
been set out and calibration programs begun. The log was up-to-date.
His failure lay in contacting the people.
Hot that there weren’t people. On the contrary, there were at least two hundred individuals living in the
valley at the end of this path, though the count was necessarily approximate. He found it difficult to
differentiate at distance between one large-shelled person and another. Given variation in shell size,
person size, decoration and harness, individuality would eventually come through; but it would be a slow
process. Worse, he had yet to find one single person who would speak with him—or even acknowledge
his presence.
He’d tried all the approaches he’d been taught—and several he’d invented on the spur of the
moment—angling for any response at all.
And had been roundly ignored.
Yesterday, he had boldly stepped in front of a group of three, bowed low, as he had seen those
small-shelled or shell-less bow when addressing those more magnificent than themselves.
The group split and detoured around him, unhurriedly, but with determination.
The path wound around an outcropping of rock and sloped toward the caves and valley floor. Val Con
stopped to survey his prospects, idly twirling the reed.
Across the valley, people were about what he now perceived as their daily business. Four individuals
were in the fields along the river, working among the growing things with long-handled tools vaguely
reminiscent of hoes. Toward the center, a cluster of eight? ten? large persons were engaged in a certain
choreographed activity, which could have been dancing, game-playing or military drill, across the river,
large greenish shapes moved among the hulking rounded stones—dwelling places, so he thought: The
town itself.
Just downhill from him now, though somewhat distant from the caverns and convenient to a nice flat rock,
was a very large individual with sapphire glinting randomly from the tilework of its shell. With it were four
small people, shell-less, and bumbling in a way that shouted children to him. The largest was scarcely
taller than he was.
It is dangerous to approach the young of an isolate and perhaps xenophobic people—or, indeed, of any
people. But Val Con’s observations indicated that he could easily outrun the adult, should it attempt an
attack, and children are often curious...
So thinking, he walked down into the valley and sat atop the flat rock.
The guardian glanced his way, but turned its back, making no move to herd the smaller ones away.
Encouraged, he crossed his legs and settled in to watch.
They were definitely children. They played tag, fell on each other, crowed loudly and shouted shrill,
unintelligible taunts. Entertaining, but not particularly productive. The guardian still ignored him, and he
nurtured a small flame of optimism as he felt in the belt for the stick-knife.
Best to put waiting to work, he thought, quoting one of his uncle’s favorite phrases. Slowly, attention
mostly on the schoolroom party, he began to fashion the reed into a flute.
It was the first time he’d attempted such a thing, though he had read how it might be done, and he did not
give it primary concentration. This may have accounted for the woefully off-key sound that emerged