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It s something I must do, he said simply.
Her ears flipped down to cover her eyes, then straightened in a gesture whose meaning none could
mistake. You re a strange one, Runs-red-Talking. Even when you are coupling I sense disinterest. I
don t understand you.
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That s not surprising. He tried to inject some levity into a conversation that was disintegrating rapidly.
Sometimes I do not understand myself. Burrow Three s philosopher says. .
You rely too much on philosophy and not enough on action. It was rude of her to interrupt but he did
not counterattack. Instead he stepped aside, replacing his tools in his workbelt. She made no move to
re-enter his Sama, for which he was grateful.
There. All fixed.
Thank you. She climbed back atop the battery-powered vehicle. Now try repairing yourself. I m
going to find Stands-blue-Razor and see if he wants some company for a while. Meditate on that!
I m sure he ll be delighted to see you, Runs murmured.
It was not the response she d hoped for. She was soon gone, as was the pang of regret he always felt at
such times. It wasn t that he was uninterested in her; simply that he had more important matters to attend
to.
Having been reserved well in advance, his favorite meditation chamber awaited him. The empty, domed
room was four body lengths in diameter, the prescribed size to permit maximum contemplation. Walls,
dome, and floor were stained beige. Except for the meditator the room was occupied only by a single
circular woven mat which had been manufactured in Burrow
Four. It was a near-perfect copy of the traditional sij bark meditation mat. As sij trees grew only on
distant Quozlene, this one was made of plastic.
He squatted on the mat and carefully placed the small bowl he d brought with him off to his left, within
arm s reach. It held nutrition cubes of many colors and values, arranged for maximum visual impact. Next
to it he placed a cone-shaped bottle, precisely two finger lengths from the bowl. It contained a refreshing
liquid.
At his tone the door shut tight behind him. No one would dare disturb him now. Settling back on his
heels in the ancient contemplative posture, he silently regarded the wall before him. His hand fell to touch
the mat by his right knee. A small display screen rose from the floor.
As he chanted, it displayed the subject for today s study. The chamber darkened as airy music issued
from concealed speakers. Peace came. Floor, walls, and dome vanished, to be replaced by blue sky and
drifting clouds. He was floating over a forest on Quozlene, trees reaching for him with haunt-ingly familiar
branches and soft leaves encountered only in recordings.
As he drifted lower a small village hove into view. It was filled with Quozl busy at their daily tasks. All
wore ancient costume.
Tilting to his left he found himself over water. In the sheltered cove the village fishers were taking leave of
those who would remain behind. Males and females leaned on poles, pushing the wide, flat-bottomed
boat out into the shallow waters of the bay. There was much elaborate waving of jewelry and scarves.
Abruptly he found himself in the boat, perceived but ignored by those around him. He could smell his
ancestors: their unscented muskiness and pungent genitals. It was nearly lost in the rank odor of gutted
fish and oil. The designs shaved into their fur were crude and primitive.
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He watched thoughtfully as they set their nets. After a while he rose to pick up the cone bottle and bowl
of concentrates. Walking through his ances-tors, the gunwale of the boat, and the bay beyond, he
advanced until he was halted by a solid obstruction: the far wall of the meditation chamber.
A panel came away beneath his skilled, trained fingers, to reveal a dimly lit hole in the middle of the
ancient sea. Beyond lay a service crawlway layered with conduits. Bending to slip through the opening,
Runs carefully replaced the panel behind him.
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