We left the same way we had come.

  We moved quickly through the thickets of singing plants, the humid air trembling with tension. Beneath our feet something living bounced softly.

  When we reached the bubble where Phil was, everything already looked different.

  The substance in the enormous dish was no longer boiling. There was less of it — as if it had been absorbed into him or into the air itself. The caterpillars beneath Phil did not move. They lay in a dense layer, like a living mattress.

  Phil was asleep.

  On his stomach were two enormous swellings. Almost identical. The skin stretched so tight it seemed another moment and it would not hold.

  "At any moment," Alexander said quietly. "They may be born."

  Pteroseruses and seruses stood around. No one spoke loudly. Everyone waited.

  I felt my fingers grow cold. Lia held Jo-Jo's hand tightly. Bridget whimpered softly. Pi-pu had run off somewhere — I saw him find another Shi-mu, and they ran in circles as if sensing the approaching fracture.

  Alexander paced back and forth, speaking quickly with the seruses, nodding, clarifying something.

  And then —

  AN EXPLOSION.

  The blast struck so hard the floor beneath us shuddered. A dull burst, as if something enormous and dense had ruptured inside the bubble.

  We instinctively crouched, covering our heads.

  A second explosion.

  Another surge.

  All I could hear was ringing in my ears.

  The bubble turned opaque. Completely. Nothing was visible through it.

  Chaos erupted around us. Pteroseruses darted back and forth, seruses moved swiftly with trays, flasks, glowing plates.

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  Alexander was nowhere to be seen.

  The Fliiruses changed their sound.

  It was no longer an alarm.

  It was a melody.

  Soft. Flowing. Like a lullaby.

  From the clouded bubble stepped Dr. Albright.

  Her coat was covered in blue substance, her face glowing.

  She announced loudly:

  "Two sacred Lactimols have been born! May the prophecy of the ancient Lactimol be fulfilled!"

  She raised her hands.

  "This is a unique, exceedingly rare case. The Lactimols are strong, though small. The mother is already feeding them.

  May Earth's ecology be reborn!"

  A different sound rose around us now. Joy. Relief. Someone laughed. Someone cried.

  Alexander approached us.

  He was smiling, radiant with joy.

  "Ah yes..." he said. "Merry Christmas to all of you!"

  Lia burst into tears. Jo-Jo laughed through his. I didn't even notice I was smiling.

  "How is Phil?" we asked at once.

  "He's fine," Alexander answered. "Very tired. But he did it."

  Alexander looked at me tenderly.

  "When a Lactimol is born," he said, "pure information arrives with it. Without distortion. Without a veil.

  He now sees the pteroseruses. All entities. And he understands who he is."

  And at that moment —

  Three pteroseruses rushed toward us at tremendous speed. Wings spread, faces grave.

  Everyone stepped aside.

  They stopped in the center of the space.

  "The ancient Lactimol — Bezos — has passed," they announced.

  A whisper rippled through the hall.

  "He uttered his final prophecy without regaining consciousness.

  The ancient Lactimol commanded that his body be buried beneath the oldest surviving Fliirus bush.

  His tormented and suffering flesh will restore the healing and magical power of the Fliiruses."

  The silence grew dense.

  Then one pteroserus declared loudly:

  "May the ancient Lactimol Bezos be reborn through the soil!"

  Another followed:

  "Long live the newborn Lactimols!"

  In a single instant they soared upward and vanished as swiftly as they had appeared.

  Around us everything returned to motion.

  Seruses spoke in low voices. Pteroseruses glided swiftly between the plants, their wings barely brushing the humid air. The Fliiruses continued to ring — softer now, gentler, as if lulling the space after the explosion of life and death that had happened almost simultaneously.

  After some time, Gunya emerged from the bubble.

  The senior pteroserus.

  She moved differently from the others. Slower. More assured. There was something ancient in her gait, almost ceremonial. Tall, larger than Wanda, with powerful wings now folded but still giving the impression of breadth behind her. Her crimson crest was neatly drawn back, her glasses slightly sliding toward the tip of her beak. She wore no coat — only a long dark garment embroidered in silver along the edges, resembling Fliirus branches.

  On her face — fatigue. And dignity.

  She spoke to one serus, then another. Briefly. Clearly. Nodded. Touched a shoulder.

  Then she approached us.

  We instinctively stepped aside.

  She stopped before Alexander.

  "The latest news is heavy," she said calmly, though her voice sounded deeper than usual. "For so many years the ancient Lactimol suffered... We thought that once the spikes emerged he might finally live in peace. That the pain would release him."

  A pause.

  "But alas."

  Alexander slowly lowered his head.

  "When will the ceremony of his transition to the Shining World take place?" he asked quietly.

  Gunya adjusted her glasses.

  "The will of the Lactimol will be fulfilled tomorrow. His body will be entrusted to the soil beneath the oldest surviving Fliirus bush.

  Then the ceremony of his passage to the Shining World will take place."

  She looked beyond us, as if already seeing tomorrow.

  "Later I will inform everyone of the details."

  Then her tone softened slightly.

  "The mother of the newborn Lactimols is doing very well," she said. "Phil is handling it beautifully. The babies are wonderful. Strong, despite the early term."

  I exhaled in relief.

  "But now the mother must be protected from contact," Gunya continued. "Minimal interaction. Minimal disturbance. The Lactimols were born early; they need time to grow stronger."

  She slightly unfurled her wings — not fully, but enough to stir the air.

  "The pteroseruses know their work," she added calmly. "Everything will be well."

  She nodded to us — almost maternally.

  And left as she had come: without unnecessary noise, yet leaving behind a sense of order at the very center of chaos.