fur-barked tree.

There was no time to think about what he was doing. It was all react, improvise, move or die. Yet even through the madness and the confusion, it was as if he were somewhere else, watching. He could actually see the snow hunter, recognize the moment it decided to roll and crush him, and somehow he flung himself clear in the instant before the creature crashed to earth.

* * *

Honor suddenly discovered her rifle was in her hands.

She couldn't remember how it had gotten there. Didn't remember snapping off the safety. Didn't remember bringing it to her shoulder. But somehow, there it was, and in that instant she discovered something about herself. Something she had never suspected.

She was calm. A sense of panic, of horror, hovered about her, frantic with concern for the treecats, but it couldn't touch her. It was a part of her, but it was apart from her, as well. Her hands were steady, her breathing almost normal, and her flashing thoughts were clear, clean, and icy cold.

She didn't see the treecat break clear before the peak bear landed, but somehow she knew—knew with that same certainty, that same absolute assurance—that he'd done it. And the icy precision of her brain moved her aim point from the peak bear he'd attacked. Her rifle tracked with machine-like precision, finding the other peak bear, the one who'd seen where the treecat landed and lunged towards him.

* * *

Laughs Brightly cried out in pain as he landed.

He might have avoided the snow hunter's plunging weight, but he hadn't gotten away unscathed. One of the snow hunter's paws struck him a grazing blow, and he tasted anguish of his own as even that glancing blow broke ribs. It batted him out of the air, like a kitten playing with a green-needle pod, and he squalled again as he bounced off of an exposed boulder. He was badly hurt, his left forelimb numbed and useless—probably broken—but he clawed his way back to his feet and bared his fangs in a snarl of defiance . . . just in time to see the first snow hunter's mate open its jaws wide and lunge toward him.

* * *

CRAACKKKKK!

The S&W surged against Honor's shoulder. She had an ideal, broadside target, she knew exactly what a peak bear's anatomy looked like, the glowing dot of the Brownfield Holographics sight had settled midway between the creature's shoulders and mid-pelvis, and she knew even before she squeezed the trigger that the shot was flawlessly placed. The 19.5-gram slug exploded through the hurtling peak bear's lungs and heart in a perfect kill shot, and suddenly the charging monster spun halfway around. It went to the ground in a boneless, slithering slide that slammed into the boulder the flying treecat had already encountered.

The remaining peak bear heaved itself to its feet, howling in fury, put its head down, and turned upon its fresh enemy. Facing a charging peak bear on the ground was not the sort of situation many hunters were likely to survive, and the picket wood overhead was too dense for her counter-grav to carry her clear in time, but Honor's coldly, meticulously whirring mind measured speeds and angles with icy precision. There was no way to avoid the thing, and so she stood her ground, instead. The S&W swung back and the glowing dot settled on the oncoming creature. She found the sight picture, saw the lowered head, realized there was an excellent chance that even the mighty S&W's slug might ricochet from the immensely thick bone of a peak bear's skull. She started to squeeze the trigger anyway, but something stopped her—just for half a heartbeat. Something she'd seen, recognized without realizing what it was. Some tiny, preliminary muscle shift, perhaps. Something. And then the peak bear raised its head, roaring as its gaping maw closed in on her, and her right hand squeezed without any conscious command from her.

CRAACKKKKK!

The bullet just missed the peak bear's lower jaw. It struck two centimeters to the right of the exact center of its chest, and the creature's roar turned into a high, shocked squeal. It staggered, continuing to drive forward but no longer under control. Momentum carried it, not purpose, and Honor Harrington stepped smoothly to one side, pivoting to keep her target in her field of fire as five hundred kilos of mortally wounded peak bear staggered past her. It went down, twitching, struggling to get its legs back under it so it could rise and kill her with its own dying strength. It snarled, spraying blood as it started to come back upright . . . and she put a second shot through its right ear from a range of five meters to be sure it didn't.

* * *

<Laughs Brightly! Laughs Brightly!>

The mind voice trickled into his awareness. It took him what seemed a very long time to recognize it, to realize Sharp Nose was still alive. Then he realized that since he was hearing it, he must still be alive, as well, and neither of those things was possible. The last thing he remembered was the death fang Dances on Clouds had killed, still rolling forward, tumbling towards him. He had tried to leap clear, but there had been no time. It had felt as if a golden-leaf tree had fallen onto him, and then there had been only darkness.

Now he managed to open his eyes and discovered that he was wrapped in a thin but tough and incredibly warm blanket. It was a two-leg blanket, made of one of their magical substances, and he realized his left forelimb had been straightened and immobilized by the length of branch fastened to it with some of the sticky-sided stuff two-legs used to tie everything in the world together. And then he realized that the blanket in which he was wrapped lay in a two-leg's lap and looked up at the brown eyes of the two-leg to which it belonged.

* * *

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