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son-in-line from Yirn the Legendary, held the center.
    “We have a present for you, Pearson. You had told us months ago of an event you call a ‘birthday,’ and rambled much about its meaning and the customs that surround it. We cast our thoughts for a suitable gift.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t open it if it’s wrapped,” he quipped weakly. “You’ll have to show me. I wish I could offer you one in return. You’ve kept me alive.”
    “You have given us much more than life. Look to your left, Pearson.”
    He moved his eyes. A creaking, grinding noise began, continued as he watched empty sky and waited. The feeling-thoughts of thousands of the People reached him.
    An object slowly rose into view. It was a circle, set atop a perfect girder work of tiny wooden beams. It was old and scratched in places, but still shiny: a hand mirror, gleaned from God knew what section of his backpack or suit pockets. It was inclined at an angle across his chest, and down.
    For the first time in many years he could see the ground. Before he could express his thanks for the wonderful, incredible gift of the mounted old mirror his thoughts were blanked by what he could see.
    Tiny rows of cultivated fields stretched to the horizon. Clusters of small houses dotted the fields, many gathered together into semblances of towns. A suspension bridge made of his hair and threads from his suit crossed a tiny stream in three places. On the other side of the People-sized river were the beginnings of a small city.
    The mirror crew, through an ingenious system of pulleys and cords, turned the reflector. Nearby was the factory where, he was told, wooden beams and articles were manufactured from local plants. Among the tools used to shape the beams were sharp bits of Pearson’s fingernails. Huge tents housed other factories, tents made from the treated skin which peeled regularly off Pearson’s suntanned body. Tools moved smoothly, and pulleys and wheels carried people to and from, lubricated in part with wax taken from Pearson’s ears.
    “Offer us something in return, Pearson?” said Yeen rhetorically. “You have given us the greatest gift of all: yourself. Every day we find new uses for the information you give us. Every day we find new uses for what you produce.
    “Other tribes that once we fought with have joined with us, so that all may benefit from you. We are becoming what you once called a nation.”
    “Watch… watch out,” Pearson mumbled mentally, overcome by Yeen’s words and the sweeping vistas provided by the mirror. “A nation means the onset of politicians.”
    “What is that?” asked one of the council suddenly, pointing downward.
    “A new gift,” came his neighbor’s thought, also staring down the great slope of Pearson’s nose. “What is it good for, Pearson?”
    “Nothin’. I learned a long time ago, friends,” he said, “that tears ain’t good for nothing…”

    Yusec, hundred and twelfth son-in-line from Yirn the Legendary, was resting on Pearson’s chest, enjoying the shade provided by the forest of hair there. Pearson had just finished a bit of a wonderful new fruit the People had grown on a far farm and brought in especially for him. Pearson could see Yusec via one of the many mirrors mounted around his face, all inclined to offer him a different view of his surroundings.
    A party of young was touring his pelvic region and another was making its way around the base of his ear. Others came and went from him on crude escalators or one of the many huge stairways that mounted him on all sides. Groups of archivists stood nearby, ready to record any stray thought Pearson might produce. They even monitored his dreams.
    “Yusec, the new food was very good.” “The farmers of that region will be pleased.” There was a pause before Pearson spoke again. “Yusec, I’m dying.”
    Startled, the insect rose to his feet, stared up at the massif of Pearson’s chin. “What is this? Pearson cannot