"We'll be in the air about four hours. This particular flyer is not fast, but it's quite suitable for errands of this sort."

Julian said no more. He stepped up into the flyer, to join Milo and Wayness, who had already taken their places. Glawen paused for a final word with Chiike.

"What's your verdict?"

"A bit hoity-toity, I should say."

"That's my impression, too. Well, we're off for Mad Mountain Lodge." Glawen climbed aboard the flyer and seated himself at the controls. He touched buttons, pushed the as censor toggle; the flyer rose into the air. Glawen engaged the autopilot and the flyer slid away into the southwest.

The rolling Muldoon Mountains passed below; the orchards and vineyards of the Araminta enclave gave way to unsullied wilderness:

first a pleasant land of wide green meadows among forests of dark blue allombrosa. Presently they came upon the Twan Tivol River, sweeping down from the north to terminate in the Dankwallow Swamp, the source of both the River Wan and the River Leur: a vast area of ponds, puddles, marshes and morasses, overgrown with purple-green verges, balwoon bush, tussocks of saw grass with a few gaunt skeleton trees for accent.

Syrene shone from a cloudless deep blue sky.

"In case anyone is interested," said Glawen, "we'll have good weather all the way. Also, if the meteorologists are to be trusted, it's a fine day at Mad Mountain, with no banjees reported in the vicinity."

Julian attempted a jocularity: "This being the case, and with no bloodshed in prospect, the tourists no doubt will be refunded their money."

Glawen responded politely: "I don't think so."

Milo added the comment: "And that's why the place is called Mad Mountain."

"Are you sure?" asked Wayness.

"I've been wondering."

"The name obviously derives from the banjee battles," said Julian in rather patronizing tones.

"Their futility--madness, if you will-has long been recognized, at least by the LPF. If my scheme is feasible and is acted upon, we shall rename the place Peace Mountain."

' Banjee: one of the many varieties ofmandoril indigenous to Cadwal. The usual banjee is a massive two-legged creature, somewhat andromorphic, if grotesquely so. The banjee is sheathed in chi ling black in the mature male, which stands eight to nine feet tall. The head is covered with stiff black hair except for the frontal visage of naked bone.

The banjees are remarkable in many ways. They begin life as neuters, become female at the age of six years, metamorphose to males at the age of sixteen, growing each year thereafter in size, mass and ferocity, until they are eventually killed in battle.

Banjees communicate in a language impervious to the most subtle analytical methods of the Gaean linguists. The banjees construct tools and weapons, and exhibit what seem to be the glimmerings of an aesthetic sense, which, like the language, evades the understanding of the human mind.

Banjees are intractable and while ferocious are not actively aggressive under ordinary conditions. They are well aware of the tourists who crowd the terrace at Mad Mountain Lodge to watch them pass, but pay no heed. Reckless persons sometimes approach the marching hordes or even the battles in order to secure dramatic photographs. Emboldened by the apparent indifference of the banjees, they venture a step or two closer, then another step, which takes them past some imperceptible boundary into the banjees' "zone of reaction," and then they are killed.

Wayness asked: "If it doesn't work out, what then?"

"

"Mad Julian Mountain' might win a few votes," said Milo.

Julian shook his head sadly.

"Joke all you like. In the end you'll find that you can't laugh away either progress or the LPF."

Wayness said plaintively: "Let's not talk politics, at least so early in the day. Glawen, you're supposed to know everything; why is it called Mad Mountain?"

"In this case, I do happen to know," said Glawen.

"On old maps you'll find the name "Mount Stephen Tose." About two hundred years ago, a tourist in his excitement supplied the new name, which everyone began to use, and so now it's Mad Mountain."

"Why was the tourist excited?"

"I'll show you after we arrive."

"Is it a scandal that you're embarrassed to talk about?" asked Wayness.

"Or a delightful surprise?"

"Or both?" asked Milo.

Wayness told Milo: "Your mind runs farther and faster than mine.

I can't think of anything which fits."

"We'll just have to wait and see. Glawen may surprise us yet."

"I'm sure of it. Glawen is very subtle. Don't you think so, Julian?"

"My dear girl, I haven't given the matter a thought." Wayness turned back to Glawen.

"Tell us about the battles. Have you seen them?"

"Twice. When you're at the lodge they're hard to ignore."

"What happens? Are they as bad as Julian fears?"

"They are spectacular, and in some ways rather grim." Julian gave an ironic snort.

"Please instruct me in the ways that they are other than grim."

"It's mostly in the mind of the beholder. The banjees don't seem to care."

"That's hard to believe."

"The battles would be easy to avoid, if they were so inclined." Julian brought a booklet from his pocket.

"Listen to this article:

"The banjee battles are extremely dramatic and picturesque events;

happily they have been made accessible to the tourist. " "Squeamish folk be warned: these battles are horrifying in their frenzy and in the hideous deeds which occur. Shouts and screams rise and fall; the trumpeting cries of victory mingle with the anguished moans of the defeated. Without surcease or pity the warriors wield their mighty instruments of death. They slash and strike, probe and thrust; quarter is neither extended nor expected. '"For the Gaean onlooker, the battles are poignant experiences,

j" rife with archetypal symbology. Emotions are aroused to which f ; contemporary mind cannot even fit a name. No question as to t quality of the spectacle; the encounters reek with color: portento reds, the black gleam on the bizarre angles of armor and helmets; t : alkaline blues and greens of the thoracic cushions. i "