The resilient surface gave off a fragrance as they walked about on it. In a sea all around their island, branches of the great forest trees thrust up, leafy and flowering and bedecked with a profusion of epiphytal plants in many shapes and colors. Bright-hued true birds darted from shadow into sunlight and back again, twittering and crying. "It's beautiful," he said. And so was Pia, he thought, watching her on tiptoe reaching to a great white flower. The attractive firmness of her skin, the roundness and dimpling, _ripeness_, that was the word he wanted. And her eyes. "Pia, you're not frightened any more!" It was true. The long-lashed brown eyes were merry as nature meant them to be. "It's peaceful and safe," she said. "When I come to the forest top I never want to go back to Bidgrass Station." "Too bad we must, and let's pretend we don't," he said, pointing to a cluster of red-gold fruits. "Are those good to eat?" "Too good. That's the trouble with New Cornwall." "What do you mean?" "Race you back to the flyer," she cried, and danced away, bare limbs twinkling in the sunlight. He floundered after. The lunch was good and she had brought along the rest of the bottle of _kresch_. They sipped it seated beside the flyer while she tried to teach him New Cornish folk songs. Her small, clear singing blended with that of the birds around them. "I catch parts of it," he said. "As an undergraduate a few years ago I studied the pre-space poets. I can read Old English, but it is strange to my ear." "I could teach you." "I love one wry-witted ancient named Robert Graves. How does it go: _If strange things happen where she is_--no, I can't recall it now." "I could write the songs out for you." "The beauty is in you and your voice. Just sing." She sang, something about a king with light streaming from his hair, coming naked out of the forest to bring love into his kingdom. Small white clouds drifted in the blue sky, and blue Annis slept just above the rustling branches that guarded the secret of their island. He listened and watched her. She was softly rounded as the clouds, and her clustered brown curls made an island of the vivid face expressing the song she sang so bird-like and naturally. She was vital, compact, self closed, perfect--like one of the great flowers nodding in the breeze along the island shore--and his heart yearned across to her. "Pia," he said, breaking into the song, "do you really want to get away from New Cornwall?" She nodded, eyes suddenly wide, lips still parted. "Come with me to Belconti then. Right now. We'll cross to Car Truro and wait there for _Gorbals_." The light dimmed in her face. "Why Car Truro?" "Pia, it's hard to tell you. I'm afraid of your great-uncle.... I want to contact the planetary government." "It's no good at Car Truro, Flinter. Can't you just come back to Bidgrass Station and ... and ... do what Uncle Garth wants?" He could barely hear the last. The fear was back in her eyes.