It occurred to Everson that this stringent religiosity was something that their two civilizations had in common. In which case, the Indiran could rest assured that his skepticism was universal and not colored by race. After all, he held little regard for the Wisened of his own culture. He had witnessed his mother scoff at their immutable philosophy more than once in the privacy of their palatial gardens. As Patra had once told him, “Even the oldest tree knows how to create new blossoms every season.”

Everson carefully picked his way through the wreckage, examining the overturned furniture. There were boxy, utilitarian chairs, tables, desks and cabinets all made from some lightweight metal, and Everson concluded that this must have been a pretty boring place to spend one’s time. He reached out and flipped over what he deemed to be the lightest cabinet and instantly found himself screaming in shock and surprise. A faceful of flying fur, fangs and leathery wings greeted him, whirling in frenzied motion. He pinwheeled away, frantically swatting the air in desperate defense.

The ferocious flurry subsided as quickly as it had erupted, leaving Everson panting and scanning the room in panic. He spotted the nasty culprits almost instantly. There were three of the creatures, two of which flapped away in ragged and erratic flight through the jagged opening. The third landed in the gap and turned as if to dissuade pursuit.

The thing was large enough to be intimidating, with a plump body covered in nappy, matted fur and a bullet-like head that tapered to a sharp snout. Red eyes like pustules glared at Everson as the creature puffed itself up and spread its translucent wings wide in an effort to appear more menacing. It worked. Everson edged back slowly, arms held protectively in front of him should the thing launch another aerial attack.

He had studied zoology with Madame Irina, and there had been a meager section on the indigenous creatures of Mano, scant because of a lack of eyewitness accounts. He remembered seeing a rudimentary sketch of this particular pest, probably drawn from the memory of a returning soldier, but the rendering fell far short of the real thing. The creature was called a verm, and it was the scourge of waste dumps and other places where cleanliness had fallen into inattention.

The verm’s hideous face grimaced into a hiss, revealing multiple rows of tiny needle-sharp teeth. If Madame Irina’s textbooks were correct, its bite could be quite painful, but it was the infection from the verm’s polluted mouth that caused the real long-term damage. Everson had no intention of finding out and was greatly relieved when the verm turned quickly and flew off in pursuit of its cohorts.

The soldier passed a shaking hand over his face and neck, feeling for blood. His fingers came away with only sweat, and he breathed a shuddering sigh. He glanced about the room with much less enthusiasm than before. His eyes fell upon the cabinet that he had moved. A small plaque was inset near its top. He moved toward it, kneeling to inspect it more closely.