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suggested Torch with deference, “maybe it’s not the best time for meetings. El Tigre. The Festival is near. People have other things to think of.”
    In the end there were about a dozen men in the hut. Big broad men, bigger than most True Humans, heavy of shoulder and haunch, with a slow, graceful way of moving. They were uneasy in one another’s company; felinos are solitary creatures. Only the powerful presence of El Tigre could bind them together; and tonight, even he was to have his difficulties. As Torch had said, it was not the best time. The sky darkened outside and the female grupos moved silently about their business, some of them slipping away into the bush, others gathering around the cooling sun-ovens to tell stories.
    The grupo which bore El Tigre’s name because it had no mother passed by the door of the community hut, and Teressa called, “See you later, father!”
    El Tigre growled, feeling embarrassed yet proud that his daughter had called to him, and began to address the meeting.
    “Friends! I speak of revolution!”
    “What, again?” came the audible comment and El Tigre, with that excellent night vision of his race, saw the lips of Dozo moving. Dozo, the elder sage, the fat bachelor who had never sired a grupo; the witty, lazy cynic who always seemed to be laughing at the ways of men.
    Torch supported his leader, advancing on Dozo. “If you don’t want to hear of revolution, then get back to your quarters where the young bachelors are. You might find it more interesting!” This was a reference to Dozo’s rumored sexual preferences — a rumor which had never been proved. Or disproved, for that matter, since Dozo had an infuriating way of suggesting that the affairs of men were of little significance and that sex was possibly at the bottom of the list.
    “I wouldn’t miss the sight of El Tigre making a fool of himself for all the tortugas in Rangua,” said Dozo, folding his arms across his ample paunch and lying back against the wall.
    “Well, just be quiet, will you,” said El Tigre. Then he raised his voice again. “I have called you together to hear some important news which was brought over the hill today by one of our people from North Stage. He told me about developments in the delta which are a threat to us all. It seems — and our informant was sure of his facts — that a secret establishment has been set up. Now, this place is as closely guarded as the tortuga compounds themselves and the North Stage felinos have not been able to get through. However —”
    “They have it on the word of certain howler monkeys,” interjected Dozo, mimicking El Tigre’s style perfectly.
    “They had it from the tortuga guards — Specialists like ourselves —”
    “What!” Dozo scrambled to his feet, seriously annoyed. “You compare us with the tortuga guards? Do you know what they are, El Tigre? Have you ever actually seen them, yourself?”
    “Of course I have. They’re Specialists. All Specialists are brothers. We are all human beings of the Third Species, the Children of Mordecai.”
    “They’re crocodiles , for God’s sake,” snapped Dozo. “They have crocodile genes in their make-up and by God, it shows. They’re untrustworthy, stupid and vicious. They lie instinctively. If you’re calling this meeting on the word of a crocodile, then I suggest you save your breath. Me, I’ve heard enough.”
    Saying this, he lumbered out of the door and into the night. He left a silence behind him. His abrupt departure had had far more effect than any of his usual sly asides.
    “Was it really the crocodiles who told your informant, El Tigre?” asked the tall, stooping Diferir.
    El Tigre spoke with barely-suppressed rage. “They are not crocodiles. They are cai-men. It is contrary to the Examples to refer to human beings by animal names. It is as bad,” he said slowly, “as calling us jaguars.”
    “But that’s exactly what they call you ,” murmured Manoso, the tricky one.