Uncharted Stars by Andre Norton

for a head. On the fore of that the crystal encrustrations took the form of two great faceted eyes—at least they were ovals and set where eyes would be had the thing been truly humanoid. There were no other discernible features.
    I made what I hoped would be accepted as a gesture of reverence or respect, bowing my head and holding up my hands empty and palm out. And though the thing had no visible ears, I put my plea into speech which emerged from my translator as a rising and falling series of trills, weirdly akin in some strange fashion to the gong note.
    â€œHail to Zeeta of the clear ice, the ice which holds forever! I seek the favor of Zeeta of the ice lands.”
    There was a trilling in return, though I could see that the head had no mouth to utter it.
    â€œYou are not of the blood, the bones, the flesh of those who seek Zeeta. Why do you trouble me, strange one?”
    â€œI seek Zeeta as one who comes not empty-handed, as one who knows the honor of the Ice Maiden—” I put out my right hand now, laying on the edge of the nearest table the gift I had prepared with some thought—a thin chain of silver on which were threaded rounded lumps of rock crystal. On one of the inner worlds it had no value, but worth is relative to the surroundings and here it flashed bravely in the sunlight as if it were a string of the crystals such as adorned Zeeta’s wrappings.
    â€œYou are not of the blood, the kind of my people,” came her trilling in reply. She made no move to inspect my offering, nor even, as far as I could deduce, to turn her eyes to view it. “But your gift is well given. What ask you of Zeeta? Swift passage across ice and snow? Good thoughts to light your dreams?”
    â€œI ask the word of Zeeta spoken into the ear of mighty Torg, that I may have a daughter’s fair will in approaching the father.”
    â€œTorg also does not deal with men of your race, stranger. He is the Guardian and Maker of Good for those who are not of your kind.”
    â€œBut if one brings gifts, is it not meet that the gift-giver be able to approach the Maker of Good to pay him homage?”
    â€œIt is our custom, but you are a stranger. Torg may not find it well to swallow what is not of his own people.”
    â€œLet Zeeta but give the foreword to those who serve Torg and then let him be the judge of my motives and needs.”
    â€œA small thing, and reasonable,” was her comment. “So shall it be done.”
    She did turn her head then so those blazing crystal eyes were looking to the gong. And though she raised nothing to strike its surface, it suddenly trembled and the sound which boomed from it was enough to summon an army to attack.
    â€œIt is done, stranger.”
    Before I could give her any thanks she was gone, as suddenly as if her whole crystal-encrusted body had been a flame and some rise of wind had extinguished it. But though she vanished from my sight, I still lifted my hand in salute and spoke my thanks, lest I be thought lacking in gratitude.
    As before, the gong note continued to rumble through the air about me, seemingly not wholly sound but a kind of vibration. So heralded, I began to walk to the city.
    The way was not quite so far as it seemed and I came to the gates before I was too tired of trudging over the ice-hardened ground. There were people there and they, too, were strangely enough clad to rivet the attention.
    Fur garments are known to many worlds where the temperature is such that the inhabitants must add to their natural covering to survive. Such as these, though, I had not seen. Judging by their appearance, animals as large as a man standing at his full height had been slain to obtain skins of shaggy, golden fur. These had not been cut and remade into conventional garb but had retained their original shape, so that the men of Sornuff displayed humanoid faces looking out of hoods designed from the animal heads and still in one piece with the