I

“I wish that you would not do this thing. You know that we all do.”

They reposed on the slightly raised dining platform on the external lip of the restaurant. From their present height they could see much of the city spread out before them, an urbanized extravagance that covered a vast amount of territory. Mahmahar was not that heavily populated, but since by law no structure could be more than four stories tall, expansion was predominantly horizontal. The vast number of gardens and parks demanded by custom and aesthetics further contributed to the large areas occupied by even modest conurbations.

Not that the city had the slightest overtone of urban sprawl. On the contrary, it barely resembled a city at all, much less the kinds of metastacizing metropolises one found on the Hivistahm or O’o’yan worlds. Architecture that emphasized the harmonious while intertwining with gardens and parks made sure of that. In such a setting it was the larger structures that looked like interlopers and not the other way around.

Home to slightly more than two million, the community of Turatreyy was one of the larger on Mahmahar, and its inhabitants were proud to call it home. Where possible the Wais preferred to restrict the size of their cities to less than five million but more than one. In socialization as in everything else, the Wais found beauty in definition.

Sometimes this engendered a mixture of contempt and envy among the other members of the Weave, who would deride the Wais for their manners and formalities while secretly admiring their ability to develop or find beauty in everything. Even among their detractors there was no denying that Wais society and civilization represented the zenith of Weave culture, one that other species could only aspire to emulate even when Wais action (or lack of it) proved exasperating. It was a responsibility the Wais took seriously.

Like every other member race of the Weave, they had sponsored the war against the Amplitur from the beginning, over a thousand years ago. It was a support that had never wavered, one as strong as their desire to shun actual combat. In that they were no different from the majority of their allies.

Lalelelang’s mother toyed with the three traditional drinking utensils in front of her. One for the aperitif, one for the main course, a third filled with a lightly citrus-flavored spring water for ceremonial clearings of the palate between bites. Like every other aspect of Wais society, dining had been raised to a fine art.

As the dominant surviving representative of their matrilineal line, her mother had to say such things; it was her place. Her grandmother would have been even more forceful in her objections, but that honored life-giver was two years deceased, clipped, embalmed, and reverently ensconced in the family mausoleum. So the disagreeable task was left to her mother. Her father would be informed of the results only when the females saw fit.

“You could be so many things,” her mother was saying. “Among your age and study group your potential gradient is by far the highest, as it is among the family. You show flashes of brilliance in narrative poetry as well as industrial design. Engineering is wide open to you, as is the entire range of organic architecture.” Gold-tipped lashes fluttered above wide, blue-green eyes. “You could even be, dare I venture the notion, a landscaper!”

“I have made my choice. The proper venues have been notified.” Lalelelang’s tone was deferential but firm.

Her mother inclined forward, sipping through her beak delicately and with perfect grace from the damascened aperitif container.

“I still do not understand why you felt it necessary to choose such a dangerous and uncertain occupation.”

“Someone has to do it, Mother.” With the prehensile, featherless tips of her left wing Lalelelang nervously fingered the four small plates of food arranged in the standard midday meal pattern before her. “History is a respected and valued profession.”

Her intricate body language conveying unyielding parental concern, the senior female ruffled her feathers as she straightened in her chair. Her movements signified frustration rather than anger. There was disapproval in the delicate tilt of her head, remorse in the slight arching of her feathery cranial crest. Her father’s, Lalelelang mused, would by now have been twinkling iridescent crimson. Lacking such colors, a female had to make do with subtlety of movement.

She got the message nonetheless. Her mother had been flashing it in various guises throughout the meal.

“You choose to be a historian, by which amusing quirk of nature I cannot begin to imagine.” Lengthy eyelashes fanned the air between them. “Eclectic enough, but not in itself objectionable. It is your fascination with the war that confounds and distresses me. The obsession is un Wais.”

“However much we may dislike it, it remains the single most important component of our modern history as well as of our daily lives.” Lalelelang picked up a clutch of perfect, tiny, bright green berries from the dish nearest to her and used (as was proper) just the tip of her beak to neatly nip them one at a time from their black stems. When she’d finished she placed the stripped stems back on the empty plate, carefully positioning them so that neither end pointed either at her or at her mother. A perverse profession she might have chosen, but she still remembered her manners, of which there were intricacies even those representatives of other species who had worked intimately among the Wais for years did not suspect. After a while they ceased to care, which helped greatly to ease tension between them and their hosts.

In the midst of difficult times it struck some, like the Massood, as a waste of time and energy, not to mention an overemphasis on foolishness, but to the Wais manners were the very lifeblood of meaningful existence. It was a principle reason why they had contributed so much for so long to defeat the enemy: if imposed, the Amplitur Purpose would have wreaked havoc with traditional etiquette, without which, the Wais were convinced, there could be no true civilization. Other species did not disagree with this tenet so much as they did the emphasis the Wais placed upon it.

“Even if I grant your thesis, daughter, I still do not see why you could not have left this work to someone else.” Her eyes swept worriedly across the nearest garden, a dense paving of six-petaled yellow and orange Narstrunia that were just coming into glorious full bloom. They were edged with tiny violet Yunguliu, a touch the senior female was not sure she wholly approved of. Black and white Wessh would have provided more contrast, and they were in season.

We are all of us critics, she thought, as l am now in criticizing my offspring. It was a principle reason why within the Weave the Wais were greatly admired but less than universally popular.

An empty package marring the soft floral perfection of the garden path caught her eye. Doubtless dropped by a visiting alien, she knew, for no Wais would be so careless with the visual aesthetic. Possibly a S’van, though they were no more or less crude than any of the other Weave races. Their irreverent attitude toward life, however, bordered on the regressive. It was with some difficulty that she repressed her instinctive urge to leap over the ornate railing and spring across the lawn to snatch up the debris before it offended another passerby’s sensibilities. She forced herself to concentrate her attention on her patiently waiting daughter.

“Because I believe that I am best suited to the task, Mother.” Politely Lalelelang searched the remaining three plates of food in front of her for something appropriate with which to chase the green berries. “The same attitudinal approach which would make me a good engineer or landscaper will stand me in good stead in my chosen field of endeavor.”

“Aberrant behavior,” her mother whispered in the most inoffensive dulcet tones imaginable.

“No. Just a talent … and a calling.”

“So say you. Aberrant proclivity, then.” She sipped from the container of spring water and picked at her own meal, sufficiently upset to ignore dining protocol by selecting directly from the fourth dish. Her concern for her daughter outweighed any hunger, but it would have been unforgivable to have ordered food and not eaten.

She leaned across the table, the narrow head protruding gracefully from the half-meter-long neck. “You grade out top of your age group. You already speak fourteen Weave languages fluently when the norm for your educational cluster is five and for matriculated adults ten. I grant you your choice. I grant you your determination.” The head drew back and the senior female gazed into the distance.

“But this area of specialization you have settled upon, like a stone sinking down through the darkest waters: that I cannot give my approval to.” Her crest was absolutely flat against the back of her head and neck as she spoke. “Why, of all the subjects available, must you choose this?”

“Because no one else has,” her daughter replied.

“And with good reason.” She shifted dialects effortlessly, from one of admonition to one indicative of deep concern. “Your very health and future are at stake. Even the males in the family are concerned.”

“Everyone is worrying themselves needlessly.” Lalelelang’s reply was strong, but she could not meet her mother’s gaze. She focused instead on the other midday diners, careful not to stare at any one group or individual for too long.

Her mother’s neck contracted. “I do not understand you. I do not understand how you can cope.” She reached for one of the half-dozen lightly broiled Hapuli grubs on her second plate, hesitated, and withdrew her wingtips. Distress had ruined her appetite.

“I have trained myself,” Lalelelang explained. “When dealing with extremes I use the special medication that has been devised for such purposes.”

Her mother whistled soft derision. “Who ever heard of embarking on a career that requires periodic ingestion of strong medication merely to enable one to maintain one’s normal equilibrium? What sane Wais would voluntarily subject themselves to such a prospect?”

“There have been one or two,” Lalelelang protested. “Not here on Mahmahar, but off-world. Careerists of the diplomatic service.”

“They had no choice. You do. Yet even they did not opt for this peculiar … specialization … that so perversely attracts you.” She adjusted her posture significantly. “I concede you the honors you have won, but surely you must have noticed with what distaste they have been granted?”

“Someone must do the distasteful work,” Lalelelang countered.

Her mother’s beak clicked regretfully. “Yes, but why you? Why the brightest of my offspring?”

“Because I am the best suited, and additionally the only one so inclined.”

“So you continue to insist.” She straightened formally in her chair. “It is clear you are obsessed by this and intend to pursue it, no matter the dangers.”

“It is not an obsession. It is simply what I have chosen. Or as certain poets say, for reasons unfathomable it has chosen me. I am already regarded as one of the top three in the field.”

“Easy enough to excel at something everyone else avoids.” An uncomfortable pause followed this observation, which neither mother nor daughter knew how to gracefully break. As the younger, Lalelelang finally felt it incumbent on her to speak out.

“Then you won’t come to the presentation tomorrow?”

“Do you really think I could cope with it?”

“I do not know, but I would like you to see some of my work instead of condemning it solely on the basis of second-and third-hand knowledge.”

The senior ’lang’s feathers quivered. “I am sorry. The mere thought unsettles my insides. It is difficult enough just to sit here and discuss the subject with you. But to actually observe your work … no, I cannot. Of course, your father will not be present, either.”

“Because you refuse him permission?”

“Don’t speak ill of your father. As males go he is exceptional. Your genes speak to that. It is simply that he has no more stomach for your choice of subject matter than do I. The same is true of your brother and sisters.”

Lalelelang considered the remnants of what had been a less than serene meal. “I expected no more. I’m sorry you will not be present. It is fascinating material, when you consider that in the first instance—”

“Please, daughter.” Both wings rose at just the precise angle to emphasize unease. “I have heard quite enough already. Remember that though as a good parent I tolerate your fixation, that does not mean I am required to share in it. It astonishes me that any in your department can do so. Tell me: Prior to such presentations, do they also take medication?”

“I am sure there are some who do, as a precautionary measure if for no other reason. You may not believe it, but there are others besides myself who can examine everything without special preparation. It’s like working with any toxin; the more you are exposed to it, the greater the immunity you build up. Though there are always surprises.”

“And this is the life you have chosen.” Her mother steadied herself. “To scholar the war is one thing. But to focus on the Human quotient?” Her eyelids flicked eloquently. “If you had not graded out so remarkably on all the standard tests, I would have recommended you for advanced adolescent therapy.”

Rising from the table, they commenced the ritual of parting suitable for female parents and second daughters. “I know that you love me, Mother.” Wingtips, eyelashes, feathers, and beaks all bobbed and swayed in eloquent, intricate rhythm as she spoke.

“I do indeed, despite the repulsive avocation you have selected.” Wingtips danced and lightly caressed.

The following day Lalelelang strove to put her mother’s words and deep concern out of her mind as she checked the equipment in the tiny auditorium. Given the light attendance expected, there was no reason to request a larger facility. Besides, it was convenient to her office and relatively isolated from the main body of the university. No one should be offended.

Attendance was restricted to those qualified either by membership in the department or dual recommendation from a senior scholar. This was as much for the protection of unwary students as anything else. Should an unprepared innocent expecting a normal lecture happen to wander into one of Lalelelang’s presentations, the resultant emotional and mental damage could be serious.

She wasn’t worried about that. Security was the responsibility of others, and she gave herself over wholly to the upcoming presentation.

The audience consisted of a dozen expectant observers, each occupying a cradling individual rest pad. Like everything else on Mahmahar, or any Wais world, the presentation chamber had been constructed with an eye for beauty as well as function. Each pad had its own lighting and reproductive screen, as well as remote terminals for recording and observing.

The holo projector stood quiescent off to one side, and a simple flat screen had been secured to the depth wall. Lalelelang had learned early on in Human Studies that the usual life-simulating three-dimensional projections were too unsettling for even experienced researchers to handle. Displaying Humans in flat, obviously artificial two dimensions, particularly when combat was involved, made it much easier for novitiates to take and was about all most Wais could handle.

She lit the slightly curved flat screen and checked the projector, adjusting the speech amplifier clipped to her lower beak. Most of those in attendance were known to her, though her heart jumped slightly when she noticed Fasacicing among them. He was accompanied by the two other males of his bonding trio, probably for moral support.

All three worked in the sociohistory department, though only Fasacicing had shown any interest in Human Studies. For the most part they preferred to specialize in the easy prewar Golden Period of Waisisill itself. It was a mildly rewarding and decidedly unchallenging field of endeavor. Fasacicing was taking her lectures as a subspecialty. He was a handsome and extremely colorful specimen, gratifyingly flamboyant in his plumage and manner of dress. They had exchanged more than pleasantries on several occasions, advancing as far as fifth-stage verbal-physical interaction. Try as she had, she’d been unable to stimulate him to further action. He remained interested, however.

She had to concentrate on her presentation, though that didn’t mean she couldn’t spare him an occasional glance. She’d acknowledged his arrival with a semiformal wave of one wing, and his triumvirate had responded synchronously, acknowledging as three the greeting intended for one. She admired his stride, almost a prance, as the trio entered and settled into adjoining pads.

After allowing a decent amount of time for late arrivals, she launched into her presentation, beginning with a verbal overview of her most recent work, reading from her next report, and finally dimming the lights and initiating visuals. Immediately those peripheral attendees began to squirm and fidget uncontrollably. She made no concessions for them. The subject of her presentation was clearly described in the university overprogram and it was incumbent upon everyone present to know what to expect.

Though life-size and sharply defined, the images displayed on screen were reassuringly flat, rendering them considerably less intimidating than they would have been in three dimensions. Even so, a few distressed murmurs were audible from the back row, close by the entry portal. This was normal. Lalelelang ignored them and continued with her erudite explication.

“As I mentioned earlier, today we will be examining social interaction between Human fighting forces and various noncombative representatives of the Weave. In this particular case study, the Hivistahm.”

Lalelelang culled her visuals and related information from multiple sources, distilling those items of interest to her from numerous nonmilitary as well as military venues. Given the length of time Humans had been in the alliance, there were a fair number of sources to choose from. Such had not been the case hundreds of years ago, when contact with the Weave’s erstwhile Human allies had been restricted for safety’s sake.

Still, it was difficult to find usable recordings that illustrated specific instances of social interaction between Human soldiers and representatives of other Weave species, since the latter did their best to avoid the former even in noncombat situations. When such contact did occur, it was usually accidental. Lalelelang spent a good deal of her time scouring otherwise uninformative media reportage in search of the occasional useful nugget.

Sometimes representatives of logistical support teams, be they Hivistahm, O’o’yan, or S’van, would find themselves accidentally caught up in a flurry of fighting. More rarely a media or military reporter would be present. Out of this exotic combination of circumstances came what little material she could use.

She began with updated diagrams, giving the preoccupied a final opportunity to ingest any personal medication. As for herself, she’d been able to dispense with most of it two years ago, scientific detachment and experience having combined to inure her to even the most shocking sights. As she delved more deeply into the presentation and Massood, Humans, and others began to appear on screen in abnormal proximity to one another and to actual fighting, the usual outbreak of involuntary chirpings and whistlings began in the audience. Personal recorders took down everything that was shown, everything she said.

When the first detailed combat footage appeared, the shuffling sounds from the rear of the auditorium grew more pronounced. Even several of her regular students looked a little queasy. But no one left.

As she elucidated, the projector flashed a particularly graphic sequence showing Human soldiers taking apart a slightly larger number of attacking Crigolit. An isolated incidence of unsuppressible regurgitation from somewhere in the auditorium failed to interrupt the flow of either words or images. Courteous or not, she didn’t have time to coddle the unprepared.

It was normal for several visitors to throw up during the course of her presentations, and so she was anything but shocked when it happened.

There was the usual palpable whistle of relief when she concluded the visual exhibition and resumed unsupported speaking. Her gestures, she knew, were not as refined as those of more experienced scholars, her movements not as polished by the winds of academic discourse. In her presentations information took precedence over skill of delivery. No doubt this would slow her professional advancement, but it in no way abrogated the efficacy of the material she was imparting, and she was content with that.

As she shut down the equipment and pocketed the storage bead in her shoulder pouch, she took a moment to study the faces of her departing audience. It was smaller than when she’d begun, several visitors having left—or fled—prior to completion. This was not unprecedented. She might have smiled had her inflexible upper beak permitted such an expression. Not being so endowed, the Wais instead made do with a bewildering variety of gestures, eye movements, and vocal inflections. It was not a deficiency they felt keenly.

Crossing the auditorium, she intercepted Fis and his companions. He seemed to have handled the presentation all right, his expression being only slightly queasy. Though his companions looked less well, they still ritually interposed themselves between the oncoming mature female and her obvious quarry. Either of them would readily have mated with her to cover for a less adventurous member of their triumvirate.

While there was nothing wrong with either young male, it was Fis who attracted her. As usual he did not respond to her elegantly convoluted request for a private meeting—a date, the Humans would have called it, though for a Wais the social implications were far more subtle—with the result that the rest of the four-way conversation was politely formal if somewhat stilted.

As they departed, however, one of his companions returned with the message that Fis would be pleased to meet with her in two weeks, if only to mute her persistence. Naturally she professed indifference even as she acknowledged the acquiescence. Colleagues had worried and even quietly criticized her lack of a normal social life. Perhaps evidence of this ritually scheduled assignation would mollify them for a while. Societal politics were the lifeblood of Wais culture, but sacrificing valuable research time to meet one’s minimum expected social obligations could sometimes be a pain.

It was a blunt observation for a Wais to make, but one couldn’t spend months studying Humans without being influenced, however slightly, by the subject of one’s studies. She knew that among the university hierarchy her unusual straightforwardness was not always appreciated.

Two weeks, then. If they could finalize a casual assignation, it would go a long way toward silencing her critics. Nor was she totally averse to such a liaison. Fis was mature enough and his companions respectable. There was also that streak of iridescent lavender that ran from his neck down onto his chest …

She made a last check of the auditorium equipment. Sometimes it was hard to be a female, she thought. You were always expected to make the first moves. That derived from ancient days when male body chemistry was governed by hormones that fired only several times in a year. Science had since homogenized that biocurve, but social conventions had proven far harder to change.

What must it be like for Humans, she wondered, where the male was usually expected to be the aggressive one? Or for the Massood, whose minimal biological and social differentiations allowed sexual courtship to proceed in an atmosphere of genteel ease? She could envision both from an academic standpoint, but not a personal one.

By now the auditorium was deserted except for herself and one remaining visitor. She blinked in surprise, wondering what Kicucachen wanted. She hadn’t noticed the presence of her departmental superior earlier and decided that he must have entered while her presentation was still in progress.

While it wasn’t like him to drop in on scheduled lectures, neither was it unprecedented. She observed that despite the loss of color in his crest and chest feathers he was still handsome. Not in Fis’s class, but still a viable mate. It was a compliment for someone of his advanced years. She did not voice it, of course. Given the difference in their respective scholarly positions that would have been a serious breach of academic etiquette.

There was nothing wrong with her speaking first, however.

“Are you all right, Senior?”

“I believe so.” His reply was strong despite undisguised overtones of discomfort. “I hadn’t been to one of your infamous Human Studies presentations in some time and had forgotten how graphic they can be.” He glanced involuntarily in the direction of the now blank screen, as if something alien and lethal might still be lurking there just waiting to pounce on the next unwary passerby and tear him beak from limb.

“You certainly haven’t moderated your subject matter.”

“I study Human activities in war and how they relate to the rest of Weave culture, particularly our own.” She made a show of adjusting the projector. “The actions of Human beings do not easily lend themselves to moderation. It is not something that can be adequately studied through indirection.”

Seeing that the brusqueness of her response had taken him aback, she hastened to soften it with appropriate follow-up gestures. It was an awkward attempt and she made a bad job of it, but he showed no offense.

“You are a very unusual individual, Lalelelang. It is a continual surprise to many in the administration that someone of your background and ability should have settled on so gruesome a specialty.”

She chose not to comment. There was no specific reason to do so, as she’d been hearing the same thing for many years.

“Might I inquire if you have found time in your busy schedule to make arrangements to mate?”

For a change, a comfortable coincidence. She relaxed. “There is someone I am interested in, but it is difficult. My work keeps me so occupied.”

“Yes, your dedication is frequently remarked upon.” The senior strove, not entirely successfully, to conceal his impatience. “May I accompany you back to your office?”

“I delight in your company,” she said, knowing she was hardly in a position to refuse. Her crest erected proportionately.

As they walked, scholars and students, visitors and researchers swirled around them, a brilliantly chromatic academic conflagration of dialects and whistles, chirps and dips and bobs, that wonderfully poised social interaction of gregarious Wais on a mass scale which would have appeared to some outsider as a carefully and exquisitely choreographed dance. Among the sweeping gestures and strides, the arch of feathery crests and flashes of male iridescence, the luster of clothing and jewelry, the occasional exchange student or scholar representing some other species stood out like a chunk of weathered debris drifting across the surface of an otherwise mirror-still lake.

Here a bright green Hivistahm, all scales and polish. Alongside a coiffured stream, a clannish pair of even smaller O’o’yan murmuring to one another.

“Don’t tell me administration is complaining again?”

“No.” The senior’s eyelids barely flickered. “They recognize the significance of your work and know that someone has to do it. Since they do not dare appoint anyone, they are silently grateful for your enthusiasm. In the final analysis it affords them more relief than distress.”

“I am glad.” She did little to hide her sarcasm. “It does my spirit good to know that because of my efforts the administrators can sleep soundly at night.”

“There is no call for that tone. You have had ample administrative support.”

“Ample but reluctant, as though I were researching some dreaded disease.” When the senior did not attempt to dispute this analogy, she continued. “I am sure no one would be terribly disappointed if my entire body of work were to evaporate and I were to be reassigned to something less … discomfiting.”

They walked down a glideway lined with stained glass and planted in pink finushia. “No doubt there is some truth to that observation,” he admitted. “Yet they also realize that there will be a place for your efforts until the war ends.”

“Afterward as well, though they do not see it.”

He glanced sideways at her. “How do you mean?”

“The end of the war will not mean the disappearance of Humankind. At the Weave’s encouragement they have settled and populated many worlds in order to provide the alliance with more and more soldiers. The war’s conclusion will not make them go away. We will still have to interact with them socially. That is why my studies are so important.”

The senior was silent for a while. “I am not so sure that will be necessary,” he said finally. “Many believe that with a little appropriate assistance Humans would be glad to resume their original isolation.”

“That’s nonsense,” she replied, “or wishful thinking. You cannot keep offspring from revisiting the nest once they’ve matured. They can’t be swept out and forgotten like old droppings. No matter how much Weave society might wish it, they will not go away. So in order to live with them we must understand them better, and in order to understand them we must study them.” Her eyes flashed. “Under all conditions.”

“Pray me no polemics, for I am on your side,” said the department head. “Were it not so, I would not have supported funding of your work thus far. I say only that there are others less farseeing … or tolerant.”

“I am not alone in my studies.”

“I know. There is Wunenenmil at the University Siet and Davivivin on Koosooniu.”

“I know them well, from their work. As they know me. We are a small bonding; an unlikely triad, scholarly in intent rather than sexual.”

They turned beneath a waterfall, along the winding path that led to the residences. “This reluctance to study Humankind in combat is not limited to the Wais,” the senior remarked. “It is a distaste common to all our allies, from the S’van to the Chirinaldo. The result is a lamentable gap in the history of the war. The Massood could fill it in well but are too busy fighting, the S’van too happy-go-lucky, the Lepar obviously out of the question. The Hivistahm and O’o’yan and Sspari are too intent on logistics.” A soft whistle escaped his beak. “Sometimes I think only the Wais are interested in serious scholarship.”

“The Humans claim they are.”

The senior glanced at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“They have their own institutions of higher learning, in which they actually, believe it or not, study something other than the mastery of war.”

“Yes, I’ve heard such stories.” The feathers on the back of his neck quivered visibly but his crest did not erect. “A Human university seems almost a contradiction in terms. It must be a terrifying place.”

“I do not know. Someday I hope to experience it for myself.”

“It is a true scholar you are, to be so dedicated to your work.”

“No more so than any of my honored colleagues,” she unassumingly assured him.

“Perhaps, but they are driven by respect and love for their subject matter. Surely it must be different for you.”

“It is true I have no more love for Humankind than any other thinking Wais. I would not, could not deny that. My affection is for the vast gap in an important field that must be filled in. I am glad that despite their personal feelings the membership of the administration can see this.”

“Rest confident that they do.”

“Then they will understand how urgent it is that they fill the grant that I am going to formally request as of tomorrow.”

“Grant?” His eyelids closed halfway. “For what? Additional memory storage? Some exotic research materials? Perhaps an off-world leave to journey to Koosooniu to confer with colleagues in person. I see no difficulty. We are at present adequately funded.”

“Nothing so prosaic, I am afraid. It concerns something which has been troubling me for some time.”

He halted abruptly. “You are not ill?” His concern was genuine. She’d sensed for some time that the department head’s interest in her was more than merely professional. Not that she in any way resented such attention: it was simply that he did not intrigue her as a potential mating partner. Her lack of interest kept his attentions at a distance without wholly discouraging him. She knew that it was a purely male thing over which he, even at his advanced age, had no control.

“I feel strongly that I have progressed as far as possible given the materials available and must therefore take whatever steps are necessary to broaden the scope of my research activities.”

“Of course; certainly. An in-person conference …”

“No, you don’t understand. I have exhausted the literature going back to the first contact between Humankind and the Weave. My own work has already moved beyond anything being done anywhere else. I need—” She hesitated as she tried to couch her comments in the most persuasive possible dialect. “—to do some fieldwork.”

The senior didn’t react immediately. When he did it was to chirp uncertainly, “Fieldwork?”

“Yes. I feel I can no longer advance by means of impersonal study. I have gone as far as I can. You’ve seen my reports.”

“Brilliant. Highly original work. One might almost say ingratiating despite the unpleasant nature of the subject matter. You have brought much credit to the department and the entire university.”

“And I intend to bring even more, by pursuing my studies in the field. I need this grant in order that I may visit, in person, a combat site. The battlefield. After examining the most recent media reports, I have settled on Tiofa as a good place to begin.”

“Tiofa is a disputed world, on which actual fighting is taking place.” The true meaning of her request had still to sink in.

“Correct. Where else can I personally observe Humans interacting with other species in a combat situation?”

Forgetting courtesy, he gaped at her as they entered the spiraling Gucheria garden. “You cannot be serious! You are Wais. I do not care how much you think you have hardened yourself to such horrors. Academic proximity is not the same as actual experience.”

“Precisely why I must go,” she contended.

“You know from your own work that we are emotionally and mentally unable to cope with such conditions.”

“Over the years I have developed a number of exercises, mental as well as physical, that I believe will enable me to do so. There are also updates of the standard medication.” Her neck bobbed sharply, a fluid punctuation mark. “I must do this. Otherwise my research comes to a dead end.”

“Yet you are still comparatively young.” The department head sounded regretful.

“I will not stunt my intellectual growth any more than I would the physical. Fieldwork is the next step for me.”

“I don’t know … the administration might consider itself responsible if anything were to happen to you in the course of work they had funded.”

“I have already prepared the necessary waivers. As far as the legalities are concerned I could as readily die here as on the battlefield.” She used the approximate phonetic equivalent for the term, there being no word for “battlefield” in any of the Wais dialects.

“Have you considered that in the course of this work you might at times be the only non-Human present?”

A slight involuntary shiver ran down her legs but not enough, she was certain, for the department head to notice. “I think I have thought of everything, though naturally there is no way to tell how one is going to react to an unprecedented situation without actually experiencing it. I would not propose the prospect if I felt I could not survive it.

“This is more than a matter of simple academic research,” she added intently. “I have partially formulated certain hypotheses which trouble me deeply. I am convinced that this proposed fieldwork will eventually allow me to solidify or, preferably, discard them.”

“If you are so troubled, you would be better off taking a pill for it,” the department head murmured.

She halted on the trail and faced him demandingly. “Will you recommend that funding be appropriated?”

He hesitated, having trouble reconciling impartiality with personal concern. “You put a burden on me.”

“If anything happens to me, it will be on myself and no one else. This is a simple matter of academic propriety. There is no guilt attached.”

“If you should survive this and return with even a minimal amount of original material, it would be a triumph for the university. Personally I think your mental state is questionable. Professionally I can only proffer my abject admiration.” Several minor crest feathers erected appropriately.

“I will put through your request and recommend that it be granted promptly. To what I hope is not my everlasting regret, I will not do so anonymously.” He shifted smoothly to a much more personal dialect. “And I will certainly think of you fondly while you are engaged in this extraordinary enterprise.”

“You will not be disappointed, nor will the university.” His approval sent a little thrill of elation through her. “I will bring such credit to the university that—”

“Yes, yes,” he said, interrupting her as the delicately curved and etched doorway parted to admit them to the temperature-controlled interior of the next building. “If you survive.”