whether this is Hell or not, there are demons down here. We've
all seen them from up above. They must know that the Elevator always
lands here and empties out free food. This must be a feeding-ground for
them--"

He had not quite finished speaking when the branches began to sigh and
toss, far above. A gust of stinging droplets poured along the blue air
and thunder rumbled. Mathild whimpered.

"It's only a squall coming up," Honath said. But the words came out in a
series of short croaks. As the wind had moved through the trees, Honath
had automatically flexed his knees and put his arms out for handholds,
awaiting the long wave of response to pass through the ground beneath
him. But nothing happened. The surface under his feet remained stolidly
where it was, flexing not a fraction of an inch in any direction. And
there was nothing nearby for his hands to grasp.

He staggered, trying to compensate for the failure of the ground to
move. At the same moment another gust of wind blew through the aisles, a
little stronger than the first, and calling insistently for a new
adjustment of his body to the waves which would be passing among the
treetops. Again the squashy surface beneath him refused to respond. The
familiar give-and-take of the vine-web to the winds, a part of his world
as accustomed as the winds themselves, was gone.

Honath was forced to sit down, feeling distinctly ill. The damp, cool
earth under his furless buttocks was unpleasant, but he could not have
remained standing any longer without losing his meagre prisoner's
breakfast. One grappling hand caught hold of the ridged, gritting stems
of a clump of horsetail, but the contact failed to allay the uneasiness.

The others seemed to be bearing it no better than Honath. Mathild in
particular was rocking dizzily, her lips compressed, her hands clasped
to her delicate ears.

Dizziness. It was unheard of up above, except among those who had
suffered grave head injuries or were otherwise very ill. But on the
motionless ground of Hell, it was evidently going to be with them
constantly.

Charl squatted, swallowing convulsively. "I--I can't stand," he moaned.

"Nonsense!" Alaskon said, though he had remained standing only by
clinging to the huge, mud-colored bulb of a cycadella. "It's just a
disturbance of our sense of balance. We'll get used to it."

"We'd better," Honath said, relinquishing his grip on the horsetails by
a sheer act of will. "I think Charl's