Tension left her and she smiled a little. "Morwenna," she said. "That one just setting into Lundy Forest is Annis. You can tell Annis by her bluish shadows that are never the same." "Good girl! How about the other two, the ones that aren't up?" "One's Cairdween and the other, the red one--oh, I daren't talk about moons either." "Not even _moons_? Really, Miss Vignoli--" "Let's not talk at all. I'll show you how to walk, you do look so funny all spraddled and scraping your feet. I was born off-planet and I had to learn it myself." She showed him the light down-flex of the foot that threw the body more forward than up, and he learned to wait out the strange micropause before his weight settled on the other foot. With a little practice he got it, walking up and down the moonlit path beside her in an effortless toe dance. Then he learned to turn corners and to jump. "Pia," he said once. "Pia. I like the sound, but it doesn't suit this rough planet." "I was born on Tristan," she murmured. "Please don't ask--" "I won't. But no reason why I can't talk. May I call you Pia?" He described Belconti and the university, and his doctorate, at stake in this field assignment. Suddenly she stopped short and pointed to where a red moon lifted above the dark cliff of the eastern forest. "It's late," she said. "There comes Hoggy Darn. Good night, Mr. Cole." She danced away faster than he could follow. He crawled back through his window in the reddish moonlight. * * * * * Next afternoon Cole faced Garth Bidgrass in the library. The old man sat with folded arms, craggy face impassive. Cole, standing, leaned his weight on his hands and thrust his sharp face across the table. His freckles stood out against his angry pallor, and sunlight from the end window blazed in his red hair. "Let me sum up," he said, thin-lipped. "For obscure reasons I must be essentially a prisoner. All right. You have no education here, no biologists of any kind. All right. Now here is what they expect of me on Belconti: to rough out the planetary ecosystem, set up a functional profile series for the stomper and its interacting species, make energy flow charts and outline the problem. If my report is incorrect or incomplete, Belconti won't send the right task group of specialists. Then you spend your money for nothing and I lose my doctorate. I must have skilled helpers, a clerical staff, _masses_ of data!" "You've said all that before," Bidgrass said calmly. "I told you, I can provide none of that." "Then it's hopeless! Why did you ever send for an ecologist?" "I sent for help. Belconti sent the ecologist." "Help me to _help_ you, then. You must try to understand, Mr. Bidgrass, science can't operate in a vacuum. I can't work up a total planetary biology. I must _start_ with that data." "Do what you can for us," Bidgrass said. "They won't blame you on Belconti when they know and we won't blame you here if it doesn't help."