When the chip concluded Ryo was no nearer an idea on how they should proceed. Wuu was seated in one of the saddles, contemplating—or sleeping. Either way he was not to be disturbed, Ryo knew.

He peered through the doorway into the outer chamber. Three new soldiers occupied the three desks now.

The nearest looked toward the partly open door. “Having trouble with the projection unit? The depth perceiver has a tendency to go flat sometimes.”

“No, nothing like that,” Ryo replied. “I thought I had a question, but it can wait until the others return.”

“That will be tomorrow morning,” the soldier said pleasantly. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“Perhaps later.” Ryo shut the door and retreated back into the study room. “Wuu, I wonder if perhaps we might—”

The poet was not in his saddle. He was standing opposite the chip bank, studying numbers and readouts.

“What are you doing?” The poet did not comment, however, simply continued to scan the wall.

“Ah,” he muttered at last “Here we are. Index.” He touched controls and the little scanner set in the wall began to run through its enormous volume of information on alien contacts in which the military had been involved. In addition to the AAnn, there was material on the Astvet and Mu’atahl, two semi-intelligent nonspace-going races. The bulk of information dealt with nonsentient species with an emphasis on the carnivorous and belligerent types that the military was most likely to confront. But nothing touched on the mysterious rumor they’d come a—tracking.

A click sounded as the three sections of the door slid apart. The soldier who’d offered to help Ryo walked into the room.

“You’re not supposed to be doing that,” he told Wuu reproachfully.

“Sorry.” Wuu made a gesture of polite indifference as he shut down the index scanner. “You can understand our anxiety to learn all we can after coming all this way. Unfortunately, the information we’re seeking doesn’t seem to be in here.” He gestured at the quiescent scanner.

The door sealed behind the soldier as he scuttled over. “See,” he said to Ryo, “perhaps I can assist you after all. I’m very good with the files.”

His eagerness to help, the friendliness that seemed genuine, led Ryo to exchange a gesture with Wuu that literally meant, “Why not?” They’d reached a dead end, their burrow search seemed blocked with granite.

When they put the query to him he responded with a reaction they’d already encountered: laughter. Not as loud or hysterical as some, but laughter still.

“I’m sorry. You must excuse my discourtesy,” he told them, “but what you say is nonsense. Fascinating how rumors acquire a life of their own.”

“Isn’t it?” Wuu agreed resignedly. “And yet, rumor is the seed from which the flower of truth often blossoms, nurtured by hope and persistence.”

“That’s true.” The soldier’s attitude suddenly shifted. ‘I think I’ve heard that parable before.”

“Really?” Wuu looked pleased.

“Yes. A colonial poet is the author. One of the better known outworld wordweavers. Quuzelansem.”