I am S'eye!
What in the name of all devils in the universe could the Caleban mean by such a strange claim? He thought of each jumpdoor passage. Connectives? Threads, perhaps. Each being caught by the S'eye effect trailed threads of itself through the jumpdoors. Was that it? Fanny Mae had used the word "funnel." Every traveler went through her . . . hands? Whatever. And when she ceased to exist, the threads broke. All died.
"Why weren't we warned about this when you offered us the S'eye effect?" McKie asked.
"Warned?"
"Yes! You offered . . ."
"Not offer. Fellows explain effect. Sentients of your wave expose great joy. They offer exchange of maintenance. You call this pay, not so?"
"We should've been warned."
"Why?"
"Well, you don't live forever, do you?"
"Explain this term, forever."
"Forever . . . always. Infinity?"
"Sentients of your wave seek infinity?"
"Not for individual members, but for . . ."
"Sentient species, they seek infinity?"
"Of course they do!"
"Why?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"But what about other species for which yours must make way? You not believe in evolution?"
"Evo -" McKie shook his head sharply. "What's that have to do with it?"
"All beings have own day and depart," the Caleban said. "Day correct term? Day, unit of time, allotted linearity, normal extent of existence - you hang this?"
McKie's mouth moved, but no words came out.
"Length of line, time of existence," the Caleban said. "Approximately translated, correct?"
"But what gives you the right to . . . terminate us?" McKie demanded, finding his voice.
"Right not assumed, McKie," the Caleban said. "Given condition of proper connectives, another of my fellows takes up S'eye . . . control before self reaches ultimate discontinuity. Unusual . . . circumstance rejects such solution here. Mliss Abnethe and . . . associates shorten your one-track. My fellows leave."
"They ran for it while they had time; I understand," McKie said.
"Time . . . yes, your single-track line. This comparison provides suitable concept. Inadequate but sufficient."
"And you are definitely the last Caleban in our . . . wave?"
"Self alone," the Caleban said. "Terminal end-point Caleban - yes. Self confirms description."
"Wasn't there any way to save yourself?" McKie asked.
"Save? Ahhh . . . avoid? Evade! Yes, evade ultimate discontinuity. This you suggest?"
"I'm asking if there wasn't some way for you to escape the way your . . . fellows did."
"Way exists, but result same for your wave."
"You could save yourself, but it would end us, that it?"
"You not possess honor concept?" the Caleban asked. "Save self, lose honor."
"Touche," McKie said.
"Explain touche," the Caleban said. "New term."
"Eh? Oh, that's a very old, ancient term."
"Linear beginning term, you say? Yes, those best with nodal frequency."
"Nodal frequency?"
"You say - often. Nodal frequency contains often."
"They mean the same thing; I see."
"Not same; similar."
"I stand corrected."
"Explain touche. What meaning conveys this term?"
"Meaning conveys . . . yeah. It's a fencing term."
"Fencing? You signify containment?"
McKie explained fencing as best he could with a side journey into swordsmanship, the concept of single combat, competition.
"Effective touch!" the Caleban interrupted, her words conveying definite wonder. "Nodal intersection! Touche! Ahhh-ahhh! This contains why we find your species to fascinate us! This concept! Cutting line: touche! Pierced by meaning: touche!"
"Ultimate discontinuity," McKie snarled. "Touche! How far away is your next touche with the whip?"
"Intersection of whip touche!" the Caleban said. "You seek position of linear displacement, yes. It moves me. We perhaps occupy our linearities yet; but self suggests another species may need these dimensions. We leave, outgo from existence then. No so?"
When McKie didn't answer, the Caleban said, "McKie, you hang my meaning?"
"I think I'm going to sabotage you," McKie muttered.
***
Learning a language represents training in the delusions of that language.
Cheo, the ego-frozen PanSpechi, stared out across the forest toward sunset over the sea. It was good, he thought, that the Ideal World contained such a sea. This tower Mliss had ordered built in a city of lesser buildings and spires commanded a view which included also the distant plain and far away mountains of the interior.
A steady wind blew against his left cheek, stirred his yellow hair. He wore green trousers and an open-mesh shirt of dull gold and gray. The clothing gave a subtle accent to his humanoid appearance, revealing the odd ripples of alien muscles here and there about his body.
An amused smile occupied his mouth, but not his eyes. He had PanSpechi eyes, many-faceted, glistening - although the facets were edge-faded by his ego-surgery. The eyes watched the insect movements of various sentients on streets and bridgeways below him. At the same time, they reported on the sky overhead (a faraway flock of birds, streamers of sunset clouds) and told him of the view toward the sea and the nearby balustrade.
We're going to pull it off, he thought.
He glanced at the antique chronograph Mliss had given him. Crude thing, but it showed the sunset hour. They'd had to disengage from the Taprisiot mindclock system, though. This crude device showed two hours to go until the next contact. The S'eye controls would be more accurate, but he didn't want to move.
They can't stop us.
But maybe they can. . . .
He thought about McKie then. How had the BuSab agent found this place? And finding it, how had he come here? McKie sat in the Beachball with the Caleban right now - bait, obviously. Bait!
For what?
Cheo did not enjoy the contradictory emotions surging back and forth through him. He had broken the most basic PanSpechi law. He had captured his creche's ego and abandoned his four mates to a mindless existence terminating in mindless death. A renegade surgeon's instruments had excised the organ which united the pentarchal PanSpechi family across all space. The surgery had left a scar on Cheo's forehead and a scar on his soul, but he had never imagined he would find such delicate relish in the experience.
Nothing could take the ego from him!
But he was alone, too.
Death would end it, of course, but all creatures had that to face.
And thanks to Mliss, he had a retreat from which no other PanSpechi could extricate him . . . unless . . . but there'd be no other PanSpechi, very soon. There'd be no other organized sentients at all, except the handful Mliss had brought here to her Ark with its mad Boers and Blacks.
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?"