Babylon studied the virtual image uncomprehendingly. "Do you see how short the fingers are?" Org Rider demanded.
Babylon shrugged. "I wouldn't call them short. They look about the same length as your own—much longer than mine."
Org Rider flexed his long, supple hand, laughing. "I see you are no anatomist either, Jen Babylon. I had to learn this, too. See here. You think your fingers are only the part that extends beyond your palm and hand, because that is what you see. But that is not all. Rub your fingers across the back of your hand—do you see? Those bones you feel, those are the hidden parts of your fingers. They go all the way to the wrist."
Babylon did as instructed, then stared at the stereo image. "Why, those are just the same as mine! Not stretched out of all reason like— oh, excuse me!"
Org Rider shook his head, smiling. "We are not Sirians or Sheliaks, Jen Babylon, so we do not take offense lightly. You are correct. The fingers are in exactly the same proportion as your own. Exactly the proportion of an Earth human now, or of the Earth humans who were alive there at the date given by the argon isotopes, which is perhaps thirteen thousand four hundred years ago. Those are the earliest we found. We dug further. But below that— nothing."
When Jen Babylon told Mimmie about the results of Org Rider's digging, the T'Worlie exuded a cinnamon-bun odor of understanding. "Concurrence," it peeped. "Statement: Similar findings for other Cuckoo analogs of galactic races. Conclusion: Event of thirteen thousand four hundred years ago brought them here simultaneously. Query: Nature of event?"
Babylon rose and stretched, catching at a handhold to keep from drifting away from the instruments. "Yes, that's the question, isn't it?" he replied. "Something happened here, all those years ago. Before that the only life was native—whatever that was. After it, there were immigrants from almost all the galactic planets. But how? I guarantee the Cro-Magnons didn't have the tachyon-transmission links on Earth—I don't know how it was with you T'Worlie."
Over the time they had been working together Babylon had discovered that the TWorlie had a sense of humor— hard to pin down, with the dehumanizing effect of translation through the Pmals, but popping out at unexpected times; they had become accustomed to exchanging pleasantries. But Babylon had forgotten the third being present. The Watcher hissed in rage, and the Pmal struggled with its furious squeals with only partial success: "—blasphemous—offensive little animals! What you deserve—" The Pmal could not manage to say what they deserved, and it was no doubt as well. The Watcher's slimy pink tentacles were quivering with fury and, abruptly, it turned and hurled itself out of the chamber.
Babylon gazed after it in dismay. "What did I say?" he demanded.
The T'Worlie said hesitantly, "Statement: Watchers are deputies of some older, perhaps extinct race. Conjecture: Attempts to discover identity of same may be offensive, especially when levity is involved."
Babylon found he was shaking. "Well," he said at last, "we've pretty nearly pumped it dry anyway—and I admit I was getting tired of the way it smelled. Tell you the truth, Mimmie, I kind of hope it never comes back."
And for several days he got his wish; the Watcher remained absent, while the two of them worked at correlating the data it had provided. It was not particularly difficult work, since by now the Pmals had the sketchy beginnings of a vocabulary to work with, and at least some tentative grammatical models. There was still no word from that other Jen Babylon on Earth, but the farlink computer put a great deal of power behind their processing, and it became clear that what they had rescued from the wrecked ship was of immense value. Item: a detailed map of the surface of Cuckoo, so huge that it could be presented only in segments a thousand miles square—there were more than a million of them! Item: On the segmented maps, symbols that indicated places of special interest—what the interest was, was still unclear, but one of them had been the location of the wrecked ship itself. Item: What appeared to be operating manuals for the ship's equipment: weaponry (but none of the weapons were available to test); drive controls (but the ship itself would never move again); communications. And, of course, every datum was a fresh puzzle, not made easier by the accumulating debt each of them was beginning to owe to fatigue. Babylon passed his hand across his eyes. "The wrecked ship is marked," he muttered, more to himself than to the T'Worlie. "See those radiating lines? And the same pattern shows up five—no, seven more times on the globe." He peered blearily at the stereo image and nodded. "Yes,' he said, "the globe is divided into octants, and there's one of those special marks in each one. What do you suppose it means? A sort of local capital for each section? A military headquarters? Some particularly important spot—that maybe the wrecked ship was attacking?"
There was no answer from the TWorlie, except an unfamiliar burning odor. "And these symbols in the communications data," he went on. "farlink gives us a match— they represent the concept 'zero-mass tachyon.' But what's a zero-mass tachyon when it's home?"
The T'Worlie was silent for a moment before it replied, while the scorching odor grew. Babylon turned uneasily to face it. "Statement," it said faintly. "Tachyon is defined as particle that obeys law of velocity of light as limit, but in its case as lower limit. Statement: Photon is defined as particle that has rest mass of zero. Conjecture by analogy: 'Zero-mass tachyon' may be particle that has infinite speed. Further conjecture . .
But the peeping voice faded away, and the Pmal fell silent. "Oh, hell," cried Babylon, suddenly aware of the bedraggled filmy wings, the dullness in the five clustered eyes. "You're bloody exhausted, aren't you? I've been driving you too hard!"
The T'Worlie managed a faint chirp, which the Pmal rendered as, "Concurrence."
Babylon shook his head in self-reproach. The T'Worlie were almost the most ancient of the civilized galactic races, with a time sense that extended centuries into the future . . . and an unhurried, placid way of life to match. "I'm sorry," Babylon said. "You need rest! We both do, I guess, and it's my fault." He pushed himself away from the processors and gazed around the room. "We've made a lot of progress, anyway," he said. "We're entitled to a break. Take the day off, Mimmie—I mean, please," he added hastily, conscious that he was giving orders to one of the race that had essentially founded the galactic culture. "I will, too. Then when we get back maybe we can figure out just what to do with all this stuff . .
The butterfly wings trembled, and gently eased the creature toward the exit. It managed a faint, "Thank you," and was gone.
Babylon did not at once follow his own instructions. He hung relaxing from one of the straps that festooned the wall—for him alone, really, because the TWorlie certainly had no need of them. With the Watcher's help they had achieved a great deal, but not without cost. The bill was coming due. Babylon was suddenly aware of his own fatigue and, worse, his general tackiness. His beard bristled, his hair was unkempt. He had not troubled to bathe in—how long? Several days at least, and he was abruptly conscious of the fact that he showed it in unpeasant ways—Wrong. The smell that assailed his nostrils was not his own. He spun quickly to confront the doorway, and his suspicion was right.
The Watcher hung there silently, staring at him with one immense, faceted eye.