"This is insane!" Furuneo snapped.
"Insanity defines as lack of orderly thought progression in mutual acceptance of logical terms," the Caleban said. "Insanity frequent judgment of one species upon other species. Proper interpretation otherwise."
"I think I just had my wrist slapped," Furuneo said.
"Look," McKie said, "the other deaths and insanity around Caleban disappearances substantiate our interpretation. We're dealing with something explosive and dangerous."
"So we find Abnethe and stop her."
"You make that sound so simple," McKie said. "Here are your orders. Get out of here and alert the Bureau. The Caleban's communication won't show on your recorder, but you'll have it all down in your memory. Tell them to scan you for it."
"Right. You're staying?"
"Yes."
"What'll I say you're doing?"
"I want a look at Abnethe's companions and her surroundings."
Furuneo cleared his throat. Gods of the underworld, it was hot! "Have you thought of, you know, just bang?" He made the motion of firing a raygen.
"There's a limit on what can go through a jumpdoor and how fast," McKie chided. "You know that."
"Maybe this jumpdoor's different."
"I doubt it."
"After I've reported in, what then?"
"Sit tight outside there until I call you - unless they give you a message for me. Oh, and start a general search on Cordiality . . . just in case."
"Of course." Furuneo hesitated. "One thing - who do I contact at the Bureau? Bildoon?"
McKie glanced up. Why should Furuneo question whom to call? What was he trying to say?
It dawned on McKie then that Furuneo had hit on a logical concern. BuSab director Napoleon Bildoon was a PanSpechi, a pentarchal sentient, human only in appearance. Since McKie, a human, held nominal charge of this case, that might appear to confine control of it, excluding other members of the ConSentiency. Interspecies political infighting could take odd turns in a time of stress. It would be best to involve a broad directorate here.
"Thanks," McKie said. "I wasn't thinking much beyond the immediate problem."
"This is the immediate problem."
"I understand. All right, I was tapped for this chore by our Director of Discretion."
"Gitchel Siker?"
"Yes."
"That's one Laclac and Bildoon, a PanSpechi. Who else?"
"Get somebody out of the Legal Department."
"Bound to be a human."
"The minute you stretch it that far, they'll all get the message," McKie said. "They'll bring in the others before making any official decision."
Furuneo nodded. "One other thing."
"What?"
"How do I get out of here?"
McKie faced the giant spoon. "Good question. Fanny Mae, how does my companion leave here?"
"He wishes to journey where?"
"To his home."
"Connectives apparent," the Caleban said.
McKie felt a gush of air. His ears popped to a change in pressure. There was a sound like the pulling of a cork from a bottle. He whirled. Furuneo was gone.
"You . . . sent him home?" McKie asked.
"Correct," the Caleban said. "Desired destination visible. Sent swiftness. Prevent temperature drop below proper level. "
McKie, feeling perspiration roll down his cheeks, said, "I wish I knew how you did that. Can you actually see our thoughts?"
"See only strong connectives," the Caleban said.
Discontinuity of meaning, McKie thought.
The Caleban's remark about temperature came back to him. What was a proper temperature level? Damn! It was boiling in here! His skin itched with perspiration. His throat was dry. Proper temperature level?
"What's the opposite of proper?" he asked.
"False," the Caleban said.
The play of words can lead to certain expectations which life is unable to match. This is a source of much insanity and other forms of unhappiness.
For a reflexive time which he found himself unable to measure, McKie considered his exchange with the Caleban. He felt cast adrift without any familiar reference points. How could false be the opposite of proper? If he could not measure meanings, how could he measure time?
McKie passed a hand across his forehead, gathering perspiration which he tried to wipe off on his jacket. The jacket was damp.
No matter how much time had passed, he felt that he still knew where he was in this universe. The Beachball's interior walls remained around him. The unseeable presence of the Caleban had not become less mysterious, but he could look at the shimmering existence of the thing and take a certain satisfaction from the fact that it spoke to him.
The thought that every sentient who had used a jumpdoor would die if this Caleban succumbed sat on McKie's awareness. It was muscle-numbing. His skin was slick with perspiration, and not all of it from the heat. There were voices of death in this air. He thought of himself as a being surrounded by all those pleading sentients - quadrillions upon quadrillions of them. Help us!