ance was not cool to the touch as he had expected; rather it was
warm, as living flesh might feel. And the colored sticks filled about
two thirds of the interior, lying all mixed together without any order.

Shann concentrated on recalling the ceremony the Warlockian had used
before the first toss. She had offered the bowl to the skulls in turn.
The skulls! But he was no consulter of skulls. Still holding the bowl
close to his chest, Shann looked up over the roofless walls at the star
map on the roof of the cavern. There, that was Rama; and to its left,
just a little above, was Tyr's system where swung the stark world of his
birth, and of which he had only few good memories, but of which he was a
part. The Terran raised the bowl to that spot of light which marked
Tyr's pale sun.

Smiling with a wry twist, he lowered the bowl, and on impulse of pure
defiance he offered it to the skull that had chattered. Immediately he
realized that the move had had an electric effect upon the aliens.
Slowly at first, and then faster, he began to swing the bowl from side
to side, the needles slipping, mixing within. And as he swung it, Shann
held it out over the expanse of the table.

The Warlockian who had given him the bowl was the one who struck it on
the bottom, causing a rain of splinters. To Shann's astonishment, mixed
as they had been in the container, they once more formed a pattern, and
not the same pattern the Warlockians had consulted earlier. The
dampening curtain between them vanished; he was in touch mind to mind
once again.

"So be it." The center Warlockian spread out her four-fingered thumbless
hands above the scattered needles. "What is read, is read."

Again a formula. He caught a chorus of answer from the others.

"What is read, is read. To the dreamer the dream. Let the dream be known
for what it is, and there is life. Let the dream encompass the dreamer
falsely, and all is lost."

"Who can question the wisdom of the Old Ones?" asked their leader. "We
are those who read the messages they send, out of their mercy. This is a
strange thing they bid us do, man--open for you our own initiates' road
to the veil of illusion. That way has never been for males, who dream
without set purpose and have not the ability to know true from false,
have not the courage to face their dreams to the truth. Do so--if you
can!" There was a flash of mockery in that, combined with something
else--stronger than distaste, not as strong