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action narrowed perceptions.
    But Gaber, as witness his laxity over the belt, was so narding absent-minded that he was more of a liability than the youngest youngster in the landing party. As Kai recalled, Gaber’s credentials rated him as ship-bred, having made only four expeditions in his six decades. This would likely be the last if Kai made an honest report of his efficiency. Unless, the insidious thought plagued Kai, they had indeed been planted. Better than most leaders, Kai knew how undermining such a rumor could be. Yes, it would be better to keep Gaber so fully occupied that he had no time for reflection.
    Kai did, however, have to remind Gaber to strap himself into the sled seat, which the cartographer did with profuse apologies, while Kai checked the sled’s controls and energy levels.
    “I do wish I’d been born a Thek,” Gaber said. “To live long enough to watch the evolution of a world. Ah, what an opportunity!”
    Kai chuckled. “If they’re not too involved with thinking to look around in time.”
    “They never forget a thing they’ve seen or heard.”
    “How could one tell? It takes a year to carry on any sort of a dialogue with an Elder.”
    “You young people can only think of quick returns. Not end results. It’s the end result that counts. Over the course of my years on ARCT-10 , I’ve had many meaningful chats with Theks. The older ones, of course.”
    “Chats? How long a lag between sentences?”
    “Oh, not long. We’d scheduled replies on a once-a-ship-week basis. I found it extremely stimulating to formulate the most information in the fewest phrases.”
    “Oh, I’ll grant the Theks are past masters at the telling phrase.”
    “Why, even a single word can have unusual significance when uttered by a Thek,” Gaber went on with unexpected volubility, “When you can appreciate fully that each Thek holds within its brain the total knowledge of its own forebears, and can distill this infinite wisdom in single succinct words or phrases . . .”
    “No perspective . . .” Kai was concentrating on lifting the sled out of the compound.
    “I beg your pardon?” Gaber’s apology was more of a reprimand.
    “Their wisdom is Thek wisdom and is not readily applicable to our human conditions.”
    “I never implied that it was. Or should be.” Gaber was distinctly annoyed with Kai.
    “No, but wisdom should be relevant. Knowledge is something else, but not necessarily distilled from wisdom.”
    “My dear Kai, they understand reality, not just the illusion of a very brief and transitory lifespan such as ours.”
    The telltale, as sensitive to thermal readings as to movement of any object larger than a man’s fist, rattled, informing the two men that they were passing over living creatures, at that moment hidden from their eyes by the thick vegetation. The rattle turned into a purr as the sensitive recorder indicated that the life form had already been tagged with the telltale indelible paint with which the various scouting teams marked any beast they observed.
    “Life form . . . no telltale,” exclaimed Gaber as the rattle occurred after a short interval of silence.
    Kai altered his course in the direction of the cartographer’s finger. “And moving from us at a fast rate.” Gaber leaned across to the windboard to check the telltagger, nodding to Kai to indicate it was ready and set.
    “Maybe it’s one of those predators Varian’s been trying to catch,” Kai said. “Herbivores go about in groups. Hang on, there’s a break in the jungle ahead of us. It can’t possibly swerve.”
    “You’re directly over it,” Gaber said, his voice rough with excitement.
    Both beast and airborne sled reached the small clearing simultaneously. But, as if it recognized the danger of an open space with an unknown enemy above it, the beast was a bare flash, a stretched and running, mottled body, ending in a stiffly held long tail—all the retinal afterimage Kai retained.
    “Got it!” Gaber’s