I have  learned hate.  I have  been waiting  for the
chance  to  escape,  to  track   you  as   you  once
tracked me, to destroy you.

I  am  sorry  for the  pain I  have caused  you. Now
that  we  know  what  you are,  amends can  be made.

The  sun  of my  world has  since gone  nova. The
world  and  all others  of my  kind are  no more.
How can you restore it to me?

I cannot.

Cat   slammed   against   the   field   and   sparks
outlined  his  entire  figure.  Billy did  not move.
After  a  time,  Cat  drew  back,  shaking  himself.
He  seemed   smaller  now,   and  his   body  coiled
around  and  around  upon  itself, sinking  into the

Finally, I will help you - for a price, Cat said.

And what is that price?

Your life.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
am the product of the author's imagination or  are used  fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events  or locales  or persons,  living or  dead, is
entirely coincidental.


A division of
Th Hearst Corporation
105 Madison Avenue
New York, New York 10016

Copyright (C) 1982 by The Amber Corporation
Cover art by Tim White
Published by arrangement with the author
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-93388
ISBN: 0-380-76002-9

All rights reserved, which includes the  right to  reproduce this  book or
portions thereof in any  form whatsoever  except as  provided by  the U.S.
Copyright  Law.  For  information  address   Kirby  McCauley,   Ltd.,  432
Park Avenue South, Suite 1509, New York, New York 10016.

First Avon Books Printing: January l991



Printed in the U.S.A.

ARC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 I


                                                       FOR JOE LEAPHORN,
                                                       JIMMY CHEE
                                                       AND TONY HILLERMAN


At the door to the House of Darkness
 lies a pair of red coyotes with heads reversed.
Nayenezgani parts them with his dark stag
 and comes in search of me.
With lightning behind him,
 with lightning before him,
 he comes in search of me,
with a rock crystal and a talking ketahn.

Beyond, at the corners by the door
 of the House of Darkness,
 lie two red btuejays with heads reversed.
With lightning behind him,
 with lightning before him,
he parts them with his dark staff
 and comes in search of me.

Farther, at the fire-pit of the Dark House,
 tie two red hoot-owls with heads reversed.
He parts these with his stag
 and comes in search of me,
 with rock crystal and talking ketahn.

At the center of the Darkness House
 where two red screech-owls lie with heads reversed,
Nayenezgani casts them aside
 coming in search of me,
 lightning behind him,
 lightning before him.
Bearing a rock crystal and a talking ketahn,
 he comes for me.
From the center of the earth he comes.

                                  Evil-Chasing Prayer

                                   NIGHT, NEAR THE EASTERN
edge of  the walled,  sloping grounds  of the  estate, within
these walls, perhaps a quarter-mile from the house itself, at
the small stand of trees, under a moonless sky, listening, he
stands, absolutely silent.
 Beneath his boots, the ground is moist.  A cold  wind tells
him that winter yields  but grudgingly  to spring  in upstate
New  York.  He reaches  out and  touches the  dark line  of a
slender branch to his right, gently. He feels the buds of the
fresh  year's  green,  dreaming of  summer beneath  his wide,
dark hand.
 He  wears  a  blue  velveteen  shirt  hanging out  over his
jeans, a wide concha belt securing it at  his waist.  A heavy
squash  blossom  necklace  -  a  very  old  one -  hangs down
upon his breast. High about his neck is  a slender  strand of
turquoise heiche. He has a silver bracelet on his left wrist,
studded  with  random  chunks  of  turquoise  and  coral. The
buttons  of  his  shirt  are  hammered  dimes from  the early
twentieth century. His long hair is bound with a strip of red
 Tall, out of place, out of time, he listens for  that which
may  or  may not  become audible:  indication of  the strange
struggle  at  the  dark  house. No  matter how  the encounter
goes, he, William Blackhorse Singer, will  be the  loser. But
this is his own thing to bear, from  a force  he set  into motion
long  ago,  a  chindi  which  has  dogged  his  heels  across the
  He  hears  a  brief  noise  from  the  direction of  the house,
followed  immediately  by  a  loud  crashing.  This does  not end
it,   however.   The   sounds   continue.   From   somewhere  out
over the walls, a coyote howls.
  He almost laughs. A dog,  certainly. Though  it sounds
more like the other, to which he has again become accus-
tomed. None of them around here, of course.
  William  Blackhorse  Singer.  He  has  other  names,   but  the
remembering  machines  know  him  by  this  one.  It was  by this
one that they summoned him.
  The  sounds  cease  abruptly,  and  after  a short  while begin
again. He estimates that it must  be near  midnight in  this part
of the  world. He  looks to  the skies,  but Christ's  blood does
not  stream  in  the  firmament.  Only Ini,  the bird  of thunder
among  the   southwestern  stars,   ready  with   his  lightning,
clouds  and  rain,  extending  his headplume  to tickle  the nose
of Sas, the bear, telling him it is time to bring new life to the
earth, there by the Milky Way.
      Silence. Sudden, and stretching pulsebeat by pulsebeat to
fill his world. Is it over? Is it really over?
  Again,  short  barks  followed  by  the  howling.  Once  he had
known  many  things  to  do,  still  knew some  of them.  All are
closed to him now, but for the waiting.
  No. There is yet a thing with which to fill it.
  Softly, but with growing force, he begins the song.

                                       FIRST MAN WAS NOT EXACTLY
jumping  with  joy  over  the  dark  underworld  in which  he was
created.  He  shared  it with  eight other  humans, and  the ants
and  the  beetles  and  later the  locusts whom  they encountered
as  they  explored,  and  Coyote  -  the  First  Angry  One,  He-
who-was-formed-in-the-water,     Scrawny     Wanderer.     Every-
one  multiplied;  and  the  dragonflies,  the  wasps  and  the  bat
people   later   joined   them;   and   Spider  Man   and  Spider

Woman.  The  place  grew  crowded  and was  full of  bugs. Strife
 "Let's get out of here," a number of them suggested.
 First  Man,  who  was  wise  and  powerful, fetched  his trea-
sures  of  White  Shell,  Turquoise,  Abalone,  Jet and  the Red-
White Stone.
 He placed  the White  Shell in  the east  and breathed  upon it.
Up  from  it  rose  a  white  tower  of  cloud.  He   placed  the
Turquoise  to  the  south  and  breathed upon  it. From  it there
rose a blue  cloud tower.  To the  west he  set the  Abalone, and
when  he  had  breathed  upon  it  a yellow  cloud tower  rose up
in that place. To the north he set  the Jet,  and touched  by his
breath  it sent  up a  black tower  of cloud.  The white  and the
yellow  grew,  met  overhead  and  crossed, as  did the  blue and
the black. These became the Night and the Day.
 Then  he  placed  the   Red-White  Stone   at  the   center  and
breathed upon it. From it there rose a many-colored tower.
 The  tower  to the  east was  called Folding  Dawn; that  to the
south  was  called  Folding  Blue  Sky;  to  the   west,  Folding
Twilight;  that  to  the  north,  Folding  Darkness. One  by one,
Coyote  visited  each  of  them,  changing  his  color  to  match
their  own.  For  this  reason,  he  is  known  as  Child  of the
Dawn,  as  Child  of  the  Blue  Sky, Child  of the  Twilight and
Child of Darkness, along  with all  his other  names. At  each of
these places, his power was increased.
 While  the  towers  of  the  four  cardinal  points  were  holy,
giving birth to the prayer rites, the central one bore all pains,
evils and  diseases. And  it was  this tower  up which  First Man
and  Coyote  led  the  People,  bringing  them  into  the  second
world; and, of course, along with them, the evils.
 There  they  explored  and  they  met  with others,  and First
Man  fought  with  many,  defeating them  all and  taking their
songs of power.
 But  this  also was  a place  of suffering,  of misery,  a thing
Coyote  discovered as  he went  to and  fro in  the world  and up
and down it. And  so to  First Man  he took  the pleas  that they
 First  Man  made  a  white  smoke  and  blew  it  to  the  east,
then  swallowed  it  again  -  and the  same in  every direction.
This  removed  all  the  evils  from the  world and  brought them
back  to  the  People  from whence  they had  come. Then  he laid
Lightning,  both  jagged  and  straight, to  the east,  and Rain-
bow  and  Sunlight,  but  nothing  occurred.  He  moved  them  to
the  south,  the  west  and  the  north.  The world  trembled but

brought  forth  no  power to  bear them  upward. He  made then
a  wand  of  Jet,  Turrquoise, Abalone  and White  Shell. Atop
this,  he  set  the  Red-White  Stone. It  rose and  bore them
upward into the next world.
 Here  they  met  the  many  snakes, and  Salt Man  and Woman
and Fire God. Nor should  Spider Ant  be forgotten.  And light
and darkness came up from the  towers of  the four  colors, as
in the other worlds.
 But then First Man  set a  streak of  yellow and  another of
red and yellow in the east, and these  halted the  movement of
the white light.
 And  the  People  were  afraid. Salt  Man counseled  them to
explore in the  east, but  the streaks  retreated as  they ad-
vanced.  Then  they  heard  a  voice  summoning  them  to  the
south. There  they found  the old  man Dontso,  called Messen-
ger Fly, who told  them what  First Man  had done.  The yellow
streak, he said, represented the emergence of the  People; the
other, vegetation and pollen, with the red part indicating all
 Then  Owl  and  Kit  Fox  and  Wolf  and  Wildcat  came, and
with  them  Horned  Rattlesnake,  who  offered  First  Man  the
shell he carried on his head  - and  promises of  offerings of
White Shell, Turquoise, Abalone and Jet in the  future. First
Man  accepted  the  shell  and  its  magic  and   removed  the
streaks from the sky.
 The People  then realized  that First  Man was  evil. Coyote
spied  upon  their  counsels  and reported  to First  Man that
they  knew he  had stopped  the light  in the  east to  gain a
 When later they confronted him with  it, First  Man replied,
"Yes. It is true, grandchildren. Very true. I  am evil.  Yet I
have  employed  my evil  on your  behalf. For  these offerings
shall benefit all of us.  And I  do know  when to  withhold my
evil from those about me."
 And he proceeded to prove this thing  by building  the first
medicine  hogan,  where  he  shared  with  them  his knowledge
of things good and evil.

                                    HE REMEMBERED THE PARTY
the night before he had found the coyote.
 Garbed  in the  rented splendor  of a  shimmering synthetic-
fibered  foursquare and  blackrib Pleat  4, Ruffle  evegarb, he
had  tripped  through  to the  mansion in  Arlington. Notables
past and present filled  the sparkling,  high-ceilinged rooms.
He  was  decidedly  Past,  but he  had gone  anyway, to  see a
few old friends, to touch that other life again.
 A  middle-aged  woman  of  professional  charm  greeted him,
approached  him,  embraced  him  and spoke  with him  for half
a minute in the enthusiastic  voice of  a newscaster,  until a
fresh arrival at his back produced a reflex pressure  from her
hand upon his arm, directing him to the side.
 Grateful,  he  moved  off;  accepting  a  drink from  a tray,
glancing  at  faces, nodding  to some,  pausing to  exchange a
few words, working his  way to  a small  room he  recalled Gem
previous visits.
 He  sighed  when  he entered.  He liked  the wood  and iron,
stone and rough plaster, books and quiet pictures,  the single
window with its uninterrupted view of the river, the fireplace
burning softly.
 "I knew you'd find me here," she said,  from her  chair near
the hearth.
 He smiled.
 "So did I - in the only room built during a lapse in
 He  drew up  a chair,  seating himself  near her  but facing
slightly past her toward the fire. Her heavy, lined  face, the
bright blue eyes beneath white hair, her short  stocky figure,
had  not changed  recently. In  some ways  she was  the older,
in others she was  not. Time  had played  its favorite  game -
irony - with  them both.  He thought  of the  century-old Fon-
tenelle  and  Mme.  Grimaud, almost  as old  as he.  Yet there
was a gulf here of a different sort.
 "Will you go collecting again soon?" she asked him.
 "They've all the beasties they need for a while. I'm

"Do you like it?"
"As well as anything."
Her brows tightened in a small wince.
"I can never tell whether it's native fatalism, world-
weariness or a pose with you."
"I can't either, anymore," he said.
"Perhaps you're suffering from leisure."
"That's about as exclusive as rain  these days.  I exist  in a
private culture."
"Really. It can't be as bad as all that," she said.
"Bad? Good and evil are always mixed up. It provides
"Nothing else?"
"It is easy to love what is present and desire what is
She reached out and squeezed his hand.
"You crazy Indian. Do you exist when I'm not here?"
"I'm  not  sure,"  he  said.  "I  was  a  privileged traveler.
Maybe  I died  and no  one had  the heart  to tell  me. How've
you been, Margaret?"
After a time, she said, "Still living in an age of timidity, I
suppose. And ideas."
He raised his drink and took a big swallow.
"... Stale, flat and unprofitable," she said.
He raised the glass higher, holding it to the light, staring
through it.
"Not  that  bad,"  he  stated. "They  got the  vermouth right
this time."
She chuckled.
"Philosophy doesn't change people, does it?" she asked.
"I don't think so."
"What are you going to do now?"
"Go and talk with some of the others, I guess, have a few
more drinks. Maybe dance a little."
"I don't mean tonight."
"I know. Nothing special, I guess. I don't need to."
"A man like you should be doing something."
"That's for you to say. When the gods are silent someone
must choose."
"The gods are silent," he said, finally looking into her
bright ancient eyes, "and my choices are all used up."
"That's not true."
He looked away again.

"Let it be," he said, "as you did before."
"Don't "
"I'm sorry."
She removed her hand from his. He finished his drink.
"Your character is your fate," she said at last, "and you
are a creature of change."
"I live strategically."
"Maybe   too   much   so."
"Let  it be,  lady. It's  not on  my worry-list.  I've changed
enough and I'm tired."
"Will even that last?"
"Sounds  like a  trick question  to me.  You had  your chance.
If I've an appointment with folly I'll keep it. Don't try to
heal my wounds until you're sure they're there."
"I'm sure. You have to find something."
"I don't do requests."
"... And I hope it's soon."
"I've got to take a little walk," he said. "I'll be back."
She nodded and he left quickly. She would too, shortly.
Later that evening his eyes suddenly traced a red strand in
the rug and he followed it, to find himself near the trip-box.
"What the hell," he said.
He  sought  his  hostess, thanked  her and  moved back  to the
transport unit. He pushed the coordinates,  and as  he entered
he stumbled.
Freeze frame on man falling.

There was a time when the day light was night light.
Black-god rode upon my right shoulder.
Time spun moebius about me, as I sailed
up Darkness Mountain in the sky.
And the beasts, the beasts I hunted.
When l called them they would come to me,
out of Darkness Mountain.

                                   IT HAD SNOWED THE PREVIOUS
night,  dry  and  powdery,  but  the  day had  been unseasonably
warm  and much  of it  had melted.  The sky  was still  clear as
the sun retreated  behind a  dark rocky  crest, and  already the
cold  was  coming  back  into  the world,  riding the  wind that
sighed  among  the  pine  trees.  Silvery  strings  of  sunlight
marked the higher sinews of a mesa  far to  the right,  its foot
already aswirl with gray in the first tides of evening. At least
there  would  be  no  snow  tonight,  he  knew,  and   he  could
watch the stars before he closed his eyes.
 As he made his  camp, the  coyote limped  after him,  its left
foreleg still bound. Tonight was the night to take care of that,
 He  built his  fire and  prepared his  meal, the  pinon smoke
redolent in his nostrils. By the time that it was ready  the day
was  gone,  and  the  mesa  and  the  ridge  were  but  lumps of
greater darkness against the night.
 "Your  last  free  meal," he  said, tossing  a portion  of the
food to the beast at his feet.
 As  they  ate,  he  remembered other  nights and  other camps,
a long trail of them stretching back over  a century.  Only this
time  there  was  nothing  to hunt,  and in  a way  this pleased
 Drinking  his  coffee,  he  thought  of   the  hundred-seventy
years of his existence: how it had begun in  this place,  of the
fairylands  and  hells  through which  he had  taken it  and how
he   had  come   -  back.   "Home,"  under   the  circumstances,
would  be  more  than  an  irony.  He  sipped the  scalding brew
from  the metal  cup, peopling  the night  with demons,  most of
whom now resided in San Diego.
 Later,  with  his  hunting  knife,  he  removed  the  dressing
from the animal's  leg. It  remained perfectly  still as  he did
this,  watching.  As  he  cut  away  at  the stiff  material, he
recalled  the  day  some  weeks  before  when  he had  come upon
it,  leg  broken,  in  a  trap. There  had been  a time  when he
would have acted differently. But he had  released it,  taken it
home with him, treated it. And  even this,  this long  trek into

the  Carrizos,  was  for  the purpose  of turning  it free  at a
sufficient  distance from  his home,  with a  full night  ahead to
tempt  it  into  wandering back  to its  own world,  rather than
prolonging an unnatural association.
 He slapped its flank.
 "Go on. Run!"
 It rose, its movements still stiff, leg still held at  an awk-
ward angle. Only gradually  did it  lower the  limb as  it moved
about the campsite. After a time, it passed into and out  of the
circle  of  firelight,  remaining  away  for  longer  and longer
 As  he  prepared  his bedroll,  he was  startled by  a buzzing
noise.  Simultaneously,  a  red  light  began  winking   on  the
small  plastic case  which hung  from his  belt. He  switched o
the buzzer, but the light  continued to  blink. He  shrugged and
put it aside, face down. It  indicated an  incoming call  at his
distant  home.  He  had  gotten  into the  habit of  wearing the
unit when  he was  near the  place and  had forgotten  to remove
it.  He  never  wore  the more  elaborate version,  however, and
so  was  not equipped  to answer  the call  from here.  This did
not  seem  important.  It had  been several  years since  he had
received  anything  which  might  be  considered   an  important
 Still, it troubled him as he lay regarding  the stars.  It had
been a long while since  he had  received any  calls at  all. He
wished now that  he had  either carried  along the  unit's other
component  or  had  not  brought anything.  But he  was retired,
his  newsworthiness  long  vanished.  It  could  not  really  be
...  He  was  traversing  an  orange  plain  beneath   a  yellow
sky  in  which  a  massive  white sun  blazed. He  was approach-
ing  an  orange,  pyramidal  structure  covered  with  a webwork
of  minute  fractures.  He  drew  near  and   halted,  hurriedly
setting  up  the  projector.  Then  he commenced  waiting, occa-
sionally  moving  to  tend  another  machine  which  produced  a
continuous record  as the  cracks grew.  Time meant  very little
to  him. The  sun drifted  slowly. Abruptly,  one of  the jagged
lines  widened  and  the  structure  opened.  A  wide-shouldered
form  covered  with  pink stubble  rose up  suddenly out  of it,
swaying,  a  raw,  bristle-edged opening  facing him  forward of
the bulbous projection at its top, beneath  a dazzling  red band
of jewel-like  knobs. He  triggered the  projector and  a gleam-
ing net was cast upon it. It struggled within  it but  could not
come  free.  Its  movements  came  to  correspond  with  a faint

drumming   sound  which   might  be   his  heartbeat.   Now  the
entire  world  crashed  and  fell  away  and  he   was  running,
running into the east, younger self of his self, beneath  a blue
sky,  past  saltbush and  sagebrush, clumps  of scrub  grass and
chamisa,  the  sheep  barely  noting his  passage, save  for one
which suddenly rose  up, assuming  all the  colors of  the dawn,
swaying....   And   then   everything   swam   away    on   dark
currents  to the  places where  dreams dwell  when they  are not
being used....

  Birdnotes  and  predawn  stasis:  he  was  cast  up  onto  the
shoals of  sleep, into  a world  where time  hung flexed  at the
edge  of  light.  Frozen.  His  emerging awareness  moved slowly
over  preverbal  landscapes  of  thought  he  had  quitted  long
ago. Or was it yesterday?
  He  awoke  knowing  that  the  call  was important.  He tended
to his  morning and  removed all  signs of  his camp  before the
sun  was  fully  risen.  The  coyote  was  nowhere in  sight. He
began walking. It had been a long time, too long  for him  to go
further into the  portent. His  feelings, however,  were another
matter.  He  scrutinized  them  occasionally,  but  seldom exam-
ined them closely.
  As  he  hiked  across  the morning,  he considered  his world.
It  was  small again,  as in  the beginning,  though this  was a
relative matter - relative to all the worlds he had traveled in.
He  moved  now  in  the  foothills of  the Carrizo  Mountains in
Dinetah,  the  land  of the  Navajos, over  twenty-five thousand
square miles, much of it still grazing land, over a  million and
a  half  acres  still  wildland,  bounded  by  the  four  sacred
mountains  -  Debentsa  in  the  north,  Mount  Taylor   in  the
south,  San  Francisco  Peaks  in  the west  and Blanco  Peak in
the  east,  each with  its stories  and sacred  meanings. Unlike
many   things   he   had   known,   Dinetah  had   changed  only
slowly,  was  still  recognizable  in  this,  the  twenty-second
century,  as the  place it  had been  in his  boyhood. Returning
to  this  land  after  so  many  years  had been  like traveling
backward in time.
  Yet  there  were  differences  between   this  day   and  that
other.  For  one,  his  clan had  always been  a small  one, and
now he found himself its last survivor. While  it was  true that
one is born a member of one's mother's  clan but  in a  sense is
also  born  for  one's  father's  clan,  his  father had  been a
Taoseno  and  there  had  been  very  little  contact  with  the
pueblo. His father  - a  tall, sinewy  man, an  unusually gifted

tracker, with more than a little  Plains blood  - had  come to
live in Dinetah, as was proper, tending his wife's  flocks and
hoeing her corn, until  the day  a certain  restlessness over-
took him.
 Even so, it was  not the  lack of  clan affiliation  which had
altered his life. A  Navajo has  great potential  for personal
contacts through the complex network of  tribal interrelation-
ships, so that even though all of the people  he had  known in
his youth were likely dead, he might  still find  ready accep-
tance  elsewhere.  But  he  had  returned  with an  Anglo wife
and  had  not  done  this.  He  felt a  momentary pang  at the
thought,  though  more  than  three  years  had  passed  since
Dora's death.
 It was  more than  that. A  Navajo alone,  on his  own, away
from the People, is said to  be no  longer a  Navajo -  and he
felt  that  in a  way this  was true,  though his  mother, his
grandmother  and  his  great-grandmother  were   buried  some-
where  near  the place  where he  now lived.  He knew  that he
had  changed,  changed  considerably,  during the  years away.
Yet so had the People. While the land was little altered, they
had  lost  many  of  the  small  things  he  remembered, small
things adding up to something  large. Paradoxically,  then, he
was  on  the one  hand of  an earlier  era than  his contempo-
raries,  and  on  the  other...  He  had walked  beneath alien
suns.  He  had  tracked  strange  beasts,  worthy  of Monster-
Slayer  himself.  He had  learned the  ways of  the bellicanos
and  was  not  uncomfortable  among   them.  There   were  de-
grees  after  his  name,  some  of  them  earned. There  was a
library in his head, held firmly in the trained memory  of one
who had studied the chants of  yataalii. More  traditional yet
more  alien he  found himself.  He wanted  to be  alone, what-
ever he was.
 He broke into an easy jog, telling himself that  its purpose
was to get the cold out of his  bones. He  ran past  walls and
outcrops  of granite  and sandstone,  hillsides of  pinon and
juniper. Dead yuccas, their leaves touched with ice,  lay like
burned out stars  nailed to  the ground  along his  trail. The
snow  glinted on  distant mountain  peaks beneath  a perfectly
clear sky. Even after the cold had left him, he maintained his
pace, deriving a kind of joy from the exertion.
 The  day  wore  on. He  did not  break his  stride, however,
until  midmorning,  when  he halted  for a  brief meal  upon a
hillside  commanding  a  long  view   down  a   narrow  canyon
where  sheep  grazed on  dry grasses.  In the  distance, smoke

rose from  a conical,  dirt-insulated hogan,  its Pendleton-hung
door facing him, there in the east.
  An old man  with a  stick came  out from  behind a  cluster of
rocks,  where  he  might  have been  resting while  watching the
sheep.  Limping,  he  took  a  circuitous path  which eventually
brought him near.
  "Ya'at'eeh," the man said, looking past him.
  He asked the man to share his  food, and  they ate  in silence
for a time.
  After  a  while,  he  asked  the  man's  clan  - it  would have
been  impolite to  ask his  name -  and learned  that he  was of
the  Rabbit  Redwater  People.  He  always  found it  easier to
talk  with the  older people  than the  younger ones,  those who
lived far out rather than near the cities.
  Eventually  the  man  asked  him  his own  clan. When  he told
him, the other grew silent. It is not good to talk of the dead.
  "I  am  the  last,"  he  finally  said,  wanting the  other to
understand. "I've been away a long time."
  "I  know,  I  know  the  story  of  Star  Tracker."  He pushed
down  upon  the  crown  of  his  wide-brimmed  black  hat  as  a
gust of  wind struck  them. He  looked back  along the  trail to
the north. "Something follows you."
  Still  smiling  at  the  way  the  old   man  had   named  him
without  naming  him,  he  turned  his head  and looked  in that
direction.  A  large  ball  of  tumbleweed  bounced  and  rolled
along the foot of the hill.
  "Russian thistle," he said.
  "No," the other replied. "Something more dangerous."
  Despite his years, the fear of the chindi rose for a moment
out of his youth. He shuddered beneath the touch of the
  "I see nothing else," he said.

     "You have been gone for many years. Have you had an

  "Perhaps you should."
  "Perhaps I will. You know a good Enemyway singer?"
  "I am a singer."
  "Perhaps I will see you again on this before long."
  "I have heard that Star Tracker was a singer. Long ago."
  "When you come by again we will talk more of these

The man looked back once more, along the trail.
"In the meantime," he said, follow a twisted path.-
"I will do that."
Later,   as   he  passed   along  the   streaky  blue   shale  and
frozen  crimson  clay  of  a   dry  riverbed,   naked  cottonwoods
flanking it like fracture lines against the cold blue of  the sky,
he  thought  of  the  old  mas's  words  and  the things  of which
they  reminded  him  -  of  the  sky  creatures  and  water  crea-
tures,  of  the  beings  of  cloud,  mist,  rain, pollen  and corn
which  had  figured  so  prominently  in  his  childhood  imagina-
tion  -  here  in  the  season  when  the  snakes and  the thunder
still slept.
It had been  a long  while since  he had  considered his
problems in the old terms.  A chindi...  Real or  of the
mind - what difference? Something malicious at his back.
Yes, another way of looking at things...
The  day  wore  on  to  noon  and  past it  before the  butte near
his   home   came  into   view,  a   high-standing  wind-sculpture
reminiscent  of  something  he  had  once   seen  in   a  seaweed-
fringed  valley  beneath  the  waters  of   an  alien   ocean.  He
halted again at this point to eat the rest of his  rations. Nature
had  long  moods  in  the  Southwest, he  reflected, as  he looked
off in that direction. While it was true that  the land  was little
altered,  there  had  been  some  change  between  the   then  and
the  now.  He  could  just  make  out stands  of blue  spruce near
the  monolith's  base,  a  tree  he had  not seen  in this  area a
century and  a half  ago. But  then the  climate had  also altered
somewhat  during  the   span,  the   winters  becoming   a  trifle
more  clement,  coming  later,  ending  a  bit  sooner  than  they
once had.
  He filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it.  Shadows  like  multitudes of
fingers stretched slowly out  of the  west. To  run all  this way,

then sit and rest when the end was in sight-it seemed the
thing  to  do.  Was  he  afraid?  he  wondered.  Afraid   of  that
damned  call?  Maybe  that was  it. Or  did he  want a  last slow-
moving  view  of  this   piece  of   his  life   before  something
happened  to  change  it?  There  had  been  a  song....  He could
not remember it.
When  he  felt  that  the  time  was  proper  he  rose  and  began
walking  through  the  coolness  and  shadow  toward   the  large,
distant,  six-sided house  with the  door to  the east,  his hogan
that was not exactly a hogan.

                          *  *  *

  The  sky  was  darker  by  the time  he reached  the neighbor-
hood  of his  dwelling, and  the trees  curtained off  even more
of the light, casting an as yet starless evening over the raised
log-and-stucco  structure.  He  wandered  about  it  for several
minutes  before  approaching  from  the  east  and  mounting the
rough-cut  decking  with  which  he  had  surrounded  the place.
He  entered  then  and  turned  on  the  light.  He had  his own
power supply, rooftop and below-ground.
  Moving  to  the  central  fogon,  he  arranged  some  kindling
and struck it to fire. He disrobed then, tossing his  Levi's and
red-and-white flannel shirt into  a hamper  along with  the rest
of his clothing. Crossing to  a tall,  narrow stall,  he entered
and  set  the  timer for  a three-minute  UHF shower.  Water was
not  a  thing to  be expended  lightly in  this region.  When he
emerged,  he  drew  on a  buckskin shirt,  khaki bush  pants and
a pair of soft moccasins.
  Activating  his  news  recorder  and  display  screen  and ad-
justing it to some of his  general interests,  he passed  to the
small,  open  kitchen  area to  the right  and prepared  a meal,
amid hanging ristras of chilis and onions.
  He ate in a  low, fur-covered  chair and  the walls  about him
were  hung   with  rugs   from  Two   Gray  Hills   and  Ganado,
interspersed  with  framed  photographs  of alien  landscapes. A
rack  of  weapons  hung on  the far  wall; a  meter-square metal
platform enclosed by  shining vertical  bars of  varying heights
stood  nearby,  a  large console  with a  display screen  to its
right. Its message light was still blinking.
  When  he  finished  eating, he  toyed with  his belt  unit and
put it aside. He went to the kitchen and got a beer.

                             DISK 1

                     CHILEAN QUAKES ABORTED

                       TAXTONIES ARRESTED

and   three  demonstrators   were  apprehended   after  report-
edly setting fire to the car belonging to the  official responsi-
ble for the ruling




  References to a drugged banana figured prominently in the
bizarre statement taken today by Los Angeles detectives

                   MOTHER OF THREE EXPLAINS

         It's been a long time since you left me.
         Don't know what I'm gonna do.
         I look up at the sky and wonder -
         Earthlight always makes me think of you.

                       TO SET NEW RECORD

  "Naturally the university is proud," Dean Schlobin re-
marked, "but


  Stragean   Ambassador   Daltmar   Stango   and   Consul  Orar
Bogarthy  continue  a  second  day  of  talks  with  Secretary-
General  Walford.  Speculation  on  a  breakthrough  in  trade-
agreement  negotiations  runs high,  but so  far the  news com-



 I sip the beer and hear the music,
 Watch the ships as they arrive.
 You packed your bag and went away, love
 I feel like H-E-L-L5.



Relying on a district court order, Menninger officials


            Oh, I'm sittin' here and hurtin'
   In this slowly turnin' dive.
   If you ever want to reach me
   Just dial H-E-L-L5.

hate  somewhere  he  still  exists and  there is  no force
great  enough to  keep me  from him  forever it  has taken
a long while to learn the ways but soon i will be  ready i
am  ready  eight days  and had  i known  then what  i know
now he would be gone i would be
gone burned? burned they say? nevermore amid the
slagheaps to chase the crawling tubes and crunch them for
their juiciness? but this air too i breathe and only the
jagged and the straight lightnings hold me here i know
the way beyond them now and the trees outside the
walls visions of cities the lesser ones bear i know

the   ways   i  know   the  forms   wait  the   lesser  ones'
twisted  minds  tell  me  what  i  need  one  will  come  one
day  who will  know of  the one  who is  not like  the others
who still exists i will leave for that somewhere he
exists eight days i died a little he will die
wholly nothing can keep me from him forever i will
talk first now i know of it words like the crawling
things crunch them taste their juiciness strike now
and see the lesser ones draw back now i know them i
will use them words to tell him the why of
it now i will be a sphere and roll about ha! lesser
ones! p hate i will talk it that when tell it
then eight days burned hate

                                      BACK WHEN NAYENEZGANI
and  his  brother  were  in  the process  of disposing  of the
monsters the People  had found  in the  new world,  there were
some - such as  the Endless  Serpent -  who were,  for various
reasons,  spared. Yet  even these  were tamed  to a  degree in
their  acknowledgement  as  necessary  evils.  The  world  was
indeed  becoming  a  safer  place,  though  some  few  yet re-
 There  was,  for   instance,  Tse'Naga'Hai,   the  Traveling
Rock,  which  rolled  after  its victims  to crush  and devour
them.  Nayenezgani  traveled  on  a  rainbow  and  the crooked
lightning in search of it. His brother having counseled him to
take  the  magic knives  with him,  he had  all eight  of them
about his person.
 When he came to the place  called Betchil  gai, he  took out
his  two  black  knives,  crossed them  and planted  them. Be-
yond,  he  planted  the  two  blue knives,  crosswise. Farther
along,  he  crossed the  two yellow  knives and  planted them.
Farther  yet,  he  planted  the two  knives with  the serrated
edges, also crosswise.
 He moved then in sight of the giant Rock.
 "What  are  you  waiting  for,  Tse'Naga'Hai?" he  asked it.
"Do you not pursue my kind?"

   With  a  crunching,  grinding noise,  the mossless  boulder he
had just  addressed stirred.  It moved  slowly in  his direction,
gaining  momentum  noticeably  after  but   a  few   moments.  It
almost  took  him  by  surprise  with  the  speed  with  which it
   But he whirled and raced away. It came on rapidly at his .
back, gaining upon him.
   When  he  reached  the  place  of  the  serrated  knives, Nay-
enezgani  leaped  over  them.  The  Rock  rolled across  them and
a big piece broke away.
   He continued to flee, jumping over the yellow knives.
Tse'Naga'Hai rolled over them also, and another fracture
occurred; more pieces fell away.
   By  now,  the  Rock  was  bouncing  from  side  to   side  and
rolling   in   an   irregular   pattern.  And   when  Nayenezgani
leaped  over  the  blue  knives  and the  Rock crashed  into them
and  bounced  over,  more  pieces  fell  away.  By now,  its size
was  considerably  reduced  though  its  velocity   was  increas-
   Nayenezgani  sprang  over the  black knives.  When he
heard the Rock grating and cracking itself upon them, he
   All that  remained was  a relatively  small stone.  He halted,
then moved toward it.
   Immediately  it  swerved,  altering its  course to  bound away
from  him.  Now  he  pursued  it  into the  west, beyond  the San
Juan River. Finally, there  he caught  it, and  much of  the life
and wit seemed gone out of it.
   "Now,  Tse'Naga'Hai,"  he  said,  "the  power  to  harm  me is
gone  from  you,  but  you  are  not without  a certain  virtue I
noted earlier. In the future you will serve to light the fires of
the Dineh."
   He  raised  what remained  of the  Rock and  bore it  off with
him  to  show  to  First  Woman,  who  otherwise  would  not have
believed what he had done.

                               FINALLY HE SIGHED AND ROSE.
He  crossed  to  the console  beside the  area enclosed  by the
shining  bars.  He  pushed  the   "Messages"  button   and  the
display screen came alive.
 EDWIN  TEDDERS  CALLED,  it  read,   followed  by   the  pre-
vious day's date  and the  time -  the time  when his  unit had
signaled in the wilderness. Below, it listed six other attempts
by  Edwin  Tedders to  reach him,  the most  recent only  a few
hours  ago.  There  was  an eastern  code and  a number,  and a
request that he return the call as  soon as  possible, prefaced
by the word URGENT.
    He tried to recall whether he had ever known an Edwin
Tedders. He decided that he had not.
 He punched out the digits and waited.
 The buzzing which followed was broken, but the screen
remained dark.
 "Yes?" came a crisp male voice.
 "William  Blackhorse  Singer,"  he  said,   "returning  Edwin
Tedders's call."
 "Just  a  moment,  please."  The  words  hurried and  rose in
pitch. "I'll get him."
 He  tugged  at  a  turquoise earring  and regarded  the blank
screen.  A  minute  shuffled  its  numbers  on  a  nearby clock-
display. Another...
 The screen  suddenly glowed,  and the  heavily lined  face of
a  dark-haired  man  with  pale eyes  appeared before  him. His
smile seemed one of relief rather than pleasure.
 "I'm  Edwin  Tedders,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad we  finally got
hold of you, Mr. Singer. Can you come through right now?"
 "Maybe."  He  glanced  at  the  gleaming  cage  to  his left.
"But what's this all about?"
 "I'll have to tell you in person. Please reverse the transfer
charges. It is important, Mr. Singer."
 "All right. I'll come."
 He  moved  to  his  trip-box  and  began  its  activation. It
whined  faintly  for an  instant. Zones  of color  moved upward
within the shafts.

"Ready," he said, stepping into the unit.
Looking down, he saw that his feet were growing dim.
           For a moment, the world was disarrayed. Then his
thoughts fell back into place again. He was standing  within a
unit similar to his  own. When  he raised  his head  he looked
out  across  a  large room  done up  in an  old-fashioned man-
ner  -  dark paneled  walls, heavy  leather chairs,  a Chinese
rug, bookshelves filled with  leatherbound volumes,  drapes, a
fireplace  burning  real  logs.  Two  men  stood facing  him -
Tedders, and a slight,  blond man  whose voice  identified him
as the one with whom he had first spoken.
"This  is  Mark  Brandes,  my  secretary,"  Tedders  stated as
he watched him step down.
     He inadvertently pressed his palm rather than clasping
hands, in the old way  of the  People. Brandes  looked puzzled
but Tedders was already gesturing toward the chairs.
"Have a seat, Mr. Singer."
"Call me Billy."
"All right, Billy. Would you care for a drink?"
-I have some excellent brandy."
"That'll be fine."
Tedders looked at Brandes, who immediately moved to a
sideboard and poured a pair of drinks.
"Early spring," Tedders said.
Billy nodded, accepted his glass.
  "You've had a fascinating career. Both freezing and time-
dilation effects  kept you  around till  you could  benefit from
medical advances. A real old-timer, but you don't look it."
Billy took a sip of his brandy.
"This is very good stuff," he said.
"Yes.  Real  vintage.  How  many  trackers  are  there  around
these days?"
"I don't know."
"There are others, but you're the best. Old school."
Billy chuckled.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Tedders chuckled also.
"The best," he said.
"What do you want tracked?"
"It isn't exactly that."
"What, then?"
"It's hard to know where to begin...."

               Billy looked out the window, across the moon-flooded
lawn. In the distance, the prospect was broken by a high
           "I am a special assistant to Secretary-General Walford,"
Tedders  finally  stated.  "He is  here -  upstairs -  and so  are the
Stragean   ambassador   and   consul   -   Stango  and   Bogarthy.  Do
you know much about the Strageans?"
 "I've met a few, here and there."
 "How'did they strike you?"
 He shrugged.
 "Tall, strong, intelligent... What do you mean?"
 "Would you want one for an enemy?"

 "Why not?"
 "They could be very dangerous."
 "In what ways?"
               "They'd be hard to stop. They're shapeshifters. They
have  a  kind  of mental  control over  their bodies.  They can
move their organs around. They can -"
 "Walk through walls?"
 Billy shook his head.
 "I don't know about that. I've heard it said, but I've
never -"
           "It's true. They have a training regimen which will pro-
duce this ability in some of  them. Semireligious,  quite ardu-
ous, takes  years, doesn't  always work.  But they  can produce
some peculiar adepts."
 "Then you know more about it than I do."
 "So why ask me?"
 "One of them is on her way here."
 Billy shrugged.
 "There are a few thousand around. Have been for years."
 Tedders sipped his drink;
 "They're all normals. I mean one of those with that
special training."

 "She's coming to kill the Secretary-General."
 Billy sniffed his brandy.
 "Good that you got word," he finally said, "and can turn
it over to the security people."
 "Not good enough."
 Throughout the conversation, Tedders had been struggling

to obtain eye-contact. At last Billy was staring  at him,  and he
felt  some  small  sense  of  triumph,  not  realizing  that  this
meant the man doubted what he was saying.
  "Why not?"
  "They're not equipped to deal with Stragean adepts," he
said. "She could well be too much for them."
  Billy shook his head.
  "I don't understand why you're telling me about it."
  "The computer came up with your name."
  "In response to what?"
  "We'd asked it for someone who might be able to stop
  Billy finished his drink and set the glass aside.
  "Then you need a new programmer or something. There
must be a lot of people who know more about Stragean
adepts than I do."
  "You  are  an  expert  on  the  pursuit  and  capture  of exotic
life forms.  You spent  most of  your life  doing it.  You practi-
cally  stocked  the  Interstellar  Life  Institute  single-handed,
You -"
  Billy waved his hand.
  "Enough," he said. "The alien you are talking about is an
intelligent  being. I  spent much  of my  life tracking  animals -
exotic  ones,  to  be  sure,  some  very  crafty  and  with tricky
behavior  patterns  -  but  animals  nevertheless,  not  creatures
capable of elaborate planning."
  "... So I don't see that my experience is really applicable
in this situation," he concluded.
  Tedders nodded.
  "Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  in  a
matter  like  this  we  should  really be  certain. Will  you talk
with  the   Stragean  representatives   who  are   visiting  here?
They can probably give you a clearer picture than I can."
  "Sure. I'll talk to anybody."
  Tedders finished  his drink  and rose.
  "May  I  get  you  another  of those?"
  "All right."
  He  replenished  the  snifter. Then,  "I'll be  back in  a few
minutes,"  he  said,  and  he  moved  off to  the right  and de-
parted the room.
  Billy set down the glass and rose. He paced the room,
regarded the titles on the bookshelves, felt the volumes'
spines, sniffed the air. Mingled with the smell of  old leather,

a faint,  almost acrid  aroma he  had not  been able  to place
earlier came to  him again,  a scent  he had  experienced upon
meeting Strageans  in the  past, in  another place.  They must
have been about this building  for some  time, he  decided, or
have been in this room very recently, to mark it so with their
presence.   He   remembered   them   as  humanoid,   over  two
meters in height, dark-skinned save  for silvery  faces, necks
and  breasts;  flat-headed,  narrow-waisted  beings  with wide
shoulders,  collarlike  outgrowths  of  spiny  material  which
served as sound-sensors and small,  feral eyes,  slitted, usu-
ally  yellow  but  sometimes  cinnamon   or  amber   in  color;
hairless,  graceful  in a  many-jointed, insectlike  way, they
moved  quietly  and  spoke  a   language  that   reminded  him
vaguely of Greek, which he did not understand either.
  It is language, he  decided, that  sets the  sentients apart
from the animals. Isn't it?
         He moved to the window, stared out across the lawn.
Difficult  to  cross  there  without  being detected,  he con-
cluded, with even the simplest security devices  in operation.
And  this  place  must  have  plenty.  But  she  could  assume
almost any guise, could  penetrate the  place in  an innocuous
  Why  be  furtive,  though?  That  is  what  they   would  be
expecting.  While  the  defenders  were  concentrating  on the
sophisticated, why not  hijack a  heavy vehicle,  come barrel-
ing  across the  lawn, crash  through a  wall, jump  down from
the cab and start shooting everything that moves?
  He  shook  himself  and  turned  away.  This  was   not  his
problem. There must be  plenty of  people more  qualified than
himself to second-guess the  alien, no  matter what  the com-
puter said.
  He returned to his chair  and took  up his  drink. Footsteps
were  approaching  now  from  the  direction in  which Tedders
had  departed.  Footsteps,  and  the  soft  sound  of  voices,
accompanied by a faint ringing  in his  ears. The  language of
the Strageans ranged into the ultrasonic  on the  human scale,
and  though  they  narrowed their  focus when  speaking Terran
tongues  there  were  always  some   overtones.  Too   long  a
conversation  with  a  Stragean normally  resulted in  a head-
ache.  He took  another drink  and lowered  the glass  as they
rounded the corner.
  The  two  Strageans  wore  dark blue  kilts and  belts which
crossed  their  breasts  like  bandoliers. Ornamental  pins or

badges  of  office  were  affixed  to these  latter. Between  Ted-
ders and the aliens walked another man, short, heavy, with
just a fringe of dark hair; his eyes were jadelike under  heavy
brows;  he  wore  a  green robe  and slippers.  Billy recognized
him as UN Secretary-General Milton Walford.
 Tedders  introduced  him  to  Daltmar  Stango  and  Orar  Bo-
garthy as well as to Walford.  Everyone was  seated then,  and
Tedders said, "They will tell you more about this."
 Billy nodded.
     The Stragean known as Daltmar Stango, staring at nothing
directly before him, recited: "It has to do  with the  coming of
your people to stay  on our  world. There  is already  a sizable
enclave of them  there, just  as there  is of  our kind  here on
Earth.  There  has  been  very  little  trouble on  either world
because of this.  But now,  with my  present mission  to negoti-
ate political and trade agreements, it appears that  the settle-
ments will become permanent diplomatic posts."
 He paused but a  moment, as  if to  refocus his  thoughts, and
then  continued:  "Now,  there  is  a  small religious  group on
Strage which believes that  when Terrans  die there,  their life
essences foul the place of the afterlife. Permanent  posts will
guarantee  that  this group's  fears will  be realized  with in-
creasing  frequency  as time  goes on.  Hence, they  are against
any  agreements with  your people,  and they  would like  all of
them off our world."
 "How large a group are they?" Billy asked.
 "Small.  Fifty  to  a  hundred thousand  members, at  most. It
is  not  their  size  which  is important,  though. They  are an
austere  sect, and  many of  them undertake  a severe  course of
training  which  sometimes produces  spectacular effects  in the
 "So I've heard."
 "One  such  individual  has  taken  it  upon herself  to correct
matters.  She  commandeered  a  vessel  and  set  a  course  for
Earth.  She  feels  that  an  assassination  at this  level will
disrupt our negotiations  to the  point where  there will  be no
treaty - and that this will  lead to  the withdrawal  of Terrans
from our world."
 "How close is she to the truth?"
 "It is always difficult to  speculate in  these matters,  but it
would certainly slow things down."
 "And she's due to arrive in a few days?"
 "Yes.  We  received  the  information  from  other  members of
her  sect,  and they  could not  be more  precise. They  did not

learn the story  in its  entirety until  after her  departure, when
they  informed  the  authorities.  They  were  anxious  that  it be
known  she  was  acting  on  her  own  initiative  and   not  under
  Billy smiled.
  "Who can say?" he said.
  "Yes.  At  any rate,  since a  message can  travel faster  than a
ship, the warning was sent."
  "You  must know  best how  to stop  one of  your own
  "The problem seldom occurs," Daltmar said.  "But the
customary method is to set a team of similarly endowed
adepts after a wrongdoer. Unfortunately..."

  "So  we  must  make  do  with  what  is   at  hand,"   the  alien
went  on.  "Your people  will try  to intercept  her in  space, but
projections  only  give  them  a  twenty-seven  percent  chance  of
success. Have you any ideas?"
  "No," Billy replied. "If it were a dangerous animal, I'd
want to study it in its habitat for a time."
  "There is no way and no time."
  "Then  I  don't  know  what  to   tell  you."
  Walford produced a small parcel from the pocket of his
  "There  is  a chip  in here  that I  want you  to take  back with
you  and  run through  your machine,"  he said.  "It will  tell you
everything  we  know  about  this   individual  and   about  others
of that sort. It is the closest  thing we  can give  you to  a life
  Billy rose and accepted the package.
  "All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll take  it home  and run  it. Maybe
something will suggest itself."
  Walford  and  the  others  rose  to their  feet. As  Billy turned
toward  the   transporter,  the   Stragean  called   Orar  Bogarthy
  "Yours  is  one  of  the aboriginal  peoples of  this continent?"
he said.
  "Yes," Billy replied, halting but not turning.
  "Have the jewels in your earlobes a special significance?
Religious, perhaps?"
  Billy laughed.
  "I like them. That's all."
  "And the one in your hair?"

Billy touched it as he turned slowly.
"That one? Well... it is believed to protect one from
being struck by lightning."
"Does it work?"
"This  one  has.  So  far."
"I  am curious.  Being struck  by lightning  is not  the most
common occurrence in life. Why do you wear it?"
"We  Navajos  have  a  thing  about  lightning.  It  destroys
taboos. It twists reality. Not a thing to fool around with."
He  turned  away,  moved  ahead,  punched  a  series  of num-
bers, stepped up into the unit. He glanced up at  the expres-
sionless humans and aliens as the delay factor passed and his
body began to melt.

   Traveling the distance from hill to hill,
   passing from place to place as the wind passes,
   trackless. There should be a song for it,
   but I have never learned the words.
   So I sing this one of my own making:
   I am become a rainbow, beginning there
   and ending here. I leave no mark
   upon the land between as I arc
   from there to here. May I go in beauty.
   May it lie before, behind, above and below,
   to the right and the left of me.
   I pass cleanly through the gates of the sky.

                                 WE CALL IT THE ENEMYWAY,
the  old  man  said,  but  the  white  people came  along and
started  calling it  a squaw  danc - probably because  they saw
the women dancing for it. You  get a  special name  if you're
the one they're going to sing over, a warrior's name.  It's a
sacred name you're just supposed to  use in  ceremonials, not
the  kind  you go  around telling  everybody or  just letting
people call you by.
  It all started, he said, back when Nayenezgani was pro-

tecting  the People.  He killed  off a  whole bunch  of monsters
that  were  giving  us  a  hard  time.  There  was   the  Horned
Monster  and  Big  God  and  the  Rock  Monster  Eagle  and  the
Traveling  Rock and  a lot  of others.  That was  why he  got to
be  called  Monster-Slayer.  His  fourth  monster,  though,  was
called Tracking Bear. It was a bear, but it  looked more  like a
lion the size of a floatcar. Once it came across your tracks, it
would start following  them and  it wouldn't  stop until  it had
found you and had you for dinner on the spot.
  Nayenezgani  went  out and  tracked the  tracker and  then let
it track him. But when it finally  found him,  he was  ready. He
wasn't  called  Monster-Slayer  for  nothing.  When  it  was all
over, the world was that much safer.
  But at about that time, it started to get to him.  He suffered
for it because of all those enemies he killed, and the bear just
added  another  one to  their band.  Their spirits  followed him
around  and  made  him  pretty  miserable.  This  is  where  the
word   Anaa'ji,   for   the   Enemyway,   comes   from.  Naayee'
means  an  enemy,  or  something  really  bad  that's  bothering
you.  Now,  neezghani  means  "he  has  gotten  rid of  it," and
ana'i means an enemy that's been  gotten rid  of. So  Anaa'ji is
probably really the best  word to  call it  by. It's  a ceremony
for getting rid of really bad troubles.

                                    HE PACED. THE SCREEN STILL
glowed.  He  had  not  turned  off  the  unit  after  viewing the
chip. The  walls seemed  to lean  toward him,  to press  in upon
him.  The   wind  was   singing  a   changing  song   he  almost
understood.  He  paused  at  various  times,  to inspect  an old
basket,  an  ancient  flaked  spear point,  the photograph  of a
wild  landscape  beneath an  indigo sky.  He touched  the barrel
of  a  high-powered  rifle,  took  the  weapon  into  his hands,
checked it, replaced it on its  pegs. Finally  he turned  on his
heel and stepped outside into the night.
         He stood upon the decking which surrounded the hogan.
He peered into the shadows. He looked up at the sky.
  "I have no words..." he began, and a part of his mind

mocked  the  other  part. He  was, as  always, conscious  of this
division. When it had first occurred he could no longer say.
 "... But you require an answer."
 He  was  not  even  certain  what  it  was  that  he addressed.
The  Navajo  language  has  no  word  for  "religion."   Nor  was
he  even  certain  that  that  was  the  category into  which his
feelings  fell.  Category?  The  reason  there  was  no  word was
that in the  old days  such things  had been  inextricably boun