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  The seal-bird knocked him down and snapped at his face. Jaws closed on the ax haft and crunched it across. Davis got a hand on the upper and lower mandibles, threw a leg over the long sleek back and heaved. The brute roared and writhed. He felt his strength pour out of him, the teeth were closing on his fingers.

  A crossbow bolt hummed and buried itself in the wet flank. Another and another. Barbara ran over the grass, shooting as she went. The monster turned its head and Davis yanked his hands free.

  “Get away!” yelled Barbara.

  Her bow was empty now. She crouched, drawing her knife, and plunged toward the creature. It reared up. She jammed her left arm under its beak, forced the head back, and slashed.

  The seal-bird fell on her. Davis glimpsed a slim leg beneath its belly. He picked up his own bow and fired pointblank, again and again, hardly aware of what he did. Blood gurgled in the monster’s voice.

  Then it slumped, and the arterial spurting was only a red flow across slippery grass.

  “Barbara—” Davis tugged at the weight, feeble and futile. His own throat rattled.

  The leg stirred. Barbara forced her way out from under.

  She stood up, gasping, adrip with blood, and stared at him. His knees gave way.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered. “Bert, darling, are you all right?”

  “Yeh.” His palms were lacerated, but it was nothing serious. “You?”

  “Oh, th-th-this isn’t my blood.” She laughed shortly, sank to her knees before him, and burst into tears.

  “There, there.” He patted the bronze head, clumsy and unsure of himself. “It’s all over, Barbara, it’s finished now . . . Sunblaze, we’ve got meat for the pot—”

  She shook herself, wiped her eyes, and gave him an angry stare. “You fool!” she snuffled. “If I hadn’t h-h-happened to be near . . . heard the noise . . . oh, you blind gruntbrain!”

  “Guess I’ve got that coming,” said Davis.

  Elinor stirred, looked around, and started to cry. Since she wasn’t much hurt, she got no attention. “Well!” she muttered.

  Barbara swallowed her rage. “I never saw a thing like this before,” she admitted. “I suppose you couldn’t have known, Bert. You were giving it a hell of a good fight. And it is meat.”

  “Thanks,” he said weakly . . .

  VIII

  When Valeria had blown off enough pressure by a magnificent description of Davis’ altogether negligible intelligence, she finished: “We’ll start out again tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes!” babbled Elinor. “Those things in the lake—”

  “What about the orspers?” demanded Barbara.

  “Ride ’em till they drop, child, and continue on foot,” said Valeria. “It’ll be quicker.”

  “Don’t call me child!” exploded Barbara. “I’m only three days younger than you, and my brain is twenty years older!”

  “Girls, girls,” began Davis. Valeria’s scarred left hand dropped to her dagger, and he shut up and let the twins argue.

  Barbara gave in at last, against her better judgment . . . after all, if they camped longer, Davis and Elinor were sure to—Only why should she care? What was a Monster to her?

  She regarded him with concern. He had seemed such a big coward, she reflected; and yet he had fought the lake bird to save Elinor’s life . . . Damn Elinor! If Davis had died on her account—Maybe, she thought, his unwillingness to fight was only a different way of thinking. A Man wouldn’t think like a woman.

  But it was heresy to admit this creature barely two meters tall, who could sweat and bleed and be afraid, was a Man!

  And yet, when you got used to him, he was a beautiful creature, beard like spun gold and blue eyes that crinkled when he laughed . . . his hand brushed her knee, accidentally, and for a moment it seemed to burn and she got all weak and the world wobbled. What was wrong with her? She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Vague dreams chased through her head, she performed heroic deeds before his eyes, now they were together under a full Minos—

  “Damn!” said Barbara.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Davis.

  “Oh, nothing.” His gaze made her want to squirm. “Leave me alone, will you?—No, I didn’t mean that!”

  All the next day, as they rode deeper into the valley, she churned over a new thought. Just suppose Davis was really a Man. What then? Yes . . . voice the thought, wait for Father’s thunderbolt . . . when none came, Barbara’s universe quivered and lost a few bricks.

  He was at least a very dear Monster, with his songs and laughter, and he came from the stars. The stars! Man or no, he could bring the Men, and Atlantis would never be the same again.

  Even if no Men ever came, she thought with sudden tears, her own Atlantis was dead. Let her return in triumph, driving out the enemy from Freetoon, return to the comradeship of the barracks and the unforgotten forest, Holy River below her like a dawn knife and the remote lance of the High Gaunt wreathed with cloud for her, after knowing Davis, it would be too narrow and lonesome. She could never really go home.

  She wanted to blurt her woe to him. It was not the Whitley way, but there would be a strange comfort, like having her mother back . . . only he would not hold her like her mother—

  For lack of anyone else, she confided in Valeria. They were sitting up by the campfire while the others slept.

  “It would be better if the Men came,” agreed her cousin. “We’ve never lived as Father meant us to. We’ve just hung on, hoping, for three hundred years.”

  Barbara felt a smile tug her mouth. “It would be fun to have a Man-child,” she murmured. “A kid like his father—like both of us mixed together—” Suddenly: “Val! I’ve been thinking . . . I almost believe Bert is a Man!”

  “Rotten specimen of one, then,” snapped Valeria.

  Barbara felt puzzled. Her twin was an obstinate nuisance, yes, but so was she. They had never thought so unlike before now.

  On the following day, the descent became so steep that they had to lead the orspers. Toward evening they found themselves on the stony floor of a large canyon. The river flowing through it was broad as a lake, brown and swift, toppling in a kilometer-high waterfall over a cliff behind them. The air was subtropically warm, this was a much lower country than Freetoon’s.

  “These birds are about finished if they don’t get a long rest,” ventured Elinor. She sighed. “So am I.”

  “Maybe we can find someone around here who’ll trade us,” suggested Davis. “Look, whether you believe I’m a Man or not, I can sure as Evil act the part, overawe them, demand their help.”

  “It’s blasphemy!” said Valeria.

  Barbara looked down at her own tanned form, saw no signs of shriveling, and grew skeptical of Father with a speed that astonished her. “Are you afraid to try, Val?” she purred.

  “All right, then!” snarled the other Whitley. “If this oaf can act like a Man, all right.”

  They were up before Bee-rise the next day, trudging downstream along the barren riverbank. The first dawn-glow showed the end of their search.

  An island, some ten kilometers across, lifted sheer cliffs from the water to a luxuriance of trees on its crown. There was no access but a suspension bridge from the shore to the heights. Barbara’s crossbow clanked into position. “So we’ve found somebody,” she murmured.

  “The question,” said Valeria, “is who, and what can we talk them out of? Go to it, Davis.”

  He advanced to the foot of the bridge, cupped hands around his mouth, and bawled: “Hello, up there! We come in peace!” Echoes clamored from the canyon wall. There was a waiting.

  Then a slender girl clad in long brown hair and a few flowers stepped from beneath the trees to the bridgehead. She carried an arbalest, but didn’t aim it. “Who are you?” she called timidly.

  “She’s a Craig,” muttered Barbara to Davis. “At home they’re all poets and weavers. Now why would a Craig be on sentry-go?” Davis drew himself up. “Know that I am a Man,
come from Earth to redeem the old promise,” he intoned. Barbara smothered a giggle.

  “Oh!” The Craig dropped her bow and broke into a tremble. “A Man—Ohhhh!”

  “I come as the vanguard of all the Men, that they may return to their loyal women and drive evil from Atlantis,” boomed Davis. “Let me cross your bridge that I may, uh, claim your help in my, er, crusade. Yes, that’s it, crusade.”

  The Craig squeaked and fell on her face. Davis led his tatter-de-malion party over the bridge. The timing was perfect: Bee just rising in a golden blaze over the great waterfall above them. On the other side of the bridge, there was a downward path. The island was cup-shaped, holding trees in orderly groves, clipped grass, brilliant flowerbeds.

  A few more women emerged from the foliage. They were as sleek, sun-tanned, and informally clad as the first one. And their reactions were just as satisfactory, a spectrum from abasement to awed gaping.

  “More Craigs, couple of Salmons, a Holloway, an O’Brien,” murmured Valeria. “Artist, artisan, entertainer classes at home—where are the warriors?”

  A Holloway cleared her throat shyly and blushed. “We never thought there would be such an honor for us,” she said. “We thought when the Men came, they’d—I mean—”

  Davis puffed himself up. “Do you doubt I am a Man?” he roared.

  “Oh, no, ma’m!” The Holloway cringed back from possible thunderbolts. Her voice, like that of all the islanders, had a melodiousness which betokened long training.

  “Where’s your Udall?” asked Valeria impatiently.

  “Udall, ma’m?” The Craig they had first seen looked confused. “No Udalls here. Just us, ma’m.”

  No Udall! Barbara’s mind staggered. But, but it wasn’t possible!

  “Well take you to Prezden Yvonne Craig, ma’m,” offered the Holloway.

  “Do so.” Davis beamed. “Incidentally, ‘sir’ would be more suitable than ‘ma’m’. And don’t . . . I mean, be not afraid. Rejoice!”

  Another puzzling alienness—the islanders needed no more than the Man’s consent to start rejoicing! Like children! When they had walked through two kilometers of parkscape, the whole population swarmed out to meet them, laughing, singing, dancing, striking up music for them. Altogether they numbered about a thousand, including children, and all bore plain signs of good, easy living.

  Their village was surprisingly large. Barbara decided dazedly that they didn’t have barracks at all. Each of these simple grass huts was for no more than one woman and her children. The concept of privacy was so new it felt like a hammerblow.

  She was led to a hut, and goggle-eyed girls brought her eggs, fruits, small sweet cakes, and sang to her while she ate. Only slowly did her mind stumble from the wreckage of its own axioms and wonder what Davis was up to . . .

  As a matter of fact, Davis, the past weeks catching up with him, had gone to sleep. He woke near sunset, donned the embroidered kilt, plumed headdress, and gold ornaments laid out for him, and strolled from the shack to find a banquet in preparation.

  Valeria stood waiting for him in the long mellow B-light. She had loosened her red hair and discarded armor for a kilt and lei, but the scarred left hand rested on her dagger. They started together across the green toward a dais draped with feather cloaks, where Barbara stood talking to a Craig who held a carved staff.

  “We seem to have found the kind of place we deserve,” he said.

  Valeria snorted. “Oh, yes, they’re friendly enough—but gutless. This island is too easy to defend. They fish, raise fowl, have fruits the year round, all the metal they need . . . spend their time on arts, poetry, craft, music—” She ended her list with a vulgarity.

  Glancing at delicately sculptured wood, subtly designed decoration, intricate figure dancing, listening to choral music which was genuinely excellent, Davis got fed up with Valeria. Narrowminded witch! Her own rather repulsive virtues, hardihood and fearlessness, would be as redundant here as fangs on a turtle.

  “What’s the place called?” he asked coldly.

  “Lysum. There was a conquered town about a hundred years ago that a lot of its people ran away from. Up the river there’s a settlement of nothing but Burkes. These people are all from the same class . . . Oh, here we are. Prezden Yvonne Craig, Davis Bert.”

  The woman stood up for him. She was in her middle thirties, and given a stronger chin would have been quite pretty—though Barbara, in kilt and lei, was unfair competition. “Be welcome among us, Man.” Now that the first shock had worn off, she spoke with confidence. “Atlantis has never known a happier day. Oh, we’re so thrilled!”

  Davis looked around. “Where’s Elinor?”

  “Still pounding her ear,” clipped Barbara. “Want to wait?”

  “Cosmos, no! When do we—I mean, let the banquet begin.”

  Rank, as the women of Lysum settled themselves on the grass, seemed strictly according to age. It was pleasant to be in a casteless society again. The food was delicious, and there was course after course of it, and the wooden winebowls were kept filled.

  Suppressing a burp, Davis leaned toward Yvonne. “I am pleased with what I have seen here,” he told her.

  “You are so sweet . . . er, gracious,” she trilled happily.

  “But elsewhere there is devilment on the loose. I am only the vanguard of the Men. Before all of them can come, the wrongdoers of Atlantis must be punished.” Yvonne looked alarmed. Valeria, flanking Davis on the seat with Barbara, leaned over and hissed: “No help here. I told this featherbelly we’d want some spears to follow us, and she damn near fainted.”

  “Mmmm . . . yes.” Davis felt a moment’s grimness. He couldn’t stay holed up here forever. No •wonder Val was so down on the islanders. Not a bad girl, Val, in her waspish way. Davis tilted his winebowl. His free arm stole around Barbara’s waist. She regarded him mistily.

  “Strong, this drink,” she said. “Not beer. Wha’s it called?”

  “A jug of wine, and thou,” smiled Davis.

  “Bubbles in my head . . Barbara leaned against him.

  The Prezden gave him a largeeyed look. Minos-light streamed over sprawling feminine shapes. “Will you take your pleasure of us all tonight, sir?” she inquired. “Yipe!” said Davis.

  “Like hell you will!” Barbara sat straight up and glared at him.

  Yvonne looked bewildered. Barbara was quite tight enough to start an argument, which would never do. Davis gritted his teeth and said: “No, thanks. Tonight I must, urp, think on weighty problems. I would be alone.”

  Yvonne bent her long-tressed head. “As the Man wishes. My house is his.” Her dignity collapsed in a titter. “I am his, too, if he changes his mind. Any of us would be so thrilled—” She rose and clapped her hands. “The Man wishes to be alone tonight,” she called. “All you girls scat!”

  Davis gaped. It was not what he had meant. Too late now, of course. A god couldn’t say, “Hoy, wait!”

  Valeria stood up, put an arm under Barbara’s shoulders, and raised her tottery cousin. “I’ll see her to bed,” she said frostily.

  Davis watched them disappear into one of the huts. “Death and destruction!” he said, and poured himself another drink.

  He was tipsy, but there was no sleep in him. Presently he wandered off across a dewed sward, under the light-spattered shade of high trees, and stood on the island rim looking across a broken wilderness of stone and water and moonlight.

  The fact is, me hoy, and we might as well face it with our usual modesty, Barbara is in love with me. Maybe she doesn’t quite realize it yet, but I know the symptoms. Well?

  Well, so if they could only shake that Valeria hornet and that rather cloying Elinor, they could have a lot of fun. Only somehow Barbara Whitley wasn’t a person you could simply have fun with. Davis grew a little scared. Cosmos sunder it, he didn’t want to be tied down yet!

  So, since he couldn’t get away from her, he’d have to remove temptation by curing her of her feelings. In the absence of electron
ic psychadjusters, he thought woozily, he could do that by making her mad at him—say, by exercising his Man’s prerogatives with, yes, with Yvonne . . . who must be very disappointed in him. . . he grinned and started down toward the village.

  As he emerged from a grove into the unreal light, he stopped short. A tall form approached him. “Barbara,” he stammered.

  She came to him, smiling and shaking the loose red hair down over her back, but her eyes were big, solemn, a little afraid. “Bert,” she said. “I have to talk to you.” She halted and stood with hands clasped behind her, like a child. Davis swallowed, because she was not at all like a child in other respects.

  “Uh . . . sure . . . you got rid of that spitcat cousin of yours, I see,” he began feebly.

  “She’s asleep. I wanted this to be between us two.”

  “Uh, yes, of course. Can’t settle anything with Valeria around. Ask her a civil question and you get a civil war.”

  “Val . . . oh.” Light and shadow flowed across the girl. Suddenly: “What do you have against Valeria?”

  “She’s just a natural-born shrew, I suppose,” he shrugged.

  “She means well. It’s only that she—never quite knows what to say . . . we are of the same blood, I know her and—”

  “Scuttle Valeria!” said Davis impulsively. “Come here, you!” She crept into his arms, her hands stole around his neck and he kissed her. She responded with an endearing clumsiness.

  “I couldn’t stand it, Bertie,” she gulped. “You and all those other women—what’s happened to me?”

  “Poor little Babs.” He stroked her hair. “Sit down.”

  They spent quite a while without words. He was delighted to see how fast she learned. Here in the shadow of the frondtrees, she was only a warm breathing shape close to him.

  After a time, she blurted: “Do whatever you want, Bertie.”

  Davis reached for her—and pulled up cold.

  It was one thing to seduce an Elinor or an Yvonne. Barbara was a different case entirely: too whole-hearted, it would hurt her too much when he finally left. And . . . and . . . oh, there were all the practical objections, a long dangerous road ahead and so on. At the same time—no he could not rebuff her or humiliate her into storming off.