Theron work crews converted the empty worm hive into a new dwelling complex while Estarra spent time with Beneto and his treelings. She knelt beside him, and he guided her with sure fingers, showing where to soften the dirt, how much water to add.

With a rustle of underbrush and quiet sniffing sobs, Celli rushed into the clearing, her face streaked with tears. “Beneto, something’s happened to my condorfly. Please look. You’ll know what’s wrong with him.” In her arms she carried her dog-sized pet condorfly. Its wings were spread like drooping sails.

Sarein would have scolded Celli for childish infatuation with a brainless insect, but Beneto gave the girl a look of deepest sympathy. “Come with me. Your condorfly will like the open meadows, where it naturally wants to be.” He stroked the condorfly’s elongated glossy head. The eight segmented legs twitched and skittered as if it were climbing a giant flower in its dreams.

He led his sisters through tall weeds and rustling grasses, around the massive trunks of worldtrees to a meadow full of lilies the size of juice vats. Other condorflies flew in the meadow. Celli’s pet seemed to perk up in the new environment, its wings vibrating, trembling.

“Look at the ground, Celli.” Beneto gestured to condorfly wings scattered like colored glass all around the meadow. The bodies of the dead insects were quickly consumed by natural decomposition, but the tough, translucent wings remained, artifacts of their brief but dazzlingly colorful existences.

“We each have our lives, little sister. What matters is not how long those lives last, but what we do with them. I have my work with the worldforest. Reynald will be the Theron Father someday. Sarein is going to be the next ambassador to Earth. You and Estarra have to decide for yourselves what you will accomplish.” Beneto reached out to stroke the condorfly’s sleek body. “Your pet has his own life as well. What do you think he wants to accomplish?”

Celli said, “He keeps me company.” The condorfly flapped its wings again, straining on the leash to join the other insects around the flower-filled meadow.

“And has he accomplished that in his life?” Beneto asked.

“He’s my pet. I love him.” Then Celli seemed to sense what Beneto was implying as he gazed at the flurry of other condorflies. “Oh. Maybe he’s not sick, just lonely.”

“Give him a few days to fly around in the meadow and feed from the flowers, Celli,” Estarra said. “He knows the way back to your room if he ever wants to visit.”

Reluctant, the little girl loosed the bindings of the leash. The condorfly rose up, flapping gracefully. It seemed to gain energy immediately, swirling around on updrafts; then it flew to the bright flowers, touching other insects, communicating with pheromones or subsonic signals.