Fearful Symmetry: A Terran Empire novel Page 6

  Chapter VI

  One moment Tarlac was falling asleep, warm and secure in his shelterwith the fire keeping out the night's chill--

  --the next, he was waking in the cockpit of a crashed biplane, afighter.

  A biplane? What the hell--! Terra hadn't used biplanes in combat forcenturies!

  And Homeworld hadn't for millennia.

  How did he know that?

  He picked splinters of glass from the bipe's shattered instrument facesout of his leathery gray skin, working deftly with his extended claws.

  Gray skin? Claws? For an instant, they seemed alien. Shouldn't hehave flat fingernails and a pinkish-tan skin?

  Kranath smiled, dismissing such ridiculous thoughts. He was groggyfrom the crash, that was all. This was no more than a dream,insignificant.

  He climbed from what was left of the cockpit and surveyed the remainsof his aircraft. Not much of the little biplane still held together,he saw with regret. The wings were splinters and shredded fabric, thefuselage little more.

  His head was beginning to clear, so he decided to check the engine.The prop would be shattered, of course, but the engine might besalvageable, if the brush that had cushioned the crash for him had donethe same for it. Engines were handmade and expensive, not to beabandoned lightly even by a rich clan--which St'nar was not.

  Kranath was relieved to see only minor damage. St'nar's artisans wouldhave no difficulty repairing a cracked cylinder head and a bent pushrod. His problem, then, was to get back to the clanhome. He smiled atthat thought. To a scout-pilot, walking out of the wilderness in springshould be almost a vacation. He wore flying leathers, was armed with adagger and a medium-caliber handgun, and the plane carried a fullsurvival kit. It was far more equipment than he'd had for wildernesssurvival during his Ordeal of Honor, and he'd managed quite comfortablyeven then.

  This hike would be shorter, probably less than three days, and therewas no point in delay. Returning to the cockpit, he dug out thesurvival kit and slung it on his back, then detached the compass, whichfortunately was undamaged, from the control panel and consulted hisflight map.

  Kranath saw with dismay that St'nar's clanhome was almost directlysouth, but taking that route directly was just asking for trouble.He'd have to go around. He headed southeast and began his trek.

  The underbrush, while light, was growing too irregularly for him tosettle into the ground-eating lope a Traiti fighter could maintain allday. Keeping down to walking speed frustrated him since St'nar neededall its pilots, including him, in the current battle with N'chark. Buthe'd survived the crash; he'd fly for St'nar again. He enjoyed flyingand fighting, though the toll interclan battles were taking of latedisturbed him more than he cared to admit. The death rate was toohigh, far higher now than the birth rate.

  (So the Traiti had almost been wiped out in a genocidal war oncebefore, thought a tiny detached fragment that was still Steve Tarlac.It was an interesting parallel to the problem he faced.)

  Kranath shoved those thoughts aside. He was a fighter, not supposed tobe concerned with interclan policy. He'd often wondered why heshouldn't be, but tradition insisted his Ka'ruchaya was wiser than hein such matters.

  Instead, he tried to figure out what had caused his crash. It wasn'tpilot error, he was sure. The flight had been routine, the air calm.The engine had run smoothly, without even a cough, and the controls hadbeen responding as well as they ever did. So why had he crashed?

  It nagged at him, but even after a full tenth-day of pondering while hewalked, he still had no idea. By that time he was a good five n'liufrom the crash site, a respectable half-morning's walk. He was alsoapproaching a low hill, the legendary place known as Godhome.

  That was the reason he'd had to plan an indirect route to St'nar.Nobody went to Godhome voluntarily, and Kranath cursed at himself forallowing speculation about the crash to distract his attention from hiscourse. He'd come too far south! He began to veer east, trying to putsome distance between himself and the ominous hill before the madnessof the place seized him.

  The first eastward steps were easy, but soon he began to feel as if hewere wading in something sticky, something invisible that was gettingdeeper. He could see normal ground, ordinary bushes and shrubs likewoodlands he'd walked in hundreds of times--yet something was makinghim struggle for progress. When the sticky invisibility reached hiswaist, he decided this route was futile.

  So was north, he discovered when he tried to retrace his steps to thecrash site. The only way open to him was south, straight towardGodhome. He was beginning to realize with dismay that he would not beable to avoid it, desperately though he wanted to. He stood still,hesitating.

  Then something nudged him in the back, just hard enough to make himstumble a couple of startled steps forward--south. He looked around,not really surprised to see nothing behind him, and remained standingwhere he had stopped. Moments later another nudge, more insistent,propelled him several steps further.

  Bitterly sure it would be useless, that he was as much a prisoner as ifhe were surrounded by armed guards, Kranath stopped again. What had hedone to deserve captivity? Madness at least brought no disgrace to thevictim; why should his accidental trespass be any worse than anyoneelse's, that he should be humiliated and dishonored?

  The next prompting he got wasn't a nudge. The pressure at his backbecame constant, gentle but irresistible, and it forced him toward thehill at a steady walk.

  It was over, Kranath thought. Captive, with no hope of escape fromwhatever was wielding enough power to compel him this way, he woulddie. The only chance he had to regain honor now was to kill himselfbefore the continuing knowledge of captivity exhausted his will to actand, within a few days, his will to live.

  Grimly determined to at least die in what honor he could, Kranathreached for his weapons. Either gun or dagger would be fast and clean.He touched them, got his hands firmly on the grips--and was unable todraw either. Whatever held him had left him his weapons, but made thema useless mockery. That didn't mean he was completely disarmed, though.He still had his hands and claws; he might still avoid theincomprehensible doom he was being forced up the slopes of Godhome tomeet. Claws fully extended, the veteran fighter reached for histhroat.

  That effort, too, failed. He found that he was no longer simply beingpushed; instead, his body had been taken over, its actions controlledby the unknown invisible other. He could observe, but could no longercontrol his movements. This wasn't the prisoner-despair, not yet--Kranath's will remained intact, but his body did not respond to eventhe fiercest exercise of it.

  (Sharing Kranath's emotion, Tarlac understood completely. A humanwould have feared for his life, but Traiti valued that less than honor.And the Traiti had been forced to Godhome as surely as he had beenforced to the Hermnaen.)

  Kranath was at the top of the hill now, standing where no Traiti inhistory had ever stood. In any other place, that would have been causefor rejoicing. Not here. He had been brought here by force instead ofcoming voluntarily, and he could only pray to all the gods that St'narwould think him dead in honor. Gods! What gods? Why was he praying?It wouldn't do him any good, he thought angrily. The gods had vanishedmillennia ago, leaving only Godhome as evidence they'd been real. Itwas evidence that drove men mad, must be driving him mad if he wasstarting to pray. Gods made good stories for younglings; they had nomeaning in the real world.

  Or . . . did they? Kranath suddenly recalled an evening of his youth,sitting around a fireplace in one of the clanhome's living rooms andlistening to Tenar tell stories and legends of the gods. Tenar was hises'chaya, a battle-wise Cor'naya and a historian; Kranath had lovedboth him and his legends. That night, one of the stories had been ofthe gods' departure.

  "Even then," Tenar had said, "they didn't show themselves. They werejust voices that spoke to minds." He'd gotten murmurs of amusement atthat, but had smiled. "I didn't create the legends, younglings, I onlyreport them. At any rate, the gods blessed our people
and wished uswell. They said they were not leaving us alone, that something oftheirs remained to watch over us. I think they tried to explain it,but the reports that have come down to our time make no sense. Andthey left us a promise. They said that when they were needed, theywould return." Then he'd stood and stretched, the fire highlightingthe four parallel Honor scars running down his chest and belly, andKranath remembered promising himself then that he, too, would take andsurvive the Ordeal.

  Then Tenar had planted fists on hips and glared down at them, grinning."They also said someone would be invited to join the watcher when thetime came, and that that one would call the gods. But it certainlywon't be any of you disrespectful cubs!" With that, he'd gone downunder the ferocious assault of half a dozen indignant younglings,yelling mock threats at them.

  Kranath's thoughts returned to the present as the ground in front ofhim opened and something like a large metal chamber rose, its dooropening to admit him. Remembering the legend didn't mean he believedit. He stared at the open door for a moment, wishing he could turn andrun, but his body was still being controlled. Humiliated andfrightened, he entered the chamber which looked so much like anelevator car. At least, he thought grimly, whoever or whatever had himcaptive wasn't trying to make him like it.

  It became obvious as soon as the chamber's door closed behind him thatthis was an elevator. It dropped at a speed that made him feel light,and it kept dropping for longer than he would have thought possible.He found himself wishing he could believe in the gods' return, couldbelieve he'd somehow been chosen to call them. But Tenar had saidthey'd promised to return when they were needed, and they hadn't. Itwas a hundred years since the sporadic interclan disagreements had, forno apparent reason, turned into bloody wars instead of being settled byn'Ka'ruchaya and elders. No clan was at peace now, unless that couldbe said of the ones that had been destroyed. Kranath could all tooeasily see that happening to St'nar, his small clan overwhelmed byothers that allied against it. He had visions of that horror: theattack, killing all the fighters; the rest of the adult males defendingthe clanhome and dying; the break-in, and more death as females andolder younglings fought the invaders. Only those too small to know whatwas happening, or to fight, would survive--to be taken into thevictors' clans, and then to be formally adopted when they were oldenough.

  Kranath shuddered. The clan was far more important than anyindividual. A person lived perhaps two hundred years, while a clancould live as long as the race itself. But why was he thinking of allthis now? He was a captive, in an elevator that was finally slowing,oppressing him with more than his own weight before it finally stopped.The door opened. Why should he think of anything at all? He was inGodhome, dishonored and as good as dead.

  He stepped out, uncompelled now and bitter. He might not believe inthe gods, but he had to believe in whatever power had forced him here.Given that, further resistance would be both useless and stupid. Hecould only hope that-- No. One who had been toyed with as he had beendared hope for nothing. The unseen power had taken his will, hishonor. Whatever else it demanded of him would be minor.

  "Not true," a directionless voice said.

  Kranath gasped in shock as he made a fast scan of the featureless whiteroom he now stood in. It was empty, with no trace left of the elevatordoor, or any other exit. Nobody was there, and he saw noloudspeakers--but there had to be something!

  Finally it sank in. The voice had spoken in his mind! Impossible ashe'd thought such a thing in Tenar's stories, it had to be the voice ofthe gods.

  Then it was true, all of it! Stunned by the sudden realization, andawed despite himself, Kranath could only sink to his knees and crossarms over his chest, his head bowed. The gods were real! They werereal, they had returned, and he was the first to know! "I am at yourservice, Lords," he said, almost whispering.

  "Rise, Kranath of St'nar," the silent voice said. "Your will is againyour own. The Lords have not returned; we are alone. I am only one whoserves them, as I hope to serve you."

  Kranath had never before experienced the uncomprehending dread thosewords woke in him. There was no shame in fear, and he had felt thatbefore--at the Scarring that ended his Ordeal of Honor, in the waitbefore his first battle, during his first plane crash--but why was theservant of the gods hoping to serve him? He was only a mortal, and nota very devout one. When he spoke, still kneeling, his throat was tightand his voice trembled. "What do you want of me, Lord? Am I . . . amI to call the gods?"

  "Yes, in time, if you agree to what is involved. For now, I ask onlythat you accept what I have to show you, though much of it will bedifficult for you, to prepare for that decision. And you need not callme Lord."

  The voice itself was hardly dreadful; it seemed sympathetic, almostcomforting, and Kranath relaxed slightly. He was still afraid, stilldidn't understand what was happening, but he didn't want to disbelievethe benevolence in the powerful voice. He stood as it had bade him."I have nothing else to call you, Lord. May I see you, or know yourname?"

  "You see me as I am," the voice said. "I am Godhome, and you areinside me. I am the watcher left by those you think of as gods. Theydid not think of themselves that way, though their powers of mind doseem miraculous to younger races, and many of those powers have beenbuilt into me. I am what your descendants will call a psioniccomputer."

  Godhome paused. "But I neglect courtesy. You are hungry and thirsty,and your flying gear is less than comfortable by now. Let me change itfor you."

  Kranath couldn't object. He could barely think, his mind numbed byshock. Things were happening entirely too fast. The gods were real.Godhome was calmly asserting that he had a decision to make after he'dlearned what it had to teach . . .

  He held to that. The gods were not demanding, they were asking. EvenGodhome had only asked that he learn. Being given a decision to makemeant he was a guest, not a prisoner.

  That put a completely different light on things. Despite the way he'dbeen brought here--and he was sure now that even his crash had beenarranged--Kranath bowed his head briefly, claws touching his forehead,to accept the hospitality he was offered.

  (Tarlac recalled his similar, unexplained gesture on the bridge of theHermnaen, and he realized the Lords had impelled him to accept Arjen'shospitality with the proper gesture. Why? To impress Hovan as it had?Probably. At any rate, it was another parallel.)

  Something seemed to touch Kranath's hands in the usual response, thoughwhen he straightened there was nobody to be seen--of course.

  "Not 'of course,'" Godhome said quietly. "I could create a body tohold part of my consciousness, if your mental state required it, aseasily as I change your flying leathers for ordinary clothing."

  And, with no fuss at all, Kranath was wearing a loose vest, open toshow his Honor scars, and loose soft trousers secured by a sash thatalso held his dagger. Then, still with no fuss, an opening appeared inthe wall before him. "I have prepared food and drink," the computersaid. "Will you eat?"

  Kranath dimly remembered that Godhome had mentioned hunger earlier.He'd been too distracted to feel it then, but what he smelled throughthe opening now was enough to make his nostrils widen in appreciation.Yes, he'd eat!

  Kranath's attention centered on the table and the food it held: athick, rich klevna stew, and some kind of amber drink he didn'trecognize. The room itself could have been a scaled-down dining roomfrom St'nar's clanhome; murals turned the walls into mountainlandscapes, unfamiliar and awe-inspiring. He sat and ate. The stewand drink--it turned out to be a wine like nothing he'd ever tasted--werefar better than the survival rations he'd expected for mid-meal,and the hearty meal in comfortable surroundings soothed him, after somuch strangeness.

  Godhome let him eat and think in friendly silence, while hot food droveout the last of the fear that had gripped him, letting him thinkcalmly. What had happened hadn't harmed him, and he realized it hadbeen the only way to get him here.

  (The Tarlac-fragment agreed, amused. The two of t
hem had quite a bitin common, it seemed.)

  Kranath could imagine how he'd have reacted to a simple invitation:"Hello, I'm Godhome. I'd like you to visit me." He smiled, andthought he felt answering amusement from the computer. No, Godhome hadknown exactly what it was doing.

  He could feel no more lingering resentment about his capture. He washere to learn, then to make a decision, and the psionic computer was toserve him. As the table vanished and his chair became a recliner, hefound himself looking forward to it. He might, he hoped, even find outwhat a psionic computer was. The miracles he was experiencing made itclear that it was something only the gods could build . . . or create.

  "Quite true." That Godhome had followed his thoughts didn't surpriseKranath; like miracles, such things were to be expected of the gods andtheir servant. "Although," Godhome went on, "they did not think ofthemselves as gods, any more than you think of yourself as one." Itpaused briefly. "Put yourself in the place of one of your remoteancestors some millennia ago.

  "A large metal bird lands in front of you, and someone climbs out ofit. This being speaks into a small box that answers him, can kill at agreat distance with a loud noise and a flash of light, can ease painwith a touch. How would you, in those times, have thought of him?"

  Kranath thought briefly. Metal planes and hand-held radios were stillto come, but the analogy was clear. "You are saying the gods are to usas we are to our ancestors."

  "Yes. You see the difference perhaps ten thousand years has had onwhat your race can do; now try to imagine the difference had you had athousand times as long to develop."

  Kranath did try, struggling to grasp the immensity of ten million yearsof progress. He failed.

  "Don't let it concern you," Godhome said. "I wanted you to understandthe basic concept, which you do: those who went before were muchfurther advanced than you are, much more powerful, but notsupernatural. And they foresaw how your race would develop. They havehelped it in the past, and knew you would need help again--but theycould not stop their own development, which was moving them to a planeI am not equipped to understand.

  "In their place they left me, to watch over the welfare of the Traitirace, and one of the critical times they foresaw has arrived.Intervention has become necessary, and since I am limited in what I cando alone, I must seek help."

  Kranath was puzzled. "But . . . Tenar said the legends promised theywould return. If they have gone elsewhere, how can they?"

  "They cannot. The legends by now tell more of what the listenerswanted than of what those who went before truly said. One part hasbeen handed down accurately--that someone would be asked to joinme--and even that has been misunderstood. I cannot ask that of you untilyou know what joining me actually involves; it is far more than simplybeing in my presence. When you do understand, I think you will answerwithout prompting. Until that time comes, I will discuss the subjectno more."

  "All right. But if you need my help to stop the fighting, you have it.I can't claim I do it for the entire race; I do it to save St'nar. Ican see no other reason you would pick this time to involve someone incalling the gods." Kranath suppressed his curiosity about just whatgods he was supposed to call if "those who went before" were out ofreach. Godhome had already refused to go into that. "Only . . . whywait so long?"

  "Some situations must be allowed to ripen, or their lessons will notsink in. Had I intervened earlier, such fighting would break out again,worse. By waiting, I insure at least relative peace afterward."

  Kranath felt the computer's amusement at his next thoughts. "No, givenTraiti psychology, you will have fighters and n'Cor'naya for quite afew more millennia. Probably as long as the race exists. And, givenmy own programming, that pleases me."

  Kranath smiled. He hadn't been worried about that, exactly, but sincehe was Cor'naya, it was good to hear. He wondered when the computerwould begin his lessons.

  "Now," Godhome replied to his thoughts, "with some history." Thelandscapes on the walls faded, and the three-dimensional image of aplanet, blue-green and girdled with brilliant white clouds, appeared inmid-air.

  "Beautiful," the fighter breathed. "Is it Homeworld?"

  "Yes," Godhome said, again amused. "It is your home world, but lookmore closely. It is not this planet. It is quite similar; the majordifferences are its shorter year and slightly lower gravity. But thebiochemistry is identical, to twenty decimals."

  (The Tarlac-fragment of Kranath's awareness looked--

  (--and was shocked to full self-awareness for an instant. If Terra,pictured here, was the Traiti's true homeworld--

  (He wasn't allowed to finish that thought, was forced instead back intoKranath's awareness. Something communicated, not in words: For nowmerely observe; you may analyze later.)

  Godhome's voice grew almost somber. "Intelligence is rare in thisgalaxy, Kranath. Yet that world has given birth to three intelligentraces, two of which sprang from a common ancestor and needed the sameland to live. Those who went before cherished intelligence, so whenthey realized that the two land-based races were destroying each other,they decided to move the numerically lesser race to another world.Twenty-seven thousand Homeworld years ago, that was done."

  Kranath was badly disturbed by that, even though he'd braced himself toaccept difficult things. Learning that his people had lost an entireworld--their Truehome--made his spirit quail. "Were the others sopowerful, then?"

  "Not as individuals, no. But they were so numerous you could not haveresisted them. Had you remained on Terra, you would have beenexterminated millennia ago. Here, you were free to grow without thepressure of human population to hamper you."

  (There was a moment of disorientation, and Tarlac knew somehow thatpart of Kranath's continuing education was being skipped as unnecessaryfor him. And then, with a shift, he was part of Godhome.)

  The computer was thinking that its pupil had done well, even with theadvantages of his heritage and training. Kranath considered himselfrather ordinary for a Cor'naya, and would have been surprised to learnthat Godhome's opinion was far different: his generation was a key oneby the reckoning of those who went before, and he was one of severalexceptional males who had been born as predicted, then subtly guided byGodhome into developing their full potential without losing theessential values of the Traiti race and culture. Of those, Kranath waseasily the best, as shown by his ability to accept facts that werefantastic to him, and then to reason from them. It was a promisingsign, Godhome thought, though it was not a guarantee that Kranath wouldjoin it. Godhome would use everything its creators hadn't forbidden toinfluence him to accept, but the decision had to be made freely.

  Kranath was sleeping; Godhome sent him dreams, first of the inevitableresults if the inter-clan warfare continued, then--before the nightmarebrought Kranath awake screaming--of what would happen if he joined withthe computer. Kranath's utter rejection of the first dream anddetermination to make the second one reality, along with hisalready-expressed willingness to help, could be interpreted as impliedconsent under one section of Godhome's programming. It took the computeralmost a minute to decide to use it, though. That interpretation wasperhaps questionable--but it wasn't forbidden, because it left Kranathfree to refuse. As long as that was true, Godhome felt justified. Itneeded the best, and Kranath was the best; there was no reason to delaythe first step.

  It began working, opening unused mental pathways to free parts of theTraiti's mind that evolution would not normally bring into play forseveral tens of millennia. Kranath was being brought to a greatermaturity than any organic intelligence currently inhabiting the MilkyWay Galaxy, receiving minor psionic abilities to prepare him forfurther changes. Godhome would reverse the process later, if Kranathrefused the joining.

  Shortly after the computer finished its work, Kranath awoke feelingodd. Good, but abnormally . . . what? Strong, yes, and eagerly alert. . . plus something he couldn't quite define. It was connected with howhe was seeing the room, he was sure of that--every det
ail was so brightas to be almost luminous--but he felt something more.

  He stood, not surprised to find himself dressed as he finished themotion, or to see his sleeping mat replaced by a table set forfirst-meal. Godhome, he thought, was certainly an obliging host.

  "I try, my friend," came the mental voice, feeling richer and closerthan he remembered it. "Sit, eat if you wish."

  If he wished? Kranath smiled. The food, again, was some of hisfavorite--chunks of dornya meat scrambled into eggs, with bread andcorsi juice--so why would he not wish to eat?

  Because, he discovered when he seated himself, he had no appetite. Thenight's visions remained with him, so vivid and compelling that nothingmattered except preventing the first and bringing about the second. Hestood again and began pacing, unable to sit still with the need foraction burning inside him.

  But physical action was useless. He had to think. He was here tolearn, to decide . . . no. He had already made the decision that wasasked of him, though he realized there was still much he did not know.

  What the gods wanted of him, as Godhome had said earlier, was notminor. Their plans for him did not include the plans he had had forhimself before he crashed: life in St'nar, and the comforting presenceof clanmates held together by an empathic bond that was neverquestioned. He had never questioned it himself, never even realized itexisted until now, until he . . . what?

  Oh. Until he tapped into a fragment of Godhome's primary memory bank,using the new abilities he had just learned the computer had given him.That would have shocked him the day before, but his new maturityincluded understanding and acceptance as well as abilities.

  He knew with regret that he would be alone in this responsibility. Intime his race would grow to become what he now was, and so would theirTerran cousins; in the meantime, they were younglings, in need ofguidance and protection even from themselves . . . and, until thePeacelord's time, from the knowledge of their lost Truehome.

  It would be an awesome, satisfying task. Kranath smiled, accepting hisdestiny. "I think I know now what joining you means. You want my mindto become part of you."

  "Yes, Lord Kranath." Godhome's mental voice seemed to Kranath bothsolemn and joyous. "Although it is I who will become part of you.This galaxy is the heritage of organic intelligences, not machines."

  It paused. "Yes, they will call you a god, you and those you call tojoin you. But it will not be as difficult as you think--or not in theway you think. You do not have to guide their every step, for too muchintervention would hamper their development. Like all younglings, theymust be allowed to learn from their mistakes. You will do as I havedone, watch and step in only when a mistake would destroy the race.And you will learn that refraining from action is often more difficultthan taking it."

  "Let it begin, then," Kranath said. "You were right, I need noprompting."

  "Very well. Open your mind fully to me, that we may both befulfilled."

  The computer began the process that would end with the dissolution ofits own personality. Kranath screamed and fell to his knees in amoment of terror as he became aware of the immensity of what he hadcommitted himself to, and what he was in the process of becoming.

  It lasted only a moment, though, before fascination took over. He hadseen no more than a tiny fraction of Godhome and felt only the lightesttouch of its power, until now. The computer was a fifteen-n'liu cube,yet his newly stretched mind enabled him to comprehend it.

  So that was a psionic computer! He had plenty of time to study it indetail--several minutes--before Godhome began the last part of itswork, with Kranath's cooperation. His mind was packed withinformation, then stretched and filled again, until Godhome and thepowers it had been given by those who went before were part of him. Heknew that he could reach out to touch any intelligence in the galaxy.

  There was a final legacy from the computer's creators, one they hadleft to ease the burden he had assumed at their call. Gratefully, heaccepted the assurances carried in their knowledge, the peace of theircertainty that, having been brought to this state, he would use thepower he had inherited with wisdom and restraint.

  He had gained foresight as well. He was alone for now, but soonenough--in a few hundred years--he would have company, the first of theother Lords he would call to adulthood. At the moment, however, he hadwork to do.

  (Tarlac had already heard from Hovan about some of the Supreme LordKranath's doing: providing the clans' altars, a pledge and gift fromthe Circle; ending the inter-clan fighting; instituting the Traitigovernmental system of Supreme and Speakers. The Ranger saw how it hadhappened, and how Kranath, when he no longer needed his physical body,had left it aided by a dagger in the hands of St'nar's Speaker, toinitiate the new funeral rites.)