Abnethe came hurrying onto the observation deck behind him. His ears, as multiplanar in discrimination as his eyes, marked the emotions in her footsteps - boredom, worry, the constant fear which constricted her being.
Cheo turned.
She had been to a Beautybarber, he observed. Red hair now crowned her lovely face. McKie had red hair, too, Cheo reminded himself. She threw herself onto a reclining chairdog, stretched her legs.
"What's your hurry?" he asked.
"Those Beautybarbers!" she snapped. "They want to go home!"
"Send them."
"But where will I find others?"
"That is a proper problem, isn't it?"
"You're making fun of me, Cheo. Don't."
"Then tell them they can't go home."
"I did."
"Did you tell them why?"
"Of course not! What a thing to say!"
"You told Furuneo."
"I learned my lesson. Where are my legal people?"
"They've already gone."
"But I had other things to discuss with them!"
"Won't it wait?"
"You knew we had other business. Why'd you let them go?"
"Mliss, you don't really want to know the other matter on their minds."
"The Caleban's to blame," she said. "That's our story, and no one can disprove it. What was the other matter the legal numbheads wanted to discuss?"
"Mliss, drop it."
"Cheo!"
His PanSpechi eyes glittered suddenly. "As you wish. They conveyed a demand from BuSab. They have asked the Caleban for Furuneo's head."
"His . . ." She paled. "But how did they know we . . ."
"It was an obvious move under the circumstances."
"What did you tell them?" she whispered. She stared at his face.
"I told them the Caleban closed the S'eye jumpdoor just as Furuneo was entering it of his own volition."
"But they know we have a monopoly on that S'eye," she said, her voice stronger. "Damn them!"
"Ahhh," Cheo said, "but Fanny Mae has been moving McKie and his friends around. That says we have no monopoly."
"That's exactly what I said before. Isn't it?"
"It gives us the perfect delaying tactic," he said. "Fanny Mae sent the head somewhere, and we don't know where. I've told her, of course, to deny this request.
She swallowed. "Is that . . . what you told them?"
"Of course."
"But if they question the Caleban . . ."
"They're just as likely to get a confusing answer as a usable one."
"That was very clever of you, Cheo."
"Isn't that why you keep me around?"
"I keep you around for mysterious reasons of my own," she said, smiling.
"I depend on that," he said.
"You know," she said, "I'll miss them."
"Miss who?"
"The ones who hunt us."
***
A basic requirement for BuSab agents is, perhaps, that we make the right mistakes.
Bildoon stood in the doorway to Tuluk's personal lab, his back to the long outer room where the Wreave's assistants did most of their work. The BuSab chief's deep-set eyes held a faceted glitter, a fire that failed to match the composure of his humanoid PanSpechi face.
He felt weak and sad. He felt he existed in a contracting cave, a place without wind or stars. Time was closing in on everyone. Those he loved and those who loved him would die. All sentient love in the universe would die. The universe would become homeless, enclosed by melancholy.
Mourning filled his humanoid flesh: snows, leaves, suns - eternally alone.
He felt the demands of action, of decision, but feared the consequences of anything he might do. Whatever he touched might crumble, become so much dust falling through his fingers.
Tuluk, he saw, was working at a bench against the opposite wall. He had a length of the bullwhip's rawhide stretched between two clamps. Parallel with the rawhide and about a millimeter below it was a metal pole which lay balanced on air without visible support. Between rawhide and pole could be seen flickers of miniature lightning which danced along the entire length of the gap. Tuluk was bent over, reading meters set into the bench beneath the device.
"Am I interrupting anything?" Bildoon asked.
Tuluk turned a knob on the bench, waited, turned the knob once more. He caught the pole as the invisible supporting force released it. He racked the pole on supports against the back wall above the bench.
"That is a silly question," he said, turning.
"It is, at that," Bildoon said. "We have a problem."
"Without problems, we have no employment," Tuluk said.
"I don't think we're going to get Furuneo's head," Bildoon said.
"It's been so long now, we probably couldn't have gotten a reliable nerve replay, anyway," Tuluk said. He screwed his face slit into an S-curve, an expression he knew aroused amusement among other sentients but which represented intense thought for a Wreave. "What do the astronomers say about the star pattern McKie saw on that mysterious planet?"
"They think there may have been an error in the mindcord."
"Oh. Why?"
"For one thing, there isn't even a hint, not the slightest subjective indication of variation in stellar magnitudes."
"All the visible stars had the same light intensity?"
"Apparently."
"Odd."
"And the nearest, pattern similarity," Bildoon said, "is one that doesn't exist anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Well . . . there's a Big Dipper, a Little Dipper, various other constellations and zodiac similarities, but . . ." He shrugged.
Tuluk stared at him blankly. "I don't recognize the references," he said presently.
"Oh, yes - I forgot," Bildoon said. "We PanSpechi, when we decided to copy human form, explored their history with some care. These patterns of stars are ones which were visible from their ancient homeworld."
"I see. Another oddity to go with what I've discovered about the material of this whip."
"What's that?"
"It's very strange. Parts of this leather betray a subatomic structure of peculiar alignment."
"Peculiar? How?"
"Aligned. Perfectly aligned. I've never seen anything like it outside certain rather fluid energy phenomena. It's as though the material had been subjected to some peculiar force or stress. The result is, in some ways, similar to neomaser alignment of light quanta."
"Wouldn't that require enormous energy?"
"Presumably. "
"But what could cause it?"
"I don't know. The interesting thing is that it doesn't appear to be a permanent change. The structure shows characteristics like plastic memory. It's slowly snapping back into reasonably familiar forms."
Bildoon heard the emphasis which betrayed Tuluk's disturbance. "Reasonably familiar?" he asked.
"That's another thing," Tuluk said. "Let me explain. These subatomic structures and their resultant overstructures of genetic message units undergo slow evolution. We can, by comparing structures, date some samples to within two or three thousand standard years. Since cattle cells form the basic protein for vat culture food, we have fairly complete records on them over a very long time indeed. The strange thing about the samples in this piece of rawhide" - he gestured with a mandibular extensor - "is that its pattern is very ancient."
"How ancient?"
"Perhaps several hundred thousand years."
Bildoon absorbed this for a moment, then, "But you told us earlier that this rawhide was only a couple of years old. "
"According to our catalyzing tests, it is."