had a purpose beyond study for them. They had to find their own place, in the whole galaxy at least;

perhaps even outside that, as well. The

more mature species could look to their own salvation; they had to make their own

rules and find their own peace with God (and it was a sign of

His generosity that He was happy with their achievements even

when they denied Him). But the others—the swarming, chaotic, struggling

peoples—they needed guidance.

The time had come to do away with the toys of self-interested striving. That the Idirans had realized this was the sign of

it. In them, and in the

Word that was their inheritance from the divine, the Spell within their genetic inheritance, a new

message was abroad:

Grow up. Behave.

Prepare.

Horza didn’t believe in the Idirans’ religion any more than Balveda had, and indeed he could see in its over-deliberate, too-planned

ideals

exactly the sort of life-constricting forces he so despised in the Culture’s initially more benign ethos. But the Idirans

relied on themselves, not on

their machines, and so they were still part of life. To him, that made all the difference.

Horza knew the Idirans would never subdue all the less-developed civilizations in the galaxy; their dreamed-of day of judgment

would never

come. But the very certainty of that ultimate defeat made the Idirans safe, made them normal, made them part of

the general life of the galaxy;

just one more species, which would grow and expand and then, finding the plateau phase all

non-suicidal species eventually arrived at, settle

down. In ten thousand years the Idirans would be just another civilization,

getting on with their own lives. The current era of conquests might be

fondly remembered, but it would be irrelevant by then,

explained away by some creative theology. They had been quiet and introspective

before; so they would be again.

In the end, they were rational. They listened to common sense before their own emotions. The only thing they believed without

proof was that

there was a purpose to life, that there was something which was translated in most languages as “God," and

that that God wanted a better

existence for His creations. At the moment they pursued this goal themselves, believed themselves

to be the arms and hands and fingers of

God. But when the time came they would be able to assimilate the realization that

they’d got it wrong, that it was not up to them to bring about

the final order. They would themselves become calm; they would

find their own place. The galaxy and its many and varied civilizations would

assimilate them.

The Culture was different. Horza could see no end to its policy of continual and escalating interference. It could easily

grow forever, because

it was not governed by natural limitations. Like a rogue cell, a cancer with no “off" switch in its

genetic composition, the Culture would go on

expanding for as long as it was allowed to. It would not stop of its own accord,

so it had to

be

stopped.

This was a cause he had long ago decided to devote himself to, Horza told himself, listening to Fwi-Song droning on. Also,

a cause he

would serve no more, if he didn’t get away from the Eaters.

Fwi-Song talked for a little longer, then—after a word from Mr. First—had his litter turned round so that he could address

his followers. Most

of them were either being very ill or looking it. Fwi-Song switched to the local language Horza didn’t

understand, and gave what was evidently a

sermon. He ignored the occasional bout of vomiting from his flock.

The sun dipped lower over the ocean, and the day cooled.

The sermon over, Fwi-Song sat silently on his litter as, one by one, the Eaters came up to him, bowed and spoke earnestly

to him. The

prophet’s dome-like head wore a large smile, and every now and again it would nod with what looked like agreement.

Later, the Eaters sang and chanted while Fwi-Song was washed and oiled by the two women who had helped officiate at Twenty-seventh’s

death. Then, his vast body gleaming in the rays of the falling sun, Fwi-Song was carried, waving cheerfully, off the beach

and into the small

forest beneath the island’s single stunted mountain.

Fires were stoked and wood was brought. The Eaters dispersed to their tents and camp fires, or set off in small groups with

crudely made

baskets, apparently to gather fresh debris they would later try to eat.

At about sunset, Mr. First joined the five quiet Eaters who sat around the fire Horza was by now tired of facing. The emaciated

humans had

taken little or no notice of the Changer, but Mr. First came and sat near the man tied to the post. In one hand

he held a small stone, in the other

some of the artificial teeth Fwi-Song had used on Twenty-seventh earlier that day. Mr.

First sat grinding and polishing the teeth while he talked

to the other Eaters. After a couple of them had gone to their tents,

Mr. First went behind Horza and undid the gag. Horza breathed through his

mouth to get rid of the stale taste, and exercised

his jaw. He shifted, trying to ease the accumulating aches in his arms and legs.

“Comfortable." Mr. First said, squatting down again. He continued to sharpen the metal fangs; they flickered in the firelight.

“I’ve felt better," Horza said.

“You’ll feel worse, too… friend." Mr. First made the last word sound like a curse.

“My name’s Horza."

“I don’t care what your name is." Mr. First shook his head. “Your name doesn’t matter.

You

don’t matter."

“I had started to form that impression," Horza admitted.

“Oh, had you." Mr. First said. He got up and came closer to the Changer. “Had you

really.

" He lashed out with the steel teeth he held in his

hand, catching Horza across the left cheek. “Think you’re clever, eh.

Think you’re going to get out of this, do you." He kicked Horza in the belly.

Horza gasped and choked. “See—you don’t matter.

You’re just a hunk of meat. That’s all anybody is. Just meat. And anyway," he kicked Horza

again, “pain isn’t real. Just chemicals

and electrics and that sort of thing,

right.

"

“Oh," Horza croaked, his wounds aching briefly, “yes. Right."

“OK," Mr. First grinned. “You remember this tomorrow, OK. You’re just a piece of meat, and the prophet’s a bigger one."

“You… ah, don’t believe in souls, then." Horza said diffidently, hoping this wouldn’t lead to another kick.

“Fuck your soul, stranger," Mr. First laughed. “You’d better hope there’s no such thing. There’s people that are natural eaters

and there’s

those that are always going to get eaten, and I can’t see that their souls are going to be any different, so as

you’re obviously one of those that

are always going to get eaten, you’d better hope there isn’t any such thing. That’s your

best bet, believe me." Mr. First brought out the rag he

had taken from Horza’s mouth. He tied it back there, saying, “No—no

soul at all would be the best thing for you, friend. But if it turns out you

have got one, you come back and tell me, so I

can have a good laugh, right." Mr. First pulled the knotted rag tight, hauling Horza’s head against

the wooden stake.

Fwi-Song’s lieutenant finished sharpening the sets of gleaming metal teeth, then rose and spoke to the other Eaters sitting

around the fire.

After a while they went to some of the small tents, and soon they were all off the beach, leaving only Horza

to watch the few dying fires.

The waves crashed softly on the distant surf-line, stars arced slowly above, and the dayside of the Orbital was a bright line

of light overhead.

Shining in the starlight and the O-light, the silent, waiting bulk of the Culture shuttle sat, its rear

doors open like a cave of safe darkness.

Horza had already tested the knots restraining his hands and feet. Shrinking his wrists wouldn’t work; the rope, twine or

whatever they had

used was tightening very slightly all the time; it would just take up the slack as quickly as he could produce

it. Perhaps it shrank when drying and

they had wet it before tying him. He couldn’t tell. He could intensify the acid content

in his sweat glands where the rope touched his skin, and

that was always worth a try, but even the long night of Vavatch probably

wouldn’t give enough time for the process to work.

Pain isn’t real,

he told himself.

Crap.

He awoke at dawn, along with several of the Eaters, who walked slowly down to the water to wash in the surf. Horza was cold.

He started