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"Good morning," said the Stranger with a hint of irony in his deep, smooth voice. "Lovely weather you have here on this planet. Glad it hasn't rained."

Soliss felt the moisture in the air and glanced up at the growing clouds. "It will," he said. "How is he?" he asked, nodding toward the sleeping Stranger.

"He's not well, as I know you know. His wound

is infected and the broken arm needs to be set before it starts trying to heal itself improperly." He turned his face back up to Soliss. In the bright morning light, Soliss could make out strange lines that were apparently painted on the being's left temple. "I wish you'd tell me your name. You're the only one who has come to see us. I'd like to address you properly."

Without realizing it, Soliss sat up straighter, unconsciously putting more distance between himself and the wounded Strangers.

"I am no one. You are Strangers. That is all we need to say to each other."

The alien stepped closer to the side of the pit. At the movement, his fellow woke up and groaned a little. "That's the worst coffee substitute you've come up with yet," he muttered, then lapsed into fevered slumber once more.

The dark-haired alien looked at him, then up again at Soliss.

"You wouldn't be coming here so often if you weren't concerned. Please, he needs help!"

Soliss rose and stepped away. The pleading of the Stranger was torment. He turned and almost collided with the small, lithe form of Trima. She was carrying a tray with some sort of fruit on it.

"Oh!" she gasped. Quickly Soliss reached out and steadied the tray. "Thank you."

Soliss looked at the fruit. He didn't recognize it. "Sa-Culil, what is this? Why have you brought this to me?"

She met his gaze evenly and with a hint of scorn.

"I bring the fruit of the Sacred Plant not for you, Soliss the Minister, but for the Strangers."

Soliss gaped. So, the lumpy green things on the tray were the fabled fruit of the Sacred Plant. They didn't look particularly appetizing.

"I have never seen these before," he said.

"Of course not. You are not a member of the religious order. Only we may partake of it."

The awe that Soliss felt evaporated in the face of Trima's snobbery. "Then why are you wasting it on Strangers?"

Trima looked displeased. "Culil Matroci orders it He says that me holy writings order us to give spiritual aid to these Strangers, and that feeding them the Sacred Fruit is doing exactly that."

"But you don't agree?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Frankly, Soliss could not care less if the Culil's decision sat well or ill with Trima. All he knew was that for the first time in days, these injured and perhaps dying aliens were permitted sustenance. He grabbed the fruits off the tray, ignoring Trima's indignant yelp, and knelt beside the grate.

The alien gazed up on him. "So you're Soliss the Minister," he said. His dark eyes fell upon the fruit. "Is that what I think it is?"

"It's the fruit of the Sacred Plant," Soliss said.

"It's food. I thought we weren't supposed to have food."

"It's spiritual ministering," Soliss said, a touch too forcefully. "You must eat it slowly, and think of holy things. It will please the Grafters." He didn't want to

just toss the food in there. Seeing no alternative, Soliss lay down and pushed an arm through one of the grate's gaps.

"I will think of holy things," said the Stranger as he reached up to take the fruit, "but I can't guarantee I'll eat it slowly."

Their fingers brushed as the stranger took the fruit. Five fingers to a hand and an opposable thumb, just like Soliss's. His build was the same, the eyes, nose, and mouth in the same place. They were very much alike. It was unsettling.

Soliss handed down the rest of the fruit, then edged back and stood. The Stranger, despite his claim, didn't eat immediately. His dark-eyed gaze locked with Soliss's blue one.

"You are Soliss," he said again. "I have a name, too, as does my friend. The naming of a thing is