“Then we can’t tell you."

“What do you want."

“We want you."

“Why."

“Why not."

“But why me."

“You have no one."

“What."

“You have no one."

“What do you mean."

“No family. No friends…"

“… no religion. No belief."

“That’s not true!"

“How would you know."

“I believe in…"

“What."

“Me!"

“That is not enough."

“Anyway, you’ll never find it."

“What. Find what."

“Enough. Let’s do it now."

“Do what."

“Take your name."

“I—"

And they reached together into his skull and took his name.

So he screamed.

“Horza!" Yalson shook his head, bouncing it off the bulkhead at the top of the small bed. He spluttered awake, the whimper

dying on his lips,

his body tense for an instant, then soft.

He put his hands out and touched the woman’s furred skin. She put her hands behind his head and hugged him to her breast.

He said

nothing, but his heart slowed to the pace of hers. She rocked his body gently with her own, then pushed his head away,

bent and kissed his lips.

“I’m all right now," he told her. “Just a nightmare."

“What was it."

“Nothing," he said. He put his head back to her chest, nestling it between her breasts like a huge, delicate egg.

Horza had his suit on. Wubslin was in his usual seat. Yalson occupied the copilot’s chair. They were all suited up. Schar’s

World filled the

screen in front of them, the belly sensors of the

CAT

staring straight down at the sphere of white and gray beneath and magnifying it.

“One more time," Horza said. Wubslin transmitted the recorded message for the third time.

“Maybe they don’t use that code anymore," Yalson said. She watched the screen with her sharp-browed eyes. She had cropped

her hair

back to about a centimeter over her skull, hardly thicker than the down which covered her body. The menacing effect

jarred with the smallness

of her head sticking out from the large neck of the suit.

“It’s traditional; more of a ceremonial language than a code," Horza said. “They’ll know it if they hear it."

“You’re sure we’re beaming it at the right place."

“Yes," Horza said, trying to remain calm. They had been in orbit for less than half an hour, stationary above the continent

which held the

buried tunnels of the Command System. Almost the whole of the planet was covered in snow. Ice locked the thousand-kilometer

peninsula

where the tunnel system lay fast into the sea itself. Schar’s World had entered another of its periodic ice ages

seven thousand years previously,

and only in a relatively thin band around the equator—between the slightly wobbling planet’s

tropics—was there open ocean. It showed as a

steely gray belt around the world, occasionally visible through whorls of storm

clouds.

They were twenty-five thousand kilometers out from the planet’s snow-crusted surface, their communicator beaming down onto

a circular

area a few tens of kilometers in diameter at a point midway between the two frozen arms of sea which gave the peninsula

a slight waist. That

was where the entrance to the tunnels lay; that was where the Changers lived. Horza knew he hadn’t made

a mistake, but there was no answer.

There is death here,

he kept thinking. A little of the planet’s chill seemed to creep along his bones.

“Nothing," Wubslin said.

“Right," Horza said, taking the manual controls into his gloved hands. “We’re going in."

The

Clear Air Turbulence

teased its warp fields out along the slight curve of the planet’s gravity well, carefully edging itself down the slope.

Horza

cut the motors and let them return to their emergencyready-only mode. They shouldn’t need them now, and would soon be unable

to use

them as the gravity gradient increased.

The

CAT

fell with gradually increasing speed toward the planet, fusion motors at the ready. Horza watched displays on the screens

until he

was satisfied they were on course; then, with the planet seeming to turn a little beneath the craft, he unstrapped

and went back to the mess.

Aviger, Neisin and Dorolow sat in their suits, strapped into the mess-room seats. Perosteck Balveda was also strapped in;

she wore a

thick jacket and matching trousers. Her head was exposed above the soft ruff of a white shirt. The bulky fabric

jacket was fastened up to her

throat. She had warm boots on, and a pair of hide gloves lay on the table in front of her. The

jacket even had a little hood, which hung down her

back. Horza wasn’t sure whether Balveda had chosen this soft, useless image

of a spacesuit to make a point to him, or unconsciously, out of

fear and a need for security.

Unaha-Closp sat in a chair, strapped against its back, pointing straight up at the ceiling. “I trust," it said, “we’re not

going to have the same

sort of flying-circus job we had to endure the last time you flew this heap of debris." Horza ignored

it.

“We haven’t had any word from Mr. Adequate, so it looks like we’re all going down," he said. “When we get there, I’ll go in

by myself to

check things out. When I come back, we’ll decide what we’re going to do."

“That is,

you’ll

decide—" began the drone.

“What if you don’t come back." Aviger said. The drone made a hissing noise but went quiet. Horza looked at the toy-like figure

of the old

man in his suit.

“I’ll come back, Aviger," he said. “I’m sure everybody at the base will be fine. I’ll get them to heat up some food for us."

He smiled, but knew

it wasn’t especially convincing. “Anyway," he went on, “in the unlikely event there is anything wrong,

I’ll come straight back."