Curiosity overcame his apprehension as he left the cabin and headed astern. The rear deck was lit by the flicker of torchlight, illuminating the source of Lyra’s distress. His reaction was less violent than hers. Not that he was delighted by the sight, but since he held no high hopes for the Tsla he was far less disgusted and disappointed than his wife.

The Tsla were deeply engaged in the funeral ritual and only Tyl broke away long enough to greet him. He looked concerned. This was mitigated somewhat by the blood dripping from his mouth and snout.

“Lyra left us in a hurry. I hope we did not offend her.”

Etienne summoned unsuspected reserves of diplomacy. “My wife sees you and your people as being nobler than any of us have a right to be. It’s a failing many humans are heir to.”

Tyl’s nose twitched and those big soulful eyes turned toward the doorway. “I see. But you feel differently?”

“After a fashion. I don’t approve, but neither do I condemn. Neither would Lyra, if she hadn’t lost sight of her scientific training.”

“I am sorrowed,” Tyl continued. “It is part of the ritual. It must be done the same day, as soon after death as possible, because otherwise …”

Etienne cut him off. “The reasons are self-explanatory, Tyl.” He was unable to keep his eyes from the scene on the deck. “It’s only that the customs are very different among my own folk.”

“I can sympathize.” He gestured backward with a hand. “Uon was much loved by her friends. We could not think of sending her soul on to eternity without properly displaying that affection.”

“We feel likewise, only among our kind we choose to express such love for the departed in more metaphysical and less immediate terms.”

“Customs are different among all peoples. Now if you will excuse me, I must participate or Uon’s soul will not count me among its friends.”

Etienne pointed. “You have blood on your face.”

Tyl wiped at it. “The result of ritual contact. She struck the deck very hard.”

Etienne left the ceremony to return to the cabin, closing the door behind him. Lyra sat on the bed, staring blankly at a xenological chip unscrolling on the viewer. He doubted she saw the words. He sat down behind her and put both hands on her shoulders.

“I know how you feel,” he said helplessly. “It’s never pleasant to have one’s illusions shattered.”

“Such hopes,” she muttered disconsolately. “I had such hopes for them. They seemed to have progressed so far without the corresponding technological traumas.”

“They have progressed far,” he found himself saying, to his own considerable surprise. “But it’s still an alien culture, Lyra. You can’t let yourself lose sight of that, let your scientific observations be compromised by your feelings for them personally. You can’t anthropomorphize their culture any more than you can their physiognomy.”

“If I did that,” she replied, “it was out of hope.”

“I realize that, which is why you’re going to make your report on Tsla funeral custom as detailed and informative as any other part of your records. The balance it will provide is important. It will help confirm your objectivity. Otherwise all the rest of your work among these people will be disregarded.”

“You’re right, of course.” She put the chip reader aside, fiddled with her recorder as she leaned back against him. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”

“As Lyra Redowl you do. As visiting xenologist representing the interests of every xenologist who couldn’t make this trip, you do not.”

She nodded, then stood. “It was unprofessional of me to run away like that. I know better. Among the new one must always expect a shock or two.”

“It’s easier for me. Rocks are rarely shocking.”

She smiled, not because his sally was funny but because he bothered to try and make it so.

“We’re only human, Lyra.”

“Yes, and the Tsla are not. For a moment I’d forgotten that. I won’t forget again.”

“Don’t let this push you too far in the other direction. Whatever you think personally about their customs, they’re still good people, and our friends. Tyl is what he’s always been: a learned and compassionate friend.”

“Among his own kind, yes. Etienne, you’ve been right and I’ve been wrong.”

He turned away, embarrassed by her admission as he often was when he won some small portion of their private war. There was a contradiction there he didn’t understand.

She started toward the hall and the stern deck, muttering as she went. “After all, one can make the argument that ceremonial necrophilia is no more barbaric than any of a half dozen other funeral rituals observed among pristine primitive cultures. Among the Canuli, for example …” Her voice faded as she slipped further into scholarly preoccupation.

He felt sorry for her at the same time that he was glad he hadn’t chosen to share her discipline. He made a mental note to inform Tyl sometime soon that in the event he and Lyra should meet with a fatal accident, they were to be buried in accordance with human custom only.

Still, several days passed before Lyra could bring herself to talk with Tyl or any of the surviving porters. They sensed her distress and kept their distance, no easy thing to accomplish within the confines of the hydrofoil. They busied themselves with learning the art of trolling, something they could not do on the unnavigable waters of the upper Aurang.

They were now five thousand kilometers north of Steamer Station, with an unknown distance yet to cover. Unknown because the. satellite responsible for the photogrammetric mapping of Tslamaina had rather neglected this portion of the northern hemisphere in favor of detailing the much more heavily populated areas around the equator and the Groalamasan Sea.

The temperature had fallen to the point where Homat was obliged to don long clothing in order to be comfortable in the ninety degree heat of midday. Of greater concern was the sharp narrowing of the Barshajagad. Towering walls had closed in on the river, compressing its volume into a much smaller channel, and the increasingly swift current was becoming powerful enough to slow their progress even though the water could gain a grip only on the two submerged hydrofoils. They encountered no white water, however, and the scanner indicated the river bottom still lay far below their keel.

But Etienne found it difficult to concentrate on such things; he was hypnotized by the canyon walls, seven thousand meters that dropped in places sheer to the river, a gorge unmatched even on gas giants with surfaces solid enough to withstand continual erosion by high winds. All that remained of the sky was a narrow strip directly overhead, masked by perpetual cloud cover, a faint gray band delineating the limits of the real world.

Each time the river bent, the rock cliffs seemed to swallow any hope of retreat. The hydrofoil seemed very small indeed as it fought that steadily intensifying current. The Redowls worked in relays now, unable to trust navigation to the autopilot. If they lost speed while they both slept and the river caught hold of them, it would crush the duralloy hull against one of the granite walls as easily as eggshell.

XI

Two days of this saw their speed dangerously reduced. Lyra entered the cockpit rubbing her eyes, took one clear look at her husband’s and said, “Etienne, we can’t keep this up. We’re both exhausted and we’ve no way of knowing how much longer this stretch is.”

He coughed into his fist. “I thought the damn track would start widening out again by now. It doesn’t make sense. This much water moving downstream at this speed ought to have worn a broader canyon. But it hasn’t.”

“What’s the current reading currently?” She half smiled, half yawned as she squinted toward the instrumentation, wishing it could produce a cup of post-Ethiopian katfe. Unfortunately the nearest cup of real hot stimulant was light-years distant.

“Have a look for yourself.” He touched a button without taking his eyes off the river.

She blinked at the readout. “That’s incredible,” she said quietly.

“Yes, incredible. No boat was ever designed to travel against such a current.”

“What about continuing on repellers?”

“Don’t tempt me. Sweet of you to suggest it, but it’s too risky. We could try it for a few hours, but that’s all they’re designed for. Hopping rapids and avoiding waterfalls, not steady travel. We’d run down the batteries and probably find ourselves stuck in an identical position farther Upriver. Can’t chance it.” He muttered an obscenity.

“We can’t quit here! We’ve come too far.”

She leaned against the console. “I know how much this meant to you, Etienne. But it’s not worth risking our lives for.”

He looked at her then. “You think we have a life?”

A new voice interrupted them. “I overhear. There may yet be a way. I have had long to think on it and would not have thought it possible, had I not seen what thy spirit boat can accomplish.”

Etienne didn’t turn to confront their visitor. “What way, Tyl?”