“Wuuzelansem,” Ryo said, gesturing toward his companion. “This is he.”

For an instant the soldier was stunned. Wuu executed a gesture of modest affirmation.

“It is I, and my pleasure it is to meet a reader/listener.”

“I am an avid follower of your work, sir, and that of Ciccikalk’s Ulweilber and Trequececex as well—It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Tut! Small honor, when our inquiries are met with laughter and scorn.”

“Now, what then did you honestly expect, sir?” the soldier said unapologetically. “A question like that, a query so absurd as to—to—” He broke off abruptly. Neither of the two visitors was laughing with him. Without a word he turned, checked to make certain the door was sealed, then returned to confront them.

When he spoke again it was softly, his whistles barely audible. Then he chose a chip from the wall files, seemingly at random, inserted it into the projector and set it to playing. The actual material he ignored, pausing at the control cube only long enough to set the volume moderately high—just loud enough to mask their conversation, low enough not to attract attention.

“Wuuzelansem, I know your three books and hear that you’re working on a fourth epic.”

“As indeed I am, and a shadow play as well.” It was then that Wuu had his small inspiration. “Would you like to hear something of the work in progress?”

“Would the eriat worm like to grow in a manure pile?” The overwhelmed soldier settled himself back into a saddle.

Wuu then gave a bravura solo performance from his new shadow play, executing all six parts and all six shadows as well, including that of a crippled larva. Ryo watched with as much delight as the soldier while the poet perfectly mimed the limbless larva with its blank, hungry stare and then shifted without a gesture break into the part of a hundred-year-old hivemother.

When all was done, it was everything the two spectators could do not to whistle their applause. Wuu stood before them, panting heavily.

“Something of an exertion.” His sides were heaving. “It’s difficult enough to write theater without having to be the theater as well. But one performs where one must, in the presence of demand, just as one takes inspiration when it is offered. I hope it was enjoyed.”

The soldier left his saddle. His gestures, which until now had been acclamatory, turned suddenly furtive. He leaned close, the projector continuing to declaim nearby.

“Inspiration? I will give you some inspiration, Eint-Master. Inspiration of the darkest kind. Can you write blind poetry, as full of threats and nightmare and fear as the surface of a moon? Oh, I’ll give you inspiration, yes!”

“Can it be that the stories are true, then?” blurted Ryo, unable after all this time to believe.

“No, the stories are not true, but the rumors are. As true as rumors can be. Understand, I am only a liaison, not even a subofficer. I’m far too low in the castes to know; merely one of second rank. To reach the truth you would have to meet with an officer of the fifteenth rank, and even then I am not so sure he would know.”