a Traiti fighter could maintain all
day. Keeping down to walking speed frustrated him since St'nar needed
all its pilots, including him, in the current battle with N'chark. But
he'd survived the crash; he'd fly for St'nar again. He enjoyed flying
and fighting, though the toll interclan battles were taking of late
disturbed him more than he cared to admit. The death rate was too
high, far higher now than the birth rate.

(So the Traiti had almost been wiped out in a genocidal war once
before, thought a tiny detached fragment that was still Steve Tarlac.
It was an interesting parallel to the problem he faced.)

Kranath shoved those thoughts aside. He was a fighter, not supposed to
be concerned with interclan policy. He'd often wondered why he
shouldn't be, but tradition insisted his Ka'ruchaya was wiser than he
in such matters.

Instead, he tried to figure out what had caused his crash. It wasn't
pilot error, he was sure. The flight had been routine, the air calm.
The engine had run smoothly, without even a cough, and the controls had
been responding as well as they ever did. So why had he crashed?

It nagged at him, but even after a full tenth-day of pondering while he
walked, he still had no idea. By that time he was a good five n'liu
from the crash site, a respectable half-morning's walk. He was also
approaching a low hill, the legendary place known as Godhome.

That was the reason he'd had to plan an indirect route to St'nar.
Nobody went to Godhome voluntarily, and Kranath cursed at himself for
allowing speculation about the crash to distract his attention from his
course. He'd come too far south! He began to veer east, trying to put
some distance between himself and the ominous hill before the madness
of the place seized him.

The first eastward steps were easy, but soon he began to feel as if he
were wading in something sticky, something invisible that was getting
deeper. He could see normal ground, ordinary bushes and shrubs like
woodlands he'd walked in hundreds of times--yet something was making
him struggle for progress. When the sticky invisibility reached his
waist, he decided this route was futile.

So was north, he discovered when he tried to retrace his steps to the
crash site. The only way open to him was south, straight toward
Godhome. He was beginning to realize with dismay that he would not be
able to avoid it, desperately though he wanted to. He stood still,
hesitating.

Then