Something was itching sharply on the back of his neck. Holding onto the ladder with his right hand he reached up and back with his left, coming away with something soft and flexible. He eyed it with intense distaste.

It was as long as his hand and thick as his thumb, completely transparent except for the dark maroon color spreading slowly backward from the head. As he held it firmly it wiggled and twisted in search of the blood so recently discovered and quickly vanished.

The dangui was an elegant local bloodsucker related to the annelid worms but possessed of a cartilaginous backbone which when flexed allowed it to jump at its intended host. It turned red as it filled up with blood. It looked like a glass leech and seemed to find human plasma perfectly palatable, much to Etienne’s enduring disgust.

Forcing down the gorge rising in his throat he flung it as far away as he could, heard the faint plop when it hit the murky green water. He felt the back of his neck and his hand came away bloody. First stop inside the station would be for antibiotic spray.

The metal stilts on which Steamer Station rested carried a mild electric charge to discourage infestation by such local pests though they rarely troubled the thranx because of their tough exoskeletons. Etienne dealt in smooth, hard surfaces and clean stone and didn’t care much for biology, particularly when it chose to get personal.

High thin clouds blocked out some of the ultraviolet, but Etienne was still grateful for his naturally dark coloring, a legacy of ancient Amerindians. A lighter-skinned human would quickly fry under Tslamaina’s relentless sun. Though he’d been outside less than ten minutes, the sweat was pouring off him. The cooling meshwork shirt and shorts were all that kept him halfway comfortable.

Even the climate might be bearable if only they’d receive permission from the native authorities. The frustration of waiting was worse than any heat, he mused as he made his careful way up the ladder.

Behind him tall fat pseudopalms thrust enormous green fronds over the lazy water. Table tree roots exploded sideways from their trunks before dipping down into the mud. Nappers, tiny crustaceans with multihued shells, filled the air with their doglike barking.

Little relief beyond the shade it offered was available inside the station since the internal temperature was set to accommodate thranx and not humans. A hundred was certainly cooler than one-twenty, but the humidity was unchanged. Only when he entered the rooms reserved for less tolerant visitors did the humidity begin to drop. By the time he reached their quarters, station machinery had lowered the temperature forty-five degrees and sucked out more than half the humidity.

Lyra Redowl barely glanced up at him. She sprawled in a chair studying her clipboard viewer.

“Anything interesting?”

“Glass leech bit me.”

“Bad?”

“I doubt it.” He moved to a cabinet and removed a tiny spray can, dosed the back of his neck. “The Skar flows into the Groalamasan, the Groalamasan goes ’round and ’round and it comes out here.” He gestured toward the lavatory.

She put her viewer aside, spoke coolly. “I don’t blame you for being upset, Etienne. I’m as pissed off as you are. But there’s nothing we can do except wait. Make an effort not to take it out on me, okay?”

“I’m not taking anything out on you,” he said exasperatedly. “Why do you take everything I say so personally? Can I help it if this damn delay’s got me running around like a monkey chewing his tail?”

“You have to work on your self-control. You’ll end up with an ulcer.”

“I keep control of myself!” He struggled to match his tone to his assertion. “I haven’t got time to argue with you, Lyra.”

“I agree.” Her eyes moved back to the viewer.

He sighed, counted quietly to eight, then plopped down in one of the thin chairs. “What are you buried in now?”

“Varofski on multiple societal interactions.”

“Haven’t you read that already?”

“Twice. This is my third time around. What do you suggest I do? Squat here and watch thranx shadowplays on the tridee?”

“It would be a change, but I don’t want to argue about it.”

“You never do. That’s why I’m always amazed how regularly you end up doing so.” Suddenly she looked up at him and smiled. It was a little forced, but welcome nonetheless.

“Listen to us, fighting like a couple of idiot children. Etienne, I’m just as frustrated as you are. What the hell is keeping those Moyts from giving us travel clearance?”

“Who knows.” Rising from the chair, Etienne crossed to the kitchen area and thumbed the switch on the left side of the refrigeration unit. It dispensed fruit juice, heavily salted and sugared. The cooking facilities were nearby but rarely utilized. The Redowls preferred to take most of their meals cold; Tslamaina didn’t encourage consumption of piping hot food.

Glass in hand he walked over to stand behind his wife’s chair, rested a hand on her shoulder as he sipped at the icy liquid.

“Truce, Lyra?”

She reached up to pat his hand. “Truce. Can’t we do something, Etienne?”

“Not a damn thing. You know the law. We’re wholly dependent on the whims of the locals.” She nodded, returned to her reading.

He never tired of looking at her. After twenty years he still found her physically alluring. Lately she looked even better than usual, having lost weight since their arrival. Tslamaina would sweat you down to skeleton size if you weren’t careful.

“I don’t understand the delay,” she said. “I’ve talked to the local fisherfolk and traders and they just give me the local variations of a bemused shrug. From everything I’ve been able to learn both these city-states are hotbeds of new ideas and rapid development. You’d think one or the other would be eager to grant us permission to travel Upriver.”

“I’m sure they would,” Etienne agreed, “if we could promise them something solid in return. Unfortunately, the regulations protecting Class Four-B worlds prohibit any commerce with natives. No introduction of advanced technology allowed from external sources, and that’s what they want to buy from us. The usual nasty cycle. The Moyts would like to grant us clearance for Upriver travel but they want payment in return. We can’t pay them what they want because regulations forbid it. So here we sit, and sweat.”

“Too true. How’s your neck?”

He felt at the shallow bite. “Filthy little monsters. I don’t mind dealing with something big and toothy, but I hate parasites.”

“Let me give you another shot of antibio.” She put down her viewer and reached for the spray. A cool dampness caressed his neck a second time.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “This is no place to pick up an infection, no matter how interesting. We’ve been lucky so far. Not that we’ve spent all that much time outside.” She hesitated. “Etienne, I’m ready to start chewing the furniture again. We’ve got to get out of here—Tell you what. Why don’t we check out the boat?”

He made a face. “We’re going to wear it out before we get started, checking the systems so often.”

“No, I mean really check it out.” There was suppressed excitement in her voice. “Let’s take it out for a run on the open sea. It’s always cooler on the Groalamasan.”

“Porlezmozmith will be miffed. She’ll call us down for undue exposure of advanced technology to a presteam society.”

“Crap. The local fisherfolk have seen us testing it lots of times.”

Etienne grinned down at her. “Woman, you have a devilish sense of humor.”

“It helps, when you spend your life trying to make sense of other people’s cultures. Come on. It’ll be fun. And a change.”

Etienne was feeling better by the time they left their quarters. They threw together a cold lunch of native edibles. The consistency of the flat, crackerlike bread was unusual but the taste was delightful.

From their quarters it was a short walk down to Level Three, the lowest of the station, where the hydrofoil hung silent in its bay, a sleek delta-shape built of ultralight metals. A compact electric jet protruded from beneath the stern, looking like the mouthparts of a dragonfly nymph. The hydrofoil was an exquisite bit of engineering and despite its fragile appearance, could take a considerable pounding. Inside, the craft was spacious and efficient.

Ignoring the occasional stare of passing thranx maintenance workers, Etienne operated the bay controls. With a soft whirr the double doors parted, revealing the turgid mix of fresh and salt water that lay twenty meters below.

Bow and stern couplers lowered the hydrofoil toward the water. Lyra was already on board, stowing their lunch and running the autoprogram through diagnostic functions. Disdaining the ladders, Etienne wrapped arms and legs around one of the coupler cables and slid down to the boat. A touch on one switch sent the couplers upward, leaving the boat floating free on the water of the delta.

A plexalloy dome enclosed the cockpit where Lyra waited in the pilot’s chair. The engine came to loud life as the photovoltaic coating of the boat worked to ensure that the fuel cells which supplied power were fully charged. The air conditioning greeted him with a blast of deliciously cold air.

Lyra nudged the accelerator and turned the wheel. They slid from the shade of the station and headed south. Soon they were clear of the last platform trees and high marsh grasses and out on the open ocean.