The serving maid brought the mirror and Jon looked. Long, slightly oriental eyes sat wide-spaced in the ivory face over high cheekbones. Full breasts pushed tautly beneath the transluscent material, and the slender waist spread to sensual, generous hips. Jon almost whistled at his reflection. The maid slipped clear plastic slippers on his feet, and Jon rose and walked toward the stairs. In the lobby, the throng hissed appreciatively as he descended. On one column hung a bird cage in which a three-headed cockatoo was singing to beat the band. Which was difficult to do, because the band was composed of fourteen copper-headed drums. (Fourteen was the royal number.) Across the lobby wind instruments wailed, and Jon paused on the stairs. "Don't worry," the maid said, "I'm right behind you." Jon felt the terror rise. _Hey_, he called out mentally, _is that you, Petra?_ _Like I said, right behind you._ _Incidentally, how did I come up with this body?_ _I don't know, dear, but you look devastating._ _Gee, thanks_, he said, projecting a mental sneer. _Where's Arkor and Company?_ The music had stopped. There was only the sound of the three-headed bird. _There they are._ The winds screeched again, and at the entrance of the lobby, the people fell away from the door. There was Tltltrlte. He was tall, and dark, in a cloak in which there were many more black threads than in Jon's. He unsheathed a sword, and began to come forward. "Your reign is through, Daughter of the Sun," he announced. "It is time for a new cycle." "Very well," said Jon. As Tltltrlte advanced, the throng that crowded the lobby clapped their hands in terror and moved back further. Jon stood very straight. As Tltltrlte came forward, his shoulders narrowed. He pushed back the hood of his cloak and a mass of ebony hair cascaded down his shoulders. With each step, his hips broadened and his waist narrowed. A very definite bulge of mammary glands now pushed up beneath his black silk tunic. As Tltltrlte reached the bottom of the steps, she raised her sword. _Think at him_, came Arkor from the bird cage. _Think at him_, came from Petra. Jon saw the blade flash forward and then felt it slide into his abdomen. _At her_, he corrected. _At her_, they answered. As Jon toppled down the steps, dying, he asked, _What the hell is this anyway?_ _We're inhabiting a very advanced species of moss_, Arkor explained, with the calmness that only a telepath can muster in certain confusing situations. _Each individual starts off male, but eventually changes to female at the desired time._ _Moss?_ asked Jon as he hit his head on the bottom step and died. _There...._ * * * * *