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Ezbai looked wretched, and Chakotay suspected that it was not from the weather. "But why is that bad? Why does a-a backward culture need to survive?"

"Because ties with your past teach you how to be truly alive. Ezbai, you-the Alilann-you are doing to the Culilann what die Anglo culture did to my people," he said softly, without rancor. "It took centuries before it was realized that by trying to stamp out another culture, the Anglos were cheating themselves too. The Vulcans figured it out long before Earth did: Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations. Without that kind of tolerance, it all comes down to hate. And fear."

"I don't hate the Culilann," said Ezbai.

"Perhaps not personally, but as a culture, you do. You hate the Culilann, and believe me, they hate you right back. You're not a killer, Ezbai. But someone is. There is some Alilann out there, or perhaps a group of them, who are killing the Culils of the villages because they hate what they symbolize."

"I can imagine hating someone, an individual, enough to kill him," said Ezbai, with obvious reluctance. "If they tried to kill you, or hurt your family. But wanting to kill someone just because they're different?" He shook his head, not comprehending.

"And that is what makes you a good man, Ezbai," said Chakotay/placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder. He said no more. Ezbai needed time to think, to digest what had been said. This situation had taken thousands of years to evolve. Change would not come overnight.

After a few more moments, Ezbai consulted his instruments, then lifted a Hand to signal a halt. More hand gestures; Chakotay guessed that they were within hearing range of a Culilann or the village itself. Adrenaline began to spurt through his system, and he was alert at once.

They had discussed the plan. Chakotay was wearing a replication of the traditional Culilann clothes he had worn when he had first been Recovered. He would be wearing a communication device hidden in his clothing, and when he was alone he would report to the Recovery team his and Paris's status. Chakotay suspected that the Sumar-ka would let him and Tom leave, especially if Paris was ill, but also suspected they would want to give them the Culilann equivalent of a going-away party. The Recovery team would in all likelihood have to wait until the still of the night, as they had before.

Chakotay was a little nervous as he made for the village. What if he was wrong? What if they wouldn't let him leave, set a guard on him? What if Paris was already too ill for the Alilann doctors to help?

But the delighted cry that left Yurula's lips when he appeared at me outskirts of the village set his mind at ease.

"Chakotay!" she cried, running to him and embracing him. "We feared the worst! Are you all right?"

"Yes and no," he said, hugging her back. "It's a long story. How is Tom?"

She sobered. "Not well. Soliss has done everything, yet he continues poorly."

"I've no doubt that Soliss has cared well for him," said Chakotay. 'Take me to-" He almost said Trima, then realized that knowing about Matroci's death would reveal too much. "To Matroci," he said, hoping he hadn't hesitated too long.

"Matroci is dead," said Yurula as they turned and headed for the Culil's hut. "He went to join the Crafters, by inhaling the smoke from the Sacred Plant as his predecessor did. Trima is our advisor now."

"I'm so sorry," said Chakotay, and this he did not have to feign. "When did mis happen?"

"The night you left," said Yurula. "It was a bad time for Sumar-ka. Paris had gotten treed by a mother iislak, and we feared that you had not been spared by her. It is a delight to me to see you again, Chakotay." Her smile was radiant, genuine, and Chakotay bitterly regretted the falsehoods he was being forced to feed her.

"I'm all right, for now. My people found me and 'they want to take me and Tom back home with them. We're ill from