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  But then he remembered the omen. Could this be its meaning?

  In that moment of Flint's hesitation, the Imperial Guard drew his blaster. "Nothing personal," he said. "But orders are orders. You're being mattermitted to Earth—today."

  But the resistance was gone from Flint. He could have handled the guard, and hidden from the Earthborns—but how could he fight the omen? His magic was weak, and this sign had reached across 108 light-years to touch him. Against that, there was no defense.

  2

  Mission of Ire

  *notice target galaxy development*

  —notice taken report—

  *transfer logged 80 intensity motion 1500 parsecs from sphere knyfh to underdeveloped region*

  —potential interest evidently knyfh is searching for assistance unable to monitor outer galaxy alone futile no advanced cultures in that segment—

  *addendum number of technologically incipient cultures in vicinity cluster of spheres*

  —itemize—

  *canopus spica polaris antares sador nath bellatrix mirzam mintaka*

  —cluster of nonentities canopus is slave culture spica waterbound sador regressive to core mintaka interested only in music antares possesses transfer but uses it only internally polaris represents potential threat owing to efficient circularity this is where knyfh transferred?—

  *correction transferred to sphere sol*

  —sol! barely technological small sphere—

  *advanced rapidly in recent period after awkward breakthrough*

  —concurrence detail on sol—

  *abortive mattermission expansion depleted source planet almost to point of nonreturn followed by disciplined starship colonization 400 source planet cycles or years major colonies sirius and procyon atomic level altair formalhaut vega machine technology arich mufrid pollux arcturus denebola castor capella all pre-industrial commerce sheriton deneb-kaitos aldebaran alioth corserpentis sabik all medieval remaining colonies further regressed to subcivilized*

  —enough! with nucleus of only three atomic-level settlements including origin sphere represents very limited actuality and questionable potential no action required at this time continue monitoring to ascertain purpose of knyfh transfer if other than desperation quest—

  *POWER*

  —CIVILIZATION—

  Flint looked about, still angry despite the omen. He was in a huge room, much like the main chamber of the Imp station on Outworld, but larger. Vents set high in the walls let in slits of light—no, it was artificial light after all, that was one of the things the Imps had—and there was a growling as of hidden machines running. The overall effect was awful.

  "Flint of Etamin?" a woman inquired. She had no sex appeal; she was flat-breasted, cloud-white, and spoke with a strong Imp accent. Flint presumed this really was Imperial Earth, and he didn't like it.

  "Etamin—double star on the Fringe," she said. Her voice was low but not soft.

  This elicited a spark of interest. "You mean Sol isn't double?" he inquired. He was not being facetious; it had not occurred to him that Sol should differ from his home sun in this significant respect. No wonder Sol was so faint in the sky. But of course there was no reason a single star should not support life; it was the planet that counted.

  "Please don this tunic," she said, holding out a bolt of red cloth.

  "You want me to put on a red dress?" he asked incredulously.

  "It is not a dress. It is an Imperial tunic. All citizens wear them, males and females. You will note that I wear one."

  Flint looked again. This Imp was not merely flat-breasted, but non-breasted. "You're male!" he said, surprised. The dress and the smooth, unbearded face had deceived him, but the voice and chest should have given him the hint. He was being dangerously unobservant.

  The man rolled his pale eyes briefly skyward in a feminine gesture. "What color tunic would you prefer? Anything except black."

  "Why not black?"

  "That signifies officialdom."

  Flint disliked officialdom. "I'm happy the way I am."

  Now an evanescent smile. "That simply won't do. You're no Tarot figure."

  "Tarow people are naked?"

  "That's Tarot, with an unpronounced terminal T. Merely illustrations on occult cards used by the cult of Tarotism. Its prime tenet is that all concepts of God are valid."

  "Aren't they?"

  Again the rolling of eyes. "You're to meet the Council of Ministers in fifteen minutes. You must be dressed."

  Flint realized that argument would only delay his return home. "Give me a green one, then. I'm a green man."

  "Very good," the white man said distastefully. He produced a green tunic that came reasonably close to matching Flint's skin, and Flint put it on over his head. He balked at using the silk undergarment the man tried to make him wear under it, however. A dress was bad enough, but no warrior or craftsman wore panties! Suppose he needed to urinate in a hurry?

  A woman—a real one this time, with breasts and hips and hair, though dressed just like the man—came and slicked down his proudly unruly hair, washed his hands and feet, and trimmed off the better part of his strong finger- and toenails. She was, despite her pale skin, an attractive female with a musky odor and a deft touch; otherwise he would not have submitted to these indignities. He hoped he would not have to fight soon; his hands were now as embarrassingly dainty as Honeybloom's.

  He was ushered into a capsule that closed about him and abruptly plunged through the wall. He had a confused glimpse of buildings like straight vertical cliffs, and crowds of robed people. Up above the sky was blue, not green, and the light of the sun was sickeningly yellowish. This was Imp Earth, all right! Then the capsule penetrated another wall like a spearpoint through hide, and stopped inside.

  A bit dizzy, Flint got out.

  A man stepped up to grasp his hand. Flint was tempted to grab that flabby hand and throw the bastard over his shoulder, but restrained himself. It was better to ascertain the facts before acting, as the Shaman always reminded him. Then he could throw a few Imps about.

  "Welcome, Flint of Outworld. I am the Minister of Population. It was our excellent aura-intensity files that located you. The Council is ready for you now."

  "Ugh," Flint grunted noncommittally. He followed the man through bare halls like the base of an overgrown vine forest. He felt confined, his vision, hearing, and smell restricted to the point of uselessness; surely this was one of the fabled Earth prisons. He kept a nervous eye out for predators, though he knew that the larger dinosaurs had died out on Earth.

  The Council of Ministers was a group of undistinguished men in identical black tunics. Their faces and hands were bone-white, except for one brown man. They introduced themselves in rapid order, though they hardly seemed sufficiently distinct from each other to warrant names. Flint made disinterested note in case there were ever any future relevance. He had a perfect memory for such details; it came of practice in hunting and scouting. The Shaman called it "eidetic."

  "I'll come straight to the point," the brown man said. He was the Regent, and seemed to have more character than the others. "You have a high Kirlian aura—er, do you know what that is?"

  "No." This was something the Shaman had not mentioned, unless it was the Imp name for intelligence. Keer-lee-an aura?

  "Very well," the man said, with a grimace that showed it was not very well. "I'll explain. It is a kind of a field of force associated with living things, like a magnetic field—do you know what that is?"

  "No." Actually the Shaman had mentioned magnetism, but Flint was not in a good mood.

  "Complete savage," one of the Ministers murmured in a comment he evidently thought Flint could not overhear. The man did not realize that a complete savage would have acute hearing for wilderness survival. Flint was proud of his primitive heritage, though he realized the Minister had intended the remark disparagingly. Well, toss one more Imp—in due course.

  "Hm, yes," the Regent said. "Well, some four o
r five hundred years ago, when Earth was just emerging into the space age, the twentieth century, you know, scientists discovered that there were phenomena that could not be explained by conventional means. ESP, PSI, dowsing, precognition—fascinating concepts in their time—"

  One of the Ministers cleared his throat, and Flint realized why they liked to be so similar: it was difficult to tell which one had interrupted the discussion.

  The Regent frowned and continued. "At any rate, it was obvious that force fields of an unknown nature existed. In 1939 a Soviet electrician—uh, the Soviets were a nation, somewhat like a stellar system except they were right here on Earth—called Semyon Davidovich Kirlian photographed the patterns of bioluminescence—that is, a glow from living things—that appeared in certain high-frequency electrical fields. This effect resembled a fireworks display, with multicolored flares, sparks, twinkles, glows, and lines. In fact, a Kirlian photograph of a living human hand resembled the image of our galaxy with all its stars and clusters and swirls of dust and gas. And so this discovery—"

  "Really, our guest isn't interested in this detail," the Minister of Population interjected.

  The truth was, Flint was interested. A human hand that had fields of energy like the galaxy? But if he revealed how much he understood, he would spoil his image of barbaric ignorance, so he kept silent.

  "My point," the Regent continued, "is that this was the start of what was to become the major science of bioluminescence. It has had profound effects on medicine, agriculture, criminology, archaeology, and other sciences, because every living thing has its Kirlian aura, whose pattern is unique to it and varies with its health and mood and experience. Some even call this aura the astral body or the soul. There are religious implications—"

  Again the anonymous clearing of a throat.

  "Well, the Kirlian aura is now subject to precise measurement. It varies in intensity and detail with different individuals. Some have weak fields, some strong fields. Most are average. You happen to have a very strong field. This means you would be a good subject for transfer of identity to another body, for where your Kirlian aura goes, you go—because your aura is your essence."

  Suddenly Flint caught the man's drift. "Like mattermission—to someone else's body!"

  "To someone else's body and brain—but you retain your own personality and memories, because they are inherent in your aura. As you change, it changes, reflecting your growth. Your aura is you. In this case, it goes to something else's body. You are about to have the magnificent adventure of traveling to the stars."

  The notion had its appeal. Flint was intrigued by the stars, and all the stories connected with them. But he remained angry. "I just traveled from a star—and I want to go back."

  "But this is a signal honor. No human being has done this before. You will be an extraordinary envoy to alien Spheres—"

  "The old goat almost makes me want to transfer," one of the Ministers whispered to another.

  Not only did Flint overhear this, he knew the Regent heard it too, for the man's lips twitched into the merest suggestion of a snarl. This Council was like a nest of piranha-beetles when the meat ran out, snapping at anything that moved, including each other. Flint's own ire was simple: he wanted to go home. The Ministers' ire was complex, but not his business, unless he could find some way to turn it to his own advantage. Maybe one of them would help him escape, just to spite the others?

  For he had no intention of having his aura transferred. "Go to the stars—in some creature's body?" Flint thought of being a wheeled Polarian, and was revolted.

  "Precisely. And you will bring to those Spheres the secret of transfer itself, and enlist them in the galactic coalition—"

  But Flint had heard more than enough. He turned and ran out of the chamber so quickly that the assembled Ministers were left staring. "Stop him!" the Regent cried.

  Imperial guards appeared, barring Flint's passage. But they were civilized and soft, while he was a tough Stone Age warrior. He dodged the first, ducked under the reaching arm of the second, and nudged the third into the fourth. He really felt crippled, without either spear or fingernails! He left them behind in a tangle.

  He came to the capsule area and jumped into one. The transparent cover closed over him and the thing launched through the wall. This time Flint watched closely: The wall irised open as the blunt snout of the craft shoved in, so that it formed an aperture just the right size. He emerged outside, and looked back to see the wall closing behind like the anus of a grazing dinosaur. And what did that make the capsule and its occupant, ejected like this from the bowel of the building? Flint smiled briefly, thinking of what men called Polarians. Now Flint himself was the dinosaur dropping.

  The capsule was on some sort of vine or wire that extended before and after, a bead on a string. That was why it didn't fall into the chasm between buildings. Flint felt nervous, peering down into the void; if that string broke—but of course it wouldn't. The Imps were very careful about things like that, being extremely dependent on their machines.

  Now he had only a moment to make plans. The Imps would be waiting for him at the next stop. He had to outmaneuver them. But it would be foolish to go out into this awesome city; he would give himself away in an instant even if he found a way to cover up his green skin. He had to act in a manner they did not expect And he had to get home.

  The capsule punched into the next building. Evidently it was a shuttle, going back and forth between the matter-mission center and the Ministry. Yet that was limited, and outside there had been a network of lines like the spreading limbs of a large vine tree. Surely the string continued to other places.

  There was a little panel of buttons before him, and a sign. He could not read it, but could guess: This was a manual control system, like reins on the horses that more civilized worlds than Outworld used. He punched buttons randomly as the capsule slowed to a halt. He could see the Imp guards clustered at the landing.

  Abruptly the capsule took off again. It shot past the surprised faces of the guards and on through the opposite wall. Now he was back in suspension, seeing the connecting lines spreading every which way. Each one represented potential escape, if only he could figure out the system in time. Flint punched more buttons, and the capsule slowed, as if confused by the multiple directions.

  By quick experimentation and use of his excellent memory, Flint got a notion of how to operate the thing. Each button represented a preset destination, like telling a child runner "Go to Chief Strongspear." The question was, where did he want to go—and illiterate as he was, how could he choose that particular button?

  Once he got home, he would ask the Shaman to teach him how to read. It had become a survival skill.

  Well, maybe he could use his own ignorance to advantage. Every time he punched a button, the capsule shifted its route to head for that location. By punching new buttons, he kept shifting his destination, so that the Imps could not tell where he was going. Evidently they could not intercept him here in the capsule en route, so he was safe for the moment. He had a chance to think.

  First, he had to delve into his own motives. The Shaman had always disciplined him in this: "Know thyself." Sometimes the obvious became spurious, and new truths manifested from the hidden mind.

  Why was he fleeing? After a flurry of superfluous reasons, he penetrated to the basic one: He could not face the notion of being placed in the prison of an alien body. He had always been allergic to weakness, abnormality, or illness. Honeybloom's stiff-finger hex had been more than a nuisance; it had forced a recognition of physical incapacity on Flint, to his emotional discomfort. Chief Strongspear's threat of a pus-spell had been devastating, for the thought of making love to a sick woman completely unmanned Flint. He had always been supremely healthy himself. Good clean combat wounds were all right, but anything festering—ugh!

  The idea of becoming a monstrous bug or stupid dinosaur or slimy jelly-thing—no, Flint could not face this. He knew himself to be brave in the
conventional sense, but an abject coward in this. His essence, his spark of individuality, was his strength, and any weakening of that was like suffocation. He had to remain in his own good body. Even if this meant dying in it.

  He spied a different kind of area, cleared of the huge buildings. What could this be, here in the perpetual metropolis of the Imperial Planet? A bit of forest?

  He brought his capsule closer to it by punching buttons, coordinating them like the fracture lines of imperfect flint rocks. He had, after all, the touch of an expert. A little here, a little there, and the capsule jerked closer to a destination that was not programmed for any of its buttons. Finally the clearing expanded, and he spied a spaceship.

  Flint had seen similar craft at the little spaceport on Outworld. It was an orbiter shuttle, a jet-propelled ship that carried things up to the orbiting interstellar ships. A starship would break apart if it ever tried to land on a full-sized planet, but there was no need for it to come down when the shuttle relayed everything.

  This was Imperial Earth, origin planet of man. Spaceships still set out from here for all parts of Sphere Sol. If he could locate one going to Outworld and get aboard it....

  But of course it would be two hundred years before he got home. Even if he were frozen—a notion he didn't like—so that he didn't age, he would still be way too late for Honeybloom. But at least he would be going in the right direction.

  Who the hell was he fooling? Half the people on Freezers died in transit. Of every twelve shipfuls, three were lost in space and three more were lost in failed revivals. For some reason, he had once thought that was more than half gone, but the Shaman had corrected him. In any event, why should he risk throwing away his young life like that? The Shaman's case had been different: He had been old, thirty-five, when he embarked on his freezer-voyage to Outworld.

  Yet he couldn't stand being cooped up in a metal lifeship for the rest of his life, either. He'd be stir-crazy, as the Shaman put it, before two months were out. There was no way home but mattermission: instant transport.