“At least, I prayed, and imagined that Enherrian did.”

  Wind shrieked, hooted, yammered, hit flesh with fists and cold knives. Waves rumbled in that driven air, black and green and fang-white, fading from view as the sun sank behind the cloud-roil which hid it. Often a monster among them loomed castlelike over the gunwale. The boat slipped by, spilled into the troughs, rocked onto the crests and down again. Spindrift, icy, stinging, bitter on lips and tongue, made a fog across her length.

  “We’ll live if we can keep sea room,” Enherrian had said when the fury first broke. “She’s well-found. The engine capacitors have ample kilowatt-hours in them. Keep her bow on and we’ll live.”

  But the currents had them now, where the mighty gulfstream met the outermost islands and its waters churned, recoiled, spun about and fought. Minute by minute, the riptides grew wilder. They made her yaw till she was broadside on and surges roared over her deck; they shocked her onto her beam ends, and the hull became a toning bell.

  Pete, Olga, and Whell were in the cabin, trying to rest before their next watch. That was no longer possible. The Ythrian female locked hands and wing-claws around the net-covered framework wherein she had slept, hung on, and uttered nothing. In the wan glow of a single overhead fluoro, among thick restless shadows, her eyes gleamed topaz. They did not seem to look at the crampedness around—at what, then?

  The humans had secured themselves by a line onto a lower bunk. They embraced, helping each other fight the leaps and swings which tried to smash them against the sides. Her fair hair on his shoulder was the last brightness in his cosmos. “I love you,” she said, over and over, through hammerblows and groans. “Whatever happens, I love you, Pete, I thank you for what you’ve given me.”

  “And you,” he would answer. And You, he would think. Though You won’t take her, not yet, will You? Me, yes, if that’s Your will. But not Olga. It’d leave Your creation too dark.

  A wing smote the cabin door. Barely to be heard through the storm, an Ythrian voice—high, whistly, but resonant out of full lungs—shouted: “Come topside!”

  Whell obeyed at once, the Bergs as fast as they could slip on life jackets. Having taken no personal grav units along, they couldn’t fly free if they went overboard. Dusk raved around them. Pete could just see Rusa and Arrach in the stern, fighting the tiller. Enherrian stood before him and pointed forward. “Look,” the captain said. Pete, who had no nictitating membranes, must shield eyes with fingers to peer athwart the hurricane. He saw a deeper darkness hump up from a wall of white; he heard surf crash.

  “We can’t pull free,” Enherrian told him. “Between wind and current—too little power. We’ll likely be wrecked. Make ready.”

  Olga’s hand went briefly to her mouth. She huddled against Pete and might have whispered, “Oh, no.” Then she straightened, swung back down into the cabin, braced herself as best she could, and started assembling the most vital things stored there. He saw that he loved her still more than he had known.

  The same calm descended on him. Nobody had time to be afraid. He got busy too. The Ythrians could carry a limited weight of equipment and supplies, but sharply limited under these conditions. The humans, buoyed by their jackets, must carry most. They strapped it to their bodies.

  When they re-emerged, the boat was in the shoals. Enherrian ordered them to take the rudder. His wife, son, and daughter stood around—on hands which clutched the rails with prey-snatching strength—and spread their wings to give a bit of shelter. The captain clung to the cabin top as lookout. His yelled commands reached the Bergs dim, tattered.

  “Hard right!” Upward cataracts burst on a skerry to port. It glided past, was lost in murk. “Two points starboard—steady!” The hull slipped between a pair of rocks. Ahead was a narrow opening in the island’s sheer black face. To a lagoon, to safety? Surf raged on either side of that gate, and everywhere else.

  The passage was impossible. The boat struck, threw Olga off her feet and Arrach off her perch. Full reverse engine could not break loose. The deck canted. A billow and a billow smashed across.

  Pete was in the water. It grabbed him, pulled him under, dragged him over a sharp bottom. He thought: Into Your hands, God. Spare Olga, please, please—and the sea spewed him back up for one gulp of air.

  Wallowing in blindness, he tried to gauge how the breakers were acting, what he should do. If he could somehow belly-surf in, he might make it, he barely might…He was on the neck of a rushing giant, it climbed and climbed, it shoved him forward at what he knew was lunatic speed. He saw the reef on which it was about to smash him and knew he was dead.

  Talons closed on his jacket. Air brawled beneath wings. The Ythrian could not raise him, but could draw him aside…the bare distance needed, and Pete went past the rock whereon his bones were to have been crushed, down into the smother and chaos beyond. The Ythrian didn’t get free in time. He glimpsed the plumes go under, as he himself did. They never rose.

  He beat on, and on, without end.

  He floated in water merely choppy, swart palisades to right and left, a slope of beach ahead. He peered into the clamorous dark and found nothing. “Olga,” he croaked. “Olga. Olga.”

  Wings shadowed him among the shadows. “Get ashore before an undertow eats you!” Enherrian whooped, and beat his way off in search.

  Pete crawled to gritty sand, fell, and let annihilation have him. He wasn’t unconscious long. When he revived, Rusa and Whell were beside him. Enherrian was further inland. The captain hauled on a line he had snubbed around a tree. Olga floated at the other end. She had no strength left, but he had passed a bight beneath her arms and she was alive.

  At wolf-gray dawn the wind had fallen to gale force or maybe less, and the cliffs shielded lagoon and strand from it. Overhead it shrilled, and outside the breakers cannonaded, their rage aquiver through the island. Pete and Olga huddled together, a shared cloak across their shoulders. Enherrian busied himself checking the salvaged material. Whell sat on the hindbones of her wings and stared seaward. Moisture gleamed on her grizzled feathers like tears.

  Rusa flew in from the reefs and landed. “No trace,” he said. His voice was emptied by exhaustion. “Neither the boat nor Arrach.” Through the rust in his own brain, Pete noticed the order of those words.

  Nevertheless—he leaned toward the parents and brother of Arrach, who had been beautiful and merry and had sung to them by moonlight. “How can we say—?” he began, realized he didn’t have Planha words, and tried in Anglic: “How can we say how sorry we both are?”

  “No necessity,” Rusa answered.

  “She died saving me!”

  “And what you were carrying, which we needed badly.” Some energy returned to Rusa. He lifted his head and its crest. “She had deathpride, our lass.”

  Afterward Pete, in his search for meaning, would learn about that Ythrian concept. “Courage” is too simple and weak a translation. Certain Old Japanese words come closer, though they don’t really bear the same value either.

  Whell turned her hawk gaze full upon him. “Did you see anything of what happened in the water?” she asked. He was too unfamiliar with her folk to interpret the tone: today he thinks it was loving. He did know that, being creatures of seasonal rut, Ythrians are less sexually motivated than man is, but probably treasure their young even more. The strongest bond between male and female is children, who are what life is all about.

  “No, I…I fear not,” he stammered.

  Enherrian reached out to lay claws, very gently and briefly, on his wife’s back. “Be sure she fought well,” he said. “She gave God honor.” (Glory? Praise? Adoration? His due?)

  Does he mean she prayed, made her confession, while she drowned? The question dragged itself through Pete’s weariness and caused him to murmur: “She’s in heaven now.” Again he was forced to use Anglic words.

  Enherrian gave him a look which he could have sworn was startled. “What do you say? Arrach is dead.”

  “Why, her…her spirit—”

  “Will be remembered in pride.” Enherrian resumed his work.

  Olga said it for Pete: “So you don’t believe the spirit outlives the body?”

  “How could it?” Enherrian snapped. “Why should it?” His motions, his posture, the set of his plumage added: Leave me alone.

  Pete thought: Well, many faiths, including high ones, including some sects which call themselves Christian, deny immortality. How sorry I feel for these my friends, who don’t know they will meet their beloved afresh!

  They will, regardless. It makes no sense that God, Who created what is because in His goodness he wished to share existence, would shape a soul only to break it and throw it away.

  Never mind. The job on hand is to keep Olga alive, in her dear body. “Can I help?”

  “Yes, check our medical kit,” Enherrian said.

  It had come through undamaged in its box. The items for human use—stimulants, sedatives, anesthetics, antitoxins, antibiotics, coagulants, healing promoters, et standard cetera—naturally outnumbered those for Ythrians. There hadn’t been time to develop a large scientific pharmacopoeia for the latter species. True, certain materials work on both, as does the surgical and monitoring equipment. Pete distributed pills which took the pain out of bruises and scrapes, the heaviness out of muscles. Meanwhile Rusa collected wood, Whell started and tended a fire, Olga made breakfast. They had considerable food, mostly freeze-dried, gear to cook it, tools like knives and a hatchet, cord, cloth, flashbeams, two blasters and abundant recharges: what they required for survival.

  “It may be insufficient,” Enherrian said. “The portable radio transceiver went down with Arrach. The boat’s transmitter couldn’t punch a call through that storm, and now the boat’s on the bottom—nothing to see from the air, scant metal to register on a detector.”

  “Oh, they’ll check on us when the weather slacks off,” Olga said. She caught Pete’s hand in hers. He felt the warmth.

  “If their flitter survived the hurricane, which I doubt,” Enherrian stated. “I’m convinced the camp was also struck. We had built no shelter for the flitter, our people will have been too busy saving themselves to secure it, and I think that thin shell was tumbled about and broken. If I’m right, they’ll have to call for an aircraft from elsewhere, which may not be available at once. In either case, we could be anywhere in a huge territory; and the expedition has no time or personnel for an indefinite search. They will seek us, aye; however, if we are not found before an arbitrary date—” A ripple passed over the feathers of face and neck; a human would have shrugged.

  “What…can we do?” the girl asked.

  “Clear a sizeable area in a plainly artificial pattern, or heap fuel for beacon fires should a flitter pass within sight—whichever is practicable. If nothing comes of that, we should consider building a raft or the like.”

  “Or modify a life jacket for me,” Rusa suggested, “and I can try to fly to the mainland.”

  Enherrian nodded. “We must investigate the possibilities. First let’s get a real rest.”

  The Ythrians were quickly asleep, squatted on their locked wing joints like idols of a forgotten people. Pete and Olga felt more excited and wandered a distance off, hand in hand.

  Above the crag-enclosed beach, the island rose toward a crest which he estimated as three kilometers away. If it was in the middle, this was no large piece of real estate. Nor did he see adequate shelter. A mat of mossy, intensely green plants squeezed out any possibility of forest. A few trees stood isolated. Their branches tossed in the wind. He noticed particularly one atop a great outcrop nearby, gaunt brown trunk and thin leaf-fringed boughs that whipped insanely about. Blossoms, torn from vines, blew past, and they were gorgeous; but there would be naught to live on here, and he wasn’t hopeful about learning, in time, how to catch Gray’s equivalent of fish.

  “Strange about them, isn’t it?” Olga murmured.

  “Eh?” He came, startled, out of his preoccupations.

  She gestured at the Ythrians. “Them. The way they took poor Arrach’s death.”

  “Well, you can’t judge them by our standards. Maybe they feel grief less than we would, or maybe their culture demands stoicism.” He looked at her and did not look away again. “To be frank, darling, I can’t really mourn either. I’m too happy to have you back.”

  “And I you—oh, Pete, Pete, my only—”

  They found a secret spot and made love. He saw nothing wrong in that. Do you ever in this life come closer to the wonder which is God?

  Afterward they returned to their companions. Thus the clash of wings awoke them, hours later. They scrambled from their bedrolls and saw the Ythrians swing aloft.

  The wind was strong and loud as yet, though easing off in fickleness, flaws, downdrafts, whirls, and eddies. Clouds were mostly gone. Those which remained raced gold and hot orange before a sun low in the west, across blue serenity. The lagoon glittered purple, the greensward lay aglow. It had warmed up till rich odors of growth, of flowers, blent with the sea salt.

  And splendid in the sky danced Enherrian, Whell, and Rusa. They wheeled, soared, pounced, and rushed back into light which ran molten off their pinions. They chanted, and fragments blew down to the humans: “High flew your spirit on many winds…be always remembered…”

  “What is that?” Olga breathed.

  “Why, they—they—” The knowledge broke upon Pete. “They’re holding a service for Arrach.”

  He knelt and said a prayer for her soul’s repose. But he wondered if she, who had belonged to the air, would truly want rest. And his eyes could not leave her kindred.

  Enherrian screamed a hunter’s challenge and rushed down at the earth. He flung himself meteoric past the stone outcrop Pete had seen; for an instant the man gasped, believing he would be shattered; then he rose, triumphant.

  He passed by the lean tree of thin branches. Gusts flailed them about. A nearly razor edge took off his left wing. Blood spurted; Ythrian blood is royal purple. Somehow Enherrian slewed around and made a crash landing on the bluff top, just beyond range of what has since been named the surgeon tree.

  Pete yanked the medikit to him and ran. Olga wailed, briefly, and followed. When they reached the scene, they found that Whell and Rusa had pulled feathers from their breasts to try staunching the wound.

  Evening, night, day, evening, night.

  Enherrian sat before a campfire. Its light wavered, picked him red out of shadow and let him half-vanish again, save for the unblinking yellow eyes. His wife and son supported him. Stim, cell-freeze, and plasma surrogate had done their work, and he could speak in a weak roughness. The bandages on his stump were a nearly glaring white.

  Around crowded shrubs which, by day, showed low and russet-leaved. They filled a hollow on the far side of the island, to which Enherrian had been carried on an improvised litter. Their odor was rank, in an atmosphere once more subtropically hot, and they clutched at feet with raking twigs. But this was the most sheltered spot his companions could find, and he might die in a new storm on the open beach.

  He looked through smoke, at the Bergs, who sat as close together as they were able. He said—the surf growled faintly beneath his words, while never a leaf rustled in the breathless dark—“I have read that your people can make a lost part grow forth afresh.”

  Pete couldn’t answer. He tried but couldn’t. It was Olga who had the courage to say, “We can do it for ourselves. None except ourselves.” She laid her head on her man’s breast and wept.

  Well, you need a lot of research to unravel a genetic code, a lot of development to make the molecules of heredity repeat what they did in the womb. Science hasn’t had time yet for other races. It never will for all. They are too many.

  “As I thought,” Enherrian said. “Nor can a proper prosthesis be engineered in my lifetime. I have few years left; an Ythrian who cannot fly soon becomes sickly.”

  “Grav units—” Pete faltered.

  The scorn in those eyes was like a blow. Dead metal to raise you, who have had wings?

  Fierce and haughty though the Ythrian is, his quill-clipped slaves have never rebelled: for they are only half-alive. Imagine yourself, human male, castrated. Enherrian might flap his remaining wing and the stump to fill his blood with air; but he would have nothing he could do with that extra energy, it would turn inward and corrode his body, perhaps at last his mind.

  For a second, Whell laid an arm around him.

  “You will devise a signal tomorrow,” Enherrian said, “and start work on it. Too much time has already been wasted.”

  Before they slept, Pete managed to draw Whell aside. “He needs constant care, you know,” he whispered to her in the acrid booming gloom. “The drugs got him over the shock, but he can’t tolerate more and he’ll be very weak.”

  True, she said with feathers rather than voice. Aloud: “Olga shall nurse him. She cannot get around as easily as Rusa or me, and lacks your physical strength. Besides, she can prepare meals and the like for us.”

  Pete nodded absently. He had a dread to explain. “Uh…uh…do you think—well, I mean in your ethic, in the New Faith—might Enherrian put an end to himself?” And he wondered if God would really blame the captain.

  Her wings and tail spread, her crest erected, she glared, “You say that of him?” she shrilled. Seeing his concern, she eased, even made a krrr noise which might answer to a chuckle. “No, no, he has his deathpride. He would never rob God of honor.”

  After survey and experiment, the decision was to hack a giant cross in the island turf. That growth couldn’t be ignited, and what wood was burnable—deadfall—was too scant and stingy of smoke for a beacon.

  The party had no spades; the vegetable mat was thick and tough; the toil became brutal. Pete, like Whell and Rusa, would return to camp and topple into sleep. He wouldn’t rouse till morning, to gulp his food and plod off to labor. He grew gaunt, bearded, filthy, numb-brained, sore in every cell.