He sensed tension in the line. Knowing the geldiffa had already been chewed to bits, he realized his hook had reestablished itself somewhere within the chuln’-fa’ulu. Perhaps it was lodged in some swollen abscess, wedged between two teeth where it was striking some nerve, serving the great fish a pain it had never known.

  “Not used to being hunted, eh?” taunted Bollatu.

  The warrior’s mind reasoned quickly that it was impossible for the chuln’fa’ulu to understand what was happening. Unlike the geldiffa which had been harvested from the ocean for aeons, the godfish had no instinct for such impunity. Still retrieving his line, Bollatu watched the water, waiting for the chuln’fa’ulu to return.

  Again the ocean boiled as the great mass broke the surface, hurling water in all directions. The elder left off gathering his line, his paws closing on his spear. Made as a boy, carried throughout his life, it had served as his staff of office for more than thirty cycles. Carved from the straight trunk of a young stinger tree, it possessed weight and cutting power. Filled with authority and memory, it spread confidence throughout its owner.

  The godfish made a wide circle, then began moving toward the skiff. Was it somehow following Bollatu’s line back to the boat? Did it know they were enemies? Did it matter? Pulling back and planting himself as best he could on the pitching floor of his vessel, the warrior shut one eye, watched his foe’s progress, gauged his moment, and then threw.

  The spear dashed forward, slamming through the thick black skin of a monstrous eye, sinking nearly two feet into the vision of the onrushing horror. Terrible as the attack was, however, if the chuln’fa’ulu noticed any pain, it was but a moment’s distraction at best. Onward came the godfish, jaws wide as a cavern, water rushing over the terrible rows of broken teeth.

  “And so it ends,” whispered Bollatu. Still standing, balled fists at his sides, he waited for the monster. His skiff rocked wildly as it tipped upward over his foe’s lower jaw, Kuzzi and vessel flipping inside the massive mouth. The skiff swirled, twisted by the miniature whirlpool created within the godfish’s maw. Then, motivated more by anger than either desperation or self-preservation, Bollatu suddenly jumped to the back of his craft with force, pushing its prow upward into the roof of the great mouth.

  The sharp edge dug deep into the soft lining, the skiffs transom wedging against the bottom of the gullet.

  The elder was thrown sideways as the godfish thrashed against the sudden pain. Bollatu instinctively sank his claws into the side of the chuln’fa’ulu’s mouth, hanging on against the churning current. His oar fell from the skiff, bouncing off his shoulder. Grabbing out, the warrior snatched it from the air. Digging its pointed blade into the chuln’fa’ulu’s throat, Bollatu pushed himself toward the great mouth before him.

  The warrior laughed as he staggered forward. His skiff had jammed the godfish’s mouth open, and now it could not dive for fear of drowning. A fish, he thought, afraid of drowning. The idea made him giddy even as he fell repeatedly, thrown about effortlessly by the chuln’fa’ulu’s panicked thrashing. Water crashed against Bollatu as he struggled toward the flapping lips before him. Despite the wedge blocking its throat, the chuln’fa’ulu still strained to close its great mouth. Reaching the doubled rows of the godfish’s horrible teeth, the elder found his line once more. He could not see its end, buried somewhere beneath the constant rush of ocean falling in and out of the open mouth—could not determine why the creature had noticed his hook.

  Nor did he care. At that moment, all that mattered to the warrior was escaping the beast’s gullet before he followed his geldiffa to its bottom. Poised to dive out into the ocean, however, the godfish thrashed once more, sending Bollatu falling against its lower jaw. Eleven spikes tore into the elder’s side, the great teeth ripping skin, piercing muscle. Blood sluiced out of him, the taste of it sending the chuln’fa’ulu into wilder spasms.

  Bollatu dug his oar into the godfish’s mouth, pushing himself off the tearing rows. None of his wounds were terribly threatening, but several were deep and all were painful. Pushing himself erect, however, the warrior sneered—

  “Best you can do?”

  —and then dove outward into the welcoming ocean beyond. Bollatu landed feetfirst, dragging his oar behind him far under the waves. The chuln’fa’ulu passed overhead, plunging the ocean into darkness for the long moment it took to glide by. Not having taken in a deep enough breath before jumping, the Kuzzi struggled his way back to the surface. When his head broke the water, three things caught his attention instantly. The first was that he was now much closer to shore. The second was that the end of his line was floating several yards in front of him. The third was that the chuln’fa’ulu was nowhere to be seen.

  What happened?

  Had the skiff been dislodged? Had the tremendous pressure of the godfish’s straining jaws finally snapped the vessel? Had his hook come loose as well? The warrior reached out for the floating line before him.

  “Where are you, thing?”

  As if in response, the godfish’s great body shattered the ocean’s surface some distance to his right. Such a quick return told Bollatu that his wedge was still in place. He reasoned that the chuln’fa’ulu must have dived in an attempt to clear its throat with a rush of water. Unable to remove the blockage, it had hurried back to the sky for another breath.

  Bollatu bobbed in the water, taking in his own deep breaths, watching his adversary. The chuln’fa’ulu floated with the current. Although its remaining good eye was trained directly at him, it made no move to continue their struggle. It did not try to submerge again, nor did it attempt to make for the open sea. As the warrior’s strength began to return to him, he looked upon the godfish for the first time without anger.

  The monstrous beast glistened in the sunlight. As it gasped one short breath quickly after another, the elder realized what must have happened. He could see that the chuln’fa’ulu’s mouth had reached the point where it could almost close. Bollatu knew his skiff had shifted, perhaps even shattered. Now it was wedged within the godfish’s throat. The elder realized it was only a matter of time before his adversary would swallow one wave too many and choke to death.

  Suddenly, his anger drained, numbness gone, Bollatu felt a great surge of pity of the dying beast before him. Graping his line tightly, he began pulling himself toward his victim. Sad, sorrowful notes trembled from deep within the beast, drifting across the ocean. Returning to the chuin’fa’ulu’s side, the elder pulled himself upward—paw over paw—until he reached the bristling rows of teeth once more. Straining with all his remaining power, trying not to excite the still flowing wounds along his side and abdomen, the warrior pulled himself up onto the hardened ridge which served as the godfish’s lower lip.

  “And what would you all say,” wondered Bollatu of his former tribe members, “if you could see this?”

  Half jumping, half falling, the warrior cleared the jagged teeth by inches. Standing, he made his way backward through the dark gullet until he found the blockage. Indeed, his skiff had been dislodged by the chuin’fa’ulu’s dive, but that had only made things worse for the godfish. The vessel had followed the downward water flow and wedged itself farther back in the creature’s throat, leaving only the slightest of air passages.

  Bollatu shook his head sadly. Not caring what might come next, laughing at his former inability to understand Jacob Matson, he whispered to himself—

  “No wonder they all threw black.” Looping his line around the still solid center spar, the elder added, “If I could have seen this moment, I would have thrown black, too.”

  Pulling against the horrible weight, the elder strained to free his shattered vessel. The movement tore at the lining of the godfish’s throat. Blood oozed as the creature exhaled harshly. Bile rushed up from its stomach in cascades. Bollatu ignored the smell, ignored the pain in his own body, ignored the derisive laughter within his head.

  Instead he merely struggled—step by step—toward the thin line of light so far away. A great cough shuddered the beast. The warrior fell to his knees, almost losing hold of his line. Fighting to maintain the tension he had created, the elder felt his left glove finally eat through. Blood leaked from his paw, but he ignored the accompanying sensation. On his knees, he crawled onward, dragging at the skiff.

  “Move, damn you. Move. Move.”

  Digging his heels into the floor of the chuln’fa’ulu’s mouth, Bollatu drew his remaining line into a loop and tossed the loop end forward. Snagging it around one of the godfish’s teeth, he threw his weight into pulling on the line, using the great fang to increase his strength. For a long moment the warrior strained, his eyes fast shut, heart racing, breath held deep. And then, the godfish coughed once more.

  Instantly Bollatu was thrown from the chuln’fa’ulu’s mouth. The elder hit the water at a bad angle. His left side going numb, he sputtered violently, gasping for air. The Kuzzi floundered, his good arm tangled in his line. Something was attached to it, weighing him down, dragging him under. Then, a shadow appeared over Bollatu’s head, and the remains of his skiff were returned to him along with a shattering flood.

  * * *

  Max L. Kornev, captain of the U.R.S. Canton, was an insatiably curious man. When he noted that passage had been booked on his vessel for an alien being, he saw an opportunity to not only brighten some of the dull travel hours ahead, but to accomplish what he had come to space to do in the first place—to meet another life-form for himself.

  “That’s a hell of a story.” His tone not revealing whether or not he believed what he had been told, he added, “back on Earth we’d called it a ’whopper.’”

  In the grand tradition of the oceangoing vessels of his past, Kornev had requested Bollatu’s company at his table that evening for dinner. The chief had accepted, knowing that if he were to travel among humans, he would have to leam to deal with them. Attempting to do so, he inquired, “Is that a good thing, or a bad one?”

  “Depends, I guess,” answered Kornev honestly. “Probably good this time.”

  Bollatu nodded. When he had awakened on the beach, he had laughed for a long time. How he had managed to drift all the way back to shore without drowning, he did not know. Nor could he say why his bleeding wounds had not attracted any predators. Perhaps, he had thought, he had endured enough bad blessings for one day.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Bollatu nodded in response toward the captain. “I noticed your ticket was purchased by a Jacob Matson. Isn’t that the guy you said killed your Gr’Nar?”

  “Yes,” answered the old warrior. When Kornev gave him a look even the Kuzzi could interpret, the elder answered, “For some reason I cannot explain, once I realized I had survived, I felt it necessary to tell the tale to the man who had destroyed my ability to lead my tribe. He asked me what I was going to do now that I was no longer chief.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  Bollatu made a “tsking” sound, moving his tongue against his teeth. Giving the captain a look the man understood, the old warrior answered his question.

  “I told him that on the morning I had gone to the sea, I felt old. I had left my people—gone to the ocean to die. The ocean spit me back. Thus I was free to do as I might.”

  Bollatu answered Kornev’s next question before he could ask it. “The big tooth, the one that snarled my line, it washed up on the shore with me. I traded it to Matson for passage on your vessel.”

  Kornev raised an eyebrow. “He bought you a Rim Circle Trip. That’s a lot of ticket for a tooth.”

  “He came, took my world. I told him that I would leave to take his heavens.”

  The captain smiled. Did the alien know how much this Matson had done for him?

  Then again, thought Kornev, considering what Bollatu did for Matson by sitting back and letting humans get established on his planet, maybe the price wasn’t all that steep.

  The captain paused for a moment, staring out the observation port built into the close wall of the dining room. In many ways it was a senseless luxury, but it was one he delighted in. Staring out at the endless sea of stars, he thought that, maybe, he knew what the alien before him was feeling.

  “There was a poet on my world,” said Kornev, pouring himself and his guest another drink. “Emerson, they called him. He once said that ’few envy the consideration enjoyed by the eldest inhabitant.’ Good thing you’re just a kid, huh?”

  Bollatu smiled.

  “I do feel young,” he answered, surprise in his voice. “As young as the mountains.”

  Man and Kuzzi laughed, banged their glasses together, drained them, then laughed once more.

  THE END IS THE BEGINNING by Andre Norton

  The two kits settled in front of the Teacher watched the unrolling of a tape so old that it was, in portions, dim, while the front of the machine’s screen was scratched beyond any possible polishing. Most kits believed that the instructional device was one tool used by the now-vanished Smoothskins to spread what the Commander often called the Great Lie. However, the tapes could still provide some degree of entertainment, and one could think up many questions based upon the actions witnessed therein with which to baffle both Big Ones and other less-observant Littles.

  “Why the Great Lie, anyway?” Marguay muttered, watching a scene wherein some type of creature supposedly—impossibly!—raised itself high into the air.

  “Because of the Far Flight,” Porky replied in a bored tone, as he lifted his right hand and licked the fur on its back. Then he began to recite, and Marguay joined in the ritual they had learned by rote from the time their eyes had fully opened and they had started exploring beyond the nest.

  “The Smoothskins went out to the stars,

  And the People went with them.

  Long and long did they travel.

  Among them were those who were close to the People,

  And wished to draw nearer,

  Desiring to share speech and duties.

  Thus they used magic taught by the great Machines

  And strove to make the People as they visioned.

  So did the People learn to walk as the Smoothskins,

  Use forepaws as hands, and—”

  “What are you doing here?” demanded a voice from the doorway. “You two are on duty—why this hiding away and looking at parts of the Great Lie?”

  Mam Sukie stood in the entry port to the compartment. Marguay hastened to shut off the machine, thinking ruefully that there was probably no trip to the Lookout for them now.

  “Scat!” The ruler of the kits smacked each of the truants hard as they slunk past her. “You for litter-box duty—right now!”

  Marguay waited until he was (he hoped) beyond hearing distance before he hissed; then he glanced quickly back over his shoulder. A Little must not forget that the Big Ones were able to walk very softly, and never more so than when about to bring a kit “to order,” as they called the meting out of such discipline.

  “There are no Smoothskins anymore,” Porky huffed, panting a little as he strove to match his brother’s pace. “I wonder where all of them went?”

  “Don’t be a weanling!” rebuked his companion. “You’ve heard Harvey often enough—they all up and died, and then they were shoveled into the converter.” “But—Father Golden says that when we die, we go out to the stars. Where did the Smoothskins go—to the stars, like us?”

  Marguay hissed again. “Those clunkpaws? Hardly! Maybe that’s just another part of the Great Lie. You want to meet one of them?”

  Porky rumbled out a growl. “NO! My mam, she says they sometimes kept kits in cages, and other times—”the tubby Little’s voice dropped to a near whisper, “—they did bad things to us. It was only because more and more of them died, and they did not have many small ones of their own to learn their tricks, that we People at last were given all this,” he threw wide his furred, clawed hands to encompass what lay about them, “for our own selves.”

  “Hey, you!” Ahead stood Wilber, and he was mad. He was almost Big in size, too, so the Littles felt it wiser not to tangle with him, even though they were two to his one.

  They hurried on to the smelly place. Tippi, a small gray she, was already tilting a pan into one of the waiting cans. Her whiskers twitched as the he-kits joined her, and Maggie, her companion, snarled:

  “What were you doing that Mam sent you along?”

  “Looking at tapes,” Porky answered before Marguay could stop him.

  “Waste of time,” Wilber commented, “all the Great Lie—never could be stupid stuff like that anywhere. Get to work, you two.”

  As he cleaned under Wilber’s sharp eyes, Marguay thought about what he had found the last time he’d gone roving. There were many compartments where the People did not go very often, and a few of them held fascinating things. Some of the unknown objects were amusing to roll around and jump at when one was very small, but when a kit grew older, he could make even more interesting finds.

  Not all the People were able to do as much as the Smoothskins, though more and more kits now being born were able to use machines easily and think harder ideas. Marguay’s own mam, Knottail, had been able to open the box-things that had many pieces of paper fitted inside them. Lines of black dots marched in rows across those sheets, and a kit could learn to tell what they meant. A lot of the marks—most, in fact—dealt with the Great Lie, and some told their tale so convincingly as to make one believe the past had happened in just that way. And there were instructing devices, too, almost like the Teacher except that they unrolled different stories. Marguay had every intention of going back to the last compartment he had found only yesterday and tinkering with the machine in that chamber—one of those pages with the Smoothskin-scratches told how to make it work, and the determined Little had almost been able to get it going.

  Tippi was using a brush and catch-tray to sweep up crumbs of spilled litter; not much of the pan-sand remained anymore, and what might be saved must. Careful as the cleaner was, though, the job could not be spun out to excessive length, or Wilber would march the duty-doer off for another job. Marguay had to get away before then!