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This came to her along the sense-stream. He was furious that she should attempt to help him. And there was wonderment from him at the vastness of Dustland. Its dismal emptiness, he called it.
    Not so, thought Miacis.
    What’s happened? It was the question that wove in and out of Thomas’ mind, even when he was thinking about something else. This question and other thoughts flowed back along the sense-stream to Miacis.
    Where are the trees? came from him.
    What are trees? Miacis tracing, telepathing. The prey refused her question. Then she remembered Justice showing pictures of the past and the hedgerow of trees.
    Has there been a war? Thomas was wondering.
    What is war?
    This … this awful, fantastic, smelly dust—is it a season? He wondered. Will things change and grow? Where are all the people? Where are the cities? What kind of place is this?
    I know cities. Why did she say that? Once she had told Justice she knew cities, too. Why did she lie? She didn’t know or care.
    But the prey had traced the thought. You know cities? Miacis! Tracing to her. She had got his attention for sure. Then where are they? Why didn’t you tell us, Miacis? Justice said there were no structures here.
    The Master is truly right, traced Miacis. What are cities? There are no cities. Now, please dig in the ground. You know what little fighting beasts will do to you if they find you. Oh, but I leave from knowing. You are not here, Thomas, the prey, not really here. Not in what is body, is that not so? I cannot keep it straight. Nothing like you, the unit, has occurred here. You seem … real. I have sensed … seen you move through the space around you. Seen you move objects. I have come in contact with your weight. Therefore you are here, are you not?
    Dustcreep! traced Thomas, the prey. She felt him pull his forces in from her. He raised mental shields, hiding himself. Good night, Dustshit, he traced evenly.
    Whatever is good night? she traced. She had heard and scanned his curses before and had a growing collection she kept to herself.
    I’ll not teach you anything, you stinking dustkeeper! And then: You’ll never catch me.
    In this way, the prey signed off for the remaining time of Nolight.
    Miacis moaned and sighed. So insulting he was to her. Dustkeeper! His last jape at her before he covered himself over with dust and dirt and fell into a deep slumber. It took him time to dig his dark —he made it very wide (Ha! thought Miacis, I wonder!)—and it took him time to settle in. But at last, with his retreat from her, she emptied her mind of his feeling and loosened and pulled back the sense-stream. So good to be no longer connected to the prey’s mournful pain and loneliness. Yet she moaned continually at his breaking all contact with her and his lack of caution in the Nolight.
    From her cramped position in the dark, she set up sense-posts around the prey to protect him and give herself warning. The sense-posts would cause her hindquarters to tingle uncomfortably in the event something disturbed the prey’s dark.
    He may not be like Star. He may truly be of the past, thought Miacis. But he can be found here and now. He can be sniffed by beasts of Nolight who grope, unseen, to hurt him.
    Tiredness reached into the marrow of her bones. Her breath came in rushes of awkward lung-breathing. Each time she exhaled, a high whine left her throat. It was a thin sound which gave her satisfaction, reminding her of the pleasure she found on the edge of sleep.
    Tired to my teeth, as the prey would say, Miacis thought. She sighed. The prey do carry on such cursing, too! Funny stuff!
    She snuggled deeper. Images drifted in and out of her mind. Breathing grainy air, she was aware of no disturbance. Sensed no Rollers on the borders of Nolight. This she knew of Rollers. They were her ships; she, their herald. This she accepted.
    Whining, Miacis fell in and out of an agitated surface sleep as through frightening emptiness. Within vague dreaming, she asked