“But don’t say all right any more,” Tip went on, ignoring him. “You change the meaning entirely.”

Then, with another surge of animation, Tip began to fish in his jacket pocket with little hand-like paws. “Tip hungry⁠—Tip hungry.”

Lake unbuttoned the pocket and gave Tip a herb leaf. “I notice there’s no nonsensical chatter when you want to ask for something to eat.”

Tip took the herb leaf but he spoke again before he began to eat; slowly, as though trying seriously to express a thought:

“Tip hungry⁠—no nonsensical.”

“Sometimes,” he said, turning his head to look at Tip, “you mockers give me the peculiar feeling that you’re right on the edge of becoming a new and intelligent race and no fooling.”

Tip wiggled his whiskers and bit into the herb leaf. “No fooling,” he agreed.

He stopped for the night in a steep-walled hollow and built a small fire of dead moss and grass to ward off the chill that came with dark. He called the others, thinking first of Schroeder so that Tip would transmit to Schroeder’s mocker:

“Steve?”

“Here,” Tip answered, in a detectable imitation of Schroeder’s voice. “No luck.”

He thought of Gene Taylor and called, “Gene?”

There was no answer and he called Chiara. “Tony⁠—could you see any of Gene’s route today?”

“Part of it,” Chiara answered. “I saw a herd of unicorns over that way. Why⁠—doesn’t he answer?”

“No.”

“Then,” Chiara said, “they must have got him.”

“Did you find anything today, Tony?” he asked.