Tuluk took his position at the table, leaned into the Wreave support provided for his species, spoke mildly: "Haven't you contacted McKie yet? Furuneo was supposed to have ordered the Caleban . . ."
That was as far as he got. Explanations and data came at him from several of the others.
Presently Tuluk said, "Where's Furuneo's body"
"Enforcers are bringing it to the lab now."
"Have the police been brought in?"
"Of course."
"Anything on the missing head?"
"No sign of it."
"Has to be the result of a jumpdoor," Tuluk said. "Will the police take over?"
"We're not going to allow that. One of our own."
Tuluk nodded. "I'm with Siker, then. We don't move without consulting McKie. This case was handed to him when we didn't know its extent. He's still in charge."
"Should we reconsider that decision?" someone down the table asked.
Tuluk shook his head. "Bad form," he said. "First things first. Furuneo's dead, and he was supposed to have ordered McKie's return some time ago."
Bildoon, the PanSpechi chief of the Bureau, had watched this exchange with attentive silence. He had been ego holder of his pentarchal life group for seventeen years - a reasonably average time in his species. Although the thought revolted him in a way other species could never really understand, he knew he'd have to give up the ego to the youngest member of his creche circle soon. The ego exchange would come sooner than it might have without the strains of command. Terrible price to pay in the service of sentience, he thought.
The humanoid appearance which his kind had genetically shaped and adopted had a tendency to beguile other humanoids into forgetting the essentially alien character of the PanSpechi. The time would come, though, when they would be unable to avoid that awareness in Bildoon's case. His friends in the ConSentiency would see the creche-change at its beginning - the glazing of the eyes, the rictus of the mouth. . . .
Best not think about that, he warned himself. He needed all his abilities right now.
He felt he no longer lived in his ego-self, and this was a sensation of exquisite torture for a PanSpechi. But the black negation of all sentient life that threatened his universe demanded the sacrifice of personal fears. The Caleban must not be allowed to die. Until he had assured himself of the Caleban's survival, he must cling to any rope which life offered him, endure any terror, refuse to mourn for the almost-death-of-self that lurked in PanSpechi nightmares. A greater death pressed upon them all.
Siker, he saw, was staring at him with an unspoken question.
Bildoon spoke three words: "Get a Taprisiot."
Someone near the door hurried to obey.
"Who was most recently in contact with McKie?" Bildoon asked.
"I believe I was," Tuluk said.
"It'll be easier for you, then," Bildoon said. "Make it short. "
Tuluk wrinkled his facial slit in agreement.
A Taprisiot was led in, was helped up onto the table. It complained that they were being much too rough with its speech needles, that the embedment was imperfect, that they hadn't given it sufficient time to prepare its energies.
Only after Bildoon invoked the emergency clause of the Bureau's special contract would it agree to act. It positioned itself in front of Tuluk then, said, "Date, time, and place."
Tuluk gave the local coordinates.
"Close face," the Taprisiot ordered.
Tuluk obeyed.
"Think of contact," the Taprisiot squeaked.
Tuluk thought of McKie.
Time passed without contact. Tuluk opened his face, stared out.
"Close face!" the Taprisiot ordered.
Tuluk obeyed.
Bildoon said, "Is something wrong?"
"Hold silence," the Taprisiot said. "Disturb embedment." Its speech needles rustled. "Putcha, putcha," it said. "Call go when Caleban permit."
"Contact through a Caleban?" Bildoon ventured.
"Otherwise not available," the Taprisiot said. "McKie isolated in connectives of another being."
"I don't care how you get him, just get him!" Bildoon ordered.
Abruptly, Tuluk jerked as the sniggertrance marked pineal ignition.
"McKie?" he said. "Tuluk here."
The words, uttered through the mumbling of the sniggertrance, were barely audible to the others around the table.
Speaking as calmly as he could, McKie said, "McKie will not be here in about thirty seconds unless you call Furuneo and have him order that Caleban to get me out of here."
"What's wrong?" Tuluk asked.
"I'm staked out, and a Palenki is on its way to kill me. I can see it against the firelight. It's carrying what appears to be an ax. It's going to chop me up. You know how they . . ."
"I can't call Furuneo. He's . . ."
"Then call the Caleban!"
"You know you can't call a Caleban!"
"Do it, you oaf!"
Because McKie had ordered it, suspecting that he might know such a call would be made, Tuluk broke the contact, sent a demand at the Taprisiot. It was against reason: All the data said Taprisiots couldn't link sentients and Calebans.
To the observers in the conference room, the more obvious mumbling and chuckling of the sniggertrance faded, made a brief return, disappeared. Bildoon almost barked a question at Tuluk, hesitated. The Wreave's tubular body remained so . . . still.
"I wonder why the Tappy said he had to call through a Caleban," Siker whispered.
Bildoon shook his head.
A Chither near Tuluk said, "You know, I could swear he ordered the Taprisiot to call the Caleban."
"Nonsense," Siker said.
"I don't understand it," the Chither said. "How could McKie go somewhere and not know where he is?"
"Is Tuluk out of the sniggertrance or isn't he?" Siker asked, his voice fearful. "He acts like nobody's there."
Every sentient around the table froze into silence. They all knew what Siker meant. Had the Wreave been trapped in the call? Was Tuluk gone, taken into that strange limbo from which the personality never returned?
"NOW!" someone roared.
The assembled sentients jerked back from the conference table as McKie came tumbling out of nowhere in a shower of dust and dirt. He landed flat on his back on the table directly in front of Bildoon, who lifted half out of his chair. McKie's wrists were bloody, his eyes glazed, red hair tangled in a wild mop.
"Now," McKie whispered. He turned onto his side, saw Bildoon, and as though it explained everything, added, "The ax was descending."
"What ax?" Bildoon demanded, sliding back into his chair.
"The one the Palenki was aiming at my head."
"The . . . WHAT?"
McKie sat up, massaged his torn wrists where the bindings had held him. Presently he shifted his ministrations to his ankles. He looked like a Gowachin frog deity.
"McKie, explain what's going on here," Bildoon ordered.
"I . . . ahh, well, the nick of time was almost a fatal nick too late," McKie said. "What made Furuneo wait so long? He was told six hours, no more. Wasn't he?" McKie looked at Tuluk, who remained silent, stiff as a length of gray pipe against the Wreave support.
"Furuneo's dead," Bildoon said.
"Ahhh, damn," McKie said softly. "How?"
Bildoon made the explanation brief, then asked, "Where've you been? What's this about a Palenki with an ax?"
McKie, still sitting on the table, gave a neatly abbreviated chronological report. It sounded as though he were talking about a third person. He wound it up with a flat statement; "I have no idea at all where I was."
"They were going to . . . chop you up?" Bildoon asked.
"The ax was coming down," McKie said. "It was right there." He held up a hand about six centimeters from his nose.
Siker cleared his throat, said, "Something's wrong with Tuluk."