Mustapha Ali sat on the end of Rorqual Towne

and was not seasick. There was nothing any save an

outsider would have found remarkable in this. Mus-

tapha had lived all his long life on Cachalot, and those

who are bom to that world know less of seasickness

than a worm does of Andromeda. All born on Cacha-

lot rest in two cradles: their nursery, and the greater

nursery of the all-encompassing Mother Ocean. Those

who arrived on Cachalot from other worlds did not

long remain if they proved susceptible to motion sick-

ness.

It was a great change, wrought by history and ac-

cident, Mustapha thought as he let his burl-dark legs

dangle over the side of the dock. They moved a meter

or so above the deep green-black water. His ancestors

had come from a high, dry section of Earth, where the

sea was only a tale told to wide-eyed children. And

here he lived, where most of the land was imported.

His ancestors had been great players of the game.

That was his only regret, not being able to carry on the

tradition of the game. For where on Cachalot could

one find fifty fine horsemen and a dead goat? Mus-

tapha had settled for being a champion water polo

player, having mastered that game and its many local

variants in his youth. Compared with the game of his

forebears, all had been gentle and undemanding.

2          CACHALOT

Now he was reduced to experiencing less strenuous

pleasures, but he was not unhappy. The old-fashioned

fishing pole he extended over the water had been hand-

wrought in his spare time from a single piece of broad-

cast antenna. A line played out through the notch cut

in the far end, vanished beneath the surface below the

dock. The antenna had once served to seek out invis-

ible words from across the sky and water. Now it

helped him find small, tasty fish at far shorter distances.

Mustapha glanced at the clouds writhing overhead,

winced when a drop of rain caught him in the eye. The

possible storm did not appear heavy. As always, the

sky looked more threatening than it would eventually

prove to be. Thunder blustered and echoed, but did

not dislodge the elderly fisherman from his place.

Behind him the town of Rorqual rested stolidly on

the surface. The nearest actual land, the Swinburne

Shoals, lay thirty meters beneath. For all that, the town

sat motionless on the sea. A vast array of centerboards

and crossboards and complex counterjets held it steady

against the rising chop. Held it steady so as to provide

its inhabitants with a semblance of stability, to provide

old Mustapha with a safe place to fish.

The dock was empty now, the catcherboats and

gatherers out working. The long stretch of unsinkable

gray polymer disappeared beneath a warehouse, the

dock being only one of dozens of such supports for the

town.

But there was no counterjet or centerboard to hold

the dock completely motionless. Four meters wide and

equally thick, it bobbed gently to the natural rhythm

of the sea. That was why Mustapha chose to fish from

the dock's end instead of from one of the more stable

outer streets of the town. When he was playing with

the ocean and its occupants, he preferred the feel of

their environment. It was a cadence, a viscous march

that was as much a part of his life as his own heart-

beat.

CACHALOT          3

The rain began to pelt him, running down his long

white hair. He ignored it. The inhabitants of Cachalot's

floating towns had water next to their skin as often as

air. Here near the equator the fat drops were warm,

almost hot on his bare upper chest. They rolled down

from his bald forehead and itched in his drooping mus-

tache.

The pole communicated with his fingers. He lifted it.

A small yellow fish wriggled attractively on the hook,

its four blue eyes staring dully into the unfamiliar me-

dium in which it now found itself.

Mustapha debated whether to unhook it, decided

the fish would serve him better as bait for larger game.

He let the fresh catch drop back into the water. An

electronic caller would have drawn more food fish than

he could have carried, but such a device would have

seemed incongruous functioning in tandem with the

hook and line. Mustapha enjoyed fishing in the tradi-

tional way. He did not fish for food, but for life.

An occasional flash of awkward lightning illuminated

the dark underbelly of the storm, forming drainage sys-

tems in the sky. The flare made candle flames of the

wave crests. He knew there was more heat than fury in

the discharges. Then" frequency told him the storm

would not last long. Nor was it the season of the heavy

rains.

Occasional drops continued to wet him. He was

alone on the dock. Thirty minutes, he thought, and the

sun will be out again. No more than that. Perhaps then

I will have more luck.

So he stayed there in his shorts and mustache and

waited patiently for a bite. Some thought the pose and

activity undignified for the town's computer-planner

emeritus, but that did not bother Mustapha. He was

wise enough to know that madness and old age excuse

a multitude of eccentricities, and he had something of

both.

A few deserted gathering ships, sleek vessels wide of

4          CACHALOT

beam, were secured two docks away from him. A cou-

ple of magnetically anchored skimmers bobbed off to

his right. Their crews would be on their week of off-

duty, he reflected, home with family or carousing con-

tentedly in the town's relaxation center.

An affectionate but uncompromising type, Mustapha

in his early years had tried life with two different

women. They had left more scars on him than all the

carnivores he had battled in the name of increasing

the town's catch.

His reverie was interrupted by a new, stronger tug

at the line. His attention focused on where it inter-

sected the surface. The tug came again, insistent, and

the antenna pole curved seaward in a wide arc, its far

end pointing like a hunting dog down into the water.

Mustapha held tight to the metal pole, began crank-

ing the homemade reel. There was a lot of line, and it

was behaving oddly. It was almost as if something were

entangled in the line itself, not fighting the grip of the

hook.

A shape was barely visible down in the dark water.

Whatever it was, it was moving very quickly. It came

nearer, growing until it was altogether too large. The

old man's eyes grew wide above the gray mustache.

He flung away the pole and the laboriously fashioned

reel. The rod bounced once on the end of the bobbing

pier before tumbling into the water.

Mustapha ignored it as he ran toward the town. His

raised voice was matched by the sudden cry of the

town's defense sirens. He did not make it beyond the

end of the pier. As it turned out, it would not have

made any difference if he had.

Two days later the first of Rorqual Towne's wander-

ing fisherfleet returned, a gatherer loaded several heads

high with the magical Coreen plant and many crates of

sleset-of-the-pennanent-spice. The wealth the cargo

represented was now rendered meaningless to the men

CACHALOT          5

and women of the ship's crew by what they did not

find.

Though they crossed and recrossed anxiously and

tearfully above Swinburne Shoals, they found no sign

of Mustapha Ali. Nor did they find their families or

sweethearts, not a single one of the eight hundred in-

habitants of Rorqual Towne.

Shattered bits of household goods, a few scraps of

clothing, fragments of homes, and pieces of families

mixed in with chunks of gray-white eggshell polymer,

were all that remained of the town. These, an engima,

and the memory of once happy lives.

And for some on the woe-laden boat, the worst of it

was the knowledge that this was not the first time . . .

Far, far above the scrap of green sea once occupied

by Rorqual Towne, a vast, quiet shape rested silently

in a much more diffuse ocean. The occupants of the

bulbous metal form were divorced by time and dis-

tance from that oceanic tragedy and its cousins.

A comparatively tiny, sharp shadow of the gleaming

hulk detached itself from the great stem and dropped

like a silver leaf toward the atmospheric sea immedi-

ately below. Though it displayed the motions normally

indicative of life, the shadow was but a dead thing

that served to convoy the living, a shuttlecraft falling

from the KK drive transport that dwarfed it like a

worker termite leaving its queen.

The argent arrowhead shape turned slightly. Its rear

exuded puffs of white, and the craft began to drop

more rapidly, more confidently, toward the world be-

low, a world of all adamantine blue-white, a great

azurite globe laced with a delicate matrix of cloud.

A full complement of twelve passengers stared out

the shuttle's ports as the vessel curved into its approach

pattern. Some stared at the nearing surface expectantly,

thoughts of incipient fortune percolating through their

minds. Others were more relaxed. These were the re-

6          CACHALOT

turning inhabitants, sick of space and land, anxious

once more to be on the waters. A few regarded the

growing sphere with neither anticipation nor greed.

They were full of the tales of the strange life and

beauty that slid tantalizingly through the planetary

ocean.

Only one stared fixedly at the surface with the gaze

of a first-time lover, youthful exhilaration mixing with

the calm detachment of the mature scientist. Cora

Xamantina kept her nose pressed against the port. An

air release below prevented her breath from fogging it.

Intense reflected light from Cachalot's star made her

obsidian skin appear polished behind the glassalloy. It

shone on the high cheekbones that hinted at Amerind

heritage, on the delicate features almost eclipsed by

those protruding structures. Only the vast black eyes,

coins of the night, stood out in that heart-shaped face.

They darted excitedly from one section of the globe to

another. Her hair, tied in a single thick braid that ran

to her waist, swung like a pendulum with her move-

ments.

Physically Cora Xamantina was in her midforties.

Mentally she was somewhat older. Emotionally she

was aged. She was no taller than an average adolescent

and slim to the point of boyishness. A surprisingly deep

voice, coupled with a vivacity that was anything but

matronly, was all that kept her from being mistaken

for a child.

Even when she was quiet, as she was now, her hands

and shoulders seemed always in motion, her body lan-

guage elegant and personal. She came from stock that

included both slaver and slave, both of whose destinies

had been molded and sacrificed to the recovery of the

sap of a certain tree. Slavers and slaves were part of

history long past now. For the most part, sadly, so

were the trees.

She commented frequently on the beauty of the

world they were steadily approaching. Her descriptions

CACHALOT          7

were intended for the younger woman seated next to

her. For the most part, they were accepted with an air

of helpless resignation by the taller, far more volup-

tuous shadow of herself. Where Cora's movements

were frequent and full of nervous energy, those of the

younger woman were all languorous stretchings and

physical sighs. She cradled a peculiar and very special

musical instrument in her arms and made no attempt to

appear anything other than bored.

"Isn't it beautiful, Rachael?" Cora leaned back in

her deceleration lounge. "Here—lean over and you

can see, too." The enervated siren made no move to

peer outward. "Don't you want to see? We're going to

be living down there, you know."

"Only temporarily." She sighed tiredly. "I know

what Cachalot looks like. Mother. God knows how

many tapes of it you've made me study since you found

out we were being assigned there. Maybe I have got a

year's work left to finish at the Institute, but I still

know how to do homework." Her eyes turned to

study the narrow aisle running down the center of

the shuttle. "The sooner we get this over with, the

sooner we can get back to Terra and the better I'll

like it!"

"Is that all you can think of to say, girl? We're not

even down yet and already you can't wait to leave?"

"Mother ... please!" It was a warning.

"All right." Cora made calming gestures with man-

nequin hands, the long fingers fluttering restrainingly.

"I'm not asking for commitment until we've been

down there for a while. You're only my special assist-

ant on this assignment, just as it says in the directive.

The fact that you're also my daughter is incidental."

"Fine. Suits me fine."

"Just try to keep an open mind, that's all."

"I'll try. Mother. I've said that for six years now.

Another few months seems fair."

"Good. That's all I ask." Cora turned her attention

8          CACHALOT

back to the port, the view drawing her insistently,

soothing her, massaging away the concern she felt for

her daughter's future. And the guilt.

She had been pushing, cajoling, Rachael for three

years of advanced work in extramarine biology. The

girl's reports were good, her work was good—dammit,

she was good! She has all the tools, Cora thought.

More than I do, and without bragging, that's saying

something. She lacks only one thing, a single ingredi-

ent that keeps her from embarking on a brilliant career

in the same field as mine: enthusiasm.

Cora had gotten that from Silvio. Ah, Silvio . . .

"Keep an open mind, Cora," he had always told her.

And she had kept an open mind. She had kept it so

open that she lost him to another woman. To a string

of other women. And then be had died, his enthusi-

asm for life and loving having proved incapable of fi-

nally saving him.

No, she told herself firmly. He lost me. Not the

other way around. She still missed him, from tune to

time. Brilliant he had not been. Nor had he been es-

pecially handsome, or rich, or a sexual magician. What

he had been, she thought, startled at the sudden knot

that had formed in her chest, was enthusiastic. About

everything. And comfortable. He had been oh so

comfortable. Like her battered old Nymph under-

water camera, the fraying Elatridez Encyclopedia of

Commonwealth Marine Life, the voodoo necklace her

great-grandmother had given her on her second birth-

day—which she still wore, incongruously, around her

neck—Silvio had been comfortable.

She missed having him around, just as she would

have missed the encyclopedia or the necklace. Lots of

other women probably missed him also. She had kept

an open mind, though. Each time. Until after Rachael

was bom. The funny thing was, Silvio never truly un-

derstood the reason behind her fury. He liked everyone

and everything—too much. But then he had died. The

CACHALOT           9

hurt had died with him. Now she was only occasionally

plagued by a hurt of a different kind.

As it kissed the outer fringe of atmosphere, the shut-

tle lurched slightly. Below was the culmination of a

dream, of twenty years' hard work. She had performed

well for the various companies that had employed

her, even better when the government services called

on her expertise. Twenty years of choosing exploitable

salt domes. A year on the anthology of poisonous

Riviera system marine life. Four years of arduous

work among the seallike natives of Largesse, then back

to still more dull, boring government research. Always

she had kept up with the latest techniques, the latest

developments and discoveries. Always wishing for

something that could carry her to the mecca of all ma-

rine biologists: Cachalot.

Now that goal had been realized. The ocean world

lay close beneath her, shining with nacreous beauty,

awaiting her with promises of wonder and a mystery

yet to be solved. If anything could ignite the genius

that Cora knew lay hidden inside her daughter's head,

it would be Cachalot.

Though she continued to press against the port and

search hard with those huge and sensitive eyes, she

could not locate any of the widely scattered islands

that were the only land on Cachalot. Nor were the iso-

lated islands formed of rock or stone. On Cachalot, the

eternal war of wave and cliff had long ago been de-

cided in favor of the wave. Tiny creatures called hex-

alates left behind their hard exoskeletons, building

atolls and reefs much like the corals of Earth.

There was nothing that could be called a continent,

though in places the oceans were quite shallow, if

never for any great extent. All that showed above

water from Cora's present position were the bright

mirror-white patches at opposite poles, ice packs tense

on the water. They were far smaller than those of

Earth.

CACHALOT

11

10          CACHALOT

Cora pointed them out to Rachael, who responded

by picking indifferently at the strings of her neurophon.

"Stop that." Cora frowned at her. "You know better

than that."

Rachael wrinkled her brow. "Oh, Mother . . . I've

got the projection matrix turned off and the power way

down, I can't possibly bother the shuttle."

But Cora had experienced a telltale if faint tingle

along her spine. "Your axonics are lit. I felt it. You

might disturb the other passengers."

"I haven't heard any complaints," Rachael said

softly. But she touched several contact points on the

chordal dendritics, cut final power. She plucked petu-

lantly at one string. It produced a normal musical tone

that drifted through the cabin. Several passengers

turned back to look at her.

Cora's nerves did not respond. Satisfied, she returned

her gaze to the port.

Rachael was sharp enough to find nonverbal ways

to show her unhappiness. Cora told herself that her

daughter knew damn well that playing a neurophon in

an unsealed room on board any craft was against all

flight rules. It would have been bad enough on board

the liner-transport they had just left. In a shuttle, where

the descent was a matter of delicate, critical adjust-

ments by pilot and machine, it could have placed them

in deep trouble. Rachael was fooling with her damn-

able toy only to irritate her mother, Cora knew. It

would be so much better for her if she would simply

disown the instrument. It occupied far too much of

her study time. Cora had tried to persuade her to

abandon the device. She had tried only once. It had

become an obsession with her daughter, and more than

that, a surrogate larynx. Rachael knew she couldn't

battle her mother with words, so she would sometimes

counter an argument by sulking and speaking only

with the nerve music. Her daughter was turning into a

tonal ventriloquist.

A polite, slightly tense voice came from the cabin

speaker. "Brace for heavy atmosphere, ladies and gen-

tlemen. Thank you."

Cora made certain her harness was properly secured.

She gripped the arms of her lounge and leaned back.

For a few minutes there was nothing of note, then a

sharp bump. A second, a stomach-queasing drop, and

then they were coasting gently through clear blue sky.

She eased her grip on the lounge arms and looked out

the port.

The whirlpool of a small cyclone appeared beneath

them, raced past and behind. Clouds of all shapes and

sizes flew by, and once, only once, she thought she

saw a bright flash that might have hidden an island.

She hunted through her memory for the details of

Cachalot's topography she had force-fed herself, finally

decided the brightness had been a low cumulus cloud

and not land.

Commonwealth headquarters were located on Mou'-

anui, one of several enormous lagoons enclosed by

land sufficiently stable to permit the establishment of

permanent, nonfloating installations. Cora was hunting

the sea for it when a voice sounded from behind them.

"Excuse me."

The harness sign was off. She unbuckled, looked

over the back of her reclined lounge. The speaker sat

across the aisle, one row behind their seats, a stocky,

coffee-colored gentleman about her own age. His hair

and eyes were as black as her own. The hair hung to

his shoulders, was combed straight back, and exhibited

not even an echo of a curl or kink. He had a wide

mouth, almost lost beneath a sharp, hooked nose like

the beak of a predatory bird.

"That's a neurophon, isn't it? I thought I felt some-

thing picking at me a little while ago." He smiled ex-

plosively, changing suddenly from nondescript to

swarthily good-looking.

12 CACHALOT CACHALOT 13

"Yes, it is." Rachael spoke coolly, and Cora thought,

Good for you, girl.

"It's a Chalcopyritic finish. Twelve Plank model,

isn't it? Made on Amropolus? With the Yhu Hive

tuner?"

"That's right." Rachael brightened, turned in her

seat. "Do you play?"

"No." The man sounded apologetic. "Wish I did.

I'm afraid my musical abilities are pretty nonexistent.

But I know enough to be able to appreciate a skilled

performer when I hear one. However briefly." Again

the lustrous grin.

"Is that so?" Rachael's tone was turning from cool

to coy. "I can understand when you say you know tal-

ent when you hear it, but it seems to me you're doing

more looking than listening."

"I can't see talent, no," the man replied. He seemed

uncomfortable, shy, yet unwilling to retreat into silence.

"But sensitivity and emotional flexibility, those I think

I can see."

"Really?" Rachael responded, flattered and pleased.

"Are you trying to flatter me?"

"I am flattering you, aren't I?" he said with disarm-

ing directness. It was honestly a question.

Rachael controlled herself a few seconds longer,

then broke into a high, girlish giggle that contrasted

strikingly with her normal husky speaking voice.

"All right, I suppose you are." She eyed him inter-

estedly. "Next you're going to ask me to please come

over to your place and play something for you."

"That would be nice, yes," the man replied openly.

Just in time he added, "But I'm afraid I can't. I don't

even know where I'm going to be staying on Cacha-

lot."

Rachael stared at him. "I think you mean it. About

just wanting to listen to the music."

"That's what I said, wasn't it? If we do meet again,

my name is Merced. Pucara Merced."

"Rachael Xamantina."

"Tell me," he said, shifting in his seat as they

skipped a light bump in the atmosphere, "on direc-

tional projections, can you change keys and limbs

simultaneously?"

"Sometimes," She sounded enthusiastic. Cora stared

resolutely out the port. "It's hard, though, when you're

concentrating on the music and trying to produce the

matching neurologic responses in your audience. It's

so difficult just to execute those properly, without try-

ing to worry about physiological orientation, too.

There's so damn much to concentrate on."

"I know."

"Would you like me to play something for you now,

maybe?" She swung the lyre-shaped instrument into

playing position, her left hand caressing the strings, the

right poised over the power controls and projector sen-

sors. "In spite of what my mother says, I don't think

the pilot would mind."

"It's not a question of the pilot's minding," he said.

thoughtfully. "I know you can keep the level down.

But it wouldn't be courteous to our fellow passengers.

They might not all be music lovers. Besides," and he

smiled slightly again, "you might accidentally put out

the lights, or drop the temperature thirty degrees."

"All right. But when we get down, if you don't dis-

appear on me too fast, I promise I'll play something for

you. Tell me," she went on excitedly, leaning farther

into the aisle, "do you know anything about the new

cerebral excluder? That's the one that's supposed to

allow you to add another forty watts' neuronic power."

"I've heard of it," he admitted pleasantly. "They say

that it can ..."

They rambled on enthusiastically, the discussion

shifting from matters musical to the latest develop-

ments in instrumental electronics.

It was all somewhat beyond Cora. A top-flight neu-

rophon player had to be musician, physicist, and phys-

14          CACHALOT

iologist all in one. She still refused to give her daughter

credit for attempting to master the extraordinarily dif-

ficult device. To her it represented a three-fold waste

of energy.

Of one thing she was certain. For all that he was a

head shorter than Rachael and apparently shy to boot,

Merced was interested in more than just her daughter's

aesthetic abilities. Not that that made him anything out

of the ordinary. Any man not intrigued by Rachael did

not deserve the gender. That was the nature of men,

and it was intensified by her daughter's nonmental as-

sets.

But there was nothing she could do about it. If she

tried to order Rachael not to speak to him, it would

produce exactly the opposite result. And there was the

possibility she was wrong about him. Certainly he did

not have the look of a collector of bedrooms.

Better, she told herself, to put the best light on the

situation. Let Rachael remain interested in him instead

of, say, being drawn to the more conventionally hand-

some pilot of our shuttle. Once we are down and set-

tled in our quarters, it will no longer matter anyway.

She stole another glance at Merced. He was listening

quietly while Rachael expounded on the virtues of

Amropolous-made neurophons as opposed to those

manufactured on Willow-Wane. He had the look of a

fisherman returning home, or perhaps a financial ex-

pert shipped out by an investment firm to explore the

earnings of one or two of its floating farms. His skin

was properly dark, but his facial features and small

bone structure did not jibe with those of the dominant

Polynesian-descended settlers of the water world. He

was an off-worlder for sure.

Well, she would keep an eye on him. A lifetime of

experience made that automatic. Thoughts of unhappy

past experiences led her to the dim possibility of future

ones. She mused on the problem that had brought her

to Cachalot. It involved more than the destruction of

CACHALOT          15

property or fisheries. There had been, it seemed, many

deaths. She had been sent off with only enough infor-

mation to tease her. Someone was going to great efforts

to keep whatever was happening on Cachalot from the

general public.

No matter. She would leam soon enough. The pos-

sibility of work on Cachalot had been sufficient to per-

suade her to accept the assignment. When offered

choice of her own assistant, Cora had been able to

choose Rachael. Now, if she could only convince her

daughter to junk that bizarre instrument, one of the

two major problems Cora had come to solve would

have a happy resolution.

There had been some trouble. Rachael was still

technically a student, and a few howls had been heard

when it was declared she had been appointed Cora's

assistant. Hundreds would have taken the job. Very

few scientists made it to Cachalot, despite its wealth of

unusual marine life. That was part of the agreement

that had been struck with the original settlers of the

blue planet, who had been studied so long they were

sick of it. They did not object to the presence of a very

limited number of fishers and gatherers and even some

light industry, but they put a strict quota on the num-

ber of researchers resident on the planet at any one

time. Hence the rarity of the opportunity granted to

Cora and Rachael. It was a chance Cora would not

waste, would not permit Rachael to waste.

"That's an interesting name." Rachael spoke as the

shuttle skimmed low now over an endless expanse of

gently rolling sea. Cachalot had no moon, therefore

very little in the way of tides. Severe storms like the

cyclone they had recently passed over were common,

but predictable. It was altogether a far more benign

world than most.

"It's an amalgam of words from two ancient human

languages," he was explaining to her. "Pucara means

'shining' in a tongue called Quechua, which was the

16

CACHALOT

principal language of my ancestors who lived on the

continent of South America."

"I'm sorry," Rachael said. "I'm afraid I don't know

Terran geography very well. I've lived there only for

a few years, while I've been in school."

"No matter. Merced means 'river' in the language of

my other ancestors, who conquered my principal ones."

" 'Shining river.' Very pretty."

"What about yours? Does it mean anything?"

"Damned if I know." A hand reached back, touched

Cora. "Hey, Mother, what does 'Xamantina' mean?"

"I don't know, Rachael." She looked again at the

earnest little man behind them. "It's an Amerind

name, also derived from South America. A different

region, though, I think."

Merced looked intrigued. "Perhaps our ancestors

were neighbors, then."

"Possibly." Cora spoke softly. "No doubt they fought

and killed one another with great vigor." She turned

away, looked back out the port.

"Mother," Rachael whispered at her angrily, "you

have a talent for displaying the most exquisite rude-

ness."

"Calm down, dear. We'll be landing soon. You

wouldn't want your toy scattered all over the cabin,

would you?"

Rachael huffily snuggled down into her seat, though

Cora could still feel her daughter's eyes on the back of

her neck as she stared out the port. She chuckled to

herself, thankful that Merced had given her the chance

to let him know how she felt without her having to in-

trude on the conversation.

"Four minutes to touchdown," the speaker voice

said. "Refasten harnessing, please."

Cora did so mechanically. Mou'anui should be

straight ahead of them. She should be able to see at

least part of it immediately prior to touchdown. They

would approach the oval lagoon from one end. It was

CACHALOT           17

sixty kilometers long in places, and surely they—yes,

there!

A brilliant flash stung her eyes through the port,

from where direct sunlight impacted on the hexalate

sands. She stared at the kaleidoscope of color until her

eyes filled with tears.

A dull thunk sounded as the long, solid pontoons

were lowered. Seconds before contact, the light had

become so strong Cora had to turn from the port. The

brief impression she had had of Mou'anui would never

leave her, however. It was as if they were touching

down inside a diamond.

Another, louder thump was heard as they touched

water. The rear engines roared. Cora struggled to clear

her vision, but occasional lances of reflected light shot

through the port, blinding her. She was aware of a dif-

ferent motion, one that was at once familiar and yet

strange.

They were floating now, adrift on an alien sea.

CACHALOT           19

II

We will be debarking shortly, ladies and gen-

tlemen," the voice from the speaker said. "Welcome to

Cachalot."

Passengers were unslipping their flight harnesses,

organizing luggage and tapecases and personal effects.

Cora tried to single out those who might be natives,

settled on the man and woman in the first two portside

seats. They were not of Polynesian ancestry, but

boasted skin tanned the color of light chocolate. They

wore only fishnet tops over swim shorts.

The shuttlecraft slowly taxied across the lagoon.

Through the windows, which had automatically dark-

ened in response to the reflected light, she could see

down into the limpid transparency that was the surface.

Gradually the darkness gave way to lighter, brighter

colors as the water grew shallower.

Now Cora could make out shapes moving through

the water. So excited was she at these first signs of

Cachalot life that she almost forgot to breathe. The

forms darted in and around the peculiar branchlike

growths formed by the hexalates.

None of the crystalline growths possessed the gentle

curves or smooth surfaces of the corals of Earth. Large

or small, the formations universally displayed straight,

angular architecture, a crystallographer's nightmare.

The tiny creatures whose decomposed skeletons

formed the sand that filled the lagoon's bottom and

comprised its shores created their exoskeletons from

silicon, whereas the corals of Earth utilized lime. The

beaches of Cachalot were made of glass. Multicolored

glass at that, for minute quantities of different miner-

als were enough to produce hexalates of every color of

the spectrum. The tridee solidos Cora had seen of

Cachalot's islands reminded her of vast heaps of gem-

stones.

She could see buildings now, built on the nearest

outer island. Scattered here and there around the

structures were long, low green plants. They were sea-

langes, varieties of local plant life that had developed

the ability to take oxygen from the air instead of from

the water. Their roots were anchored deep within the

body of the reef.

More familiar vegetation had been used to landscape

the complex. Cora recognized numerous varieties of

off-world, salt-tolerant plant life, including several from

Earth. Outstanding among the latter were the prosaic,

arching shapes of coconut palms. Probably the plants

and the soil they survived in were imported.

Several small docks came into view. Men and women

worked on or near them, engaged in unknown tasks.

All were clad in the barest essentials. Wide-brimmed

dark hats seemed popular among many. The instru-

ment belts several wore contained more material than

the rest of their clothing.

Turning right, the shuttle slid toward several large,

two-storied structures. Traveling in the opposite direc-

tion, a small skimmer roared past. Its crew waved

cheerily at the shuttle's occupants.

The once reverberant thunder of the shuttle's engines

had been reduced to a chemical snore. They coughed

once or twice more as the pilot altered the shuttle's

heading slightly. Then it was sitting silently alongside

a floating dock of brown polymer. The dock bobbed

between thin posts of green glass.

20

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

21

Cora wondered if the glass was composed of hexal-

ate sands, decided that most likely it was. Any out-

post world had to make the most of its own resources.

Self-sufficiency was the goal of every colony. She ex-

pected to find a great many of Cachalot's everyday

items constructed of glass. A small suprafoil was linked

to the far side of the dock.

The forward door between the pilot's compartment

and the passengers' was opened. A gust of warm air

filled the cabin, replacing the stale canned atmosphere

with dampness and the strong, pungent aroma of the

sea. Cora inhaled, her eyes closing in pleasure. Per-

fume, pure perfume.

"Why is it," Rachael was grumbling, "that all the

oceans of all the planets have to stink?"

They had been through such arguments before. Cora

did not comment on her daughter's insensitivity to one

of the most wonderful smells in the universe.

Abruptly, the doorway was filled by a large, bearish

form. It squeezed into the cabin, ducking its head to

clear the entryway, and surveyed the human contents.

The massive man was clad only in a trylon pareu,

patterned with blue nebulae and pink flowers, loosely

draped around his waist down to his ankles. Chest and

chin were hairless, though the huge round skull was

thickly overgrown with black ringlets that might have

been combed once in the past dozen years.

While the man was only a few centimeters taller

than Rachael, his physique was that of a giant. Or a

granite massif. He was in his early forties, Cora

guessed, but with the roundness of a child in his fea-

tures. Most prominent among the latter was a consider-

able belly that curved out and away from beneath his

chest but had no fat ripples. The structure was a

smooth, slick curve of solid muscle that arced back to

vanish beneath the almost hidden waistband of the

pareu.

The face was also rounded, giving Cora the eerie

feeling she was looking not at a mature man but at a

seven-year-old giant. Besides his size, all that marked

him as a knowledgable adult was the instrument-laden

belt he wore around hips and waist, tucked more under

the belly than across it. She studied the array, recog-

nized the emergency underwater breathing unit that

could give a diver twenty minutes of air, an under-

water lumar, several instruments of uncertain purpose,

and, on his left side, a small rectangle of metal with a

constantly changing digital readout. She had a similar

rectangle in her own gear. On command it could pro-

vide time, depth, direction and speed of current, water

temperature, and numerous other factors of vital inter-

est to anyone working underwater. It was expensive,

not the sort of device that would be carried by, for

example, a common fisherman. Possibly he was at-

tached to the local science station? She would find out

soon enough.

The massive amount of flesh he revealed did not dis-

turb her. Of necessity the citizens of the Common-

weatlh who lived on its oceans wore less than their

landlocked counterparts. Partly this was related to con-

vention, partly to reasons of comfort, and partly, she

often suspected, to man's having risen from the sea and

his secret wish to return to it. The closer man got to the

sea, the greater the number of civilization's artifacts he

seemed to shuck.

Cora was dressed only in a simple one-piece bit of

shipboard fluff that ended above her knees. Even so,

now that she was on Cachalot, she felt unbearably

overdressed. Once they were assigned quarters, she

would change into a suit. She couldn't wait.

It would be nicer still to be able to go about only in

skin, but even a world as casual as Cachalot would

likely be affected by universal conventions. Sadly,

these included the wearing of at least minimal clothing.

Not all the inhabitants, let alone visitors and tempor-

ary workers, would willingly trade false morality for

22 CACHALOT

sensibility and comfort. And there was always the awk-

ward problem of the desires and proximity of men.

Those she would be working with would be fellow sci-

entists, but experience had shown that scientific detach-

ment had a disarming way of dissolving in her

presence. Not to mention in Rachael's.

"Sam Mataroreva." The man was looking down at

her. His voice was gentle as a cat's, as easy and open

as he seemed to be. He was ambling down the aisle,

squeezing his bulk lithely between the lounges. Despite

his size, he was physically less intimidating to her than

men half as large. Perhaps it was the baby-smooth,

hairless visage. Perhaps simply the charming smile.

"You're Cora Xamantina?" His palm enfolded hers.

She pulled it away defensively. "Pardon?" Now, why

did you do that? she asked herself. Why that instinctive

pulling away? Looks and deceitfulness did not neces-

sarily go together. That was Silvio's fault. Scientifi-

cally, there was no basis for such an assumption.

Mataroreva appeared not to notice her defensive-

ness. He was already shaking Rachael's hand. "And

you are Rachael, e'?"

"Yes." She shied away slightly when that huge mass

of flesh leaned over her.

Some official sent out to greet them, Cora thought.

Well, that was only to be expected. She stood, prepared

to ask those same but necessary questions all visitors to

a new place must ask, when Mataroreva shocked her

by moving farther down the aisle and addressing a third

passenger.

"And Mr. Merced, of course."

"That's right."

Cora stared open-mouthed at the little man.

"You're from Commissioner Hwoshien's office?"

Merced asked.

Mataroreva smiled, ran thick fingers through the

kelp-bed on his head. "Sort of a liaison between the

government and the private companies chartered to

CACHALOT           23

operate here. That gives me the best and the worst of

both sectors."

Cora continued to stare at Merced, who looked like

a dark splinter fallen from the flank of the huge Poly-

nesian. Merced noticed her stare, appeared more em-

barrassed than ever.

"I'm terribly sorry. I suppose I should have intro-

duced myself before." He stepped out into the aisle.

"I was just so fascinated by your daughter's instrument.

They're very rare, you know, and . . ." He stopped,

flustered, and extended a hand. "I'm Professor of Ad-

vanced Oceanographic Research at the University of

Toleamia on Repler."

"Toleamia?" She wasn't ready to believe this irrita-

ting person was a representative of so prestigious an

institution.

"That's right." He sounded apologetic. "Please ex-

cuse me. I really was interested in the neurophon."

"And in its operator?"

"Mother..." Rachael said wamingly.

"I'd be lying if I said no." Merced seemed nothing

if not truthful.

Mataroreva's smile had faded somewhat as he lis-

tened to the exchange."Am I missing something?"

"No." Cora turned, forced herself to smile up at him.

"Nothing important. We're very glad to be here, Mr.

Mataroreva. I just hope that we can be of some help."

She noted that they were the only passengers still

aboard the shuttle. "If I seem confused, it's only be-

cause I was led to believe that my daughter and I

were the only experts called in for consultation, to con-

sider your problem." She looked at Merced. "I don't

suppose your presence here and your being greeted by

Mr. Mataroreva could mean you're going to work on

something else?"

"We're all here for the same reason, I'm afraid."

Merced shifted his feet. "For what it's worth, I was as

ignorant of your involvement until you boarded the

24

CACHALOT

CACHALOT

25

shuttle as you were of mine. The difference was that I

knew something of you by reputation and sight, and

you did not know me." He forced a smile. "I shouldn't

think we'd have any trouble working together."

"Assuming that we do indeed end up working to-

gether." Cora was conceding nothing.

Mataroreva was growing distinctly uncomfortable.

She decided he deserved some reassurance.

"I'm not usually this testy. It's been a long, difficult

journey."

"I understand." He relaxed a little. "Call me Sam,

please."

"Okay . . . Sam it is." She was too tired to debate

protocol with anyone. Besides, "Sam" was a lot easier

to say than "Mataroreva."

"Good." He beamed. "Your large luggage should

already be on its way to your rooms. Anything else?"

They all shook their heads. Each had his or her in-

strument belt comfortably stocked and settled around

the waist.

"We can leave for Administration, then. But

first . . ." Reaching into a large waterproof packet

clipped to his Christmas-treelike belt, Mataroreva with-

drew a handful of goggles made entirely of some sup-

ple, transparent material, the headband of the same

stuff as the lenses. He slipped another pair over his

own face. "They're completely self-adjusting," he said

as the others slipped on their own. "I suggest you don't

take them off until you're inside a building. You don't

need them out on the open sea, either. All our build-

ings have windows formed from the same material."

"Can't you grow used to the glare?" Cora asked.

Mataroreva shook his head. "There's simply too

much of it. You'd go blind eventually. You can take it

early in the morning," and he stared into Cora's eyes

in a way she didn't like, "or late at night when the

sun's almost down. But while the local star is up, it's

simply too much." He turned and exited the shuttle.

Cora followed him, then Rachael with her precious

neurophon, and lastly Merced.

Then they were standing on the narrow, motionless

pier. Clouds and sky appeared sunset dark because of

the goggles. The lagoon itself stretched some twenty

kilometers to the north, another thirty to the south.

Transplanted off-world trees, water-anchored scrub

growth, and additional piers all appeared dark from

behind the special plastic. There was a dim reflection

from the buildings scattered along the wide spit of

sand.

Cora raised her right hand and slipped a finger be-

neath the lower rim of the goggles. She lifted it slightly,

glanced down and across at where the pier was slotted

into the shore. Instantly something stabbed at the back

of her eyes; crimson, emerald, blue, and yellow knives

battered her outraged optic nerves. The light seemed

as intense if not as pure as a cluster of tiny lasers. Hur-

riedly she let the goggles slip back into place, blinking

away tears. Now the sand ahead merely twinkled at

her through the lenses, did not blind.

They were preparing to leave the pier when she felt

a gentle tingle in her lower legs. The tingle traveled up

her thighs, ran like an acrobatic arachnid up her spine.

Simultaneously a plaintive melody sounded in her ears,

counterpointing the delicate rippling active inside her.

Apparently the subdued beauty was inspiring Ra-

chael. Her daughter's hands caressed the neurophon.

One strummed the dual sets of circular strings that lay

in the center of the instrument, the other fluttered over

the contact controls set in the instrument's handle and

base. The coupling of aural music with the subsonic

vibrations affecting her skin and nerves produced a re-

laxing sensation throughout Cora's body, as if she had

just spent an hour beneath a fine-spray shower.

Merced appeared similarly affected, but Mataro-

reva's reaction was quite different. The smile vanished

26          CACHALOT

from his face and he turned so abruptly he almost

knocked Cora down.

"What's the matter?" She tried to make the wide

grin return. "I'm no music lover myself, but . . ."

"It's not that." He was looking nervously beyond

her. "It has nothing to do with the music. I like the

music and the neuronics. It's just that... I think she'd

better stop." He was standing on the edge of the pier,

across from the shuttle, staring down into the muted

crystalline water. Elongated bands of light, reflections

of the sun on water ripples, flashed up at him.

Rachael paused when he made a quieting gesture in

her direction. "But you said you liked it," she pro-

tested. "I can play something else if you want."

"Just turn off the dendritic resonators."

"Not again." She petulantly ran her hand across a

long series of contacts. Cora felt something combing

her nerves. "I keep trying to explain it's all of one

piece, the aural and the neuronics. If I can't conjoin

them properly, I might as well give it up and take up

the violin."

"Just for now," Mataroreva said.

Merced was also staring over the side of the pier. "I

do believe there is something under the sand."

Rachael ignored them both, her hands flicking an-

grily over the neurophon's controls, generating a last

discordant dual projection before shutting the instru-

ment off.

Cora's nerves jumped a little under the sharp stim-

ulation. Then she discovered herself bewilderedly

stumbling backward. Seawater geysered in front of her.

Draped by the water like a maiden in a blue-green suit

was a four-meter-high orange body, flattened like a

flounder's and encrusted with rough protrusions like a

chunk of pumice. Several thick pink pseudopods waved

at the air. Cora did not see any eyes but received the

distinct impression that the creature perceived her

clearly.

CACHALOT           27

Mataroreva fell flat. From his cluttered equipment

belt he withdrew a very compact beamer. The under-

water weapon functioned well on dry land; a beam of

bright blue struck the apparition in its midsection, or

what Cora assumed to be its midsection. She could see

it a bit more clearly now. Only seconds had passed. It

looked like a cross between an obese squid and a star-

fish with delusions of grandeur. The blue fire struck

between a pair of tentacles, pierced clean through the

orange flesh. One thick, bristly appendage slapped

wetly on the pier, only centimeters from Cora's ankles.

The blue beam struck the creature again and it slid

back into the water. It had not made a sound.

Most would have lain quietly, panting and fearful.

There was too much of the scientist in Cora to permit

that. As soon as the creature vanished beneath the

water she crawled quickly but cautiously to the edge.

Large bubbles were making blemishes on the clear

surface. She could barely make out a hint of thick

bristles breaking the sand as the creature receded be-

neath it. Soon the bottom appeared undisturbed, as if

nothing had slept there in the first place.

Several figures were running toward them from the

nearest of the low-lying buildings. A few were armed.

Mataroreva got to his feet. Carefully he clipped the

beamer back onto his belt.

A hint of polished blue metal disappeared as Pucara

Merced slid something indistinct into an inside com-

partment of his own belt. No one noticed. Cora's at-

tention was still on the sea floor, as was Mataroreva's.

Only the still-motionless Rachael, arms wrapped pro-

tectively around her instrument, had the faintest

glimpse of the object, and she was too stunned by the

suddenness of the attack for the tiny shape to register

immediately on her mind.

A couple from the building reached them, panting

heavily. As soon as they saw that Mataroreva had re-

28          CACHALOT

clipped his beamer, they put away their own. He was

leaning over the side of the pier.

"What happened, Sam?"

"Toglut."

Now the man joined Mataroreva in inspecting the

sand below. "It must've gone crazy." His brow was

creased and he sounded confused. "I don't under-

stand."

The big Polynesian gestured toward Raehael. The

woman who had joined them nodded understandingly.

"She was playing that?"

"I—I'm sorry." Raehael stared at them dumbly. "I

didn't know. I mean, I know that a neurophon's vi-

brations can affect certain animals. It's just . . . the

water here is so shallow, and we're in a protected la-

goon near human habitation and I—I didn't see..."

Mataroreva stared grimly at her, seemed about to

say something, and then he was smiling broadly as be-

fore, as if nothing had happened.

"Forget it. It's over and no one was hurt. Not even

the toglut, I think. I suppose that from a biological

standpoint your assumptions were accurate. You

couldn't have known there would be something within

range of your instrument under the sand. Actually,

your thinking was mostly correct. There are very few

dangerous creatures living inside the reef, and most of

them stay out in the center, where the water's deep."

He pointed downward, over the side of the pier. "The

toglut's big, but normally it's about as offensive as a

kitten. I guess," he joked, "it wasn't much of a music

lover, either." He grinned at Cora. "Anyway, you've

had an introduction to the real Cachalot. This is a

poorly explored, little-researched colony world. Para-

dise orbits a different star.

"Come on." He looked over at the two newcomers

who had joined them so hurriedly. "We'll manage,

Terii," he told the woman. She nodded, turned to leave,

but not before giving Raehael a disapproving glare.

CACHALOT           29

Mataroreva started to follow, but when he saw Cora

still on hands and knees, staring over the side of the

pier, he walked over to her and extended a massive

brown paw. "Ms. Xamantina? Cora?"

She glanced up at him. "A toglut, you called it?"

"That's right. They spend most of their time under

the sand. They can tear up a boat without working

hard, but normally one would rather run than fight

something half its size."

"I wish I'd had a better look." She took his hand and

he helped her to her feet. She continued to gaze down

into the water. "Fascinating. I've never seen a cepha-

lopod like that."

"It's not a cephalopod."

"Echinoderm?"

He shook his head. "Polydermata. If I remember

right. A new class, native to Cachalot. We have a lot of

them, I'm told. You'll learn the reason for the name if

you ever get the chance to dissect one. The cephalopo-

dian characteristics are coincidental. Or mimicry."

"That's marvelous. Really marvelous." She grew

aware he was still holding her hand and pulled free.

"Raehael—"

"Please, Mother. No lectures, huh? I explained

myself. Nobody's as sorry as I am."

Cora sighed deeply. "You and that toy. I'm sur-

prised at you, ascribing Earthly characteristics to an

alien world. But I suppose I myself would have said,

if asked, that it was probably safe to play that thing

here." She started for the buildings, chatting with Mat-

aroreva.

Merced moved to walk alongside Raehael. "Anyone

would have made the same assumption, just as your

mother said. Besides," he added softly, "I thought

what you were playing was beautiful."

She looked down at him. "Flattery will get you no-

where, Mr. Merced."

30          CACHALOT

"Pucara, please. We are going to be working to-

gether."

"Maybe," she replied cautiously. "We don't know

the nature of the trouble, so I think it's a little prema-

ture to say we'll be working together." He looked away,

lapsed into silence. "However," she added, "I hope

that we will." She smiled enigmatically.

"It's my hope also, Rachael. Maybe you'd be will-

ing to play for me another time, as you said you would.

When we're a bit farther away from the water where

your instrument's projections won't, uh, irritate the

local life."

"That'll have to include my mother. She tends to re-

act like that toglut thing did." She chuckled.

They were mounting a slight slope now, climbing the

firmly packed sand. Occasional shafts of brightly col-

ored light made her blink even through the protective

haze created by the goggles.

"She's protective of you," Merced ventured. "You

can't blame her."

"Protective of me?"

Rachael laughed, the rhythmic trill so different from

her husky speaking voice. "I can take care of myself.

Besides, what does she have to be so protective of me

for? What's there to protect me from?" And she

smiled at Merced in what could only be called a chal-

lenging way. He simply smiled slightly and looked

away.

Intriguing character, she thought to herself. He acts

so shy and tentative, yet some of his comments and

questions are damned direct. She slid the neurophon

around on its straps so that it snuggled beneath her left

arm, made certain the power was off.

Two mysteries for her to explore; Cachalot and

Pucara Merced. Two mysteries to inspire music. She

ran three fingers over the steel strings of her soul.

.aving reached the top of the gentle slope, they

found themselves among a complex of buildings. All

displayed windows formed of the same phototropic

material as their goggles. Some of the structures looked

like housing, others were clearly used as offices and

labs. Far to the south were the outlines of much larger

buildings. Warehousing, perhaps, or processing facili-

ties.

The shuttle that had brought them in was now

docked near one of the other, larger structures. Small

human shapes could be seen using floaters to shift con-

tainers from building to shuttlebay and vice versa.

They were approaching a two-story building larger

than any they had yet passed. It occupied the crest of

the hill. A flag, hanging limply from a post in front of

the entrance, displayed four circles arranged in a

square: two blue, representing Terra; two green, stand-

ing for Hivehom. A fifth circle occupied the center,

tangent to the other four. It was marked with a Mal-

tese cross, half blue and half green on a crimson field.

Were this a Church facility, the field would have been

aquamarine. Flag and post were sufficient to indicate

they were nearing the center of humanx activity on

Cachalot.

From what Rachael had learned of the ocean world,

she knew it was not developed enough to qualify for

32 CACHALOT

even associate status in the Commonwealth. It was

listed as a mere class nine, a general colony with no

direct representation in the Council. Instead, it oper-

ated under the direction of a Resident Commissioner,

like any other world without full membership. Its

inhabitants would have true franchise only through

their home-worlds. Those with multigenerational an-

cestry on Cachalot would be represented through the

Commissioner.

They halted before the entrance, and she and

Merced slowed behind her mother and they guide.

"I don't understand," Cora was saying, gesturing

first at the Administration Building and then at the

others nearby. "Don't you have a fusion plant?"

"Sure," Sam told her. "For backup purposes. We

hardly ever use it. Why do you find the photovoltaic

paneling so unusual? It may not generate as much

power as fast as a fusion reactor, but we have excellent

storage systems and a year with ninety-five percent of

the days sunny. In the long run it's much more effi-

cient."

"Meaning cheaper?"

"Exactly. Generating a fusion reaction isn't that ex-

pensive. Containing and channeling it are."

They passed the flagpole and encountered a small

sign attached to a post made of coconut palm. Cora

glanced expectantly at Mataroreva, who grinned at her.

"That marks the highest point of land yet measured

on Cachalot. Thirty-two meters above sea level." His

grin grew wider and he gestured at the atoll. "The

name 'Mou'anui' is itself a joke. It's the name this atoll

was given by the first workers who settled here. My

ancestors were among them. It means 'big mountain'

in the ancient Tahitian tongue."

"Everything's relative," Merced said from behind

him.

"Very true."

"I would think you'd be swamped here." Cora

CACHALOT           33

looked back at the calm water of the lagoon. "We

passed over a pretty good-sized storm on our way

down."

"That's why most of the people on Cachalot would

choose to live on the floating towns even if there was

more land. It's safer, easier to ride with a storm rather

than fight against it." Mataroreva shrugged. "But for

an administrative center, for a central distribution and

product collection and processing point, it was decided

that a truly permanent installation was required. There

are larger atolls, but none with this much stable land,

so it was decided to place the fixed buildings on

Mou'anui.

"The foundations of these buildings go many meters

down into the solid rock of the sea mount on which the

reef stands. The reef follows the contour of the crest

of an ancient volcanic caldera. The mountain comes

very close to the surface here. Even if the sand were

to be completely washed away, most of the buildings

would remain. We're safe. The majority of big storms

strike the atoll on the far side anyway."

"Is there any place," Rachael asked, "where real

land actually projects above the water?"

Mataroreva thought a moment. "Not that I've heard

of. Sea mounts like the one below us come within a

couple dozen meters of the surface. But wherever you

see dry land projecting above the water, it's there be-

cause the little hexalates have worked to make it so for

millions of years."

They passed through the tinted plastic doors of the

Administration Building. "Most of the people I've seen

so far have retained much of then: Polynesian ancestry

in their faces and physiques," Cora said.

"Oh, you know how it is," Mataroreva replied cas-

ually. "The Commonwealth's not so ancient that pock-

ets of settlers on nonurbanized worlds haven't retained

then- ethnicity. That's not to say you won't find ancient

Northern Europeans or Central American farmstockers

34           CACHALOT

or Mongols working here on Cachalot. Not to mention

a very few thranx, despite their natural hatred of large

bodies of water. But the permanent residents, the ones

who aren't here simply to try to get rich quick in phar-

maceuticals, say, derive mostly from Polynesian or

Melanesian ocean-going ancestors. I'm sure there's no